The Heike Story (2 page)

Kiyomori wondered what she would have done if there had been no children. But this he knew: she regretted above all things her marriage to his father; were it possible she would even now leave him, make up the lost years by returning to that life of extravagant splendor; like her patrician kinswomen drive about in an ox-carriage, bathed in moonlight and garlanded with blossoms; dally with this captain or that courtier; exchange love lyrics with gallants, leading the life of those ladies told in the Tales of Genji. She could not die without fulfilling her destiny as a woman.

Over and over again the "oiled paper" thus took flame. And her young sons, hardly believing she could be their mother, watched her daily with mournful eyes.

Kiyomori, now nearly twenty, was indignant; if her sons were such a hindrance to her, why did she not leave them? As for his father, how could he endure all this in silence? Was Kiyomori to shout back at this woman in his stead? The bitch! Who, indeed, were the Fujiwara, those Fujiwara of whom she bragged without regard for his father's feelings? A fool—his father, who only dared to shout at his sons! The coward! See how people jeered at the Squint-Eyed One who married a beauty only to find her a shrew!

People seemed to think that children always sided with their mother, but in this house it was otherwise. The youngest, not yet weaned, and his third brother were still too young to take sides, but Tsunemori, old enough now to understand what went on, sometimes stared with hate in his eyes at their mother when she raved. At such times the brothers were ashamed of their father. He—a man—who seemed to live only to be abused by his wife, sat quietly listening to her tirades, his scarred eyelids drawn down over his crossed eyes, staring mutely at the clenched fists in his lap.

Kiyomori had to admit that his father was ugly—that pockmarked face, those eyes which had got him a nickname, this man in his forties and the prime of his years. . . . On the other hand, there was his beautiful mother, looking as though she were still in her twenties. Little wonder that those who saw her refused to believe she was the mother of four sons. Though she was reduced to penury, her toilette remained irreproachable. She showed no sign that she knew or cared when the retainers, unable to endure the sight of their misery, stole out to barter furtively for food, or tore the bamboo from the rotting hedges and planks from the floor for the kitchen fires, or the wailing children made water in their grimy clothes. She would repair in the morning to her boudoir, where not even her husband was allowed to set foot, lay out her gold-lacquered comb-cases and mirrors, and in the evening retire to her bath to polish her skin. She often startled the household by appearing in her richest finery, announcing that she was off to pay her respects to her relatives, the Nakamikado, and with the languid airs of a court lady would stroll to the nearest stable to hire a carriage and drive away on her calls.

"Fox-woman . . . bewitching fox-woman!" the retainers sneered when she was out of hearing. Even graying Mokunosukй, who had come as a boy to serve in the household, would stand with an inconsolable child weeping on his back and gaze with smoldering eyes after the departing mother. Later he could be heard walking the path round the stable in the dark, singing lullabies to his young charge. Tadamori, at such times, would usually be seen leaning against a post in the shadows, his eyes closed, silent, lost in thought.

Tsunemori had a scholarly bent; indifferent to what went on about him, he spent his days at his books. He and Kiyomori had enrolled at the Imperial Academy of Chinese Classics at an early age, though the latter after a time ceased to go. In spite of his father's urgings, Kiyomori felt there was nothing to be gained from reading Confucius, whose teachings seemed unrelated to the world that he saw around him or the life in his own home. Kiyomori usually idled about as his father did. Often, lying sprawled by his brother's desk, Kiyomori would chat about the horse-races at Kamo or gossip of the women in the neighborhood; or when his brother Tsunemori was disinclined to listen, would continue to lie there, staring vacantly at the ceiling, picking his nose. At other times he would rush to the-archery range at the rear of the house to twang a bow, or abruptly dash off to the stable and later come home savagely whipping his mount, drenched with sweat. Seemingly, he acted only on impulses.

Kiyomori often reflected that his mother was queer; his father no less so; only Tsunemori seemed to be like other people. Even he, Kiyomori, the eldest and heir, also was odd. All in all, they were a strange lot, an ill-assorted family. Yet the Heike of Isй were one of the few warrior families coming of a distinguished line. In the capital, where it was known that the Heike traditions had come down through several generations, people prophesied that the family tree would send forth more and yet more branches and bring renown to that name. Kiyomori, however, was indifferent to such talk, aware only that he was young and carefree and full of a sense of well-being.

