Thousand Shrine Warrior (39 page)

Mirume was crawling across the floor on hands and knees. She had removed the blindfold too late to see Shin-yuki-onna, but in time to see Echiko collapse and Tomoe sheath her weapon. The maiden crawled onto her mistress and clung like an infant to a murdered parent.

“Mirume,” Tomoe whispered in the dark hall of the temple. “Your goddess has achieved perfect bliss. But you can still serve her, for she worried about Heinosuke and was sad to leave him helpless.” Mirume looked up from the corpse to which she clung. Timidly, she gazed toward Heinosuke, new and stranger fantasies forming in her mind. Tomoe encouraged her. “Go to him, Mirume. Help him find his way through endless night.”

The maiden struggled to her feet. She went to Heinosuke and knelt at his side. Heinosuke stirred and Mirume bent near to whisper something in his ear, which Tomoe Gozen never heard. The bikuni had gone to see about Ittosai. He breathed, and she decided he, too, had survived.

She slipped out the back way into the graveyard, moonlight paling monuments. She breathed cold air, striving to calm her spirit and her beating heart.

To her surprise, the monk named Kasha stood near a mausoleum, grinning as though he kept a funny secret. As nothing in the world was funny to Tomoe Gozen just then, she started away from the cemetery, trying to ignore the homely monk. But he ran across the snow to catch her; and as always, his manner was meant to suggest that he knew more than he could possibly know.

“I got him at last,” said Kasha.

“Who?” said Tomoe, not really caring who.

“My good friend Nichiroku.”

Tomoe stopped and looked the short, ugly man in the face.

Kasha said, “A few moments ago, he lost his powers, all at once. He was playing checkers with Lord Sato. Was Lord Sato surprised! His religious tutor and saintly-looking friend turned into a wormy corpse before his eyes! Nichiroku was surprised, too. You would have liked it!” Kasha laughed. “Realizing that you must have slain Green Fire Devil, the pact they had forged was effectively nullified, and the goryo would have to return to this temple, never to venture from it again. But he tried a desperate action, to tear Lord Sato's throat with the gray bones of his hands. Lord Sato, though possessed of his wits for the first time in a long year, was yet confused. He knew only that he was confronted by a monstrous thing. The checkerboard was kicked over and Lord Sato scrambled toward his sword upon a stand. He couldn't possibly have made it in time, and it's doubtful that hacking up Nichiroku would have been enough. That's why I stepped out of a dark corner, quick as you please, and exclaimed, ‘Nichiroku! You've evaded me a hundred years! Isn't it time you gave up?' Then I made myself ten feet tall and wrapped my arms around him and dragged him off to Hell. Just his bones, you understand. I'm not a collector of souls, just corpses. If you ever come to Hell yourself—there are stories that you've been there a couple of times already—please remember me and drop by to see my collection.”

“Kasha,” said Tomoe. “That's the most foolish story anyone ever told me.”

“Oh? I'm sorry you think so! You would have been no good at all if I hadn't helped. By the way, I converted Nichiroku's spirit to the worship of Kwannon. If you feel guilty about spoiling the completion of his revenge, you might burn incense for him in various places where Kwannon's image is kept. He's around here somewhere—just his spirit. But he's feeling better now and won't linger long, not after you and I and the merciful Bodhisattva saved him from himself. Vengeance, too, is an earthly passion.”

“It's too confusing for me, Kasha,” said Tomoe. “I refuse to believe a word you say. I'll leave Kanno soon and in the meantime, I would like to be alone.”

“How rude to say so! But all right. I'll see you again someday, I'm sure. Add you to my collection!”

So saying, Kasha sprinted ahead. Tomoe was surprised to note that he made no indentations in the snow. Also, rather than growing smaller in the distance, it seemed that he got bigger. It must have been a trick of moonlight, but it seemed as though he disappeared before she could have lost sight of him.

After scant hours sleep, she awoke beneath the shelter of an open-fronted woodcutter's shed. A winter wren called
misosazai
shared the shelter. He made a weaving-and-shuttle sort of sound and ruffled his feathers at the bikuni.

She rose, heavy and weary.

