The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai (58 page)

There the Gods sent me one of my dreams, albeit brief, of two mated rabbits, one chasing the other. Before the second rabbit could catch the first, an eagle attacked, seizing the first. The second rabbit huddled alone, near a pond of shimmering brass. I awoke, wet and shuddering, in my under-robe, convinced I must bolt to Michimori or Tokikazu.

Guards had confiscated the beautiful armour Michimori had given me. I dressed as best as I could and withdrew from the building like a cat stalking a bird. I thought of Tokikazu as I sprinted towards the shore. Any movement in the direction of Ichinotani might alert the commanders’ spies. Yet the Goddess of Mercy was good, and I found Hoichi, Mokuhasa’s cousin, standing sentry on the shore, a favourable sign as obvious as when a fire starts at the first attempt in a fire-lighting ritual.

‘Look at that ship. Who is on it?’ I pointed first to this ship and next to that one, questioning loudly. Then, whispering, I asked, ‘Will you take a message to Tokikazu tonight?’

‘Yes. We know each other and are assigned to the same area.’ In cunning and strength, he rivalled Mokuhasa: Hoichi neither turned his head nor showed surprise.

‘Explain my situation and tell him I must meet him before dawn.’ I elected not to inform Hoichi that I was going to Ichinotani. The less anyone knew, the better. I did tell him where I slept.

‘My lady, it will be a great honour. My cousin embraces you in high esteem.’

‘Thank you, Hoichi. He is dear to me.’ I gave him a coin from my former life as a Woman-for-Play so that he would keep our conversation to himself. Even though he was Mokuhasa’s cousin, I decided to take no risks.

I returned to the tent. I needed to sleep before my next activities.

I was awoken, seemingly moments later, by a scratching sound. Scratching back, I played the quiet cat and brought out the pieces of my old pink smock, always with me. Tokikazu and I embraced. We crossed to where his samurai lingered and we could speak without much danger.

‘I received your message. What do you need? How can I help you?’ He blurted his questions in rapid succession, in the same way that he discharged arrows.

‘You must not have heard. They have banned me from Ichinotani and from Michimori. I am to stay here. They seized my armour.’

‘I heard.’

‘Can you . . .?’

He waved to his attendant. ‘Yes.’ He turned to his servant. ‘Go to my tent, assemble my practice armour and also find and bring the Lady’s weapons. Bring them here, with two – no, three fresh horses.’

‘Thank you. Tell me of Ichinotani and—’

‘Michimori is well. They are reinforcing the east and west borders and the fort. Michimori says there will be an attack, some kind of unanticipated manoeuvre. The other commanders do not believe him. They speak of marching back into Heian-kyō.’

‘The capital? So soon? What fool’s tale have they heard?’

‘I agree with Michimori. We are not ready. Tiger will make some manoeuvre. Who can forget what happened at Kamakura?’

I shivered to my bones at the memory of the oxen stampeding, the noise, the blood, the bodies and deaths. ‘Will you escort me to Michimori tonight?’

‘Yes.’ He folded and twisted a paper. ‘We will say I have a message . . . and a messenger.’ He held up the ‘note’, waved it across my face and smiled sadly.

I put my arms around him. My tears of relief dampened his breastplate. We held each other, listening to the owls in the mountain trees that blended with the waters’ resonances.

‘Listen, my treasured Tokikazu, we have no idea what awaits us.’ I laid my hand across my swollen midriff and looked into his eyes. ‘If it arises, please teach this child the gentleness and strength, the tenderness and courage, the arrow and sword of . . . Michimori.’

‘Kozaishō, you know I will. If there were an honourable path, I would have taken you from this war.’ He motioned to the fortress, the ships and in the direction of Heian-kyō.

Tokikazu’s attendant came back with horses and armour, and they helped me dress. The attendant had brought extra clothing for me to wear under the armour. That way it would not be dangerously loose.

With me as the ‘messenger’, we three returned to Ichinotani, where Tokikazu asked to see Michimori. As we neared his tent, the guards recognised me, probably by my height or my hair because the practice helmet and face guard covered most of my head and face, and Tokikazu’s armour hung past my knees. Michimori knew me. Not for a moment did I surprise him.

