The Disfavored Hero (33 page)

An older healer was nearby, not the youth who had previously invaded Tomoe's dream. The mature, nurturant voice counseled a distraught Toshima. “Life is delicate,” she said. “A silkworm's slender thread is all that holds us to one life and from another. Strong as silk can be, a good knife will always cut it.”

Toshima found no comfort in this. She argued, “Tomoe Gozen is stronger than you suggest.”

There was a weight of sorrow in the healer's voice when she said, “Few are the lives to equal in fragility the lives of samurai.”

Toshima relented, and confessed, “I suspected she was frail.”

“It is properly so,” said the healer. “Things which are frail survive. They bend as the willow bends. They bow. They serve. If Tomoe Gozen is afraid to live, it is because she cannot serve. A samurai requires a master, or to no one will she bow.”

A cloaked jono novice came into the velvet room by secret means and blindfolded the healer who was saying, “There is nothing more the onna-no-miko can do. We will come no more.” She allowed herself to be led away quietly. Toshima was left to sit beside Tomoe upon the floor, pondering the healer's advice. After a while, she leaned forward, whispered to the samurai, “The healers say courage can heal your injuries. I know you are courageous. Why do you not waken?” Eyes moved beneath closed lids. Toshima spoke softly, “We took liberties with each other, on the Dragon Queen's island, when our destinies were torn from beneath us by a sorcerous rokubu. Now, we must recall our stations. I am master of a samurai. I will be mistress to none but Shigeno Valley. It will be difficult to rebuild and hold my land; but I have a strong retainer, who is a hero, and others will join us. Is this not so? You cannot die without my leave to do so. You can only die for your master.”

Tomoe's tightly knotted fists relaxed, but her eyes still would not open.

Tomoe gazed once more upon the verdant valley, which was changing to something less refined. The fields were turning to mire, with the blood of a peasant population, of eight thousand samurai, of the thick fluids of ghouls. Amidst torn woods stood the skeletal remains of a burnt, charred mansion.

The ideal country had become ruined Shigeno Valley. Had she lost control of her previously pleasant dream, or had this always been the place of her most introspective quest?

It was a terrible valley, but it had not always been so. It need not remain so. A castle could be built where the mansion had been. A moat could be dug around it, wider than an arrow's range. Bridges could be made across the moat, and across the rivers which fed it. If peace would not come to Naipon, then overlords must fortify their holdings. Shigeno Valley needed a fortification of obvious merit, a castle whose peaks rivaled the distant peaks of mountains, to stand against the thousand treacheries which befall a “weak” lord.

Lady Toshima was not weak, but that would need to be proven. Given her fine perversity, she would never strengthen her holdings by gainful marriage. The cleverness of the Lady was doubtless sufficient to the task set before her. But without many strong samurai, the best decisions would be difficult to enforce. Tomoe Gozen had been selected as chief among those samurai.

Thinking this, darkness fell absolute upon the once-sunny, once-green country. Amaterasu had finally set.

The samurai's eyes tried to penetrate the starless night. First she saw the face of Toshima Shigeno, and then the darkness became a velvet room. Toshima smiled, and spoke sardonically, “You have decided to live, samurai?”

Tomoe struggled to sit up. The wound through her body ached, but had healed a good deal after nearly four days. She coughed, spat a little blood into a rag, and said hoarsely, “One dream is as good as another. I have sworn fealty to this one.”

Behind Toshima stood the jono priestess, gloomier than Tomoe had ever seen. This was the first time she had visited since helping to bring an unconscious Tomoe to the velvet room. It was as though the sorceress had waited for Tomoe's choice between comatose dreams and reality; but she revealed no joy over Tomoe's decision.

“A few days ago,” said Noyimo, “one of the onna-no-miko was taken by an assassin. By torture—we shall not discuss its nature—enemies learned that a Lady and her samurai had returned from exile. The Shogun would have urged the jono cult not to harbor criminals; therefore, I had one acceptable choice. An announcement was placed in the city square: Tomoe Gozen and Ugo Mohri will do battle at Heiji Castle. It will happen in two more days.”

Toshima gasped. “She is not yet strong!”

