Pathway to Japanese Literature

Snow a thousand fathoms deep

I "My Lord!" “My Lord—oh!” “—Hey!” Huddled together in the white darkness of a raging blizzard, the seven mounted retainers suddenly halted. Shouting these words in unison, they began scouring the snowstorm with bloodshot eyes for any trace of His Lordship. “He’s not visible.” “His Lordship isn’t here!”

“Until dusk fell at Shinohara Embankment, His Lordship was surely among us.” Eyes clouded with despair—bereft of any means to search—could only stare vainly into the blizzard’s white fury that swept through every direction. “...Might he have been taken by the enemy?” All stood gripped by shared dread. For one frozen moment they let snow gather on brows and lashes, on helmet cords and saddle horns, their horses huddled muzzle-to-muzzle in voiceless stillness.

It was December of Heiji 1. By yesterday, the 27th, starting from morning, news of the great turmoil that had apparently erupted in Kyoto had already spread even to this province of Ōmi. From beyond Mount Shimei and Ōsaka Pass, black smoke could be seen rising throughout the day, leading those at the post stations and inns along the lakeshore to spread word that this battle must have been greater than even the Hōgen Rebellion four years prior—when suddenly, (—By edict of the Lord of Rokuhara. If you spot Minamoto sympathizers, capture and hand them over. If you spot any of Yoshitomo’s clan members, do not let them pass.)

And so, as Taira warriors and post station magistrates came issuing decrees, the people—now realizing the war’s outcome—acted as if by unspoken agreement to avoid entanglement with fugitives or pursuers and spare themselves misery. By evening on the 28th, not a single household in any post station or outlying village left doors unbarred; none let even a glimmer of their hearth fires escape outside. “...It can’t be helped.”

And then.

Sama no Kami Yoshitomo let out a voice of resignation, dispiritedly. He was the father of His Lordship.

He was around thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old. Even among them, one could recognize at a glance his distinguished features and the frame that would not saddle-sore even the famed steed named Kurotōkabake. As the leader of the Minamoto clan across the provinces, until his final defeat at the Battle of Rokujōgawara, he had still been protected by over a thousand soldiers and his clan’s hereditary retainers—(Were it not for this lord)—he was a man relied upon and looked up to, one without whom [they could not exist]. When fleeing the capital, they had still been accompanied by thirty or forty men. But to avoid drawing attention, some were dismissed to part ways, others were killed... while those with grave injuries fell behind—by the time they crossed Seta, the father and sons with their master-retainer band had dwindled to a mere eight horsemen.

Looking around now at Yoshitomo’s surroundings, there remained his flesh and blood—the nineteen-year-old eldest son, Akugenta Yoshihira, and the sixteen-year-old second son, Tomonaga. Among his retainers were Kōōmaru, Saitō Bettō Masakiyo, and Hiraga Yoshinobu, but Yoshitomo’s third son—the thirteen-year-old Assistant Captain of the Right Gate Guards, Yoritomo—who should have been among them had now vanished without a trace.

Had he been captured alive? Had he been buried in the snow and vanished? The retainers believed their young lord to be resolute, but after all, he was only thirteen—his frame still small for his age. Moreover, for Yoshitomo—to whom this third son had been more beloved than his eldest Yoshihira or second-born Tomonaga—the retainers wandered endlessly, feeling they could not advance until finding him, even if they themselves were to be buried beneath snow a thousand fathoms deep. Then Yoshitomo,

“Enough,” Yoshitomo declared. “We press onward. He is my child—if meant to live, he’ll survive alone. If meant to die, let him perish. There’s no alternative.” With this brusque dismissal, he firmly grasped Kurotōka’s reins and strode toward Mount Ibuki’s foothills.

II

Abandon him and move on.

Yoshitomo’s single utterance struck everyone with unexpected emotion. Yet this was the father who had always been called “a lord too indulgent with his children.” Particularly regarding His Lordship, Yoshitomo had doted on him to the point where he could have placed him in his eye without feeling pain—so much so that even during this battle, he had not bestowed upon his eldest son Yoshihira nor his second son Tomonaga the two treasured items: the Minamoto clan’s heirloom “Gentaga Ubuyui” armor and the “Higekiri” sword,

(Since it was his first battle—) —such was the depth of his affection that he had bestowed them upon his third son, His Lordship, who was merely thirteen years old.

Given that this concerned His Lordship, surely Yoshitomo would take the lead— (Let us turn back) (or, (Split up and search) ...or issue some frenzied command—contrary to expectations, colder than the howling snow— Abandon him and move on! and he himself was already urging his steed onward. The retainers, upon seeing his figure, found their eyes growing even hotter still. His Lordship—Minamoto no Yoshitomo’s heart was not difficult to fathom. He was a defeated general who had fled here after causing the deaths of many clan members and allied soldiers at Rokujōgawara. That it was his own child’s life gave him no reason to make any special commotion over it.

Moreover, what now filled His Lordship’s heart was neither concern for Assistant Captain of the Right Gate Guards Yoritomo alone nor for his other children, but rather the Minamoto clan’s current decline— (How to turn the tide) was his scheming of how to turn the tide. It was a great sense of responsibility and the mounting frustration of thinking he could not leave things as they were. First, they needed to reach the Aobano-shuku Post Station along the highway route in Nishi Mino. The daughter of Oi, the village headman at the post station, was a woman named Enju—of marriageable age whom he had taken a liking to—and with whom he had even borne a daughter called Yasha. If they went and inquired, her parents would not treat them coldly.

And then—after that. Yoshihira, the eldest son, would rally the Minamoto forces along Tōsandō and advance to attack. Tomonaga, the second son, would descend along Shinano Road and gather the Kai Genji. I would rally clansmen across the Kanto region and advance westward once more along the Tokaido. We would strike the capital in one fell swoop from all three routes. Those Taira—Kiyomori and Shigemori—father and son—must be made to tread this same path of thousand-fathom snow and wretched defeat we walked today. Only then would my heart find peace. There could be no honor in living as military leaders. We would become demon gods.

His Lordship’s heart was utterly consumed by those very matters. Thus, his countenance was nothing like its usual self. To fathom his heart was too painful and pitiable. …… The retainers, precisely because they understood this, found themselves at a loss for words of comfort and continued on in silence—heads bowed against their helmets’ front crests as they followed through swirling whirlwinds of powdered snow that veiled Kurotōka’s tail and the horses’ hooves—when one of their number, Saitō Bettō Masakiyo,

"My Lord... My Lord!" He called out to the silent figure ahead and spoke: "Your Lordship’s heart may be resolute, but as for Masakiyo, I cannot abandon him. Please continue ahead—I alone will ride back to confirm His Lordship’s fate and rejoin you."

Upon hearing this, Yoshitomo— “I see… Hmm.” “Hmm.”

Amid the blizzard, he turned his horse’s head back and nodded deeply with apparent satisfaction.

Beneath skin armored in iron and ice, the parent’s blood still boiled hot. Realizing this—retainer Kounmaru too—following after Kamata Masakiyo— “My Lord. “This unworthy one also humbly requests leave here.” For some reason, he suddenly shouted.

III Yoshitomo seemed to ponder for a moment, but Kōōmaru persisted, "I beg of you. Let me return once more to the capital to confirm the safety of those noble ones, then I shall hasten back to rejoin your lordship in the Eastern Provinces—"

At Kōōmaru’s voice—eyes blazing with something like burning intensity, pleading with heartfelt emotion—Yoshitomo too,

“Very well, go.”

And so he finally relented, galloping far into the swirling snow with the mere four or five horsemen who remained.

After seeing him off.

Saitō Bettō Masakiyo and Kōōmaru immediately turned their path westward and, as they went, “My Lord!” “Is My Lord not present?”

Even though they saw no sign of him—wondering if he might be buried beneath the snow or had tumbled into a rice field—they called to the snow, called to the wind, called to the open fields, and searched some two or three ri.

“Sir Bettō.” “Yeah.” “What?” “Regrettably, I entrust the search for His Lordship to you. This is Oiwake at Morinoyado Post Station—this humble one shall make haste toward the capital.” To his figure turning to depart,

"Kōōmaru. "KŌŌMARU."

“Here.”

“Wait.” “There’s something like a hut in that mountain’s lee.” “It might be hunters’ animal hut.” “Up to that—” Saitō Bettō Masakiyo said this and dashed ahead first. Peering into the animal hut revealed no human presence; in its earthen-floored area, embers of firewood smoldered within a dug-out hearth. Adding firewood from around them to the hearth, he sat down, “Kōōmaru. You say you’ll return to the capital—but setting aside cowards who grovel to the Taira for survival—the world has become one where not a single soul bearing the Minamoto name can walk beneath the sun’s light… Do you grasp that peril and still go?”

“Of course,” “Only a day or two since the rebellion’s end—the capital’s embers must still smolder.” “The triumphant Taira warriors will be at their most vigilant.” “Yet with utmost care, I mean to slip past their notice and infiltrate.” “And then?” “You speak of what follows?” “In that case… I have roughly perceived the aim of this mission you were charged with.” “No—this errand was never commanded by Lord Yoshitomo.” “Since your lordship breathed not a word of it, I deduced your unvoiced intent and—as this Kōōmaru—pleaded time and again along our flight until at last receiving leave to undertake it.”

“You’ve grasped it well. Even if our Minamoto clan perishes today, the blood flowing into tomorrow shall not perish. Those delicate noble figures and young ones tied to that lineage still remain in the capital, do they not?” The firewood in the earthen-floored hearth had caught flame.

Brilliantly, the two men’s armor and sword fittings emitted light. With that, the snow covering their bodies dripped steadily and fell. No—the two men’s tears outstripped even that.

“…………”

For Lord Yoshitomo, besides the valiant sons—young warriors who had accompanied him in this recent battle—there were three more infants still clinging to their mother’s knees residing in another mansion.

This mother was Tokiwa Gozen, formerly a maidservant at Kujō-in; not being a woman of deep seclusion, she had always lived modestly in society, rarely appearing even at clan celebrations, dwelling in obscurity like red winter camellia flowers glimpsed through sheltering leaves. Yet she had already borne Minamoto no Yoshitomo three sons: Imawaka, now seven years old; Otsuwaka, five; and Ushiwaka, still at the breast-clinging age—all boys.

Horses at rest

I

A prolonged stay would not permit their hearts to relax. If the fire of burning firewood became too intense, they would grow accustomed to the warmth, making the aftermath all the more bitter, and there was also the fear of drawing unwanted attention.

The two soon abandoned the animal hut and urged their horses onward. And when they came to the previous fork in the road,

“Well then, Kōōmaru.” “Sir Bettō.” Once more, exchanging boundless emotions,

“I pray for your journey’s safety. From Lady Tokiwa down to the young lords—their very futures I earnestly entrust to you.” “It shall be borne in mind.”

Kōōmaru answered steadfastly and then, “Even around here, you must not let down your guard. “Take care of yourself as well.” “May you swiftly meet Lord Yoritomo, pursue Lord Yoshitomo ahead, and safely make your escape along the Mino Road.”

“Ah.” “Then someday, let us meet again in the Eastern Provinces.”

“Hah.” “Farewell.” “Farewell.”

One headed west.

Meanwhile, Saitō Bettō Masakiyo—having turned east at the crossroads—gazed upon Lake Biwa to his left as he once more searched everywhere for any trace of Lord Yoritomo.

However, the figure of Assistant Captain of the Right Gate Guards Yoritomo could not be found even by morning.

＊　　　　　＊　　　　　＊

When or where he had become separated from the group—his father, brothers, and retainers—Yoritomo could not discern.

When he startled open eyelids that had frozen shut—blocked by snow—before he knew it, his father too was nowhere to be seen. Nor were his brothers or retainers anywhere to be seen.

"So I’ve fallen behind…"

Yoritomo suddenly whipped his horse. With his shock, the horse too startled and suddenly bolted wildly, kicking up a pure white whirlwind. However, when he urged it on even slightly, the horse soon grew weary. He grew weary. No loneliness, no desire, no fear. He just wanted to sleep. He was still a thirteen-year-old child warrior. He wore the Minamoto clan’s heirloom indigo-laced armor “Genta-ga-Ubuginu,” bore the sword Higekiri at his side, and sat astride a sturdy bay horse—all of which lent him a certain dignity. But by any measure, he was still thirteen years old.

_......Sleepy._ He thought without desire or gain.

The hands on the saddle and reins moved with a frozen, unconscious rhythm, but his mind had no path to follow. Just like the white world, the inside of Yoritomo’s mind was pure white—white, white, endlessly white—as he swayed, dreaming of whiteness without end.

To think. He must have repeated this state many times today. In that time, he must have strayed from his father Yoshitomo and the group of retainers. If they were separated by just ten or twenty ken, they could no longer see each other through the blizzard of swirling white. Moreover, on this path, if one fell even a step behind, there would be no trace of hoofprints left to tell whether they had turned west or east. _My Lord... Ugh._ _My Lord... Ugh._

He sensed someone calling out to him incessantly. Yoritomo's eyes snapped open. _Beautiful!_ Nothing but snow—snow he thought truly beautiful. Even when he ran, not a single human figure appeared. Even when he stopped, no trace of human scent lingered. A monochrome world of white. A realm devoid of human presence—he could only marvel at its beauty.

Yoritomo once again ended up dozing off on his horse.

Two

Formerly, perhaps a fallen remnant of some retainer’s household—at Moriyama-no-shuku post station there lived a fearsome ronin called Gennaihyōe Naohiro.

Earlier that day, warriors from Rokuhara had come as far as this area, gathered the post station’s chief and local officials, and departed after delivering their instructions—their words were: “When members of Sama-no-kami’s family or other Minamoto clan retainers appear seeking food for their hunger or medicine for arrow wounds, put on a friendly face—let them into your huts. Once inside, immediately report to the land steward. Alternatively, have magistrates and local samurai join forces to capture and expel them. In any case, do not show mercy. If you shelter them, you will be sentenced to punishment! Moreover, if you kill a fine fugitive warrior and bring his head as proof, that too shall become a significant advancement for you all. Whether you receive honorable rewards grand enough to become the foundation of generational prosperity or not—this is your moment!”

Thus it was declared. People may speak of awaiting spring or the year’s end, but Gennaihyōe had worn the same single-sleeved quilted robe since autumn. From the thatched hut inhabited by snot-nosed children, a child with a scaly scalp, infants wailing at dry breasts, and a shrieking wife—he rushed out upon learning of this proclamation.

“I can hear spring’s tread approaching!” With that declaration, he hacked down bamboo from the back thicket. He oiled the whittled tip until it glinted, prowled through daylight hours with boar-hunter’s eyes ablaze—yet spring’s footsteps remained nowhere to be seen. Night descended.

In the lull of the blizzard, occasionally, a sky-glow that might be mistaken for a blue moon reflected. Like a dog, [he] came shuffling through the outskirts of the post station in his snow boots, Crunch. Then came a noise from the townhouse stable, and behind the horse glinted two naginata blades.

“...Wha— Who’s there?” Both sides had frozen into crouching positions.

Eventually, after discerning each other, “Gennai, isn’t it?” Those who emerged from the horse fodder were also post-station ronins—comrades who, spurred by today’s edict, had cast aside their usual indolence, forgetting both cold and drowsiness.

“Any luck?”

“What?” “Didn’t you pick up any decent heads?”

“Not yet… Not yet.”

“Hmm. “…Nothing but damn geese flying around.” It was during their chatter. As they gazed absently at the flock of geese descending diagonally toward the lakeshore, a single mounted warrior passed by with utmost quiet directly behind the three men.

The post road had been cleared of snow. On both sides rose mountains of snow that seemed to reach the eaves. Through the snow, only the upper half of the mounted figure was glimpsed. “What the—?” “Halt!”

The naginata and bamboo spears clung to the snowbanks as they gave chase.—Yet the mounted warrior remained far too composed. He showed no sign of the anxious vigilance expected of a fugitive warrior.

“What’s up with that guy?” “Oh.” “He’s dozing off, damn him.”

Instead, the three men hesitated. However, his figure could not be ignored. He looked like a single star that had abruptly fallen to the earthly realm. They had no way of knowing it was the radiance of "Genta-ga-ubugi" or "Higekiri," but regardless, his attire was somehow different.

This was it. What they had called the crane portending calamitous advancement— The footsteps of spring too were but this insect’s foreboding of their meeting. “Don’t let him slip away—don’t waver!”—With exchanged glances, Gennai was first to vault over the snowdrift and charge into the thoroughfare. “Halt, young lord!”

“……”

Minamoto no Yoritomo, Assistant Captain of the Right Gate Guards, turned around with a start, as if struck by shock.

III

The man who hadn’t spotted him pointed a bamboo spear and said something. Additionally, two or so others holding naginata were glaring in his direction.

They were still at a distance after all. Hesitantly, they did not approach any closer. Yoritomo— "What?" He did not say anything. He did not even feel afraid. He had just seen spears and naginata bloodied to weariness on the battlefield. Even when those coarse underlings gripped them and planted their feet defiantly, they looked no more threatening than mantises. "Young lord! Are you deaf?" "……" "From where have you come? To where are you bound? Pointless questions. There’s no path forward nor escape route left." "We’ll give you gruel—dismount from your horse."

“……”

Yoritomo remained silent as he urged his horse forward. “Hey! You there! Stop!” Gennaihyōe felt certain he had cornered his prey. He lunged with a thrust. Yoritomo clung to the horse’s broad neck. The horse reared violently, legs kicking skyward as it staggered back. The bamboo spear shaft slid uselessly across snow. Though Gennaihyōe sensed his strike had landed, his target showed no reaction. In panic, he cast aside the spear and yanked the field sword from his waist. Chasing alongside the spinning mount’s flank,

“Grah!” Swinging [the sword] overhead on horseback, “Foolish wretch!” With that, Yoritomo opened his mouth for the first time and, as he drew the Higekiri sword, struck Gennaihyōe’s unhelmeted head in a trance-like state.

At the beast-like scream that erupted before his eyes and the gush of dark blood, even Yoritomo himself was startled. He felt as though his eyes had snapped wide awake.

“Dismount!” They were still shouting. That was a man holding a naginata in one hand, gripping the horse’s mouth and refusing to let go. Lifting himself in the saddle, “You lowborn!” As he leaned over the horse’s forehead and slashed downward, the man leapt back but lost everything from the elbow down, tumbling with a cry. The umbrella of blood spreading across the snow appeared terrifyingly vast. The remaining naginata wielder could no longer even approach. To that flinching visage, “You dare?!”

With that, Yoritomo rebuked them, and with the flat of his sword, he struck the horse's rump repeatedly.

Perhaps because it had seen blood, the horse too suddenly shook with ferocity and, as though a snow deity itself were taking flight, tore through the blizzard as it ran.

Suddenly, Yoritomo became afraid. What had become of Father? His brother? The clan?

Even his trusted horse—by the next day, he had to part with it. The horse had broken its leg in the snow. If he were to travel on foot, the armor would be heavy. Because they would also draw attention, he discarded his ancestral sword and armor along with the horse and walked unburdened. By the night of the 28th, he himself no longer had any recollection of where he was wandering. His head throbbed dully from sleep deprivation. Even when he touched his ears and cheeks, they didn’t feel like his own. He couldn’t even bring himself to think about his father or brothers. Strangely, only the scenes of the battlefield did not vanish from his mind. When he covered his eyes, the flames and black smoke from that day—which had burned from around Rokujō Riverbank all the way to the vicinity of the Imperial Palace—came into view. Throbbingly, the clashing of swords and the whizzing of arrows also came surging back from the depths of his ears. Time and again, headless torsos he had stumbled over and legless corpses came back to him with vivid clarity.

I'm not scared. It isn't something as shallow as fear. So this is war...

That was all Yoritomo could think. And haunted by such illusions and memories, his consciousness—on that night in the mountain village of Asai in Ōmi Province—fell into a deep sleep, wedged among firewood and pickling tubs beneath the doorless eaves of an unknown hut.

The World

I

When day broke, a man who appeared to be the master of the house came to the woodshed to fetch firewood for the hearth and wore an expression of profound shock. “Old woman.” “Come here quick. … Hurry up.” “Hurry up!”

His wife also emerged from the kitchen and, aligning her head with her husband's to peer into the spot, stared wide-eyed with bated breath. Yoritomo, lying among the firewood, slept on unaware of dawn. Through the icicles dangling from broken eaves, morning light fell upon his sleeping face.

Like a Buddhist statue carved in white jade, his sleeping face shone with nobility. His features were slightly oblong, with a rounded fullness in the lower face. A snore so carefree it seemed utterly without worry could even be heard. “Where could this child be from?…… Where did he come from to end up in a place like this?”

As the master muttered with a sigh-like tone, his wife brought her mouth close to his ear and spoke softly, as if wary even of cats and birds.

“He must be a fugitive’s child.” The master’s face abruptly showed realization. Silently nodding, as if walking on tiptoes, he stepped away from the spot and conferred with his wife. “What should we do?” “You should report him.” “Poor thing.” “Even if you say such things, how many times did the Taira samurai come by just yesterday?” “If they suspect we’ve hidden him and it comes to that, then we’ll really…”

“No, it’s too pitiful. “We have a child of that age ourselves.” This household was engaged in the trade of kneading medicinal ointments, so in the main house, their sons and male workers were making the sounds of mortars and ointment-kneading. “Make some rice balls—add some miso or the like—give them to that boy and send him on his way.” “Tell him which way the mountain path lies.” Appearing to be a man of Buddhist compassion, he strictly instructed his wife. The moment he was shaken awake, Yoritomo had to leave that place.

For the first time since birth, when someone bestowed food upon him, even he could not hold back his tears. And that too, he ate after retreating into the mountains.

Asai’s Northern District lay deep in the mountains. He walked naturally toward where the sun rose, ever toward it. In an area called Kodaira, he met a nun. “Where are you headed?” “To Aobano.” “Over the mountains?” The nun shook her head.

If one were to pass through Fuwa no Seki, that would be one thing, but crossing the mountains to Mino in this snow was unthinkable. "Well, do come to my hermitage." Judging him not to be a commoner’s child, the nun invited Yoritomo. However, she asked nothing. For over a month, Yoritomo lived in the attic of the nunnery.

Dark, cramped, and cold. After straw and mats were brought in, Yoritomo waited quietly until the day the nun said would come. During that time, day after day, what he heard so clearly that he could recite it by heart was the sound of the nun chanting the Lotus Sutra morning and evening. Though he naturally couldn’t comprehend the sutra’s meaning, listening from the attic somehow made Yoritomo feel strangely cheerful. Within the sutra’s words, terms like “Shakyamuni Buddha” were chanted countless times, so he felt that in this world—not only did the Taira clan exist—but there might also be someone called Shakyamuni Buddha. That being was one of fairness and impartiality, possessing a heart of boundless compassion; he believed this figure would side even with him if he himself maintained a virtuous heart.

“You should be able to cross the mountains now.” Told by the nun, Yoritomo emerged from the attic.

From under the snow, tree buds were sprouting. The early spring world appeared so dazzlingly beautiful to Yoritomo that it nearly blinded his heart. At thirteen years old, as though emerging from his mother’s womb for the first time, he walked eastward along the mountain path, gazing with wonder-filled eyes at the birds’ songs and passing clouds.

Two

On the Hosodani River road, there was a cormorant fisherman heading out toward the village.

The cormorant fisherman had been suspiciously trailing Yoritomo from behind for some time but finally addressed him. “Wako.” “Where are you going?”

“To Aobano.” Yoritomo could only answer that way; he did not know. “Do you have any acquaintances in Aobano?” “Hmm.”

“What’s their name?” “You’ll find out when you get there.” “I see.”

The cormorant fisherman fell silent. After that, he asked nothing more. However, he never ceased to keep his gaze fixed on Yoritomo’s demeanor.

Do not let your guard down around people. Observe people’s true nature rather than their outward appearance. And through these several ri walked in silence, Yoritomo naturally learned to remain vigilant. “Young lord,” he said, “I’ll escort you. Who are you? You must be a child of the Minamoto clan.”

The cormorant fisherman suddenly spoke up and exchanged the sword Yoritomo was wearing with the yam bundle he was carrying. “I’ll carry this along for you.” “You look like a woman.” “If someone questions you, answer that you’re a woman.” “Comport yourself like a woman.” “Is that clear?”

Whether he was a villain or a good man, Yoritomo couldn’t tell. He blankly entrusted his fate to the cormorant fisherman.

However, he did not fear that. After settling into the nunnery and regaining his senses, the memories of war grew distant. Having crossed over great waves into a world where faces suddenly emerged from their depths, his spirit even felt a sense of fascination. If I go to Aobano, Father Yoshitomo will be there. My brothers are there. The retainers too.

As the road descended from the northern side over the mountain to the south-facing slope, the boy’s heart too took on a brightness matching that southern exposure. Even his former life as a young noble in the capital—those memories occasionally resurfacing from days past—and his father’s grand mansion held no lingering attachment in his thoughts. This outcome felt natural and inevitable; neither hunger nor hardship proved enough to draw his heart into sentimentality.

Several days passed, and he arrived at Aobano. When he first revealed they were going to the house of village headman Ōi, the cormorant fisherman was greatly astonished, “Ah, so that’s why Your Lordship is…”

After scrutinizing Yoritomo’s face intently and returning the sword in the bundle to his hand, he left without giving his name. Until then, Yoritomo, who had been suspiciously wary of the cormorant fisherman’s intentions, wore a deeply apologetic look,

“Oh… The Buddha was there.” He muttered.

When he eventually visited Ōi’s gate, he found it closed, with what appeared to be a mourning notice affixed. Pushing into the back earthen wall entrance, he addressed a servant, “I am Yoshitomo’s son, the Assistant Captain of the Right Gate Guards. Is my father present?”

When he asked this, soon from deep within the house, “Ah!” There was a woman who stumbled out without a word, took his hand, washed his feet, and all but carried him into the house.

It was Ōi’s daughter Enju. “You poor dear.” As she wept bitterly, Yoritomo did not fully comprehend who this woman was in relation to his father, and in truth, he felt little sorrow—so he shed no tears. However, afterward, “Your father left here and fled toward Owari Province, but on the third day of the New Year, he was betrayed by Nagata Tadamune and slain without resistance. Not only that—his august head was sent to the capital, fell into the hands of the Taira clan, and was impaled upon an ailanthus tree before the gates of Higashigokumon Prison.”

When he was told this, he shattered his previous impassivity and let out a heartrending wail. No matter who tried to console him, he would not stop crying.

III

Because Yoritomo would not stop crying, Ōi, Enju’s father, deliberately strengthened his voice and—

“If you wallow in grief over such trifles,” he rebuked sternly, “how will you deign to go on living? You who bear Lord Yoshitomo’s blood—Assistant Master of the Left Horse Bureau’s own son!”

And, "There are still more grievances," he continued.

The one who met a tragic end was not only Lord Yoshitomo. He went on to explain that Lord Yoshihira the Fearsome, the eldest son, and Lord Tomonaga, the second son, were no longer of this world— Lord Yoshitomo had dispatched Yoshihira to Kiso Road and his second son Tomonaga toward Shinano Province as previously arranged when he arrived here and was about to depart again for Owari—but Tomonaga, who had long been suffering from a wound he could no longer endure, returned midway to his father’s side and said through tears:

“(I can’t endure this any longer. “Rather than suffer the shame of being executed by some nameless Taira foot soldier, please kill me with your own hands, Father. “I endured the pain and returned in hope of that.”

When Lord Yoshitomo heard this, "You too are Yoshitomo’s child." With those words, he personally severed his own child’s head. As for the eldest son Yoshihira, he had ventured deep into Hida Province, rallying local clans here and there, and had even begun organizing a small army. But at that very moment, word arrived that Assistant Master of the Left Horse Bureau Yoshitomo had been slain near Nagoya with his head paraded to the capital. The gathered soldiers immediately scattered, leaving Yoshihira himself in mortal peril.

(Then I must go alone—approach either Kiyomori or Shigemori among the enemy—avenge Father and our clan—die as befits Yoshitomo’s son.) Having thus resolved, he secretly turned back toward Kyoto and wandered near Rokuhara—only to be swiftly discovered by Taira officers. Dragged out to Rokujō Riverbed, he was mercilessly beheaded in the spring of his twentieth year—so went the account. Lifting his tear-swollen eyelids, Yoritomo listened with a face that seemed to doubt this was reality.

He was no longer crying. Even if told to weep, he wore a face that showed no sign of tears. Instead—

“Do you understand?”

Ōi sniffled back tears, and Enju too burst into sobs. "When we speak of the Minamoto clan's legitimate august bloodline," he declared, "it now rests solely with you alone." "In the capital area there are said to be noble children of Lady Tokiwa—your half-siblings—but I hear they remain mere infants not yet weaned from their mother's milk." Sniffling and wiping his eyes while muttering disjointedly to himself, Ōi happened to look again at Yoritomo's silent figure—utterly unresponsive—and felt an inexplicable shame wash over him, as though he were now the one being chastised.

Yoritomo, pursing his lips and fixing his gaze in one direction with a face drained of color, listened throughout, “I don’t want to cry anymore. Please—all of you—do not cry either,” he said.

Then, saying he had a slight headache, he retired early to bed that night—but when morning came, he declared he would go to the Eastern Provinces without fail. Though Enju and Ōi tried in every way to stop him, he shook his head and left alone.

“Father!” “…” “Brother! Where are you?!” Walking alone along the road near Sekigahara in the lingering chill of early spring, Yoritomo would occasionally cry out as if in a trance. When he looked up at the clouds, he would think his father might be beyond them; when he gazed at the mountains, he would imagine his brother could be past their peaks.

"No one." "There’s no one."

And he turned fourteen. He was now an orphan of the realm. He made himself conscious of that fact once more.

Four

Yahē Munekiyo, a retainer of Taira no Yorimori, Governor of Owari, was traveling to Kyoto accompanied by over a dozen minor samurai. Yoritomo encountered them on the road. Yet in his dazed state, he felt no apprehension until they drew near. He walked straight toward them with composure. This very demeanor kept Munekiyo’s party from suspicion; but while other travelers and peasants scrambled aside to prostrate themselves along the roadside, Yoritomo knew nothing of prostrating himself.

He moved slightly to the side and stood at the base of a roadside tree, gazing. “Hmm?” Munekiyo tilted his head slightly. Yoritomo was also looking in his direction.

“Fujimitsu. Fujimitsu.”

When Munekiyo called from horseback, a minor samurai named Tanba Fujimitsu Kunihiro emerged from the retinue— “Yes, my lord. What is your command?” he rushed to his side. Munekiyo pointed with his whip, “That boy standing over there—I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere. Seize him! A youth of unusual appearance—suspicious.” he said. “Yes, sir!” Fujimitsu scanned the area with eyes like a falcon scouring its prey, but the spot Munekiyo had pointed to now held nothing visible. Munekiyo, being on horseback, immediately spotted the fleeing figure,

“Ah! He’s jumped over the Namiki Embankment and fled into the distance!” “After him!”

He suddenly barked fiercely. Led by Fujimitsu, the samurai crossed over the Namiki Embankment with a roar. Beyond lay vegetable fields, wheat fields, and thickets surrounding peasants’ huts. After a short while, dragged by the clamor of authoritative voices, Yoritomo was brought forth bound. He appeared to have fallen into ditches and tumbled through fields, his form now utterly transformed into a wretched state. Munekiyo restrained them, saying "Don't be rough!" while bringing his horse's head near Yoritomo, who had been thrown onto the ground,

“Young lordling. You fled upon seeing me. Do you know who I am?” he asked. Yoritomo kept frantically struggling against his hands bound behind his back. It was not that he was trying to untie them; because his hands were immobilized, he could not rise.

“Let me stand up.”

At Yoritomo’s plea, Tanba Fujimitsu, “You may stand.” “Answer as you are.”

As he spoke, "No, grant him his wish," Munekiyo interjected. When Fujimitsu grabbed Yoritomo by the collar and hauled him upright, Yoritomo—his face scraped raw from the ground, half of it oozing blood—wrenched his head up sharply and fixed Munekiyo with a direct stare while,

“Dismount from your horse.” he said reproachfully. “I am not the son of a man who would be spoken to from horseback by some Taira local samurai.” “If you have questions to ask, dismount from your horse and say them!” Though it could be heard as the half-maddened scream of a tortured boy, Munekiyo seemed struck by an uncommon emotion; with an earnest demeanor that left him momentarily speechless, he at once leapt down from his saddle. And he strode resolutely to Yoritomo’s side and bowed respectfully,

“Please tell me your name,” he said gently. His retainers had swiftly dispersed the crowd of townspeople, travelers, women, and children that had gathered there.

At Munekiyo’s unexpectedly gentle inquiry, Yoritomo briefly looked down, but soon meekly raised his face that had turned away. “I am Yoritomo—third son of the Left Gate Guards Captain and Assistant Captain of the Right Gate Guards.” he answered in a normal voice.

Wild camellias

I

Among the scholar-monks, there were many young people.

Particularly, as this Kiyomizu Temple in Kyoto’s Yasaka district belonged to the Tōdai-ji school, it also had a Nanto student dormitory; when everyone gathered in one place at night, filled with debates and banter, even New Year’s night remained no exception. “Did you go see the Ailanthus tree?” “What’s this ‘Ailanthus tree’?”

“It’s the large tree in front of Gojo Prison’s gate.” “Yoshitomo’s head is displayed there.” “Later, his son Yoshihira’s head was also displayed alongside it.”

The one who had been questioned frowned and answered, “No, I didn’t see it.”

he replied with a frown. Then one of them,

“No—they’ve been gone since the day before yesterday. Before anyone noticed, they must have buried them.” “Stolen them, you mean.”

“Who?”

Everyone’s eyes widened.

“It goes without saying.” “It’s the Minamoto remnants.” “If they were a clan that attended daily at Rokujō Mansion and revered him as Lord Yoshitomo, would they have allowed such a thing to be seen?” “That’s right.”

The turbulent transformations of the times flickered through the young scholar-monks’ minds for an instant. “It’s punishment.” “It’s divine punishment.”

As if tossing something aside, someone muttered. ——And, glaring back at that person, “Why do you say that?”

a voice pressed accusingly.

“To even ask ‘why’ is foolish. Three years ago during the Hōgen Rebellion, didn’t Yoshitomo abandon his own father Tameyoshi to die?” “That was less Yoshitomo killing him than Kiyomori and the rest of the Taira having him killed. Because he had already been sentenced to death by the court council, even if Yoshitomo tried to protect him, he would not be saved. If he were to forcibly take up arms, it would constitute rebellion against the court council. He had no choice but to swallow his tears and have it handled by his own child’s hand.”

“No matter what you say, wasn’t it Yoshitomo who first counseled the Retired Emperor and lit the fuse of war? Defeated—the Retired Emperor exiled to Sanuki, his father Tameyoshi condemned to death by imperial decree despite such failures—how could he have endured until now—” “Stay your tongue.”

The debate opponent raised his hand, “What you’re espousing is mere human morality. You must view this from a broader perspective.”

“What nonsense! If one abandons the path of human morality, what remains for mankind to take pride in?” “Come to think of it, Yoshitomo may strike one as inhumane, but to demand a flawless life from a warlord caught in these violent cycles of order and chaos—that’s an impossible expectation to fulfill.” “Then… I shouldn’t say this too loudly, but what of Lord Rokuhara?” “Are you slandering the Taira again?”

“I’m not speaking from emotion.” “That’s how it sounds.”

Those around them mixed in laughter,

“Enough already.”

Though someone had interjected, the eloquent debater on the other side showed no signs of quieting down, “After all, Yoshitomo was nothing more than a single warrior.” “Because he got entangled in political struggles and fought against the Taira, he was effortlessly defeated both in the previous Hōgen era and this year’s Heiji Rebellion.” “From Shinzei Nyūdō’s perspective, Yoshitomo must have seemed like an amiable man who was easily led—especially when compared to Lord Rokuhara. While I cannot speak to martial prowess, in terms of political acumen, he could not even be compared.”

Regardless of whether it concerned the Taira or Minamoto clans, one must never engage in gossip. Moreover, when addressing ministers or elders, even if no one was listening, there existed no custom of omitting honorifics. They had always been strictly admonished by the academy head that such impertinent conduct ought to be avoided, but whenever young comrades gathered, they would eventually forget such things.

“……Hmm?” Then one of them suddenly pricked up his ears, his distant gaze snapping into focus. Everyone fell silent at once and scanned the cold night-chilled walls. Somewhere in the distance, an infant’s cry lingered faintly.

II

The infant’s cry is the voice of dawn. Even in today’s age of darkness, it is a voice proclaiming to those eternal beings who possess tomorrow.

However.

It was late at night, and given that this was a temple where no women should be present, the crying sound made the young scholar-monks strangely suspicious.

It wasn’t that they suspected the infant itself, but rather that they immediately let their conjectures run wild about those who should naturally be accompanying it, conjuring various suspicions—

“Is there someone hiding a woman in this sacred ground?” As if having sniffed out another’s secret, they abruptly hushed their voices to whisper among themselves.

“Let’s go check.”

Then. From the corner, a figure soon rose and left. A gaunt silhouette glided along the wall, making to step out into the corridor. “Kōgon. “Hey, Kōgon.”

Having been called back from inside the room, "Yes."

Kōgon showed his face and upper body. He was a young temple acolyte who always remained silent like an invalid, as silent as ashes. As he was still only seventeen or eighteen years old, the senior students immediately began to mock him. “You’re going to check on it?” “Yes.” “What’s this? Suddenly getting all fidgety and rushing off to check?”

“But I’m concerned about it.” “Ah, so it’s you hiding the woman with a child within the temple grounds.” “…………”

Kōgon's face seemed to turn pale.

But suddenly, the large group of scholar-monks burst into laughter in unison— “Nothing of the sort!” Kōgon’s earnest attempt to explain himself with such naive sincerity only amused them further—none thought to question his pallor. The infant’s cries soon ceased to be heard. And Kōgon, who had gone to investigate, quickly returned, “There’s nothing to report.”

he reported to the group.

“Nothing at all, you say?”

