Tale of the Warrior Geisha (6 page)

“Impressive!” one of the bodyguards murmured, before the tax collector shot a dark glance at him. Kaneto laughed, his eyes bright, covering it with a cough. Her father could never hide his pride in her.

“Tomoe!” Chizuru called from the front step, her hands on her hips. “Come here. Now!” Tomoe brought Yuki into the yard. Her mother's eyebrows were knitted into a deep frown.

“Too much?” Tomoe asked innocently. She stopped at the water pail, rinsing blood off her hands.

“You put us all in danger, Tomoe. Clean up and come inside.” Her mother's face was white and drawn.

Her mother was overreacting. That
shugo
and his men were all talk. In a real fight, they could not overpower this family and the farmers Kaneto trained, and everyone knew it. Only old swordmakers. Was the Taira going to send an army to their farm to punish Tomoe? She doubted it. Besides, her father would not have laughed if he was worried. And if Kaneto wasn't worried, then neither was she.

Tomoe scrubbed at the blood and dirt, taking her time. She watched as Kanehira lugged a bag of rice across the yard to the waiting cart. Yoshinaka appeared, a wide easy grin on his face, though he had a fifty-pound bag of rice slung across his back. He motioned to her.

She crossed the yard quickly, drying her hands in the cool air. “What is it?”

“You showed them. So am I.” He opened the bag to show her. Rice was mixed with pebbles.

She put her hand on his arm. “Don't. They will catch us out.”

“They won't realize it for months. I put the good ones on top.” He closed the bag. “The Taira lords could use a bit of extra roughage, don't you think?” He slung the bag back over his shoulder.

Tomoe watched as Yoshinaka put the bag into the cart, moving other bags on top of it. He gave her a wink so showy she was sure the tax collector couldn't miss it. She turned away.

“Tomoe!” her mother shouted. Reluctantly, Tomoe turned and went inside the house.

Tomoe Gozen

M
IYANOKISHI

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU
, J
APAN

Summer 1169

T
omoe weighed each green bean in the palm of her hand for heaviness before attempting to twist it free. If it did not give way immediately, she knew it was not ready. Such fruits were good only when the mother plant released them.

She knelt in the crumbling black earth, feeling for the beans her eyes could not see. The morning was still cool, the heat not yet oppressing. This was Tomoe's favorite time of day, and often she would arise in the first wan light to begin her chores. “Tomoe is more reliable than our rooster,” Kaneto would say. She'd never contracted the adolescent malaise that had overtaken her younger brother and Yoshinaka, causing them to sleep in past the dawn.

This morning, Kanehira and their parents had gone to town, taking eggs and some rice to barter. Yoshinaka was out in their rice fields, on horseback supervising the dozen or so workers Kaneto employed. It was something Kaneto had begun having him do only this year.

The
clop-clop
of hooves caused her to look up. Yoshinaka dismounted and came at her, full force.

Tomoe stood, upsetting her basket of beans. “What's wrong?” she said.

Yoshinaka grinned, his eyes big with excitement. “Come on! I have to show you something.”

She looked at the rows of beans she had not yet touched. “I cannot. I am not done.”

“Tomoe. This is important.” His voice, beginning to deepen, had an authoritative edge. Tomoe had overheard Yoshinaka bragging to her brother he already had hair in places where only men had hair. The thought made her blush. Yoshinaka took her hand, his tone softening. “Come with me. Please. I promise you'll like it. And bring that basket.”

She allowed him to lead her to the horse, a sturdy brown mare the boy was riding bare-back. “All right. But can't you give me at least a hint?”

He laced his fingers together to give her a foot boost. “No.” He scrambled up behind her. His gaining strength surprised her. She could feel the strong muscles in his thighs, alongside her buttocks, squeezing her into place. His chest was as solid as a wall. He gripped his arms around her, cradling her, and kicked the mare. She put the basket between her legs and held on to its mane.

