Tale of the Warrior Geisha (3 page)

Tomoe Gozen

K
ISO
-F
UKUSHIMA
T
OWN

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU
, J
APAN

Spring 1160

H
er father, good as his word, began Tomoe's training right away. On the first day, Kaneto took them to the town of Kiso-Fukushima to buy supplies. They brought along Yoshimori Wada, the nine-year-old son of another local farmer Kaneto had recruited. “His grandfather was a Minamoto noble,” Kaneto had said. “Descended from Emperor Kammu. He is like us. Samurai blood.”

Yoshimori Wada seemed an unremarkable boy to Tomoe. He was barely her height, with a medium build and a round, placid face, with straight hair falling into his eyes. Tomoe greeted him with a small bow when they were introduced, then faded back behind Kaneto so she wouldn't have to talk to him. She focused instead on walking the horse they had brought to carry the goods back.

Tomoe loved going into town. That was the only thing she missed about spending so much time with her father—it was her mother's job to go buy the goods they could not grow on their farm. This town was tiny, only two streets long. The first street was all vendor stalls, constructed of ramshackle lumber, but each filled with, to Tomoe's eyes, endless goods. Her favorite was the sweets vendor, who peddled all sorts of rice candies and sweet bean pastries. The second street Tomoe was not allowed to go into. Chizuru said it was all restaurants and drinking establishments and other places not suitable for young children.

Kaneto paused at a stall where the man sold clothing, asking about woven bamboo body armor. “You may each buy a sweet,” he said, giving them each a Chinese copper. Tomoe grinned. Such a treat was usually annual. This must be a special occasion indeed. For the first time in her life, she felt important.

Tomoe and Yoshimori Wada walked slowly to the sweets stall. The two younger boys danced along in front of them, kicking up small plumes of yellowish-brown dirt in their wake. Tomoe sneezed.

“Watch out!” Yoshinaka yelled to the townspeople, doing a high kick for their benefit. “Minamoto coming through.” Several old people nodded approvingly at him with toothless grins.

Tomoe glanced back at her father, expecting a reprimand. Kaneto did not turn. It was young Yoshimori Wada who stepped in and clapped Yoshinaka on the back roughly. “Cut it out,” he said sharply. “You're getting dirt in Tomoe's face.”

Yoshinaka glanced back at her, surprised. She sniffled. “She doesn't care if she gets dirty.”

“I care.” Yoshimori Wada put his face next to Yoshinaka's. “You're her brothers. You're supposed to protect her.”

Uh-oh. They couldn't fight. “It's all right, Wada-san.”

“Yoshimori.” But he straightened from Yoshinaka.

“I like Wada. Wada-san.” She bowed with a smile. It wasn't polite of her to call him by his family name, and he might have punched anyone else who tried it. But she wanted to see how far he'd let her go, this Wada. His face brightened and blushed. Perhaps he wasn't dull after all. Of course, Kaneto would never consent to training a dull boy. So she would watch after the boys, and Wada-san would watch after her.

A group of little girls stood in front of the candy vendor. They were merchants' daughters, clad in cotton kimonos of light pinks and yellows, their hands soft and untarnished by heavy work, tall in their wooden
geta
. They looked at Tomoe and giggled. “Is that a boy or a girl?” one of them asked.

Tomoe's face burned. What did she care what these little girls thought? One day, they would pray for protection from people like her and her family. The real warriors. She held her head up high and walked up to the sweet vendor. Her mouth watered at the display of multicolored candied fruits and the mochi candies. The air here was sweet. She inhaled and looked over the prices. She had enough money for the fruit, not for the mochi, her favorite.

The vendor, an elderly man with wrinkles so heavy they nearly pushed his eyes closed, leaned over. “What would you like, pretty one?”

“One candied loquat, please.” To her left, she heard them continue to chatter about her. Loneliness welled up. She wished she had a girl for a friend. Just one girl.

The vendor handed her change. She had a thought that made her heart pound faster and bought several candied loquats, golden and juicy. Then she turned to the girls.

“Would you like one?” she asked, holding the candies out on the palm of her hand.

The girls eyed her with distaste. They said nothing.

Tomoe waited. Still nothing. She turned away.

Then Yoshinaka was muscling up alongside her. “Answer Tomoe.”

One girl wrinkled her nose. “I smell dung and despair. It must be a Minamoto.” The other girls laughed openly, several little boys joining in as they sensed some excitement afoot.

Tomoe stiffened, sure that her young foster brother would retaliate. If they got into a fight here, they would all be severely punished at home. But Yoshinaka only laughed and stuck one hand into his kimono on his chest. “One day you'll wish to be a Minamoto, too, and don't think I won't remember who you are and what you said.” He stared at the girls with an expression that reminded Tomoe of their dog hunting a rabbit. The girl blanched, unwilling to escalate with the unpredictable Yoshinaka, and wobbled off, her friends following. “You don't bother Tomoe, you hear?”