By early afternoon she had left the province, glad at least to have seen the people acting cheerier. They did not know why they enjoyed the wintery day. As crops had been poor, autumn short, and the majority of winter before them, life would not be easy between now and spring. Yet the pall had risen from the land. The atmosphere was less deathly.

She alone remained a shadow on the countryside, and even she had wandered on. When she passed the border station, there was the least possible interference from samurai who were in good moods, though they could not as yet have had news from the castle regarding the disappearance of Kuro the Darkness and the recovery of Lord Sato's intellect. But they could not help but sense that they were no longer preyed upon by something unseen. Things bright and pleasant in the world were no longer drained into some deep, dark pit.

Months later she overheard how things were in Kanno. Lord Sato, due to his lack of heir, had been coerced into adopting a boy of the Shogun's clan. This established Kanno's connection with the Kamakura military government. The benefit to Lord Sato was that he could remain the nominal ruler of the province until he selected his own time of retirement, and his clan name would survive. The bikuni could not imagine that Lord Sato was exactly happy; for he might always grieve the loss of his daughter. Yet, in the material sense, things had not come out badly for him. As for self-serving but basically innocuous Chamberlain Norifune, Tomoe Gozen never heard what became of him and scarcely cared. Ittosai, Heinosuke, Mirume … the survivors for whom she felt concern were unknown to the national gossip, so she had no information. An eagerness to forget Kanno altogether kept her from traveling to that region in order to learn more about their situation.

She never did decide how many of the events in that mountain region were the result of hellish magicks, and how much had been heavenly intervention. In time she clung more securely to an esoteric worship of Merciful Kwannon, though otherwise remaining partial to the Shinto pantheon. She ceased to be surprised when acts of gods and acts of devils were indistinguishable, just as the hearts and motivations of human individuals could never be completely fathomed.

EPILOG

Duel at the Beach of Tears

One spring evening in Seki province, the mendicant nun paused at a roadside shrine and knelt before the humble structure, intending to play her shakuhachi. The shrine consisted of a box with a thatched roof and stood upon four stilts. In the box was a statue of the goddess Benten, indistinguishable from certain of the many-armed aspects of Kwannon. Two of Her hands were held in prayer. In the other six She held: sword, wheel of punishment (or knowledge), bow, arrow, rope, and lotus flower. The goddess had once been gilded but only a little gold was left above Her breasts. There was even less red paint remaining on Her weapons. Her face was gentle, unlike many carvings of the dragon-taming Benten. The wood-carver must have been thinking of Senjin-Kwannon to make her face convey a kindly disposition.

Despite its age-cracks and worn appearance, the statue must have been a treasure in some temple long and long before. Now it had fallen on hard times, sitting in so rustic a shrine, a few dried out food offerings on a rock, and no recent incense.

It was the nature of the Thousand Shrine Sect that its members paid homage to the humblest as well as greatest holy places. But before she could raise the flute to her lips, the bikuni was distracted by the worn plaque hanging from the lip of the stilt-box. Carved into the wood was the simple legend:

This world of dreams

passes in a twinkling

of one's eye.

The maxim put the bikuni in a reflective mood. She could not play her instrument, for her mind was uneasy. She returned the shakuhachi to its place under her dark vest, in the back of her obi where it did not show. Holding up the handles of her swords so that they would not touch the dust, she leaned forward with her free hand flat upon the ground, and remained bowed a long while in apologetic obeisance. Then she rose and started in the direction of a knoll, from whence the sea was visible beneath the evening sky.

It took a moment to recall whether it had been two years ago, or three, that she had been in the mountain province of Kanno. How time rushed by! Her life was strangely unpredictable. She could not place the chronology of several small adventures; had something or other happened before the terrible events in Kanno? or after? Well; failing to keep a travel-diary, there was much the mind neglected. She only thought of Kanno because of a Shinto priest named Yano of Seki, a hermit in some unknown hideaway, but once custodian of a large, rundown shrine. He had asked her to visit his home province someday; and here she was without having planned it.

Yano had asked her to consider the beauty of the countryside as she strolled about Seki; then, if she would be so generous, he wished that she would remember him, so that dear Seki might come to him in dreams.

