I glided down corridors banked with tall screens and carved wood, the ceilings decorated with shining gold. Apprehension slowed my feet. My heart seemed to batter against my teeth. I had been sold three times already. I hoped Michimori would not sell me again.
Even if I were given to the guards or worse . . . I tried to banish those images, recalling that I had brought honour to those I loved most. ‘Look!’ I argued with myself. ‘I am with the emperors, in Fukuhara, dressed in Michimori’s clothes and cared for by his servants. He thought me deserving enough to purchase me.’
The poem he had sent me! I had put it in my sleeve to give me courage. I remembered my place in the procession to this city. How could this not have a favourable outcome?
‘Perhaps,’ I made a small prayer to the Goddess of Mercy, ‘I am spared for a different fate.’ I thanked the Goddess for allowing me to bring honour to my family, whatever was to happen now.
III. Meeting Again
The ever-present Tokikazu and Obāsan escorted me through more corridors to the Great Room. The door displayed startling wealth and power, with the faces of demons and gods carved into the shining brown and black woods. There was gold everywhere. I heard the agreeable music of several koto.
Guards opened the door to a room large enough to contain all the houses and huts at Hitomi’s. Soldiers stood everywhere, all in the same uniform. The ceiling was made of solid gold, and silk banners with the Taira butterfly crest hung from the walls.
Michimori sat on a raised platform several shaku above the floor. He was less handsome than I remembered, in bright elegant robes of gold, deep blue and purple, the light hue of the highest ranks, not the royal shade forbidden to all but the imperial family.
Samurai surrounded him, but were far enough away that he appeared to sit alone, though protected. Behind him, against bare walls, there were several three-part folding screens, painted with bamboo, birds and flowers. In front of the screens three koto players sat with their thirteen-stringed instruments. The music was soft and pleasant, as was the incense.
Obāsan left me inside the door with whispered directions: approach halfway to the raised platform, bow to the floor and wait. Tokikazu reminded me at the last moment about the Buddha’s five-part bow, while his hand skimmed my back. I prayed my shudders would be attributed to meeting Michimori, not to Tokikazu’s touch.
I performed the five-part bow, while my pulse pummelled me from stomach to eyes. I remained head down, lying flat in front of Michimori, for an unending time My limbs became tired and stiff, but I did not move, as I knew I must not.
Someone, he or another, shifted position. I heard the rustle of heavy clothing gliding over more cloth. A throat clicked, a sound I remembered as Michimori’s. Each man had his own.
The clicking first, and next, my honourable lord’s voice: ‘You have found favour. You have completed Purification. You and your ladies-in-waiting are ready to enter my household. Have you been shown your quarters?’
‘Yes, my honourable lord, Echizen Governor Taira no Michimori,’ I say, not daring to look up, rubbing my nose on the shining wood floor. He calls my name. I raise my nose high enough to peep over my hands to the source of the voice.
A faint chuckle fills my ears, like soft duck down, and he utters a single command, ‘Approach.’
I am unable to move.
He calls again: ‘Kozaishō, arise and sit here beside me.’
Surely he will not chastise me while I am seated next to him. I glance at him. His eyes are smiling. Glowing.
His hand encourages me to stand. I do so, my head slightly bowed and my eyes lowered. I approach, bow to the floor again and squat where his hand has gestured, directly before him. My fears vanish, like rain into dry ground. The same hand waves several times to the samurai, who rearrange themselves in two concentric circles along the far perimeters.
He smiles with his eyes, as he did when he thanked me after our time together at Hitomi’s.
‘Are you willing to work for me? Work diligently?’
What an odd question. I answer, as I know the courtly ladies respond, with a poem:
All creatures travail
Starlings sitting joyfully at dawn
Tiger moths eat their fill
Butterflies pollinate flowers
Does the bee not earn its honey?
In his face I discern candour and look hard at him to convince myself he has no knowledge of my torture by Three Eyes. Goro had undoubtedly commanded some of the guards during my Purification. But, no, Tokikazu had specifically said it was Michimori’s request. He had explicitly requested in writing that I did this. Tokikazu had waved the note at me, and I had glimpsed Michimori’s seal.
