The Golden Naginata (29 page)

In that moment of certain death, Tomoe remembered where she had seen such a beast as this: in her most terrifying nightmares. It was the
Baku,
whose stomach was strong enough to eat the least digestible things, such as iron and bad dreams. The Baku was a welcome sight if the dream were bad enough, for he would take the dream away and rend it like a piece of meat.

The Baku spat Tomoe away as though she were tougher and worse tasting than gravel or nightmares. She fell into the mud next to the horrible eye of Jishin-uwo. But the Baku was not going to let her off completely. It scraped the ground with its front hooves and prepared to attack with its two tusks lowered, intending to impale her. For she had hurt its nose when the only thing it intended to do was its usual favor; and the Baku sought revenge. Tomoe was too dazed to raise the naginata or pick up the shortsword near her fingers. She could hardly move; her mind was confused by the Baku's breath.

She would have been killed but for the ghostly, white horse rising from Taro's halved body. It was a warhorse, and one that Tomoe recalled having ridden into battle many years before! The white horse reared its legs to keep the Baku from doing anything more to Tomoe.

Jishin-uwo was beginning to thrash beneath the ground. The root-forest shook madly. Tomoe grabbed the shortsword and thrust it in its sheath. She held tightly to Inazuma-hime while scrambling to the top of the bank. The ghost-horse which was Taro's spirit stayed behind to hold off the Baku. Dust and stones were shaking loose from the sky above. Bits of roots were falling everywhere. A crack appeared in the ceiling of the Land of Roots, and Tomoe found herself in the thickest part of the root-forest, climbing toward the light of Amaterasu, the Sun Upon Naipon.

As she went, her mind fought against forgetfulness. The Baku had bitten into her memories, and she was not convinced she wanted to lose them. She recalled her adventures in the Hollow Land in snatches, but the larger portion of what she had seen and done was drifting from her mind. She realized that the Baku had been the challenger Okio had warned her not to defeat. The Baku was the monster against whom Tsuki Izutsu had failed to lose! Strong Tsuki had escaped the Hollow Land remembering every detail of horror. To defeat the Baku was to recall each of the crippling nightmares of one's whole life, and what sanity could survive a thing such as that? Taro had known it from the beginning, but Tomoe had cleaved him in half, misunderstanding his intentions.

Her guilty feelings for killing Taro faded from memory. She climbed the tendrils from the Land of Roots until she reached the crack in the ground above. There, she clung to an earthen wall while it shook with Jishin-uwo's annoyance; but she could not be made to fall back into the Hollow Land.

She clung also to a thought, one which the Baku could not have: There would be a funeral tablet for brave Taro, and he would have the death-services of a samurai.

She struggled onto the shaking surface of Naipon, saw that she was in a mapled valley, the trees of high autumn all around her. The limbs of the trees vibrated as the ground heaved and buckled. There were gorgeous leaves upon those branches, many of them falling because they were so shaken; and their falling was like a weird, colorful snow upon Tomoe's body. She knew it was nearly time to lead the yamabushi unto Kyoto, to reinforce whatever claims Kiso Yoshinake had been making. She was uncertain exactly how much time had passed, days being measured differently underneath the world. Haste might be necessary. But for the moment, she could only lie gasping air, while the crack she'd scaled from Hell partially closed itself. Everything ceased to toss about. Jishin-uwo invariably thrashed a few lighter times, once he'd been awakened, but for now the catfish rested in its new position.

As she lay, looking up through the red and yellow snow of leaves, through the dark sky-cracks of branches, she beheld the cloudy, bright sky, and her brow knit into a puzzled expression. She was certain she had just this moment escaped from Hell. Some of it was clear in her mind, but most of it had faded. She would almost be willing to swear by her very honor that she had fought the Naruka and talked to Koshi's spirit and given Ushii a sword and pleaded with Okio to forgive Lord Kiso's rashness … but thinking more carefully, these things began to sound most improbable. The specifics of each event were jumbled in her memory. The harder she tried to draw these actions into focus, the more hazy and unlikely they became. The Baku, the horse-spirit of Taro, the meetings with the King of Hell, and other important events, were forgotten entirely. Without these missing pieces, the parts she
did
recall refused to adhere into a logical, consistent picture.

