Authors: Eiji Yoshikawa
Without more ado, Munekiyo continued forward, when a sixth sense warned him; he brought his horse to a sudden stop and looked back once more at the vanishing figure.
Munekiyo, retainer to Kiyomori's half-brother, Yorimori, had been dispatched as Yorimori's deputy to confirm the news of Yoshitomo's death, and having completed sundry business connected with commending Tadamune, was on his way back to the capital. Turning quickly to the soldiers near him, Munekiyo ordered:
"Bring back that boy we just passed on the road. If he tries to escape, I have no doubt who he is. You're to capture him at all costs."
Munekiyo turned and followed after his soldiers at a leisurely pace.
Yoritomo had apparently tried to escape and resisted his captors. He lay on his back now on the bank of the willow-fringed river, staring up at the perspiring soldiers who surrounded him. The soldiers were breathing heavily; large veins stood out like cords on their red faces and necks.
"Come now, get up!"
"Get up, there!"
Yoritomo did not move, but lay quietly blinking up at the sun.
Munekiyo leaned over and peered at him. "What's the matter there? What are you doing?"
"He's little enough, but don't let that deceive you," one of the soldiers said indignantly. "A little fighter he is, too. . . . Look at him there, and ordering us to put him on his feet as though we were his servants!"
A faint smile appeared on Munekiyo's face. "Put him on his feet," he ordered.
Two soldiers stepped forward, grasped Yoritomo's arms, and hauled him to his feet. Yoritomo stood erect, facing Munekiyo. His face was covered with dust. A bruise lay red along a flushed cheek over which a strand of hair straggled.
"Did they hurt you, boy?"
“…”
"Where are you going? East?"
“…”
"Your father? Who is your father, boy?"
“…”
Yoritomo refused to reply, but the last question brought a large tear rolling down his cheek, though he still uttered no word.
"Answer me. If you still refuse, then we'll see if pain will do it," Munekiyo threatened.
Yoritomo straightened his shoulders and with a look of contempt said: "And who are you? Get down from your horse if you must speak to me. I am not one to have mere Heike soldiers address me from on horseback."
Munekiyo fell silent with astonishment and scrutinized Yoritomo from head to foot. Then, dismounting quickly, he approached Yoritomo and explained that he was a retainer of Yorimori of the Heike.
Munekiyo had already guessed who Yoritomo was, but he still gently urged: "Who are you? Tell me whose son you are."
MERCY
More than a month had gone by since Kiyomori's stepmother, Ariko, had come to Rokuhara for safety, and she had stayed on until the New Year was past, sharing the life of the household and enjoying the fond attentions of her grandchildren. Ariko was little over forty, barely older than Kiyomori himself, too young in appearance yet to be called a grandmother. Kiyomori often felt stabs of jealousy when he saw Ariko and Tokiko together, for he could not help noticing how much comelier his father's widow was than his own wife; there were times when he even pitied himself for his own marriage.
His secret resentment notwithstanding, Kiyomori never was at ease with Ariko. There was something about her that compelled him even against his strongest inclinations to defer to her. He sometimes wondered what it was that made him feel as he did toward her.
One morning as Kiyomori was about to leave for the Court, Ariko's maid appeared with a message that her mistress wished to speak with him. It was his stepmother's habit to spend part of the morning reciting sutras in the oratory attached to her room, and Kiyomori particularly disliked entering this part of the house; not only was his father's name-tablet there, but there was something somber and forbidding about the apartment.
When Kiyomori appeared, Tokiko was already there, sitting quietly near Ariko.
"I wanted to thank you," Ariko began, "and I hope you will pardon me for asking you to come."
Kiyomori sniffed the incense that still rose in slender spirals behind Ariko. He heard a warbler fluting outside the open window through which the sun streamed into the room. The light illumined the white folds of Ariko's nun's robes in a way that gave her profile the lines of a delicate carving. The somber richness of the oratory, its brocade hangings, the deep-coffered ceiling and suspended lamps, all conspired to emphasize the white-garmented figure. And it suddenly occurred to Kiyomori as he paused for an instant at the threshold that Ariko's life, her long widowhood consecrated to prayer and communing with the dead, had in some manner made her part of that spirit world—and there were ways to deal with spirits.
"But why the thanks—and so suddenly? What can I do for you?"
Ariko smiled. "I did not realize how the days have passed. I have been here more than a month, and Yorimori has been sending messages begging me to return, so I have decided to leave today. You have all taken such good care of me since the disturbances started—"
"Leaving today? I'm afraid I have been so preoccupied with my affairs that I neglected you sadly. Let me tell you, though, that I have been considering a site here in Rokuhara on which to build you a new house."
"It would make me very happy indeed to live here near you."
"Since Shigemori's house in the valley has just been finished, we can start almost immediately on one for you and Yorimori."
"How fortunate I am—in fact, all of us! You must never for a moment forget, Kiyomori, that you are the chief of the Heike. Continue in the ways of virtue; be firm with yourself; persevere in your duties, for it will not do to take things as lightly as you have until now.—And, Tokiko, never forget your husband's position. Strive to become an even better wife to him, and an even more devoted mother. As the mistress of this household, give him every possible support."
Kiyomori and Tokiko listened to Ariko deferentially, since she was entitled to speak to them as she did.
