Tale of the Warrior Geisha (11 page)

Tomoe stopped moving. Chizuru was already gone. “Let's go back to the house.” She turned and Yamabuki nearly crashed into her. Tomoe put out her hands to steady the girl. “Be careful! What's the matter with you?”

“Sumimasen,”
Yamabuki said, bowing. Tomoe saw that the girl wasn't purposely incompetent. She was trying.

“I am sorry, Yamabuki,” Tomoe said. “It doesn't matter whether I am the best warrior in all of Japan. I will never be a man.”

“But I wish I could be like you,” Yamabuki said, lifting her head. The light bounced off her skin as though it were a precious metal.

“And what am I? Wife to no one. Captain of a ghost army, in a war that may never come.” Tomoe led the way back to the house, her gut aching with a loss that would never be filled.

Yamabuki hurried after her. “No. Brave and energetic. Good at everything!”

Tomoe thought of how Yoshinaka had not been to see her at night since Yamabuki arrived. But that was not the girl's fault. “Not good at everything, apparently.”

The girl stood in the afternoon sun, which flickered like candlelight through canopies of tree branches. “You don't know,” she whispered. “You don't know what you are. How special you are.”

Tomoe mustered a smile. “Neither do you. Come. We must help my mother with the evening meal.”

A true sister is a friend who listens with her heart.

• A
NONYMOUS

Yamabuki Gozen

M
IYANOKOSHI
F
ORTRESS

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU
, J
APAN

Spring 1177

Y
amabuki used to think, when she first came here, that she might care for Tomoe the same way she did for Akemi. Who wouldn't? Tomoe was lovely, and more so because she was unaware of it. She moved with such purpose, such confidence. People bowed as she went past, even if they didn't know who she was. As if they sensed her superiority.

But it did not take long for Yamabuki to think of Tomoe as a long-lost older sister. And Chizuru. Chizuru was the caring mother she had never had.

Had it not been for these women, Yamabuki would have spent her days lying on the futon, staring at the ceiling. Even so, she longed to be elsewhere. Where, she could not say. Not at home. In a convent, perhaps. Or in a place existing only in her imagination, she supposed. In a place not of this world. Sometimes Yamabuki thought she was as much of an
obake
as Obāchan, doomed to lurk in the shadows of everyone's hearts.

Yamabuki would never have another Akemi. Perhaps one love was all one had in a life. But Tomoe was important, too. Her protector. Helpless, she followed her around as a duckling followed its mother. A shameful nuisance for an able-bodied woman.

Tomoe showed Yamabuki how to cook rice, how to dip her finger in it and fill the water up to her first knuckle. The big iron pot was too heavy, and she spilled half of it. A sin, because rice was a building block of life, along with salt and water. But Tomoe did not chastise. She helped Yamabuki bear the weight of the pot.

“Be strong,” Tomoe urged almost daily. “You must simply get used to this life.”

“I will try,” Yamabuki answered, and Tomoe frowned.

One April morning, while they were eating rice, Tomoe asked, “What were your parents like?”

They were outdoors, in the shelter of a pine. Yamabuki preferred to sit inside, where she was not bothered by the tiny gnats that attacked the wetness of her eyes. The fresh air hurt her chest, made her wheeze. Dirty and freezing in the winter, dirty and perspiring in the summer.

Yamabuki used her
hashi
to scoop up some rice mixed with a bit of
tsukemono
, pickled cabbage. Her stomach clenched with sudden nausea, and she placed the food back into her bowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Tomoe said, scooping rice into her lovely mouth, red as cherries, “were they nice people? Like my parents? Were they sad to see you go? Were you sad to go?”

Yamabuki put the
hashi
down, her appetite gone. She kept her gaze on the rice bowl. “They were not at all like your mother.” Yamabuki pictured Chizuru's easy affection for her children. “My mother did not like me. She was glad to send me up here. They could find no other husband.”

