The Golden Naginata Read online

  She sat forward abruptly, lifting the sword and scabbard off her knees. Dew chilled the recent sleeper. Amaterasu had not yet risen; it was difficult to see in the dark. For light and warmth, Tomoe took an unburnt end of firewood and stirred the ashes of the firepit, uncovering a few coals exactly where she’d buried them. Hours earlier she had placed some brown leaves in her kimono so that they’d stay dry against her body; now she brought them forth and piled them on the exposed coals. When she blew on the coals, the leaves flared. However, before she could get anything more substantial burning, a momentary wind, cold as death, issued from the surrounding pines and put the fire out.

  A sad, lonesome voice whispered eerily in the woods: “To-mo-eh. To-mo-eh.” It was a gaki or “hungry ghost,” she was certain. Ghosts hungered sometimes for revenge, sometimes for love lost during life, or for money left behind in dying … occasionally, they hungered for the blood of living folk. Whatever the cause of their hunger, it made them haunt the world, morose and dissatisfied.

  “Who are you?” Tomoe asked cautiously, betraying no fear. There was no reply, but her sword rattled in its scabbard for no cause. This was an unprecedented power for a gaki, affecting a samurai’s weapons! It caused Tomoe to ask more vehemently, “Who are you?”

  The gaki drifted out of the forest, a dim phosphorescent fog with no particular shape. It began to coalesce into the shape of a man whose legs were void of feet and joined as one. He drifted a little ways above the ground. His pale whiteness gained a bit of color as the materialization progressed, though he retained the translucence throughout. The gaki looked terribly sad.

  “We have never met,” said the ghost. “But I think you will know me anyway.” Again, Tomoe’s sword vibrated in its case. It seemed to do so in resonance with the gaki’s deep intonations. For the first time, Tomoe noticed the gaki’s small black hat. It was the cap of a Naiponese metallurgist.

  “You’re Okio!” Tomoe exclaimed, realizing the swordsmith must have been killed. She held the sword before her, not as a weapon but as a charm. “I am not your slayer! Why do you haunt me?”

  The hungry ghost drifted toward her, his expression earnest, but seeming to mean no harm. He said, “By trickery my bodyguards were drugged. Fifty samurai attacked my house this very night, stabbing all the guards in their beds or slumbering at their posts. Against so many, I was helpless.”

  “Fifty to kill one!” said Tomoe. “They had no honor!”

  The ghost of Okio continued, “They probably thought that I would be as good at fighting with swords as making them. But I have never liked to see swords dented. I was unpracticed in fencing. Not one of the fifty was injured; I’m ashamed to confess it. At this very moment they are on their way to Isso to complete their commission. They intend to kill my wife and children! Those clever men placed an amulet against ghosts in my body’s mouth, thinking it would keep me from pursuing them in death. Yet a part of me lives in the swords I have forged. A part of me is carried in your own scabbard; and that part cannot be arrested by amulets. If my enemies have their way, even these remnants of myself, of my contribution to Naipon, will be wrecked. For all that, I worry more about my family than posterity. You must go to Isso, Tomoe Gozen! You must rush to my family’s defense!” The ghost wrung his hands in despair, hovering nearer and saying, “Save them, Tomoe! Save them!”

  “I will try,” said Tomoe, bowing a little from her standing position, still holding her sword in front of her vertically lest the ghost press too near.

  After her promise, the ghost withdrew a short ways and looked somewhat relieved. He said, “Of the fifty men, I can give you ten names. I will etch them on your memory so that you cannot forget.” So saying, he began to recite the names of a fifth of his assassins: “Matsu Emura, Ryoichi Nomoto, Shintaro Shimokashi, Fusakuni Sumikawa …” As the ghost gave her the names, their heads moved before her as if carried on poles. Their features, with their names, burned into her brain. She would know them anywhere! The deep, sad voice of Okio continued: “Kajutoshi Saitoh, Hitoshi Nakazaki and his brother Tatsuo Nakazaki, Kenji Hachimura, Fudo Kuji, and Kozo Ono.”

  The last of the ten men’s heads passed before her vision. The specter which had once been the Imperial Swordsmith grew faint, weakened by the spell he had weaved. A cold, cold wind swept through the pines as it had done when Okio first came. He became mist once more. Amaterasu’s shining face peered up from below the world, banishing him and all hungry ghosts into the Land of Gloom for another day.