"And now I leave everything to you two," she ended. Without more ado she turned to the oratory to meditate a few moments in front of Tadamori's name-tablet before departing.
To Kiyomori it sounded as though his stepmother had charged him with the responsibility of all matters pertaining to the family; he was vaguely troubled by a certain inconsistency in Ariko, but saw no reason for resenting it. He realized that he had not by any means been an exemplary son to Tadamori and had sincerely tried to make amends by deferring to his father's widow, Ariko. And it was only fitting that he, the head of the clan, should set an example of filial obedience.
Several days after Ariko had returned to her home in the northern section of the capital, her son Yorimori appeared at her house. She greeted him eagerly.
"Ah, Yorimori, is it you?"
"At your devotions, Mother?"
"It does not matter. Your new manor at Owari must keep you busy these days."
"Just that. I sent Munekiyo there on some business, and he came back two nights ago, bringing with him a lad that he captured on the road. I was busy all yesterday with that."
"Oh? And who is this lad that Munekiyo brought with him?"
"Yoshitomo's son, Yoritomo, who has just turned fourteen."
"Yoshitomo's son? That is news indeed! Fourteen, you say? Why, a mere child! What could they be thinking of—letting a boy go out to fight! He's too young to understand what it's all about. Poor child! Where is he now?"
"We are waiting for orders from Rokuhara, and in the meantime Munekiyo has charge of him."
"What does Kiyomori propose to do with the child?"
"We should hear about that today."
Nothing more was said of the matter, and Yorimori soon turned to go, when Ariko stopped him. "Stay a little longer," she coaxed, "I'll have your favorite dish cooked. I see so little of you these days; stay and dine with me."
Just as Ariko sent her maid with some instructions to the kitchen, Munekiyo was announced. He had come to speak with his master, the servant said. Ariko took it upon herself to reply that Munekiyo was to wait.
Mother and son enjoyed a quiet meal together, and when they had finished, Yorimori summoned his retainer.
"Munekiyo, was it from Rokuhara?"
"Yes, a messenger."
"What was the message—about Yoritomo?"
"He is to be executed on the 13th of February."
". . . Hmm."
Yorimori's face fell. His gorge rose as the thought of another execution made him recoil inwardly. He had seen too many beheadings after the fighting had ended, and heard enough of the sorrowing crowds that gathered daily to watch boatloads of exiles leave. While the smoke of battle still hung over the capital, he had been less revolted by all these events, but now that peace was restored and the plum trees were in bloom in the garden, everything in him cried out against the savagery of lifting his hand against a mere boy.
Ariko's face, too, clouded; a devout follower of Buddha, mercy was to her the first duty and supreme virtue of the believer.
The effect that his words had on the two seemed to give Munekiyo courage to disclose what lay close to his thoughts, and he turned to Yorimori:
"He is barely fourteen—just the age, if I remember rightly, that your brother would be if he were alive."
"Yes, if only he were—"
"And he looks so much like him. I could almost believe the two were brothers."
"Munekiyo," Ariko interrupted eagerly, "tell me more about this boy."
Munekiyo began to tell her all he knew.
Ariko, profoundly moved by this resemblance to her dead son, was strengthened in her resolve that Yoritomo should be saved. As she fell asleep that night, Munekiyo's account so haunted her that the likeness of her dead son seemed imprinted on her eyelids, and she was overcome by a longing to see him once more.
A few days later Ariko, bearing a spray of rosy plum blossoms, proceeded across the courtyard of her son's house to Munekiyo's modest dwelling on the other side. She had a servant call Munekiyo, and when he appeared, she held out the blossoms:
"Put this in a vase and let the poor child look at it."
The soldier received the spray with a deep bow, and his eyes softened. "A little gift for him?"
"And, Munekiyo—"
Ariko's voice dropped to a whisper. Munekiyo nodded his agreement to whatever it was that she said, and then led the way toward his house. A high bamboo fence surrounded one side. The door was locked and the shutters were closed, except for a small window through which a guard could observe the prisoner.
Munekiyo let himself into the room in which Yoritomo was confined, leaving Ariko to wait outside beside the peephole.
Yoritomo was seated as usual, motionless as a statue of sandalwood, at a small writing-desk; when he turned to look round, his eyes widened with surprise at the sight of the plum blossoms. Although Munekiyo visited him every morning and evening, Yoritomo had not realized that the plums were already in bloom.
"How lovely they are!" he breathed.
"Yes, aren't they?" Munekiyo replied. "There has been so much snow lately that the plums are late this year."
"I do not wish to be reminded of the snow."
"I am sorry. Shall I put these in water for you?"
"Let me do it myself. Thank you."
Yoritomo bent his head to examine the spray, which Munekiyo laid beside the table. A book lay open on it. Munekiyo's glance turned to the spray, which Yoritomo studied intently. This child was dangerous—a threat to the Heike, Munekiyo reflected; it had become increasingly clear to him that he was growing fond of this boy. In Yoritomo he recognized the highborn warrior, so soon to be cut down—wasted.
"What are you doing today? Writing some verse?"
"No, I was reading."
"What were you reading?"
"I was reading that collection of poems you lent me and an old chronicle."
"Which do you like best?"
"I don't much enjoy the poems."