“That can't be true.” Tomoe got angry on her behalf. “You are a beautiful girl. I can't imagine how ignorant the men are in Miyako, if they don't find you pleasing.”

Yamabuki frowned, thinking of her father and the lost dowry. She blushed just thinking of it. It was too humiliating to admit. “It is best for everyone that I am no longer there.”

“You haven't eaten enough.” Tomoe scooped
tsukemono
into Yamabuki's mouth as expertly as a mother bird. Yamabuki chewed obediently, her stomach settling a bit. “Yes, I know it was for the best, Yamabuki. It is best for us that you are here.” She cocked her head. The sun had shifted behind Tomoe, and Yamabuki had trouble seeing her expression. “Would you like me to show you the bow and arrow?”

Yamabuki tried to control her childlike excitement. “Yes, please.” Tomoe showing her, ignorant little Yamabuki, how to use a bow and arrow! How Okāsan would be surprised. Oh, she would probably tell Yamabuki that she did it wrong, even if she hit a bull's-eye.

Yamabuki put Okāsan out of her mind and followed Tomoe out into the field. The sun dazzled her and she could not see well. Yamabuki had better vision in the night. Like a cat.

Tomoe demonstrated holding the bow, how to aim, pulling back the string. Tomoe was so tall and fine against the greenness of the summer grass, the sun glowing on her features as if a brilliant artist had dreamed her up. All the instructional words ran through Yamabuki's head and out her ear like a waterfall. She watched Tomoe, the older girl's face animated as she explained archery.

Yamabuki took the bow. It was a lot heavier than she expected, almost as tall as she was. “I hear you are the best archer in all the land.”

Tomoe hesitated, torn, no doubt, between modesty and honesty. “Some say this. It is not proven.”

“I know it is true.” Yamabuki did not care about learning the skill. She wished she could be out here in the field for hours with Tomoe. All too soon they'd be back inside, Tomoe occupied by other things, Yamabuki back in her depression. Oh, why couldn't she simply enjoy these things while they were happening, instead of worrying about their end?

“Your turn,” Tomoe said. Yamabuki tried to pull the string back, grunting and straining. Tomoe put the arrow into her hand. “Try again.”

Yamabuki's fingers slipped. The arrow fell away uselessly. She bowed her head, refusing to meet Tomoe's gaze. “I am sorry.”

“No.” Tomoe's voice was sharp. “No need for that. Only try again.” She stood behind the smaller girl and helped her pull the bow back, holding Yamabuki's hand steady as her own. Together they released the string, sending the arrow zinging into the heart of the target.

Tomoe Gozen

M
IYANOKOSHI
F
ORTRE
SS

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU
, J
APAN

Summer 1177

Y
ou are not holding your hands correctly,” Yamabuki said. Her small hands rearranged Tomoe's larger ones on the floor harp. “Like this.” Yamabuki's paleness had not brightened in the years she had been here. Winter turned into spring, the snow melted and cherry blossoms bloomed twice, but still Yamabuki maintained that ethereal glow. As if she had fallen off the moon.

Yamabuki's pregnant belly was in her way as she leaned toward the koto, though she was only four months along. Tomoe stared at Yamabuki's stomach, her own flipping with jealousy. It was not Yamabuki's fault that she had been lucky enough to be pregnant. None of this was Yamabuki's fault.

Tomoe shifted. Her left leg was numb. She wanted to stand up and shake it away, but she did not want to appear weak in front of Yamabuki.

During the last few years, to her dismay, Yoshinaka continued to push Tomoe out of the army and into domestic life. She was an instrument of display, a show. Not a real soldier. A trained monkey, just as Wada predicted.

Yoshinaka had gone out of town with her brother and several hundred troops. Why, he would not tell her. “You promised I would be a captain!” Tomoe had protested. “I want to go.” She hated how she felt like a petulant child, practically stamping her foot.

“Tomoe, Yamabuki needs you,” Yoshinaka said.

“We are not a couple of flowers you can keep around,” Tomoe said. “Like cut flowers, we will die.”

He studied her. “Leave the poetry to Yamabuki. I like you better with just your common sense.”

She was certainly not a real attendant. No matter what Yamabuki thought, Tomoe was not good at everything she touched. The stitches she sewed were crooked. Her food, chopped without enthusiasm, often cooked unevenly, to Chizuru's eternal dismay.

And she was not a wife. Or even a real concubine. Yoshinaka had visited her sparingly in the years since Yamabuki had arrived. And when he did, he rarely showed her the same passion he once had, no matter how enthusiastically she greeted him, how much care she took to minister to his needs.

That had not changed, even though Yamabuki was pregnant.

Last week, before Yoshinaka left on his trip, he'd surprised Tomoe one night by opening her door. “Come.” He turned away, black in the light of a quarter moon. Tomoe could not see his expression, see whether it was sad or happy or indifferent.

He let her go inside his house first. The room was pitch dark, too, not a single lamp lit. He grabbed her from behind, pushing up her kimono, bending her over before she could draw a second breath. He slipped one finger into her and she gasped. “You're ready for me. You're always ready for me, eh?” His voice dipped. “My Tomoe.”

“Wait, wait,” Tomoe said, and he let go of her. She was certain that he was thinking of Yamabuki. She wanted him to see her, Tomoe. Really see her. “I want light.”

He grunted dissent, kissing her roughly. “I want you now.”

She pushed him away, stepping back outside. “I have changed my mind. I am very tired,” she said. He handled Yamabuki with such delicacy, delicacy he never showed Tomoe. “Let me go back to my own bed.”

There was nothing else to think. Yoshinaka had fallen in love with the girl.

He stepped outside, too. In the moonlight, fear flickered in his eyes. “Tomoe. Stay.”

“You don't want me,” she said flatly. “You only want Yamabuki.”

He looked down at her collarbone. “I want to keep you happy. So you won't leave.”

“You know I have nowhere else to go.” She broke away from his arms. “But neither can I be happy with your crumbs.”

Yoshinaka regarded her. For the first time in months—no, years—she had piqued his interest. She had rejected him, so he wanted her. Typical. “Stay with me, Tomoe,” he said. “I will only hold you. I promise. You are the only one who understands me.” His voice broke. “I love you. I want to keep you safe, here with Yamabuki.”

She didn't believe him. He'd hold her for five minutes, then take her whether she wanted him to or not. And she would want to give in. She always wanted to give in to him. He made her aware of her own heart pumping hot blood through her veins. And when she was with him, she was aware of the possibility that her heart would one day stop. Yoshinaka was the only creature on the planet who made her feel like this. A turmoil of love and bitterness. She kissed his cheek and sidestepped him, clattering down the porch. “I will see you tomorrow, Yoshi.” She left without another word, crossing her arms as she made her way back.

He did not go after her.

She told herself she no longer cared.

The room smelled of sandalwood incense, the sticks Yamabuki brought with her hoarded and burned very occasionally. Yamabuki also had a bottle of perfume she sprayed sparingly on her clothes. When it began running low, finally, she filled it with water to make it last longer. Tomoe thought it would be easier to simply forget about the perfume, but said nothing. The poor girl would never buy another. Not unless Yoshinaka got some in the capital, someday.

The girl had not gotten any stronger, either, despite Chizuru's best efforts to fatten her up and get her in the sun. Tomoe herself took Yamabuki out riding on Cherry Blossom, walking the horse slowly so as not to jostle the baby.

It had been Tomoe's idea for Yamabuki to teach her the instrument, for the girl to take an interest in something, anything, again. Yamabuki had not wanted to shoot the arrow again, saying she was too clumsy and did not want to hurt the baby.