In time, she rose from her weary posture and went in search of a lake or spring. A purification rite was of absolute necessity, considering where she had been. If she could find salt, she would rub herself until parts of her were raw! Afterward, she would proceed with haste to her rendezvous with the yamabushi, and her rendezvous with fate.

The following day found Tomoe Gozen going toward the pre-arranged meeting-place by means of palanquin, her Golden Naginata strapped to the vehicle's outside. The men carrying the braces on their shoulders jogged to a steady cant, going swiftly as Tomoe had directed. She lifted the bamboo curtain of the palanquin to see people swarming the other way, coming from two roads which met on this third. They fled the war in the Imperial City and the ruin by earthquake of their own small villages. The quakes had mainly ended yesterday, but presently, Jishin-uwo decided to give one final thrash before settling down entirely. At first she did not feel it, due to the bouncing motion of the palanquin. But directly the bearers were so tossed about that they dropped the box which held Tomoe, jarring her suddenly.

The peasants scurrying along the roads were thrown off their feet. Tomoe's palanquin bearers went down on their faces not only because of the shaking ground, but because they feared Tomoe's anger at being dropped so abruptly. She ignored their pleas to be forgiven, tossed the bamboo curtain over the roof of the palanquin, and sat inside watching the countryside convulse. Her expression was one of utter detachment.

A crack appeared in the middle of a rice field. It began stretching toward the palanquin. The bearers, seeing it, rose from the ground and staggered swiftly away, abandoning their occupation. Tomoe sat calmly, watching the crack approach her. It stopped short of the road, never quite threatening to devour her or anyone else. When this last complaint of Jishin-uwo was finished, the people began to rise from the dirt and gravel, dusting themselves, their faces nearly as calm as Tomoe's. Even peasants were resigned to such occurrences in Naipon, though occasionally bewildered to think a country divinely created and divinely ruled could yet so easily convulse with abundant disaster.

Tomoe went the last small way on foot. She smelled smoke before she actually saw the village, and knew the quake had caused fires the day before, and some of these still smouldered. The people swarming along the roads could do no better than forget their ruined homes, leaving valuables at shrines as offerings, dressing statues in finery, offering millions of prayers, and fleeing to the mountains or off to another province. What they carried in big squares of cloth upon their backs was the extent of their salvaged past.

As she strode against the tide of this exodus, many hands were extended, peasants trying to convince her to give them some coin. She had nothing to offer, so ignored them. Another samurai might have acknowledged them with the sharp edge of steel. The peasants may have hoped for exactly such an end to strife; but Tomoe Gozen did not draw her shortsword nor unsheath the blade of her naginata.

The naginata was a worry. The kirin's blood would wear away in one more week's time. Then there would be no protection from the blinding light of the weapon's supernatural temper. She recalled that it had taken her a year to perform the errand for bonze Shindo, to return the head of his pilgrim's staff to the monastery. It might be equally difficult to return Inazuma-hime to her place in the crater of Mount Kiji, with Tomoe's other responsibilities so numerous and so pressing. When the holy monster kirin was healed of its injuries, it might come stalking for Tomoe Gozen, and create trouble. She must be prepared, whether with apologies or strength to fight the beast again.

When she arrived in the village, she saw that hundreds had been crushed by their falling homes. There were few attempting to dig the bodies out. There were already evil odors rising from the bodies, so disease would soon come to scourge the survivors. The quake had not been severe in Kyoto, one refugee from that direction remarked; but the war itself was awful and it was considered a bad idea to flee the villages in the direction of the capital.

People wandered about on aimless journeys through the rubble. One staggering, bloodied fellow crossed Tomoe's path, staring blindly though nothing was wrong with his eyes. He dropped down dead at her feet. She stepped over him. In the distance, a religious maniac howled a Shinto prayer. Buddhists jangled rattles, sitting amidst destruction. Tomoe spied a child attached to the breast of its dead mother, suckling pointlessly. Above them, a poem was scribed in blood upon a fragment of a wall. It was the mother's final consideration: “The city falls in pieces. How serene the clouds.”