Tomoe had climbed onto her knees, taking deep breaths. She said, “Doubtless the choices were few, unless we move slower than the Shogun.” It was strange to speak words so close to treason! Indeed, the only escape from a treasonous act—and a hopeless one—was to fight the Shogun's champion.

“Ugo Mohri desires the match,” Tomoe said with certainty. “And do I.”

“It is too soon!” said Toshima, clenching her hands together.

The samurai disagreed. She said, “I require food. I require my sword. I require two days to practice and regain my tone. Strength will not defeat Ugo Mohri. Speed and skill alone can test him.”

“I could aid you,” said the jono priestess, her bright face shadowed by evil thoughts.

Tomoe looked at her sharply, replied, “You could do so only against my wish. What honor would be left me if Ugo Mohri died by sorcerous aid? I will send him gifts of wild garlic to keep you away. Otherwise, if you interfered, I would be bound to slay you, or attempt it, even against my will, and then to kill myself, unless we died together.”

Lady Toshima stood. She stood beside Noyimo who hid all concern too well. The Lady touched the magician-ninja so that she would say no more, and cause no anger. What passed between these two surprised Tomoe, and she was not certain she lacked jealousy. For a short time, the eyes of sorceress and Lady held one another, and then Toshima said, “If you wish to help, acquire fine garments for Tomoe Gozen. She must not look tawdry against the beauty of Ugo Mohri.”

“Two days,” said Tomoe to herself, finding her unsteady legs. Blood rushed through her head. She nearly swooned. “Blindfold me,” she commanded, for only blindfolded could she leave this room. “Take me to the yards to play!”

“Willful samurai!” scolded Toshima, affecting the childlike voice Tomoe had not heard since a day long past, a day in a tea garden, when Toshima professed love as a prelude to many adventures for herself, and for Tomoe. She said, almost with humor,

“Anxiously, you play with death.”

“Anxiously,” agreed Tomoe.

The announcement posted in the city read, in vertical columns of brushed characters:

Ugo Mohri

the Shogun's Champion

and Tomoe Gozen

the Mikado's own Samurai

will meet in mortal combat

at Heiji Castle

noon

on Yellow Bamboo day

---

Heimin are invited.

The invitation to farmers was a longstanding tradition, yet many were surprised that tradition was not, in this case, circumvented. The placard, in fact, was not one which the Shogun would have commanded to the post. He would have preferred Tomoe Gozen mentioned in the same breath as treason, rather than in association with the Mikado. There were many who could not understand or appreciate the need to place the Mikado in exile; they would easily make of the coming duel an allegorical meeting of larger powers.

Spies instantly informed the Shogun of the sign. Samurai retainers—four of them in all, as though it was expected to be a difficult task—arrived quickly, with the intention of replacing the placard with one preferable. How they failed was a curious thing:

They pulled the wooden placard down, complaining and wondering about who could have erected it. Immediately after, the retainers were accidentally jostled by a troupe of exceptionally untalented jugglers. These street entertainers instantaneously effaced themselves in front of the four tough samurai, begging pardons. They were booted away. When this unmomentous confusion had passed, the retainers proceeded to destroy the one placard and put up the other, discovering too late that they had broken the Shogun's message and reattached the original.

By then, the jugglers had scurried off; and in any event, it did not occur to the four retainers that the inept jugglers were the reason for the mistake. Rather, the retainers doubted they made a mistake at all; but, they suspected, the finely brushed characters of the Shogun's official calligrapher had actually rearranged themselves, had moved like insects, had been made to recreate the original, unacceptable message by sorcerous means.

When they tried to take the wooden placard down once more, tiny white sparks of fire bit their fingers. Therefore, they left the placard after all, and if there were repercussions from an angry Shogun, no one ever heard about it. It was preordained (the Shogun was advised) that Ugo Mohri win all duels against disenfranchised samurai; what matter then (the Shogun may have decided) if heimin associated Tomoe Gozen with the Mikado in exile. Indeed, when Tomoe Gozen fell, it would indicate to superstitious farmers the august son of Amaterasu was rightly kept away.