Wada, as she now thought of him, pulled her backward by her arm. “They're not worthy of you, Tomoe,” he said. “Come on, Yoshinaka. Kanehira. Let's find your father.” Still linking her arm with his, they left the stall.

“Here.” Kanehira was at her side. He handed her a mochi cake, heavy, filled with candied fruit. This was the most expensive thing at the stall, due to the rice being so expensive. He must have used his whole coin, maybe even two. She glanced at Yoshinaka and saw that he had no treat, and neither did Wada. All three of them had bought this for her. They did not acknowledge her, but kept walking, their eyes forward.

She knew they did not want thanks; it would embarrass them. Instead she held out the loquats for them. Each boy popped one into his mouth as they went back to locate Kaneto.

Yamabuki

M
IYAKO
,
THE
CAPITAL

H
ONSHU
, J
APAN

Spring 1169

Y
amabuki folded her hands on her lap as she knelt behind her privacy screen, waiting for her mother to bring in her next client. Her short white kimono jacket had white embroidered cranes all over it. She smoothed it down. Only the dead and the soothsayers wore white kimonos. Yamabuki had gotten used to it. Under this, she wore a red top and red wide-legged pants.

Nine years ago, when Okāsan found that Yamabuki talked to her dead grandmother, she began boasting that her daughter had the gift of a soothsayer. Yamabuki could see the dead, who could see everything.

She was a
miko
, a woman who would once be found at Shinto shrines, supported by the local priests and nobles who depended on their advice. Some spoke in tongues, rolling their eyes back in their heads as they babbled in some strange spirit-language. Now these were scarce and some
miko
traveled like performers, while others were like Yamabuki. At home, seeing clients for money.

Only days later, her mother wrapped a white kimono around the little girl and began bringing in clients. For a small fee, she could speak to anyone you wanted. The income supplemented her mother's needs, her father's income.

Everyone from a dirty farmer who saved his coppers for a year to courtiers higher-ranked than her own father came to talk to her. Asking to speak to long-dead ancestors, for advice and guidance. To cast out evil
obake
, spirits that haunted and brought bad fortune. To beg long-dead lovers' pardons.

The first fortune Yamabuki told was for a heavily pregnant noblewoman. She was dressed in a fine kimono and had not one but two female servants with her. Okāsan eyed the woman's clothes, the brushed black hair, the fully appointed covered litter, with an openly avaricious gaze. The woman went pink.

“We'll be ready in a moment,” Okāsan sang at her.

Okāsan prepared a small bare room, furnished only with a tatami mat and a small lacquered black table. On top of the table was a bowl with a single white lily floating in water. The room had no windows, but light filtered in through the cracks in the walls. Cracks that would soon be repaired. “Is my mother's ghost here?” Okāsan asked, pushing Yamabuki into a kneeling position.

Yamabuki glanced around. “No.” She wasn't entirely sure what her mother wanted her to do.

Okāsan's lips thinned. “Just stare at the lily, like it's showing you something.”

Yamabuki's brow furrowed. “Like what?”

Okāsan smacked Yamabuki's head. “The future, you idiot! Whatever she wants to hear.”

Yamabuki felt confused, but did as her mother asked.

Obāchan-obake appeared beside Yamabuki, her withered hand gripping Yamabuki's in a cold, yet soothing, embrace. The noblewoman waddled in, casting a wan smile at Yamabuki. “You are so young,” she said.

“I cannot help what I am,” responded Yamabuki.

Obāchan-obake squeezed her wrist.
Good girl.

“Tell me. Is this a boy or a girl? Healthy?” the woman asked.

Yamabuki stared at the water lily so hard she thought her eyes would pop out of her head. Obāchan-obake crossed the table and placed her hands on the woman's belly. One ghostly hand reached inside and felt around, as if she was sticking her hand into a leather pouch, searching for a coin. Yamabuki gasped at the sight.

The woman gasped, too, doubling over, scooting away from the table. “My baby! My belly. What is happening?”

“Stop!” Yamabuki said, afraid, for the first time, of the ghost.

Obāchan-obake returned to her seat.
It is a boy. But the cord is wrapped around his neck and he will die.
She shook her head sadly.

Yamabuki's stomach dropped. How could she tell this woman such horrible news? She was just a little girl herself. She stared at the woman's belly, her hands going numb from her clenching them so hard.

“Tell her,” Okāsan said.

Yamabuki broke down into tears that turned quickly into sobs.

“Just spit it out!” Okāsan said.

Yamabuki took a breath and collected herself. She knew from experience that people often got angry at the people who told them bad news, even if the news was true. Once, her father had been demoted—not his fault, as a better-connected family member got his post—and her mother had punched him in the jaw. Now it popped every time her father opened his mouth too wide. She considered what to say. “A son. A fine big healthy boy,” Yamabuki burst out.

The noblewoman's mouth widened into a relieved smile. She struggled to her feet, a fat bag of coins appearing in her hand. Okāsan helped see her out.