I had pledged to please this man. Just as I had pledged the death of Three Eyes.
‘Do you know why you are here?’
Michimori’s words bring me to the moment. The unknown again. This is my fate! I reply with nightmares scratching my throat, burning it. My heart bounces against my chest.
‘No, my honourable lord, Echizen Governor Taira no Michimori.’
‘Because you enchanted me, though I know you are not a fox, or a witch, or a sorcerer. You are a sharp-witted woman and I want you near me.’ I look up in astonishment. His eyes beam as he says:
Willow warbler trills
Sunrise appears with starlings
Sounds more exquisite
Closer to hearth and home
More beautiful near my eyes
‘I have made a Judgement-of-Quality of what makes a perfect consort. I want a real partner in these times, and . . . I want you.’
My lips and eyes open wide.
‘I have brought you here to marry you. You have a gift for strategy, for putting information together and, most of all, for survival, Madam Hitomi told me about you. You are an excellent judge of men. I need that quality in people around me. And,’ he adds in hushed tones, ‘of greater importance, you are my soul-keeper. You are the Northern Wife, the first wife, in my heart.’ He pauses. ‘What is in your heart now?’
I have never heard anything so poignant. I reply to the elegance of his words:
The forgotten bird
Is now delighted to sing
Preened for a good life
Basking in the new sunlight
Out of past seasons’ shadows
I bow to the floor, concerned at my boldness: I am not a Person-Above-the-Clouds – perhaps it will be taken as an insult or that I am pretending to be kuge. I glance furtively at him, but his brown eyes are as bright as the noon sun. When I see this gleam, several of my fears are set to rest. I put my sleeve over my face as if to smile. Can he truly care for me? How can I marry him?
Tears of relief trickle, but I do not wipe them away. I do not wish the samurai to know I weep. That is of far more concern than damage to my new finery.
IV. Three Cups of Sake
Michimori says, ‘Come, let me tell you a story.’
What does he really know about me? I have no illusions, no matter what he says. He sent me into battle well protected, but he also threw me weaponless into the jaws of Goro. Now he is gentle and seems kind. Death, no matter how dishonourable, must be in this tale. More rape and abuse? Perhaps to be used for his personal samurai – or thrown to all the samurai. My stomach lurches at the thought. Michimori promises much, yet happiness is fleeting and marriage to a kuge, Third Rank, is hard to trust.
‘My captain, Tokikazu, visited you. He reported that you were fierce in combat, had the voice of a warbler and were beautiful beyond cherry blossoms. I decided to see for myself.’
My body startles at the mention of Tokikazu.
‘Next, his lieutenant, Ichirou, spoke of you. He mentioned your special talent for matching each man with a story. He sent one of his men, a man hungry for power over weaker men and women. This man became gentle and content.’
He tilts his head to the side. ‘He still carries a white flower with one red petal for “Grave of the Chopstick�
��. Did you know?’
I shake my head.
‘Ichirou suspected you were the reason. Later, Tokikazu sent Ichirou to you. He had lost his ability for combat because he had grown so large, much to the shame of all. Ichirou reduced to a proper size. Another changed man.’
Why is he recounting my successes with his men? Ah, I remember. He spoke of this when we first met. As he enumerates another success, the strap around my chest releases, smoothing my breathing. Yet why? Is he setting me up to ambush me?
He turns his muscular chest towards me. The distance between our bodies decreases. ‘I believe your wisdom and competency in changing men should be close to me. So, Kozaishō, what are your thoughts?’
He motions with the fingers of one hand, which gives me permission to speak.
My mind writhes: my stories, my vengeance for Tashiko, my new owner, who may have allowed Goro to assault me, now confers praise. Can a hideous demon hide in this man, after all the good I have heard of him? His ways and all the talk about him make him a Bodhisattva. Only Tashiko was worthy of that honour. Confusion swirls, and I try to concentrate. My master has commanded. I must speak.