The duel was arranged by a presumedly neutral Lord, whose castle was an impressive fortification, albeit less remarkable than the Shogun's, as all castles (by decree) must be. On Yellow Bamboo day, Lord Hidemi Horota allowed farmers leeway through the gates of Heiji Castle. They were confined to the northern edge of a huge, enclosed yard devised specifically for exhibition. There, the heimin pressed against an imaginary (but respected) barrier, anxious and excited.

Lord Hidemi Horota sat among pomp and dignity and colorful raiment atop a raised platform to the east of the ground, before a large, squared gateway. On either side of him stood personal samurai, and one more sat upon the steps leading to the platform's seat. In the event of treachery, this forward samurai would stand from the stair and take whatever arrow or blow was meant for his Lord.

Along the southern edge of the yard were many comfortable chairs, arranged in groups by class of the sitters, and behind them were the palanquins which had delivered the various nobles. The
bakufu
, or office of the military, was well represented. Although the Shogun did not personally appear (which would have lent too fearful an importance to the event), several of the highest aristocrats of Kamakura, indeed of Naipon, along with many of their honored guests and privileged servants, were in attendance.

On the remaining end of the field were the combatants. West was the direction associated with death. There, painted cloths had been erected to form a double-enclosure, separating the opponents. The cloth structure was open in front, partitioned in the middle. In one side of the open enclosure sat Tomoe Gozen on a backless seat, fists on her thighs, her small retinue lined up behind her. On the other side of the partition sat Ugo Mohri, with a considerably larger retinue. His arms were folded inside his colorfully embroidered kimono. His face portrayed easy tranquillity. He sat upon a little seat identical to the one that held Tomoe, and his knees were far apart.

They were visible to all, but could not see each other.

The sun was fierce and high, the sky sparsely clouded, the yard mossy green; and in the center was a huge two-sided drum mounted horizontally. There was a drummer to each side of this instrument, bearing sets of wooden mallets. They beat slow, rhythmic tattoos whose sound filled the area between the further walls of the yard. By stages, their beat became more complex, and more rapid. They had been doing this for a long while, during which time the variegated audience arrived and took their proper places. Several uncouth heimin removed wooden sandals and clapped them as cymbals, adding to the frantic din of introduction.

At length, the racket was caused to end, and the drum was carried away. The yard became as silent as it had been noisy.

Ugo Mohri stood from the seat and walked forward, without looking back, until he stood before the platform holding Lord Horota. Mohri bowed with grace, and though Horota did not personally acknowledge the Shogun's champion, all the Lord's retainers returned the bow with the utmost respect. When Mohri turned around, his eyes glistened to see Tomoe Gozen, who sat still in the cloth chamber, waiting for her turn. When their eyes met, they told each other nothing.

He could not escape admiring her appearance, less colorful than his own fancifully colored kimono, yet grand in simplicity. She wore a full-sleeved
kosode
blouse and hakama trousers, the kosode gleaming white silk, the hakama black cotton. Her scabbard was fastened loose from a blue and black obi, rather than through it as was more customary. She had tied a black scarf about her head, and knotted it around her hair, leaving the ponytail to hang far down her spine.

The scarf was symbolic as well as functional. It meant: I am ready to try.

Her face lacked the serenity for which Ugo Mohri was famous; but there was a calmness about her nonetheless: a silent, unboasting kind of calm which might have veiled secret compassion.

Ugo Mohri walked to the yard's center, bowed to the other three sides of the field. It was expected that each opponent would first provide a brief display of skill. Thus, all eyes were upon Ugo Mohri, which pleased him.

From a compartment on the side of his sword's sheath, Ugo withdrew a length of cord called
sage-o
. He threw an end over each shoulder, pulled the ends under his arms, and tied them in front. He pulled the
sage-o
in a certain manner so that the bow he had tied moved to the center of his back. This tie held the long sleeves of his kimono away from the forearms. This done, he sat upon his knees, in the classic pose of
iaijutsu
, the art of the rapid draw.

Four of his aides came from the cloth enclosure, each carrying a large piece of heavy paper, each paper a different color: red, blue, yellow, white. The four men surrounded Ugo Mohri, armed only with these papers.