When one asked spitefully, "Yes, it was an old woman from a potter’s household below Sanneizaka, carrying her grandchild who has a habit of crying at night, who had come for a night pilgrimage to Koyasu Kannon." he answered earnestly. “Wahahaha!” “Ahahaha!” Perhaps because they too had considered that this might be the case, each of them—who had been conjuring up unnecessary worries and speculations—laughed at themselves and clapped their hands. With that as their cue, “Let’s sleep.” “Well then, let’s turn in.”

They trailed out toward the sleeping quarters of the great temple complex, each melting away into their own paths, leaving only three or four acolytes behind—sweeping up scattered crumbs from half-eaten barley crackers and tidying away low oil lamps. Finally, when they lowered the wooden shutters and Kiyomizu-dera’s last light vanished, nothing remained from Kachōzan to the Higashiyama foothills but the sound of the wind.

In the depths of the distant night haze, only the waters of the Kamo River shone white, as if covered with thin ice. Although the war had ended, the capital must still have been unsettled. Around Rokujō, a vast scorched wasteland had formed, and even near Rokuhara, the ever-visible glow of the eternal lanterns could no longer be seen.

“Lady Tokiwa. “Please open up… Do not be concerned. It is Kōgon who came earlier. …Lady Tokiwa.”

Otowa Waterfall had turned into icicles. What at first seemed like fallen leaves scattering onto the temple hall’s latticed shutters and eaves were white pellets of hail. “Are you asleep? Lady Tokiwa... I implore you to wake. It is Kōgon.”

It was at the top of Sanneizaka. It had Mount Otowa at its back. Kōgon, fearing his surroundings, kept pushing on the door of the Koyasu Kannon Hall.

III “Yes.… Just a moment.” An answer came from within the hall.

It was a low voice. But even from that alone, one could discern the maturity of a beautiful woman. A quiet aura stirred within. Soon, light seeped through gaps in the hall’s door. This sanctuary had never known permanent dwellers—its lattice shutters splintered, soot-blackened walls and rain-stained decay speaking of abandonment—so what soul would seek shelter here now?

Therefore, it was something that should have been regarded as suspicious from the very beginning. Therefore, even as Kōgon stood outside waiting for the door to open, he remained in a state of unbearable anxiety. “Your Ladyship… Though it is impertinent of me, this is no ordinary circumstance.” “Please, do not trouble yourself with your attire—quickly open this door and show me your face, I beg of you.”

Urged by Kōgon,

“Yes, yes. Right away.” “Right away.” The next reply sounded so pitifully flustered that Kōgon could no longer endure his mingled feelings of pity and remorse, “I beg your pardon.”

he added.

At that same moment, the temple door slowly creaked open. In the cavernous chill and dim flickering lamplight sat a single Kannon statue—so tall it nearly grazed the ceiling—perched in solemn stillness. Yet upon stepping inside, all were instantly wrapped in a sweetness that tugged at memories of selves long forgotten. It carried the scent of breast milk still warm with human heat. "He’s finally fallen asleep." Near where Kannon’s robes pooled at the hemstone dais stood two straw mats laid out like makeshift screens across wooden planks. Facing the woman who had settled herself anew upon one mat, Kōgon spoke while leaning forward as if peering into her very womb.

“Yes.” “He’s doing well now.” Tokiwa too looked down at the sleeping face cradled in her arms and murmured like a sigh. It was Ushiwaka, who had just turned two with the New Year’s arrival. Though naturally a fretful child, since the year-end battle he had scarcely slept through any night, and with his eating being irregular at best, her breast milk had completely dried up. Then there was the nightly cold with no quilt. No wonder the child cries, I thought. “Ah, how guileless they seem—the little ones sleep so peacefully.”

Kōgon forgot the urgent matter he had meant to discuss and gazed at another straw mat as he spoke from the depths of his heart. This year, six-year-old Otohime and eight-year-old Imahime clung tightly to each other against the cold, their innocent sleep breaths escaping them. All that covered them was a single mother’s coat. As he contemplated their ever-worsening circumstances, Kōgon felt his chest tighten. The word “impermanence” had become too worn through sermons and idle talk to evoke anything but banality in us, yet seeing those wandering through such transient transformations before one’s very eyes made hearts ache inevitably.

These three young lords were known to all—until just yesterday, they had been the undisputed heirs of Yoshitomo, Assistant Captain of the Left Horse Bureau, who until recently had been revered by the Minamoto clan as their commander of bow and arrow and clan patriarch, standing shoulder to shoulder with Rokuhara’s Kiyomori and the Komatsu faction. And also, the mother— From childhood she had served the Empress of Ninth Avenue—though only as a low-ranking attendant—but before Yoshitomo discovered her, it was rumored throughout the capital’s crossroads that he had used his influence to select one Tokiwa from a thousand beauties, then a hundred from those thousand, then ten from those hundred—a woman of striking beauty.

At fourteen she first applied eyebrow makeup; by fifteen already draped herself in courtly robes behind bamboo blinds—this woman once envied as one borne aloft in a jeweled palanquin now found herself at twenty-three clutching three infants to both breasts, homeless, enduring this frigid night beneath the temple’s eaves of mercy. Who from those days of splendor could have imagined such a fate? As Kōgon thought of this and that, he found himself unable to say anything—the eyelids of Tokiwa sitting before him, who neither wept, struck him as rather strange.

IV

Thus—

Then, steeling his heart, Kōgon abruptly spoke.

“Lady Tokiwa, though this may seem like I am hurrying you, this hall is no longer safe.” “The young lords’ cries can be heard as far as the main hall when night deepens.” “It cannot be helped.” “When he starts crying like that, his voice becomes as piercing as flames—” “The young people from the seminary grew suspicious of one another again tonight, and you were nearly subjected to an inquiry.” “For about half a month, we concealed you at the Flower Summit Hall in the back mountain, but as we could not bring provisions there, we moved you here from the night before last—yet with prying eyes and ears so near, this place has proven even more perilous than the back mountain.”

“I have caused you concern.” “It cannot be helped.” “I shall take my leave elsewhere.” “Truly... it pains me to say this, but—”

“No, no—that we four, a mother and her children, have evaded Rokuhara’s eyes and survived from New Year’s Eve until today is entirely due to Your Reverence’s mercy.” “Not at all.”

Kōgon instead shook his head with a pained expression, “Though I wear these priestly robes, both my late father and uncle were of Minamoto lineage." "In particular, my cousin Kōōmaru served at Rokuhara from boyhood, and whenever Lord Yoshitomo paid his visits to Your Ladyship, he always accompanied him." …… The infant cradled in Tokiwa’s bosom suddenly began fussing and reaching for her breast again, so Kōgon—as if startled by his own voice—fell silent.

As he watched with bated breath, Ushiwaka fortunately drifted into peaceful slumber. Kōgon, cautious of his own voice, “Thus, from the morning of the twenty-sixth day at year’s end when battle erupted—when those ferocious flames and black smoke began rising over the capital’s streets—I spent sleepless nights and days without respite gazing at the city’s smoke visible from here, wondering both about our lord’s fate and how Your Ladyship had fared, how the young lords had endured.” “Then, at the very stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, my cousin Kōōmaru arrived here carrying the young lords on his back and encouraging Your Ladyship.” “And now is the time to repay the debt owed since the days of my ancestors.” “Kōgan, I’m counting on you!” “When he told me, ‘I must still see through to the end of our lord and clan who fled along the Ōmi Road to Mino’—in that moment, I felt both the joy of being trusted and utter despair. But such is the sorrow of one bound to monastic life; this is all the strength I possess.” “Even if I were to muster a sense of duty beyond my capacity, ultimately it would only result in offering Your Ladyship and the young lords as trophies to Rokuhara’s constables.” “It is clear as day that even waiting until tomorrow would be perilous.”

“I understand.” “Before daybreak, I shall quietly depart from this place.” “This is... most regrettable.” At last, Kōgon could no longer restrain the tears he had been holding back—they overflowed as he hid his face within his priestly sleeve. “Were I not this ailing monk, I would wish to become a warrior’s son once more and accompany you, but—” The frailer his body grew, the more violently his youthful blood seemed to rise and choke him—Kōgon wept within his priestly robes, yet still—

“The agony of having to tell Your Ladyship and your young lords—who have nowhere left to go—to depart, stopping just short of driving you out… Forgive me… Forgive me, I beg of you.” Having made this plea, Kōgon collapsed into a man’s weeping against the floor—but Tokiwa’s eyes remained fixed on a single spot of the wall, showing no tears. Like a pond frozen solid with ice, those eyes had even forgotten how to cry.

*Tethered Cart*

I

It was a bitterly cold twilight under a late January sky, the evening air piercingly clear.

Like waterfowl blown together, at Fushimi’s Funado Port, small thatched boats clustered beneath bridges and along the shore. There were also boats carrying travelers to Naniwa. There were cargo boats transporting this village’s millet and firewood to Kyoto’s markets. The cormorant fishermen’s boats remained tied and abandoned, now utterly disregarded. The Shirabyōshi’s ornate boats—seemingly deserted by day—would lower red lanterns from their thatched eaves come nightfall, beckoning capricious men who emerged like stars.

Observing this, even upon the river’s surface existed the vicissitudes of spring and autumn, and the labors of each day grew more frantic. “I am deeply grateful for your kindness. Thanks to your compassion, the children have regained their vigor thus. If I inquire after Sumizome, the house I seek may yet become known. …I must take my leave.”

Tokiwa expressed her gratitude and began preparing to depart.

This place, too, was on the water.

It was inside a narrow thatched boat.

The young Shirabyōshi sisters, in the bloom of youth, had made this boat their home to support their ailing mother. This morning, the younger sister had gone to the market in the early dawn when frost still whitened the ground, and on her way back, she had spotted a mother and her three children freezing beneath the eaves of townhouses,

"Oh, how pitiful." And so she pulled along two children trembling with hunger, held a suckling child to her breast, encouraged the noblewoman who remained crouched in the roadside frost—who lacked even the strength to rise—and brought them all here.

Countless days and nights had passed since Tokiwa left Kiyomizu-dera’s Kannon Hall—and even to herself, I’ve survived somehow. she had spent days that made her think— And now that she found herself in such circumstances, it struck her as fortunate—even blissful—that she had not been born a sheltered princess raised in deep chambers or a woman of courtly service, but instead had known in her past the taste of a life where as a child in rural Fukakusa she had trodden wheat and pounded rice, and at ten or eleven walked Kyoto’s streets with baskets balanced on her head to sell vegetables and fruit.

A woman of such lowly station. As for Tokiwa, there were things she often pondered even in ordinary times. Amid people who considered it life’s natural order to spend snowy days composing waka poetry, moonlit nights appreciating incense scents, and flower-filled afternoons on romantic dalliances—all elegant pursuits—she had suddenly found herself mingling with them after being taken in as a low-ranking servant by Ninth Avenue’s retired empress. Then, beyond all expectation, she had even been loved by Minamoto no Yoshitomo—a warrior of fortune she had never dared imagine or desire. (Look there—the wild camellia had been arranged in a lapis lazuli vase and placed beside the nobleman’s screen.)

Amidst such jealous whispers from former friends and relatives—"Look how that wild camellia sits in a nobleman’s vase"—she had unwittingly become the mother of three children by His Lordship. Truly，it had happened without her ever knowing a maiden’s heart— So from the very beginning，she had known neither the way of waka poetry nor the ability to distinguish incense scents—such elegant pursuits of the nobility—nor did she possess the knowledge to read difficult texts. How turbulent society had become—even how the Lord of Rokujō’s clan who loved me so dearly and Kiyomori of Rokuhara’s house clashed，struggled，and existed in such peril—I scarcely understood any of it until the day of battle came.

A woman of twenty-three. With three children already—the eldest just seven—her days had passed without deeper thought, devoted solely to childrearing and the morning-evening toilette she diligently maintained, praying not to lose His Lordship’s affection. That had been the fullest extent of her days. Now that I look back upon my present self, there can be no doubt that I cut a pitiable figure—yet had I been born into sheltered chambers ignorant of childhood poverty and hardship, I would surely have frozen to death by the roadside or thrown myself into some river on those nights before last and last alike.

No—before that, she could never bring herself to hand these three children over to Rokuhara to save her own life——yet each time Tokiwa reflected on this, she now felt a profound gratitude for that impoverished girlhood she had once despised.

II When Tokiwa announced her departure, the Shirabyōshi sisters looked on with pained expressions, “Then, take care.” They did not try to stop her. For they appeared to fear daytime onlookers, and their general circumstances had been inferred. From beneath the thatch, the elderly mother of the Shirabyōshi sisters—apparently ill—watched alongside her daughters’ pale faces as the figures of the mother and children, now being carried or led by the hand, stepped fearfully across the bridge planks and ascended toward the shore in the evening gloom. “Young master. “Please come again.” “If you cannot find the house you seek—”

She wiped her eyes again and again as she spoke. “...Farewell, my dears.” Tokiwa bowed her head politely from the shore toward the boat. People all wept for me. Because of this, she had been given a bowl of gruel and sweets—yet somehow Tokiwa herself found no tears coming.

Yet, when leaving the boat, her eyelids had suddenly grown hot. Seeing the Shirabyōshi sisters’ mother, she felt concern for her own mother’s safety—the mother who had become separated during their flight from the Rokujō estate— (Where...) because it had surged up into her chest. Surprisingly, if she went to her relatives’ house in Sumizome, she might learn news of her. She steeled herself with such thoughts alone. While watching Imawaka and Otsuwaka walk ahead hand in hand from behind—

The relatives they were about to seek out were none other than her uncle and aunt’s household. Uncle Tobazō had formerly been a poor farmer, but clinging to family ties, he had petitioned His Lordship and become employed at the Rokujō estate. Until the day of battle, he had managed the central gate’s stables as stablemaster—a position that granted him the right to wear a tachi sword. Now, having heard her aunt was living quite comfortably in Sumizome village with a substantial house and wanting for nothing, she had come to rely on them as her sole refuge—both out of gratitude for the favor received from His Lordship.

“No!” “Nuh-uh!”

“Mother!” “Osusawa did!” “That’s a lie!” “Give it back!”

“Liar!” “Liar!” The young brothers who had suddenly broken into a run were now shouting at each other by the roadside in the distance, nearly coming to blows over whatever they had begun to quarrel about.

She—prone to slipping into trance-like states where consciousness itself trapped her in aimless musings—was startled, “Here!”

She hurried over at a quick trot, but not only did Imawaka and Otsuwaka refuse to stop fighting—the infant at her breast began to fuss with stomach pains and burst into tears. “There, there… hush now.” If Taira samurai or post station officials were to pass by this place, she thought with a shrinking heart and distracted mind, “Lord Imawaka—you there, Lord Imawaka!” “Elder Brother, what are you carrying on like this for?” “Striking your young lord brother like that—”

With the infant at her breast, she nursed it while moving her feet to a soundless rhythm and reprimanding them, "But... But... But, Mother!" Imawaka, the elder brother, snatched a persimmon skewer from his younger brother’s hand and thrust it before their mother, his lips pursed as he made his accusation. "Otsuwaka did it, Mother—he took this from where it was drying at that peasant’s house over there…" "What have you done?" "He took it without saying a word! If you take someone else’s things without asking, that makes you a thief—Mother!"

III Looking closer, Otsuwaka paid no heed to his elder brother Imawaka’s attempts to tattle to their mother—opening his small mouth wide around the persimmon skewer held crosswise, munching away single-mindedly.

“Oh, My Lords’ wretchedness…”

Though she lamented this, Tokiwa found herself not only unable to scold them but— ——No wonder. Even being pitied for this, despite her own presence, she felt the blame of not having been able to let her children ingest anything sweet into their stomachs over these many days as nothing less than a mother’s sin. In truth, even she herself—whenever she thought of "sweetness"—craved it so acutely that the pit of her stomach ached. It was clear they were starved for sugar. While cursing his younger brother's actions, Imawaka nonetheless gazed enviously at Otsuwaka devouring the persimmons to his heart's content.

“Lord Otsuwaka. Do not eat alone, my lord. Please share those dried persimmons with your Elder Brother.” When Tokiwa said this, “Want some?” Otsuwaka—his small face now showing satiation—snapped the skewer in two and thrust half toward his brother. “I don’t... want it.” “I am Minamoto no Yoshitomo’s noble son! Who would eat stolen persimmons? Hey... Mother.” At eight years old, Imawaka already possessed self-awareness. He understood the household teachings drilled into him daily.

Tokiwa gathered the brothers to her side, “Please do not speak so, Lord Imawaka—you must take your share. Though it was wrong of Lord Brother to bring this without permission, My Lords have yet to learn of purchasing things—we cannot expect otherwise.” “Return to the farmer’s house from which you brought the persimmon skewers and pay their price.” Tokiwa pulled out a single golden hairpin that she had worn in her hair and placed it in her sons’ hands. The brothers, holding the golden hairpin, quietly returned as their mother had instructed and went to the farmer’s eaves. And then, inserting the hairpin into the ropes from which other dried vegetables and persimmons still hung, they returned.

“Come now, My Lords. “Now that you’ve eaten the persimmons, in return, please walk together properly this time.” “It’s just one or two ri more.” “If we reach Aunt’s house in Sumizome, she will give us plenty of delicious things.” “She will kindly prepare warm night provisions for us.” “Just a little more endurance now.”

While offering words of encouragement, the mother and her sons trudged falteringly along the desolate country path—not a single light visible from what remained of the post road. Just when she thought he had grown a little calmer, the six-year-old Otsuwaka was dozing off as he walked. When she woke him and urged him on, he declared he no longer wanted to walk. No matter how she reasoned with him, “No.” “No!” And then, he plopped down on the ground and burst into tears. Though Imawaka—on whom they somewhat relied for his reasonableness—was still only eight years old, his fledgling awareness of the world meant he knew fear more acutely than Otsuwaka.

—Tomorrow, tomorrow. Having been coaxed by his mother into enduring hunger, cold, and loneliness all this time, perhaps his childish heart had at last come to realize the futility of it all—curling both arms around his buried face, he now quietly sobbed into the night.

“What am I to do now…?” When she looked at her children in such states, Tokiwa found herself wanting to sit down. In a single desperate impulse, she thought to stab her children in the throat and die here herself.

Death.

It was a sweet temptation that assailed her ceaselessly. For her now, there was no place that seemed as peaceful and immediately attainable as death. There, her longed-for Lord Yoshitomo would also be present——

But she,

“No!”

And—without the slightest struggle—she cast aside such wavering. She immediately regained her strong will to live. As her meager breast milk was painfully drawn out, each time her nipples throbbed with agony, even when she peered down at Ushiwaka’s face, she could not conceive of her life as belonging solely to herself.

IV

This area was already near Fukakusa Village.

When evening passed, there were only the cries of stray dogs. The terror of the war from about a month ago had not yet faded from the villagers.

In the thickets and hollows of nearby mountain fields, corpses of routed warriors who had been cut down and abandoned lay where they fell, and on days when the snow thawed, they emitted the stench of death. As mere nameless foot soldiers, Rokuhara would not even bother to dispose of them, nor was there anyone to retrieve their heads.

“Who’s there? The one knocking at the gate?” In this village, at the house of Tobazō—the cattle herder chief now deemed a wealthy man—such a voice abruptly rang out. Alongside the voice, the small lattice shutters of the side window lifted slightly, lamplight spilling outward— “Foolishness! Don’t open it! Don’t look outside!” —and rebuked the servants; her voice, unmistakably that of an elderly woman, carried clearly even outdoors. “Oh!” Having seen the lamplight, Tokiwa—who had been standing near the gate for some time—dashed around outside the brushwood fence so frantically she nearly fell,

“Aunt! ... Oh! Oh... Aunt! Was that your voice just now? It is Tokiwa of the capital who stands before you. I have come this far at last, bringing the children with me.” Even as she cried out, the suckling Ushiwaka too began to wail. To make such a conspicuous visit would surely reach neighboring ears. Even this house’s servants would hesitate. Tokiwa hurriedly let him nurse and crouched at the brushwood fence’s base to wait—but neither that window nor any other door opened, blind and unyielding.

“Lord Imawaka! Lord Imawaka!” “Okay.” “Don’t fall asleep there—wake your younger brother Lord. And even if he feels drowsy, make him endure it.” “—Aunt will surely let us into the house soon.” “I’m not sleepy. Mother, whose house is this?” “It belongs to someone dear to your grandmother.” “They won’t be so heartless as to turn us away.” “Try knocking on the gate door once more.”

Imawaka struck the gate door with his small hands until they ached. Finally, he pushed and shook the fence, “Open up! You of this house—open up! Open up, I say!” he screamed. Because Ushiwaka had stopped crying, Tokiwa too joined in, “Oh... Dear Aunt. Though it troubles you greatly, I have come here relying solely on your aid. I am Tokiwa of Rokujō. Hello? Hello... Have you already retired for the night?”

Her voice was nearly gone.

Then, from the side of the fence, a figure lumbered into view. Gasping, she clamped her mouth shut—

“You people—I don’t know where you’re from—this is futile.” “The master resides in Kyoto, and the mistress has journeyed to distant lands. None remain here but us servants.” With that, he stared unblinkingly, “Making such a racket—barking and wailing here—is a nuisance.” “Now scram at once.” “—Be gone.” “If you linger, I’ll summon the authorities to drag you off.” “……”

A sight she would try to forget for a lifetime but could not—with eyes that seemed to say as much—Tokiwa looked at the man’s face and stared at the door of this house. "I shall take my leave." To the feet of the male servant she bowed in apology with utmost courtesy. Her words too remained calm and undisturbed. “Now, My Lord Wakako. Please rise and open your eyes.” Upon arriving here, she shook awake Otowaka—who had fallen asleep like a puppy at the base of the fence from sheer drowsiness—and then the mother of three, relying on the lingering snowlight both distant and near, departed for parts unknown.

V

The next morning arrived.

“I’m back now!”

Tobazō, the ox-herd overseer, had returned home after a long absence. Upon returning, “I want to stuff my belly full of something warm. Have them boil water for a bath—wash off this battle grime—and let’s drink some sake. Whew... What a close brush with death!”

He stretched his legs. His wife and family, upon seeing their master’s unharmed face, “Oh! You’re alive and well!”

As if wanting to relive the missed New Year’s celebrations, they celebrated with overflowing joy. “Damn good, this!” “First drink in forty days!” Gulping noisily, Tobazō kept the cup glued to his hand, “Y’see—that damn fool lord I serve started this idiotic war without lookin’ ahead! In just one day, Rokujō’s mansion turned to ash, our whole clan got wrecked—startin’ with Lord Yoshitomo—then anyone connected by blood got their heads lopped off daily at the riverbanks. Hell—wasn’t no livin’ through that!” “Why I didn’t just serve the Taira from the start—too damn late for regrets now.”

Though it likely wasn’t due to his daily work with oxen, he was a man with a face as lazy as an ox. Thanks to his niece Tokiwa’s connections, he had completely forgotten—as if they belonged to a past life—that he had ever acquired such a mansion or become someone who wore even a single long sword. “Come to think of it now...” The wife of the ox-faced couple—a pair cut from the same cloth—suddenly remembered and announced.

“Rokujō’s niece came to visit, I tell ya.”

“What? Tokiwa?” Abruptly, he fixed his eyes,

“When?” “…….” “When was it?!” “’Twas late last night, I tell ya.” “And?” “A-and then—where is she now?” “As if I’d let her into the house! I shut the door tight and drove her away.” “You drove her away?” “Precisely because of our family ties, it’s all the more terrifying. Saying we were out, I had the servant chase her away.” “You fool!” “…What?” “Imbecile!” “Why would I have done that?” “Damn it, you brainless fool! Would any idiot drive off a golden windfall brought right to our door at the new year’s dawn? What a pack of damn fools!”

While cursing, he rose and at once re-donned the garments and longsword he had just cast off, “Since she was driven from here, the only kin she can turn to must be those in Ryūmon, Yamato—there’s no other household left for her.” …whether she had been carrying a nursing infant or leading a young child by the hand. “Alright! They can’t have gotten far yet!” Such was his fierce determination. Even his wife, though she understood that resolve, was left utterly dumbfounded.

From Fukakusa Village toward Yamato Road, he pressed forward with desperate haste—for what he feared was not so much failing to catch up and losing sight of them as it was the defenseless Tokiwa and her children falling effortlessly into others’ hands.

It was after that night had passed and nearing noon the following day when Tobazō’s strenuous efforts finally allowed him to discover Tokiwa’s figure. At the edge of the tutelary deity’s shrine in a cedar grove slightly off the roadside, she was soothing her two exhausted children while breastfeeding Ushiwaka.

“Oh, there you are. … Niece, you’ve stayed unharmed.” Tobazō rushed over to them and called out as though spilling over with heartfelt affection, then turned to Otohime—who had been innocently playing beside her mother— “Lady Otohime was here as well!”

He suddenly scooped her up. "Kyaa—!" Otohime screamed, and Tokiwa, startled by the suddenness, let out a cry as though she herself had been cut down.

Six

The one who was surprised—more so than the mother and child who had screamed—was none other than Tobazō himself. “Hush now, hush now. Why are you crying so much? This old man is an ally to Lady Otohime and your siblings. I am a retainer of Lord Yoshitomo, father to Lady Otohime and your siblings, you see.” and released Otohime from his hands, returning her to her mother’s lap, “That woman too—why does she tremble so upon seeing my form?” and soothed. Tokiwa, as if the palpitations in her chest had finally subsided,

“Was that you, Uncle of Sumizome? I thought perhaps Rokuhara’s agents or some local bandits had come to snatch Lady Otohime away in an instant—and my heart utterly sank.”

“I see.—No, it’s only natural. With those children in tow, making your way here could not have been easy.” “How utterly heartrending…”

Tobazō pretended to wipe away false tears while sniffling, “Alas, there are no words to describe this grief and regret—none at all.” “So this is what they call the world’s end.” “I once thought to follow my lords in death by cutting my belly—but no matter what, no matter what, I couldn’t stop worrying for that woman and the safety of young Lady Otohime and her siblings……” “Then, Uncle, you have been walking about searching for us—” “To say I searched this and that—within the capital and beyond, as if that weren’t enough—no, I’ve endured truly dreadful hardships.” “Meanwhile, Lord Yoshitomo has been reduced to a severed head displayed before Tōgoku Prison’s gates.”

“…………” “Do you know, Tokiwa?” “Yes.” “I have heard.” “Lord Yoshihira, Lord Tomonaga, and the rest of your clan were beheaded day after day at Rokujō Riverbed.” “…………” “Are you listening?” “I am here.” “...Tokiwa.”

“Yes.” “You do not weep—do you feel no sorrow?” “What you call sorrow belongs to more ordinary circumstances in this world.” “I have even forgotten how to shed tears.” “At present, I can think of nothing but being mother to these three young lords.” “Well.” “Now then—” Tobazō held his breath, “If that’s so—do you know what has become of your mother?” “I do not know.” “She’s been captured by Rokuhara!”

“……?” “Night after night, day after day—they say she’s being tortured at Rokuhara’s Tribunal courtyard! No doubt she’s hiding you.” “Tell us where Yoshitomo’s brats are!” “Is... is that true?” “You think I’d lie?” “The whole capital’s buzzing about it.” “Pitiful—that crone having her fingernails ripped out one by one... ‘Spit out where you’re hiding Tokiwa!’” “…………” “Pity! Outrage! Even strangers cry ‘Where’s Lady Tokiwa? If she lives—how dare she let her mother die!’ Gossip clings to every alleyway.”

“…………” “Huh? What’re you scheming?” “What’s your plan?”

“…………”

“Tokiwa.”

“…………”

“Toki... Ah, Tokiwa!” “Hey! Hey! What’s wrong?”

Tobazō panicked.

As she listened, the color drained from her face until it appeared whiter than paper; then Tokiwa covered her eyes, bit her lip, and collapsed sideways onto the shrine’s edge. Beneath her, Ushiwaka wept and trembled, while Imawaka and Otsuwaka—the two of them—clung to her crying "Mother! Mother!" until their voices grew hoarse.

Seven

The Ninth Avenue Empress Dowager’s residence was where Tokiwa had served as a low-ranking court attendant in former times.

There, she and the young children were brought back from Yamato Road. According to her uncle Tobazō, unless she surrendered herself, her elderly mother—who had been captured by Rokuhara—would continue to be subjected day and night to torture akin to the torments of hell. Merely hearing this, she—now utterly bereft of self and world—resolved herself to her final decision.

"Having apparently realized that escape was ultimately impossible, Tokiwa no Mae—accompanied by someone claiming to be her uncle—had come to seek refuge within the imperial residence, so it was said." The Empress Dowager's attendants—now that the era's great crisis had materialized before their very eyes—whispered ominously among themselves and came peering at the building where she was confined,

“Ah—a baby’s cry.”

“Are those the children born to her and Lord Yoshitomo?” they pricked up their ears to catch such whispers.

But more importantly. The Empress Dowager and her ladies-in-waiting felt relieved—though for different reasons. This was because Rokuhara’s investigations and intimidation had reached even here, both overtly and covertly. If Tokiwa surrendered herself, then the suspicions would be lifted. “Well done!”

Tobazō was showered with praise from the court ladies for his efforts. Regarding this incident, his earnestness had been tremendous. Just secretly bringing Tokiwa and her children back from Yamato Road to the capital must have been no ordinary hardship—and even after arriving here, “Keep the watch tight—I’m counting on you. If they have any blades, trick them into handing them over.”

With eyes bloodshot from neglecting sleep and meals, he confined Tokiwa to a single room and, deeming this sufficient,

“I’m off to Rokuhara.” With those words to the imperial residence attendants, he headed out with determined vigor. It was the evening of February 14th. That night, at the Rokuhara Tribunal, he—being a distant member of the Minamoto clan himself—apparently underwent interrogation and had his testimony recorded throughout the night, and thus did not return to Kujo.

It was around noon the following day when he appeared again before the Ninth Avenue Empress Dowager. The plum tree in the pot was in full bloom, its fragrance wafting through the air. Summoned, Tokiwa peered nonchalantly through the garden—and beyond the middle gate, over ten Rokuhara warriors were clamoring about something. Rough voices also mingled among them, “Hurry up and do it!” and “Bring the horses up to the middle gate.” and also—whether binding with ropes was unnecessary—no, they should be bound properly—the Rokuhara Tribunal warriors could be heard arguing among themselves. Although she had prepared herself, now that the moment had come—Tokiwa felt as though a blade had pierced her through the breast.

Then, from behind, “My niece. “Let’s go.” Uncle Tobazō, who had positioned himself at the room’s entrance, was already urging her on. It was as if inviting her on one of their usual leisurely outings. “...Yes.” She responded, but even after steeling her will, Tokiwa’s body trembled and she could not rise for a time.

She answered, but even as she steeled her will, Tokiwa’s body trembled, and for a time she could not rise. However, when the moment passed, she calmed down, “Kindly wait a moment.” With that, she set up a folding screen, drew the comb box near, and—still holding Ushiwaka—began applying her makeup. “Mother. Where are you going?” “The Rokujō residence?” Imawa and Otsuwa both came over and peered at their mother in the mirror. For the children, seeing their mother apply makeup might have been for the first time in many days, so they suddenly began to frolic.

VIII

In the meantime. It was through the mercy of Empress Dowager Kujō-in—likely because the ladies-in-waiting in close attendance on Her Majesty had reported the day’s commotion in full detail—that... “Poor souls.” “To be paraded all the way to Rokuhara through midday streets—exposed to gawking eyes and pointed fingers—is too pitiful.” “At least give them a broken palanquin drawn by oxen.” Through her court ladies, this special dispensation was granted. Even the Tribunal bailiffs and warriors who had come to escort them could not refuse,

“We’ll permit the palanquin, but don’t you dare make it splendid.” “Hurry up and pull the oxen!” they were bellowing. Tokiwa folded the mirror, put away the comb box, and drew the suckling infant and her two other children close to either side of her. “What time…” Quietly, she announced to those outside that her preparations were complete. Women among women. Even those women of the Retired Emperor’s court—who had spent their days muttering jealous gossip when she, rising from a lowly serving maid here to enter the jeweled inner chambers, was at the height of Minamoto no Yoshitomo of Rokujō’s affections—

“My! Those dear Wako-samas… how pitiable.” “They [the children], knowing nothing, applied makeup just like Her Ladyship.” “They only look cheerful—what must be in Her Ladyship’s heart?” “Poor little ones.” “Just the sight of it pains my heart…” and so on—they emerged from their chambers, gathered as if seeing off a coffin with tears welling up, and among them were even those who sobbed.

Amidst all this, the only one not crying was Tokiwa.

When they stepped out beyond the middle gate, the waiting warriors roughly urged them on, but— “I pray you be seated there.”

and taught her children as well, then sat down on the ground herself to demonstrate, “Then we shall take our leave through your merciful palanquin. From my days as a girl serving in menial roles until this final hour, I have been sheltered beneath your august institution’s protection. You have my deepest gratitude.” Because their mother had placed both hands upon the earth, Imawa and Otsuwa—though understanding nothing of its solemn meaning—laid their palms down too, “Farewell.”

they bid farewell to the Imperial Palace. “Ah, she has conducted herself with grace.” As soon as they rose, at the fork in the road leading to the back gate, a single ox-drawn carriage was brought out from the cowshed with a groaning creak. It was a lacquered-shutter ladies’ carriage—so worn from overuse that it seemed to have long sat shrouded in soot within a corner of the carriage shed, its front curtain torn and shaft lacquer peeled away—with only the ox harnessed before it being a sturdy amber-hued young bull.

Tokiwa, holding her children, slipped into the broken palanquin. Taking that as their cue, the warriors formed a protective guard around the front and rear. And then, “Hurry up!” they drove the ox driver onward. Tobazō—who until very recently had been head of Rokujō-dono’s ox driver post—perhaps seeing a moment of inattention, snatched the ox driver’s whip, “Lend it to me.” Positioning himself beside the carriage shafts, he vigorously struck the amber ox’s hindquarters.

The ox-drawn carriage’s wheels groaned through the Imperial Palace’s back gate, crunching over stones and lurching through mud as it swayed onward. With each jolt, Tokiwa’s pallid face and the shapes of her children clinging to her knees flickered through the torn front curtain. By what rumor mill activated, “Look! Tokiwa Gozen being hauled to Rokuhara.” “Lord Rokujō’s brood too?” Some clustered along the thoroughfare pointing, while the tramping of commoners trailed the carriage in a ragged procession—all fingers and murmurs.

“…………”

Tokiwa covered her eyes. All the while, the strong tether of the unceasingly suckling child; the tether of small hands clinging to her knees. This palanquin being pulled toward Rokuhara was also the aged mother’s tether. Within these tethers, she still possessed a living ground where mind and body met.

Kiyomori

1

He was in exceptionally high spirits. Even during times when a series of rather bad events had left the clan frowning, most matters— “Nonsense! What’s with this gloom?” Kiyomori, who would dispel such clouds with his cheer—and who had been in particularly fine spirits of late—ensured that this New Year throughout all Rokuhara truly brimmed with the lively warmth of early spring. And then. From Kiyomori down to the lowliest retainer among the Taira clansmen dwelling there— “Without our strength, the course of history cannot advance.”

they had renewed their conviction that they had come to understand the very power of the warrior class itself. It was with this Heiji Rebellion as the turning point. Amidst those war flames, the fact that both His Majesty the Emperor and the Retired Emperor sought refuge here in Rokuhara with their imperial carriages served all the more to— "An unprecedented honor." And this served to heighten the pride of the Rokuhara warriors.

Whether speaking of the Minamoto or the Taira, until today they had merely followed in the wake of the court nobles and served as their claws and fangs—but the times were gradually changing. It was during this second year of Heiji that warrior clans, though imperceptibly and without fanfare, had come to regard one another with pride evident in their gestures and gazes. No—with the era’s renaming, from this New Year onward it became the first year of Eiryaku, down to the very era name itself.

Moreover, even the Minamoto faction—those fellow warriors—had seen their forces utterly swept away by last year’s end. Thus when speaking of martial houses—though those in remote provinces might not know—in the capital, it meant the Taira. The Taira Clan’s Spring Dawn! This New Year might well have been proclaimed their very own.

The aura of their rising fortunes had suffused the very terrain of Rokuhara like an unfurled painted screen. Over a decade earlier, it had been nothing more than a modest estate spanning barely a tenth of a square kilometer—the old residence with earthen walls where Kiyomori’s father, Tadamori, former Minister of Justice, once resided—standing desolate toward the Rokujō Riverbed. But now, with all the Taira clansmen constructing buildings nearby in a frenzy of earthworks and timber, the sheer scale of what was now collectively termed Rokuhara defied simple description.

To the north: from Rokujō Matsubara.

To the south: up to around Shichijō. To the east and west, it embraced everything from the Kamo riverbanks to mountain ridges, while in Komatsu Valley's mountainous folds, the eldest son Shigemori had newly built a residence that came to be called Komatsu-dono. Beyond serving as the clan's residential compound, propelled by the momentum of their ascendancy, this place was transforming into a seat of governance—where political councils were convened, commoners' lawsuits adjudicated, taxes collected, city security maintained, and laws for provinces and highways promulgated. No—indeed, Kiyomori may have already resolved in his heart that without such measures, governance could not be sustained.

For. For a long time, the Fujiwara clan had held political authority; though they left behind cultural achievements, not only did their culture eventually give rise to decadent indolence and overripeness in decline, but the Fujiwara themselves merely pursued their own glory and fattened their private coffers—and from their arrogance, as if this world existed solely for them—they created an uncontrollable social climate where major revolts erupted one after another in the remote regions of the provinces.

The Tengyō era rebellion of Masakado. The Rebellion of Fujiwara no Sumitomo. The countless private battles and wars that followed thereafter, as well as others, were not born from the wilderness of the provinces themselves but arose from rot. It was the Fujiwara clan themselves—who had prospered in the capital composing poems and living for love, devoid of any grand political strategies, knowing only to demand rice and silk taxes from rural peasants and families—who had finally brewed this. Kiyomori, this year, Even if I seize power, I won’t let my descendants imitate the foolish ways of the Fujiwara.

Thus, at the start of the year, he engaged in solemn self-restraint and admonishment, deeply reflecting on these matters.

He had just turned forty-three—a man in his prime.