The breeze whipped through Tomoe's hair, blowing back onto Yoshinaka's face, fanning over his head like a bolt of silk. “It's like I blindfolded you,” she said teasingly.

“I can ride blind,” Yoshinaka said, “but I want you to close your eyes.”

She shut them, her heart fluttering. What was he going to show her? She hoped it wouldn't be a terrible schoolboy prank. That he wasn't taking her to see an animal corpse or something equally disgusting. Sometimes she didn't know if Yoshinaka could tell the difference between her and her brother.

But that look he'd given her after his fight with Wada—could he really be jealous of Wada? Did Yoshinaka truly like her, or did he just not want her to want anyone else?

The trouble, Tomoe mused, was the necessity of encouraging Yoshinaka's huge ego.
A general must be confident in himself, almost psychotically so, if he is to succeed,
Kaneto said.
He must have a kind of audacity that nobody else has.

Audacity. That Yoshinaka had plenty of.

They rode for a while. Tomoe could tell by the sounds that they moved beyond their fields and into a forest. She heard wind blowing through the pines in a whistling wail, close now. The sunlight on her disappeared into shadow. She held the coarse horse mane a bit tighter. She could feel Yoshinaka's pulse beating through her light summer robe, into her spine. “Are we almost there?”

The horse stopped abruptly, but Yoshinaka kept hold of her. “We are.” He jumped down, then reached for both of her hands. She landed upright. “Keep your eyes closed.” She heard him moving a branch, the crack of the wood breaking. She felt a sudden shaft of warmth on her torso. They were not in the woods. She heard birds singing, many of them, their song loud as though they were inside an aviary.

“Open,” he commanded.

She blinked. They stood in the middle of a small cherry orchard, two lines of a dozen trees. Ripe fruit in shades varying from a yellowish pink to dark red hung low from every branch. This was what the birds sang about; they darted in and out of the trees, gorging themselves on the cherries. Tomoe didn't blame them. If she were a bird, she would be here, too. Cherries were her favorite, and they didn't have any trees.

Yoshinaka bowed and swept his arm toward the booty. He smiled, his teeth two white lines, his square jaw flexing. Tomoe's pulse skittered. “Welcome to the Minamoto private orchard,” he said. He reached up and plucked a cherry. Tomoe watched the muscles of his neck knit, how straight his posture was even when contorted. A brilliant primary red, so crimson it seemed unreal, as if it had fallen out of a painting. “For you.”

She opened her palm, but Yoshinaka broke off the stem and pushed the fruit against her lower lip. “Open.”

She obeyed, and he pushed it into her mouth, his salty finger swiping the inside of her lip. The sweet juices exploded inside, and she couldn't prevent the smile from overtaking her face. She savored the cherry, sucking every piece of meat off the pit before she spat it out.

Yoshinaka watched her with a half smile, leaning against a tree. “Worth it, right?”

She looked around. Beyond the orchard was another field, and behind them was a wood. Surely some neighbor had planted these trees. Whose land were they on? She worried they would get into trouble. “Yoshi,” she said, “whose orchard is this?”

He popped four cherries into his mouth, then grabbed more handfuls, tossing them into her basket. “What does it matter? They are too lazy to pick them. They'll go bad if we don't.”

She pictured arriving back home with a basket full of stolen cherries. Kaneto would have a fit. “You know Father won't like it. It's thievery. And why are you out wandering around instead of supervising?”

“Our farmers don't need me to watch every second. Kaneto said so. It makes them feel downtrodden.” Yoshinaka lay down on his side on the flattened green grass, patting a spot beside him. He spat out a pit. “Let's eat them here, and then we won't have to deal with your parents.”

She sank to the ground and accepted the cherries. “We could trade for them,” she suggested.

Yoshinaka hit the basket, tossing it over. “Stop, Tomoe. We don't need to trade. This orchard belongs to the Wada family. And Wada-chan won't care. They'll be happy they didn't go to waste. They have too many other worries.”