  Tomoe raised her sword horizontally and held it from each end. She bowed to the sword in her outstretched hands while facing the place where the ghost had been. She gave her oath.

  “Bushi no-ichi gon,” she said, the word of a samurai binding unto death. “The task will be done!”

  It was more than two days by relay-palanquin to Isso. The men who bore the transport on their shoulders shouted, “Pardon us! Emergency!” to clear the road, running from palanquin-station to palanquin-station, keeping Tomoe fast upon the route day and night. At the last station there were no palanquins to be had, because Tana-bata or Star Festival had created extra business. Tomoe hurried the last few miles afoot, arriving amidst gentle merriment. She didn’t think the fifty assassins coming from Kyoto could have closed the distance in better time. It would be hard to find out, however, since any number of men could arrive unnoticed during a celebration.

  As Tana-bata was observed mainly by young women and girls, it was one of the least rowdy festivals of the year. Yet it did provide a few excuses for men to enjoy themselves, or to take advantage of sentimental girls. Tana-bata was the seventh lunar month’s holiday, in praise of the High Plain of Heaven and in particular two constellations: the Herdsman, and the Weaver Maid, who met at this time of year on two sides of Heaven’s River to gaze across at one another with sad love.

  Tomoe walked the quietly busy street, listening to an unseen koto harp, traditionally played for lovers. There were puppet shows and other entertainment, each attended by a crowd. In the bamboo trees were hung rectangles of paper bearing poems about and prayers for happy marriage and love affairs. Young women had hung these compositions with strips of cloth or pieces of yarn especially to honor Weaver Maid who symbolized endless longing love.

  The people wore gay colors for the occasion and went about moon-eyed and smiling. Surrounded by all this refined celebrating, Tomoe in her dark hakama and kimono was like a shadow. Her mission was an affront to the day, but it could not be helped.

  Lovely, fragile-seeming women hurried to and fro, colored ribbons trailing from their wooden clogs or geta. Their steps were short and graceful. They sometimes bowed with admiration to the fighting woman who took long strides. Others ignored her as they passed by.

  A magistrate walked slowly, looking extraordinarily pleased. He was followed by a covey of admiring girls. They were too young to interest him much; but boldness among girls was allowed during Star Festival, and the magistrate was obviously flattered to be the constant brunt of this occasion. He wore a flat metal hat and carried a jitte through his obi, between his swords. The jitte was a pronged instrument designed to catch an uncouth fencer’s blow and, with a skilled twist, break the blade. It was also the mantle of the man’s position. Tomoe approached this small group looking far too fierce for a woman during Tana-bata. The young girls backed away. The magistrate withdrew his jitte and looked officious with this badge. He asked,

  “There is trouble, bushi?” He called her “knight.” She composed her expression so that she looked more pleasant, not having intended to alarm him.

  “I’ve need of an address,” she said amiably. “The family of the Imperial Swordsmith’s wife is said to live in Isso.”

  “Ah!” He looked relieved and pointed toward a certain street with his jitte. He described the house she would see. Thanking him, she bowed, and hurried on her way, arousing no more of his suspicions.

  The house was modest but the garden was rich. As Tomoe walked along the garden path,
she was disturbed by the quietude. There were no poems hanging in the bamboos of this garden. There were no offerings to Herdsman and Weaver Maid sitting on a table. There was no incense and no music. Tomoe sensed that she was about to discover a disaster. The fifty assassins had raced faster after all.

  An old woman and an old man lay together in one of the rooms, pierced by the same sword-thrust while they made love. They must have been Okio’s in-laws. Their futon cover was soaked with blood. Their faces were close to one another. By their expressions, it seemed they died at a moment of final ecstacy.

  In the next room were the children and Okio’s wife, scattered about in pools of blood, their faces frozen with terror. Tomoe dropped to her knees amidst this gore and silently reproached herself. She withdrew the longsword and sheath from her obi and set it on the floor in front of her and spoke to it:

  “I will not fail you, Okio! I will find the ten men you named for me. Before I kill them, perhaps I can force some of the names of the other forty from their lips.” She bowed to the sword until her forehead touched the tatami mat. She felt the floor vibrating with a footstep. She instantly grabbed the sword’s handle and came to her feet, leaving the sheath on the tatami.