2 Kiyomori had once again just now returned from attending court. Over the tightly packed small stones, the thick wheels of the ox-drawn carriage creaked heavily as they rolled deep into the estate grounds, “My lord has returned.” “My lord has returned to the residence.”

Whether in the samurai quarters or the secluded chambers where women resided, there was such a flurry of activity that even the murmuring water sounds in the spring hall seemed to take on a more formal tone. "Well,"

In a booming voice—as if physically shedding restraint—Kiyomori would address the welcoming retainers thus. As the carriage curtain was raised, “Well done,” he said, then abruptly stepped down.

He was of small stature. Yet he made a show of martial bravado. Even when attending court in the morning, despite his small stature, there was an air about him of looking down upon the pliant court nobles, so those subjected to his gaze somehow felt—

(Putting on airs)

they were provoked to feel antipathy. Yet as proof this was never deliberate, those of his household and intimates, conversely—

(If only he would carry himself with more magnanimity and gravitas...) This became evident from how they occasionally grumbled about his excessive indifference to decorum and failure to project proper authority. At times, even his dignified heir Shigemori and others would admonish him: (Why must Father comport himself with such carelessness?) to such an extent. Yet whether it was an innate flaw or something else, even when Kiyomori himself became conscious of it, the habits from his impoverished upbringing and a certain scholarly nonchalance remained unchanged.

That demeanor had suited him well enough when he was still a mere court official in his days as Governor of Aki or Harima—an amusing lord unconcerned with weighty matters—but now... The court rank of Senior Third Rank Counselor was by no means low for a warrior. Moreover, the prestige of his authority commanded widespread recognition—indeed, now that the Minamoto clan had been annihilated, there remained none who could oppose him. Though countless ministers and high officials existed in the court, both his clan and retainers knew that Kiyomori himself did not regard them as worthy of consideration.—Thus,

(If only he would carry himself with a bit more magnanimity and gravitas...) Thus they wished. His frame was small, but his voice was loud. He strode toward the inner chambers of the residence while muttering something. “Leave it for later,” and “Keep them waiting,” and “Drive them away”— these were the sorts of orders he barked.

There were many court noble visitors. It was a strange phenomenon. Since he regularly attended court, they could have met him there, yet many came to visit his private residence. Especially since the Minamoto clan’s crushing defeat in the recent rebellion, those currying favor with Kiyomori’s every breath had become obnoxiously persistent.

“What a day.” Kiyomori changed into everyday attire and, with that remark, reclined in his private chamber. His daily schedule was hectic. Though not one to tire easily, upon returning from court, he would occasionally show a weary countenance. It seemed he always carried back something ineffable and complex when attending court each morning. The conflict between court nobles supporting the Retired Emperor’s cloistered government and those upholding and revering the reigning Emperor was the root cause of those troubles. Kiyomori was engaged in their eradication, but to uproot them would scatter the blossoms. If one tried not to scatter the blossoms, the roots could not be uprooted.

"For quite some time, she has been awaiting your return. Shall I guide you there?" The attendant, judging the moment, posed that question to Kiyomori. It was said that his stepmother, the Zen Nun, was waiting in a separate room, wishing to discuss some pressing matter.

Three “What? The Zen Nun—?” Kiyomori tilted his head slightly. There seemed no discernible purpose to her visit. Though dwelling peacefully within the same Rokuhara compound at Ike-no-Tsubone, this was a Zen Nun who seldom troubled herself to cross over to Kiyomori’s perpetually bustling residence. “Very well—I shall receive her.” “No need to bring her here.” “The proper courtesy demands I go to her... She being my mother.”

The final words trailed off like a soliloquy; with a somewhat reluctant air, he altered his expression and went out.

He was said by others to be strong-willed and self-indulgent, yet he showed leniency toward his own kin and was especially deeply filial toward his parents—for he had known the taste of poverty to the very marrow of his bones. Wearing a single threadbare hemp hitatare, battered by the winter’s dry wind, he would carry his father Tadamori’s begging letters and—(Ugh, I hate this. I hate this.)

While thinking this, he went to borrow a small amount of money from court nobles like Lord Nakamikado and Lord Ōgimachi,

(Again?) they would frown, and (Don’t come back.) And even when they bestowed upon him like a pestilence god—a mere bag of millet and about one sho of salt—while hurling vile insults about "your incompetent parents" and "the desperate eyes of pauper Taira," if his parents saw even that millet and salt,

(Ah, with this, we can sustain our lives for today and tomorrow—) It was an era when his father and mother felt no resentment—rather, they rejoiced—and having been raised in this wretched household, the compassion that made him see nothing but pity whether looking right or left was not so much innate as something deepened by his circumstances. Even after his father Tadamori’s death, though she was his stepmother—the Zen Nun of Ike—serving her was no different from serving his true mother. Even down to the mansion’s servants, all held deep respect for her admirable nature in such matters.

“It is Kiyomori. I have just returned. …I’ve been so busy lately—” He entered the room where the Zen Nun was waiting and made an exceedingly courteous bow. He did not put on any imposing airs; he remained the same son as ever. “Oh…” The Zen Nun appeared flustered. Because it was all too effortless. Yet it was not an unpleasant feeling. Though he was her stepson, she felt the happiness of having a good child.

Narrowing her still-beautiful eyes even in old age, she consoled him: “You must be weary.” “No—as for bodily fatigue,” he replied, “unlike my sickly father, I remain robust. It troubles me not. But spending half a day since dawn contending with those obstinate court nobles makes my head feel as though it might turn dull.” “Someone once remarked,” she observed, “that the Councillor does possess quite a strong temper.” “Because I shouted in the palace, you see.” “It would be better not to do so.”

“I do try to restrain myself, but sometimes…”

he laughed and, “Now then, do you have some business?” “It is a matter of some urgency—” “Hmm... When you say it’s an urgent request from Mother...” “It concerns Yoshitomo’s child.” “Yoshitomo’s—” “Some time ago, Yorimori of Owari’s retainer—a samurai named Yahee Munekiyo—captured a pitiful child on the Mino Road.” “Hmm. Yoshitomo’s third son—Yoritomo, the Right Guards Lieutenant—you mean?” “That is correct.”

“That…?” “Though you’ve ordered his execution, could you not show mercy and spare him?” Kiyomori immediately shook his head. It was the unyielding rigidity of one who showed no deference even to a parent. “I refuse! It cannot be!”

IV

"Is it truly impossible?" “It cannot be done.”

“No matter what?” “This is not a matter for Mother to intervene in.”

“...” “...” The Zen Nun and Kiyomori fell into a mutual silence. An awkward silence dragged on endlessly. In the central urn, one or two red plum blossoms were beginning to open. The Zen Nun, who had been averting her gaze, suddenly teared up, “It cannot be helped... Now that the late lord is no longer in this world.”

She muttered with a sigh. Kiyomori flushed darkly, “Are you reopening old grievances?” “Even were my father Tadamori alive today, his judgment would mirror mine.” “Nay—as Kiyomori, particularly now that my honored father has departed this world, I would grant even unreasonable requests at your behest. But Yoshitomo’s child presents too grave a matter.” “Had it been courtiers like Lord Fusimi the Middle Counselor or the Echigo Lieutenant General—those soft-bred men—sparing scores of them would matter little.” “But warriors’ whelps inherit fearsome spirits by nature.”

“Were you not also a warrior’s child, my lord? What befalls others today may befall you tomorrow.” “That is precisely why. A leopard’s cub will surely grow fangs when its day comes. By nature, we of warrior blood are men who until just yesterday were left to grow wild. Even seated here upon brocade-edged mats, should they return to the wild, their nature—to whet fangs and hone claws—revives in them. In this regard—though we share the same soil—those court nobles nurtured by Heian refinement and Tenpyō culture differ from us in the forging of their blood.”

“It is not such things that this nun grieves over.”

“Then what troubles you?” “This nun cannot help but dread what posterity will say.”

“Again. Buddhist talk of cause and effect?” “Does Lord Kiyomori not already have many children of his own?” “As they are children of warrior houses, I raise them by warrior customs.”

“Yet if your own child were to end up like Yoshitomo’s son now—how would you feel as a parent?”

“Hahaha!” “This is no laughing matter. If you gaze upon how swiftly the world shifts—it might as well have been yesterday.”

“Mother.” “What is it?” “How about crossing to the women’s quarters? They’ve gathered Shirabyōshi performers from town to show Lady Morihime Saibara music—it seems quite lively over there.” “I shall take my leave.” “I see.”

Taking the lead,

“Then, I will escort you to the entrance of the south corridor.”

From a distant building came the sounds of shō mouth organs, golden bells, drums, and flutes. The Zen Nun returned dejectedly to her residence at Izumi Hall. After seeing off the Zen Nun, Kiyomori stood alone at the corner of the bridge corridor.

The view of the entire Higashiyama area seemed to exist solely for this mansion. When he looked out over the North Garden, the bright sun was warmly shining across the wide lawn of the Rose Garden all the way to the banks of the Kamo River.

Thump. Thump.

A bright sound lingered in the air. The noble children must have been playing kemari again. Through gaps in the young pines, the leather ball rose intermittently skyward.

Munemori, his third son; Tsunemasa, his cousin; and the numerous clan children branching from his lineage could be seen tumbling about fervently as they chased the kemari ball. “Fools!” Since the New Year, his disposition had abruptly changed. The samurai retainers were terrified. Perhaps Kiyomori’s mind had recalled the Zen Nun’s words. “Shoot a bow!” “Learn to ride horses! Are we children of court nobles?!”

Plum Moon Night

I

Munemori now returned from somewhere.

The horse was sweating.

Upon exiting the edge of Gojō Matsubara—where a horse track lay—he must have given it a whip there. It was not only humans—if horses were left idle in the stable for even a short time, even the finest steed would prove useless when battle came. That is why horse training was a samurai’s daily task. “Hey” “Yeah…”

All those coming and going were Rokuhara warriors. While some could pass by with a mere bow from horseback, Munemori, being a vassal of a vassal, had to dismount and perform the courtesy each time he encountered members of Kiyomori’s clan or renowned direct retainers.

“Fujizō.”

he said to the young groom. “Yes, sir.” “Today again, an especially large number of our clan members and court nobles are passing through.” “It’s not limited to today, sir.” “No, truly, the world is far too honest these days.” “Ever since the Minamoto clan’s downfall appeared certain, Rokuhara’s gates have been thronged with a constant stream of ox-drawn carriages, horses, palanquins, and the like—so much so that the traffic along Yamato Avenue has utterly transformed from what it once was.” “Turn to the side.” “Shall we take the back alley?”

“A quiet path is fine.” “Here and there, the plum blossoms have begun blooming in full.” This was the site around Naranda-ji Temple mentioned in The Tsurezuregusa. Through the plum grove came into view the ancient azure hall of Rokuhara Jizō. After proceeding a short distance, they found a pond. “Cool its legs.” Munemori dismounted from his saddle upon reaching the edge of the pond. With a knowing look, “Right away, sir.” At once, Fujizō pulled the unsaddled horse by its bridle and submerged its legs into the water at the pond’s edge. After a vigorous ride, cooling the horse’s legs in this manner was considered proper. People returning from the horse track often made their way here for this purpose, so the locals of this area called it the “Horse-Cooling Pond.”

There was a time when this pond too had bustled with Minamoto warriors and their horses. Munemori suddenly reached out his hand and, careful not to dislodge the blossoms, gently snapped off a plum branch blooming at the pond's edge. "Fujizō, take it around back to the stable—I shall go ahead." Munemori began walking on foot. The residence of his master, Taira no Yorimori, Governor of Owari, stood not far off. As provincial governor, Yorimori remained constantly stationed in Owari. Thus the place stood nearly empty.

Nevertheless, for some time now, at both the front and rear gates of that residence, about ten armored soldiers each had stood guard. There was a severity utterly unlike the surrounding tranquility. The glinting light of bare spears revealed three or four men patrolling outside the earthen wall at intervals, yet within the residence—as silent as a temple—a nightingale trilled on and on.

“Has there been any change?”

Munemori asked the gate guards. “Nothing to report.”

Nodding at the soldier’s answer, Munemori proceeded straight through. At the middle gate as well, soldiers were stationed.

“Welcome back, my lord.” “Hmm.” The soldiers also fixed their eyes on the plum branch he was carrying. Even those without sensibility must have recognized its elegant form. He carried it through to an innermost chamber deep within. The fragrance of incense hung perpetually in the air.

“Lord. Are you well?” he said. From within the room came a youthful voice—Yoritomo’s—responding.

“Yahyōe?” A still-youthful voice answered.

It was the prisoner Yoritomo, who had been captured at Sekigahara and confined here since some time ago.

II

Yoritomo spread out a round cushion and sat as properly as a wooden carving. His face was plump and full-cheeked, yet like his father Yoshitomo, it tended toward being long. Generally speaking, the people of the Minamoto clan had sturdy limbs and long faces with prominent bones. It was often slandered by the Taira side as being akin to Nanbu horses in lineage, and indeed, such a tendency was not entirely absent. The white kosode of mountain silk and wisteria-purple noble’s hakama had been provided since his arrival here; yet judging by how he himself folded them each morning and evening, their creases still remained sharp.

“You must be bored.” Yahyōe Munekiyo sat facing him and offered gentle consolation. At the corner of his lips, Yoritomo formed a faint smile. “No.” He shook his head quietly. That luxuriant black hair lingered poignantly in Munemori’s vision.

It was not just his hair. Those eyes like February’s azure sky, those vermilion lips, those pearl-white teeth—to think all these would soon lie buried made them unbearable to behold. “What were you doing today?” “I was reading works like Bai Juyi’s poetry from Tang and Sima Qian’s *Records of the Grand Historian* that I borrowed.” “Between the *Records of the Grand Historian* and poetry books—which do you find more engaging? Which do you prefer?”

“Poetry does not satisfy me.” “Then does Sima Qian’s *Records of the Grand Historian*—documenting Cathay’s dynastic rises and falls—speak more to your heart than verses by Li Bai or Bai Juyi?” “Huh…” He had begun to nod, but meeting Munemori’s gaze, Yoritomo’s words grew muddled. “Even should I claim fondness for it, I cannot say it moves me deeply.” “Then what reading stirs your heart most?” “............”

He did not answer for a while.

His intelligent-looking eyes, round and staring fixedly, appeared to be deep in thought. The room was damp with the scent of incense and dimly lit, but within Yoritomo’s eyes, the spring world outside was reflected in full, like a lake.

“It’s the sutras.”

Eventually, with an innocent face, he answered Munekiyo’s question.

“If you have any sutras transcribed in kana, please lend them to me next time.” “Hmm—young as you are, why this fondness for sutras?” “My late mother often took me to Seiryō-ji Temple in Sagano. I found peace with the priest of Nakagawa too. Not long ago, I went to Kurodani and heard teachings from a young monk named Hōnen Genkū.” “And then…?” “Well… before I knew it, listening to sutra explanations became what I loved most.”

And while bowing his head— “I…” “If by some chance I am spared execution and allowed to live, I wish to enter a temple like Mount Hiei or Seiryō-ji and devote myself to the Buddha.” “When it comes to places to dwell, temples are what I love most.” he said.

Munekiyo caught sight of the small desk in the corner of the room. It was not an ancestral tablet, but a bowl of water had been offered. Pitifully, even while in captivity, he appeared to be performing morning and evening memorial services for the spirits of his father and brothers—

To doubt every word spoken by a mere fourteen-year-old boy, probing for hidden depths—wasn't this adults' perverse habit, that very cunning which corrupts humanity? Munekiyo found himself reflecting—no, rather, whenever confronted with Yoritomo's bearing, he would find his assumptions dismantled against his will.

III “Lord. To comfort your eyes, I brought back a branch from those blooming by Umaarai Pond.” “Please place it wherever you like.” Munekiyo retrieved it from the veranda’s edge, came forward displaying the branch’s form, and placed it in Yoritomo’s hands.

“Ah,”

Yoritomo opened his mouth and rejoiced. Truly like a boy, "They're already blooming... outside." "There's a bronze vessel over there. Let me draw water for you." "I'll do it myself."

He appeared profoundly pleased. With his own hands, he arranged it in an ancient bronze vase and placed it beside the small desk where water for memorial rites was offered,

“What a lovely scent—” And, sniffing the floral scent, he rejoiced.

“Yahyōe.” “Yes.” “I have one more request to make.”

“What might that be?”

“Will you grant it?” “Please do tell.” “Might I be granted a small knife and a piece of wood?”

“A small knife...” “Then tomorrow marks the thirty-fifth day memorial service for my father Yoshitomo. I wish to carve small memorial tablets as an offering.”

“Ah… Has it truly been so many days already?” Munekiyo, feeling compassion,

“As you are a prisoner in person, I cannot grant you a blade, but I shall see that your wishes are met.” He promised. After withdrawing to his room, he had his retainer Tanba Fujizō prepare a hundred small stupas and take them to Yoritomo’s cell. When this was done, Yoritomo showed an expression of deep satisfaction, “I will not forget this.”

and once more had Fujizō convey through his words the depth of his gratitude.

“What can I say—how pitiable.” “I wish to somehow spare your life, but…”

Secretly, Munekiyo was agonizing. No, it was not merely deliberation; as a suitable advisor, he had secretly turned to Lady Ike—who was both the mother of his lord Owari no Kami Yorimori and Kiyomori’s stepmother—for counsel. Since the Zen Nun was a devout Buddhist and had long been known for her compassion, when he visited her a few days prior under the pretext of conveying his lord’s news and broached various rumors about Yoritomo, she—

(Poor soul—) Tears welled in her eyes, (How does he fare day to day?) (What of his temperament?) As she pressed with question after question, Munekiyo answered freely— (I see.) —and she released a heavy sigh.

Then, the next day—under the pretext of returning from his daily temple visit—Yorimori suddenly stopped by the vacant residence. Though it was not an official matter, he quietly looked at Yoritomo. And then he gave Yoritomo some sweets and took his leave. This nun’s son, Umanosuke Iemori, who had died seventeen years prior—Yoritomo resembled him so closely they might have been twins. If Umanosuke were still alive—the thought came unbidden, and tears spilled forth uncontrollably. This was the Zen Nun’s reminiscence when Munekiyo later visited Izumi-dono, and furthermore,

(Even if it proves futile, I shall beseech Lord Kiyomori from this nun's position to somehow spare Yoritomo's life.) she had declared. Relying on this pledge, Munekiyo waited yesterday and waited still today—though the execution date had already been fixed for the thirteenth of this month—keeping Yoritomo uninformed while desperately clinging to hope for favorable tidings from the Zen Nun.

IV

Unable to wait any longer, Munekiyo visited Izumi-dono the following day and requested an audience with the Zen Nun. The Zen Nun, before Munekiyo could even broach the subject, had already discerned his purpose, “What am I to do? This nun’s power holds no more words of entreaty.” the Zen Nun said dejectedly. And even as she shed tears, lamenting Kiyomori’s heartlessness—for the thirteenth day, when Yoritomo’s head would be struck from his body, was now fast approaching—

“No, no,”

Munekiyo shook his head and encouraged the Zen Nun, “That Lord Kiyomori is said to be a heartless man is merely the world’s opinion; in truth, he must surely be a tender-hearted soul exceedingly vulnerable to emotion. Yet if he were to lead the Taira clan and govern the realm on a grand scale, he could not afford to do so. Knowing his own vulnerability, he deliberately assumes an air of heartlessness—or so I believe.” “But this time,” the Zen Nun replied, “no matter how this nun pleads, he will not grant it.”

“Would Your Ladyship perhaps deign to write a letter?” “A letter?” “Yes. To Lord Komatsu.” The Zen Nun relaxed her brows. “You think so as well? This nun too had concluded there was no recourse left but to seek Lord Komatsu’s aid.” “Munekiyo will make haste and humbly serve as your messenger.”

The Zen Nun immediately wrote a letter. Carrying that, Munekiyo visited the nearby Lord Komatsu—the residence of Kiyomori’s eldest son Shigemori. And having met with Shigemori, he thoroughly conveyed the Zen Nun’s great compassionate heart. No—even the profound sympathy Munekiyo himself held for Yoritomo was conveyed to Shigemori as though they were the Zen Nun’s own words.

Upon reading the letter, Shigemori,

“Understood.”

he said.

His face did not look so troubled. "I humbly beg you to exert your influence."

Munekiyo pressed his forehead to the ground with desperate intensity, clinging as if his own child's life hung in the balance— But then he remembered: even as a low-ranking retainer, he remained a Taira samurai. To show excessive zeal would only damage Yoritomo's chances and cast unwarranted suspicion upon himself.

“If the plea for mercy is not heeded by Lord Rokuhara, this humble one requests to serve as the executioner for the beheading on the thirteenth day.” Muttering such excuses, he took his leave from the gate—but then, once he had passed through Lord Komatsu’s gate,

He shouldn't have said those unnecessary things. The only one who wanted to save Yoritomo was the Zen Nun. If Lord Komatsu perceived that samurai across society and ordinary folk seemed indifferent, his lordship's disposition might naturally grow colder..." Munekiyo lamented. Without retainers or even a horse, he had come walking from Komatsudani. The evening moon hung pale.

A sweetly scented breeze brushed against sleeves and faces. The plum blossoms by the roadside were whiter than the moonlight. “Yahyōe. Are you still walking?”

Suddenly called out to from behind, he looked up in surprise—it was Shigemori.

Shigemori said from horseback.

“Take the horse’s bit. Just the right time. I shall now go to meet Father, but on the way, with your guidance, I will stop to see Yoshitomo’s child in the secluded place.” Munekiyo answered with a gasp of joy and ran to grasp the horse’s bit. He felt astonishment at how Shigemori—who usually kept withdrawn like a timid man—had rushed out with such urgency, appearing immediately after his leave-taking. Gratitude warmed the corners of his eyes.

Five

It was a mansion without its master.

The night was all the more desolate, the lamplight’s shadows falling only upon the room where distant attendants waited. While walking ahead along the long veranda, Munekiyo, “Would Your Lordship perhaps deign to offer some words?” he quietly inquired of Shigemori, who was approaching from behind. Shigemori said quietly, “Depending on how things are at that moment.” he said. They had guided him into the secluded room where Yoritomo was. No lamps had been placed there to begin with. Though spring had come, the night was still cold, yet the lattice shutters had been left open. The still-low evening moon was streaming in from the large veranda, yet they seemed reluctant to close it.

“This is your chamber.” Even when Munekiyo whispered to him, Shigemori stood on the wide veranda there—but upon casting a single glance at the figure within the room, he remained as still as if frozen, offering no nod.

Yoritomo was sitting. The moonlight shone pure white up to his knees resting on the round cushion. Having requested them from Munekiyo the day before, he now placed beside himself the hundred small wooden stupas received as alms. Gripping one in his left hand and a brush in his right, he inscribed invocations for the souls' repose on each one to mark his father Yoshitomo’s thirty-fifth-day memorial service tonight—his fingers seemingly numb to the cold. "...?"

Suddenly. Sensing someone’s presence, he stopped his brush and raised his round eyes. The eyes directed at the moonlight glinted. But the person standing on the wide veranda watching him, silhouetted against the moon, was nothing but a black shadow. ………… Munekiyo, crouched at Shigemori’s feet, held his breath and waited—expecting him to say something, anything—but Shigemori remained as silent as stone, never uttering a word.

…………

Yoritomo, too, remained silent. No wonder. If footsteps other than Munekiyo’s approached, he must have thought they were people coming to kill him. After a moment, seeming to realize that the person had not come to harm him, Yoritomo silently bowed his head toward Shigemori’s figure. In response, Shigemori also bowed his head courteously and then, for the first time, spoke to Munekiyo. “Have the night’s provisions been arranged to ward off the cold?” “Yes. Sufficiently to ward off the cold.”

“And the meals?” “As for fish dishes, they have not been prepared; the rest are arranged as per the usual custom.” “Did you arrange those plum blossoms in the vase? I find your thoughtful consideration most elegant.” “I am most humbled.” “Young scion of Lord Yoshitomo.” Then he turned kindly toward Yoritomo and said, “You, despite your youth, perform the memorial rites so diligently. Do you miss your late father?” “I miss him dearly.” “If you die, you could meet him. Is that what you believe? Do you wish to die so you might see your father again?”

“I do not think so.” “What do you think?” “Dying is most terrifying.” “There is nothing as terrifying as dying.” “But you did go out to battle, did you not?” “During the battle… I was simply in a daze.” “If you live—what kind of person would you wish to become?” “I wish to become a disciple at Seiryō-ji Temple.” “If I become a monk…” Still gripping the brush, he bent his arm and pressed it against both eyes, bursting into muffled sobs.

“Forgive me.” “I asked a heartless question.” “…Forgive me…” Shigemori turned his face away. Seeing a pale streak trace down his cheek in the moonlight，Munekiyo secretly steeled his resolve. He felt that Wako would survive.

The Buddha’s Child and the Mortal

I

The night watchmen stationed close to their lord’s tent naturally heard every word， and Kiyomori’s voice even carried to the waiting areas of the opposing quarters and distant retainers. “Fool!” “Foolish!”

This was a phrase often heard and not unusual, but— “—How dare you address your father like this?!” Such a rebuke was not something that should ever escape from the mansion of Rokuhara-dono, a Senior Third Rank Counselor, even momentarily. Such words would be beneath even lowly commoners. From the central shinden hall to the flanking taiya wings, the northern moya main house, and even the innermost oku no tsubone chambers—as if a nue had emerged from the clouds in the night sky—everything fell utterly silent, hushed into stillness. The night grew later, and because of that, Kiyomori’s voice became all the more grating.

“Shigemori. “You are a child.” “You are my child!” “No matter how much you act wise—”

“Yes, I am aware.” “What do you mean by those words? How dare you call your parent a merciless, heartless rakshasa? Could any child grow without mercy?!”

“I have no recollection of slandering Father as a rakshasa or any such thing.” “My ears were ringing.” “Don’t twist my words!” “I have a fiery temper.” “But you might as well have hurled insults without uttering a word!” “I did not insult you.”

“This is tedious.” “Enough with trivialities.” “In argument, I can’t best you.—But hear me again.” “Even should Her Ladyship the Nun command it—the impermissible remains impermissible.” “Outrageous!—To let Yoritomo live…” “…………” “Waro, can’t you see? “Consider—he’s Yoshitomo’s third son.” “Though second-born Tomochō and eldest Yoshihira stood above him, their father deliberately bypassed both to grant this third son the ancestral *Higekiri* blade and Genji birth robe—doesn’t that prove the boy’s extraordinary nature?” “A father knows his child best.”

“But… Father”

“Shut up. Wait!” Suppressing it once more, he imbued his lament with the resonance of a recited poem, “A father knows his child best—” “Shigemori, you too will come to understand soon enough.” “That is precisely why we must show mercy here—even for the Zen Nun’s sake.” “You blame everything on the Zen Nun, but in truth, Waro—it’s you yourself who, despite your youth, dabbles solely in Buddhist matters and delights in mimicking monastic ways. This half-baked wisdom of yours—this petty compassion fixated on reincarnation and karma and Buddha-mind enlightenment—you wish to apply it raw to the living world. That’s your true heart as I see it.” “—Do not err.” “The world is moving! Humans are living beings!” “In the lulls between war and politics, by all means indulge in your Buddhist diversions.” “But do it within the temple halls or Lord Komatsu’s mansion.—Do not bring such matters before Kiyomori.”

Kiyomori flushed red and spoke. He thought he had said it again and again—had ranted it vehemently.

Yet when he licked his parched lips and looked back at Shigemori, his expression remained as clear as water unclouded by even the slightest sediment—unchanged from the very beginning to this carved moment.

“Yes. As you’ve discerned, Father—this is not merely the Zen Nun’s wish, but mine as well.” “For I consider both our clan’s future and your standing among men.” “After the Hōgen Rebellion, when Lord Shinzei—driven by long-held grudges—slaughtered without mercy every soul tied to the defeated side, young and old alike, what became of him?” “For those of us born to warrior houses and destined to die by the sword, even our enemies’ fates cannot be strangers’ affairs.”

“What are you saying! It’s precisely because I don’t want to make Waro and the others do such things that I—”

“If compassion toward children counts—even beasts possess such instinct.” “It’s not as though you alone—”

“Enough of your sermons!” “Silence!”

After letting out a final roar, Kiyomori covered his ears with both hands.

“I am so overwhelmed by this compassion and human feeling that it bewilders me.” “Don’t speak!” “Don’t speak another word!”

Two

Of course, likes and dislikes between strangers differ by nature, but even one’s own child can be an object of aversion. Kiyomori had always rather disliked his eldest son Shigemori.

It was because he only ever spoke straightforwardly. Worldly matters—particularly those involving politics—could not be managed as Shigemori proposed. Moreover, Kiyomori found it distasteful how someone would constantly invoke Buddhist doctrines or Confucian teachings. While revering Buddha was acceptable and scholarship deserved respect, he had concluded that in the midst of visceral political struggles and battlefield chaos, such things would only become mental obstructions rather than practical assets. He maintained that while one might employ Buddhism and Confucianism for political purposes, to devote oneself and become trapped in philosophies devised by others was utterly preposterous.

Kiyomori had been endowed with his very life and character to be born into this era and this land; thus, to live out his days as he was and meet his end would be to fulfill heaven’s divine mission. If Confucius deems this impertinent—let him say so! If the Buddha laments this as heresy—let him lament! I too am one of the distant descendants of Amatsuhiko. Who would pray for the hell of this land? Who would weigh the suffering of these very people? He was truly acting for the good of the peasantry and all people. In his heart, there was not a shred of duplicity as he reverently prayed for the eternal prosperity of Amatsuhiko. For that purpose, he would mow down all hindrances. He would become a heretic; he would become a heavenly demon. Moreover, without bearing such a countenance, one could never prevail in the political strife and battles of this age. One might say it would be better to live as a hermit—but for Kiyomori, there was no purpose in living if he were to become a recluse and do nothing but gaze at the moon and flowers. “Because I am someone who cannot become a hermit,” he honestly acknowledged his own nature and declared.

Yet while his self-assertions of that nature—when proclaimed to his clan and vassals—were met with reverent awe from all who listened, when directed at Shigemori alone, they elicited only a silent response: a gaze of cold disdain and a faint, wry smile from those discerning eyes.

If he were to speak— Shigemori’s wisdom and erudition would—as effortlessly as twisting an infant’s hand—calmly and methodically refute his father’s crude, shallow assertions, utterly demolishing them without leaving a single flaw. Though Shigemori remained utterly filial, never once overstepping even momentarily—to his father Kiyomori, it felt as though he might do just that. For even as a parent, he could not help but acknowledge the ways in which his son surpassed him. But children who surpass their parents rarely bring them joy.

Moreover, Kiyomori was still young—or at least considered himself so. Having finally escaped poverty and surpassed others, he now felt—past forty—that he was beginning to experience the youth others had lived through in their younger days. He burned with vigor. He would sketch out grandiose plans spanning all Japan, then turn around and obsess over trivial matters of food and clothing—his desires flaring relentlessly. He would voraciously devour his meals until stuffed, and even before his clan and children, casually indulge in talk of women. Yet when noticing Shigemori among them—perhaps frowning in disdain—he would abruptly steer the conversation elsewhere.

In any case. Given such a father and son, anyone would have thought Shigemori alone was the most suitable candidate to plead for Yoritomo’s life—yet when faced with reality, it only exacerbated Kiyomori’s irritation and obstinacy. Shigemori, too, much like the Zen Nun, wordlessly returned through the plum-blossom cold midnight to his residence in Komatsu Valley—a futile effort.

It was around two days later.

It was when Tokiwa, who had been hidden at the Kujō-in residence with her three children, came forward to declare her intent to surrender to Rokuhara.

Three From the day he heard that Lady Tokiwa had been captured， Kiyomori repeatedly— “Where have you been until now? How did you manage to hide?” and， “Have you brought the children?” and， “Is she worn out?”

He pressed the samurai retainers and tribunal officials who occasionally appeared with such questions repeatedly and earnestly. From the tribunal, they soon forwarded to Kiyomori a detailed deposition from her interrogation—accompanied by a request for instructions on her punishment—in the same format used for ordinary criminals. Then Kiyomori, extremely displeased with the officials’ handling, reproached them: “After all, she was Yoshitomo’s beloved. Even though she has an infant at her breast, you don’t place her in the tribunal’s prison cell—why haven’t you cleared out even a single room among the samurai quarters for her?”

and chastised their heartlessness, “I will conduct the interrogation. “We’ll hold it in the west wing. “Bring her at once.”

And they were unexpected words. The officials, having previously caught wind of Kiyomori’s merciless disposition toward Yoritomo, had treated Tokiwa with even greater severity to align with their lord’s presumed intentions. But when reality diverged from their expectations, they grew deeply flustered; by the time they escorted her to the estate’s lower quarters, they soothed and comforted her as though she were an honored guest. “Give her a seat.” At Kiyomori’s words, the samurai began spreading a rush mat in the garden at the foot of the stairs,

“Up here. Here is fine,” he said hurriedly. —‘Up here’? When [the official] looked up at Kiyomori’s face as if doubting—Kiyomori jerked his chin toward the upper veranda—so the official replied deferentially, “Hah!”

“Please come up.” They urged Tokiwa.

Tokiwa could not lift her face. The nursing infant remained oblivious, but Imawaka and Otohime, the two older children, were utterly terrified from two nights in a prison cell. They did not stray even an inch from their mother’s lap. “By His Lordship’s command. Please come up and take a seat on the floor.” When she still did not rise, the official urged her again. Tokiwa soothed and coaxed the two children, finally managing to sit down at the edge of the veranda, her face mostly downturned. The mother and her three children huddled together like baby birds in a nest, curled up small.

Unfamiliar, frightening men stood imposingly on either side of Kiyomori, so Imawaka and Otohime clung to their mother’s lap with such force they might have dug their nails into her. "…………" Kiyomori compared the young ones with Tokiwa’s haggard face. This was not his first time seeing Tokiwa. From her days serving at Kyūjō-in—when her beauty had been renowned—he had often caught glimpses of her. Both the late Yoshitomo and Kiyomori had always been quick to notice women. Whenever warriors’ conversations turned to which bureau housed what sort of ladies or how such-and-such a Middle Counselor’s daughter fared, Minamoto and Taira alike would clamor boisterously, distinctions between them forgotten.

And they would steal away women loved by others for their amusement, flaunting such conquests as honors second only to leading the vanguard in battle. In Tokiwa's case too, it had been no different. At that time, Kiyomori had been but an obscure official in plain robes, while Yoshitomo stood at the zenith of his power. But now— The reversal was too drastic. Even Kiyomori could not maintain an impassive countenance. After a long pause, he finally addressed Tokiwa directly.

“Is your milk flowing? ...Is your milk plentiful?”

Four He was Lord Rokuhara—both feared by all and the subject of towering rumors. Given that this was Kiyomori, one might have expected some kind of fierce interrogation—but contrary to such assumptions, “Is your milk flowing?” This question being the first thing uttered, Tokiwa must have been taken aback, while the samurai retainers and officials at the tribunal sat in stunned silence, their expressions blank.

“…………” Since she held Ushiwakamaru in one arm and could only brace her other hand against the floor, Tokiwa faintly shook her head. Kiyomori nodded, “It doesn’t come out?” “That must be so.”

and muttered again as if to himself,

“My mother too, in our days of poverty, was troubled because her milk would not come.” “Mothers are foolish creatures—they pretend that meager scraps are a proper meal, feed their husbands, give to their crawling children, and go without eating themselves, only to have their nursing infants beg for milk.” “It was unbearable.” “…………” “Even the beauty that once captivated Yoshitomo—alas—has been reduced to such haggardness, with not a trace left of its former radiance.”

His lament was genuine. Alas—it had sprung from the depths of his heart.

“Tokiwa.” “...Yes.” “You seem to be trembling, but there’s no need to fear anything. You bear no guilt. The battle was the doing of Kiyomori and Yoshitomo.”

“…………”

“It’s not for women to understand matters of statecraft, but Yoshitomo’s folly was what brought fortune to Kiyomori.” “He was a man who amounted to nothing more than a military official—lacking political acumen like Kiyomori’s—yet meddled in court nobles’ power struggles; one might say that was the root of his downfall.—Pitiable though it may be for clan kin and you who knew nothing of this—such is the way of warrior houses.—Yet Kiyomori has no intention of slaughtering even ones like you.” “Rest assured.”

“...If...” “...If...!”

Tokiwa desperately screamed.

“I do not consider my own life in the least bit precious... Have mercy. Please spare the lives of my young lords!” He did not wait for her to finish speaking. With a roar so thunderous it seemed as though a different man had bellowed,

“Don’t push your luck!” “Wench!” “…………”

“If you show mercy, they grow insolent at once.” “A detestable habit of women!” “You were ever a lowborn serving girl of Kujō-in—even Yoshitomo’s favor made you naught but a flower plucked beyond the gates.” “Yet these children you clutch bear true Minamoto blood—all sons besides.” “I cannot permit them to live.”

At that fearsome visage and harsh voice, Imawaka began to sniffle. Otohaka also began to cry. Tokiwa remained prostrate. Kiyomori was glaring fixedly at that black hair, but— “Tch, what a foolish thing.”

And then, as if regretting something, he abruptly stood up,

“To the lower house. Retreat.”

After commanding the officials, he shook his head as though trying to block out the sound even with his ears and retreated behind the curtained dais in the main hall.

The lower house lay beyond a long corridor, far across the rear garden, but even from there in the dead of night, it seemed the crying of a nursing infant could be heard. Of course, that might have been due to Kiyomori’s ears. This was because he appeared unable to sleep through the night. "If only I had been born into a family that knew neither the depths of society nor poverty, such worries would not exist," Kiyomori thought. Contrary to his usual habit, Kiyomori arose early the next morning,

“Summon Lord Komatsu.” He dispatched a retainer to fetch Shigemori.

Five

In the room filled with morning light, Shigemori saw his father's face.

"What troubles you?" “Hmm… My head feels heavy.” “You must be exhausted. When you rise each morning to numerous vexing matters, even the Zen Nun has expressed concern.” “Did you meet with the Zen Nun?” “Yes. Regarding that recent matter—” “Does she still grieve over that affair?” “She refuses to relent. She spoke of memories of her late true son and matters concerning Yoritomo—was questioned about them too—and pleaded with such earnestness it seemed she’d never yield.”

