The Heike Story (64 page)

"Are you by any chance Konno-maru?" she said.

Konno-maru gave an exclamation of surprise, and stood motionless. Tokiwa, however, showed no surprise or fear. Her next words were in a whisper.

"Konno-maru, I was sure it was you—Lord Yoshitomo's favorite retainer. Come this way—come in—we mustn't let the sentries hear us," she said, motioning to Konno-maru.

As she vanished behind a silken hanging, Konno-maru slipped in after her and crouched in a corner of the room.

Tokiwa went back and softly closed the door. The wick in the lamp burned brightly; on a writing-table were spread the sutras she had been copying.

Tokiwa had heard about Konno-maru from Yomogi and of his designs on her life, but the revelation did not disturb her; she had only quietly expressed surprise at his having been so near for several days. When Yomogi showed her the message Konno-maru had left tied to a tree in the garden, Tokiwa seemed moved and had said: "He was a good and loyal retainer and can hardly be blamed for feeling toward me as he does."

For some time the two sat and watched each other. The light in the lampstand flickered, rose and sank uneasily. Konno-maru could discover nothing repellent in the still figure before him. Tokiwa, her dark hair flowing down among the silken folds of her garments, sat in absolute repose. Her head drooped slightly as though she was meditating. Konno-maru felt his limbs grow leaden and powerless, though his thoughts raced on. What kept him from approaching her, stabbing her? With every silent moment that dragged by, his heart began to weaken with overwhelming pity. Nowhere could he see the features of the evil, faithless woman he had expected to find. The smell of incense assailed his nostrils and his eyes turned to the oratory, before which an incense-burner sent up a white thread. Once more he gazed at Tokiwa and winced at the frailness of the thin shoulders under her robes.

". . . Konno-maru, do you remember how long ago you used to come to me with messages from Lord Yoshitomo?"

The quiet voice seemed to bring Konno-maru to his senses, and his eyes hardened as he leaned toward her. "So you haven't forgotten entirely?"

"How could I ever forget?" she replied softly.

"Ah, you faithless woman, how can you say that so shamelessly! You are evil indeed!"

"You are right, Konno-maru. I have wanted someone to tell me that—to accuse me, despise me, shame me."

"Do you mean this?"

"It is the truth, Konno-maru. You can see that for yourself; I'm not trying to escape from you."

"Yes, that is so. But that must be a passing regret."

"I regret nothing I have done. I did only what I chose to do."

"What! you mean that you also choose certain death?"

Konno-maru's hand feverishly felt for his sword; a slight lifting of his hand and he could bury the sharp point in any part of her body that he chose.

Then Tokiwa said musingly: "There is no other choice for a woman. . . . No, at least not for me. I am ashamed—ashamed to have been discovered like this by one who was Lord Yoshitomo's retainer."

As she spoke, she seemed about to faint, but made no sound.

"If it would set your mind at rest to take your revenge by killing me, then strike. I am ready. ... I shall not try to escape, nor cry out in fear," Tokiwa said quietly, holding out some letters that she seemed to have had in readiness. "I have one last request to make. These are letters to each of my children, my last message to my sons. . . . And this—this is my Lord Yoshitomo's. See that this reaches some Genji who can be trusted. That is all I ask of you."

Then she turned away from Konno-maru and clasped her hands before the small Kannon image in the oratory.

Konno-maru was bewildered. He remembered the silver image as one that stood in his master's room, where Yoshitomo prayed to it every morning and night. In his confusion Konno-maru groped for the letter that bore Yoshitomo's familiar writing.

It was his master's last message to Tokiwa. He read it through slowly with tear-blinded eyes and then laid it down. "Forgive me, my lady. How could I have been such a fool? It was true what that monk Mongaku said—that I was mad to have thoughts of revenge, and that you, a helpless woman, are far more courageous than I."

A silence intervened as Konno-maru made an effort to master himself. Then he went on: "Had I killed you, my life would have been darkened even more than Mongaku's. I now realize my folly. I shall start anew, live on with courage. ... I promise that my lord's letter will reach the Genji in the east, and these letters to your children will be delivered to each one in time by my own hand."

Konno-maru would have thrown himself at Tokiwa's feet, but she rose quickly, opened the door, peered out, and then quickly closed it. "I can see the soldiers' watch-fires. Hadn't you better wait here until dawn?"

But Konno-maru was ready to go. Drawing out a dark scarf, he muffled his face with it, wrapping the long ends round his shoulders.

"There is no need for you to be anxious about me, my lady; they will not be able to see me now."

And with this he stepped to the door, let it swing wide open, and vanished into the dark garden. A few moments later Tokiwa thought she saw a shadow motion to her from the top of a wall as though in farewell, and lifted her lamp in reply.

MYRIADS OF CANDLES

The long rains had ended and the droning cicadas, the clouds, and the hot sky announced that it was high summer.

"Let me see—have we been flooded again? . . . Not much damage, I hope," the Nose bellowed. It was his habit to raise his voice at any servant who caught his eye on entering the gates of Mibu villa.

Yomogi and several maidservants were washing clothes in the stream running through the grounds. Near by, several paper umbrellas and sunshades had been set out in the sun to dry.

"What a beautiful umbrella this one is, Yomogi! It couldn't possibly be yours?"

"No, it's not mine, but my lady's."

"Your mistress's, eh? And what use would she have for an umbrella like this? She never steps out of the house."