Michimori gave the sign for dispersal. We sat alone, gazing at each other. He recited:

‘The light is coming,

Summer sunshine is here now,

Dull dressed samurai,

She smiles with red saffron lips,

Making winter far away.’

‘You are my light as well.’ I smoothed my palm against his cheek, sunburned and golden. ‘You have been for a long time. Please allow me to fight beside you.’

He shook his head with an unmistakable firmness. His eyes were both hard and desolate. I did not argue – dared not. I simply held him again and placed my head against his chest, inhaling his sweat and sandalwood.

He made rounds that night and returned at regular intervals to observe me. I slept lightly. The wind was high, and I awoke each time he entered our tent. I offered him refreshment, which he took several times. Michimori was my heart. I could not be parted from him for even one night.

IV. Mountain Surprise

Misuki is beside me in a tent. I will write what has happened
.

I awaken to the sounds of crackling and a smell noxious enough to make me wince. It was not even dawn, but Michimori was no longer beside me.

Outside my tent I heard noise – shuffling, grunting.

‘Minamoto on the beach!’

‘The enemy!’

‘To the ships!’

The sharp stench of bodies on fire.

I slip on the neck collar and helmet. A dagger down each leg guard. Where is Michimori? I finger the pink cloth inside the chest plate. Still there. I strap on my quiver, put my bow on my shoulder, grip my sword and charge outside.

All the Hells simultaneously. Men on horseback torch our tents and supplies. Fallen friends bleed. Groans. Missing limbs. Strange voices snap orders. Fumes – every breath is like sucking in hot coals. Birds shriek.

‘There is one!’ A voice to my left.

I slice across his stomach. He falls. A crimson puddle oozes under him. Enemies running in my direction, pointing at me.

‘Take her alive!’

The Minamoto, on horseback, down the mountains. They ride through our bulwarks. Torches, haze, fire, arrows – everywhere. A squabble of seagulls clouds the shore. The air scorches my eyes. Dying men call, wail, howl.

The blood rises through the sand into my spirit.

On my right, Akio. ‘They are taking wives of the ranked. From Fukuhara and monasteries.’

We mount the two saddled geldings on the ocean side of the tent. I will not be taken alive. They might kill my baby. Or, worse, take my baby – without me.

‘Michimori? Tokikazu?’ I scan the growing inferno. Our warriors sprint to the ships. Men on our ships urge them to escape. Michimori would not do that. Neither would I.

To the west, mounted samurai ignite our tents and fortifications, beheading foot soldiers as they run away. Barricades ablaze. I search for Michimori. A gust flashes hideous odours, searing my face. I force back bile.

Akio motions. We urge our mounts north and then west, to Michimori.

A brushfire eats our first barricade. My sword reflects the flames’ colours. Sweat dribbles down my back. Smoky clouds spew high. I guide my horse. More screams. I push faster. Their troops stream from the west, ants out of their mound.

A horseman swings, grazes my shoulder. I wrench my dagger and gouge across his face. Squealing, he plunges to the ground. My hand and arm sting. I move on.

More around us.

Akio yells, ‘Side to side!’

We close together – head to tail. Swords set. Advancing to my husband. Most hesitate when they see me, long hair, large with child.

Akio takes a head. I sever a leg. Cut the horse under the next. Another head. More blood surges. Another cry. Akio and I carve a swathe. By my count together we stop ten or fifteen. Good numbers. I need luck.

Approach the barrier. Going to Michimori. My gelding shies. Blaze too high. Heat too much. Cannot pass.

Around to the next barrier. Another fiery wall – cackling as if laughing. Far beyond, Michimori fights two, three.

Only a moment.

They bolt our way. ‘Take that woman!’

‘The road along the beach!’ Akio gallops to the voice.

The beach: almost empty. A clear path to the west. Through the smoky haze, my husband and Tokikazu, beset.

To the west and up the mountain to Michimori. Akio joins me, and I race around piled bodies. Avoid knots of Minamoto.

I have to reach my husband. I will die with him rather than be taken prisoner.