“She must have resented me as a heartless man.” “Though she does not give voice to it.” “—Shigemori.” “Yes.” “In the previous war—the Hōgen Rebellion—Shinzei the monk acted decisively, hunting down his political enemies and remnants to slaughter them all. …But as I lay awake last night thinking—the results had backfired.” “By killing needlessly, he couldn’t have retained public favor.” “The reason hearts drifted from Shinzei was his excessive resolve—not a tear to be found there.”

“Hmm…” “In this recent conflict, Shinzei himself became the target of hatred—his Nishinotōin estate was set ablaze first, he was hunted down in flight, and met a violent end at Minamoto no Mitsuyasu’s hands in Tahara’s wild fields.” “A fitting retribution for his brutal executions—now there’s none left to mourn him.” “Shall we call this the wheel of transmigration?” “Or perhaps karma’s cycle?” “Enough with your Buddhist prattle.” “This isn’t some tea-house gossip.” “Last night—I pondered deeply.” “Shinzei’s methods and their consequences in society.” “—No good.” “A flawed strategy.” “No way to win hearts.” “Compare this to how we handled the Yoshitomo clan’s aftermath—”

“Hoh…”

Shigemori smiled and nearly blurted out—"Did you realize?"—but his father’s temperament disliked receiving counsel from others. Even if he were to act on another’s counsel, he would not carry it out unless it was first made to appear as arising from his own consideration and will—knowing this trait of his, “Your will is as you say.” “Truly, Your reasoning has struck true.” he chimed in agreement.

Then, Kiyomori said,

“I see. “So you think that way too, Waro?” “If one wishes to achieve greatness，one must properly bestow benevolence.—Even if we execute a mere child like Yoritomo，it would only cause the world to frown.” “I will spare his life.” “Sentence him to exile.”

“Wh—” “In that case.” Rather than that calm composure, it was Shigemori who felt outmaneuvered. Having said this, his father’s face displayed a crisp dawn-like glow through its rouge.

“Your Lordship has shown great compassion.” “If the Zen Nun were to hear of this, one can only imagine how delighted she would be.”

“Then let us proceed to Izumiden at once.” “I’ve performed one act of filial piety.” “Ah, this is truly a splendid morning.”

Shigemori, too, felt refreshed. He had never harbored such a sublime sentiment toward his father beyond familial affection. To Shigemori, who was now promptly and gladly preparing to depart,

“Ah.” “And also—” With that, Kiyomori delivered this command as well, with utmost simplicity.

“Incidentally, release Lady Tokiwa as well—she who surrendered herself to the tribunal. But since all the children are boys, have them enter temples. As for the suckling infant, if torn away immediately, it would cry itself to death. Grant the mother a reprieve of about a hundred days, then send it up to Mount Kurama or such.”

Spring Dawn

I

Last night, Yoritomo had been discreetly counseled by Masakiyo to prepare himself for the end.

“When the time comes, it’s vital you keep a heart ready to die at any moment anchored here”—Masakiyo pressed his own chest—“so you may meet your end without shame.” “For you to become the world’s mockery would disgrace not just the Minamoto.” “It would shame all samurai.” “I believe… I can die well enough.” Yoritomo raised his palms before his face. “If I simply press them together like this…” He spoke with his usual calm directness. Seeing no trace of panic in him, Masakiyo felt some measure of relief.

When Yoritomo rose this morning as well, he sat alone in the dim cell, his face bearing the look of someone deep in thought. The thirteenth day was that day. Today’s my execution day. He knew that.

It was as if he were afraid, yet also as if it were nothing at all—such was his state.

The warbler’s song struck his ears again this morning.

And— The shadow of the warbler darted through the garden’s sunlight like a war arrow. The sound of urgent footsteps racing along the veranda seemed to startle him. “……Have they come?”

Yoritomo’s face turned as white as wax. Even his eyes began to betray a panicked glint. “My Lord.”

It was Masakiyo. Seeing him there, Masakiyo spoke with a voice brimming with excitement. “Rejoice. “I cannot yet say what it is, but today, good news shall come.—Good news.” Even still, his trembling showed no sign of subsiding quickly, and he could not comprehend the meaning of it all—but after Masakiyo left those words behind—“Lord Komatsu will soon arrive here”—finally, “Ah... Could it be?” Yoritomo realized, and suddenly began to feel as though he could no longer keep his body there.

Terrified, utterly terrified—for the next half-day or so, he wanted to break out of this cage and flee, not a moment longer. Around the Hour of the Horse. When Lord Komatsu Shigemori appeared and conveyed to Yoritomo that his life would been spared through the intercession of the Zen Nun of Ike and Kiyomori’s mercy, Yoritomo burst into sobs and repeatedly— “Oh, thank you very much.” he expressed heartfelt gratitude. His gratitude had been genuine, but seemingly ashamed of having wept in such an undignified manner moments later, he straightened his posture and formally clasped both hands before him.

“I know not where I am to be exiled, but please convey my respects to the Zen Nun Lady.” “No—before that, I shall arrange for you to have an audience where you may express your gratitude directly.” When Shigemori departed, that evening, officials from Rokuhara arrived bearing the formal decree: Exile to Izu Province.

On March 20th, he was to depart from the capital and be sent to the place of exile. They delivered these two decrees. One could only imagine how eagerly Yoritomo awaited that day’s arrival. From the dim cell, he gazed only at the sky. As the day approached, Masakiyo, “On your journey down to Izu, escort inspectors and guard samurai from Rokuhara will accompany you, but their unkindness goes without saying. “Is there anyone—even just to accompany you partway—any relatives or connections who might be willing to do so?”

he asked. Yoritomo tilted his head slightly, seeming to earnestly try recalling names of acquaintances his father knew or retainers, but eventually shook his head and—

“There are none. Even if there were, out of fear of the Rokuhara lords, no one would come to accompany me.”

II

A notice board was erected.

A stir—what was it? Eyes that seemed to say, "What’s this?" converged upon it. In the markets, at the bases of bridges, and before the gates of Tōgoku—such crowds could be seen everywhere. “It says ‘exile.’” “Exile?” “To Izu Province.” “To Izu? “……Huh.” To the people of Kyoto, Izu was such a remote land that they could scarcely imagine what it might be like. “But, it’s better this way. Better than seeing the young lords’ heads being cut off at Kamo River again.”

Everyone there let out what seemed like sighs of relief. As for Rokuhara’s judgment— “A merciful measure”— they implicitly praised it. At that time, among the populace who had lived through the war, the figure of Kiyomori—now poised to become their governing authority—had risen suddenly and prominently in their consciousness. “If he is such a compassionate and benevolent ruler, his future governance will surely improve even further.” Intermingled with this was a sense of security.

Yet on another front, Kiyomori’s reputation was faring poorly among his own Taira clansmen. The disposition of Yoritomo’s case drew the harshest censure— “He had Yoshitomo, Yoshihira, and all the others executed—so why spare that one boy?”

“This runs counter to His Lordship’s usual thoroughness in all matters.” “They claim it was through the Zen Nun and Lord Komatsu’s intercession, yet he is not one to bend his will to others’ counsel.”

Among the young warriors, voices of discontent were rampant. To impose military force and achieve such great deeds, yet allow personal sentiments and covert dealings—this would be to paint a dragon yet omit the eyes. If one considered the future of the Taira clan, Yoritomo should not be spared—such vehement arguments were frequently heard. “But that’s not the only issue.”

Among a faction of hardliners, such remarks were voiced here and there again.

“How was Tokiwa’s punishment decided? The disposition of the three boys she has with her doesn’t appear on the notice board’s surface. We’ve heard nothing further from the tribunal since then.” It was indeed suspicious—a disposition shrouded in darkness from start to finish. “Could there be some ulterior motive behind this as well?” Rumors beget rumors.

That Tokiwa had recently been released from prison and was now safely residing in a small manor near Shichijō-Suzaku with her mother and children.

And from time to time, on nights when a palanquin of unknown ownership arrived at its gate, the gossipy commoners of the town— (Lord Rokuhara is sneaking in.) —there were those who would come proclaiming such things with exaggerated gravity, spreading these rumors as though they were indisputable truth.

Tokiwa’s beauty was renowned, and Kiyomori’s susceptibility to women was an unconcealed fact—evident even from his conduct in his younger days. Therefore, this absurd rumor was, surprisingly, not treated as mere nonsense, “Hmm. Such a thing can’t be entirely dismissed as impossible.”

Even within their own clan, there were those who half-believed it.

Amidst such worldly gossip and the movements of townsfolk who were finally beginning to forget the nightmare of war, the twentieth day of the third month arrived all too soon. Yoritomo had been moved to the Zen Nun’s Izumi Hall since the nineteenth of the previous day, and throughout the night without a moment’s sleep, he prepared for his journey to a distant place of exile while awaiting the dawn.

Three

From the front came the sound of horses neighing. Gradually, human voices and hoofbeats joined the cacophony. From Izumi Hall’s gate to its courtyard, people seemed to gather. “The night has broken,” he murmured. Yoritomo rose from his bed. At his movement, Izumi Hall’s maids slid open the lattice door and lifted the wooden shutters. Yet true dawn had not arrived. Stars still pierced the predawn darkness. “Oh! My Lord—” One maid, seeing Yoritomo tidy his own bedding, rushed over and said—

“We will take care of tidying up here.” “Rather than that, please attend to your preparations and proceed to the Zen Nun Lady’s chambers.” “Has the Zen Nun Lady already awoken?” “Yes, though she stayed up late conversing with Your Lordship last night, she has only deigned to sleep for a brief moment since then.” Yoritomo, doing as he was told, tidied his surroundings and peered into a room adjoining the veranda, “Yahē, are you up?”

and came to visit. Immediately, Munekiyo showed his face and, “Oh, Lord Saden?” and stood on the veranda, “You’ve awoken quite early.” “Last night, you were conversing with Lady Zen Nun until late—you must have had no chance to sleep.” “No, I slept plenty.” “I see. “Today marks the beginning of a long journey. Please do not allow yourself to doze off on horseback and become separated from your companions.”

“Hahaha. I’ll be fine today.” Yoritomo laughed. Munekiyo laughed along with him. For he had recalled the story of how he had dozed off on horseback and become separated from his father and clan on the snowy Ōmi road—a tale he had innocently recounted the previous night while surrounded by the Zen Nun, Shigemori, Munekiyo, and others. Innocent, indeed— After having his death sentence commuted and being sentenced to exile in Izu, Yoritomo had even begun speaking in a childlike manner. He had spent each day up until today carefree,

_I can’t wait._ _I can’t wait._ _I want to see this place called Izu Province as soon as possible,_ he had been saying.

Last night as well, from the Zen Nun, Perhaps this nun should also give you a farewell gift. “What would you like?”)

When asked this, Yoritomo— (I want a backgammon set. Because I’ll be lonely in Izu.)

When he answered thus, even at his response, the Zen Nun— (How innocent!) and she teared up. For the Zen Nun, whose uneventful years had been spent solely in Buddhist devotions, performing this act of virtue by sending Yoritomo off to the Eastern Provinces today was both a secret, profound joy and something that made her feel truly alive. “Well…” “You must be eager.” “Let us go and pay a visit to the room.” Munekiyo urged him thus, took Yoritomo, crossed the corridor of Izumi Palace—resplendent as a magnificent temple—and went to bid farewell at the Zen Nun’s chamber facing the broad flat garden.

Because it was still dim, cord-bound lampstands were lit in both the next room and beside the Zen Nun. But the chilly morning air filled the room, and the lamplight was pale. “Oh, Lord Saden—are you departing already? …How bittersweet this farewell feels.”

The Zen Nun turned toward Yoritomo and gazed intently at him for a time. Even Yoritomo found his chest tightening on this morning, at a loss for words; he remained propped on both hands endlessly.

IV

Soon, Yoritomo spoke: “By your grace, this miraculous life of mine has been prolonged. For all my lives to come, I will never forget. Even after descending to Izu, I shall pray morning and evening for Lady Zen Nun’s happiness.” Indeed, this morning he spoke with a composed demeanor, his eyes clouded by tears. As the Zen Nun—who often said he did not seem like another’s child—found herself drowning in unbidden tears at Yoritomo’s gratitude, she responded: “Well spoken. Truly, your life is under the Buddha’s protection—no human’s doing. Therefore, as this nun said last night: revere the fruits of Buddhahood, devote your heart to enlightenment, and dedicate your entire life to performing memorial services for your departed mother and father.”

“……Yes.” “Never dwell on bows, arrows, or swords—renounce all thoughts of bloodstained deeds. Even should others urge such things upon you, do not deign to listen.” “Yes.”

“People’s tongues are troublesome. Never again shall you suffer such miserable bonds. When you go down to Izu Province, immediately seek out a proper priestly guide, shave your head, and do not let this nun’s wishes come to naught……” “Yes.” The Zen Nun, appearing satisfied, smiled and turned her gaze to Munekiyo. “Might there still be some time to spare?” “I fear we cannot delay much longer, but there should be enough time to load the packhorses with your traveling belongings—”

Munekiyo answered and, showing tact, went ahead to make those preparations. After that, the Zen Nun quietly urged Yoritomo.

“There is someone wishing to see you one last time waiting in that lower house. Go and bid your farewells.”

Who? —And so Yoritomo went to the lower house. There waited three people whose faces he knew.

One was his uncle, Sukenori.

The other was a Minamoto-clan ronin who called himself Kōketsu Gengo Moriyasu.

And Hiki no Tsubone.

Indeed, there were three of them. Hiki no Tsubone was Yoritomo’s wet nurse—a woman who had been called the court lady of Tango during her time at Nijō-in. Since parting with his mother in death last March, she had become all the more precious to Yoritomo.

“…………”

Yoritomo stood rigidly, as if suppressing a surge of emotion. Hiki no Tsubone could not bring herself to properly look up at him and was doing nothing but weep, yet— “My Young Lord.” “I have come to arrange your hair.” “Please… allow this nurse to arrange your hair one last time...”

she said. Yoritomo silently turned his back and sat down, and the wet nurse combed and re-tied his hair through her tears. And then into his ear— “Today is not our final farewell… Even after you descend to the eastern provinces, this nurse will find ways to come to your side…”

she whispered. Kōketsu Gengo Moriyasu edged closer and began speaking rapidly, "My Young Lord. "My Young Lord. "By Great Bodhisattva Hachiman's divine design, your life has been miraculously spared! "No matter who commands it, you must never shave your head. "Guard this hair with all your heart." "...Yeah." Yoritomo nodded.

When the Zen Nun told him to take monastic vows, he answered "Yes"; when Kōketsu Gengo Moriyasu urged him to cherish his hair, he nodded "Yeah."

As the proverb goes, "The snare makes no sound as it captures its prey." so it is said.

He was undoubtedly an obedient child.

Five

At that moment, by the middle gate, there came a voice bellowing loudly. "What keeps you lingering, My Lord?" "Come forth at once." "The hour has come." "Make haste!" They were likely subordinates of Taira no Suetada, the inspector overseeing the escort—a voice that brooked no mercy. Inside the lower house, Yoritomo sat having his hair arranged. "Wet Nurse, enough." At this, Hiki no Tsubone—who had been lingering over combing his hair as though unwilling to part—suddenly stood up with a start, as if jolted by irritation from beneath her own ministrations.

And then, observing the sight of Hiki no Tsubone, his uncle Sukenori, and others weeping for him, "Why are you crying?" he said reproachfully. "For ordinary men being exiled to distant provinces, it may indeed be a sorrowful occasion—but Yoritomo's departure this day is a rare auspicious occasion. Should you not rejoice?" The three of them, having been told this, snapped out of their tearful expressions as if struck in an unexpected place within their hearts—but by that time, Yoritomo's retreating figure had already left the lower house and strode into the distant crowd.

Around Izumi-dono’s entrance hall, corridor gate, and main gate, a turbulent swirl of people eddied for a time. The outline of Higashiyama—mountains like Kachōzan and Nyoi-ga-take—appeared distinctly against the dawn sky, where morning sunlight streaked through cloud fissures resembling crimson banners. Yet when one emerged onto the thoroughfare and looked toward Kitayama and Nishiyama, Kyoto’s streets and the Kamo River still lay slumbering under the faint light of the waning moon. “Move!” “You at the front, advance!” “Hssst—Move!” The column began to move but did not.

Surrounding the horse carrying Yoritomo—the horses of the escort’s blue-robed samurai clashed wildly with one another.

From horseback― “Well then,” Yoritomo bowed his head once more toward the people seeing him off from Izumi-dono. The moment he did so, the clattering of hooves began to fall into unison. His own horse joined the rhythm as well. He turned around again and again. Darkly, the cluster of figures remained visible before Izumi-dono for what seemed an eternity. Among the over a dozen horsemen of the escort officials―those who appeared to have been specially exempted―the faces of his uncle Sukenori and Kōketsu Gengo were also mixed in, following from behind.

――An auspicious day. A morning of joy. There could be no more auspicious departure than this.

Yoritomo, atop the saddle, was recalling once more the words he had spoken earlier to his three close ones. As he looked up at the dawn sky dyed in gradations of crimson, he felt an irrepressible urge to burst into a dry, hollow laugh—or perhaps to bellow out a song at the top of his lungs. ――Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter

The horses' hooves fell into unison. The fourteen-year-old boy's heart leapt. He had not thought about tomorrow. He had forgotten even yesterday’s events. No—he had even forgotten that just moments ago, he had been earnestly advised by the Zen Nun to take monastic vows and had answered, "Yes." At the pommel of his saddle, he cradled a beautiful backgammon box—a farewell gift from the Zen Nun—as though it were something precious. And then, grabbing one of the guard samurai, he started talking about backgammon and such, so Inspector Suetada—

(A bit foolish?) he suspected. They approached Awataguchi. Along the tree-lined street in various places, many roadside spectators had come out to watch. Blending into the white morning mist were monks, rōnin, and townspeople who had braced their hands against the ground to see him off. Among them must have been Minamoto clansmen living in obscurity. There must have been no small number secretly shedding tears. Yet that morning, what shone as though containing all spring's joys was Yoritomo's face—the face over which many wept, crying "Innocent child!" and "Gentle Wako!" as he passed by.

Gold Dust

I

Year after year, when the snow melted, he would journey up from distant Oshu.

Accompanied by a great number of fellow merchants along with their many attendant servants and men, with dozens of horses bearing tightly bound cargo and rugged boxes fastened to their backs—the highway bells ringing solemnly—this large merchant caravan formed a winding column of people and horses entering the capital.

He was the leader of that merchant caravan, a man from Oshu's Kurihara Village named Kichiji. He was a middle-aged man in his forties and possessed a robust merchant spirit. “Kichiji passes through—” “Gold Merchant Kichiji journeys to the capital.” When word spread along the highway, it was already around April on the Tōkaidō, and the capital was adorned with cherry blossoms and fresh leaves. This year again—

The third year of Ninnan. It was the tenth year since the Heiji Rebellion and the ninth year since Yoritomo had been exiled to Izu.

His merchant caravan arrived in the capital.

Upon entering the capital, the people and horses—covered in the grime and dust of their long journey—first encamped in an open space at Sanjō Riverbed. Here, the several dozen merchants of the caravan divided their luggage among themselves, calculated their shared travel expenses, and celebrated their safe arrival in the capital without incident. “Well then, let’s meet up again in June!”

With that, they would disband the group and part ways—each heading to their respective inns in the city as they pleased—a practice that had become customary. Even though they had traveled together on the journey, their purposes regarding goods and sales routes were varied. Oshu-produced fine linen and Date silk. Eagle feathers used for arrows. Otter pelts and other types of animal hides. Lacquer. Gold leaf. Wooden goods. Nanbu horses and steeds welcomed in the capital. Such were the overlapping goods, and Kichiji handled much gold dust. The gold produced in Oshu was in limitless demand in the capital. Of course, the payment was in goods, and on the return journey, central goods would again be loaded onto the horses’ backs.

The culture of Oshu was now voraciously seeking goods from the capital. From master craftsmen’s Buddhist statues and paintings to living beauties—no matter how much they sent, it was never enough to satisfy the imports.

In that land, “Who is this Taira Chancellor?” And there was Fujiwara no Hidehira, who from afar dominated Kyoto’s power. That over three generations, the culture and goods drawn from the capital had built a metropolis in the region called Hiraizumi that rivaled even Kyoto—this was something the people of the capital often heard from merchants of this caravan, but,

“No way.” They laughed and refused to believe it.

To the people of the capital, who could only imagine even places like Musashi Plain in the Eastern Provinces or Hirugakojima in Izu as distant, dreamlike undeveloped lands,

“From there—how many hundred ri further?” Upon hearing such talk of Mutsu, they dismissed it outright as impossible lies.

“No, it is not false.” “It is entirely true.” “If Your Lordship deems it false, perhaps this humble one could accompany you when I return home this time.” “How would that suit?”

At the residence of Ichijō Tomonari, the Minister of the Treasury, Kichiji was earnestly engaged in conversation one early summer day, setting aside his business affairs.

“Ha, ha, ha. Hahaha.” The conversation partner was the master, the Minister of the Treasury. He laughed as though he couldn’t stop. Kichiji fell silent—with a look that said it was futile to speak any further. Small hakama of arrowroot cloth, a light-blue hitoe robe, and a single large travel sword—they had merely been placed in the next room.

No matter how much he inwardly prided himself on the power of gold, whenever he stood before the nobles of the capital, he was seen as nothing more than a merchant from Mutsu—and it was infuriating.

II

He could not get angry. If a merchant got angry, it was certain to end in loss.—But even without having to tell himself this, Kichiji was a seasoned veteran of such dealings. He was a master at becoming their plaything and playing the fool when dealing with court nobles and military commanders.

“Well—the horse gave birth to a foal. No, during this journey.” He suddenly brought up an absurd topic and began chuckling to himself all alone. “Have you ever seen a horse’s foal?” “As soon as it’s born, it starts walking, you know.” “Why, it’s such an adorable little thing!” “What are you talking about? Just a horse’s foal. Utterly useless.” “Utterly useless.” Ichijō Tomonari yawned, “I’ve grown rather weary of this long lecture. “If you have no business, come again.” “You’ll be staying in the capital for the time being, I suppose.”

“Yes, this time as well, until around the start of summer...” “Business?” “Indeed... By the way, regarding the request I made previously—how does it fare?” “Ah, you mean Lord Rokuhara’s construction project.” “That too—and I hear Lord Komatsu also has plans for temple complex construction.—They’ll need vast quantities of materials like gold dust, gold paste, and gold leaf, I imagine.”

“There may well be some.” “With your gracious intercession—should this Kichiji be granted your esteemed commission—I could bestow vast offerings upon your noble residence as well.”

Here, Kichiji vented some of the oppression in his chest.

If one were to look around, it indeed appeared impoverished. Wealthy court nobles were few and far between, but in this residence especially, even sitting here, one could smell the stench of poverty.

The ox-drawn carriage used for official appearances was—from what he had seen upon arrival—a shabby vehicle that hadn’t been repainted in five years, its stable oxen emaciated. The master’s coarse garments matched the tattered eaves in their worn state. “Well… Since imperial supplies fall under our purview, here’s how it would go—without any ties to Lord Rokuhara, taking on a gold merchant’s patronage would earn resentment from other traders. And public gossip would become tiresome.”

“No, no—others may not know, but given the connection between your esteemed residence and Lord Rokuhara—” “Why do you insist on such intimacy?” “Heh heh… I’m well aware,” Kichiji replied. “For years now, I’ve been granted leave to come and go at Kujō-in, attending to various matters there.” “The Kujō Empress Dowager?” “Precisely.” “What riddle is this?” “You play the fool so skillfully… This concerns your lady.” Kichiji leaned forward. “The world may have clean forgotten, but I recall each time we meet—her bearing from when Her Ladyship served at the late Kujō-in.”

“Are you speaking of my wife Yukari?” “Lady Yukari—that would be the name she took after remarrying into your esteemed house. Previously, it was certainly Lady Tokiwa.” “……” “—That was the case, was it not?”

When Kichiji leaned forward and spoke, Tomonari averted his eyes,

“Who would have secretly spread such a thing to the world? “It’s no secret at all. “By Lord Rokuhara’s decree, her remarriage to me was an open public affair. “—What are you bringing up now?”

Tomonari suddenly became thoroughly displeased. Whenever the conversation touched upon his wife’s past, it always turned out this way. For a man like Kichiji, swaying the emotions of a court noble unaccustomed to the ways of the world was easier than soothing an infant.

III

Damn it—the medicine had worked a bit too well.

Kichiji withdrew from the room the instant he thought that. "My apologies."

With that, he withdrew from the room and vanished from Tomonari’s presence for a time.

“……”

Tomonari’s displeasure still had not subsided. As if chewing on a bitter insect, he gazed vacantly toward the dazzling early summer garden’s surface.

It was already nine years ago—

When Kiyomori had told him there was a pitiable woman he might take as his second wife—since it was under Lord Rokuhara’s directive, and by accepting her he would be rescuing that unfortunate woman from her plight— (I will take her.) And so he had taken her in as his second wife along with her three children. That was Tokiwa. After becoming his legal wife, her name was changed, and each child had been sent away elsewhere under Kiyomori’s secret orders—but society,

(Nosy...) things like, (There must be some profound reason behind it) things like, (There was no need to flatter Lord Rokuhara to such lengths and scheme for promotion.) ...things like that—they were said to have been harshly backbitten as if done for some personal gain. Of course, according to societal norms, even those with Minamoto connections were expected to pander as much as possible to the Taira faction to align with the times—there was no particular need for one to take in a woman with complicated circumstances and children in tow as a second wife, however much she might be remarried. If one were to take her in, there must be some compensating benefit—probing into matters that didn’t concern them could rather be called natural.

For that reason, Ichijō Tomonari had kept his distance from Rokuhara even more than before. He had long been fully aware that frequently approaching Kiyomori and maintaining his favor was, of course, a path to advancement. Yet sensing that society viewed him with strange eyes, he deliberately kept his distance for these many years. —the current terrible poverty, the lack of advancement in rank, friends not gathering around—all were caused by that alone.

(Well, it’s fine. Even if I’m poor, I am comforted by my wife—) In return, he alone cherished his duties as a mere financial official at the Imperial Court and the unchanging mundane routine of a decade passing like a single day.—Amidst the currents of the age where all those under Lord Rokuhara’s influence shone brilliantly, achieving glorious promotions and splendid transformations, he remained solitary, honestly holding onto his wife and poverty.

Exploiting that poverty, Kichiji the gold merchant had begun approaching the private residence. He had been frequenting it since two years prior. Every time he came, (To the lady) With such words, he would bring souvenirs from Oshu. If they kept them despite themselves, he would return the following year. And again this year he came. Then in the third year, he voiced his true intent. (With your kind intercession, might I trouble you for one of Lord Rokuhara’s construction projects?)

It was a presumptuous request. That was all well and good, but by bringing up Tokiwa’s former identity, he had let slip a tone implicitly akin to society’s malicious gossip from nine years prior. Even for the good-natured Ichijō Tomonari, it was only natural that he became displeased. “…My apologies for the intrusion.” Kichiji returned unexpectedly to the room where he was. And before Tomonari’s eyes, he laid out the customary gifts as he did every year: ten bolts of Date silk and a set of lacquer buckets.

IV “Please do not trouble yourself. “I have spoken nothing but trifles. “This annual gift holds no novelty—merely a humble gesture of respect.”

After placing the gifts, Kichiji made a few light remarks and departed.

After Kichiji had left, when Ichijō Tomonari casually glanced over the Date silk and lacquer bucket gifts, an unexpected item was discovered.

It was a bag of gold dust. An amount that couldn't quite be lifted onto one's knee with a single hand. "What an audacious man..." He had been furious at the time, but as days passed, he came to consider the folly of remaining angry. Moreover, Kichiji never showed his face again for the rest of that year. From year's end through early spring, they had already used up more than half of the gold dust—and then, the snow melted. April and May were approaching. It would be around the time Kichiji the Gold Seller came to the capital. The honest Tomonari began to grow concerned. Very well. If I relay his request, that should settle it. By any measure, he had severed contact with Rokuhara far too thoroughly. This very occasion could serve as an excuse. I shall go there and try to plead for Kichiji's request once.

He directed his ox-drawn carriage, repainted at year-end, toward Rokuhara for the first time in a long while. “Are we bound for Rokuhara?”

The attendant accompanying him pressed his master for confirmation with a doubtful look.

“Yeah… To Rokuhara.” However, when he passed through the splendid gate of Nishihachijō, he felt an unpleasant sensation. Until just before the Hōgen and Heiji Rebellions, Kiyomori—who had been looked down upon as nothing more than “that one-eyed son of Aki”—had risen from Minister of the Center to Chancellor in the blink of an eye, a fact that seemed like a lie. Overwhelmed by the grandeur around him, he suddenly found himself reflecting on his own shabby appearance. “Ho. How unusual.” As he alighted from the ox-drawn carriage, he encountered Munemori, the third son of the Chancellor. If Munemori remembered him—he felt somewhat relieved—

"Is His Excellency in residence?" "He is here." "I have been remiss in paying my respects." "No need for formalities—your visit would prove futile. You see, my father is occupied today receiving envoys from the Imperial Palace and presiding over a clan council." "Ah... I see."

Tomonari found himself at a loss, his face betraying an air of utter leisure. "...Well then," he said. "I have no choice but to quietly ask this of you as well." “If this Munemori will suffice,” Munemori replied, “I shall find an opportune moment to convey it to Father.” Munemori invited him into a private room and listened to his story. Munemori had initially taken interest, thinking it might concern political affairs—but upon learning it was merely the introduction of some provincial merchant from Oshu, he began regarding it with contempt and let his attention drift halfway through.

“No, this is no time for that. Seeing your face reminded me of something.”

Then abruptly, he said something Tomonari had never anticipated. “To come straight to the point—that would be your wife’s child from her previous union. One of Yoshitomo’s surviving offspring, the youngest sent up to Kurama Temple.” “Ah yes, in the mountains, I hear he’s been given the name Lord Shana… That child called Ushiwaka.” “What has become of him?” “From both the monks of Kurama Temple and the mountain officials, frequent troublesome letters have been arriving.”

“...What kind?” “He detests monks, obsesses solely over martial arts, and at the slightest provocation, even defies his master monks.” “Regarding that matter, my wife has long been concerned as well, and she has frequently sent letters of admonition, but...” “Admonitions are one thing, but surely you’re not engaging in incitement? You wouldn’t happen to have secretly sent something like the Minamoto clan’s genealogical records from your lady to the mountains, would you?” "...After all, even His Excellency the Chancellor is enraged at this time." “If His Excellency were to see your esteemed self here now, it would be like pouring oil on flames.” “Well, for now, keep yourself scarce. More importantly, have that boy in Kurama shave his head at once.” “The only solution is to shave it all off.”

Demonic Gust I

Part I

The residence of the Shirabyōshi entertainer Suigai at Rokujōbōmon had also become Kichiji’s regular lodgings. Suigai's younger sister was named Shioon. He was Shioon’s patron.

About seven days ago, having arrived in the capital, he had settled there again this year—but he had only just fulfilled his year-long longing with Shioon and had yet to show his face anywhere in society.

When he had learned of this— “A messenger has arrived.” Then, a letter from Ichijō Tomonari was delivered into his hands. “Hah. Afraid I’d come to him, he has taken the initiative first.” When he opened it, just as Kichiji had imagined, the first matter was an excuse concerning last year’s gold. As for the requested matter, I had even begun lobbying Lord Rokuhara, but having somewhat incurred the Chancellor’s displeasure, there is no prospect under my current handling for the time being. I shall explain in detail when we meet in person—it says.

Kichiji wrote a spiteful reply and had the messenger take it. "The reason you incurred the Chancellor’s displeasure must concern that child in Kurama and these strange rumors of tengu apparitions lately making rounds. Quite the talk there seems to be. This humble one has long heard whispers from associates." "Therefore, I place no further reliance upon you either. At present I devise strategies and chart courses. Perhaps this unworthy merchant might even join those tengu ranks—indulging in fantasies of making the mortal world gasp, most unbecoming of my trade."

A mere pouch of gold dust could never hold such grand dreams.

Please rest assured, please rest assured. Then, with a thoroughly carefree expression, he repeated once more in his mind the phrases of the reply he had composed—mixing sarcasm and amusement—

"That’s exactly right," he affirmed inwardly. "...Hundreds of miles from Oshu—every yearly crossing risks my life." "If I must stake my life regardless, I'll set my sights on something monumental."

Having transitioned from daydreams to confidence, he let out a “Hmm” and began crossing his arms grandly. He seemed a man who could lose himself endlessly in imagination; he sat with closed eyes, unaware the sun had set. A man who surely walked from Oshu to the capital twice yearly, he appeared to have developed nothing but a magnanimous spirit—like an unlearned Zen monk. “Oh, what dark thoughts consume you?” Shioon brought over an ornate lamp stand, positioned it at a measured distance from his profile, and smiled with amused curiosity.

“...Has the lamp been lit?” “It isn’t dark at all.” “Ah—” He stretched and, thrusting both fists toward the ceiling, “Now that there’s light, let’s drink and make merry! Tell Suigai to come as well. Gather all the other courtesans too.” “Elder Sister has been summoned to Lord Rokuhara from tonight through tomorrow and the day after.” “Three whole days?” “Yes.” “You fool. Why bind yourself so tightly? Is there any point in living like that? Why do you constrain yourself?—What’s the worth of living that way?”

“But it’s none other than our lord. If we don’t go, we won’t survive.” “Then just you and whatever courtesans are here will do. Get drinks and instruments ready.” “I too must hurry with my makeup soon and attend Lord Komatsu’s guest reception in Komatsu Valley…” “What? You’re going too? Stop—call it off!” “If I do that…” “Say you’re ill. However much the capital’s Shirabyōshi exist for the Taira sons and clan, they wouldn’t execute a courtesan just for refusing an invitation.”

“They might do that.” “Don’t talk nonsense! What’s the Taira? What’s a samurai? The world doesn’t spin on bow and arrows alone! Who do you think makes gold’s power turn? —Don’t go, not even to this one house here. No—all the courtesans in Kyoto! I could feed every last one with just the tip of my pinky!”

II

Shioon burst into tears.

"...You keep making unreasonable demands."

When she hid in her room, she continued to sob so loudly that it reached Kichiji’s room. “This isn’t amusing.”

Kichiji had been lying sprawled out, using his arm as a pillow, but apparently unable to bear the sound any longer, he suddenly sat up once more,

“Go then! If you want to go so badly you’d cry about it—” Kichiji shouted.

In the shadow of the curtain in the distant room, “I won’t go.”

While sobbing vehemently, Shioon defiantly retorted, “Go then!” he shouted again. “I won’t go.” “I said go!” “I don’t care…” “Fine! I’ll go out first then!” Kichiji, in a fit of anger, left Suigai’s house and wandered aimlessly along the main street, with no particular destination in mind. A noble’s palanquin passed by, its blinds gently swaying. In the evening breeze, a group of beauties glided like a school of elegant fish. With a small naginata tucked under her arm and a rosary in her left hand, a nun stood peering through the gate of a weaver’s workshop.

The prosperity of the capital was commonly stated in a single phrase: over ninety thousand households within its bounds. The Hōgen and Heiji Rebellions were now a decade past, and these days, even the evenings bustled with life. However, Kichiji, compared to the Fujiwara clan's city in Hiraizumi of Oshu,

“What of—”

He walked on, summoning an unyielding spirit against everything he surveyed. Yet sadly, though Hiraizumi might be a city, it was no imperial capital. And when it came to beauties, they could only keep importing Kyoto's bloodline. None could compare to Shioon's beauty.

As for the rest—be it the grandest noble gates or the most imposing government offices—they held no power to awe him. His rebellious spirit only provoked scornful laughter. "Hmph... How long will this last?" Tonight, more than ever, that contrarian demon surged within him. Originally, his homeland had been fortified by the Fujiwara no Hidehira clan, who have been closely bound by blood to Hachimantarō Yoshiie since his time. No matter how much Chancellor Taira may dominate the central government, they do nothing in the lands of Oshu. If one were to insist on categorizing their blood as Minamoto or Taira, the Minamoto blood ran stronger.—Kichiji too was one of their adherents.

Before he knew it, he had come out to the riverbank. When blown by the moonlit waters of Kamo, it felt as though his simmering resentment had been slightly soothed. Kichiji plopped down on the embankment's tender grass. He hugged his knees and sat in silence, as if locked in a glaring contest with the Thirty-Six Peaks. The lights of Komatsudani, Rokuhara, Izumiden, warrior mansions and government offices, the residences of the Taira clan and their kin, the lamps upon lamps of shrines and temples—it was as though gems had been scattered across the night. Ah, how prosperous it all was—even his rebellious spirit could only groan in the depths of his belly.

Then, all at once— "...Oh?"

And he shifted his gaze closer. For there, on the riverbank directly below where he had thought no one stood, a figure appeared. Wondering who this slender monk-like figure might be, he scanned the area as if expecting someone, but when no one came down to the riverbank, the monk settled back among the stones like a frog and resumed his former posture.

“Who’s he waiting for?” The very fact that the monk was young piqued Kichiji’s curiosity. He let his imagination run wild—if a beautiful Kyoto woman were to appear as his companion, it would make for quite the spectacle—and such thoughts swelled within him.

III Contrary to his expectations, someone soon approached along the same riverbank toward the waiting monk and whispered in hushed tones, "...Kōgon?"

The one who called out was a wild warrior bearing a large wooden sword—a weapon so distinctive that even his silhouette in the dark would have been instantly recognizable. “Ah... Brother,”

The slender young monk clung to the wild warrior’s chest as though he were a lover. Even the rough warrior’s hands gently held him, and seeing them murmur something, this seemed like true kinship.

Soon, the wild warrior spoke. “……Did you have another message from Lady Tokiwa today?” “Yes, Brother. I have brought the letter as usual.” The monk looked around and quietly passed it into his brother’s hand. The wild warrior pressed the letter to his forehead before tucking it into his robe.