  A young samurai stood in the hallway by the door. His forehead was neatly shaven; his motodori or queue of hair was pressed flat along the top and center of the shaved area. His face was pretty, but his expression was disconcerted.

  “I’m too late!” he said, looking at the bodies on the floor.

  Tomoe held her naked blade in the least threatening way, but was ready for any trick. “Who are you?” she asked.

  He replied, “Prince Shuzo Tahara!”

  Tomoe was startled. This was the son of a well known lord.

  Behind Tomoe, a paper door slid aside and a monk revealed himself where he’d been hiding. Prince Tahara drew his sword. He and Tomoe stood side by side. The monk carried a staff with jangling rings on the top end, and a sword through his cloth belt. His head was entirely shaven.

  “Bonze!” said Tomoe, addressing him by a common title. “Have you come to pray for these murdered people?”

  “My praying is done,” he said. His voice was kind. He was almost as young as Prince Shuzo Tahara but not nearly so handsome. “I intended to defend these people, but arrived moments too late. Now that their souls have been attended, I will seek revenge for their stolen lives.”

  Prince Tahara sheathed his sword while Tomoe retrieved her scabbard from the floor. At that moment, a broad-shouldered samurai pushed his considerable weight right through a paper door, screaming hideously and waving a sword. Woman, prince and bonze readied their weapons, but the big samurai stopped short and ceased raving. He looked amazed to see these three.

  “Have I failed?” he asked, sheathing his sword and scratching his head in a befuddled way. Tomoe said,

  “I am Tomoe Gozen of Heida. This is Prince Shuzo Tahara, whose family you may know. This Bonze is …”

  “Shindo,” said the monk. “A novice on leave from a mountain sanctuary.”

  The big samurai still looked confused. He said, “I’m Hidemi Hirota, vassal to Hirotaka-no-Hondo. My arm is strong but my mind is weak. You must tell me why we have all met here!”

  The bonze stepped forward and said, “It would seem to be the plan of Okio’s ghost. There is one way to be sure. Follow me into the garden.” They left the house with the monk and went to a place where there was no shade. The monk said, “The light is good enough here.” He proceeded to knock the pin from his sword’s handle to reveal the tang. Tomoe followed this example, sitting on her knees beside the monk and removing the sword’s handle. The other two copied the maneuver. Directly, they compared all four tangs and saw that each bore the signature of Okio. To be sure there was no trick, they held the flat side of the blades toward the sunlight so that they could investigate the pattern of the temper. A clever forger could imitate a signature, but none could duplicate Okio’s secret method of tempering. The temper patterns of the four swords were identical.

  As the four avengers peered along the edges of each others’ swords, a fifth sword’s blade thrust toward the sun, its tang revealed in a soiled hand.

  The fifth man was an unbathed ronin. His forehead was unshaven. His queue of hair stuck up at a sad angle. His jaws were bristly. It was difficult to believe that so unfortunate a character owned one of Naipon’s finest swords; but the sword, and his presence, were proof enough. The four introduced themselves.

  The ronin hadn’t the courtesy to sit with them, but stood looking from bonze to vassal to prince and gazing overlong at the woman warrior. He scratched his whiskers and paraded back and forth. At length he said, “A ghost insisted that I come. I would be glad enough to avenge the maker of my sword, which was won from a famous warlord who likes to gamble when he’s drunk. But I’m not sure I would mix with wholesome children like these!” He passed his disapproving eyes over them again. “A monk who teaches Buddha’s love with a sword! A vassal who looks as intelligent as an ogre! A prince who is hardly more than a boy! A woman with swords instead of poems at Star Festival! If I join fools as these, surely it will be me who next needs an avenger.”

  Prince, bonze and woman were unruffled. The vassal bit back a reply. The bonze smiled with excessive politeness and asked,

  “Does the lucky gambler have no name?”

  A samurai with no name was no samurai at all. It was not a very subtle insult; but coming from a monk, it might be excused as ignorance of samurai manners. The ronin squinted at the daring bonze, then answered,

  “Call me Ich ’yama.”

