The Golden Naginata (30 page)

“We march tonight,” said Tomoe. “We will be in our positions outside Kyoto as Amaterasu rises.”

PART THREE

The Audacious Treason

Beneath Amaterasu the Shining Goddess there are many worlds, say the oracles, this one which we see, and others; and these worlds are varied one from the next in remarkable ways, while in other things they are remarkable for their similarity. Naipon, a divine nation, rises from the jade seas of each of these worlds, though many other nations cannot be found one world to the next; and the Yamato people, a divine race, are mighty in each of these places, though many other peoples are noteworthy only upon occasion. The fact of the matter, according to the oracles, is this: The fabric of the universe, and the universes within and without, would completely come undone, sometimes imploding upon itself, elsewhere dissolving into mists, other places bursting outward into tiny fragments … except that the anchor of everything is Naipon, which alone, among things known and unknown, holds all else together by its reliable and significant existence.

And in this country which lies like scattered jewels drifting on the ocean, there is one place more holy even than the rest.

This place, of course, is the Imperial City, where dwells the living flesh of Naipon, the august descendant of Amaterasu Herself; whose name in this generation is Go-Temmu, who has been kept in unpardonable seclusion by a clan once favored to be his guard but who became, by slow stages, his turnkeys. Who is to blame for this? The oracles ponder and speculate. Surely the Buddhas had nothing to do with it; positively the thousands of myriads of Shinto deities took no part. Gods do not smite gods as men smite men, so the felons must be mortal. Go-Temmu was a living god, mistreated by undeserving servants; an insult to Him blights humanity in the eyes of other gods as well. Who perpetrated such sin? The oracles venture cautiously: It was true the Shogun in that
other
capital had once exiled the Mikado, but that was long corrected; it need not be discussed. Furthermore, did the Shogun command the Imperial Guards? They were not of his clan and he did not necessarily favor them; indeed, he had often sought to chastise them in small ways, but they thought themselves too mighty to notice.

Surely we are beginning to resolve the riddle (the oracles expressions approximated those of Bodhisattvas at the moment of enlightenment) of who the culprit is! The only ones to fault are the turnkeys themselves! (Or the
guards,
the oracles amended, begging the listeners' pardon, and looking most respectful.)

The offending clan was named Ryowa, which means circle of dragons. In other worlds they had other names, but their faces were the same, and their loss of faces too. Let it be known, then, that the Shogun sent a fierce general named Kiso Yoshinake to punish the Ryowa! (It took no oracular ability to see this.) Let it further be known that the Rising Sun General had never known defeat and did not expect to know it!

So said the oracles. They grew bolder as war approached and heightened. “See that comet,” they shouted, more belligerent than pious, though they lived in temples. “It heralds the Ryowa downfall!” They also cried out, “See that red streak in the sky, persisting from dawn to dusk! It is Ryowa blood, about to splash the ground!”

That many of the oracles were men in
torikabuto
or monks' hoods may have had something to do with their rude prognostications. Some were yamabushi. As became widely known, yamabushi strode the highways along with the invading samurai, and many sects sympathized.

Most of the army was on foot, but there were generals on horses; and a sizable cavalry was obviously expected, since the first infantries were eager to control certain fields which were useless but for grass.

There were twelve famous generals under Kiso Yoshinake, one of them his wife, and four of them
shi-tenno
which meant “four great men.” And great they were, and beautiful. These four rode steeds of shining jet and, when going side by side, they were themselves a horde.

The city which awaited terror sat in a quiet valley surrounded by temples and gardens and gently winding highways and brooks; there were placid lakes and slender waterfalls; and this city was inhabited by courtly aristocrats who were gentle and powdered and scented and innocent of fearful things, protected as they were by those veritable turnkeys, their guards, who themselves learned courtly manners so as never to offend fragile dispositions. The roofs of the city were tiled and the tiles were gilt with precious metal which reflected the sunlight and rivalled the dawn.

The recent quakes had done the city small damage. A single temple was thrown down, that was all, and it was the Temple of the Goddess Kwannon—an omen, that, for She presided over mercy. Gilt tiles were shaken into the gardens and streets here and there, it was true, but golden leaves and ruddy ones and leaves of somber brown had fallen from the peach trees and plum, cherry trees and maple, hiding the quake-made rubble. Kyoto looked serene in this leaf-covered state; it looked as though it rested on a softly brocaded quilt.