The cherries rolled away, bruising on the earth. Unusable. She looked at Yoshinaka accusingly. “What a waste.” She hadn't known, in all these years of being neighbors, that the Wada family had this treasure trove. She would have thought Wada would bring some cherries to her family. How often had she and Chizuru picked eggplant, beans, spinach from their gardens and given them to Wada-chan to take home? Nearly daily, in the summer. He had not, she realized, reciprocated.

He stood, grabbing the basket. “I'll pick more.”

“I've no appetite.” She got to her feet, shaking out the bits of dirt and grass from her
yukata
and pants. “Don't eat yourself sick.”

“Tomoe!” Yoshinaka grabbed her arm. He put his face very close to hers, pressing himself into her side, length to length. “Do you think me a child?”

She stared hard into his eyes, that warm brown-black-red color, the dilated black pupils. Their breath, through their lips, matched. His breath smelled of sweet cherries. She did not answer, but pulled his head into hers, her mouth crushing his.

His hand slid off her arm, caressed her waist, her hips, her breasts. A hardness between his legs pressed on her stomach. She gulped. Her heart bounced. Unfamiliar shoots of warmth went all over her body. He shoved his tongue into her mouth, too eager, too sloppy.

She had to stop him. She stepped away, wiping her chin, her cheeks flaming. He was no child. And he was not her brother. “I have to go finish my chores before they get back.” She steadied herself against a tree, light-headed.

She thought he might grab her, do it again.
He shouldn't,
she thought. But oh. She wanted him to.

He turned away. “Take the horse. I'll walk.”

She watched for him for the rest of the day, but he did not return until the family was already eating their evening meal. He was dirty and sweaty and without the basket. He sat without talking, eating as Kanehira tried to jostle him out of his dark mood. Always with his accusing eyes on Tomoe. They had no chance to talk privately, however. Tomoe decided it would be better to speak tomorrow, when the memory wasn't so fresh.
This is not meant to be,
she would tell him.

—

Later, when Tomoe
and the boys were already in bed and her parents talked softly by the lamp light, there was a knock at the door. Kaneto slid open the door. “Wada! What brings you here at this hour?” Kaneto whispered, and Wada said something indecipherable, and her father bowed before closing the door.

“What is it?” Kanehira said, sitting up. Tomoe looked, too. Kaneto held up a gift, wrapped in a bright red square of silk and a small note.

“A note from Wada-chan's mother.
We have been too busy and ill to pick these, but Yoshinaka helped us out today
,” Kaneto read aloud.
“Please accept these with our gratitude, as always.”

Chizuru unwrapped the silk knots and held a handful of cherries aloft. She smiled. “Oh my! They're beautiful. I had forgotten they had an orchard. Yoshinaka, what a nice thing that was to do.”

Yoshinaka nodded modestly, but stole a glance at Tomoe.

Impulsively, she got out from her futon and ran across the room to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Very nice,” she whispered.

Yoshinaka's grin broadened. “Never forget. I will do anything for you, Tomoe.”

Tomoe Gozen

K
ISO
-F
UKUSHIMA
T
O
WN

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU
, J
APAN

Summer 1170

T
omoe and her mother peeled lotus root outside. They were cooking a dish for a wedding feast—one of the Wada daughters had gotten married to a low-ranking official from Miyako. Quickly she worked the knife over the surface of the smooth light-brown skin. Their two curly-tailed Akitas sniffed at the peels and left them alone. “Picky beasts,” Tomoe said fondly. “You should take whatever you can get.”

“The dogs are too smart,” Chizuru said, wiping her hands on her work kimono. “Tomoe, you are quick.” She indicated the half-dozen roots Tomoe had already peeled to her own two. “Good girl. I knew you would beat me one day.”

Tomoe patted at her slightly damp forehead, her hair secured by a blue wrap. “It's much easier to wield a sword,” she countered. “To kill someone you only have to make a few sweeping gestures.”