A barefoot boy, small but swift, darted up the dark, steep path, almost bumbling into the nun. He hugged several dumplings to his breast, obviously stolen. He was a dirty, ragged scamp and could not possibly have purchased so many. One dumpling fell from his clutches, rolling and rolling back down the path, covering itself with dust.

A ronin pursued the brat, sword waving. He looked to be a hungry fellow, yet chasing after so small a foe with blade drawn struck the bikuni as an overreaction. Rather than keeping out of the way, she made a point of tripping the man, and his sword went flying. He jumped to his feet, snatched up his weapon, and pointed it at the nun. He gritted his teeth and winced so hard it made him spit just to breathe.

“Don't look down on children,” said the nun. “Emperor Ojin, who became wargod Hachiman, ruled Naipon when younger than that boy.”

“He stole my dinner!” spewed the ronin, beside himself with rage. His sandals were worn so thin he ought to have thrown them away. His clothing needed washing. He might have tried to kill the woman, but she was uncowed and well-armed. She was also mysterious, her face hidden beneath an amigasa, her posture relaxed but ready. But he was a wronged man and knew it. He would not back away. He exclaimed, “An insult to trip me that way! Make restitution!”

The bikuni reached into the front of her kimono, near her obi. She drew out a wallet, untied it, and removed some coins. These she threw at the ronin's feet. “Buy lots of dumplings,” she said, and walked on up the path.

She came to the knoll's rise, the momentary incident already gone from her mind. She looked down the long slope toward a village. Cuttlefish boats were setting sail by night, torches front and back, their fires reflecting in ragged streaks upon black water. Night-fishing was perilous, especially if there were an unpredicted storm. Many fishers lost their lives each year. Deadly though their industry could be, to see them heading toward the horizon, their brands shining, and to hear their sisters and wives shouting blessings from the beach, was pleasing to the senses.

“Bundori-sama!” the nun exclaimed softly, wondering if her words would carry to Kanno on so light a wind. “Yano of Seki! Are you dreaming just now? I'm thinking of you, as I promised.”

She was embarrassed to have been overheard. The rag-clad boy with dumpling on his face crept near. She turned her hat-shrouded face slightly, then said with low intonation, “Want to steal something from me? You can't have my shakuhachi.”

“Thanks for helping me escape,” the boy said dryly. He was pretty cocky for a dirty-faced thief. He looked the bikuni up and down as though deciding whether or not to approve of her, then said, “I suppose you saved my life. No one ever chased me with a sword before, although I've been caught and beaten once or twice.”

“If you must steal, you should pick people who are better off,” said the nun. “That ronin might have gone hungry because of you. A long time since there's been a meaningful war. Not much a samurai can do. You should know it, a samurai's son.”

“How do you know that?”

“I guessed right? I thought so. Have pity on the men you rob.”

“He bought six dumplings,” said the boy, as though disgusted by excess. “He only needed one.”

“How many did you steal?”

“All six. Want one?” He held out a dirty hand. “Too much for me.” He patted his belly. “I ate four.”

“Thank you. I will.” She took the proffered dough, handprint and all. She bowed simultaneously to the dumpling and the boy.

“There are some benches over there,” said the boy. She followed him to a place intended for sitting and viewing the sea and village. Nice trees on either side held back the breeze. She sat and raised the dumpling under her hat. The boy sat rather nearer than was polite. He said, “You were talking to Yano but I didn't see him anywhere. He's a nice man. He helps me out sometimes.”

“Don't lie,” said the bikuni. “Yano left Seki when your father was a boy.”

“I steal food but I don't lie!” The boy was indignant. “Yano lives way up there.” He gestured vaguely.

“Up where?”

“Hawk crag. See it sticking above the forest? He lives halfway up.”

“How long has he been there?”

“Always.”

“Not the same man. The Yano I know is a hermit in Kanno.”

The nun spoke without certainty. Yano had never really told her where he would be going when he left White Beast Shrine more than two years earlier. Sensing her vague doubt, the boy pried at it. “This is the Yano who wrote a book of proverbs and poems about folk dances.”