The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai (2 page)

For readers not familiar with the Kozaishō Diaries, Dr Sosiko Yatsumura and I worked Kobe, Japan’s rugged terrain, from 2000 to 2010. The site yielded discoveries worth our blisters.

We unearthed a burial place with two complete skeletons. The bodies faced each other, in the extended position, the male on the left, the female on the right. The crowning glory was a document box sealed into a separate chamber.

The box was undamaged, wrapped in oiled cloths with a waxed seal. Gold and mother-of-pearl cranes fly across a heavily lacquered background of gold and silver dust on its lid. The seal was identified as that of Minamoto no Yoshitsune, the victor of the Ichinotani battle in 1184. The tests on the papers and other contents support the dating of mid-to-late twelfth century.

I save the best for last. Inside the box, intact, we found the Kozaishō Diaries or, as they were called in Heian Japan (the period 794–1185) pillow books i.e. diaries people stored where they slept. My deep thanks go to Dr Bernard Hoffenberg’s hard work and superlative translation.

Readers may check the published papers about these documents. The diary was written from the Taira Clan’s perspective, not the victorious Minamoto Clan of the civil war, the Genpei War (1180–85). There are a significant number of discrepancies with the
Heike Monogatari
, the fictionalized account of the war written about fifty years earlier.

I bet on the bones. The bones don’t lie.

Dr Isabell ‘Izzy’ Jenkins
Associate Professor,
Archaeology Department
University of Arizona

I caress the dagger’s dark curve against the breast of my white kimono. As I step outside the tent, the ocean wind batters my face, singeing my eyes with acrid smoke. Bile swells into my mouth at the stench of impromptu pyres. I swallow and compel my body to be quiet, to calm my mind and soothe my spirit. I do not wish others who may be watching to think I am afraid, although I sit secluded in the forest behind the Ikuta Shrine.

‘My lady, time is short.’ Misuki – my companion, my friend – brings the ties. Her hands quiver, but, together, we lash my legs. She and I listen to the remains of the battle, the rumblings of the sea, the screeching of the hawks.

Misuki’s red-rimmed eyes splash her face with tears, but after protest, she swears to do all I ask of her. I trust Misuki with my life’s work, my story. My death.

She practises the stroke. A soft swish brushes my neck. Its crisp sound is the last I will hear. I thirst – to be with husband, lover, perhaps parents and siblings, most of the people I love. Though not all. The blade catches the last of the sun. That I will not see the beautiful sunset eases me. I am ready.

In my left hand I hold a scrap of cloth, all that remains of the smock my elder sister embroidered, the smock I wore the day my life twisted on to this path. I smile as I place it in Misuki’s hand. She knows where the scrap must go. Tranquillity pervades my bones – with Misuki’s protection, with my life, and with that young girl I once was, the journal I maintained, and the last of my names, Kozaishō.

Book 1

Like the pious man who planted an orchard so that
Others might enjoy the fruits, I trust these words
I offer may be of use to others.

I. Conspiracy

I shared the dream with my family at our morning meal. In this one, I sat in a polished-wood room. My many kimonos glittered while servants brought trays with artfully arranged food in lacquered bowls. I ate with glossy black chopsticks.

My parents listened and hugged me, but my mother clicked her tongue. My brothers ignored my dreams, and my sisters laughed. I frowned at my sisters and pulled their hair. I did not like their laughter, and they knew it.

Later that morning I tried to learn. ‘Please let me try again,’ I begged my next elder sister.

‘Why do you bother? You never get it right.’

‘I used the grinding stone.’ I said. ‘It took a long time, but I did it right. Please?’

‘You have watched me many times.’ Fourth Daughter continued her sewing.

‘Perhaps if I sat next to you.’

Fourth Daughter spread her knees and lifted her cloth. ‘Just this once. Keep away from the needles.’

My gaze followed her flashing fingers. Fourth Daughter was our best seamstress. I knelt on the straw-scattered earthen floor looking up through her hair. I leaned close.

‘Her breathing ruins my stitches,’ Fourth Daughter whined.

I bent closer and ignored her. I had to learn. Her needle pricked my forehead, and I wailed.

‘I was afraid I would hurt her,’ Fourth Daughter said to my mother, with the tearful tremors she had practised in her voice. ‘I warned her!’

‘Instead of helping, you hurt me.’ I tugged her hair, hard.

Fourth Daughter screeched.

Mother scowled. Her eyebrows knotted together.

Second Daughter cocked her head and placed another finished embroidery on the mound atop a clean cloth. ‘Could not Fifth Daughter do something else?’

‘Nothing. She is useless.’ Fourth Daughter rubbed her head. ‘She scorches the barley. She could not carry the buckets to Father and the boys.’

‘If Fourth Daughter can do it, so can I,’ I said, hoping that this was true. I was excited at the notion of doing something else, although afraid I might fail.

‘She is too small.’ Mother tutted. ‘Such an important task.’

‘She is faster than a dragon, especially with farm tools.’ Second Daughter defended me.

‘She has not been to the fields since Winter Solstice,’ Mother said, in a softer voice.

‘Remember last harvest, when she begged to work the grinding stone?’ Second Daughter reminded my mother.

Mother’s shoulders drooped.

‘That flat stone was almost as big as she was, yet she put the thick cords around her fingers and ground some barley.’ Second Daughter had begun a new piece of sewing.

‘I’m not sure she can carry the yoke and the buckets with the weight of the water.’

I widened my eyes and stared at her. ‘I can do it. I can.’

‘She cut grain as well as Third Son, and he is older by three years,’ Fourth Daughter said. She had told me she hated carrying the buckets.

My place in the family would have been secure if I had been a boy. As if being the fifth girl was not enough of a burden, I had no skill in any feminine activity.

‘Give me a chance, please.’ I was thankful for Fourth Daughter’s support, although the buckets were
her
task. Knees bent, I pretended I was already carrying that heavy weight. I clenched my hands, feet apart, solid in the straw. Hoping.

Finally Mother said, ‘Practise first.’

I had ranked as less than useless. Perhaps I could do this important thing.

After putting the yoke around my neck, Mother attached the buckets. They were heavy, but I knew I was strong. Even so I would have lost half the water in two steps. The empty buckets swung too far out with every pace, but only at first. My sisters laughed, which made me want to pull their hair. I learned to walk with a rhythm – head up, shoulders straight and hands on the yoke.

‘None of your older sisters could balance then so quickly, Fifth Daughter.’

Fourth Sister glared. I knew not to make a face at her or she would hit me later.

Mother demanded I wear my festival clothes, inside out as customary; she knew I loved them and would take extra care. ‘You will not return with the usual filth.’

Years of wear had dulled the festival smock and trousers to pink. Mother had dyed them red for First Daughter, now married with two children. Second Daughter had burned a hole at the end of one sleeve. Third Daughter, just married, had torn a seam and repaired the trousers with white silk thread. Fourth Daughter had embroidered flowers on the front of the smock.

I dressed, and Mother made the directions to the fields into a song. She and I sang it until I had memorised it. She placed a kiss on my neck and folded a thick cloth under the wooden yoke and its heavy load.

‘You will do well.’ She kissed the top of my head.

Second Daughter wished me good fortune. Fourth Daughter crossed her eyes and wrinkled her nose. She was probably glad that I would do her task and not be underfoot all morning.

This was something I might be able to do.

I plodded along the paths around plots of land, careful to avoid loose soil, alert for stones, determined not to lose a drop of my father’s water.

The crop grew short on the fields, not tall enough for late spring, perhaps because it had been cold, with little rain. The last time the barley had been short like this, the hot soup had tasted terrible, scratched my throat and had not satisfied my stomach for long.

O Earth and Harvest Gods, please let us not be hungry! Let me never again eat boiled earth.

I saw an animal on a far path, a huge demon, white eyes wild in its black face, hair flying like kite strings. A brown haze hid its feet, as if the animal trampled angry clouds. Its movement pulsed through the earth to my legs, like a drum, and I trembled. I checked my buckets; no water had splashed out.

I had heard of horses but never seen one. The black monster came directly for me, trampling the barley, ripping clods from the rows. I grasped the ropes to stop the buckets swaying and trotted fast, shoulders straight, desperate not to lose any precious water. The demon headed straight for me. A fist snatched at my chest. I wished Father was here.

Closer. The animal spun around me, swifter on four legs than I on two. If the horse wanted the water, he would not have it. My feet ran in another direction.

Earth Gods! Swallow me, with my buckets still full and my clothes clean.

Soil scattered around me. It dried my eyes and closed my throat and shortened my breath.

I blinked and coughed. I could not tell which way to flee in the heavy umber smoke. The yoke bit my shoulders. Mother’s cloth padding as useless as a dried leaf. The buckets were still full, but my trousers were filthy. I saw Mother’s frown. I needed to make my father proud.

The horse circled around me, nearer and nearer. I turned, feeling its hot snorts, smelling its musky odour. I looked for escape but could find none. I stopped. Whatever happened, I would defend my cargo.

The horse’s hoofs stilled. Dust settled on the fields, like dark snow. I wiped my eyes, rubbed my palms against my cheeks.

The massive black animal panted loud and fast, smelling of sweet sweat. A strange man perched on it, dressed in thick brocade. White gauze swathed his head and face. He brushed the garments away from his face with the back of one hand. The other fingered his moustache.

Breathing hard, I watched the horse’s chest, moving almost like mine. I licked my lips. They tasted of dirt soup, but I swallowed the spit – I did not know the man.

A deep bow would tip my buckets so I bowed only my head. Trouble? Perhaps I should offer him some water.

The man slid off the horse. I stepped away, still carefully, so he would not tread on me. He stood, like an egret, tall and lanky, his head almost too big for his body, the brocade, once white and purple, now lightly speckled brown.

My legs grew heavy. My hands stiffened around the yoke. I wanted to stare, but I forced myself to focus on the barley shoots he had ruined.