Akio? One engages him. I race on.

Two sprint towards me. Swipe. A head. The other one, young, eyes wide, mouth open. A stroke. Surprised noise. Most think me an underling, not worth an arrow. Another. Behind me – beach, road east, west, mountains. No one. Except . . .

Where was Akio?

To my right. Fighting three. I shoot. Two. An arrow in an older face. One. An arm.

I hang my bow over my saddle. On the way to my beloved.

I ride above the mountain base and spot him. But Tokikazu is riding away on Thunderbolt! He is no coward! What is that?

My eyes follow Michimori. Bodies at Michimori’s feet. More readying for him.

From the east – an archer. One arrow hits his back beneath his left shoulder. It bounces off.

I let out my breath. He keeps fighting. Now three more tumble down the swale. Now two. I advance closer. His sword gyrates on a volcano of bodies spewing blood, limbs, heads.

More archers arrive. A monsoon of arrows soars. Most miss. Some hit their own. Some stick in my husband’s armour.

Too far away to shoot. I force my gelding, but he slips on the steep terrain and falters.

What can I do? Ahead, Michimori. To the east, Minamoto. No one on the beach. No Akio. No Tokikazu.

Glance back: no Tokikazu or Akio.

Glance forward: Michimori.

He roars with each stroke, over and over, his howls almost drowned by the thundering tide below. With each bellow more quivering bodies flop, topple.

Fresh ones close in. Two in front, three each beside and behind.

And archers, more and more archers shoot him in the neck.

I strike with my stirrups. My horse only snorts and tosses his head.

Michimori stiffens, taking the blow.

Another through his eye. His body sags. Collapses. Samurai slog up.

Then – the stroke. They take his head.

His blood erupts. Gone. Falling upon corpses slain by his own hand.

Too late. Too far away. My whole body tightens into a white-hot coal. Unable to die beside him. Despair and rage consume me like a pyre.

His spirit is with his ancestors. Nothing more I can do. No small comfort to give. Nothing, nothing to do for him.

They wrench off his helmet and seize his head. My stomach falls to the bottom of the deepest water. They cheer and throw his head into a box. A head box. They brought a head box. They planned to take his head as a trophy. A trap. A dishonourable murder.

I flatten to the thinness of summer silk. I am emptied. Bloodied and stunned, I ride back among the enemy, hearing the combat . . . My vision blurs. I allow my mount to go wherever he will. All I see: my husband’s head. Dizzy. Pain jabs, punches and crushes, squeezes me. Blackness.

Misuki sits beside me, a cup at my lips. ‘Your water has broken, Kozaishō. Drink. You will need your strength.’

At first I do not understand. I endeavour to stand. Contractions. Labour.

I need to protect my baby. His baby. Our baby. Tokikazu. Perhaps he is alive, but how to find him? ‘Any servants left?’

‘Only three.’

‘Foot soldiers?’ I already know the answer.

Misuki remains silent.

Misuki has waited for me. Most have left on ships or been killed. The beach and the sand are clear of our soldiers, except for corpses and body pieces, enemies and blood. The ships are going back to Yashima.

I talk of the treachery. Words come from somewhere else, a story of an
oni
far away, a long time ago. I tell her of that last stroke. I notice spots on my armour. Tokikazu’s practice armour. I wonder if it is raining. Misuki removes the armour, piece by piece. The splotches still appear. She sits and holds my hand while I tell her what I saw. Again.

Again . . . Misuki and I cry together. Then I write this poem:

Mighty fallen tree!

Struck down by cowardly hands

My lord lying there

The shade tree of my summers

Your icy broken body

It is night. Misuki feeds me. My throat swallows, yet I do not taste.

Now I can think what to do. I tell Misuki. She agrees to finish my story. History will record that I have honoured the great lord whom I have been privileged to follow, Governor of Echizen Province, Taira no Michimori, nephew of Taira no Kiyomori. I wish to record how my honourable lord was cut down. I will ask that a moral code, a code of honour and wielding power with integrity, which he followed, will be made known to every samurai and enforced by all. Never again should such a death befall so great a man.