The war was already in progress when six unarmed yamabushi brought an oversized palanquin to the headquarters of the Ryowa. The headquarters was a place better than the one the Mikado lived in. The yamabushi announced that the occupant of the large palanquin was their heavenly patron. Inside was a statue of the warrior-monks' god, Ida-ten. They sat the transport outside the gate of the Ryowa clan's palace, a nuisance to those who came and went. A devoutly religious clan, no Ryowa would dare touch the holy thing outside their gate, nor attack the unarmed monks who brought it. Presently the six monks made camp in eyesight of the gate, the palanquin, and Ida-ten; whether they guarded their relic or wished to see who came and went from the military palace, this is not what mattered. The monks made this declaration: “Ida-ten is angry that the Ryowa have failed to live spartan lives as befit true warriors! He will sit here by the gate until the chief-generals beg his pardon!” The Ryowa leaders were incensed beyond reply. They repaired to secret meetings to discuss the situation. They suspected, but were not sure, that this was only a ploy to weaken their hearts, that Ida-ten was only a piece of wood and his transport merely a big fancy box. It might not be a religious matter at all, they argued, and began to convince themselves. Furthermore, the monks were frankly rude. They ought to be cut into pieces, whether or not it made some god angry. “There are other gods!” said the Ryowa council in their palace. The council was mostly men whose prime had left them, but left them wealthy. “Ida-ten is no one we need fear!” they agreed finally, deciding the best course would be to arrest the monks and set the wooden god afire. However, while this meeting was going on, a sentry had kept an eye on the six yamabushi, and on the fearful palanquin in front of the gate. The Ryowa sentry saw a peculiar thing, which was this:

A noodle-vendor had come up the street carrying on his back everything he needed to vend noodles. He placed the box of gear upon the ground, blew a spark into hot coals, and began to heat fresh noodles to sell to the yamabushi and whoever was bold enough to happen by. “I will pay homage to your god!” said the smiling noodle-man, and he went traipsing to the palanquin, bowing and humbling himself and saying beautiful this and beautiful that. One of the yambushi, noodles hanging from his mouth, shouted a sudden warning, “Don't touch him, noodle-man!” It was too late. The curious peasant placed hand upon the door of the palanquin and, before a single yamabushi could stand up and hollar a second time, he fell down dead in the street. “Too bad!” the monks lamented, giving the unfortunate fellow an impromptu service. Then they hauled him and his noodle-vending box away. The Ryowa sentry took news of this event to his superiors. The chief-generals became petrified. They still refused obeisance to Ida-ten, but could not bring themselves to burn the palanquin after all; neither could they threaten the six monks. Later on, someone thought they saw the very same noodle-man spending a lot of money in a saké house; but perhaps it was the noodle-man's twin brother, drinking to forget his loss of kin (and forgetting it quite well, judging by his laughter).

Ida-ten inspired fear only in those whose hearts were already weakened with self-doubt. Night and day, battles raged about Kyoto, and while the troops of Kiso Yoshinake were seriously outnumbered, the hearts of his warriors were more stout, and there were good reasons for this: they were righteous men. The coming and going of Jishin-uwo's unrest was another element in Yoshinake's favor, as things turned out. Although the capital itself was not much damaged, a Ryowa troop in an outlying post was swallowed up entirely, and in another case badly shaken up. Since Buddhist monks were so large a part of Yoshinake's invasion, it was possible to credibly proclaim the quakes to be the merest sampling of a holy retribution about to be visited upon the offensive clan holding the emperor in thrall. The august (and conspiring) child of Amaterasu was himself delighted by the prospects for freedom, prospects enlarged by every victory for the Knight of Kiso; therefore Go-Temmu wrote his own imperial testimony of heavenly (and hellish) intervention in behalf of the throne.

About this time, Tomoe Gozen brought a reinforcement of three thousand additional monks, which caused still other monks to rally; and martial nuns and wanderers added a motley flavor to the units. Even peasants asked to join the conquering horde, having been over-taxed by the Ryowa, and eager to be part of such a holy mission. Still the Ryowa outnumbered their foe, for the countryside was populated by that noteworthy clan; and even so, it hardly mattered, for Yoshinake was not merely the superior tactician with excellent advisors, but also wise in psychological warfare. The harassed clan, despite claims of being the gods-favored and hereditary defenders of the imperial house, were in fact utterly dispirited by the statements of the priests and oracles and the Mikado's own clever testimony. Consciously or not, the Ryowa accepted that supernatural disapproval had been earned by their self-serving policies.