I gaze at the floor and see his deep-set dark eyes above broad cheekbones reflected on the polished floor. In my most formal speech: ‘This is too much honour, my lord, for I am only a woman, a mere Person-Without-Rank, who likes to tell stories.’
‘You are no longer a Person-Without-Rank.’ On the floor I see he turns his head to me, and his eyes glow.
He lowers his voice so that the guards stationed along the perimeter of this cavernous room cannot hear. ‘We cried together. Our tears have remained within me.
‘My complete spirit
Has been stoken from me
Snatched and soaked into
Every single stitch and thread
Of the kimono you wear.’
I recall his painstaking tenderness at Hitomi’s as he repeats the poem he sent me, but I dare not trust this fleeting fragment. What manner of two-faced demon is he?
Michimori gives me another poem, written in silver ink on the finest paper I have ever touched. The perfume of his incense, strong with sandalwood, drifts towards me.
I read:
Dew huddled on leaves
Flowers drinking the dew
Each helps the other
Left hand benefits right hand
Horse, bow, samurai – all one
A magnificent poem. Exquisite calligraphy. My thoughts reverberate: a sensitive poet, admired by Obāsan; a commander who ordered me into battle, yet protected me with his personal guards; last, a beast who secured my honour with a loyalty pledge, then submitted me to Goro’s tortures and rape.
‘Eh?’ he asks. ‘We speak alone.’
I survey the room. I see my dream of the night before I was sold to Chiba: dressed in many robes, sitting on the shining floor, surrounded by wealth. I stammer the usual proprieties: ‘I am overwhelmed by the unforeseen honour you bestow upon me. I know I am unworthy, but I shall . . . do all my unworthy soul can do . . . to please you.’
He waves away my words. More sandalwood. ‘Are your feelings the same as mine? I wish you to marry me. Tell me,’ he leans forward as he voices each word, ‘what – is – in – your – heart?’ He raises his bristly eyebrows, expecting an answer.
I risk my life. I take two breaths, an old habit from the shōen of Chiba. I know he has the power of death, yet his face is so benevolent, so serene. I state what is faithful to my feelings, hands over abdomen, the place whence this truth is coming, and perform the five point bow: ‘In my heart, admiration for one who has risen to greatness, respect for one who knows his people so well as to hear of such as I, gratitude for one who has such compassion for the lowest, rescuing and raising me to a place of honour. Also fear, to serve one who holds life and death. My fear is that I might displease my honourable lord and be sent back in disgrace to the hell from which I have been saved. I shall willingly undergo whatever further punishments and injuries my honourable lord chooses, but I entreat him not to include my servants in any harm.’
Silence. I wait for the shuffle of shoes towards me. No samurai comes to take my head.
‘Kozaishō,’ he says, grim and reverential. He touches my face, and lifts my chin with a finger. I hear the voice and the humming, then the sound I remember, Michimori’s sound. My eyes focus upwards to its source. His brown eyes gleam like fresh snow in moonlight.
One side of his face twitches up. ‘You are to be my wife. As your lord and husband, I give you my word that I will never send you back to a place like the Village. No more punishment.’
I swallow and take a ragged breath. No more torture? First he directs Goro to beat and rape me, and now he wants to marry me? The word ‘wife’ encourages me.
‘I do not understand, my lord. Why did you require me to undergo such torment? And at the hands of someone who detests me and whom I abhor?’
The tenderness in his face evaporates.
His back stiffens to the hardness of a naginata’s edge, ready to slice away the life from anyone within reach.
‘You think I would hurt you? Or make you suffer? How can you imagine that?’
‘Because of the Purification ceremony. Daigoro no Goro performed it for my servant and me with . . . with brutality. He . . . and Captain Tokikazu . . . said it was your wish.’ I bite my tongue, my arms rigid. Will this information harm Tokikazu? Yet I must speak the truth.
Michimori’s eyes widen. His neck muscles are more rigid than a wooden saddle. ‘Who is this Daigoro no Goro?’
A weaponless blow strikes me. My hands form into rigid fists. ‘The priest, Daigoro no Goro, the Tendai Taira priest.’ My breath comes faster. ‘You do not know him?’