Earlier in the year, Tomoe had unearthed one of Kaneto's old short swords, a
tachi
, so she could spar with Yoshinaka and Kanehira. Women were supposed to fight only with the
naginata
, but she watched how easily Yoshinaka drew out his
tachi
while he was on horseback. How nimble that sword was, unattached to a cumbersome pole. She wanted to try it. A
tachi
needed no retainer to carry it. She would be more mobile. More ready for any surprise.

And more powerful. A sword like Yoshinaka's was said to be able to slice through seven corpses with one blow. One side was sharp, the other defended like a shield. With a
tachi
, she could attack as well as defend. A bow and arrow could do only so much, she realized. This would work well for close combat.

She and Yoshinaka sparred every afternoon. “Don't go easy on me!” she always warned Yoshinaka. She suspected he was holding back.

“I never do,” he responded each time, always with a ready grin. It was her goal to make Yoshinaka huff and puff and perspire, and generally she was successful.

One evening, Yoshinaka and Kanehira both attacked her with their swords. They wore no armor for these practice events, trusting they were good enough to avoid real damage. She deflected Kanehira easily, disarming him, before she cornered Yoshinaka and cut through his outer jacket.

“You drew blood.” Tomoe's father's voice was behind her. She whirled to see him.

He pointed to Yoshinaka, who had a small cut on his cheek. Yoshinaka grinned. “It doesn't hurt, Tomoe.”

Tomoe watched her father stride across the yard to her. She gripped the old
tachi
so tightly her hands went numb. Was this his breaking point? Seeing his daughter using the
tachi
, meant for males only? His face was unreadable.

“Why are you not using the wooden practice swords?” Kaneto asked.

Yoshinaka met his gaze. “We don't need them.”

Kaneto's face creased into deep ridges. He took Yoshinaka's sword. “Show me, Tomoe.”

“You, Father?” Tomoe hesitated.

“Show me what you can do.” Kaneto pulled up his loose pants, arranging the extra material over his sash. He held Yoshinaka's sword aloft.

She regarded him. It seemed she had the advantage here; she had seen her father fight many times with this sword, but he had seen her only once. She knew his left side tended to be weaker than his right, and he was less fleet of foot now. She knew Yoshinaka could dodge most of her blows, but what about Kaneto? What if she accidentally sliced through him? “Should we use the wooden practice swords?” she asked.

“Don't lose confidence now,” he barked.
“Ichi-go, ichi-e.”

Ichi-go, ichi-e.
One encounter, one chance. With a sword like this, in combat like this, there was only one opportunity to kill or be killed.

One opportunity to not make any mistakes.

Further thinking would slow her down. She charged him, feinting left, before maneuvering around him to attack. He deflected her easily, coming back at her so ferociously she nearly was run through the stomach. She leaped away. He didn't hesitate, coming at her back. She did a flip to her left, using her left hand to brace herself. His sword whistled through air near her ear. She landed on her feet and, without pausing, swept under her father's feet. He stumbled to the ground but deflected her attack. Metal clanged on metal in a rhythm that sang with Tomoe's blood. She might be dreaming, she thought. Sword fighting was her meditation.

“Stop!” Yoshinaka shouted, and Tomoe looked down to see her knees pinning down her father's shoulders.

Terrified, she leaped up. “Father! Are you all right?”

Kaneto rolled over and waved off Yoshinaka's helping hand. “Never apologize for besting me, Tomoe. It's what I want you to do.” He spat out a clump of dirt, mingled with blood and saliva, and wiped the sweat from his brow. When he met her eyes, his smile was big. “You, my girl, are getting your own
tachi
.”

Kaneto kept his word and bought her a
tachi
, a beautiful steel beast with vines and flowers engraved on the blade. Her mother had protested, of course. “Most samurai use a bow and arrows!” she said.

“You need both,” Kaneto had silenced her. “The gods gave Tomoe a gift. I have never seen anyone like her.”