“Perhaps we should do this on the porch.” Tomoe plucked away at the strings on the koto. Where Yamabuki's playing sounded beautiful, Tomoe's sounded like a cat strangling to death. The sun shone directly on the porch at this time of day, and Yamabuki needed some color.

“Too warm for me,” Yamabuki demurred. Tomoe suspected if Yamabuki had her way, she would sleep the whole day and be up all night. Yamabuki smiled. “Would you like to hear a poem? I'm afraid it's not very good.”

“I'll be the judge.” Tomoe knew it would make the girl happy. Poetry and music were the only things that seemed to cheer her up these days.

Yamabuki cleared her throat and looked down at the floor, like she always did when she recited. Tomoe didn't know if that was how you were supposed to recite poetry, or if that was simply a habit. The girl began:

“In this world I am the shadow

Unseen, barely felt

And still at night, as I sleep

I am but

the invisible wind”

“Beautiful,” Tomoe murmured. Some part of herself, long dormant, perhaps even never alive before, stretched and awoke. She sat up straight. For a moment, she felt the sun, though they were shut away from it. “What does it mean?”

Yamabuki paused. “It means that self-loathing is terrible, I suppose. If even in your dreams, you hate yourself.”

“I don't hate myself,” Tomoe said at once. “Do you?”

“I didn't say you did.” Yamabuki had bowed her head. “My apologies. The poem says this. About the writer. Not you. I find it comforting, don't you? Like you are not so alone in the world?”

Tomoe had felt at once at odds. “It's not something I think about.”

“But is it something you feel?” Yamabuki's voice sounded far off. Tomoe did not answer at first. Words had come into her head. She rearranged them, afraid to say it aloud. Afraid Yamabuki would laugh at her. Silly, but her heart pounded the same way it had when she'd waited for her father to tell her she'd done a good job.

Yamabuki leaned forward. “What is it?”

Tomoe waved her hand. “A poem. Stupid.”

Yamabuki clapped her hands. “Tell me.”

“You don't want to hear it.”

Yamabuki shook her head. “The great Tomoe Gozen. Wrong for the first time in her life.”

Tomoe laughed, then relented. She shut her eyes. It was easier when you didn't have to see anyone.

“The winter snow lies peaceful

But snug beneath our blankets

We warriors dream of spring”

“What does it mean?” Yamabuki asked. Her voice was gentle.

Tomoe shifted. “Warriors are meant to fight,” she said at last. “We are nothing without it.”

“What a terrible thing to feel,” Yamabuki said. “You want to go out and be killed? Why can't we be happy like this?”

“Because we aren't,” Tomoe said. She gestured around her. “It's like being in a cage.”

Yamabuki frowned. “If what we have right now, right here, is not happiness, I shall never know what it is.”

“I told you it was stupid.” Tomoe flexed her fingers over the koto. She might become proficient if she practiced the instrument diligently, but she had no time for that. “We should go outside. I need the air.” Yamabuki's refusal to leave the house bothered her. It was causing both of them to slowly wither.

Tomoe held her hands flat over the strings. It was so dark in here. Black as night all the time. Her eyes ached. Her shoulders were rounded from slumping. A thought occurred to her. “Think of the baby, Yamabuki,” Tomoe said. “Sunlight is good for him.”

Yamabuki, who always sat up straight, sat up even more, as though an invisible string were on her head.

“Let's go outdoors.” Tomoe picked up the harp, her heart pounding.

Yamabuki hesitated for a moment. “All right.”

Tomoe smiled. How proud Chizuru would be when she got home from the markets. Chizuru always tried to lure Yamabuki outdoors, and rarely succeeded. Tomoe slid open the doors, shielding her eyes from the daylight. Yamabuki gasped.

“It will take a moment for your eyes to get used to it.” Tomoe put the koto on the porch. She turned.

