The Golden Naginata (31 page)

Tade Shimataka's white cape swirled about him like snow. He was himself like snow upon a black mountain. “Fight me on the ground!” said Hamba, and Kiso's man was willing, though aware no man had ever won a grappling exercise with ape-armed Narita Hamba. They battled back and forth with pikes until Tade Shimataka's pike was broken, and then it was sword against pike, until Hamba's pike was broken. Hamba did not draw his sword as would be expected. Instead, he seemed to hunch down shorter than he was, his bowed legs becoming more so, then he sprang underneath Shimataka's swinging sword to catch the arm and hold it in a vise-grip. So they grappled this way and that way and it looked as though a stout black monkey had somehow gotten hold of a piece of white cloud and was wrestling it to the ground and tying it up! Lord Kiso's man's arms were quickly strapped behind his back and his chances of winning became bleak. But in the wrestling, Hamba's arrows had been scattered from his quiver, and Shimataka rolled over one of the iron arrowheads, cutting his bindings, but not letting on that he was loose. When Narita Hamba fell to strapping the legs of the cloud-colored man, one of Hamba's own arrows was snatched from the ground and smashed against the back of his thick neck. With a second blow of the knife-edged curve of the moon-shaped arrowhead, Narita Hamba's head and helmet fell into Tade Shimataka's lap. Shimataka, gasping for breath, exclaimed, “A loss to our country!” Then, as Nenoi Yukika had done at the Battle of Dazai, Tade Shimataka, at Fuhara, began to weep. These two men belonging to Lord Kiso had known lives of war too long for them to fail to recognize the pathos of all things.

Imai Kanchira on the other hand was scarcely more than a boy and for him war was new. He was so pretty that if someone ever succeeded in cutting off his head and taking it as trophy, someone else would surely say it was the head of a girl. He was the third shi-tenno, and Tomoe Gozen's brother. The fourth shi-tenno was Higuchi Mitsu, who was not much older than Imai. The pity of things had not yet settled into their intellects, so they were filled only with the glory and wonder of their own tremendous actions, untouched by the sorrow of lost lives and of an ancient, mighty clan crushed by youthful supersession. Imai and Mitsu fought side by side and laughing, giving contradictory orders to their men by means of their marshals' fans, causing the Battle of Shinowa to look more like a riot than an ordinary assault. The Ryowa forces were the more confused by this. With fighting on every side, it was difficult for the dying of either army to be sure they fell down facing the enemy. To fall facing away from the enemy would be construed to mean they died in cowardly retreat; but this might not be the case in confusion such as this. Higuchi Mitsu, whose faith was predominantly Buddhist, suggested that whoever fell in battle do so facing North, for Buddha died with his head to the North. Imai Kanchira, whose faith was predominantly Shinto, suggested that whoever fell in battle do so facing West, for that was the direction of Death. They laughed at their disagreement and the legion of samurai and yamabushi under their direction laughed also. There was much jesting on the field until the enemy was infected and, though routed, grinned and chortled. This is why the Battle of Shinowa is sometimes called The Happy Fight. The Ryowa army thought it a matter of honor to die in better humor than their foe; so one group of wounded, dying men got together and arranged themselves in a flower-shape; the petals their bodies formed faced in all directions. “How lovely!” cried Higuchi Mitsu, seeing the rent enemy like a red chrysanthemum on the ground. Imati Kanchira added, “They die prettier than we! Since we cannot compete, we should give up and not die at all!” Thereafter, there were no more deaths among the yamabushi and samurai led by Imai Kanchira and Higuchi Mitsu. Among the enemy, none were spared, and none ran away either, for they were having a very good time being cheerful.

On past occasions there have been tendencies to idealize the manners of a fallen foe, since it makes the victor appear the more vigorous to defeat surprising greatness. For the sake of objectivity, in the present case, it will not go unsaid, there
were
cowards among the old clan. To be sure, many of them changed their names and titles to escape to far provinces and live with relatives of humble station, and were never heard from again. Others disguised themselves as servants so as not to be captured, later shaving their heads to join priesthoods of a more sedate variety than the yamabushi. Still others, sometimes in droves, petitioned Kiso Yoshinake for commissions, and he allowed them to change sides, although he never trusted them very much.

Priest Kakumei set out one morning to prove the weakness of the foe. He was tired of these tales of Ryowa defeats which were glorious for both sides. Kakumei was a wide-built man and sometimes when he was approached by four or five friends, they would tease him by pretending not to see him there, and say to one another, “We must go around this wall!” Or, “Who put this wall up here? “His hair and beard were shaggy even for a yamabushi; and it was somewhat curly for, it was said, his grandmother was an Ainu wild-woman converted to Buddhism. On this morning when he set out, he wore no armor, maintaining that the Ryowa swords were too dull to cut his priest's robe. Nor did he take any sword or fighting pole or axe or naginata, sure as he was that his rosary was enough to frighten off such timid warriors as he would find. In preparation, Priest Kakumei had combed his hair and beard outward on all sides, so that he looked like a black-maned lion. He combed his thick eyebrows upward so that he had an angry look without trying. He wore high wooden
geta
on his feet, to prove it was not necessary to have easy footing to defeat Ryowa clansmen. He fixed upon his visage a look that made his eyes seem round and sharp, and went out by himself to face the enemy. He shook his beads at the Ryowa unit, and did they run away? They certainly did! What pious fellow wouldn't? This was a Buddhist priest! His only weapons were his beads and his awful face! Strike him down, and what could come of it, but gods' vengeance? Priest Kakumei chased a bunch of them this direction; he chased a bunch of them that direction. Always he held his rosary in front of him, deriding them in a thunderous voice. “Stand still and fight with me, thou cravens!” But only one would do so. Priest Kakumei fell upon this one and strangled him with the rosary. He kicked another with his geta, and broke the fleeing man's back. Another died of fright when Kakumei raised his arms, his sleeves hanging down like the wings of a black moth. It went on like this until the only one left standing on the battlefield was Kakumei, with a few corpses scattered in undignified postures. Thenceforth, when Yoshinake's generals told tales of Ryowa valor, Priest Kakumei would shake his beads and grumble.

On other past occasions there have been opposite tendencies to degrade the foe, to make them seem forever afraid, as they were before Priest Kakumei, or to make them seem cruel felons. By doing this, a victor wishes not to worry about becoming ill-judged for the slaughter. History will call the dead, “Too weak to live!” or else say, “Their infamy required this vengeance!” Such things must never be suggested about the dragon-circle clan. They were mighty. But they exceeded their station, and no one must do that. With some exceptions, they went down boldly. The boldest would not even consider amnesty or exile. The clan elders living in and about Kyoto and the chief-generals of the military palace were especially apt to perform seppuku before they would suffer the indignity of capture or defeat. Some might have escaped but refused to do so. Had there been hope of rallying in the future, they might have tried to live. But there would never be such a chance. Therefore they embraced self-immolation as the only acceptable behavior. Men such as these, along with their throat-pierced wives and sons and daughters, merited and received the highest funeral honors.

Nor had Kiso Yoshinake and his famous wife been mere table-generals through all this. For, grand as were the exploits of the shi-tenno and other field marshals, and of the troops, this grandeur paled beside the significance of Lord Kiso's and Tomoe Gozen's conclusive surge into the capital itself. Tomoe's white charger carried her through leaf-matted streets, and the blood of Ryowa made the leaves more gorgeous still. She slew fourteen famous generals in three days of battle—about each one a story might be told; and she slew lesser foes too numerous to recount. Her husband was of identical courage, despite having to retire from the field periodically to hear from spies and council, to decide tactics, to reveal his mental prowess in matters of war, and largely to bore himself with responsibilities beyond the sword. Each time he heard that Tomoe had taken another general's life, Yoshinake spoke lavish praise, then set out to do the same, lest it seem his wife was mightier, as some said Madame Hojo was mightier than her husband who was Shogun. Did this suggest Kiso Yoshinake was envious of his wife's fame or her strength? We shall never know for sure. He took joy in the knowledge that he and Tomoe were equally matched. Perhaps he had forgotten a battle with straw-wrapped bokens which revealed Tomoe Gozen the more prepared to die and, therefore, the greater warrior. Lord Kiso was proud of his wife, let there be no doubt. He boasted of her courage and her beauty. If she had killed fifteen famous generals and he one less, his feelings might have been otherwise. Or he might still have been glad; who is to say? The adage goes, “That which might have been was not,” while the reasonable truth is this: Kiso Yoshinake relied upon Tomoe Gozen even more than his superb shi-tenno; for one of her was equal to the four of them, and the four of them were equal to one thousand times their number.

And was Yoshinake beautiful in battle? Ah! Upon his helmet were the horns of an ox. His armor was blue-black, the cords of it bright cobalt. His arrow-deflecting mantle was likewise blue, wrapped about his shoulders and scintillating as does the center of a flame. His arrows stood up high behind his back, fletched with blue feathers from an eagle's underwing, the heads shaped like candles' flames. With bow, rattan-wrapped and lacquered the same blue-black as his armor, it was said his only equal was the Ryowa ally known as “General Ape,” who now was dead, so there was no one living who could equal Yoshinake when archery was considered. He strove through the defended streets of Kyoto, breaking that defense, taking off the heads of soldiers, dashing this way and that way on his dappled grey horse, a horse called Grey Cloud Demon, whose iron mask glistened in blue hues, whose fur was like blue ash beneath the blue flame of Kiso Yoshinake. Nothing withstood the fire of the Rising Sun General and his shining Sword of Okio.

Now and then Tomoe was able to watch her husband. Her heart swelled with pride in him. For herself, she felt only that she must fulfill her husband's mission, duty sufficing though she was shockingly devoid of vanity. But seeing Kiso Yoshinake, she knew she had chosen the proper lord, or been chosen by him, and whatever was the final judgement of them all, she would have no regrets. He had grown a beard this past month, blue-black like his armor and bow, and it hid his boyish charm, his girlish prettiness, but Tomoe Gozen did not mind, for now her husband looked like Hachiman himself, supreme god of battle, patron to Kyoto, fierce as a wild beast … and who else had a lord who looked like that? Who else such a husband? Yes, Tomoe Gozen was proud of him, but could not often hold back to appreciate his grievous beauty; for she herself was busy, like Hachiman's mother Jingo, serene and beautiful and ever close behind her son, conquering as he.

The days of battle passed quickly. Throughout this time, the headquarters of the enemy was watched by the six yamabushi with their palanquin containing the wooden god. Ryowa field marshals came and went, bowing to Ida-ten as was polite, but trying not to notice the six men camped beneath their noses. When everything was hopeless, when everything was lost and the Ryowa no longer cared if Ida-ten became angry, only then did they go out to the half-dozen yamabushi and beat them to death with clubs. Only then did they stuff the corpses of the monks into the palanquin of Ida-ten, and had this tribute taken to the Place of Tents which was Lord Kiso's moving camp. There was a message with the palanquin which said, “Ida-ten is a devil not a god! We owe nothing to him! Hachiman is the wargod of the Imperial City, and He will crush the monks and monkish oafs!” The yamabushi were more insulted than Kiso Yoshinake. He had been called worse things than monkish oaf these past few days, sometimes by men he would not deign to hear or notice, others who he would engage in battle with or without insult. In fact, the message amused him; for he had been once or twice mistaken for the wargod Hachiman during the long battles, which resemblance caused the Ryowa to pale. And he had come to believe he was possessed by Kyoto's patron god. Therefore it struck Lord Kiso as richly funny that the failing foe called upon Hachiman,
called upon their enemy,
for aid. It may be considered a good thing, too, that Kiso Yoshinake was feeling too self-important to believe himself insulted; for the day Lord Kiso recognizes insult is the day the world burns with the fire of his rage.