“The gods put the gift into the wrong body,” Chizuru had said.

One of the dogs barked and licked Tomoe's hand, bringing her attention back to the lotus roots. “Do you think we'll ever have a real battle?” she asked her mother.

“This is not the question a mother dreams her daughter will ask her.” Chizuru clucked and frowned. “Are you excited for tonight?” she asked, changing the subject. “Wada-san is coming back. Haven't their family fortunes improved.” Chizuru smiled, as if it had been her own family to marry up.

“I'd rather stay here on the farm than go work for the Taira.” Tomoe had lost her chance, if she ever cared to think of it as a chance. To her, it seemed she had escaped a dull fate. Yoshimori, through the combined efforts of Kaneto, his new brother-in-law, and several Minamoto cousins, had gotten a clerk job in the capital. “I will be your eyes and ears on the inside,” he had promised Kaneto. But Tomoe doubted Yoshimori would ever risk his new job to help them. Already he was heard to be cultivating relationships with better-connected women there.
Probably truly composing poetry for them and visiting them at night,
Tomoe thought. Wada had the reputation of a ladies' man. Just like his hero, Genji.

Besides, Wada had left without saying a proper good-bye to her, proving what Tomoe thought: she was merely a convenient village girl. Kaneto had a going-away dinner for him, their families both laughing and joking throughout. At the end, he had bowed to all of them, thanked them for their help, and gone on his way. He had not even waved to her alone.

“Much can be done with allies on the inside,” Chizuru said.

“The Taira are only hiring outsiders to placate the Minamoto supporters,” Tomoe said. “Our people will never have any real power in the Taira government.”

“Whatever the reason, at least we can have a good feast tonight,” Chizuru said, finishing her third root. “It's been too long since we had a celebration.” She smiled at Tomoe. “Which kimono shall you wear? The pink one?”

“I don't care, Mother,” Tomoe said, but relented at her mother's disappointed expression. She knew her mother was worried about her. She was seventeen years old, and other girls—women—her age had already been married for a few years by now. Chizuru had not grasped the fact, as Kaneto had, that their only daughter was meant for a different life. “Yes, the pink. But I'm still going to wear my sword.”

Chizuru rolled her eyes. She leaned forward with a serious expression. “It's not too late for you and Wada-san.”

Tomoe didn't answer her. “Mother, who do you think Yoshinaka will marry?”

“Yoshinaka?” Chizuru stared at her daughter, suddenly alert. “A noblewoman, I imagine. He is a lord.”

Tomoe attacked another lotus root. Of course. Not her. Who was Tomoe suitable for? No one.

Chizuru put her hand on Tomoe's. “I know you and Yoshinaka are not brother and sister,” she said gently, “but for your own sake, try to forget him. See Wada's good points.”

Tomoe nodded once.

Chizuru placed all the roots into a pot and walked off.

“Good points,” Tomoe mumbled to herself. She clanged the pot of vegetables down. “What good points are those? His poetry? His ability to ignore me?”

Her father ambled over, stroking his beard thoughtfully. It seemed to Tomoe that more white hairs appeared by the minute, studding his hair like snowflakes on burned-out ground. “Did you say something?” His voice was contemplative, not stern.

Tomoe hung her head anyway. “I was only talking to myself, Father.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “I know it's difficult for you, Tomoe. If you wanted to marry Wada-san, I would help arrange it.”

“What makes you think he wants to marry me?” Tomoe gathered up the shavings for the compost pile. Her parents seemed to think she had the pick of men. “I'm not cultured enough. Besides, can you imagine me at court? Bowing and scraping my head for the ladies? I'd be bored out of my mind. One of them would end up dead.”

“Tomoe, you are not like the other girls. You are better than they are. Higher-born, though we are only farmers now. Remember that.” Kaneto bent his head to look at Tomoe's face. “I do not want to see your head hung low. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” She looked at his eyes, now with wrinkles fanning around the edges.