He knew the nature of the errand on which he was going, for he had read the letter entrusted to him. Kiyomori was on, his way to borrow money of a relative, his uncle. This had happened often enough, and he was to see his father's only brother, Tadamasa, a member of the Imperial Guards, to whom Tadamori constantly turned with pleas for help.

At New Year's Kiyomori's mother had taken to bed with a cold; in her usual way she drove her husband to his wits' end by her vanity and reckless extravagance, demanding that the court physician attend her, calling for costly drugs, complaining that the bedclothes were heavy, and scolding that the food was not fit for an invalid.

The poverty that Tadamori was able to put out of mind blew on them overnight like an icy wind. Although his victory over the pirates two years ago had been rewarded with imperial gifts of gold and other favors, which relieved him of his money difficulties, this unforeseen good fortune had only led his wife to indulge in lavish spending. Tadamori believed there was enough to provide for his family for another year, until her illness exhausted what remained in less than three weeks and they were reduced to sipping thin rice gruel for their morning and evening meals.

Painfully composing another of his begging letters to his brother, Tadamori turned to his son. "Heita, forgive me for sending you again to your uncle. . . ." This was the errand on which he was to go. Kiyomori raged with a sense of injury—to be told not to loiter and moon again on the Shiokoji! Even a child deserved to have some diversions. Was he not twenty this spring? Yet he, a mere youth, was sent to borrow money. Kiyomori was filled with self-pity, reflecting as he walked that there could be nothing wrong in coveting a few pleasures.

"Again, Heita," Kiyomori's uncle exclaimed as he laid down the letter with disgust. When he gave his nephew the money the letter requested, Kiyomori's aunt appeared, and she stormed: "Why do you people not go and beg of your mother's kinsmen? Are they not all nobles of the Fujiwara clan?—the most honorable Nakamikado—that dazzling galaxy of aristocrats! Doesn't your mother boast of them? Go, tell this to your father, too!"

Then began a tirade in which uncle and aunt proceeded to abuse Kiyomori's parents. What could be more humiliating than this—to have others so critical of his father and mother? Large tears rolled down his cheeks.

Kiyomori knew, none the less, that his uncle's life was no easy one. Although a system of Imperial Guards had been created, and more and more warriors were employed at the Court and the Cloister Palace, the Fujiwara aristocrats regarded the warriors as no better than slaves. They were valued only for their ferocity, likened to that of the hounds of Kishu and Tosa, and not permitted to rank with the courtiers who surrounded the imperial dais; their fiefs in the provinces were mainly barren mountain tracts or waste moors. The warriors were despised, condemned as though they were plebeians; without the honor due their calling, they subsisted precariously on the meager proceeds of their manors, and their poverty had passed into proverb.

The bitter winds in February were sometimes called the First East Winds, but the longing for spring somehow made them seem more piercing. Perhaps it was the gnawings of hunger that made Kiyomori shiver. Neither his uncle nor his aunt had asked him to stay and dine with them. It was better so, Kiyomori reflected; his one thought had been to escape from that house. Never, never again would he come on another such errand. Not even if he were reduced to beggary. How maddening to have wept, while they probably thought that his tears fell at the sight of the money. How galling! His eyelids were still swollen, and Kiyomori felt passers-by turn to stare at his tear-stained face.

This, however, was not why strangers turned to peer at him, but rather young Kiyomori's appearance—his wrinkled robe and grimy under-tunic. The ox-tenders and under-servants were more warmly clothed than he. Not even the waifs playing under the Rashomon Gate wore such rags. Had he not carried his long sword, for what would they take him—his mud-splattered sandals and leather socks; the faded, peaked cap from which the lacquer had chipped, tipped rakishly to one side; this stocky figure with its hard muscles; a head slightly too large for the body; eyes, ears, and nose of generous proportions; the eyebrows—like two caterpillars—beneath which the narrow eyes slanted down at the outer corners, lending charm to a face that might otherwise look ferocious or even cruel; this odd-faced little fellow with fair skin and large, ruddy ears, which made the youthful features strangely attractive?

People in passing wondered who this young warrior could be, where he served as a Guard—remarked how he strode along with his arms folded. Kiyomori knew that this pose which he assumed only in the streets—never before his father—was frowned on by Tadamori, who thought it extremely unseemly for one of high birth. But this manner had become a habit with him on the streets —something Kiyomori had learned from the men who crowded the Shiokoji. He could not possibly go there today; money he had—that galling, borrowed cash! He trembled for himself. The magnetism of the Shiokoji tugged at all his senses. Weak of will, he felt he could never resist going there.

Arrived at the crossroads, he gave in. The warm wind blowing his way from the Shiokoji brought odors that tantalized him and mocked at his hesitation. There they were, the same ones, at it as usual—the old woman selling roasted pheasant legs and small sizzling birds on spits; next to her stall, a man with a large jug of wine, drunkenly singing and laughing uproariously as he served his customers; there, on the shady side of the market-place, the young orange-seller sitting forlornly with a basket of fruit in her lap; and there the peddler of clogs, the shoe-menders, father and son. There they were—more than a hundred small stalls, side by side, displaying dried fish, old clothes, and gaudy knickknacks with which these people sustained a bare living.

To Kiyomori each stall, each soul here seemed borne under by the crushing weight of the world; everyone here was a pitiful weed, trodden underfoot—a conglomeration of human lives putting down roots in this slime, living and letting live in the struggle to survive; and he was stirred by the fearful and magnificent courage communicated by the scene. The steam from boiling food and the smoke from roasting meats seemed to veil the secrets of that swarming crowd in mystery—the groups of street gamblers, the enticing smiles of the wantons who threaded their way through the throng, the loud wailing of infants, the drumbeats of the ballad-singers—all that medley of odors and sounds made his head reel. This was the paradise of the lowly, matching the cultivated pleasures of the aristocrats, the gay capital of the common folk. And this was the reason for Tadamori's stern warnings not to disgrace him by coming here.

But Kiyomori liked it here. He felt at home among these people. Even the Thieves' Market, whose stalls sometimes appeared under the giant nettle tree at the west comer of the market, kept him enthralled. Call them robbers and cutthroats—were they not amiable enough when they had sufficient to fill their bellies? Something was out of joint in a world that drove these men to steal. There were no scoundrels here—rather, they were to be found among the august clouds of Mount Hiei, at Onjoji Temple, and even in Nara, where they made the halls and towers of the Buddhist temples their fortresses—those many evil Buddhas in their robes of brocade and gold.

Nursing such thoughts, Kiyomori found himself in the midst of the jostling crowds; peering here, pausing there, he strolled about, heedless of the night coming on. Not a soul was to be seen under the nettle tree, but in the gathering twilight he made out the glow of tapers, bouquets of flowers and the quivering ascent of incense smoke. Soon dancing-girls and women of a lower order began to appear in groups, one after another, approaching the tree to worship.

The old story ran that long ago the mistress of a notorious brigand had lived on the spot where the nettle tree now grew. In time the superstitious came to believe that prayers offered here would cause a maiden's lover to dream of her, or bring a loathsome malady upon a hated rival. The brigand's death in prison on the 7th of February 988 caused a great stir, and from that time on, the ruffians of the market-place and women of various callings perpetuated his memory with offerings of incense and flowers on the seventh day of each month.

More than a hundred years had passed since this lawless character, the son of a courtier of the Fourth Rank, had gone about wildly burning, pillaging, and murdering, yet he was not forgotten by the common people, for his name seemed branded on their memories. His evil deeds had been the sensation of a period marking the peak of Fujiwara power and magnificence. To the common people the brigand's defiance of the established order was an expression of their secret antagonism, and instead of censuring his deeds they honored them. It was as though neither incense nor flowers would cease to be offered here while a single Fujiwara breathed; and others than the superstitious came to pray here.