"I bought it only this morning at the West Market. But would you believe it, I found it quite moldy when I opened it, so I've put it out here with the rest."

"Hmm—you got it at the West Market? Does your mistress plan to go out somewhere?"

"I intend to go to the temple with her; the hundredth day of prayer comes the day after tomorrow."

"And where are you accompanying her, may I ask?"

"Where? But, surely, you know—the Kannon Chapel in Kiyomizu Temple."

The Nose passed into the house and spent some time talking with Tokiwa.

There had been no sign or trace of Konno-maru since the day guards had been set up around the house, and the Nose put it down to the soldiers' vigilance. He was, in fact, beginning to forget the whole affair, but was still troubled over Kiyomori's failure to appear. It looked very much as though his little scheme for worming his way into Kiyomori's favor had come to nothing. True enough, Kiyomori had little time to philander, but, with patience, it was not unlikely that he would finally turn up. The Nose was willing to wait, and from time to time visited the villa to make sure that all was running smoothly.

With Konno-maru now a matter of the past, the Nose found himself faced with another problem. Should he or should he not let Kiyomori know that Tokiwa often left the villa? The Nose would of course be held to blame if any mishap overtook her.

"Naturally, I don't want to discourage you from going to the temple, and I'm only too happy to know that you feel so inclined. Still, it may be wise to inquire how Lord Kiyomori feels about this. I shall go there myself today or tomorrow." the Nose said to Tokiwa before departing.

On the following day Tokiwa received a message to the effect that she was permitted to go out, and, accompanied by Yomogi, set out for Kiyomizu Temple. On this last day of Tokiwa's one hundred days of prayer to the Kannon, Tokiwa was astonished to find close to a score of priests at the chapel reciting the sutras in her behalf. Myriads of candles lighted up the chapel's interior, and the air was heavy with incense as she prayed:

"Watch over my three fatherless children, O Holy One. Their mother is all but lost to them. This Tokiwa is only the empty husk, and her spirit wanders through hell. Whatever sorrows and trials come to their mother, spare her children, all-merciful and loving one. Let these pitiful ones not suffer for the sins of the Genji."

And as she recalled that winter night when she prayed in this same chapel with her children beside her, Tokiwa wept.

"My lady, the Mass is at an end, will you not come this way and rest?" a priest whispered.

Tokiwa suddenly came to herself. "Thank you, your reverence," and then exclaimed: "But are you not Kogan?"

"Yes, Kogan—your good health, my lady."

"How can I ever forget your kindness to me that time?" Tokiwa began, raising her clasped hands to him. "I shall never forget how good you were to me who am no longer worthy to speak to you."

"My lady, you must not say that. There's no need for you to feel shame. To me, you are as pure as the Kannon herself."

Another priest appeared. "This way, my lady, this way, please."

Tokiwa declined the invitation. "I thank you, but I have a long way to go and had better leave now."

But the priest detained her. "But, my lady, you have come a great distance and at such an early hour, and he has been waiting for you for some time."

". . . Who—who has been waiting?"

"The gentleman who ordered the Mass."

Tokiwa was mystified. Who could it be? There was no worshipper at this chapel other than she. But the priest must not be kept waiting much longer—so with Kogan to guide her, Tokiwa made her way along the balustraded galleries, until finally conducted to a room. As she entered it, she suddenly drew back, shaken, then slowly sank to her feet.

"Tokiwa—you did not expect to see me, did you?"

The brilliant sunshine sifting through the maple leaves outside illumined Kiyomori's face, investing it with a radiant look.

"I have often thought of you, Tokiwa, but many things prevented my coming—and now summer is here. . . . How swiftly the seasons pass! Has all been well with you, Tokiwa?"

"Yes . . ." Tokiwa replied, and a confusion of emotions welled up in her until she was choked with tears.

As Kiyomori gazed at her, he also struggled with a rush of conflicting feelings—the memory of a spring night and its poignancy filled him. For an instant an awkward, almost boyish shyness overcame him. Mastering himself, he spoke to her once more.

"You could not of course have guessed that it was I who had the Mass said today. Uncalled-for meddling, you may rightly feel. But, Tokiwa, I too have need of prayers. Yes, Kiyomori, this poor blundering fool—this mere fatuous man! Can you, a woman, possibly understand?"

"I think I do—a little."

"Even that little is enough, Tokiwa, and for that I am grateful. I am making an even greater fool of myself now, but I find it difficult to confess to you why. Let Bamboku himself tell you later on."

Kiyomori spoke cheerfully, but as he ended, he abruptly turned his face away, and the light from the dancing leaves was reflected in his tears.

Following this brief meeting, Tokiwa did not see Kiyomori again that summer, nor the next; they were never to meet, for not long after, Kiyomori had the Nose arrange a marriage between Tokiwa and an elderly Fujiwara courtier.

By autumn the gossips had completely forgotten all the talk about Tokiwa.

THE WANDERING POET

Saigyo, the monk poet, had not been back to the capital for several years, but where he went he heard much talk of what went on there. He had in the meantime been staying in a hermitage at Yoshino and made several pilgrimages to Kumano and Ominй. Early in the spring of 1160, he set out along the Tokaido highway on a pilgrimage that took him to the northeast, and while he was there the local chieftain, Hidehira, invited Saigyo to stay with him.

Hidehira, who supplied the nobility and warriors in Kyoto with the famous thoroughbreds of the northeast, had heard much of the monk poet whenever he went to Kyoto on business or appeared there to give the central government an account of his stewardship.