Unsuccessful the first few times, I copied and watched, watched and copied, imagining how amazed Akio would be after he had given me my bow and I could shoot well.
Mid-morning, the Hour of the Dragon, servants came on to the field with water, rice and pickled vegetables. The boys stopped archery and took practice swords made of oak, bokken, from the selection laid out. They worked in pairs.
I was not allowed to string the smallest bow. I began with a rubber practice bow, a gomuyumi, and practised the eight movements of hassetsu: footing, correct posture, readying the bow, raising the bow, drawing the bow, completing the draw, release and continuation. Each movement had to be perfected, as with dancing. So, repetition and more drills.
In the time that followed, Akio could not find a bokken for me. A standard one was too long. When I held a child’s bokken I could barely look down at the top. I hated being short. I lifted the weapon and needed both hands. The follow-through of every stroke threw me off balance, causing me to stumble and fall, usually on my partner. When I noticed this, I chose Uba. On my second attempt, he noticed it, too, and kicked me. I kicked him back, as I had fought my brothers. The only difference was that my sisters were not there to cheer me on.
‘Kozaishō! Uba!’ Akio bellowed. A big hand grabbed my shoulder. ‘Stop!’ He gave me a glance that reminded me of father, a testy, troubled look, which meant that if I kicked Uba again, I would be punished.
At least Akio had his other hand on Uba.
‘Kozaishō, stand over there. Uba, stay here.’ His eyebrows gathered together in the middle. ‘Remember, Benevolence is part of the Way.’
The Way? What was that? It was not a good time to ask a question.
Akio went to the bushes and brought back a thick branch, nearly the length of my leg. I wanted to run. The branch appeared many times the thickness of Proprietor Chiba’s switch, and his switch hurt enough. None of Tashiko’s ointment would work on my wounds after Akio had hit me with the branch.
I moved a little away from him, a coil tightening inside me. Perhaps he would behave like Proprietor Chiba. He had seemed kind, but so had Proprietor Chiba at first. I might not be able to keep quiet, struck with that.
‘Use this, Kozaishō, for sword work until we can find a properly sized bokken for you. Here!’ Akio tossed the branch to me.
With the weight of the branch and the loosening of my insides, I slipped but, able to breathe again, I promised myself I would not fight Uba or anyone else. The branch Akio had found for me worked better anyway.
‘Stick-girl! Stick-girl!’ Uba shouted, almost every day that first month. He made sure he kept himself out of my reach. I ignored him. My brothers had called me names.
After the fight, Akio supervised us precisely, just as my father had the new green shoots after a long winter.
‘Watch your right leg,’ Akio warned.
‘Straighten your arm.’
‘Bend your leg.’
Over and over.
Uba whined, ‘I am tired. How much more must we do? When can we have a break?’
‘Well, I have the strength to go on. Will anyone challenge me?’ I answered.
I was warmed by Uba’s lack of grit and hid a smile. I enjoyed the samurai drills. I did not tire of them. I loved becoming the Pink Flower samurai.
To leave the practice fields meant working on the dances, dressed like a doll and ready to be beaten.
An older boy, who was tall like my oldest brother and had strung my bow, had heard me. ‘I will. Begin.’
His group and mine made a circle around us.
I took my stick against his bokken.
Two strokes.
In two strokes he had me flat on the ground.
Uba cackled, and the other boys hooted. I promised myself I would work harder.
About a month after I had joined the lessons Akio called us younger ones into a circle. ‘Kozaishō has been with us for a short time,’ he explained, ‘and she has learned well and fast.’
I raised my eyes to his for more praise. He made a familiar movement with one eyebrow, meaning ‘no’.
‘She has much to learn, but she will continue with this.’ His eyebrows soared to his topknot as he displayed a bright blue square cloth, its four corners tied together, a furoshiki. He laid it on the ground on another cloth and untied it. Inside lay a bokken, made of oak like the other boys’, yet thinner and shorter. He presented it to me. It was a perfect fit for my hands. The handle bore a carefully carved tree with full summer leaves.
‘I am deeply honoured, Akio.’ I bowed. The boys bowed with me. The bokken, my bokken, was spectacular.
I prayed to all the Gods, walking to Lesser House, that Tashiko would not be jealous again. I had allowed her to be Eldest Daughter. She had not given me the wrong tasks or dance instructions for a month or more – and I had no one else with whom to share my happiness. I decided to trust her.
I laid the furoshiki on the futon inside Lesser House. I loosened the corner knots, lifted the bokken and presented it on my palms to Tashiko. ‘Akio had it made for me.’
‘A tree in the handle.’ Tashiko did not even turn her head.
‘You knew? How?’
‘Leave it here. I must bathe you.’ Tashiko walked to the bathhouse. Her face was blank, but I noticed her eyes had crinkled at the corners.
When she undressed and scrubbed me, I persisted: ‘How did you know?’
Her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth travelled upwards. ‘Akio asked me what you might like, so I told him trees and rabbits.’ Her voice held the rhythm of play.
‘You did not tell me. You knew all the time.’ My eyes lit up, at her thoughtfulness and that she had kept a secret from me. Then I wondered. I had thought Akio’s friendship belonged to me. I did not wish to share him. Could he be friendly to both of us, like Second Daughter with me and Fourth Daughter?
‘Akio could carve only the tree in such a short time. Perhaps,’ Tashiko rubbed my shoulders and neck more gently, ‘perhaps rabbits later.’
I stood up and hugged her. ‘Thank you for not being angry about my present.’
‘No jealousy. No wish to fight.’
‘Thank you for sharing my happiness.’ I hugged her.
She embraced me until she was drenched. ‘Come!’ she cried, undressing herself. I washed her and we sat together in the soaking tub. I chattered about my day and my new bokken. Afterwards Tashiko dried me, and I saw the tears I saw every evening when I bathed.
‘Why do you cry? Are you not happy for me?’ The bokken had never belonged to anyone else. It had been made for me, only me. It had given me the courage to ask the question.
‘Some day you will know the reason for my tears. Not today. Today is . . . the day of the bokken!’
She flicked the drying cloth at me, and we pretended to fight until we were dry. We imitated bokken with our chopsticks during the evening meal. That night I whispered ‘Bokken’, to her before we slept in each other’s arms.
I dreamed of the Sacred Sword in the dragon’s tail.
New wooden bokken
Thick smooth oak-carved trees and leaves
Skyward like mountains
One friend and samurai’s gift
Which will prove more important?
IV. Third Month Third Day Dancing
The musician huddled inside a quilt and strummed his biwa outside Lesser House. I practised dances on the watadono for the coming festival, regardless of the cold. Tashiko held Proprietor Chiba’s switch and tapped my leg for each misstep.
‘Perfect,’ she told me again. ‘Only two more days until the fancies arrive.’
I could not feel my feet while I was dancing unless I trod heavily on the wooden floor. A tap with the switch. Collapsing the fan too early: another tap. My fingers, numb and graceless, allowed my fan to slip on to the floor. A third tap.
What terrible punishment would befall me if I made a mistake? Would they both beat me, Proprietor Chiba and Tashiko? She spoke in quiet
tones, especially when she was using the switch. Our friendship was new, and she knew my temper.
‘Here.’ She rubbed her palms together. ‘Rub your hands together, fast, between each dance.’ I copied her. She went into Lesser House and came out with some cloth. ‘Take off your tabi. These pads go inside them so your feet will not touch cold floor.’
After this, Tashiko did not use the switch as much. Perhaps I could trust her.
The next two days disappeared with counting, clapping and fan gestures. The day before our performance, Proprietor Chiba sent a woman servant to rub our teeth with a thick black mixture. It tasted like dung to me and smelt like bad vinegar. Tashiko and I rinsed our mouths, over and over again. Our teeth turned dark.
On the actual day the woman covered our faces and necks with white rice paste, our brows and eyelids with charcoal, and applied a sticky red mash to our lips. I wore no expression and dared not talk for fear of smearing it.
Different kinds of flowers embellished the new red fans. I replayed the gestures with them to ensure they moved smoothly and comfortably in my hands, as the grinding stone had during last harvest. My mind flashed missteps, fans flying out of hands, thrashings. I asked Tashiko what would happen if I made mistakes with everyone watching.