There was surprisingly little looting, but one sad-looking woman upturned splintered floorboards and bent tatami mats as though in search of something in particular, something precious; but she looked confused, as though her quest was an unknown one even to herself. Her tattered clothing were grey from dirt. It was clear she had been a beggar even before the quake delivered instant poverty to an entire town. Her face was smudged with soot. Her arms were blistered, indicating that she had barely escaped one of the fires of the day before. He eyes were deepset and dark beneath. Even in such a condition, Tomoe recognized who this was.

“Oshina!” she cried. “Oshina! Why are you here?”

The woman looked up stupidly, then shouted back at the samurai, “Give me money, samurai! Give me food!” She came hopping through the rubble toward Tomoe Gozen, her hand reaching out, beseeching.

“Oshina, don't you remember me? Why have you left Lost Shrine? Did it fall in the earthquake also?”

“The shrine?” She looked more stupid than before, but then seemed to remember. “I left Lost Shrine several days ago. I don't know if the earthquake hurt it.”

“Where is your son? Why is he not strapped onto your back?”

Her deepset, dark eyes pondered this question, for she scarcely remembered anything at all. “My son,” she said carefully, then it flooded back into her consciousness. “Koshi! Koshi!”

“Where is he now?”

“Koshi-koshi!”

Tomoe grabbed the hysterical mother by the shoulders and squeezed hard. “Don't act so funny, Oshina! I am your friend Tomoe Gozen! Don't you know? Have you abandoned Koshi at Lost Shrine?”

Oshina settled down and nodded vaguely.

“How could you do it! Oshina!”

Oshina looked into Tomoe's eyes and the look was so eerie and intense that Tomoe let go and stepped back. Oshina said in a low, whispering voice, “Koshi's spirit unexpectedly came back into his body. I wanted to rejoice. But the first thing he said, as soon as he sat up, was ‘Iye-iye-iye,' I-don't-like-I-don't-like-I-don't-like. Then he fell back dead completely. I left, forgetting even to bury him.”

“Poor Oshina!” exclaimed Tomoe, frowning in an exaggerated but honest manner. “I tried to help but only made things worse! Old Uncle Tengu made an error thinking I could be useful. Oshina! Let me help you in some way! How can I make amends?”

“Money, samurai. Food.” She put her hands out. “Or ₊”

“What else would you have, Oshina? I will get it!”

The woman did not answer at first. Then she threw herself at Tomoe's feet, looking up and clinging to the samurai's jacket, screaming at her, “Kill me, samurai! Kill me at once! Then I will find my son!”

Tomoe pulled Oshina's fingers loose from the hem of the jacket and stepped away. She looked upset, but replied, “As you desire it, I will.” She withdrew the shortsword and placed the point against Oshina's neck. She asked, “You are certain?” Oshina's madness seemed to vanish from her dark, sad eyes and in that moment her mind was clear. She held her lips firmly together, and nodded for Tomoe to continue. The shortsword punctured throat and vein.

Oshina's expression was one of gratitude.

At dusk, those peasants who had no place to flee, or were too despondent to try, gathered up gold- and silver-leafed parts of houses, using them as firewood against the cold. Tomoe had been side-tracked trying to help these wretched people, but they were so afraid of her that it was hard to be useful. There existed a rift between castes so wide that even the gravest emergency could not bridge it for a while. Eventually she was approached by a black-clad yamabushi who, though a priest, did not respond to the peoples' pleading for religious services. He bowed to Tomoe Gozen, led her beyond the village by a narrow path, to a huge clearing where tents were scattered and banners flapped. Three thousand yamabushi camped there. There were more, she was told, waiting in the hills around Kyoto, and some who had already joined the first assaults on the city and surrounding points.

“The Knight of Kiso sent this,” said the priest who brought her to the camp. He indicated a large armor-box which had the comma-pattern of Tomoe's personal crest printed on the outside. Within, bamboo armor lacquered shiny black with red silk lacing was neatly arranged. A newly forged shortsword and longsword were encased separate from the armor, the hilt ornaments made of gold. There was also a fan marked with Yoshinake's crest. That fan symbolized the field marshal, and she would use it to direct and signal events on the battlefield. The priest said, “There is a horse as well. The white one over there.”