The defending clan, enamored of religion, aware of their own misdeeds in recent years, and believing in the aforementioned retribution they must suffer, fought not for victory, but for valorous death. This, they were allowed. The armies of the Knight of Kiso dove into the Ryowa's superior numbers whose only wish was to die honorably and atone. A hundred battles were fought in those few days. There were heroes in each one, on both sides, whose praises would be sung in their home villages and provinces for hundreds of years to follow.

At the Battle of Dazai, beneath the blazing sun of autumn, Nenoi Yukika, one of the shi-tenno or men most favored by Kiso Yoshinake, and most trusted, led footsoldiers and horsemen against the famous Ryowa general, Sanehire. Nenoi Yukika was a neatly bearded man of middle years who sat high upon his black horse. His armor was black, his helmet black, his visage dark and stem. His arrows were fletched with raven feathers. The heads of these arrows were shaped like big turnips which could annihilate a man's eye then burst out the back of a skull, brains splattering in the wake. This black warrior directed the battle from the top of the hill, showing his marshal's fan this way and that way like the fine conductor he was, sitting this whole time upon his horse, the black horse with an iron mask and horns. Then Nenoi Yukika saw General Sanehire himself entering the fray, anxious as he was to die with his brave men. But who could kill this general? Who was strong enough? How could the Ryowa hero of numerous campaigns possibly die well, when his swords were too swift to let him? Thus did the hooves of a black horse plunder the grass, leaving sod upturned behind, down and down the hillside and into the fight. General Sanehire saw General Nenoi Yukika coming, and was glad. “You are my man!” Sanehire shouted, and Nenoi Yukika answered, “You're mine!” Sanehire was clad in red silk over red-lacquered armor, and on his helmet were the antlers of a deer. The red general and the black general met on horseback. The red general's rust-colored horse met the black general's night-colored horse. The steeds fought each other even as the generals fought; and when Sanehire fell, it was red on red on red, and he looked up at night above him, though it was bright of day. His last word in life was: “Excellent!” Then Nenoi Yukika cut off the brave man's head and put it high upon a pole, saying, “Now you will be able to see how valiantly your men die! How well all of you atone!” Then the dark general began to weep because of this splendor.

A different day, at the Battle of Fuhara, there was another proven man, who had grey in his trimmed whiskers but was younger than he looked; and his name was Tade Shimataka. He was as pale as Nenoi Yukika was dark. His armor was lacquered white. His helmet was white, and it was decorated with white pine branches. Around his shoulders was an arrow-deflecting cape which was also white. His arrows were fletched with doves' feathers, and their points were like closed beaks. His horse was black, which made Tade Shimataka look whiter, a ghostly rider. Tade Shimataka was also one of the shi-tenno; and his most wonderful fight was against the Ryowa ally Narita Hamba. Hamba was short and bow-legged, but you could not tell so when he rode his white-satin horse. He was broad-shouldered and bull-necked and thick-armed and was said to be the foremost archer of Naipon, able to draw a bowstring which three good men would be unable to manage together. Narita Hamba was called “General Ape” by rude men who were envious, devoid of manners, or apt to deride anyone superior. To Tade Shimataka, here was the opponent of one's life. Though they were on opposite sides of the large battlefield at Fuhara, these two men saw one another quickly. Tade Shimataka drove heel to horse and started off across the carnage to where Narita Hamba sat astride his white horse, impassive. Shimataka's arrows sang like birds through the air, but Narita Hamba understood arrows like some men know hawks, and cannot be scratched by them. He danced his horse back and forth, avoiding every quill, so that Shimataka gave up on this and spurred his black horse faster. Slowly, the Ryowa ally drew an arrow of his own from over his shoulder. More slowly still he nocked it. The heads of these arrows were shaped like sickle moons or cross-sections of teacups. They were wide enough to wrap halfway around a neck and sharp enough to cut clear through. The first arrow was unleashed and, before it was halfway to its target, a second was close behind! It was unexpected, the second arrow, because Hamba had moved slowly at first. Lord Kiso's marshal did not veer his horse or slow the pace or duck his head, but swept his longsword through the air and closed his eyes for a moment so that the splinters of the deflected arrow would not blind him. He swept his sword the other way, deflecting the second arrow just as quickly. Although it might be true that no finer bowman than General Hamba lived in the whole of the country, it was equally the case that Lord Kiso's vassals were without exception masters of
yadome-jitsu,
arrow-stopping art. Tade Shimataka happened to be more skillful than the others. Thus Lord Kiso's famed “General in White” upon a black horse met the black-armored white-horse Ryowa ally face to face at Fuhara, exchanging cordial greetings.