“Is this all?” “Yes, that’s all for today. However, Her Ladyship did have this to say in her own words.” “A message for Lord Ushiwakamaru?” “No, you must not let Lord Ushiwakamaru hear of this. Her Ladyship said this as a precaution for your understanding and that of others—consider this the end of our occasional letters to Kurama as well.” “Hmm... I too have heard recent rumors—that Rokuhara’s eyes have begun turning their attention even upon Lord Ichijō’s household.”

“That’s correct. It is for my husband’s sake—for his clan’s sake. Please do not think ill of me. For Lord Ushiwakamaru and the three orphaned children of the late Lord Yoshitomo, I must not bring calamity upon my current husband, who has granted us this grace of rebirth. It would mean breaking the vow I made with him when I remarried.” He paused, then added, “In my presence, she lamented thus—pleading with desperate abandon. She appeared so tormented that sitting before her became unbearable. Truly, Her Ladyship seems thoroughly resolved.”

“It can’t be helped…” The two of them raised their eyes in melancholy unison, fixing their gazes upon the stars. “Kōgon, I understand,” said the wild warrior. “I too shall no longer descend to receive messages from Kurama. Yet regarding Lord Ushiwakamaru’s safety—since we old retainers still remain—you must convey to Her Ladyship that she need not trouble herself with concern. When next you meet her, whisper this in her ear.” “Yes,” Kōgon replied. “Though Her Ladyship stressed today that I must not frequent the mansion too often. When autumn comes—should she grace the sermon mats at Chion-in with her presence—I shall whisper it then.”

“Whenever’s fine. But Kōgon, you’d better stay sharp too.” “Oh, I am being careful. ...But even now, I remain astonished at Lady Tokiwa’s iron will. Ten years ago, when they took her to Rokuhara, though officials pressed her about how I had sheltered her, she never once spoke of it.” “Ah... We shouldn’t linger here talking—someone might notice us. Well then, Kōgon.”

“Will you be returning to the mountain?”

“Hmm... Before night’s end.” “Well then, until we meet again.”

The two shadows parted.

Even after climbing onto the embankment, Kōgon continued watching his brother’s receding shadow for some time. Ah, so that’s the young monk who often comes to Ichijō Tomonari’s mansion to deliver Buddhist sermons. No wonder... I thought I’d seen him somewhere before... Kichiji, lurking in the shadow of an old willow, fixed his sharp eyes—those genuine instruments he possessed—on Kōgon’s figure passing right beside him, staring intently from profile down to the tips of his toes. Kōgon, unaware of anything, was crossing the makeshift bridge slightly downstream, heading east. Just as that shadow had completely crossed, Kichiji abruptly quickened his pace and stepped out onto the bouncing planks of the makeshift bridge in long strides.

**Four**

Watching for the moment when he had fully ascended Sanneizaka, Kichiji called out from behind. “—Master Kōgon” “Oh… Who are you?” “Even if I told you my name, you wouldn’t know it. I’m a gold merchant from Oshu.” “What business do you have?” “Let’s have a seat on the damp veranda of that Kannon Hall over there… I must apologize for my earlier rudeness.” “Earlier was—” “Just now. At Kamo Riverbed.”

“Wh-what? At the riverbed?” “I heard everything. No ill intent meant—but being downwind, your whispers with Kurama’s messenger reached me even when I tried not to listen—” “Ah—my brother’s words?” “Every last syllable.” “You heard.” “I did.” Pale-faced and ensnared in suspicion, terror, and murderous impulse—a tempest of emotions—Kōgon glared at Kichiji, who sat slouched on the temple’s rain-dampened veranda wearing a jeering grin.

A spy? Extortion? I’ve heard there’s a band of brigands called Tengu no Akushirō that’s been attacking nothing but temples lately—are you one of their underlings? Kōgon had interpreted it in various ways, but what suggested otherwise was the man’s next words. “Well, have a seat. “You might laugh at how absurd it sounds coming from a reckless Oshu merchant like me, but even this humble one has human worries.” "I thought that if I could receive just one piece of enlightened guidance from a wise mentor, perhaps the fog in my chest might clear all at once. That’s why, in truth, I followed you here from the riverbed." "I believe it is the duty of your kind to save us ordinary mortals from our earthly desires."

“……?” “Will you listen?” “Go ahead and say it.” Yet Kōgon’s reply bore no resemblance to that of a monk, his voice laced with needles. His brow remained furrowed without loosening in the slightest, and his body stayed rigid. “Since we’re on this deserted mountain with no one around, I’ll speak plainly.” “In truth, the dilemma that plagues this humble one is how to make even greater profits than I do now.—Please don’t scorn me for this.” “I should clarify—this humble one is no warrior.” “I am a merchant through and through.”

“…………” “Monks devote themselves to the path of Dharma. Samurai to their bows and arrows. When I consider devoting myself completely, as monks do to Dharma and samurai to their bows and arrows—that’s where the suffering arises. —As things are now, I can’t make any real profit. I can’t exactly move the world with my own wealth, you see.”

“…………” “So, if you ask how merchants like this humble one can spread their wings, it’s no good if the world stays peaceful and quiet like this.” “Things need to be stirred up more and set into vigorous motion.” “……It’s war.” “Even something like the Hōgen or Heiji rebellions—mere uprisings confined to the capital—wouldn’t be worthwhile.” “If the realm splits into two or three factions and wages war, mountains of grand ventures I wish to undertake will arise for this Kichiji.” “When warrior clans have fought each other to the bitter end, staking blood against blood, the land should be held by peasant-samurai.” “This humble one holds the realm’s treasures, you see.”

“...To think what you might say—are you out of your mind?” “Why?” “I am a monk. Matters of money, profit-making with wealth, whether there’s war or not—such worldly affairs remain beyond my understanding even when heard.” “You don’t understand? ...Heeh... Do you mean to claim ignorance...?” "Hmmph...." “Heh heh heh...”

Kichiji began to laugh.

Five

“Mr. Kōgon. “There’s no need to make such a scary face or hide anything.” “Even this Kichiji may serve the Taira in trade, but scrub away the blood, and I’m but a humble adherent of the Minamoto clan.” “Why don’t we discuss one real matter tonight?” “What are you saying!” Kōgon’s retort only grew sharper, “You’ve been sitting there listening silently all this time—first claiming you want to beg for a sermon to resolve your worries, then trying to discuss money-making schemes…” “Are you mocking a monk like me, or are you trying to probe my intentions?”

“What’s wrong with that? Let me handle the money-making—that’s a merchant’s work.” “You should focus on achieving your own aspirations.” “My aspiration is to become a true disciple of Buddha.” “My path runs counter to yours.” “No—we walk the same road. …You too wish to overthrow the Taira reign, don’t you?” “Wh-what did you say?” “If not for that ambition—why else would a monk risk his neck meeting Lady Tokiwa in secret? Why conspire with Kurama’s Tengu? If discovered, your head would roll in an instant… You’re fortunate it was me who found you. Discussing rebellion by the riverbed—how careless.”

“…………” “Moreover, I’ve found these recent rumors rather peculiar.” “Even in Ōshū, tengu that no one’s ever laid eyes on are said to frequent Kurama by the capital’s edge.” “City folks who call Ōshū people barbarians—Kumaso this, Ebisu that—being the very ones taking tengu seriously? Now that’s truly something to behold.”

“…………” “As a souvenir tale from Ōshū, I’d been wishing to meet a tengu—and what do you know, I’ve truly encountered one.” “And here are two tengu whispering in secret together.” Eventually, one tengu returned to Kurama, while the other now sat before Kichiji’s eyes with a face that seemed to say, “Damn it all.” “…Right, Mr. Kōgon? You’re one of the Tengu’s comrades too, aren’t you?”

Kōgon’s face—pointed at—changed in an instant like a mask of livid fury. "You wretch!" he roared, his mouth spewing flames like a demon’s maw. The short blade drawn from beneath his priestly robes thrust suddenly toward Kichiji’s chest where he sat on the damp veranda. Kichiji kicked off the ground and leapt onto the edge of the Kannon Hall’s veranda, but immediately jumped back down to seize Kōgon in a full nelson from behind. Pressing close to the ear of Kōgon—who still thrashed with desperate strength—he spoke in a voice thin as a mosquito’s whine.

“Shall we cease this infighting? Let me join your side. …Please allow this humble one to join the Tengu comrades as well.”

Six

In this situation, there was no way he could match Kichiji through brute strength. Kōgon was sickly. Kichiji was sturdy. “You should stop playing around with blades. That’s hardly conduct befitting someone of the Buddhist priesthood.”

Wresting the blade from Kōgon’s hand, Kichiji declared— “I understand your heart well. It’s not just your life at stake here. If this were exposed, it would mean catastrophe. Another head mound would soon rise at Rokujō Riverbed. So of course you’d rather die than breathe a word of this. Naturally you wouldn’t trust some Ōshū vagabond like me—but why haven’t you questioned how even Lady Tokiwa’s letters to Kurama, or that softhearted fool Ichijō Tomonari, keep getting reported to Rokuhara as rebellion’s kindling? Why not doubt that?”

“…………” “Mr. Kōgon. You seem cautious, but you’re still young. You’ve done well hiding under your priest’s robe, claiming to visit Ichijō Tomonari’s inner quarters for Buddhist sermons. But you’re unaware that Lady Tokiwa has an inseparable uncle—Tobazō of Fushimi. I’ve caught sight of him once or twice myself—a man with piercing eyes who reeks of low breeding. Back when Lady Tokiwa was under investigation, this uncle—despite owing gratitude to the Minamoto—betrayed her by secretly informing Rokuhara. For that, he was promoted, now keeps forty or fifty samurai, swaggering about while pledging loyalty to the Taira tribunal—a man not fit to stand in the wind. And this wretch, wearing his uncle’s face, still slinks into Ichijō Tomonari’s residence now and then, reeking of alcohol.”

“Ah… Then could that be the uncle who previously reported Lady Tokiwa? The one who often visits—a warrior in his fifties named Kaneda Tobazō Masatake?” “Originally a cowherd without even a surname to his name—he sold out his lord’s child and his own niece to the enemy. With that merit, he’s now stuck himself with that imposing-sounding name.” “This one stinks of treachery—I’ve seen it from the start. As both an offering to join the Tengu comrades and proof that this humble one bears undivided loyalty to the Minamoto clan—allow me to eliminate that Tobazō for you.”

“Dispose of him?” “Well,” said Kichiji. “Just watch. Let’s meet again later, Mr. Kōgon—though business matters may keep me from returning this year.” His voice trailed off. “...Then next year again.” By the time he finished speaking, Kichiji’s figure had already vanished into the depths of darkness—departing like the wind from Sanneizaka toward Gojō no Kubo. It was a sweltering evening in early June, after the rainy season had passed, when the fresh green leaves had suddenly deepened in color—the night when it happened.

A fire broke out from Sajou Ushi Koji. The area was one where small houses densely clustered together in Shichijōbōmon, Shiokōji, Yanagikōji, and similar streets—yet what burned down was a single samurai residence serving Rokuhara. It was the residence of Kaneda Tobazō Masatake.

That too was strange. What was even more bizarre was that Tobazō’s entire household had been slaughtered and reduced to ashes—but just as they thought this, there at Rokujō Riverbed, from a willow branch amidst the drooping leaves, Tobazō’s head—unscorched—dangled like a tasseled ornament. To the unusually bloody commotion—the first in years—even the ox-drawn carriages of idle court nobles came to spectate. And beneath that very willow, their eyes were drawn to the head mound from the Heiji Rebellion—now a decade old—swathed in riverside mugwort.

When night fell, fireflies flitted over the mound, the willow, and the water. The large merchant caravan from Ōshū gathered at Sanjō vacant lot as they did every year and departed from Keage toward Ōtsu to return to their distant homeland—this too was around the time of that commotion.

Mountain Child

One

The tree buds began to blush. Spring arrived. The mist surrounding the Kurama mountains was faintly red.

This year marked the second year of Jōan.

Ushiwakamaru turned fourteen.

He was a mountain child raised in the mountains since the age of seven. He inherited his blood from Yoshitomo and his spirit from the mountain ranges.

And yet. The monks of Kurama held renown not inferior to the warrior monks of Mount Hiei and Nanto. In the mountains lay even an armory. The entire mountain community might well be called warrior monks. Even in ordinary times, they walked bearing naginata. Within this world, Ushiwakamaru—the mountain child—had endured seven years of merciless bullying with none to shield him. Like snowdrops that unfailingly pierce through layered snow to sprout, he had reached fourteen.

He was small in build. But he was small without being stunted. His face remained taut and well-defined, with sharp contours. He had round, grape-like eyes, and his hair stayed wild like a bird’s nest no matter how much they scolded him. His feet were always bare. His hakama trousers and kosode robes were perpetually frayed at the seams. The temple monks found him as troublesome to handle as a flying squirrel. Yet this was only natural for him. In the mountains, no one showed particular reverence for his lineage. They saw him merely as a child doomed to live out his days as a captive of these peaks. There were many other child acolytes his age, so even when Ushiwakamaru stood out slightly among them—when something about him seemed different from the other boys—his fellow monks would at most remark,

"That one is said to be Yoshitomo's child," even if there were those who occasionally pointed him out, "Hmm... Yoshitomo's seed, eh?"

they would merely nod in acknowledgment. Even toward the present Taira clan, the mountain monks had never submitted with their whole hearts. They regarded the deceased Minamoto clan no more than scattered cherry blossoms—not even sparing them a passing glance. Moreover, Ushiwakamaru was not a child who invited others' pity. Despite his small stature, he possessed a fierce countenance. “That brat needs to be made to cry good and hard—just once.” And even if there were monks who hated him, “Ah, the pitiful child acolyte.”

There was no one who would pity him in such a way. He remained unperturbed. Though dwelling in the mountains, Ushiwakamaru's daily existence seemed through his actions to proclaim he did not truly live among the monks. Today was no exception.

Since morning, Shanaō had been nowhere to be seen. Shanaō was the name that his teacher Tōkōbō Rennin had bestowed upon him in recent years.

"Alright." "This is our chance."

Three or four monks went out to search. They likely intended to catch him and teach him a lesson. At Jūōdō's temple gate, they waited. They had been waiting there, assuming he had gone down to the foothills, but Ushiwakamaru came climbing up from the valley behind the mountain. Quickly, one of them spotted him, “Shana—” called out to stop him. He was fourteen in counted years, but looked no older than eleven or twelve. He remained barefoot and caked in mud as always. It was only in recent years that he had stopped having a runny nose. “What…?”

To the nonchalant face of the returning figure, “What do you think you’re doing?! There are plenty of child acolytes, but none as impertinent toward their superiors as you!” One of them snapped. “……”

Ushiwakamaru bit his nails. His nostrils were blackened through to the core, yet the bridge of his nose remained delicately small and slightly raised, bearing traces that recalled his mother Tokiwa.

Two

Glaring at Ushiwakamaru, "Where had you been?" When one monk pressed him with questions, the others closed in, looming over his small frame from above to intimidate him. "Hey, Shana! Why are you silent? Why don’t you answer?" Then Ushiwakamaru, his lips pursed in a pout that all but voiced his grievance—though he had done nothing to warrant their scolding—answered. "I didn’t go anywhere at all. I’m right here, aren’t I?" "That’s a lie! You weren’t there!"

"I was there." "You brat!"

As the monk switched his naginata to his left hand and tried to grab Ushiwakamaru's collar with that hand, Ushiwakamaru stepped back, "I was right here in the mountains! Are you saying monks can just lie about me not being there?" He snapped back defiantly.

The monks were indignant, “You just came up from the valley behind the mountain right now—didn’t you? You haven’t shown yourself in the main hall since morning! How dare you claim you were here all along?” “I said...”

“What?!” “I was in the mountains.”

Ushiwakamaru squared his shoulders.

“……” The monks' faces were frozen in shock. They wore expressions of exasperated speechlessness.

“As long as I stay within this mountain, right? I’ve been strictly told time and again by my teachers and the Rokuhara agents not to go beyond the foothills, so I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve been following all these orders faithfully—what exactly am I doing wrong?” A hawk’s chick is born with the defiant bones of a hawk’s chick. This rebellious core had witnessed the flames of the Heiji Rebellion in the year he left his mother’s womb, suckled his mother’s indomitable will—forged through countless adversities—from her breast, and been tempered through Kurama’s peaks and valleys by its warrior monks until it blazed fiercer still.—And at this age, he possessed neither the social grace to cloak it in elegance nor any knowledge of fear.

If I were to say he didn't know—well, he scarcely knew even the world beyond this mountain. Of the world at large, he had only faint memories from before he was seven. What he gradually came to realize was:

(Why can't I take a single step beyond this mountain?) That—was the question. The reason had gradually become clear to him—was, in fact, that he himself was endangering his own life. The strict surveillance had grown even stricter. And his inborn defiant soul, too, was being forged by that very environment. "I won't let this slide today!" Shaking the naginata’s hilt, the monk suddenly struck Ushiwakamaru.

Ushiwakamaru failed to evade the blow and was struck hard around the waist,

“It hurts!” With a cry, he fell. “Take that as a lesson.” The monks’ tall geta and wooden sandals stamped down on his back. Ushiwakamaru, frustrated, clung to their hairy shins, but was bound tightly with coarse rope. “Drag him here!” One monk ordered another and walked ahead. He was dragged all the way to beneath Bishamon Hall. Because he did not cry, the monks were all the more driven to harsh punishment.

“This spot will do.”

One of them looked up at the bell tower and spoke. They lifted him up and bound him to one of the four pillars. And then they nailed a board to the top of the pillar and left. When they left, Ushiwakamaru twisted his body to look up at the characters on the board.—Even his usually defiant eyes held a tinge of sorrow. It is strictly forbidden to untie the ropes without authorization. Punishment is administered in accordance with mountain regulations. Ryōhan, administrative monk of Tōkōbō He had been reading them.

III

The monks led by Ryōhan, upon returning to the central cloister, immediately reported to Tōkōbō, Ushiwakamaru’s teacher. “We have been entrusted by Rokuhara with his custody, but Shanaō’s conduct has become utterly intolerable. As punishment, we have bound him to the bell tower—please acknowledge this.” The Ajari heard this,

“...Hmph.” “I see.” He simply laughed and said nothing more.

This old monk alone had never once scolded Ushiwakamaru.

——The master was being too lenient.

There were even those who said such things.

The day grew dark.

When they heard that Shanaō had been bound, the other child acolytes in the central cloister,

“Shall we go take a look?” As if it were their own affair, they came together to peer up at the bell tower. Ushiwakamaru leaned against the pillar, gazing absently at the crimson evening clouds. “Shana.” “Did they tie you up?” “What happened?” “Will you be here tonight too?” “Why won’t you apologize?” Gradually drawing nearer, his friends spoke with comforting expressions, but Ushiwakamaru— “Go over there.—Just go away!” Hating to have his state seen, he shook his head and abruptly assumed a fierce expression.

Somewhere in the distance, "Don't go near there!" "Anyone who approaches Shana will be tied up too!" "There are still three empty pillars left!" The monk bellowed. The child acolytes scattered in panic.

As the human presence around him vanished along with the sinking sun, profound darkness began to engulf everything.

From Kurama, about three ri away, scattered lights of Kyoto glimmered—three or four visible. Far away, faintly twinkling. "Ah..." "There... where those lights burn."

Ushiwakamaru let out a sigh. "I want to see her." The thought surfaced. His impatience became unbearable. His mother Tokiwa—that was who. His mind raced with the urge to drag both the temple bell and its tower toward that place, while the blood throughout his body raged wildly. But—he knew full well they were fated never to meet.

When he was seven years old. Up until then, he had ostensibly been a ward of Kurama Temple, but it was in the spring when he turned seven that he was finally taken to Kurama. At that time, the parting words spoken by his mother—being a child at heart, he could not clearly remember them—yet the sadness alone remained somehow unforgettable.

The figure of his mother, who had been crying since the previous night, remained dimly etched in his memory. In front of the Kurama monks who had come to fetch him and the Rokuhara officials, from his mother— ("From now on, you are no longer my child. "I am no longer your mother either.)

That single statement she had spoken was imprinted on his small mind so deeply—with such profound force—that he would likely never forget it even over a lifetime. So whenever he thought of Mother, those words would pierce his heart like a drill from below. (But Mother isn't at fault. It was the Taira clan that tore me from Mother.) From around when this understanding took root, he ceased being an ordinary child. At the same time, he grew desperate to know how his father had died. And when he finally learned it, he glared upward,

“Damn the heavens!” he shouted at the clouds. At that moment, something heavy settled into his young chest. Biting his lip and shedding tears in torrents, in his belly swelled a heart unafraid even of heaven.

Valley and Sky

1

In *The Pillow Book*, there appears an entry such as: "Things near yet far—the zigzag path of Kurama—"

Once the sun set, no one passed through here. If there were any at all, they would be mountain monks carrying large naginatas or perhaps monkeys - and little else. Moreover, it was believed that ferocious bandits still emerged in the Ichihara Moor at the foot of the mountain even now. This was likely because tales such as Minamoto no Yorimitsu slaying Kijōmaru in ancient times and accounts of highwaymen found in *Chomonjū* had all become associated with this area, their stories seeped into the minds of villagers and travelers alike.

Even the main entrance at the foot of the mountain was like this.

The pathless back mountains and valleys had become almost a realm of imagination. In particular, in Shōjōgatani Valley—ten *chō* northwest of Kurama Temple—there had resided since ancient times a tengu called Tarōbō, and when light pierced the clouds from that place, the villagers firmly believed with dread that it was a night when great tengu and lesser tengu from across the land convened.

Do not approach. Do not peer into the valley. You’ll incur a curse.

Despite such village-wide warnings, what fool would dare—yet there he was: a lone man descending a pathless peak into the abyss of darkness. “Tch…” “Damn it!” The man occasionally probed the ground at his feet and threw stones toward the treetops. It must have been a troop of monkeys. The sound of them rustling from branch to branch grew fierce. As the man slid down the cliff as if fleeing, they came chasing after him once more. “Tch... No end to this.” Clicking his tongue in frustration, the man plopped down halfway down the cliff. He removed the black cloth covering his face, wiped away his sweat, then rewrapped it tightly about his head.

It was Kichiji of Oshu. He tightened the shin guards over his straw sandals and had his sleeves tied up as well. He had a leather-hilted wild sword fastened at his waist, and whether it was his keenly darting eyes or his agile limbs, he looked every bit the reckless night bandit. As the monkeys' cries were cut off, a roar—from the valley bottom—surged upward, hitting his face. It was the cold wind striking the sheer rock face and the roar of the mountain stream.

“Hmm.” “Since dusk fell, I’ve met nothing but monkeys.” “Just as Kōgon dismissed—perhaps rumors remain mere rumors after all.” Kichiji muttered and looked up at the stars. He seemed to gauge directions and verify his path. Undoubtedly, he determined that below him lay Shōjōgatani Valley. If this was Shōjōgatani Valley, he should have met them by now—yet still he hadn’t.

That said, what he had come expecting was not tengu. Humans. To determine once and for all whether the widely circulating rumors or his own scrutinized observations held true, he had come to the capital this spring ahead of his usual annual party, just as he had last year and the year before,

(This year—without fail. This year—without fail.)

Thus mustering courage to resolve this long-cherished task—one he had yearned to accomplish yet left undone—he had come here. Three years had already passed since that time. There had been an occasion when he apprehended Kōgon of Chion-in and nearly grasped the edge of a secret, but having carelessly trusted the monk's promise to meet again here the following night and disclose everything, when he waited until evening, Kōgon had by the next day committed a splendid suicide on Chion-in's back mountain.

Dead men tell no tales. It had to end there, but Kichiji was not one to abandon his once-cherished ambitions and suspicions toward Kurama merely because of Kōgon’s death.

II

Shibuya Kōōmaru and Kamata Saburō Masakika sat together on a massive boulder. This spot in Shōjōgatani Valley had always been their comrades' designated meeting place. The surrounding peaks stood cloaked in ancient pines and cedars unchanged since time immemorial. Among them rose the Maōdō—what locals called the tengu shrine. Beneath their feet, a mountain stream gnawed at jagged rocks, its roaring voice swallowing all other sounds in the valley. "…………" Neither spoke. Kōōmaru stared at the stars while Saburō studied the water. Both men lived under turbulent circumstances. Since the Heiji Rebellion, they'd been branded Minamoto remnants—men who could no longer walk openly in sunlight.

However, the vines in the shade burned with dreams of stretching toward sunlight. Grief and righteous indignation had become relics of a distant era. When over ten years of shadowed existence had passed, they carved their own path through darkness, forged bonds with kindred souls sharing their plight, and kindled within themselves a fierce resolve—even hope—that thrived precisely because adversity nourished it. “...They’re here.” Saburō whispered.

Kōōmaru turned his gaze. From the darkness of the opposite ravine came figures moving like a troop of monkeys along the rocks, leaping across the stream beneath starlit water. Three—four—seven. Most wore peasant garb with samurai interspersed among them, though many seemed to be woodcutters or hunters. Men resembling mountain ascetics were also present. "We're late." "Nei, Ogino, and two or three others will follow shortly." They surrounded the two who had arrived first, forming a circle on the great flat rock while others perched casually on nearby stones.

"Who has come for tonight's welcoming?" When one man inquired, Saburō Masakika—

“It was my turn to go,” Kamata Saburō Masakika explained, “but given the route I took when inviting Lord Shibuya, I had Hakata no Kanja attend in my stead. He should be arriving with him shortly.”

He said. As if waiting for that person, the people were engrossed in small talk. In this place, they could speak of anything without reservation, yet none puffed out their chests to make grand declarations. There was no one who needlessly disparaged the Taira clan’s supremacy and harbored resentment. It was all utterly carefree mundane chatter. They exchanged banter and shared laughs among friends.

The gatherings in this valley had convened several times a month like this. Each time they gathered, there were not so many new incidents or pieces of information from the Taira clan to report. Confirming each other’s safety was their first priority. Moreover, they were protecting and educating from afar Ushiwakamaru—the orphaned son of their deceased lord Yoshitomo residing at Kurama Temple—and awaiting that eventual day when the boy would come of age. (—It is precisely this Lord Wakako whom we must raise and nurture—)

Thus, nurturing the single sapling that was Ushiwakamaru together and watching him grow had become both the group’s shared joy and the very heart of their covenant. Several times each month, when welcoming the young lord to this place, Yoshitomo’s former retainers each took responsibility for instructing Ushiwakamaru in their respective fields of expertise. Some taught classical histories to cultivate his brilliance as a military commander; others lectured on strategy or recounted the Minamoto clan’s origins through Yoshitomo’s era, striving to instill in him—from his earliest years—an understanding of his own identity. At times, they would take up wooden practice swords and deliberately surround the young lord alone, relentlessly driving into him both an unyielding spirit and physical endurance through training.

The group’s expectations were not betrayed.

Ushiwakamaru seemed to look forward to the nights when he would slip away from the strict Kurama monastery, biding his time until everyone had fallen asleep to come here. III

“They’re late...” “Unusually long.” At last, when conversation in this valley had run its course to the point where people began murmuring, and they became aware of time passing— “There they are! He’s arrived!”

One of the men standing watch on the crag said.

Hakata no Kanja, who had gone to fetch Ushiwakamaru, soon came running to this place. However, Ushiwakamaru—whom the people had been waiting for—was not with him. Puzzled, starting with Saburō Masakika and Kōōmaru, the people raised their voices in unison— “What? The young lord—” “The young lord—?”

When they asked, Hakata no Kanja— “Well then, “The young lord has been subjected to harsh discipline by the monks who have long despised him—today they claimed it was for correction and bound him to a pillar in the bell tower. That is why we were delayed.”

“What? Tied to the bell tower?”

The people’s faces paled, swelling with anxiety as though a jewel cradled in their palms had been shattered. “Explain in more detail. That alone isn’t enough to understand clearly. Calm down and tell us properly.”

Kōōmaru admonished him. The shock they received was so great that an air of unrest threatening to erupt into chaos was evident in the room. “Yes, here are the details.”

Hakata no Kanja recounted the plain truth he had heard from Ushiwakamaru himself at the bell tower: "When I untied his bonds and urged him to come here with me regardless, the Young Lord declared: 'We must not go to the valley tonight.'" "'For even at midnight,' he continued, 'the monks who bound me will surely come to inspect the bell tower.'" "'Should they find me gone, the Rokuhara overseers would raise an uproar across the mountain—claiming their ward had fled into hiding. Who can say whether their investigations might then expose our allies who gather in the valley?'" "'If I endure this single night's hardship,' he insisted, 'the ropes will be loosened by morning. It poses no mortal danger.'" "'Tell them all not to worry...' Those were his final words."

“Ah! So he declared that rather than his own suffering, the exposure of our group is what truly matters?” Saburō Masakika and Kōōmaru, struck with admiration, for a moment remained motionless, their eyes fixed on the black shadow of Kurama’s peak in the distance.

In the crowd, a stifled sob was heard. The words Ushiwakamaru had uttered by chance upon meeting this heaven-sent trial were both heartening and heartbreaking. At the same time, in their own devoted efforts, they saw the fruits of having nurtured him from a sapling to a sturdy, independent tree, and suddenly, a heart-wrenching surge overwhelmed their chests. "It cannot be helped," they said. "Then, while we await another opportunity, let two or three of us ensure no harm befalls the young lord." "There is no need for concern," came the reply. "We will stand guard through the night, clinging to his very shadow."

Four or five people said in unison.

Shibuya, Nagata, and others took the lead as each began to disband their gathering and part ways. Then, abruptly, someone bellowed.

“Hah! Who’s there!? —Someone’s here!” “What?!” At the place where the voice had arisen, even those who had begun to leave turned back, pressing in to form a dark mass. To the shadow of the rock there, the spotter leaped forward and—as though seizing a wild boar barehanded—grabbed the man and pinned him down.

“Drag him out! Drag him out!”

Because the area was narrow, those who couldn’t get close spoke up. Taking the hint, they grabbed him by the collar and wrist, dragging him roughly toward the stream’s shimmering edge. “You’re a Rokuhara spy.” The group surrounded him, glaring with tengu-like eyes at the man who lay ineptly crawling on the ground.

IV

A blunder. I failed to escape. Kichiji, deep in his heart, thought Damn it while pressing his face to the ground, shrinking his body as much as possible, and making himself look small. And he persisted, (The ones around me are not humans—they are true tengu.) he kept telling himself. For if he thought of them as human, there was no telling whether his innate fearlessness might surface. Having ranged between Oshu and Kyoto, Kichiji always told people he had never met a human he found frightening in this world. But now he knew—if he showed his true face here, they would kill him instantly—

"I-I... a-a traveler... c-crossing m-mountains I'm unfamiliar with... g-got lost on... on the p-path..." “Y-yes… I am a man who lives honestly in day-to-day life.” He clasped his hands together and made a show of praying. Chanting "Tengu-sama, Tengu-sama" like a mantra, he bowed to each shadow one by one and feigned trembling in fear. Kōōmaru and Saburō Masakika's companions snickered. The villagers' rumors spreading so far that even travelers now believed them to be tengu struck them as both amusing and advantageous to their plans.

Kōōmaru and Saburō Masakika's companions snickered. The village rumors had spread so far that even travelers now believed they were tengu—a situation they found both laughable and perfectly aligned with their intentions. “Shh…” Then, gently pulling the sleeve of those laughing, they immediately resumed their tengu personas. “So you’re not a Rokuhara agent.” “Then where have you come from?” “I—I am a packhorse driver employed by the merchants of Oshu.”

“How did you come to be on this mountain?” “There was a matter of making an offering to Kibune Shrine, and I accompanied my master there, but I became separated from him.” “In searching for your master, did you lose your way in the wrong direction?” “Yes…” “Y-yes…” Kichiji’s exaggerated performance looked so utterly comical that one of the tengu could no longer contain himself and burst out laughing. To cover that up as well, the other tengu, “What a man you are, with a voice as timid as an insect’s!”

Having said that, they raised their voices in unison and burst into laughter so loud it echoed.

“Tarōbō, Tarōbō. “What shall we do with this human?”

One tengu said to the large-bodied tengu.

The great tengu solemnly declared, “He appears to be a man not worth taking.” “Though his crime of defiling this valley cannot be forgiven, spare his life and cast him back into the world.” “How shall we cast him back?” “Handle it as you see fit.”

“Understood.”

“No, wait. But before that, strip him naked and thoroughly inspect his belongings.” “That’s right!” Kichiji was stripped naked in an instant.

Fortunately, he was not carrying any items that would arouse suspicion. However, even Kichiji felt his blood run cold when they threw a bright red old priest’s robe—whose it was—over his head and bound him with coarse rope coiled tightly around him. When it seemed his life was finally in danger, he had resolved to reveal his true identity and assert that he had known Kōgon of Chion-in. However, since that Kōgon had committed suicide under circumstances unknown to the world, carelessly bringing him up might result in worse consequences than saying nothing.

'Cast him back into the world.' Since the divine decree had been issued, he might endure some pain, but his life would not be forfeit. With this thought, Kichiji closed his eyes. Soon his body was hoisted by unseen hands—like a stormwind they leapt across mountain streams, dashed through ravines, scaled sheer cliffs, until he felt himself adrift among the clouds.

The next morning.

The shrine stewards of Kibune Shrine and the villagers were astonished. There, beside the torii, they looked up to see a human figure wrapped in a tattered crimson priest’s robe hanging by coarse rope from the topmost branches of a tall tree. Of course, judging him to be a man who had incurred the tengu’s wrath, the head priest rushed into the shrine’s main hall to offer sacred lights, performed a half-hour ritual, and then with many hands lowered the figure from the tree.

Mountain Festival

I

That autumn. By that time, Kichiji of Oshu had already returned to his home province.

A disturbance occurred in Kurama Valley. Before even those in nearby villages could learn what was happening, Rokuhara forces—three to four hundred strong—had already entered from Sanjikigatake and Kumogahata to surround Shōjōgatani Valley.

The battle cries of the tengu and the battle cries of humans clashed, echoing against each other. After that, the villagers,

(So many tengu heads were displayed—)

So they went all the way to the distant upper reaches of the Kamo River to see for themselves. And when they returned and spoke of what they had seen, (They resembled humans)

so they said. The cause was said to be someone’s secret denunciation via a written report to Rokuhara, and at Kurama Monastery, this led to various controversies for a time—even talk of Abbot Rennin taking responsibility—but in essence, (It's because they haven't made Ushiwakamaru take vows sooner that things went wrong.) This was the conclusion they reached. In the future, they would strictly monitor his conduct and absolutely sever external communications while seizing opportunities to shave Ushiwakamaru’s head as soon as possible—there was no better course than this. Having settled on this course of action, they expressed profound gratitude and contrition to Rokuhara, and thus the matter was ultimately overlooked.

What remained unresolved was Ushiwakamaru’s ordination and tonsure ceremony. Even if the boy himself ardently desired it, ordination and initiation into the precepts required meeting age requirements, qualifications for ascetic training, and the strict regulations of the Buddhist order. In the minds of the monastic disciples, who prided themselves on valuing their order’s regulations more than the government decrees of the time, (The sooner, the better.) Even so, putting it into practice came with various difficulties. To make matters worse, Ushiwakamaru himself had no intention of taking vows, his conduct was utterly neglectful of studies, and his teacher Rennin—

“Now, now. Now, now.” Thus, while the abbot remained as lenient as ever—though they had grown strict about severing all external communications, not permitting him to step outside the abbot’s residence in Naka-in alone—the matter of shaving his hair continued unresolved. But this too would not endure long. It was the spring of his second year. Abbot Rennin summoned him and declared: “Shana, my young lord—you have turned sixteen. “This year, you must shave your head. “You claim to despise taking vows, but surely by now you comprehend the destiny you were born to, your upbringing, and these times. “Resign yourself to entering the Buddhist order. Become Amida’s disciple and cast aside this wild heart. “Do you understand?”

“Yes…” “What are you crying for? And here you are, already sixteen.”

“M-Master…” “What’s wrong?” “I understand. But it’s so sad.” Ushiwakamaru bent his left arm, pressed it against his face, and sobbed convulsively. “If I enter the priesthood, must I part with this black hair and these beautiful robes with flowing sleeves?” “That goes without saying. How long do you intend to remain a child acolyte?” “I beg you. Please wait until the Kurama Mountain Festival. I will enter the priesthood after May has passed.”

“Why do you object to doing it before then?” “On the festival day, many pilgrims will climb the mountain. I can’t bear being seen by people then. Every year, I want to tie my hair in the child acolyte’s looped topknot and wear a beautiful kimono one last time… Just this year would be enough. It’s for a final memory… Master. Please wait until that day has passed.” In the end, he was sobbing uncontrollably. Rennin gazed at his trembling form with puzzlement—but recalling the sentimental days of his own youth,

“Then it’s settled. Once May has passed, I won’t hear any refusal,” he pressed.

II

The rainy season had ended, and in the mountains, blighted leaves lay drenched upon the ground.

The cry of the first cicadas hung subdued. At the inner shrine of Mount Kibune—where visitors remained scarce even in ordinary times—the sound of hands clapping in prayer echoed from the worship hall moments earlier, leaving only a lingering trace of departure in its wake.

“Shrine Priest,”

A lone traveler had come to visit, peering into the entrance of the shrine priest’s residence. “……Is anyone absent? Isn’t anyone here?”

After a while, "A visitor..." The elderly shrine priest, who seemed to have been taking a nap, emerged leisurely and— "Oh, the merchant from Oshu." “It’s been too long. “I have come to the capital once again this year, so…” “Well now, you’ve come.” “Please, come in.” “I beg your pardon.” After washing his feet, Kichiji was led to a room and settled in, “I’ll come straight to the point. Given that this is a mountain temple, bringing cumbersome gifts would be impractical. Though it may seem presumptuous, please allow me to contribute this toward the shrine’s repair expenses—even if just a small portion.”

and presented a pouch of gold as an offering. The shrine priest narrowed his eyes, "This is most generous. Last year and the year before as well, we received such substantial donations from you." "You're welcome. For me, this shrine is the guardian deity of my life. Even remembering it chills me—when I met tengu two years ago and stood moments from death, you saved me. This meager offering doesn't reach a ten-thousandth part of that kindness."