  “Number one mountain!” said the bonze, laughing. “If that is the only name you have, it will do.”

  Tomoe intervened more seriously, “I presume Okio has given us each ten names. The total is fifty. Because there is a festival and many willing girls, we can assume the fifty assassins will remain in Isso for a while. They will leave at festival’s end, the day after tomorrow.”

  The five avengers had put their swords back together and sheathed them. Hidemi Hirota leaned toward Tomoe and said, “We must kill them before they leave!”

  Ich ’yama snorted derisively. “Brilliant deduction, Hidemi-sama.” The ronin used the suffix denoting godhood or superiority. It was too unsubtle a jab. Hidemi stood from his knees to face the ronin. They were of equal height but Hidemi was wider.

  “Please,” said Prince Tahara. “We must all like each other for a day or two. I suggest we divide into two pairs and investigate the saké houses and the low district. Bonze Shindo can remain here to attend the corpses. The bodies will need to be disposed of secretly, lest the magistrate discover the murders and our plot before our task is completed. We will rejoin Shindo in this garden before dusk tonight and report what we have found.”

  Ich ’yama’s scruffy face was bent over a group of flowers, sniffing. When he looked up, he sneezed. He said, “Tomoe Gozen and I will go together.”

  “Will that do?” young Prince Tahara asked Tomoe. She did not answer. “Then Hidemi Hirota and I will go together. None of us must be conspicuous!”

  The two pairs left the misleading peace of the gardens, going slowly as to be unnoticed. The monk Shindo stood alone among the trees and blossoms. He did not move.

  “It’s Tana-bata,” Ich ’yama said to Tomoe. “Are you always this unaffected?” The ronin looked left and right at the happy couples and hopeful singles. He stopped occasionally to read the poems which hung on bamboo bushes and trees.

  “There is serious business to attend,” said Tomoe.

  “Death is forever near the sides of samurai. This does not mean we cannot stop long enough to appreciate beauty. We should be even more appreciative of beauty than others, for it could always be the last we see.”

  “If a samurai has no time for baths,” said Tomoe, “he has no time for beauty.”

  Ich ’yama was struck soundly. “My scent offends you?” he asked good-naturedly. “Come with me to a public bath
and we’ll rectify the problem.”

  Tomoe repeated herself firmly: “There is serious business to attend.”

  A beautiful maiden in silk kimono played koto, the instrument setting in front of her on the floor of the porch. Beside her was a table filled with offerings for Weaver Maid and Herdsman. Ich ’yama stopped to listen. He looked sentimental. Tomoe stopped beside him, but was annoyed by the interruption. Ich ’yama said softly, so as not to bother the koto player, “On Star Festival, Tomoe, many lovers meet for the first time!”

  Tomoe’s eyes narrowed. She did not reply. She and Ich ’yama strolled on. The ronin still yammered,

  “Some of this poetry is nice!” He dawdled again, looking at a strip of paper in a tree and quoting, “‘Star Maiden weeps but is not unhappy. Parted by the River, still Herdsman is faithful.’” He shrugged and commented on the piece, “Well, the poet’s hand is young.”

  Tomoe’s growing irritation became harder to contain. She said, “You have the mind of a young girl! Tend to the Way, ronin, and perhaps your lot will be better in the future.”

  Ich ’yama winced. “Everytime you speak, it stings!” he complained. “What is wrong with the mind of a young girl? Have you never had a mind like that? Do you believe in the kind of love called ‘Tana-bata Enlightenment’? It means ‘love at first sight.’”

  “I know what it means.”

  “I’m glad!” said Ich ’yama. “You look down on me because I’m without a master. What if my fortune were better? Would you still sneer?”

  “Mine is the Way of the Warrior, ronin! If you cannot attend to business today, then I will search Isso alone!”

  Ich ’yama was distracted and did not hear Tomoe’s criticism. “Look!” he said. “A puppet show!” There were puppeteers “hiding” under black veils, holding puppets in front of themselves and performing a whimsical play in the middle of the street. Children and adults had gathered around. It was the story of the conquering Empress Jingo who, in the play, had recently returned from the Mainland a widow. Thirty-seven princes came to her in turn, asking for her favor, and each time she said: