The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai (48 page)

VI. Gifts

Late in the day or in the early morning, depending on Michimori’s audiences and other court duties, Tokikazu, Akio and I worked on the practice field. As my ease with Michimori increased, so it did with these samurai. More accepted now, I remembered that only recently I had held no rank.

The Festival of the Weaver, the Seventh day of the Seventh Month, approached. Everyone watched the skies where the two stars, the lovers, the Weaver and the Herdsman, met. Like the emperor, Michimori spread leaves in the gardens and prepared for a sky-watching party, including special entertainment and food. Music was to be played all night, and the Magpie Dance, which I had never seen, would be performed. Misuki was praying for sewing and weaving activities. I planned to pray for music and poetry; my poor brush was better, but still not suitable.

Tokikazu managed to sneak me away without Akio and led me on a tour of the sword foundry. I had been careful not to be alone with him – his reputation as a libertine fuelled Misuki’s gossip. However, his behaviour of late had been entirely correct.

Observing the prayers and rituals before forging a sword was like being a little girl again, in a shrine with my birth family. The rituals and chanting comforted me, yet memories of my family saddened me. The assistants rested until the master folded the hot metal. The rhythm of their mallets pounding relaxed me. The fire recalled the strength of Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess, early days at Chiba’s
sh
ō
en
– and my plans for Goro. If fire could mould plain metal into the soul of a samurai, perhaps my plans for Norahito’s associates and Goro’s destruction could be fashioned to protect me.

The next day Akio took me aside. ‘After archery practice you should go to the shed across from the pavilion. We have a guest with a crooked nose you might be interested in visiting. Do not worry. The gift is well wrapped . . . and guarded.’ He smirked.

Crooked nose! Goro – here? I shivered, suddenly cold. ‘Why can I not go now?’

‘We want to maintain as much secrecy as possible, little one.’ He used his old name for me. ‘Keep to your normal routine and be mindful. You do not have “bad days” with the bow any more.’

Practice consumed every arrow ever created for the entire city. I demonstrated no ‘bad day’, thanks to Akio’s admonishments and my determination. Goro’s face as the target assisted my aim. When would everyone else leave?

Hours later, after the field had emptied, Michimori and I walked past the pavilion to the shed. Tokikazu and Sadakokai stood, daggers and swords at the ready, attending a fettered and muffled man in priests’ clothing. They barely took their gaze from their prisoner as we came in.

‘Yes, honourable Lord Taira no Michimori.’ Tokikazu addressed my husband formally.

‘How is our “friend” doing?’ Michimori sneered.

‘He refuses to confess. He maintains his innocence.’

‘Pull down that gauze. Let my lady look upon that face.’

The muscles of my legs and arms tightened and I was unsure that I could walk. I was to avenge Tashiko, Emi and myself. My honour would be restored.

I feasted my eyes on the face of the priest with the broken nose.

Every tight muscle relaxed. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Goro. I understood why Tokikazu had mistaken him for Goro. ‘This is not he.’

Heads turned to Michimori for direction.

‘Untie him, have him swear an oath of silence, then send him with a small escort to the monastery near Ise. That will be enough distance.’

Because of the formality of the situation, I did not cry but I wanted to scream. Not him! Where was he? I needed his head on a spear before my spirit could rest, before Tashiko’s spirit could rest, before my honour could be restored.

Misuki explained to me that it was customary to offer gifts on the day after the Festival of the Weaver. I managed to find her a new robe and a writing box, complete with ink stone, brushes and a fine selection of papers.

Michimori presented me with a new set of armour in the
shikime zane
style. ‘Here,’ he said, his head bobbing with satisfaction. ‘See? The scales are assembled, twice overlapping. Triple thickness, extra protection for you, my samurai woman.’ His eyes shone with joy, and I reflected my delight back to him. The
shikime zane
style was rare, a magnanimous gift. I shared a poem of gratitude with him.

My happiness was transient. My throat closed when I saw that Akio and Tokikazu each held a
furoshiki
.

‘Because you have finally mastered both the Thunder Stroke and Scarf Sweep Stroke, you have earned this,’ Tokikazu announced.

Ceremoniously he gave me a sword, including a golden rabbit ornament in the handle. The
tsuba
showed the closed-wing butterfly of the Taira Clan. The belt cord of thickened peacock-blue silk was wrapped around a scabbard with a
makie
design of gold and silver trees, as radiant as the Sun Goddess.

Michimori glanced at Tokikazu in a way I did not recognise, grunted, then turned and strolled away.

My throat pinched, and tears leaped. I held the sword on my outstretched hands. I extended them further from my body so that I did not wet the blade or its scabbard. When my elation overcame my confusion, I found my voice. ‘I am honoured more than I have words to express.’

I slipped the slightly convex cutting edge out of its scabbard. I held it for all to see, then replaced it in its scabbard. Next, I anchored it at my waist as I had done so many times with my
bokken
. Tokikazu smiled. His eyes gleamed. I shared this poem:

Shining in the sun

My
tachi
, a friend’s gift,

Smiles in the green field.

A gift earned with so much toil,

A gift of loving protection.

Tokikazu grinned openly, and Akio’s face brightened, still ruddy from practice.

His massive shoulders tightened. ‘I, too, have brought you a Weaver Star Festival present,’ Akio said, in a low growl.

I tried not to show surprise at his anger, which was rare in him, except when he was near Tokikazu. The bulky package revealed a quiver, with rabbits running through trees in carved wood and mother-of-pearl. He had remembered.

Tears blurred my eyes. I thanked him for his graciousness and recited another poem.

Akio turned and towered over Tokikazu. ‘
What
are you doing?’

‘I do not understand. We are merely giving Weaver Festival gifts to the Lady Kozaishō.’ Tokikazu’s body tensed like thick bamboo.

‘I do not like what is happening here. It is not honourable. Desist.’ Akio’s growl had changed to a torrential waterfall.

‘Akio, I have no idea what you mean.’

Akio put his hands on his hips. ‘I will be direct with you because I want – and Kozaishō needs – this to stop.’

‘This? What is “this”?’ Tokikazu’s feet took a defensive stance.

‘“This” is your encouraging the honourable Lord Taira no Michimori’s wife. Even he saw it tonight with that sword. You must stop. You,’ Akio turned to me, ‘and Kozaishō are in danger. Nearly dishonour and disloyalty.’ Akio eyed Tokikazu from his superior height. ‘He prevented your
seppuku
once, Tokikazu, when Kozaishō and he were married. Yes, I heard. That does not mean you are immune to his wrath. Stop this.’

I did not realise Tokikazu’s attachment to me was so evident, but the sword and scabbard had announced it. Such a gift belonged only to a husband or lover. Akio, once again, had lit the Path of Right Action for me. Although I admired the sword and scabbard, and Tokikazu, I had not shown an attraction to him.

‘Should I return the sword and scabbard?’ I asked Akio later.

‘Perhaps that would be best. Or you may wish to ask your
husband
.’

My husband said nothing about the sword or the quiver. I made sure to wear the armour for him, praising its every detail and his solicitude that evening, and ordered Misuki’s brush for a suitable poem in silver ink on indigo paper. He did not speak all night and sent me early to my apartments. Tokikazu’s gift had upset him. What was I to do? I valued Tokikazu’s friendship, but Akio’s admonishments indicated that I should change my behaviour.

Many days later, Tokikazu sat beside me, but not as close as he had before, and motioned a servant away. ‘The great Tenjin came to me in a dream,’ he confided.

Tenjin, the calligraphy deity, rode not a horse but a bull. His crest was the beautiful plum tree. My pilgrimage to Kitano, Tenjin’s shrine, had not improved my brush. I had grasped a plum branch in one hand while attempting to write, but it had not helped.

‘Tenjin wore many robes in alternating black and white. In one arm he carried a huge ink stone, with papers under it. In the other hand he carried a
tachi
– your sword! I recognised the scabbard with its tree design.

‘In my dream I asked, “Why do you carry Kozaishō’s sword?” He placed the ink stone on a small table, and put papers next to it. He unsheathed the sword, lifted it and, with the Torso Severer Stroke, broke the ink stone.

‘Then Tenjin said, “Teach the characters with sword movements, and she will learn.” He turned, left everything on the table, including the sword and its scabbard, and disappeared into a mist.’

‘I do not understand. Please explain what this means,’ Misuki begged.

‘I will teach Kozaishō characters as if it were swordplay, something at which she excels.’ He took my
tachi
and fought some invisible demon in the air in front of him.

I was puzzled.

He said, ‘Observe, and do as I do. Pretend I am teaching you a new stroke.’ I watched again as he fought an imaginary foe. I imitated with my sword, which was not difficult.

‘There! Do you not see? You have written “Taira” against the sky!’ He was delighted. ‘Try it again by yourself.’

I did as I had been told. Several times, often with minor corrections, I rendered the sword strokes in the air. After many tries with Tokikazu, he signalled to a servant, standing nearby, who handed me the prepared brush.

He thrust a piece of paper on to the bare ground and demanded I perform the same sword strokes on the paper. Reluctantly I did so. Although I had little hope of a fair result, I did not hesitate, because he seemed so enthusiastic.

‘But, first, close your eyes. Pretend you are doing it in the air.’

I did so – and we gazed, astounded, at the work on the paper.

Tokikazu was jubilant.

After sufficient repetitions in the air, I composed several adequate characters. We worked on this every day. Over the next months I spent less and less time practising in the air before I could perfect the brush. From that first day, and every day, I gave thanks not only to Tenjin but also to Tokikazu who made my success possible.

That first evening Tokikazu brought a poem to celebrate my success:

Below azure sky

Sword strokes cut through the breezes

With bull and with plum

Kozaishō writes on air and earth

And then finally on paper

Later, he gave me a little fan-shaped book with an extract from the Lotus Sutra. It was like those I had seen when I had first come to Rokuhara, lacquered over flakes of gold and silver, with drawings above the text.

The poem and the book remained in a secret place where Michimori would never see them. Akio’s threats of dishonour and disloyalty persisted in my thoughts. My friendship and attraction to Tokikazu could not be mistaken for the great sympathy I held for Michimori. Lighting candles and incense, I resolved to be wary of sharing this attraction with Tokikazu, lest I lose my husband. Having seen
seppuku
at Byōdōin, I did not delight in the thought of it, especially mine.

BOOK 15

I. Festivals and Famine

More than a year of drought, famine and melancholy unfolded. By the Third Month of the new year, even our serving girls were grateful for the Festival of Iwashimizu – a change from the previous year’s mourning and solemn ceremonies for the deaths of Emperor Takakura and Chancellor Kiyomori, the unrelenting scrutiny of other wives and the rest of the court. Misuki’s ear for gossip about colours helped me avoid being the target of such chatter.