“Truly, you had a dreadful time back then.”

“To think I was hung from a tree two jō tall in the dead of night—it was truly the first time in my life.” “No one has memories like that… But right after that incident, the Rokuhara forces conducted tengu hunts. They displayed piles of decapitated heads at the riverbank below—left exposed for days. Some faces were so altered they couldn’t be recognized, but others… they resembled charcoal burners and hunters from these mountains.” “People began murmuring—‘Those aren’t tengu, they’re former retainers of Lord Yoshitomo of the Minamoto clan’—or so some speculated…” “What exactly was it that someone encountered in Shōjōgatani Valley—tengu, remnants, or something else entirely?”

“Oh, not at all—they were certainly not human.” Kichiji dismissed this with exaggerated emphasis,

“In the first place—consider this—if they were Minamoto remnants, why would they bother capturing someone as insignificant as myself and hanging me from that large tree by the torii here? …Taking delight in such demonic mischief is precisely what tengu often do.”

“I and the villagers do believe it’s the work of tengu, but—” “As for the Rokuhara forces—if they had failed to slay genuine tengu, it would have tarnished the prestige of His Excellency the illustrious Retired Chancellor. Thus, they must have proclaimed woodcutters and hunters—rustics resembling mountain men—as tengu and displayed their heads.” “Hmm, I see. You may be a man of Oshu, Kichiji, but you’re an unexpectedly wise one. That must be exactly how it was.”

“Now then… Priest.” “What’s this now?” “On this occasion, I have a small request to make—would you be so kind as to hear me out?” “Hoh… A request to me?” “On my way to the capital, many of my companions got into a bit of troublesome dispute—it’s become too much for me to handle. I would like to take refuge here for about half a month and, while doing so, recuperate a little. Might there be an available room you could lend me?”

III

It had been a three-year-long plan.

He believed that with his mercantile skill—which had always allowed him to stake his luck on grand, challenging ventures and overcome them—this plan, though it required patience, would not be so difficult. He had taken every precaution, thoroughly considering even future complications. After returning to Hiraizumi in Oshu two years prior, he had discreetly tested his plan through retainers of Fujiwara no Hidehira—men who interacted with him almost as a retainer himself, having received various commercial commissions from them.

(They deemed it most intriguing—such was His Lordship’s intention.) However, it would not be good for the Fujiwara clan’s stratagems to become known to the world. If it were made to appear that this was entirely your own personal initiative—that Ushiwakamaru himself had fled from the Taira’s grasp and, finding nowhere else to turn, sought refuge by relying on the Fujiwara’s might—then His Lordship has stated he would go to considerable lengths to provide protection.)

That was the Fujiwara clan's collective intention. He had confirmed every detail before proceeding. Moreover, securing such binding commitments required Kichiji's own strategic foresight. (The Oshu Fujiwara maintained an outward appearance of calm within their domain, but they hardly welcomed the Taira clan's ascendancy or the Chancellor-turned-monk's dictatorial ways. If anything, they feared their expansion. Yet direct confrontation was to be avoided at all costs. Their secret hope lay in preserving equilibrium between Minamoto and Taira forces. So long as these two houses warred in the central provinces, Oshu could stockpile resources, safeguard its peace, and push its borders westward from their current limits.)

This was common knowledge not only within the Fujiwara clan itself but also among any moderately thoughtful class across the land of Oshu. Thus, Kichiji’s plan—positioned as something that could stir up the intended turmoil in the central provinces with merely a single stone cast—had secured tacit approval from Hiraizumi mansion. “Mr. Kichiji. “You never seem to grow bored, day after day.”

After the shrine priests had lent him a room, more than half a month had already passed. With the cicadas' drone as his pillow, Kichiji lay alone,

"Ah, I dozed off."

He stretched and sat up, "As you’ve surmised, I’ve grown rather bored." "But for humans to experience boredom once in a while—it’s not such a bad thing." "Staying at this mountain shrine and reflecting—I realize merchants like myself had grown too accustomed to forgetting boredom in our daily lives." "Whether waking or sleeping, I thought only of gambling." "Ha ha ha ha." "Here, even gold would prove useless."

“I’ve grown frightened. It’s about time I take my leave from these mountains.” “What has frightened you so?” “As you just said—when one stays too far removed from matters of gold and worldly concerns, this so-called bodhi mind assails me, and my innate wicked drive fades away too much. If that disappears, my merchant spirit will weaken.” “Well, take your time. Soon there will be the Kurama Festival after all.” “Ah yes—what day was that again?”

“It’s the twentieth of this month.” “Then that’s just two days from now.” “With the annual crowds, not only locals from nearby villages but even pilgrims from the capital come in great numbers.” “Then I shall watch that and take my leave.”

Even before that, he had occasionally gone out alone. He had mentioned that he had recently gone to see Ryūō Falls or ventured as far as Hotaruishi, but the shrine priest had taken his words at face value and never once doubted his destinations.

The twentieth arrived. That day, he remained in his room all day long—but on the morning of the festival's main day, "Depending on circumstances, I may watch the Kurama Festival and then take my leave." With that, he bid farewell and departed.

4

At the mountain festival, those frolicking with wild abandon were Kurama's child acolytes. The celestial mountain was buried in crowds just like the mortal world below, and this deep mountain too had been painted in hues no different from worldly society. Ushiwaka was also among them. “Shana! Shana!” At the terrible sound of footsteps racing down the great corridor, one of the monks emerged from the attendant priest’s room and barked angrily. “Yes!” “What is it?” The seven or eight child acolytes who had been running wild all turned around in unison. Their hair tied in temple-style loops, dawn-dyed sleeves, gold-thread embroidery, and deep purple hakama were all perfectly matched—yet being children raised in mountain households, they wiped sweat with those sleeves and rubbed snot with them too. The white powder and eyebrow ink painstakingly applied to their faces had instead turned them into comical figures.

“Don’t you ‘What is it?’ me! You all should be waiting quietly next to Ajari-sama and attending to his needs, shouldn’t you?” “A guest from the capital has arrived at Ajari-sama’s room. He told us to go somewhere far away for a while because we’d be too noisy if we stayed nearby. So we all started playing around.” “Shana! Aren’t you sixteen already? What’s this slovenly appearance for someone who’s supposed to be the senior among the acolytes? Straighten your collar!”

“Yes.” “If Ajari-sama tells you to withdraw because he has a private discussion, you should go out to a corridor far from his chambers and wait there quietly. Shana, you’re the oldest here—you should know better than this. The mountain festival isn’t meant for the likes of you all!” “Understood.” The scoldings had grown too routine—for those giving them and those receiving them alike. Ushiwaka turned to his fellow child acolytes, “Let’s go over there.” He pointed and tried to clatter away when once more a monk behind them—

“I told you not to run—don’t you understand?! Walk quietly!” he snapped.

Hunching their heads, the child acolytes slowly turned the corridor and went.

When they turned that corner, the Kannondō and Sōjōbō’s temple complex embraced a wide garden. At the edge of the Kannondō’s veranda, thick green bamboo bundles were piled in several stacks. These were preparations for when the mountain’s monastic community would hold a Buddhist ceremony here, followed by conducting the Bamboo-Cutting Ritual. Moreover, come evening, they would seat a single villager from the valley in Sōjōbō’s main hall and publicly demonstrate their spiritual powers by cursing the person to death and then reviving them through incantations.—With crowds awaiting these various events and pilgrims streaming up the mountain one after another, the entire peak now seethed with an unusual human presence rarely smelled there.

Then. In the midst of that human whirlpool, there was a jovial man who mimicked a bird’s call. Ushiwakamaru suddenly stopped at the corridor corner, his eyes searching for that voice. “…?” The man who had mimicked the bird call ducked his head once, then, while watching Ushiwakamaru’s figure in the distance, thrust out one hand over the sea of people.

Kichiji's face appeared there. Ushiwaka, upon finding his face,

“Yeah. Later.” With that, he gave a single nod, then chased after the other child acolytes and dashed away with terrifying swiftness.

Before long, the Bamboo-Cutting Ritual too came to an end, and as the daytime bustle gradually cooled under the white evening star, the mountain began raising numerous crimson flames of great bonfires within the boundless darkness.

5

In the main hall of Bishamon-dō, a layman sat all alone, made to sit there. The ascetic monk who claimed he could demonstrate power over life and death through spiritual means rubbed his prayer beads while chanting incantations with single-minded devotion. Otherwise, the vast floor remained desolate, with only the faint flicker of a lamp casting two hazy, wavering shadows through the dimness.

But.

From the corridor just outside to the open garden beyond, countless black figures pressed together so densely through the night that they seemed to seethe. Moreover, in hushed silence, they watched the demonstration of spiritual power inside the hall. Even the entire mountain’s monastic community—monks and child acolytes alike—held their breath, all having gathered there completely on this evening. Cursing to kill, cursing to revive—this ritual was performed annually, yet each year the crowd gazed with drunken eyes at the monk’s wondrous spiritual power.

The ascetic monk under the curse tied up the sleeves of his priestly robe behind his back, kneaded his prayer beads, and now—as if possessed by a tengu—hoarsely chanted sutras through his throat, formed hand seals, and violently berated the layman undergoing the lethal curse.

Then— —Gyaaah! A scream tore through the air—like the sound of a live hawk being ripped open. It wasn’t that man. Nor was it the monk who had formed the seals. The direction from which that uncanny voice had come seemed to be either right atop this Bishamon-dō’s roof—or rather, some distant place that might have been the mountain path on the farther back peak.

“Huh…?” “…Oh?” The monk who had nearly become possessed by a tengu and the man entranced by spiritual power both blinked dazedly, as if snapping out of a trance. No sooner had they processed this than— A thunderous clatter erupted from right behind the hall as human footsteps came tumbling down the mountain path. Not knowing what it was— "Huh?!" “What’s that?!” At the same moment the monks in the corridor all rose to their feet, the crowd filling the open garden erupted into a clamoring frenzy.

The metallic scent of blood—that which humans recognize most acutely—spread like ink, flowing swiftly from an unseen source. On the mountain path immediately above Bishamon-dō stood a barrier. The magistrates from the foothills had been taking shifts to guard the mountain. Since security was said to be especially strict during the festival, dozens of Rokuhara samurai should have been stationed at each barrier on the mountain. The guards came fleeing, drenched in blood.

And then, they shouted loudly thus: “A child acolyte has escaped! —The one wearing the hunting robe!” At the mention of “child acolyte,” “It’s Shana!” The entire mountain’s monastic community said in unison. What they had always feared was the same for everyone. However, seeing Ushiwaka—who, even at sixteen, remained a spoiled child without an ounce of maturity—before their very eyes, (They had always known it would come to this.) While harboring such premonitions, they had nevertheless indulged his rambunctiousness too much—overlooking his behavior as mere childishness.

“After him!”

As the commotion erupted, the wounded guards once again— "He's not alone! A man with formidable martial skills is with him. Do not let your guard down!" they called out a warning from behind the hurrying monks.

There was no longer any time for testing spiritual powers. The mountains roared; the valleys cried out. Torch flames darted through pockets of darkness everywhere. "...So he's finally gone."

Alone.

Ushiwaka's teacher, Ajari Rennin alone, sat in the now-empty hall and muttered to himself.

Whether he was praying for blessings upon the departed one’s future or beseeching that they be captured and returned—his white brows merely hung heavily downward.

Spirit Away

I

This was no path made for walking by any common measure. They had plunged ahead blindly. Along cliffs and mountain streams, through realms of darkness and tangled thickets clinging to ridges, they had fled for their lives. “Lord Ushiwaka.” “Let us rest here awhile.” “This is Mount Kibune.” “What you see yonder is Kibune’s Inner Sanctuary... Hah... They’re still chasing through the foothills.”

Kichiji allowed a faint smile to escape. Torch flames trailed multiple tails as they raced through the depths of the darkness below.

…… Ushiwaka regained his senses and kept scanning his surroundings. His eyes showed no fear—only the flustered joy of one who had escaped a cage. “Uncle.” “Hey—come over here. Let’s rest on the worship hall steps.” “Kichiji… I want to see her soon. You’ll really let me meet Mother, won’t you?” “Kichiji will most certainly arrange your meeting.” “Then we’ll go to Oshu—just as you said. We’ll rely on that Fujiwara no Hidehira fellow.”

“Once we escape the capital and reach Musashi Province, we’ll be safe—but getting there will take real effort.” “Don’t panic.” “Leave everything to Kichiji—I’m an adult, after all.” “…Right.” “Ah—you’re barefoot!” “Blood… Does it hurt?” “Lord Ushiwaka—are you injured?” “It doesn’t hurt. Let’s hurry to the capital.” “Wait.” Kichiji grabbed a bamboo pole lying nearby and fished out something from beneath the hall’s floorboards.

Inside the bundle were commoner’s clothing and straw sandals among other things. He removed all of Ushiwakamaru’s garments, dressed him in those instead, and wrapped his face in a dirty tattered cloth. He had him shoulder a device called a carrying ladder on his back and fastened a short mountain knife at his waist. “This should do.” He removed the old bow that had been hung on the hall’s ridgepole and held it under his arm. Everything proceeded as though following a prearranged sequence. Of course, for him, reaching this point must have been a two-year endeavor. To approach Ushiwakamaru alone, he must have made countless pilgrimages to Kurama over the past year or two.

Moreover, how many times he must have persuaded Ushiwakamaru until the boy was convinced. Even though Ushiwakamaru was by nature trusting of others, he could not possibly have believed so readily the words of a complete stranger like Kichiji—but ever since two years prior, when Rokuhara soldiers had entered Kurama Valley and purged all suspicious individuals living nearby, Ushiwakamaru had become utterly isolated.

He had no one to confide in—sinking into the depths of loneliness and despair—when Kichiji came whispering, careful to avoid prying eyes. The boy’s heart was naturally drawn toward dreams.

Moreover, the words "Eastern Provinces" had been engraved in his heart since childhood. It was said many of the Minamoto still remained there. It was also said Mount Fuji stood watch over those lands, where fine steeds were bred across plains stretching beyond sight. (—We shall come to bring you to the Eastern Provinces ere long.)

This was a voice he had heard ceaselessly from Kurama Valley's people too. The sun-rising Eastern Provinces! Each dawn found Ushiwakamaru yearning—as surely as moonfall brought remembrance of his mother in the capital. Making deliberate detours through distant paths—crossing Nishikamo's Daihizan and Manju Pass, emerging at Ougamine Peak—they slipped into Kyoto's northern outskirts as night began paling.

“Hey, wake up! Aren’t you going to get up?”

Standing before the Shirabyōshi Suiga's house at Rokujōbōmon where the morning mist still clung darkly, Kichiji knocked at the gate.

Two

In this house, there was a separate building that could well be called Kichiji's room, used only when he was present. They would come and go via the corridor across the inner garden. Since the side facing the main house was walled off, there was no fear of anyone seeing their face—whether lying down or drinking. "This is the house of my relative, so you can rest easy."

Kichiji said. Having taken Ushiwakamaru and hidden there since yesterday morning, Kichiji did not even go to the main house. Ushiwakamaru sat listlessly, remaining seated.

The mountains had been cool. The heat in Kyoto's streets was severe. Yet he did not move his knees.

“You must be hot.” “Please make yourself comfortable.” “Lie down, stretch out your legs—please make yourself at ease—”

Even as he urged from beside him, “Yeah… Yeah.” Ushiwakamaru did nothing but nod, barely even speaking. He was quiet. He was well-mannered. It even seemed as though Ushiwakamaru from the mountains had become a different person. However, when considering Ushiwakamaru’s position, it was only natural—this was likely the first time he had ever found himself amidst the sounds of the world like this, and he must still have harbored considerable wariness toward this man called Kichiji. Moreover, from the direction of the main house, the lively laughter and replies of women could constantly be heard.

Both where he was now and what lay ahead—if he allowed himself to think of them as uncertainties—would surely overwhelm him with unbearable anxiety.

“Kichiji.” “Yes.” “When will I see Mother?” “Please wait. I’m working on that plan right now.” “I want to meet her soon.” “I understand your feelings.” “And we must leave for Oshu immediately. Staying here is just wasting days.” “No.” Kichiji denied firmly. “We’re not wasting a single day. Rokuhara’s search remains intense for now. They’re desperately hunting for Your Lordship as we speak.”

“Is that so?” “You say ‘Is that so?’—as if it were another’s affair—but even within these walls, my ears and eyes can hear and see such things. I perceive them as clearly as if they were before me... So please endure a little longer. It must feel confining for you—” “Yeah.”

He was obedient. Kichiji was impressed by this obedience, but once ten days had passed, the mountain child reverted back to being a mountain child and began to show his claws.

He suddenly woke from a nap. “Lord Ushiwa kamaro? What are you doing there?”

When they peered into the next room and found no sign of him, they were startled and summoned the sisters Suiga and Chōon to inquire, “He isn’t here?” To this, they too put on an innocent look. “This is bad!” Even the unflappable Kichiji seemed to have had his composure shaken. Kichiji went out to search frantically. Then, around lamp-lighting time, Ushiwakamaru returned alone from somewhere and— “Where’s Uncle?” —and upon finding Kichiji absent, instead looked suspicious and inquired of Suiga and Chōon. The sisters were astonished,

"My goodness, what a peculiar child," they muttered. "Mr. Kichiji does have an eccentric taste in children he acquires." The sisters still hadn't been entrusted with the full truth by Kichiji. At that time, women and children from the capital were being actively purchased for transport to Oshu, so they seemed to believe Kichiji had simply procured him as a servant from somewhere.

Three

Kichiji also returned before long, but upon seeing Ushiwakamaru, who had come back earlier and was sitting there nonchalantly, "What is the meaning of this?"

In a groan born of exhaustion from searching, he let slip both his relieved expression and his irritation.

“Even though I strictly forbade it, where in the world did you go without saying a word?”

When he asked half-reproachfully,

"But Kichiji, if I keep sitting like this forever, both my legs and spirit will rot away. I just went to see the town," he said nonchalantly. "No, that's not all there was to it. You must have had some reason for going out," Kichiji pressed. When challenged, Ushiwakamaru's response still carried a boyish quality. "To tell the truth, Kichiji... I'd heard Mother's residence was near Horikawa, so I slipped out to look." "You... went searching for Lord Ichijō's mansion?"

"When I asked people, I found out immediately. But I won't go to visit. From afar... I just looked through Horikawa's willow trees at the earthen walls and roofs before coming back." "...Hmm." "If this Ushiwakamaru were to go calling, I know full well it would endanger Mother's person." "...I see... Well, if that's all, then perhaps it's acceptable—" Even that much was forbidden—yet Kichiji couldn't bring himself to voice the prohibition. Still, merely hearing the account made his heart contract with dread.

“Lord Ushiwakamaru.” “Now that you’ve done that—didn’t you feel as though you’d met your mother?” “So your heart must be settled now.” “Why?”

“But if you saw her residence—” “As if that would settle anything!” He bit his lip and glared fiercely at Kichiji—Kichiji flinched. These were not a boy’s eyes. They burned like fire. Yet those flaming pupils swam with unshed tears. “But... Kichiji,” Ushiwakamaru’s tears fell in steady drops; bowing his head, he let them spill onto his knees. “I’ve made my peace with it. It’s wrong to make you suffer too. You told that lie to lure me from the mountains—no matter how I consider it, in our present circumstances, meeting Mother remains impossible…… And I know full well it would only bring her ruin.”

“Y-you mean... all this time, Lord Ushiwakamaru—had you been considering that?” “That’s only natural.” Wiping his tears, “More than my own affairs, more than what lies ahead—what I think of most is how Mother might find happiness.” “Isn’t that only natural for a child to think?” "...I want to see her so badly it aches... but—" “I am humbled.”

Kichiji instinctively placed both hands on the floor and pressed his forehead against the mat. This was the first time he had ever bowed his head so low from the heart.

He felt as though his own burden had suddenly grown heavier. —At that very moment, unfortunately, Chōon, his younger sister, came to the room’s entrance. Since she seemed to have been standing there observing the scene, if he did not explain the circumstances to her, there was a risk she would grow suspicious.

“Chōon, sit down for a moment.”

At that point, Kichiji revealed the general circumstances to her.

Four

Chōon showed no sign of surprise. It wasn’t that she had discerned it was Ushiwakamaru before he could reveal it. Essentially, she did not seem to consider the problem as grave as men made it out to be. As for worldly affairs, she was utterly indifferent. She was, after all, nothing more than one of the Shirabyōshi courtesans who attended the banquets of the upper class. “Understood, Chōon?” “Yes.”

“Don’t speak of this to anyone.” “Yes.” “If it becomes known that Lord Ushiwakamaru has been hidden in this house, you sisters will be considered equally guilty.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” “Make sure to tell your sister as well.” “Should I go tell her right away?” “Wait.”

Kichiji lowered his voice. “I’ll be leaving tonight.” “Huh? Tonight?” “I’ve checked the town’s mood—the embers have cooled considerably.” “Even Rokuhara’s own warriors are saying Ushiwakamaru’s disappearance was a spirit away.” “Those tengu just won’t let it go from their heads.” “We’ve heard the same often enough.” “Where?” “At various noble houses.”

“The rumors about Lord Ushiwakamaru?” “Yes. Both the Taira generals and court nobles must be saying that’s what people call a spirit away.” “If even Rokuhara’s authority cannot capture Lord Ushiwakamaru—a mere sixteen-year-old—this becomes a question of their prestige.” “Moreover, if both Kurama Monastery and the current officials declare it a ‘spirit away,’ no one bears responsibility—and in every way, that’s the safest path.”

“You are quite the mischievous god, aren’t you?” “Me?—No, I’m merely a leaf-tengu messenger. The principal image resides in Ōshū’s Hiraizumi.”

There had never been a case where trusting women too much ended well. Kichiji, while reproaching himself for his own glib manner, abruptly straightened his posture—

“This is sudden, but lend me a full set of your clothes.” “What are you going to use them for?” “To dress Lord Ushiwakamaru.—Can you and Suiga work together to apply his makeup and disguise him so thoroughly that no one would think him anything but a woman? I’ll begin preparing myself first.” “I’ll go call my sister now.” Before long, Suiga arrived. Suiga, being older, had long sensed that her sister’s patron was wealthy and attractive yet somehow dangerous. The fact that Kichiji would be departing was a relief that would last until next early summer.

“My! So you’re departing tonight.—How bittersweet.” Then, Suiga gathered their own garments and tried dressing Ushiwakamaru in various ways. They also undid Ushiwakamaru’s hair and restyled it into a feminine hairstyle, and applied white powder. “How beautiful…”

The sisters gazed at Ushiwakamaru like dollmakers marveling at a doll they had crafted themselves. Ushiwakamaru remained silent and let himself be handled. While being freely handled by the young, especially alluring Shirabyōshi sisters, his blood thundered with great palpitations he had never known before. The scent of women was far too overpowering; his face flushed hot, and his chest grew tight enough that he wanted to turn away.

“Enough already! Enough!” Finally unable to endure any longer, he shook off the sisters’ hands and finished preparing by himself. While they had sent someone to fetch a horse from the house where Kichiji’s companions always stayed and had them prepare a meal and provisions, what was meant to be a nighttime departure had somehow turned into an early morning start around dawn.

Five

The town was still dark, and the fog hung thick. Kichiji removed the horse's bit, and Ushiwakamaru—now dressed as a woman—fastened the hat and luggage onto the saddle and clung to the horse's back.

Kichiji looked up, “Act like a woman—timidly. Yes, just like that. Ride on,” he instructed. “I’ll be fine. It’s my first time on a horse, so even if I don’t act scared, I am scared,” Ushiwakamaru said.

But Kichiji had already steeled his resolve since last night not to let his guard down against this boy’s boyish words.—He wanted to retort that the one who should be afraid was himself. As they turned the corner at the crossroads and glanced back toward the house they had left, Suiga and Chōon, the sisters, stood at the gate watching them depart. The night had not yet dawned, and with no one around, things seemed fine—but there was no telling where prying eyes might be lurking. Kichiji frantically waved his hand.

—Get back inside. Get back inside. he mentally commanded in such a way. In a panic, the sisters’ figures retreated into the house. Ushiwakamaru watched this with a lingering gaze. The white powder clinging to his face and the scent of tomoki wood permeating his robes somehow would not let him quell the sensation that the sisters' pale hands still lingered upon him. "You are a woman.—I won’t call you Lord Ushiwakamaru during the journey." Kichiji cautioned him repeatedly.

“Yeah, yeah.” They emerged onto Sanjō Avenue. They made their way toward Keage.

The sun rose.

The pale morning mist drifted away from the capital. “Kichiji, wait!” Ushiwakamaru brought his horse to a halt atop the slope. And there he remained, gazing fixedly at the rooftops of the capital for what seemed an eternity. ……

Kichiji remained silent too, gazing up at that face from below. He wasn't particularly crying. Nor were his eyes lingering on departure. Rather, they seemed to be glaring at something. Kichiji tried interpreting Ushiwakamaru's intentions in various ways, but the notion that he was merely a sixteen-year-old child inevitably took precedence. Ah, it probably wasn't as complicated as adults think. He ended up brushing it off. Thanks to smooth operations at post stations too, their journey progressed without incident. After crossing Mino Road and entering Owari Plains around this time, the cross-dressed lord began throwing tantrums.

“Kichiji! Kichiji!” “What is it?”

Kichiji looked around the road. Just when he seemed to be playing the part of a gentle woman, he would abruptly unleash a rebuke so fierce it would put adults to shame, leaving Kichiji startled each time. "It's hot! —I hate this kimono. "The lacquered hat is annoying too. "...Hey, Kichiji—can’t I just take this off?" “And what would you wear if you take it off?” “At one of those post towns, I had them prepare—or something—a cool-looking single-layer undergarment with a short hem. “That’s fine. “Even what a peasant’s child wears would be fine.”

“That won’t do.” “Why?!” “You’re a woman—” “I am a man.” “Ah! Travelers are coming from over there.” “If we appear suspicious, we’ll be reported immediately.” “I don’t care.” “It most certainly does matter!” “I said I don’t care!” “Are you refusing to obey me?!”

Tearing the lacquered hat from his own head, Ushiwakamaru slammed it into Kichiji's face. "Ah!"

Discarding Kichiji’s exasperated expression, Ushiwakamaru suddenly yanked the horse’s head forward. The horse plunged into the gale—laughing at Kichiji, who scrambled in pursuit from behind, Ushiwakamaru’s figure vanished into the distance in an instant.

The First Crown

1

What lay ahead was the horse's swiftness.

Kichiji had run out of breath. Exhausted but still he ran. In the end, he gasped breaths that felt like his lungs and heart might burst from his mouth.

“Ugh… I can’t… go on…”

It was agonizing. Sweat stung his eyes. Perhaps realizing his folly, he slapped his chest and sat down by the roadside.

Behind him was a shrine in the forest. In the shade of fresh leaves, the chorus of cicadas rang coolly. Then from the edge of the small hall— “Kichiji. What’s wrong?”

Ushiwakamaru called out.

Tethering his horse, he sat down there. Looking closer, he had discarded the sleeves and sashes of his women’s disguise, unloaded the baggage from the horse’s back, and changed into a lighter outfit all by himself. And he was grinning cheerfully. Kichiji had never been more enraged than he was at this moment. He thought of retaliating against that brat with his detestable little face, but even as he stewed in frustration, “Kichiji. Are you taking the women’s clothes I took off? Or are you leaving them behind?”

“Such things…” Biting his lips in frustration，Kichiji muttered， “But this is Chōon’s kimono，right? “Chōon is your—”

He formed a mocking smile. Kichiji once again muttered inwardly. He’d go and say something like that. What a grave mistake to think he was just an ignorant bee larva—how could he be so... not just flightless but precocious!

“Kichiji, Kichiji.” “What is it?” “If you don’t need them, you can roll up those clothes and shove them deep under the floor of this hall.” “Yeah.” He couldn’t help retorting, but Kichiji was seething with frustration. Before he knew it, this brat was ordering him around like a servant with a jerk of his chin. While someone had been feeding it and giving it milk, it was as if claws had gradually grown on the leopard cub. Unlike the cage of Kurama or the fenced confines of the capital, this was now a wild open world—difficult to manage, he found it hard to keep under control.

“Ah, finally my sweat has cooled a bit. Lord Ushiwakamaru, I’ve put you through quite an ordeal.” “Ha ha ha ha!” “This is no laughing matter. If you keep troubling your benefactor Kichiji like this, it’ll bring ill omen upon your martial destiny.” “Are you angry, Kichiji?” “Of course anyone would get angry!” “I meant no harm by it. I was merely playing at being spirited away.” “...” Kichiji stared at him in exasperation as he spoke. When he recalled how Ushiwakamaru had claimed fear of horses that very morning they fled the capital, it only deepened his conviction—this leopard cub demanded constant vigilance. He began growing wary, certain any misstep would earn him a vicious bite.

“Behind this shrine, there’s a well. Find some vessel, draw water, and bring it here for me to drink.” Reluctantly, Kichiji fetched water in a bamboo tube. Ushiwakamaru drained it in one go, then— “Kichiji—you drank first before bringing me water. Despicable wretch.”

he scolded. And once again, without giving Kichiji a chance to respond, he issued the next command. “Water the horse too. It’s not just humans who are hot.”

There was no time to spare for getting angry at every little thing anymore. As Kichiji wordlessly led the horse toward the well, Ushiwakamaru followed from behind, “Is there a shrine in this region connected to the Minamoto clan?—You must know, since you travel this road every year.” he asked.

Two

The abruptness of the question made Kichiji fumble again.

But suddenly posing questions to an adult’s carelessness was simply a child’s nature, with no deep reason behind it. Kichiji wore a face that dismissed it all as trivial, “Well…? “I’m afraid I don’t know.” “As for shrines connected to the Minamoto clan—if you search hard enough, I suppose there might be some somewhere...” he lied airily. Then Ushiwakamaru, “You don’t know?” he began to say in an instructive tone this time. “I have heard that the mother of my half-brother Yoritomo was a daughter of Fujiwara no Suenori, the chief priest of Atsuta Shrine near a place called Nagoya.” “Then wouldn’t that shrine have deep ties to both my late father Yoshitomo and the Minamoto clan as a whole?”

“Who told you that?” “Even something like that...” “I learned it from the tengu in Shōjōgatani Valley.” “Huh.” “So the tengu taught you everything, did they?”

Rather than responding to Kichiji’s exasperated, dismissive remark, Ushiwakamaru nodded earnestly and— “Though I’ve never met my half-brother, I hear there’s even a well in that Hatagoya Town where Yoritomo had his first bath.” “My half-brother was clearly born in Atsuta.” “I too shall go to that place of deep connection and become a man.” “Kichiji, let us go to Atsuta Road from here.” “What.” “Become a man, you say?” “I shall undergo my coming-of-age ceremony. At sixteen, I nearly had my head shaved—but instead, I will bind my hair as a man and receive my first crown.”

“No—that’s—”

Kichiji flusteredly— “I beg you to wait but a little longer. The lord Your Lordship shall henceforth rely upon is Fujiwara no Hidehira of Ōshu Hiraizumi—a man whose wealth and martial might rival even Chancellor Kiyomori of the Taira. Would it not be most proper to entreat Lord Hidehira to serve as your ceremonial guardian for this coming-of-age rite?”

“…”

“Do you object?”

“…”

“Not just for your coming-of-age ceremony—in all matters, clinging to Lord Hidehira is paramount. Without Lord Hidehira’s protection, you cannot survive. I shall serve as your staff and pillar to cling to. When one feigns such pitiful sorrow, people inevitably become ensnared—you see.” “No.”

Just as Kichiji, having regained some composure and grown more assertive, began to speak, Ushiwakamaru once again flatly rejected his words without hesitation: "If Hidehira were made my ceremonial guardian and I became a man, even were I to rise above the rest of the Minamoto clan in the future, I could never hold my head up before him. Should I bring my half-brother Yoritomo into this, he too would face difficulties. It would become a weakness for all Minamoto warriors." "That's why I refuse." "That isn't so." "It is!" He refused point-blank. Undeterred, Ushiwakamaru pressed further:

“And what do we really know of Hidehira? Whether he’s good or evil remains unclear to me.” “Even if I seek shelter there, I’ve no need to make him my ceremonial guardian—I’ve settled on having the chief priest of Atsuta Shrine preside over my coming-of-age.” “If you refuse to come, I’ll go alone.”

Ushiwakamaru moved onto the horse's back and, paying no heed to him once more, began hastening down the road. Kichiji had already apologized—he wanted to shout. He had no choice but to chase after him, doing everything to appease him. At the post town, Kichiji also hired a horse, and day by day, they entered Atsuta. Upon arriving there, Ushiwakamaru immediately tied his steed at Miya no Mori and proceeded straight into the sacred depths of the summer grove.

Three

Ushiwakamaru stood beneath the worship hall and clapped his palms together. He kept his pressed-together palms against his chest and prayed endlessly. Kichiji, from behind, clapped his hands sharply. The sound rang clear, but it was merely an imitation of prayer. Taking a deep breath, “This feels nice and cool,” he muttered.

“Kichiji.” “Yes.”

“Where are the shrine families?” “Hmm, where might they be?” “To undergo my coming-of-age ceremony, I must entreat the chief priest. Go inform the shrine families.” “Huh? What should I tell them?”

“Though I am but the son of a nameless provincial samurai from the eastern provinces, I humbly request that the coming-of-age ceremony be performed before the gods.” “They might find it strange though.” “Why?” “If a traveler, without even parents accompanying them, were to request a coming-of-age ceremony…” “It doesn’t matter. Just say I’m an orphan—after all, that’s the truth.”

“Then I shall present myself as your uncle and make the request.” “There’s no need for such elaborate phrasing. Simply say I’m your servant.” Kichiji seemed to be seething with frustration again. Even though he had acted as if he didn’t know where the shrine priests were, he strode off briskly into the distance.

He did not even come back to give a reply. Yet Ushiwakamaru remained unfazed. As if his own presence meant nothing, he waited instead—gazing up at the worship hall's corridor for the priest to appear.

Before long, a young priest knelt on the corridor above. "Was it your lordship who requested to undergo the coming-of-age ceremony before the gods?" he asked.

When Ushiwakamaru answered yes, he proceeded to ask various questions—where he was born, his father’s name, and why he wished to undergo the coming-of-age ceremony at this shrine. "My father was a warrior from the eastern provinces. Due to certain circumstances, I cannot disclose his name." "Since I am practically an orphan, I thought there would be no issue in performing my coming-of-age ceremony at this sacred enclosure." “Furthermore, having heard that Atsuta Shrine enshrines Yamato Takeru, I believed conducting my first ceremony before this god I’ve long revered might grant men divine favor.”

“Then, please wait here for a moment.” The young priest, apparently unable to decide on his own authority, said this and retreated into the inner chambers.

After a short while, he appeared there again, “Please come up.” Then he spread a blue rush mat on the worship hall’s floor and had Ushiwakamaru sit down. They lit the sacred lamp, offered sacred sake, and together with another priest recited the norito prayers. Then they placed an eboshi cap upon Ushiwakamaru’s head. The priests tied its cords. With a sakaki branch, they purified Ushiwakamaru’s body. As the white sacred ropes rustled and green wind swept through, Ushiwakamaru felt his body shudder involuntarily.

Gazing intently at the sacred mirror deep within, "If you have made me a man, then grant me—even if but a shadow—the heart and strength of your divine spirit," he prayed in his heart.

"I am deeply grateful." After receiving the sacred sake in earthenware, returning it to the ceremonial tray, and politely expressing his thanks as he was about to rise, an elderly man who appeared to be the chief priest of this shrine approached quietly from the distant connecting corridor. He had an attendant carry a ceremonial tray bearing garments while he himself presented another tray holding a sword.

Four

Stopping Ushiwakamaru as he was about to descend the stairs, the old chief priest held out a tachi sword and a set of garments,

"I present these to honor your initiation as a newly crowned lord." He placed them before him. Ushiwakamaru pressed his palms together, "You are...?"

As he said this, he stared at the man’s face as if to bore a hole through it. The old chief priest, too, gazed ceaselessly at Ushiwakamaru’s form. At some point, without them noticing, all the other young priests had left. Before the two of them there lay only sakaki leaves, a sacred lamp, and the sacred mirror deep within the shrine’s inner sanctum. "I am Fujiwara no Suenori, the chief priest of this shrine... You would have no memory of me, I suppose." Before long, Suenori lowered his voice and spoke. Ushiwakamaru shook his head slightly, "N-no."

"Do you... have some memory? Have you heard anything about me?"

“Though from afar, I have long known of you. You and I are no mere strangers.”

“Mh… Mh…”

Suenori began to tear up. “You knew?” “How could I not know? Your Lordship must have been my late father’s father-in-law. And to the mother of my half-brother Yoritomo, you must have been like a father.” “Oh—Lord Shana. Ever since I heard you had vanished from Kurama, I’ve been worried about you from afar.” “How did you know?” “Because the attendant who came to the shrine’s household spoke suspiciously, I quietly observed your appearance from the shadows and was astonished to see the resemblance.”

"Resemble... who?" "To Lord Yoshitomo—your father." "Ah…. S-so... it's true?"

Ushiwakamaru rubbed his eyes with his fist. Tears fell drop by drop onto the rush mat. “Does it trouble you?” “No. Nowadays... no—more than that—being told I resemble my father somehow fills me with joy.” “Where have you considered taking shelter from here?”

“I am on my way to seek refuge with Lord Fujiwara no Hidehira in Oshu.” “If you reach that far, plans for the future can be devised. But you must proceed with utmost caution on your journey.” “Yes. …Then I shall humbly accept this gift.” “Go ahead and wear them. They’re not so eye-catching as to attract undue attention.” The hunting robe was appropriately unostentatious for a young newly-crowned lord on a journey. Ushiwakamaru reverently received them, changed into the garments, and fastened the long sword at his waist. “Mh. A fine young man’s bearing. I wish the late Lord Yoshitomo could see you now. A fine young man’s bearing. I wish I could show you to the late Lord Yoshitomo. We have performed the capping ceremony, but what name will you take?”