Michimori’s mouth compresses to the thin straight line of an arrow.
He waves a crooked finger. Tokikazu rushes from a far corner of the chamber, clattering swords, and sprawls directly in front of Michimori.
‘My honourable lord Taira no Michimori—’
‘What do you know of Daigoro no Goro?’ The muscles of Michimori’s jaw bulge and recede.
Tokikazu blanches. His body flattens to the floor.
‘Tell what this abomination has done to my bride.’ Michimori’s torso swells to twice its girth.
‘While we were returning to Rokuhara, he bribed one of the lower-level guards and murdered three, substituting his own. He was alone with Kozaishō and her servant during their Purification . . . and the Cleansing water was . . .’ he sighed ‘. . . heavily salted. We found blood in it. We have taken the bribed guard’s head, found the bodies of the murdered guards, and those we think were Daigoro no Goro’s own guards.’
‘Think! And?’ Michimori’s voice a deep crescendo.
‘Daigoro no Goro escaped.’
Michimori’s eyes turn blackish-brown. His voice is as sharp as a naginata tip when he asks, ‘Did you tell Kozaishō the Purification was my order?’
Tokikazu’s legs quiver. His left hand reaches inside the right breast of his hoeki no hō, pulls out a piece of paper and prods it along the floor to Michimori.
Michimori studies it. His features remain unaltered, although his skin reddens, mainly his thick neck. He sits, breathing unevenly.
Clearing his throat, he says, ‘Not my hand. A close appearance. Not my seal, but also close.’
My jaws clamp tight and my hands squeeze into fists. Not his orders.
Tokikazu’s limbs loosen on to the floor.
‘Look at this false seal.’
Tokikazu crawls over and peers at it.
Michimori opens his writing box, takes his seal and shows them both together.
The two men, head to head, scrutinise the red squares.
‘See, here and here . . . and there,’ Michimori indicates the differences with his fingers.
‘I will teach all the personal guards, my lord, before—’
‘No.’ Michimori bends forward over Tokikazu. ‘No seppuku. I forbid it.
This is not a matter of your honour. This concerns our clan and a formidable infiltration. Find him!’
Tokikazu disappears from the room.
Michimori’s eyes flash storms. ‘How could you think I would hurt you?’ His words are honed and pointed.
‘How could I?’ My voice mirrors his tone. ‘Tokikazu told me you requested it. Goro told me it was your particular preference. I submitted only to demonstrate my fidelity. I undertook the loyalty pledge with my soul’s blood. And my honour. Otherwise Goro would be dead. I regret my offerings are not appreciated. But worse – not necessary.’
His shoulders slope downwards. ‘Did I give you any – any indication I might be such a devil as to desire the gift of your pain?’
‘No. You did not. What else was I to think? I arrived at your estate, having known you only briefly, and Tokikazu—’
‘I agree. Tokikazu will pay with—’
‘Daigoro no Goro, should suffer, not Tokikazu, my honourable lord.’ I want to protect Tokikazu from the monster who attacked me.
Michimori’s eyes widen at my daring to interrupt, but he listens. He bends to my face, and I lower my voice. Not even his personal guards, who are nearer than the others, can hear. I provide him with a concise history of Three Eyes. Only his left eye twitches at the recitation of Goro’s abuses and his broken nose. My fingers, red and white, are cramped: my fists have been clenched.
He presses his fingertips against the raised platform and says to himself, ‘In outward aspect a Bodhisattva; at innermost heart, a demon. I have met such priests before. Some apprentice monks have weaker spirits than others.’ He sits back, his eyes soft again. ‘Kozaishō, I humbly ask you to forgive me for not protecting you, for not holding you near me.’
‘If you can forgive me, my honourable lord, for trusting Daigoro no Goro and accepting your desire for punishment rather than my own experiences of your Right Mindedness. Obāsan has extolled your virtuous heart.’
‘No. It is I who beg your forgiveness. I promise Daigoro no Goro’s head to you – and more, if it can be arranged.’
The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai Page 27