‘We will be perfect. Chanted sutras. Lit incense. The Goddess of Mercy and other gods will allow us to be perfect.’ She clasped my shoulders and looked down at me. ‘Remember to breathe. Remember to count.’
‘Breathe and count. I can do that.’ Breathe and count, I repeated to myself. ‘We will be outstanding,’ I said, to reassure myself.
Tashiko and I took great care to protect our silk costumes, which showed the spring colours: cherry and peach blossom, wisteria blue and violet, cucumber, pine needle and deep forest green. The woman servant had combed and oiled our hair, tying it at the nape of our necks with ribbons. I gazed at Tashiko, who looked like a doll.
She and I stepped with great care to the lake where the fancies waited. A puff of air cooled my neck, a treat, since our thick clothing was stifling and I usually wore my hair hanging loose. The music for our dances was playing. As I walked, I chanted to myself, ‘Breathe and count. Breathe and count.’
I looked out for the gate, which shut me in with my new luxuries and shut me out from my sisters and brothers, my father, my mother. My legs tensed. I could walk out, go home. Yes – and walk to disgrace and shame, to the horror of my entire family, my grandparents and other ancestors. Not today. ‘Breathe and count. Breathe and count,’ I sang inside my head.
Crossing to the island, I saw a crowd of men, thirty or more, dressed in brocade like Proprietor Chiba’s. Most wore the same curious round hat, made of lacquered and stiffened silk with two thin cloth strips flapping in the light wind.
Later Tashiko named the hats kanmuri. Although most were black, a few showed stronger colours – dark and pale violet, dark and pale green, dark and pale brownish-red, like azuki beans. The coloured hats sat in the front row. Dark Violet Hat sat higher than all the others, then Pale Violet, then the Greens and finally the Azuki Beans.
‘The higher hats are the most important,’ Tashiko whispered. She snatched my hand when she saw Goro. His mouth was set in a simpering smile. His eyes were directed only to those not-Black Hats. I hoped he would not stare at me, as he always did when he visited.
The musician’s eyes nodded at us, the only friendly ones. I allowed mine to smile, just a little, in return. Two more unknown men stood next to our biwa player. They had to be drummers because they waited with long mallets behind covered cauldrons that were half the size of the one in the bathhouse. I looked at Tashiko, and she pressed my hand. Breathe and count. She and I would be perfect.
I assumed the beginning pose. Music started with the drums. My counting and breathing improved with the drum beats. I thought only of breathing, counting and the movements.
With each stamp my tied hair bumped my back. I focused – breathe and count. My fan slipped into my belt and opened in the right direction on the correct beat. Tashiko and I moved at the same time, on the same pulses. Her fan and mine opened and shut with their familiar whish. My opposing steps reversed Tashiko’s on the same beats. After days and endless days of practice, the dance seemed over in a lightning flash. When I finished I heard a bush warbler cry overhead and remembered my father.
With my head tilted to the side, I glanced at Tashiko to see how I had performed. Her eyes met mine. I imitated Tashiko and bowed to the applause. I had given a near-perfect performance.
When Dark Violet Hat cheered, my chest lightened. My father and mother would have honour. All the other hats and Goro imitated Dark Violet Hat, shouting for us. I did not dare look at Tashiko.
Dark Violet Hat pulled a paper doll out of his sleeve, opened his arms and, with loud noises, breathed in and puffed on the doll. He threw it into the stream. A gentle wind brushed the water and the doll sank. I glanced at Tashiko. The corners of her mouth twitched. She had seen this before but had not told me about it.
Each Hat, in order of colour – dark and light violet, dark and pale green, dark and pale azuki bean, all the black hats – then Goro and last Proprietor Chiba did the same with their paper dolls. Some sank immediately, and some bobbed along in the rippling water, like ducklings after a phantom mother.
My mother. Two months since I had seen her. I pushed thoughts of my family far away. With no idea of what would happen next, I needed to keep my thoughts directed.
The Hats formed a line along the stream, starting with Dark Violet Hat, Goro and Chiba. Tashiko led me forward, between the stream and the Hats. With her arm wrapped around mine, I strolled by each Hat. Tashiko’s body did not tremble. Perhaps they would not beat or hit us.