“Yes. When one undergoes the coming-of-age ceremony, it is customary to change one’s name as well. I have heard that the distant ancestor of the Minamoto clan was Tsunemoto, the Sixth Imperial Prince. Then, through successive generations—Yoshiie, Tameyoshi, Yoshitomo—the character *Yoshi* has been traditionally used in the names of our lineage. Therefore, I shall take *Yoshi*—and *Tsune*—to be called Yoshitsune.” “And as for your appellation—” “As I am the eighth son of Yoshitomo, I would be called Hachirō, but there is my uncle Chinzei Hachirō Tameyoshi. I feel it would be inexcusable to cause confusion with his martial reputation—so I shall be Kurō Yoshitsune.”

“Kurō Yoshitsune, then.” “Yes.” “That’s a good name. Today is also an auspicious day. Now then—this area teems with Taira forces. You must make all haste to reach the eastern provinces.” “Thank you... Then I’ll take my leave.” Descending from the worship hall, Yoshitsune called out “Kichiji! Kichiji!” as he searched for him. “Here I am.”

Kichiji sat right below the worship hall, knees drawn up and leaning against the base of a foundation pillar. Nothing escaped him. His expression suggested he had already absorbed every word of the conversation above.

V

Days accumulated on the journey.

In the midsummer sky, Mount Fuji's peak loomed so close it seemed to brush against their brows, its form sharply visible from the summit down to where its foothills dissolved into the earth.

This was the mountain path of Ashigara Pass. “Kichiji.” “Let’s rest.”

Lord Kurō sat down on a rock by the roadside. Being close to the summit, if they merely stopped walking, the wind turned cold, and all their sweat dried instantly. “Lord Kurō. You are unexpectedly knowledgeable about all matters, so you likely already know this—but to the north lies Usui Pass as the boundary, and to the south Ashigara Mountain as the border. Beyond here lies what we call Bandō. We now enter what is known as the Eight Eastern Provinces.” “Hmm. Hmm.”

Kurō nodded repeatedly, “We’ve finally arrived.—Kichiji, your efforts have borne fruit. I will not forget,” he said, bowing his head in an unusually deep show of gratitude.

It was something that had never happened before today. On the contrary, Kichiji became flustered, “W-well, it’s nothing. If Your Lordship speaks so kindly, I know not how to apologize for my own inadequacies.”

“No—I will express gratitude as gratitude, and I will not soon forget a debt of gratitude. But Kichiji—” “Yes.” “You tried twice to discipline this Kurō Yoshitsune by enlisting others’ help. I proved too much for you to handle, and you were seething with anger—but since you couldn’t act directly, you enlisted bandits like that Kumasaka fellow from the post town to attack me in my sleep, or incited mountain brigands to threaten me.”

“Ah! L-Lord Kurō… Please say no more of this,” Kichiji implored, his voice trembling with shame. “Though instigating Kumasaka Chōhan and others was entirely this one’s mischief—no matter how Your Lordship orders me about now—I shall feel no resentment.” “Because it would’ve been wasted effort had I stood my ground,” Yoshitsune remarked dryly. “It is exactly as you say.” “But Kichiji—even when we reach Hiraizumi, don’t breathe a word to Hidehira.” Yoshitsune leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. “I mean to become an adult all at once within five or six years. Until then, I’ll play the fool.”

“I understand.” “To Lord Hidehira and the esteemed clan of the estate alike, I shall convey matters to Kichiji’s advantage.” “In return, when I have grown, you may use my name to gain great profit.” “Petty greed should be avoided.” “I, Kichiji, had considered myself a man of grand ambitions and prided myself on being an obstinate fellow—yet it seems Your Lordship has completely disarmed me.”

“Ah,” he exclaimed. “I can see the Sagami Sea... and the islands of Izu too.”

Kurō no longer responded to Kichiji's ramblings, his unblinking eyes fixed on the rainbow-tinted mountains of the Izu Peninsula veiled in mist. The exile site of his half-brother Yoritomo. Though he had vaguely heard of Hirugakojima in Izu, where exactly was this Hirugakojima? A half-brother from a different mother. A half-brother he had never met. Do you even know you have a half-brother named Kurō Yoshitsune? "...But our blood remains one," he thought. "I too am a son of our late father Yoshitomo. Surely his aspirations cannot differ from mine. How I yearn for you, Elder Brother. Today upon this Ashigara Road, your half-brother Kurō crosses eastward. We shall meet someday without fail. That opportunity will surely be guided by our departed father and Minamoto ancestors."

In the depths of his heart, he had been calling out thus. That thought would soar through the cosmos and reach his half-brother in exile—this he believed.

Rindou

One

In the earth's crust of this land, veins of fire burn. There are many places where hot springs gush.

The mountains too possessed a temperament that might erupt at any moment. Mount Fuji, Mount Aitaka, the Hakone mountain range—all such peaks. In general across this Izu Peninsula land, these natural features and climate became vividly reflected even in the people's physical appearances and temperaments. Both men and women were generally precocious. They also brimmed with passion. Yet as mountains dominated the terrain and resources proved scarce, they maintained simplicity in one aspect while revering ancient customs. Moreover—perhaps due to bordering the sea—they showed enterprising spirit. Though a remote backwater, many kept keen interest in capital gossip and central government affairs.

This year was already the second year of Angen. Speaking of the second year of Angen, it was two years after the year in which Kurō Yoshitsune, having undergone his coming-of-age ceremony, crossed nearby Ashigara Pass and journeyed down to Oshu.

At this time, Minamoto no Yoritomo, Right Guards Lieutenant. Counting on his fingers, he realized that this year marked exactly seventeen years since he had been sent to this place of exile. He was twenty-nine years old. “At thirty, one stands firm.” That ancient saying—he too must have been murmuring it in his heart this year, unbeknownst to others. Yet his seventeen years of exile had been exceedingly calm—so peaceful that one might grow weary of such tranquility. Those days of peace and idleness still remained unchanged.

Yet, in the mountains and rivers, there were flowers blooming and withering, birds and fish coming and going. In the fields of the exile residence, eggplant flowers bloomed once again this year. “Oh, scary!” In the melon field, two girls picking melons covered their ears in unison. “Mr. Thunder!” And they looked up at the mountains. The Hakone mountain range became enveloped by swift storm clouds in the blink of an eye, while on the middle slopes of nearby Kannami, the sun blazed a brilliant white.

This place could be called the southern foothills of Hakone. It was slightly elevated farmland, surrounded by cliffs. And no matter which direction one looked, the base soil of the cliffs was washed by the flow of the Kano River. —a thicketed island in the river. That may be why the local people had come to call it Hirugakojima.

The exile residence stood on land where thickets had been cleared to create residential and agricultural plots. The total area enclosed by earthen walls was sprawling, but the buildings remained crude from the outset, and the open spaces had become fields.

Even so. For an exile's residence, it could be said to have been quite well-appointed. At the center of the main house stood both a Buddhist chapel and samurai quarters. Sleeping quarters, a kitchen, girls' chambers, servants' huts—what particularly stood out was the presence of a stable. As for Minamoto no Yoritomo's excursions—within certain designated areas—whether going hunting or visiting the running hot springs on pilgrimages, he appeared to have been granted considerable freedom. Plip... plop The rain began falling slantwise. Even areas less than a ri away—Shizuura and Enoura along Suruga Bay—had already been shrouded by low-hanging clouds, leaving not a single foot of sunlit sea surface visible where moments before it had glistened.

“Oh! An evening shower.” Carrying the basket, the girl fled into the eaves of the nearby stable. The white rain streaked away in an instant. A loud noise, like thunder striking somewhere nearby, rang out. “Oh, that was terrible!” Seeing the blue patches of clouds that had immediately cleared, the girls exchanged relieved looks. Then one of them peered into the stable and let out a shrill cry. “Oh? “The horse is gone!” “The lord is here, but Rindou alone…” “Where has Rindou gone?”

2 Valuing horses surpassed even currency. A good horse was counted among the greatest treasures—one not easily obtained even with gold. For warriors especially, while bows and swords mattered greatly, maintaining prized steeds in their stables stood as a paramount concern. Yet superior horses emerging from provincial pastures remained few; any mount with modest renown would inevitably be bought by capital elites wielding wealth. Thus when such steeds appeared, the Taira clan's young lords each competed to claim them. In their quest for exceptional mounts, disputes arose frequently—even brawls erupted. Among these Taira scions, an arrogant saying circulated:

(People are in the capital; even horses—there are no famed steeds in the countryside.) It was, indeed, an arrogant remark. Are there truly no people in the countryside? Are there no famed steeds in the countryside? Minamoto no Yoritomo had personally named it Rindou, kept it in this stable with a groom called Onitōji attached to it, and this deeply cherished black bay horse was said to be a rare treasure even in the capital. Moreover, this black steed was a horse that Hōjō Tokimasa—a powerful clan leader in western Izu who had also been tasked by Rokuhara with managing the exile’s economic affairs and overseeing Yoritomo’s conduct—had specifically selected from his own stable and sent on one occasion.

On a day when Yoritomo had been invited to the Hōjō family's residence near his exile compound— ("I'm hampered in every way without a horse")— he let slip this thought during his first meeting with Tokimasa's daughter Masako. ("Father, you said that black bay horse you recently acquired has too wild a spirit to ride—why not gift it to him?") Through this implicit entreaty to her father, they returned with not just the horse but even a saddle added.

Masako had made a favorable impression on him, and upon taming the horse, he found it to be an unexpectedly swift steed—so much so that whenever Yoritomo heard noises from the stable—even in the dead of night—he would take up a paper torch, (Don't let mosquitoes bite him. —Is something wrong?) and come to give instructions to Onitōji, who always lived there with the horse. That their master cherished Rindou so deeply was something the servants knew all too well, which made its sudden disappearance from the stable now a source of great astonishment and suspicion.

“Mr. Onitōji. “Mr. Onitōji! Mr. Onitōji—” The two girls went to report at the stablekeeper’s hut, but even Onitōji, who was always there, was missing.

Even when taking it out to graze, there had never been an instance of leading it beyond the exile grounds. The grooming of the horse morning and evening was something done by Lord Yoritomo himself. That Yoritomo was today, as always, engrossed in transcribing sutras by the window of his Buddhist chapel. They had just glimpsed his figure from the melon field moments earlier, making their suspicions refuse to abate. "Let us inform Lord Moritsuna. Where might Lord Moritsuna be?" "He may have gone down to the riverbank again—fishing for dace."

“Ah! That’s it—he must be—” “Yes! He must be—”

As they ran out, they came upon a cliff edge thick with mixed trees. When they looked down, through trees still wet from the evening shower, they could see the pale glistening stream of the Kano River flowing below. “Lord Moritsuna! Lord Moritsu—na!” The girl cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. The brief evening shower had made the mountain stream roar with terrifying intensity. The young man who looked like a peasant—who had been dangling his fishing line in those rapids since earlier—turned his sun-browned face sharply upward toward the cliff edge while—

“What the—” “If you’ve got business, come down here!” he answered in a rough voice.

III The evening shower had just cleared. The cliffside earth was slippery. The two girls finally descended to the riverbank. “Lord Moritsuna!” “The horse has disappeared from the stable!” “And Onitōji—who knows where he’s run off to—we called and called but he’s nowhere to be found!” they reported in unison.

“What? Rindou’s missing?” A dace was hooked.

Moritsuna turned around while raising his fishing rod. With a flash, the dace sprang into his hand. While removing the fish from the hook, “Really?” “It really is!” The girl said with widened eyes. “That Onitōji bastard. There were suspicious signs about him lately. Ah… And today’s market day!” He had climbed the cliff and was investigating the stableman’s hut when suddenly— “I’m heading to the market. If Lord Elder Brother asks, tell him I’ll return by evening.”

Having left these words with the servant of Kamadono, he dashed off as if flying. The manors were distinguished by their names—Nanjō, Nakanojō, Hōjō, and others—but the towns in this area had developed densely around Yokkaichi, which lay on the fringes of Hōjō.

It was so named because a market was held on the fourth day of each month. Sasaki Moritsuna remembered that today was that very day. Grains, animal hides, lacquer, textiles—all manner of goods were being traded. A horse market was also being held. Dozens of bays, chestnuts, duns, blacks and others stood tethered at the hitching posts. Among them was a black-dun horse with a white stripe along its nose. Though its saddle and stirrups had been removed—making it appear different at first glance—there was no mistaking it to Moritsuna's eyes.

“Ah, Rindou!” As he reached for it, a horse trader came rushing over and abruptly challenged him. “What do you think you’re doing?” “What do I think? Yours?” “I paid good silver for this horse at today’s market.”

“That’s a shame for you. This is my lord’s horse.” “What did you say?” “From whom did you buy it?” “I don’t know who he was—some young man came to sell it at the market, so I bought it.” “Is that young man called Onitōji?” “I don’t know his name, but that one—over there in that straw-mat hut you can see in the distance—he’s gambling with the market merchants and horse traders.”

“So it’s—” He nodded. “Then I’ll leave this horse in your care for now. But if you move it from here, I won’t allow it.” Having firmly stated this, Moritsuna walked toward the straw-mat hut and quietly peered inside.

Four "Hmm... He's not here?"

Moritsuna muttered.

Onitōji's face was nowhere to be seen among the group there. He searched elsewhere. Such enclosures where people indulged in these vices were not limited to one or two places. The prevalence of gambling had become a terrible trend among both high and low since the Hōgen and Heiji Rebellions, accompanying the prosperity of the Taira clan. Those who neglected their daily duties to indulge in it were not limited to the common folk.

My child has turned twenty Only through gambling does life hold meaning To gamblers across the provinces Even one's own child deserves no scorn Spare them from harm, I beg you Sumiyoshi Nishi Shrine in Ōji Old women carrying grandchildren on their backs could often be heard singing such songs. When people lamented the decay of public morals, travelers crossing from Fuji's post stations over Ashigara Pass would tell how even in those treacherous mountains, several courtesan lodges had lately appeared—thatched huts with bamboo screens hanging from their eaves that looked eerily forbidding at night. This being wilderness where only strange birds and prowling beasts cried out, most courtesans dwelling there were aged women whom travelers had taken to calling "mountain witches."

In an age where even at the barrier of Ashigara Mountain Pass, women of ill repute solicited travelers, one could well imagine how depraved and licentious the conduct along the highways and in provincial capitals must have become. Moreover, on market days when petty merchants from various villages, horse traders, and all sorts of people gathered, the fact that mischief was being committed openly in broad daylight—without even fearing prying eyes—might still have counted among the lesser crimes in these recent social conditions. "Ah! There he is."

Within one enclosure, Moritsuna finally found him. Onitōji, so engrossed in his game, remained unaware until Moritsuna’s arm reached his collar and seized him by the nape. “You scoundrel!” When Onitōji, startled by the voice at his ear, gasped and reached backward, his back was already scraping against the ground as he was dragged roughly dozens of feet across the earth. “Please forgive me!—Wait—I apologize. Lord Moritsuna!”

“Shut up!” “I have no excuse... It... it was just a momentary lapse.” “Shut up!”

Raising his foot, Moritsuna delivered a kick to the man’s face while— “Hand over every last coin you got for that horse.” “I have no money.” “What happened?” “I... I gambled it all away and lost everything.”

“You cursed wretch!”

Moritsuna flared into rage, “How dare you laugh it off like that! Hand over whatever you have left!” “I... I have absolutely nothing left. I’ll get it back somehow, I swear! Please, just give me a little more time!” He had desperately pleaded his case, but it only seemed to fuel Moritsuna’s rage further. In a terrifying voice, he roared “You insolent wretch!” and no sooner had he scolded than he drew the sword at his waist, striking a blow from behind at Onitōji’s shoulder as the man tried to flee.

Onitōji screamed and fell, but luckily collapsed into the surrounding crowd that had formed a ring around them. The people who had formed a circle to watch scattered in panic. Onitōji ran through the gap, still covered in blood. “This black-bay horse is my lord’s steed. “To demand stolen goods is the claimant’s own loss. “In any case, I’ll be taking this!” After untying Rindou from the hitching post, Moritsuna leaped onto its back and, amidst the people’s startled cries, raced away like an arrow toward the exile grounds of Hirugakojima.

The Exiled Lord

One

The mountains were still shrouded in mist, the fields in mist, and the Kano River in mist from the early dawn.

In the private Buddhist chapel of the exile grounds, a sonorous voice chanted sutras. As though ten years were but a single day, Yoritomo’s devotions at each dawn remained unbroken.

In his boyhood, when he had been on the verge of execution and was saved by Lady Ike the Nun, on the day he departed the capital at her behest— (Even if there were tempters, he must never take up sword practice. He should pray for the afterlife of his parents and siblings, shave his head, and must not show this nun the shame of binding ropes again.)

It was as though he had deeply taken to heart the admonitions she had earnestly imparted to him at that time and continued to observe them faithfully, never forgetting.

However, that nun had already passed away; she was no longer of this world.—Within his resonant sutra-chanting voice, one could clearly discern that he now prayed for her afterlife. Nevertheless, he had never kept the one injunction the Nun had repeatedly given him during her lifetime: to shave his head. His twenty-nine-year-old black hair was tied in a thick, lustrous bundle that seemed to flaunt its sheen. Moreover, even regarding his daily sutra recitation—whether it stemmed from an irrepressible yearning for enlightenment, served merely as a token offering to his father Yoshitomo and brothers and clan who met violent ends, or constituted a voice deceiving the world—the true nature of this man's heart remained as inscrutable as ever to those who judged solely by his elegant appearance.

Those who saw him, those who heard him, and those who surrounded the exile grounds—each surely harbored their own disparate thoughts. But the facts were immutable. Whatever Yoritomo’s true intentions might be, this life in exile was reported to Kyoto as one of utmost piety. Consequently, year after year, the surveillance and restraints imposed upon him gradually relaxed. The placement of a woman to serve as an attendant was also tacitly permitted. ――Lately, Kame no Mae, who had been quietly attending in the inner quarters, was his second lover.

The reason this was called the second instance stemmed from an incident about two years prior, when he had fallen in love with the daughter of Izu no Sukechika and fathered a child. Upon Sukechika discovering this, the infant had been cast into an abyss—an event that had once rippled through Izu as widespread rumor. Sukechika, being a powerful clan leader who rivaled the Hōjō in influence, had fixed Yoritomo with a withering glare over that affair—Yoritomo, whom people now derided as an exile-hardened rogue in their next breath. Though he should have been thoroughly chastened after enduring such harsh trials, before long there was again an altered woman attending at his side, and they were often glimpsed exchanging what appeared to others as brazen words of love.

Kame no Mae was uncharacteristically shy for a woman of Izu.

Around that time, there was a mocking song among the local magistrates: Women who fear no man Kamo women, Iyo women, Kazusa women There was even a song that went like that—but why were the women of Izu not among them? Yoritomo too had days when his mind was possessed by such carnal thoughts. In his youthful body, perhaps due to a restlessness—a truly unbearable restlessness—that could not be contained. To cleanse such worldly desires and the turbidity of his mind, the morning devotions were necessary for him himself. His voice was loud—one could say that Hirugakojima dawned from his voice.

“Kame. “――Water. Give me water.”

When he exited the private Buddhist chapel, his face was beaded with sweat. Taking a cup of cold water from Kame no Mae’s hands and draining it in one gulp, he immediately assumed a stance and trod across summer grass still chilled by dew toward the stable—this too was his daily routine.

Two

Since the horse was safe in the stable and no one had reported yesterday's incident, Yoritomo stood there and—

“Onitōji! Onitōji!” and called to his sleeping quarters.

Then, answering promptly, Sasaki Moritsuna emerged from behind the stable—

“I shall bring him out at once.” With an understanding look, he untied Rindou the Black from the stable and led him forward. Yoritomo looked suspiciously,

“What has become of Onitōji? Was it you who tended the stable this morning?” he asked.

Moritsuna maintained an innocent expression, “Late last night, he apparently fell suddenly ill and returned to Nanjō Village. Since it was the middle of the night, he must have departed without taking formal leave.” he answered. Since it was a matter concerning a mere servant, Yoritomo appeared unconcerned and, as on every morning, mounted Rindou’s saddle and went out to exercise the horse in the fields. Both the man and the horse, having worked up a sweat, were returning from the fields when the sun had broken through the morning mist and risen above the mountains.

“I see.”

Moritsuna, wondering what had impressed him, grasped the horse’s bit as he returned and looked up at Yoritomo’s figure. “My elder brother Sadatsuna often remarks in awe: ‘We marvel at My Lord’s prodigious appetite—how that slender frame of yours consumes bowl after bowl of morning soup.’ And truly, seeing this, it’s no wonder you’re so famished…” “Even this Moritsuna has been left achingly hungry this morning.” he said. Yoritomo laughed and,

“Training horses is one thing—try reciting two volumes of the Lotus Sutra at dawn with your belly’s full voice. You’d be left with nothing inside.” “Ah, but since coming to serve at your place of exile, we brothers have had over ten years of fine training.” “Has it truly been ten years now?”

“It has been. “When we first came here at my father’s command, I was still a snot-nosed brat, and even my elder brother Sadatsuna was but a young page.”

While stepping on the dew, Moritsuna looked at his own bare feet. They were no different from a peasant’s. Moritsuna was the third son among four brothers. His father, Sasaki Genzaburō Hideyoshi, had been a resident of Ōmi but was expelled from the province for refusing to submit to the Taira Clan, taking refuge under Shibuya Shōji Shigekuni in Musashi.—Though he never neglected to send messages or gifts to Yoritomo in the nearby Izu, he ultimately dispatched his eldest son Sadatsuna and third son Moritsuna here to serve as household attendants at the exile compound.

Though an exile, Yoritomo—still permitted much of his aristocratic lifestyle—had remained willfully self-indulgent even toward the retainers at his place of banishment. Moritsuna, enraged by this treatment, had repeatedly fled back to Shibuya. Each time, his father would admonish him until he returned once more. They were, in the truest sense, lord and retainer who had weathered every hardship together. Precisely because of this, their bond had now become an inseparable tether between master and servant.

When looking back over such a long period, there had indeed been moments like this. Sadatsuna, his elder brother, had been no less skilled than their father Hideyoshi at fletching arrows. One night as the brothers worked through the dark hours making arrows, Yoritomo saw them and— (When will the day come when I can draw these arrows you make to their full power with these hands?) At his murmured words, the brothers' chests suddenly constricted. They could give no answer, only weep. By lamplight that seemed ready to gutter out at any moment, master and retainers clasped hands and wept together.

“……How many times must these toenails be torn raw before that day comes?” Moritsuna led his lord’s horse back this morning while lost in such thoughts. Then, at the exile compound’s gate—though what had transpired remained unclear—a large crowd of commoners had gathered, raising an uproar.

Three

“Hey!”

“The exile’s retinue—” “There he comes!”

“He’s back!”

The commoners showed blatant hostility as they pointed and shouted. And they surged around Yoritomo with such force that it seemed they might swarm him. "What is the meaning of this?"

Yoritomo looked back at Moritsuna. Moritsuna spread both hands in front of the horse and replied, "I do not know what this is about. I will investigate immediately." Meanwhile, the commoners kept hurling filthy curses from all around. "Horse thief!" "You master and servant conspired to swindle the horse payment!" "Exile scum!" "Leech of the exile compound!" "Give back the horse!" "Hand over that horse!" Their words seemed to carry such meaning. They were market ruffians and horse traders.

Because they were hurling insults in a thick regional dialect, Yoritomo, who had at first been unable to comprehend what was being said, now began to pale slightly. “Moritsuna, what is happening here?”

“Yes, my lord!”

“Is there some misunderstanding here?” “Yes, my lord.” “Why do you remain silent?” “While there may be some error in their accusations, not all of it is unfounded.” “Do you recall this matter?” “I do have some recollection.” “In truth, their claims likely stem from my having utterly forgotten to pay the horse traders at the market.” “The horse payment?” “Yes, my lord.” “Which horse’s payment?” “I humbly beg your pardon.” “This is most shameful.”

Moritsuna bowed his head and could only offer apologies. Yesterday at the market, the man who had sought Rindou Kuro—shoved forward by his companions—advanced fearfully while stammering, “That’s it! That’s the horse!” and pointed at the mount Yoritomo rode. “What? The payment for this horse?”

Yoritomo dismounted. And he listened in silence to the litany of complaints from the horse traders. Upon hearing the details—since Moritsuna’s fault could hardly be called a crime—Yoritomo found it almost comical how he hung his head in shame over such earnest simplicity. “Do not make a fuss. We shall simply pay for the horse.”

“If you just pay up, we’ll have no complaints.” “Then wait here.”

“A’right, we’ll wait.”

The crowd also sat down at the base of the exile compound's deer fence and in the nearby grassy thickets, still muttering suspiciously and clamoring. Their suspicion was not entirely unreasonable. Yoritomo’s impoverished living conditions were evident even from an ordinary glance through the fence here. For an exiled noble’s stipend consisted solely of fixed amounts of grain (dozens of koku), oil (several to), and cloth (several tan) to be distributed, with no other income whatsoever.

"Hmm... This is troublesome," Yoritomo thought. Leaving Moritsuna outside, Yoritomo entered his quarters but found no assets sufficient to cover the horse's payment. There remained robes sent annually from the capital during Lady Ike's lifetime, along with sutra scrolls and costly prayer beads. Occasionally arrived furnishings and daily utensils thoughtfully provided by his wet nurse Hiki no Tsubone. Yet these were all tokens of goodwill from benefactors he couldn't bear to relinquish - even surrendering everything would scarcely meet the horse's value.

“Lady Kame, bring me the writing paper and inkstone there.” Remaining seated on the veranda, Yoritomo wrote a letter, sealed it, and addressed it to Lord Hōjō’s household for the attention of Lady Masako. Kame no Mae had an expression as if she had glimpsed that addressee’s name, but when told by Yoritomo, “Summon Sadatsuna,” she obediently stood and headed toward the samurai quarters.

“Summon Sadatsuna.” Having been told this, she obediently stood and headed toward the samurai quarters.

Four His elder brother Sadatsuna, mounted on his master’s Rindou Kuro, was hurriedly departing from the exile compound when Saburou Moritsuna, who had been waiting outside, “Brother, where are you going?”

he called out. “To Lord Hōjō’s.” Sadatsuna whipped his horse and hurried off. Carrying the letter addressed to Masako, he soon arrived at the Hōjō residence. From the beginning, she was a daughter raised in deep seclusion. There was no way for him to meet her directly. He waited for a reply through the hands of retainers. “This is the message from our lord.” The retainer passed to Sadatsuna Masako’s reply letter along with a set of Chinese silk robes and a single Chinese mirror. Sadatsuna, carrying those items, hurried back to the exile compound.

Yoritomo read Masako’s letter, then immediately tore it into tiny pieces. He called in Moritsuna, who had been waiting outside. “Take these two items and give them to the rabble in the market as payment for the horse,” he said. “No, those horse traders are no longer outside,” Moritsuna replied. “When they saw my brother galloping off toward Lord Hōjō’s residence, they must have thought he meant to bring officials. They scattered in all directions and fled.” Though Moritsuna recounted this with amusement, Yoritomo deemed it a pitiable matter—should word spread that he had oppressed lowly commoners, it would stain his name for life. He immediately ordered him to go to the market and either give them these items or exchange them for coin to be delivered.

When Moritsuna went out, Sadatsuna also asked, “Have your tasks been completed?”

and withdrew to the samurai quarters.

Half a day had been wasted on the unexpected incident. Outside, the blazing sun scorched nothing but the swelter from grass and cicadas' cries. "If I go now... there'll be no time to speak," he thought inwardly. "I'd return after dark. Perhaps I should try going tomorrow." Yoritomo gazed at summer clouds through the eaves while muttering to himself. He recalled what he'd heard recently from Eijitsu - younger brother of Hakone's Head Priest - about Monk Mongaku of Takao being exiled to Nagoya Village's small temple two ri into the mountains after incurring imperial disfavor.

"He's an exiled noble—I'm one too. If we met, I might learn much about the capital's affairs." This thought had lingered unresolved in Yoritomo's mind for some time—should he go today, or wait until tomorrow? "But... Hmm. Is this truly worth pursuing?"

His meticulous nature had a tendency to overthink and fall into confusion. When it came to determining whether visiting Mongaku would be beneficial now or in the future, he became more cautious than when sending letters to the daughter raised in deep seclusion. "...?"

Yoritomo suddenly turned his gaze from the sky beyond the eaves to his side. For there was someone sobbing alone.

It was Kame no Mae. Why she was crying was entirely clear to Yoritomo. It must be because he had sent a messenger to Masako. If one were to delve deeper into her heart and ask: Why hadn't she consulted me about procuring the horse's replacement, or at least sent word to her father Ryōhashi Tarō Nyūdō?

She must hold a grudge over that. Moreover, no matter how docile her nature, being a woman, she must harbor jealousy. Precisely because her nature prevented her from expressing it through actions or words, she knew no way to express herself except through tears. Yoritomo’s eyes, though fully aware of this, took on a slightly harsh edge as he spoke curtly. "What are you crying for? … A woman like you could never fathom a man’s heart." "If you want to cry, go over there and cry." “……It’s hot.” “You’re annoying!”

Five The more she was told to stop crying, the more soaked in tears Kame no Mae became. Yoritomo clicked his tongue. "In this heat, even the cicadas' cries are more than enough. ......How unreasonable."

He stood up. Kame no Mae, for the first time, pleaded in a small voice while choking back tears, her face buried beneath her sleeve. “I humbly request permission to return to my family home for a time.” “…Go home?”

Yoritomo asked in return. He deliberately fixed her with a cold stare. “Fine. Not just for a while—stay wherever you want, as long as you like.” With a wail, the sound of someone collapsing in tears came from behind. He walked heavily across the long wooden veranda without turning around.

To the west of the building stood a structure enveloped by trees. Perhaps intending to take a nap, he strode in with large steps—and—

“Oh!”

Someone turned around in surprise from before the small desk. It was Fujiwara no Kunimichi, a wandering artist who had come drifting from the capital. He was an amusing man—one who danced well when he drank sake and had a spirited nature. Yoritomo had taken him in, and he had been staying at this place of exile for over half a year now, a carefree soul. "—I wondered who it might be, but it was you, my lord," he said. "You startled me!" "You're working on it, I see."

Yoritomo erased the expression he had shown Kame no Mae into a smile, stood behind Kunimichi, and peered over the desk cluttered with his brushes and paints. "You see, I walk around various areas from time to time to make sketches and bring them back for reference, so the work progresses rather slowly."

Kunimichi explained. What was being drawn there was not merely a painting—it was a map of half of Izu Province. From mountains and rivers to roads, post stations, shrines and temples—everything was being rendered with meticulous detail, some sections already taking shape. “The heat makes surveying difficult,” Yoritomo observed. “The fieldwork must be grueling. Just finish it by year’s end.” “It will be done by then,” Kunimichi replied. “Once snow blocks Hakone’s mountain paths, mapping becomes impossible—that’s why I’m prioritizing highland areas now.” Yoritomo murmured thoughtfully.

A morning glory vine crept up to the corner of the veranda. A single white flower trembled in the wind. Yoritomo, as if he had just remembered,

“Kunimichi. “Could you handle this errand?” “Where would you have me go?” “Kame no Mae says she wants to return to her foster parents’ home. “Take her to Nyūdō Yoshihashi Tarō’s residence.” “Oh. “Will she be returning?”

“To send her back alone would be too harsh. Could you take her there?”

“That would be most proper, but might you not face inconveniences in your personal arrangements?” “It’s nothing of consequence.” “Did you perhaps indulge in some quarrel? After all, women will be women. Please compose yourself and join me for a drink this evening. This Kunimichi shall present you with sarugaku again.” “Sarugaku—I’ve just performed it now. Even I must concede it was a foolish sarugaku.”

Having thrown out those words, he shut himself in the private Buddhist chapel. Whenever something troubled him, he would retreat here. While there, he became a man with no thoughts beyond copying sutras and chanting prayers. The seething spirit and passion of his twenty-nine years occasionally required cooling in this incense-filled ice chamber of meditation.

Before long. Again, his daily sutra chanting seeped through. Kame no Mae knelt outside the chamber to take her leave, but could only stifle her sobs before slipping away in silence.

Through the grass seed heads, the evening wind began to blow.

The evening cicadas screeched on――

Strange Monk

1

Autumn comes early to the mountains. The ivy and lacquer trees already bore crimson hues as if touched by frost. “Brother,” he said. “Let us return.” “Let us return.”

“Brother, the sun’s still high though.”

"But I'm bored."

It was the brothers Sadatsuna and Moritsuna who entered the depths of Nira Mountain to prepare for hunting.

Despite having few arrows left from those they had brought, they had only managed to bag four or five birds to hang at their waists. “What a day,” Moritsuna grumbled. “If only a boar cub would come out.” “The season’s still early,” Sadatsuna countered. The two flung their tired legs onto the grass—the valley deepening into dusk while Hakone’s peak still held the crimson sun aloft.

“Brother.” “Hmm?” “Yesterday too, you went carrying our lord’s letter to Lord Hōjō’s inner chambers.” “I went.”

“You’ve been visiting quite frequently.” “Orders,” Moritsuna retorted brusquely. His expression suggested he wanted to add, “It’s not like I go willingly.”

At the mountain temple just below, the sound of sutra chanting could be heard. As if reminded by those sutras,

“...This is troubling.”

Sadatsuna muttered to himself. “What?”

Moritsuna narrowed his eyes at his brother’s melancholy. Those eyes—Sadatsuna stared back fixedly at them, "You, being such a carefree soul, are perfectly suited for messenger work like this. Our lord has never once commanded this Sadatsuna to go."

“Brother. Are you being resentful?” “Don’t talk nonsense!” “I wonder if I’m really such a carefree person.” “Because you have no worries.” “Worrying won’t change anything.—But I wonder… is that really how it should be? Though I often think the same myself.” “Even you think that way?” “There’s nothing unexpected about that.” “Father certainly found us brothers a fine lord to serve. Though it’s presumptuous of me to say, I can’t help but sigh at times.” “The Minamoto have no fortune, and the Taira have all the luck. It can’t be helped.”

“Moritsuna, our service at this exile site has now stretched beyond ten years.” “Can you truly resign yourself to this?” “I cannot. …Why don’t we brothers venture to offer counsel?” “Let us strike at our lord’s true intentions.” “Counsel?” “Regarding what?” “First came that affair with lay priest Itō Sukechika’s daughter—one might think he’d learned his lesson—yet soon enough he installed Kame no Mae in his exile quarters. That alone we might endure—” “But now this!” “He casts out Kame no Mae—guiltless!—in petty anger, then since summer’s onset floods Lord Hōjō’s daughter with messengers after years of silence.” “What manner of conduct is this?!”

“Are you suggesting we bring that up?” “It’s a retainer’s duty to speak up.” “I won’t do it.” “Why?” “Women’s matters… they concern everyone.” “Fool—you mistake branch for root. We don’t censure mere surface conduct. Even if he indulges women, so long as he keeps vital matters in heart… Yet from what I observe—” “You call him unreliable?” “Aye—it weighs on me.”

“I don’t think that’s the case.”

Moritsuna seemed inclined to view all matters in broader strokes than his elder brother did. “People often say it’s a complex matter—but given that he possesses such skill with women, he must have given thorough thought to other matters as well.” “Unlike you, Brother, he cannot simply take matters into his own hands.” And then, instead, he laughed at his brother’s impatience.

II

Their eyes turned toward the evening clouds; both brothers remained utterly silent. Even serving one master, two retainers view him differently. "...I can't comprehend him." As if still unsatisfied with his own words, Sadatsuna finally muttered alone.

Just when you thought him indolent by nature, he would apply himself more than anyone to his morning and evening disciplines—martial training and literary studies alike. Just when you perceived him as coldly unfeeling by birth—devoid of tears—he might appear tender; or rather, so passionately enamored that one suspected him prone to reckless indulgence. No sooner had he been courted by Yaehime, daughter of lay priest Itō Sukechika, than he shifted his affections to Kame no Mae—even dispatching letters into Lord Hōjō’s secluded chambers. …What a fool. …Even bystanders clicked their tongues in disapproval… Yet through such days, he never neglected recitations from the Universal Gateway chapter; never faltered in his hundred daily invocations; nor once forgot his monthly pilgrimages to Mishima Grand Shrine.

“Brother, shall we go?”

Moritsuna rose from the grass while brushing off dust with apparent boredom—then suddenly stiffened, stood his bow upright, and nocked an arrow with a sharp click upon spotting something. Sadatsuna observed the arrowhead as he asked, "What are you aiming at, Brother?" Moritsuna remained silent.

Moritsuna did not answer. He released the fully drawn bowstring with a sharp snap. The arrow passed through the treetops of the grove covering the mountain temple below the cliff, leaving four or five leaves fluttering in its wake. “—It fell.” The shadow of a bird struck by an arrow descended vertically toward the rear of the mountain temple. As Moritsuna rushed downhill—and since this was their return path anyway—Sadatsuna followed after him with a slight delay. The mountain temple below was an ancient sanctuary known as Kannon-in or Nagotani-ji Temple, its principal image being the Bodhisattva of Great Compassion. Beside the temple kitchen stood a single building of monks’ quarters that appeared recently built. In the deepening twilight, the whiteness of that new wood paneling and roof stood out conspicuously.

It was when Moritsuna had picked up the prey bird and arrow and was about to leave. The sutra-chanting voices ceased.

—And then a large man suddenly emerged onto the edge of the newly built veranda and bellowed.

“Who’s there? Wait.” Moritsuna turned around. He simply thought it was just a monk.

“What?”

Then, the great monk,

“You trespass into these walled grounds without permission—what manner of greeting is this?!” “This place has walls? We came down from the back mountain—we didn’t know.” “That excuses nothing! Young lordling—you shoot arrows into people’s gardens, offer no proper apology, and think to walk away?” “My mistake.” “That won’t suffice.” “Then what would you have me do?” “Prostrate yourself and apologize.” He spoke arrogantly from the veranda’s edge. His burly muscles and protruding belly made him appear almost deliberately arched backward. A coarse beard framed features bearing a combative glare ill-suited to a monk. Confronted with those eyes, Moritsuna—a man of Bandō spirit whose very nature rebelled against apology even when warranted—

“I won’t apologize any further. And if I don’t prostrate myself and apologize, what then?” he sneered. The monk thrust out his hairy iron fist abruptly. “Young lordling! You want a taste of this?” he said.