I am so sorry, child.
Obāchan-obake squeezed her hand.

“Go away. Never come back,” she shouted at the ghost. But the ghost refused to budge, looking on sadly with her hollow eyes.

The baby died, but no one blamed Yamabuki. The success of Yamabuki's first reading traveled quickly, and soon there was a daily line of people who wanted Yamabuki to tell their fortunes or speak to the dead.

But the only
obake
Yamabuki could see was her own
obāchan
. And sometimes she wasn't sure whether her
ob
ā
chan
was just an imagined friend.

For most, Yamabuki made up stories. She told the farmer to keep an extra eye on his crops, because someone wanted to steal them. She figured this could be true—people were always stealing crops. She told a courtier his wife was having an affair with another—also easy, as she had heard the maid and her mother gossiping. So far, she had been very lucky.

Everyone in the capital heard of her. Her father had gotten a raise, been promoted. All because of her, Okāsan bragged. Okāsan and her soothsaying daughter.

The most popular
imayō
, or song, of the day was Ryōjin Hishō, song 364, about a mother looking for her child. Akemi, Yamabuki's maid, first sang it to her.

My child . . . soothsayer she's become, I hear,

Out wandering the land.

The song made Yamabuki long for her mother. Not her actual mother, but an imaginary mother who would hold her and be kind to her. She wiped at her eyes. “Don't sing it again.”

“It's about you,” Akemi told her.

“No. In the song, the mother doesn't have her child. They are poor.”

“Does your mother have you?” Akemi asked, and Yamabuki had no answer.

Now she held one of her father's books in her lap, pretending to read. It was only
The Tale of Genji
, and she had read it a hundred times now. “A depiction of a court life that is rapidly changing,” her father had remarked sadly. The novel was written more than a hundred years earlier. Yamabuki still loved the poetic images, the romantic nature of the admittedly promiscuous Genji's heart.

The screen opened and Akemi appeared, not Okāsan. Akemi was now tall and beautiful, a woman at age fifteen. “Your appointment has been canceled. He'll be here tomorrow instead.” She did not step inside, but beckoned Yamabuki out. “It's too fine a day to be inside.”

Yamabuki went out but gasped as the sun hit her skin. It felt like a thousand ants crawled on her. She scurried to the shade by the koi pond. “
Ai.
No. It's awful out here.” It felt like she'd stepped into a suffocating, steamy bath.

Akemi shrugged. “Tell me a poem. Take your mind off the heat.”

Yamabuki closed her eyes and recited the first line of a poem that came to mind.
“In the sky, as birds that share a wing / On earth, as trees that share a branch.”

“Pretty. What does it mean?” Akemi sat down next to her.

“How should I know?” Yamabuki felt petulant. Her stomach hurt. She clenched her fists, the heat continuing to sear at her skin. Then she bent and scooped up a handful of pond water, splashing Akemi full in the face.

Akemi looked as startled as Yamabuki felt. She hadn't meant to hit her friend directly in the face.
“Sumimasen,”
Yamabuki said immediately.

“Oh, you want to play like that, do you? I bet you can't take it.” Akemi splashed Yamabuki back, soaking her head. The water felt good.

They stared at each other, then began splashing in earnest, the koi fish scattering to the far end in fright. Yamabuki shrieked as Akemi held open her kimono, sending a handful of cold water down her front. “Cooled down yet?” Akemi shouted.

“How about you?” Yamabuki had never felt so bold. She poured water down Akemi's front.

“It's slimy!” Akemi shrieked as the liquid coursed down her bare chest. “Get it off of me! I think there's a fish in it!”

Yamabuki laughed. “There's no fish.”

“I feel it! It's in my kimono!” Akemi danced around.
“Ai!”

“Stop moving.” Yamabuki put her hand inside Akemi's kimono. Her flesh felt cool. She patted around Akemi's ribs. “I don't feel anything.” Her hand went upward.

Akemi gasped, her long lashes fluttering.

Yamabuki froze, looking into Akemi's eyes. Akemi's were as dark and deep as a well. Both of them held their breath. Warmth overtook Yamabuki's whole body, shaking her, and she stepped away, confused. What had just happened?

Akemi stuck her own hand into her robes. “Here,” she said triumphantly. In her palm was a tiny tadpole.

“Girls!” Yamabuki's father stood only inches away, his mouth open and eyes wide. His slight, scholarly frame swam in his brown kimono. “What are you doing?”

Both of them clasped their kimonos closed tight. “Nothing.” Yamabuki couldn't bear to look at either her father or Akemi.

He pushed her aside and bent down. “You've gotten my book wet. These are not cheap, you know.” He picked up the damp
Tale of Genji
, holding it tenderly in his skinny hands.

Yamabuki blew out a long breath. She bowed.
“Sumimasen, Otōsan.”

Akemi bent even lower, all the way to the ground.

Otōsan sighed, glancing up at the sky. “It should dry quickly on a day like this. But clean yourselves up before your mother sees you.”