Tashiko stopped at Dark Violet Hat, who took a breath and exhaled – on her – and then on me. His breath reeked.
I waited.
Nothing else.
Tashiko squeezed my arm. Perhaps there would be no punishment. She pulled me on to the next Hat. Was this the culmination of the entire festival, being puffed with their breath?
I had to work to keep my expression neutral and not cough, despite the mouth-stench mixed with their heavy perfumes. The smells made my stomach clench. I imitated Tashiko and maintained my posture. I wanted to hold my nose.
When we arrived at Goro, Tashiko shuddered. His hand stroked her face, and he panted in and out on her. He did the same with me. His hand was cool and smooth, like snake skin. How fitting, since this was the First Day of the Snake in this Third Month.
Last . . . Chiba. I stood still and faced him. I glanced, but he did not have the switch. He made blustery sounds and wheezed. He put one hand on my chest and the other on Tashiko’s. I turned my head to Tashiko.
He pushed me!
Tashiko and I plopped backwards into the shallow stream. The cool water shocked me. My costume was wet! Ruined?
All the men whooped again.
No one was upset.
Tashiko inspected me, opened her mouth and howled in glee. Her hair had changed to long wet grass, decorating her clothes and especially her face. Charcoal streaked black from her forehead and eyes through the dripping white rice paste. The red on her mouth smudged her chin and dribbled off. The more she hooted, the faster the streaking and dripping, smudging and dribbling.
She shrieked. I laughed. She and I sat in the stream, gazing at each other melting – giggling, chortling and chuckling. I had hardly ever seen her laugh.
That night after I had bathed, she and I each ate a big bowl of white rice with fish slices on top. The meal included special flattened square rice cakes, coloured red on top, white in the middle and green on the bottom.
‘Once a year, hishi-mochi,’ Tashiko explained. ‘Red chases away evil spirits. White for purity and green for health.’
Tashiko ate the red first, next the white and last the green. I did the same. Delicious. I also munched sakura-mochi. When I asked, she showed me that the inside was filled with bean p
aste and wrapped with cherry leaves.
I feasted and chatted with Tashiko, listening to Proprietor Chiba and the Hats celebrating with their banquet by the stream.
When Proprietor Chiba came the following morning, he brought gifts: for me, a doll dressed in the beautiful colours of our kimonos, and for Tashiko, a section of the Lotus Sutra, her favourite, silver and gold squiggles on dark blue paper. Tashiko told me the squiggles were words. I asked her to teach me to read.
She began my reading lessons the next day, the beginning of that first spring. To my other questions she said, ‘The dolls protect them from sorrows. By blowing on the dolls or on us, the fancies think they rid themselves of their their sins, their bad luck. When they throw the dolls or us,’ she giggled, ‘into running water, the water carries away their impurities.’
That night Tashiko and I cuddled and chuckled ourselves to sleep. She whispered to me, ‘Chiba’s shōen is the only one with living dolls.’
‘I suppose Goro and Chiba have not yet earned their Hats.’
Tashiko giggled again. A beautiful sound.
V. Six More Weapons
For a long time my job was to maintain the equipment. Then Akio made me practise with the glove and the arrow. With them, I practised readying the bow, then the draw and the release. We beginners used a makiwara, a straw target, which I shot at from a distance that was just the length of my bow. I held my bow flat from my centre. I could always hit the target. Akio said this would help me concentrate on what I was doing, rather than hitting the makiwara.
I excelled with archery after Akio ordered that a special bow be made for me, shorter than the boys’, which I could string for myself, when he said I was ready, with only a little help. The lacquered bow displayed my favourite trees and rabbits. I named it Rabbit-In-A-Tree. My fingers fitted around its grips. My arm’s armour shone bright red and blue, like Akio’s.
As I drilled, I heard Pink Flower challenge samurai to duel. My armour fitted close to my forearms with a two-fingered leather glove to protect my hand. The tanned leather had the distinct odour that pleased me. I did not tell Tashiko about the glove because she considered all death and leather sinful. She avoided the leather-processing areas in the village.
The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai Page 6