“The world as we know it now is coming to an end,” Kaneto said, dropping his hand from her shoulder. “When it does, all those simpering rich girls at court who do nothing but read poetry and play music will perish. They don't know how to survive. You do.”

“But when?” Tomoe said.

“When the time is right. No sooner.”

She considered this. Tomoe embraced her father. He was so wise, and always knew just what to say. Her mother loved her, but her father was the only one who truly understood her. He rubbed her back. “In the meantime, you'd better go help your mother cook.”

—

It wasn't until
well after dark that Tomoe saw Wada-san at the feast. It was held in Kiso-Fukushima, on the grounds of the Kozen-ji temple, one of the grandest temples in the area, with ten buildings on the premises. To Tomoe, the main temple looked almost like a palace, perched as it was on a high hill, with a long sweeping curved roofline. The grounds were surrounded by tall trees and gardens with ponds and cherry trees everywhere.

The courtyard for the feast was crisscrossed above with thick wisteria vines, purple blossoms cascading down with sweet scent. Everyone had brought dishes to share at the makeshift tables set up. Petals and dropped leaves crunched under Tomoe's feet. Lit lanterns swung over the revelers, and someone had banged a drum and sang. Several drunk people danced, arms linked, laughing. The air was still hot and humid. People seemed to feel the drink more during this weather.

Tomoe sat on a cushion and picked at her mother's lotus root dish. They had cut up the root into disks that looked like wheels, cooked it in fish stock, and seasoned it with sesame and ginger. It was good. She wondered if Yoshinaka wanted some; this was his favorite. She looked around for him. He was a distance away out of the courtyard, talking to a girl older than Tomoe, his head bent low. The girl laughed suddenly, the sound cutting through the din as clear as a gong. The girl put her arms around Yoshinaka's neck.

Tomoe turned away, the lotus roots turning to lead in her mouth. She swallowed. Why should she care? He was only her foster brother. He was sixteen, a man by most people's measure. No one expected him to pledge himself to Tomoe and only Tomoe forever.

Except perhaps Tomoe.

Yet she did care. She swallowed the roots and put her hand to her stomach, to stanch the sudden pain there.

“Tomoe.”

She recognized the voice immediately. “Hello, Wada-san.” Her voice sounded calm, fortunately. She looked up at him, but his face was in shadow.

He cringed, then smiled. “Again, you are the only person existing who may call me that.” He took her hands and helped her up. She barely used her muscles. He'd gotten stronger.

Now she could see his face. It had lost a little bit of the roundness, but he was the same old Wada. He grinned impishly, and she noticed a dimple at the left corner of his mouth. How had she missed that before? His sons would inherit that, she thought. She did not know why she thought of Wada's future sons.

They walked out of the courtyard and away from the party. The moon hung low and impossibly huge on the horizon, in hues of orange. Tomoe reached her hand out toward it. “It looks close enough to touch.”

“The moonlight suits you.” Wada still had her hand.

Her heart beat harder. “How long will you be home?”

“Not long enough.” Wada smiled. “Two days.”

A soft wind blew up, rustling the trees around them and cooling Tomoe's skin. A thrush sang out. Tomoe stopped. “Listen.”

Wada stopped too, putting his hand on Tomoe's cheek. “A thrush's song is not half as sweet as your voice, Tomoe. I've missed you.”

She gulped, forcing a grin. She took a step back. “Oh, Wada-san. You've been studying poetry in the capital.” She whistled the thrush's song, and the bird sang back in reply.

“Tomoe. Can't you be serious?” Wada dropped his hand.

“I am serious, Wada-san. It's you who are not. We all know you've been seeing all manner of upper-class women in the capital. I know you will not marry me, because I cannot increase your rank.” She studied his face to confirm her blunt statement. He had the grace to blush. She knew what he wanted—a quick tryst. Something to occupy him while he was home. It would only be trouble for her.