Yamabuki glowed almost ghost-white in the sun. Her eyelids shut tight against the light. She trembled and shivered as though the day was frigid. “Are you well?” Tomoe grabbed her arms, helped the girl sit. Her arms were skinny, weak. “Only for a few minutes,” she promised. “The sun is good for you.” She wished the girl would show some spirit. She did admire how Yamabuki never once complained, though her circumstances had certainly fallen with a marriage to Yoshinaka in the wilderness. But the truth was, here, the girl was mostly useless.

She knew the feeling.

Resolved to help Yamabuki, she nudged her side playfully. “Play for me,” she urged her. “I love to hear you.” This happened to be true. She settled down, waiting.

Yamabuki nodded. Her hands reached out for the koto and began playing. “Oh,” she said, opening her eyes. In this light, they no longer appeared black. Only dark gray, with no other colors present. “He's moving. For the first time, he's moving!”

She grabbed Tomoe's hands and pressed them against her stomach before Tomoe could move away. Yamabuki was not cold, as Tomoe feared, but very warm.

The baby moved under Yamabuki's skin, under Tomoe's hands. Tomoe had never felt anything like it before. She gasped and drew her hands away.

Yamabuki touched her belly. “He likes the sun.” She squinted at Tomoe. “This was a good idea. Thank you.”

Tomoe inclined her head. Of course it was a good idea. They were living things, and living things needed light. Or, like a light-loving plant in the shade, they would die. Funny. If Tomoe hadn't insisted on bringing Yamabuki outside, maybe she would have died like a plant, too. No, Yamabuki needed to live. The baby needed to live.

“Show me again,” Tomoe said, pointing to the koto. If she had to spend her life mostly cooped up, she might as well learn. Perhaps Tomoe could be as great as Yamabuki believed her to be.

Yamabuki's fingers poised over the strings.

Somebody pounded the gong in the center of the fortress, making Tomoe's ears ring. Suddenly all the men were rushing about, picking up swords, abandoning carts and farming rakes and oxen. The fortress gate was open. Surprise attack. Arrows fell from the sky as abruptly as a sudden downpour.

“What is it?” Yamabuki got up and began to step off the sheltered porch.

“Get inside!” Tomoe herded the woman indoors. “Quick, quick.” Her heart pounding, she grabbed her own bow and arrow, her sword already strapped on. “Stay in here. Bolt the door. Don't come out no matter what.”

“And if they come in?” Yamabuki shook. Despite her large belly, she looked like a small girl.

Tomoe took the small dagger off her leg and skittered it across the wooden floor. “End it with honor.
Jigai
.”
Jigai
referred to the female method of suicide. Men committed
seppuku
, a self-disemboweling ritual, culminating in a friend cutting off their heads to end suffering. A woman used the long-bladed
kaiken
to deliver a quick cut to her jugular.

Yamabuki reached for the knife. Tomoe noted her hand had stopped shaking.

Tomoe slid the door closed and heard it bolt. The arrows had stopped. Yoshinaka's men were engaged all over the grounds—mostly concentrated at the gate, as they tried to hold off the forces. She didn't see Yoshinaka anywhere.

Tomoe ran across the yard and climbed into a pine tree, swinging her leg over the branch, thankful for her pants. High up she went. Any man who followed her would break this slender tree limb. She hadn't had time to put her armor on. No one had. What a dirty trick the enemy had played. Ignoring the rules of engagement. Normally, the battle would be announced.

Her branch hung over the wall. She surveyed the fighting on both sides. She counted a couple dozen samurai, all appropriately armored, fighting the farmers-turned-soldiers of Yoshinaka's men. The farmers were acquitting themselves well, despite the fact that many didn't have proper weapons. Two of them picked up a plow blade and rushed it at a samurai, whose sword clanged uselessly against it before he was knocked off his feet. The two Minamoto farmers then cut off his head. One of them picked it up and waved it around, its eyes popping out grotesquely. Tomoe's lunch rose into her throat and she swallowed it down.