3 “What?!”

As Moritsuna approached with his hand on his tachi, the great monk, "You rustic brute! Think you can strike?" he laughed with his mouth wide open. At the monk's insult of "rustic brute" directed at his younger brother, Sadatsuna—who had been watching from a distance—seemed to realize something and came running over, "Stand down!" He scolded his younger brother. And then he turned to the monk and inquired, "Could it be that you are Lord Mongaku?" "I am Mongaku."

“Ah, so it is as I thought!” “Where do you hail from?” “My apologies.—Moritsuna, apologize. He is none other than the Holy Man of Takao.” Sadatsuna scolded his younger brother thus, but Moritsuna wore an expression that declared he had no head to lower. He simply kept his gaze fixed on Mongaku’s face. “Understood.” Mongaku suddenly bared his white teeth. Upon hearing the name Moritsuna, he must have immediately realized. He guffawed as he spoke. “Ah, so you are the servants of Yoritomo—they say—who reside at Hirugakojima.”

“We are indeed as you have perceived. I am Taro Sadatsuna, son of Sasaki Genzō, and this brash fellow here is Saburō Moritsuna.” “It’s cramped near the edge, but come in.” Mongaku guided them to the hearth and sat down before it first. “Brother, what do we do?” When they conferred in whispers, Moritsuna said, “Since he says to come in, let’s go in.” “Don’t engage in needless bravado.”

Sadatsuna entered the room while admonishing his younger brother in a low voice. Mongaku was snapping firewood into the hearth. The red flame cast its light upward onto his face.

They had long heard various things about this monk's background. For even in the capital he had often been a subject of conversation, and since being exiled to Izu, the villagers would gossip about him at every opportunity. From the very awakening of his faith, this person differed from ordinary monks. His secular surname was Endō and given name Moritō; having served as a guardian of the Northern Quarters before joining the Retired Emperor's Military Office, it is said that at eighteen years of age, he killed a married woman named Kesago, and out of profound remorse, shaved his head to enter the Buddhist priesthood—this being the impetus for his renunciation.

His subsequent ascetic practices also far surpassed those of ordinary people; it seemed he had experienced even the harsh austerities of Nachi Mountain countless times across the famous peaks and great rivers of various provinces. People called him Takao’s Wild Monk, but since coming to Izu, he had taken to calling himself "Man of Auspicious Visage." Could this be called an auspicious visage?—The fact that he himself said such things made one understand his likability. But the face illuminated by the red firelight from the hearth appeared rather terrifying.

The reason he was exiled here was also a fearsome matter. He had been conducting fundraising appeals in the capital—calling on citizens to restore Jingo-ji Temple from ruin, revive Buddhism's prosperity, and pray for his parents' posthumous welfare—but one day, hearing that many nobles had gathered at Hōjū-ji Temple's Dharma Hall, he went there to solicit donations for his cause; yet none would give him heed.

Thereupon Mongaku entered the garden without permission and began reciting the fundraising appeal in a booming voice. At that very moment, the court nobles and officials who had been enraptured by sho music were so startled that they tried to haul him out of the temple courtyard—whereupon Mongaku reportedly cut down several of them.—Though his head had been shorn in penance, the blood of Endō Moritō still coursed through him like an abyssal dragon that had not shed its primal nature. Therefore, unless one perceived his self-styled title of "Man of Auspicious Visage" through this lens, he might at any moment bare fangs and spit tongues of flame.

Four

Before long, Mongaku, “It has been many years in Izu now—has our lord reached adulthood without incident?” asked Mongaku while looking between the Sasaki brothers before the hearth. Moritsuna sat with a sullen expression, so Sadatsuna took extra care in his attentiveness to their lord, responding with meticulous courtesy: “Indeed, his exile residence has now seen seventeen years. He remains in excellent health, and his disposition continues to be most unremarkable.” “How old has he become?”

“He has reached twenty-nine years of age.” “Already thirty?” Mongaku groaned and said, “How time flies.” “Yet in all this time, the Taira have grown complacent in their prosperity—they wouldn’t even count the years of Yoshitomo’s son.” “Not a single soul among them now frets over Lord Yoritomo’s very existence in Izu.” “For those of Minamoto blood, this should be called nothing less than heaven-sent fortune.” “……” “Is that not so?” “Yes.” “You fine young men—surely you don’t follow Lord Yoritomo in this backwater exile just to eat potatoes and millet while serving a banished noble your whole lives?”

“……” He wondered how to respond. As this monk said, even Rokuhara was not indifferent. Even in the countryside, one could not afford to let their guard down. Moreover, this eccentric monk had an established reputation as precisely “a monk with words but lacking virtuous conduct.” Whether he was someone to be trusted or not—Sadatsuna found himself unable to discern. Mongaku did not betray public expectations—he was indeed a monk of many words. He paid no heed to his listener’s expression—he simply said what he wanted to say.

“Convey this to Lord Yoritomo as well,” Mongaku said. “I hear he diligently performs his morning and evening sutra recitations—copying however many volumes of the Lotus Sutra as part of his vow—but these trivial Buddhist diversions, whether they’re some ploy for Kyoto or not, he ought to keep them in moderation.” His voice dropped lower. “Given that he’s already twenty-nine, it’s no longer the time for such things.” Though framed as dialogue, it took the form of a soliloquy. As he continued, he began mixing into his speech a tone and fervor as if he himself were Yoritomo. One could sense tremendous passion and stubborn conviction in his words, yet closer listening revealed how completely he conflated his own position with others’—insisting his perspectives were absolute truths to be preached to all and imposed upon the world. When reality resisted this imposition, there emerged Mongaku as history knew him: a man whose thwarted visions birthed ever more erratic words and deeds.

“No—his daily conduct matters little, but after seventeen years in this remote countryside, has our lord not forgotten how to see the world from a grand perspective? His vision remains confined to half of Izu Province.” “It is concerning.” “It is lamentable.—What must first be thoroughly understood are the affairs of the capital and, by extension, the hearts of the people across the provinces. But from whom has he heard of these matters, and with what resolve has he prepared himself?” “Thank you for your many considerations.” “When I return, I shall relay your words faithfully… As night has fallen, I shall take my leave here.”

Sadatsuna, having spoken with appropriate moderation, began to rise—but even when urged by his brother, Moritsuna made no move to stand immediately. Keeping his gaze fixed as it had been from the beginning, he stared boldly at Mongaku’s face. And he viewed rather coldly the passionate fervor that appeared on his skin through his loquacity, holding a slight bitter smile at the corner of his lips.

Five

It was the gaze of a younger brother who seemed ready to pick an argument. Sadatsuna, seemingly still anxious about overstaying their welcome, promised Mongaku they would visit another day and forcibly urged Moritsuna to leave the place. "If you push that brushwood there, you'll come out beside the priests' quarters." "Please go through the mountain gate and descend."

Mongaku instructed from behind. Passed through the precincts of Nagoya Temple, the brothers hurried home. The evening sky was hazed with star clouds. When they emerged onto the wild path, there was nothing but darkness and the sound of insects.

“He must be worried.” “We’ve ended up staying out late without realizing.”

Sadatsuna seemed concerned about neglecting their numerous evening duties, but Moritsuna— “Elder Brother, Elder Brother.”

he called out,

“After all, we’ve already passed the time for evening duties. The day doesn’t darken on a night path. Let’s go slowly.”

he said calmly. Now that he mentioned it, that might indeed be true. The road to the place of exile still had over one ri remaining. Sadatsuna too resigned himself, "But at least we have a tale to bring His Lordship." "After all, His Lordship had mentioned he might wish to visit Mongaku himself someday." "Elder Brother," Moritsuna pressed, "when we were leaving, you spoke of visiting again—do you mean to take His Lordship there?" "I believe him a monk worth meeting," Sadatsuna replied. "Is he not an outstanding monk of our time?"

“Moritsuna is not impressed.” “It’s because you’ve been viewing that monk through emotion from the very beginning.” “That too.” Moritsuna straightforwardly affirmed,

"But even setting aside that dislike, I still dislike him. If he would openly wear a tachi like us warriors and declare himself as such, that would be one thing—but for a monk, he lacks all monastic bearing." "That's precisely his merit. Among today's monks who merely play at being monks, do you think any true high priest exists?" "There are." Moritsuna interjected sharply, "In Kurodani of the capital resides High Priest Hōnen. These days, even we in the provinces hear the echoes of Hōnen-bō's nembutsu chants."

“Are you truly impressed by sermons about nembutsu, the easy path, and reliance on other-power? That’s hardly becoming of you.” “No—though our path differs as east from west—for the multitude of beings, having such a man emerge in one corner of the world is a blessing, even if another’s affair. The likes of Mongaku? Better he’d never been born. Even we warriors don’t willingly seek Asura’s path. This blood-soaked world—we’d avoid it if we could. Only when crossing it becomes necessary to reach the next life do we tread the warrior’s road through Asura. But that monk—like one cursed from birth—roars with ferocity regardless of time or place. Too ambitious by half—I cannot like him.”

“—Yet today’s words, though excessively favoring the Minamoto, were uttered with such fervor.” “For us warriors, such favoritism is nothing but an unwelcome burden—a hindrance, in fact. As for having His Lordship meet [Mongaku], Moritsuna believes it should be abandoned. If word were to spread that His Lordship secretly visited a mad monk who openly curses the Taira Clan, it would not bode well for His Lordship’s interests.” Amidst the darkness filled with the chirping of insects, a light became visible. Before they knew it, they had returned to Hirugakojima.

And there—at the gate of the exile compound stood two figures in hooded cloaks. As the brothers stood frozen watching, a princess soon emerged stealthily from near His Lordship's quarters—her face hidden beneath a lacquered great hat—and vanished down a dewy path overgrown with grass, escorted by two shadowy figures who appeared to be waiting maids stationed outside.

“Ah... Who was that lady just now?” Sadatsuna looked at his younger brother’s face and caught his breath. Though Moritsuna—who often served as a messenger—had immediately recognized her as a woman from Lord Hōjō’s household, his brother acted as though nothing were amiss. “Who cares who it is—” Laughing, he stepped ahead of his brother and, upon entering the exile compound’s gate, immediately began loudly telling the retainers on guard duty about how today’s hunt had yielded no game.

Masako

1

It was early winter.

The rice harvest had also been completed. On days like that one—when Mount Fuji stood vivid against the sky—the wind cut all the more sharply against the skin. “How was this year’s rice harvest? Was it better than usual years?” Hōjō Tokimasa turned around in his saddle to look back at his two sons and heirs, Munetoki and Yoshitoki.

“No, this year again we had floods in the Kannogawa River and severe storms, so it wasn’t a bumper crop—but well, it hasn’t brought the peasants to hardship.” It was Munetoki’s reply.

Hōjō Tokimasa nodded and turned his face toward the vista. All the while, dry dust from the road swirled faintly into the sky from the procession of people and horses accompanying the father and his two sons. Tokimasa was a fifty-something man in his prime, and the sturdiness of his bone structure surpassed that of his sons. His eyebrows were overly thick, giving him an almost lowborn appearance, yet the eyes nestled in their sockets possessed a distinctive intensity.—Above all, having frequently traveled to Kyoto and engaged with central affairs and knowledge, his countenance carried a certain refinement when seen in this rural setting; even his rugged warrior’s face exhibited an undercurrent of intelligence.

“We’re almost there,” Munetoki pointed ahead. “The estate’s woods, the waters of the Kannogawa River, the roofs of the post town—they’ve already come into view.” He had gestured thus thinking his father’s eyes must find the sight nostalgic. “Hmm,” Tokimasa grunted in acknowledgment, nodding. As far as the eye could see, the mountains and rivers were his domain. To the east, as descendants of Taira no Sadamori, the Itō family of Itō Sukechika and the Hōjō clan stood as twin pillars dividing regional power. He had heirs, his retainers were stalwart, clan discord remained absent, and annual harvests proceeded without incident—so long as he maintained favor with Kiyomori Nyūdō in Kyoto and Rokuhara, his house’s security stood assured. Provided he coveted nothing beyond his grasp and refrained from encroaching on neighboring warlords’ borders, his future beyond forty would unfold tranquil as envisioned.

He too had plans for his old age. He had begun considering them as well. One aspect had taken form as marriage arrangements for his eldest daughter Masako—unexpectedly, even preliminary discussions had been settled during this recent journey. He had been serving guard duty in Kyoto until recently. With his term now completed, he had returned to his home province after a long absence. His sons had gone to Mishima at dawn to welcome their father; surrounding his robust figure upon his return, they mingled with the procession of retainers and packhorses and hurried back eagerly.

"Is Masako well?" Though he had other daughters, Tokimasa found himself speaking only her name—the marriage arrangement settled during his journey had lingered in his thoughts ever since, even without conscious concern. "Yes, she's well." When Munetoki answered, Yoshitoki added from his black horse behind: "She's too energetic." "With Father away, the inner chambers have been bustling daily." "And she was cheerful to begin with, you know."

he added.

I see, I see. Tokimasa was reassured by that. He was nodding while smiling. No matter how old they grew, all children still appeared as children. However, regarding Masako alone, that perspective had begun to change slightly during this homeward journey. This was because he had promised to give her to the wife of Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka, whom he had traveled with during his journey. For any father, it is from the time of marriage discussions that he begins to see his daughter as an individual woman.

Two

The day they removed their travel attire passed uneventfully, and in the days that followed, between receiving clan visitors and attending to household duties during his absence, Tokimasa still found no time to relax as a family man. But at last came a day when he obtained that brief respite. He visited his daughters' chambers, unpacked the various Kyoto souvenirs, watched their delighted faces, and thus spent an idle half-day himself. (Lord Hōjō has such fine children—)

As people often remarked, Tokimasa had not yet reached fifty but already possessed three daughters of marriageable age. There were sisters aged sixteen and eighteen, along with an eldest daughter from his former wife who had just turned twenty. That eldest sister was Masako. Even when viewed through a parent's doting eyes, none of the three stood out particularly in appearance. Only Masako bore traces that faintly recalled her deceased mother's features. Just as their looks differed, Masako's temperament diverged markedly from her two sisters'. Perhaps owing to her constant awareness of being the sole child from a different mother, she deftly managed the household maids, took care not to offend her stepmother, and commanded respect from her younger sisters as their elder.

However, her father Tokimasa found this wise and beautiful Masako to be his greatest burden. If he were to consider Masako's feelings—that she must surely have set her heart on marrying a man from the capital—this was not difficult for a parent's eye to discern, given her intellect and daily preferences. When it came to urban youths from families of respectable standing, one could say there were scarcely any suitors who would trouble themselves to take a wife from the remote countryside of Izu. While in the neighboring provinces of Izu and Sagami there might be young lords who longed to catch even a glimpse of Lord Hōjō's daughter—imagining what manner of rare blossom might bloom deep within those inner chambers—if one were to ask the elegant nobles of the capital, whose streets were teeming with beauty,

(No matter how beautiful gourd flowers or bean blossoms might be, they would still smell of earth.) Such was not their disposition—they would not deign to spare even a glance. Especially now, when even minor officials were saturated with those tied to the Taira clan amid the overripe culture of the capital—their sensibilities excessively ornate, pathologically enamored only with delicate refinement—not a single one of the Hōjō family's daughters could satisfy the preferences of such metropolitan tastes. That being said, Masako's temperament and preferences seemed such that she had no intention of marrying the sons of local warlords from neighboring provinces like Izu, Sagami, or Musashi. She valued her own intelligence and beauty more than anyone else did. Moreover, there was an air about her that she secretly held even greater pride in being a daughter of the Hōjō family—a prestigious lineage—than her father Tokimasa himself.

Secondly, "They are eastern warriors." And among these local warlords—men who possessed nothing but fortitude, lacked intellect, and were all rough vigor as if sprouted from the earth itself—there existed no young lord who could capture her heart in that regard either. At twenty years old—when a woman's prime was already beginning to wane, an age that in current times would draw suspicion—her continued unmarried state stemmed precisely from these circumstances.

The burden weighing even more heavily on her father Tokimasa was his younger daughters, who were less comely in appearance; however, before marrying them off to other households, the pressing matter that required immediate resolution was first wedding Masako, the eldest. “A messenger with a letter from Deputy Governor Lord Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka has arrived.” Just then, a young retainer had brought a written missive to Tokimasa’s presence, but Tokimasa seized upon this as an opportunity— “What.” “From Lord Yamaki.” “Take it over there.” “I suppose a formal reply will be necessary in due course.”

He hurriedly left his daughters' chambers and retreated to his own quarters.

Three

It was around the time when Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka’s messenger—who had received a reply from Tokimasa—left the residence that local peasants commonly referred to as "Gosho-Horiuchi" and crossed its moat bridge on the way back.

Tokimasa turned to his wife Maki no Kata, "We've been hastening the wedding arrangements from the beginning, but Yamaki Kanetaka would bring no disgrace as Masako's groom." "Once the new year arrives, she'll be twenty-one." "She must be growing restless herself by now—I doubt she'd refuse this match... Though regarding the ceremonial preparations—" He now produced the letter from Yamaki Kanetaka, abruptly demanding both the setting of a date and his wife's counsel in the same breath.

Maki no Kata, as a stepmother, naturally strove to approach Masako with a parental affection surpassing that for her own children. “If it is Deputy Governor Lord Yamaki, I believe it would be a splendid match, but have matters progressed so far already with the betrothal talks?” “On my way back from Kyoto, when I happened to spend a night at the same lodging as Lord Yamaki, Masako’s name came up during our conversation. Judge Yamaki confided that he had long secretly desired to take her as his wife. In that case, I could send her as his wife—we settled the matter immediately.”

"Oh..." "So you have formally concluded the arrangement then." "What are you saying?" "It should have reached your ears when I returned." "But I never imagined matters would progress so abruptly." "Then what precisely did you presume this entailed?" "I had thought... you wished me to discreetly ascertain Masako’s inclinations when occasion permitted." "If we paused to ask her preferences each time, her bloom of youth would wither unused." "Your reluctance is natural given your stepmother’s position—though I confess I may have coddled her overmuch." "There shall be no consultation this time." "Declare that he is the bridegroom selected through her father’s discernment."

“But a woman’s life—” “That is precisely why we must hurry.” “But… As she is a daughter who far surpasses others in foresight—who considers even what lies beyond—should you rashly marry her off to a household she does not desire…” “Once married, she’ll come to love him in time. No matter where a daughter is wed, she cannot remain under her parents’ roof as before.” “I humbly request that you yourself deliver the message, my lord. Even were I to inform her, should she show reluctance toward this match—should she voice her maidenly feelings through tears and protests—as a woman, I would find myself swayed by her sentiments and could never bring myself to insist she marry.”

“What’s this…?” Tokimasa looked slightly puzzled, “And yet you yourself seem less than enthusiastic about this match, do you not?” “That is not the case at all.” “Hmm? … Could it be that during my absence, something about Masako’s conduct has changed?”

“No.” “Then why this reluctance?” “I would never feel such discontent—” “You above all should be celebrating... That troubled look on your face—what does it mean? ...No, you’re concealing something from me.”

“Nothing of the sort!” “No, it does appear that way.” “Shielding her simply because she’s your stepchild will do her no favors.” “To think that constitutes fidelity to me as your husband would be a grave error.” “……Very well, I shall question you no further.” “Call Masako’s brother.” “Summon Munetoki here.” Tokimasa’s voice grew in intensity. Before long, the heir Munetoki was summoned and sat before his father. And while scrutinizing his father’s stern countenance and his stepmother’s demeanor—

“Do you have some business?” he inquired casually.

IV

“I ask you—”

“Yes.” “During my absence—was there any change in Masako?” “Change…? What manner of change do you mean?” “For instance—” Tokimasa twisted his mouth slightly, struggling to articulate his paternal concern.

“She’s of marriageable age now—already.”

“Ah... Regarding my sister’s conduct—” “That’s right.” “Stepmother—concerning this matter, did His Lordship deign to speak with you as well?”

Munetoki said bluntly. "N-no…" Maki no Kata wore a troubled look and shook her head faintly. Tokimasa both sympathized with his wife’s position and found her presence bothersome, “You need not remain here. Withdraw to that side for now.”

and dismissed her.

He was left alone with the heir. Tokimasa assumed an even more stern countenance and interrogated Munetoki.

“The truth is…” “Ha.” “Just now I was consulting with Maki—Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka has requested to take Masako as his wife during this provincial visit of his. We have exchanged promises on the matter.” “That would be the situation then.” “You heard?” “From Stepmother—in part.”

“That’s precisely it—you comprehend it fully yet feign ignorance, offering only evasive answers.” “There’s no fault in that. Stepmother too holds unspoken concern for Masako that none may know.” “If it’s you, you should answer anything. Well then—what say you to this marriage arrangement I’ve settled?” “That seems a bit hasty.”

“Hasty, you say?” “My sister will surely refuse.—Though she may not appear so to your eyes, Father, in such matters Masako differs from ordinary women.” “Let me speak plainly.” “To us—” “Hmm.” “Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka must be deemed unsuitable for my sister’s temperament.” “Men who turn brutish when drunk are mere drifters.” “Though said to fare well in the capital, his arrogance—flaunting that deputy governorship—proves insufferable even to our house.” “Nor do the villagers hold him in good regard.”

"If you keep tallying every human flaw like this, there'll be no end to them for anyone." "He would suit your temperament well, Father. A man of talent for another man of talent." "Then you too disagree with this marriage alliance?" "More than either you or I—the crucial party herself would never consent to wed." "How can you speak so definitively about what lies in Masako's heart?" "Then—since Stepmother finds it difficult to broach, and forcing Masako to explain would be cruel—let me lay out everything myself while also asking you to hear my opinion.—The truth is..."

As Munetoki grew solemn, Tokimasa’s countenance had already clouded with unconcealed bewilderment—for he could no longer renege on the promise made to Yamaki no Hangan.

“Wait, wait, Munetoki.” He shook his head hurriedly. Though aware of his own obstinacy, Hōjō Tokimasa found himself compelled to wield his authority as a stern father. “Let me make this clear—this marriage arrangement differs from ordinary matters.” Tokimasa had weighed the matter carefully: while Magistrate Yamaki Kanetaka might have flaws, the union would bolster both their clan’s prestige and Masako’s future prospects—and with the wedding date fixed before year’s end, discreet preparations were already in motion. “At this stage, I cannot possibly call off the engagement.—Bear all this in mind when you speak.” “Masako’s willfulness and you youngsters’ notions—I won’t tolerate excessive insistence on them.” “Do you understand? Is that clear?”

Five

Before he could even begin to speak, having been preemptively shut down by his father in this manner, Munetoki found himself at a complete loss for words.

He—who secretly prided himself on youthful passion and purity—found unbearable how his father Tokimasa would twist every action—even when considering his own daughter’s marriage—toward bolstering clan influence or fashioning it into a political tool. And that revulsion invariably transformed into sympathy for his sister. Earlier, when Munetoki had derided Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka as “a bureaucrat reeking of officialdom yet skilled in worldly cunning,” the remark had partly been a veiled barb aimed at his father. Yet Tokimasa showed not the slightest indication that he believed his own scheming nature diminished his personal dignity in any measure.

Rather, it appeared as though he considered this very act of devoting his heart in such a manner to be parental love. “Munetoki.…What’s with that displeased look while keeping your mouth shut?” “But given what you’ve just said, there remains no room for me to voice any further opinion.” “Then, do you too disapprove of this marriage arrangement I have concluded?” “Since I am not the one to be wed, there can naturally be no objection from me.” “However, Masako will not accept it.”

“Why?” “For Masako—there is someone she secretly harbors feelings for—” Munetoki saw his father’s complexion change abruptly at his words, but intending to act in his sister’s stead, he stated his piece and withdrew. “Even now, he lives in solitude, but he is, after all, the rightful heir of the Minamoto clan—someone we too can see is extraordinary.—My sister wishes to wed Lord Yoritomo.” …………

After a moment, Hōjō Tokimasa groaned to his son Munetoki, “……Is that true?” ...he rasped in a parched voice. When Munetoki boldly spoke of how recently there had been such conspicuous exchanges of love letters between his sister and Yoritomo—even nights of secret meetings—Tokimasa’s countenance became engulfed in an indescribable mix of bewilderment and indignation.

Munetoki, fearing that his father’s anger would fall directly upon Masako and his stepmother, later attempted to placate him. “As for Lord Yamaki—I shall find a way to tactfully decline him myself.” “Please rest assured regarding that matter.” “And so, I too—as her brother—humbly beg you to honor Masako’s wish and kindly send her to Lord Yoritomo.” Munetoki leaned forward on his hands and spoke on his sister’s behalf—whereupon Tokimasa shot to his feet,

“Wh-what are you—even you—spouting such nonsense?!” “—First understand exactly who Lord Yoritomo is before you speak.” “A Rokuhara criminal, an exiled convict—how could my daughter, Tokimasa’s own flesh and blood, wed such a man?” “Moreover, I—Tokimasa—have even been ordered by Chancellor Nyūdō himself to monitor that man! To make my own daughter the wife of such an exile… Preposterous! Even if I were out of my mind—how could such an absurd thing be done? Could it ever be done? You must know this!”

Spewing spittle, he glared at Munetoki's head and barked. Yet even after his roaring, the bewilderment remained undispelled.

Tokimasa went out to the garden. And he wandered silently through the mountain forest, but before long, he dispatched a young page to his daughters’ chambers, "The Great Lord summons you. “Please kindly make your way to his presence alone, Lady Masako.”

and sent him to fetch her.

Six

Masako was facing the mirror, combing her hair.

To the messenger from her father who had come to summon her,

“Yes.” Even after nodding in acknowledgment, she remained composed, continuing to face the mirror.

The two sisters were quietly gathered together, separated by a curtain. One was seated at the writing desk, while the other was absorbed in reading the illustrated text of the picture scrolls their father had recently brought back from the capital as a souvenir, her cheek resting on her hand.

But when they heard the voice of the young page who had come to deliver the summons to Masako— "……Only our older sister?" "Yes. …That’s how it sounded." "Isn’t it a scolding?" "It’s hard to say." Suddenly overwhelmed by anxiety, the youngest sister stealthily peeked through a gap in the curtain to observe Masako’s demeanor. "What expression does our sister wear…?" "Does she look frightened?"

Silently, the youngest sister shook her head. And then, she whispered into her sister’s ear. “She’s fine.—Not at all.”

As she was, Masako had gone down to the garden. Her figure could be seen smiling as she made her way into its depths alone after dismissing her maids. The half-sisters from a different mother were by no means estranged from Masako. That their father had flown into a rage upon hearing from heir Munetoki about Masako’s conduct during her absence in his chambers earlier was already known here as well. Masako knew it, and her two younger sisters knew it too. “We’ve never seen our gentle Father so enraged—and to summon Sister alone from the mountain retreat like this…” “Could he mean to administer some harsh punishment?”

The younger sisters ran through the corridor, searching for their mother.

Maki no Kata and heir Munetoki sat facing each other in a room, sunk in shared apprehension. Of course, this concerned Masako's situation—a fact immediately understood.

“Our sister has been summoned to the mountain retreat alone—is it truly acceptable that no one accompanies her?” When the younger sisters reported this, Munetoki stood up. “Has Father gone to the mountain retreat as well?” “Yes—His Lordship walked alone through the garden for some time, here and there, and then appeared to be resting on the veranda of Dainichi-dō Hall on the mountain.”

“I see. I’ll go check. Stepmother and the girls need not concern themselves.” Munetoki immediately went out into the garden. Maki no Kata followed close behind him and implored in a pleading tone for him not to utter any rash words or provoke Father Tokimasa further. “Do not concern yourselves—yet I must ascertain the situation at least once. I understand Father’s difficult position, but now that matters have come to this, it would be better for everything to be made known to you for what lies ahead. Since this is my transgression alone, I intend to bear full responsibility.” He was somewhat agitated. Having said this, he strode across the garden. Even from behind, his ears appeared flushed.

He too was somewhat agitated. With that, he strode across the garden. Even from behind, his ears burned crimson.

For him, this was neither merely a matter of his sister’s romantic affair nor simply a domestic dispute. Within Munetoki’s heart surged greater tides of the era. The hawser of ambitious plans seeking to ride those waves still remained tethered to shore, stretched taut yet unreleased.

Seven

Dainichi-dō Hall stood on a hill within the estate grounds. It had been moved from Moriyama’s Ganjōju-in to this garden during the time of Tokimasa’s father, Tokiie. Whenever weighty matters required contemplation, Tokimasa would come here to meditate. Standing in this place afforded a panoramic view of the ancestral lands where his forebears had established their legacy. And when he paid homage to the Dainichi statue, his own fatal flaw—that tendency toward sudden fury when confronting affairs—

No—that’s not it at all. He felt a sense of being soothed. “Father. Did you summon me?”

As Masako came up to him there, he remained seated on the wet veranda of Dainichi-dō Hall with arms folded and head bowed, unaware of her presence before him. "Oh…"

With that, Tokimasa raised his bloodshot face. When he saw the slightly uneasy eyes of his obedient daughter, he found himself feeling a touch of endearment,

“Masako. You can sit here.… Not that I called you for urgent business. But thought it better we talk where none others linger.” “Do you have something to ask of me…?” “About your marriage.” “…Yes.” Masako quietly settled beside her father, eyes fixed on the fallen crimson leaves beneath them. “You know Yamaki Kanetaka. The deputy governor—Yamaki no Hangan.” “I am acquainted with his station.” “A man of substance. Favored by Rokuhara too. Judging him prosperous in years to come—I’ve decided to send you. No objections, I trust?”

“……” “I presume not.”

In Tokimasa’s eyes, parental authority and affection glared in unresolved contradiction. The figure of the father, attempting to bend even by force his own will to compliance, appeared increasingly resolute as time passed. “Your answer… How is it…? A husband chosen by a father’s discerning eye—there’s no reason to pray for an ill future. …You cannot possibly dislike this.” “……” “Do you have any objections?” “……I have none.”

With a sigh, Masako said. Her voice was faint. She lifted her face, which was nearly pale. In contrast, at that very moment, Hōjō Tokimasa’s face transformed into that of a doting father, his expression melting into guileless relief, “Oh. You’ll marry?” With a buoyant voice,

“So I’ve settled it,” he said, his voice brightening. “Will you marry?” “If that is your command.” “Good—you’ve accepted it.” “You’ve reached marriageable age.” “After all, to see your two younger sisters wed later, we must first settle your own match.” “That matter too has weighed on my mind.” “...Therefore, I have a request.” “Hmm? What is it?” Tokimasa leaned forward. True to the saying that anticipation proves worse than reality, his earlier grave concerns now made him drop all pretense of composure, revealing his indulgent side as a father.

“Since I have resolved to marry, I wish to do so without delay. …And as I have been nothing but a burden to you until this day through my innate willfulness, I humbly ask that you once more confirm with Yamaki no Hangan-sama whether he will tolerate this willfulness of mine even after I wed.” Then Hōjō Tokimasa, as though he himself were the prospective bridegroom, waved his hand in refusal.

“No, as your parent, I have already stated that matter many times myself—in truth, you are not one without willfulness.” “But Magistrate Yamaki says that very trait is rather your strength as his daughter—your broad and cheerful disposition. Moreover, he understands your shortcomings even better than I do and has consented with full awareness of them.” “Still, let me emphasize this—there’s no need for concern.” “Ha ha ha ha—even the bride is no living Kannon.”

Eight

Tokimasa stood up.

His face took on the expression of a blissful father who could find no trace of hardship even if he searched, “Masako. Let us return.” With that, he began to walk away.

Masako remained on the veranda of the hall. She kept her head lowered, "I shall follow after." “Don’t catch a cold. When the sun sets, it’ll grow cold.” “Yes.” “Aren’t you coming?”

“I will return after paying my respects.” Hōjō Tokimasa nodded twice and began descending the path while looking down at the mansion’s roof and expansive garden below. As her father’s figure sank into the shadows of the trees, Munetoki—the clan heir—emerged from beside the hall as though he had been lying in wait.

“Sister!” As he rushed over, he grabbed Masako’s wrist with painful force and demanded, “Sister—what do you truly intend?” “Do you mean to marry Magistrate Yamaki?” “Masako! Answer me...” “Please calm yourself.” Masako admonished her agitated brother, “There is Father’s position to consider.” “It is our parents’ command.” “We must respect our stepmother and half-sisters’ feelings.” “…This time, I have resolved to wed.”

With that, she said without shedding a tear. Munetoki could not contain his indignation that his sister, having encountered such a grave matter without consulting him, had given their father her consent. Seeing how unexpectedly calm Masako remained, her clear-faced composure—though she was his sister—made him resent her all the more. “Hmm... So you deceived Lord Yoritomo, then.” “Have you been toying with love like some courtesan?” “And yet your heart feels no pain?” “You go too far. Even if you are my Elder Brother—”

“What?!” “Do you take Masako for such a woman?…How vexing this is.” “The one who’s vexed is this elder brother of yours. You spoke of Father’s position, but what of Munetoki’s? —No, you’re my own sister. I cannot even voice such grievances. But what of our comrades who have shielded your relationship with Lord Yoritomo and secretly deliberated even on matters of grave consequence for the future?” “I too have been considering the matter.” “How?...How have you been considering it?”

“Please calm yourself.” “Don’t be absurd—I am calm!” “I cannot speak my thoughts to such an agitated voice.” “Of course I’m agitated! How could I not be? Even if you’re my own sister, should matters come to it, I’m prepared to take your head and apologize to our sworn comrades! That my voice grows sharp and eyes fierce—this too is a brother’s affection.” “…Hohoho.”

Masako laughed and looked at her honest brother with pity.

“Elder Brother. When I observe the schemes you all pursue, though your hearts may be bold, your actions resemble children’s dangerous fireplay. You seem all too eager to tear everything down at once.” “Don’t spout such clever-sounding words.” “No, it is not only you. The members of your faction are all youths—while youthful recklessness is to be expected, even so, it remains excessively—” “You dare say that—then are you claiming this elder brother and all your sworn comrades are still suckling at the breast?”

“I do.” “You said it?!” “Exactly—is that not your impatience? In that case, even if Masako speaks, it would be futile.—Please allow me to meet with Lord Yoritomo for one more night. I will tell that noble lord everything. As for you, Elder Brother, and the rest of your faction—please hear it from Lord Yoritomo’s own lips. Until then, even you, my own brother—I will not speak the depths of my heart to anyone. I will not disclose it to anyone.”

Young Gathering

I

A sea of pampas grass stretched as far as the eye could see. The foothills of Kannami stretched in a gentle slope, and on the roofs of the distant town at its edge, the winter sun was sinking. “Is someone passing by…?”

One of them craned their neck out from the pampas grass and scanned the surroundings.

“A woodcutter.” The head sank back down. A silver rustling swept through the pampas.—In the wind’s wake, an old quail cried. “So,” one pressed, “what did she say to Lord Yoritomo?”

They were young men from neighboring villages—the likes of Nitta Shirō Tadatsune of Nita, Minamijō no Kojirō, Amano Tōkage, and Sanada no Yoichi. There were perhaps fourteen or fifteen of them sitting lower than the pampas grass, formed into a circle as they whispered in secret. “Morinaga,” said Doi Jirō Sanchira, “you start the explanation. From Munetoki’s side, there may be matters regarding his sister too delicate to voice.” At his side sat Hōjō Munetoki, the clan heir, and beside him Adachi Tōkuro Morinaga—a household retainer at the exile residence who, together with his wife, tended ceaselessly to Yoritomo’s needs.

They were positioned slightly apart from the other young men, facing them in opposition. In form, those three appeared to hold the status of ringleaders in this gathering of youths. The rumor that Lord Hōjō's daughter and Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka would soon marry had become an open secret by mid-November, when winter's grip tightened.

For some time now, Masako had wished to meet Yoritomo once more before her marriage. She would also convey her true feelings to Lord Yoritomo. This matter had been carried out the previous night—and today, that lord— (what he had learned from meeting her and what she had disclosed) —was why these sworn comrades had gathered here. Though called friends, this band of young men sharing Tōsō's soil did not seek to emulate the lukewarm youthfulness of Taira nobles—their amorous dalliances and banquet revelries. They harbored far sturdier ambitions within their robust frames, striving to ascend toward realms beyond this peninsula.

No—to put it more bluntly, they were chasing down the Taira Clan and aiming to replace it themselves. However, they all harbored ambitions and ideals sufficient to create an era surpassing even that. They absolutely did not consider themselves to be mindlessly inciting rebellion with ambitions of usurping the realm. They held the unwavering conviction that their emergence was not only the path to securing the happiness of all the common people but also the sole righteous way to bring peace to His Majesty’s august heart.

While some were local samurai of no great standing, Hōjō Munetoki—needless to say—along with Doi Jirō Sanchira, Amano Tōkage, and Nitta Shirō Tadatsune, were all scions of old and established families in this region. Before long, this band of young men had gathered around young Yoritomo, (When the time comes—) and kept watch on the world’s movements. When it came to matters concerning Lord Yoritomo, even the aftermath of his fleeting romances was something these youths took care of behind the scenes. Particularly regarding his relationship with Lord Hōjō’s daughter, they had intertwined their own aims with that romance—for if they were to raise their banner here, the Hōjō clan’s influence could not be ignored. Unless they secured Tokimasa’s support, they could not lift a finger.

Even the clan heir’s wisdom and passion would not suffice to sway Tokimasa. Even if all the local youths banded together to persuade him, they would merely be laughed off as naive youngsters.

But Tokimasa was indulgent toward his children—and particularly doted on Masako. If a bond spanning two lifetimes were to form between Masako and Lord Yoritomo, Munetoki—the clan heir—and his band of young men reasoned that Tokimasa would have no choice but to rise against the Taira Clan. Thus, they had secretly guarded the path between the exile residence and the Hōjō household.

II

The written vow between Masako and Yoritomo that had seemed to bind them for two lifetimes was torn asunder. It had been announced that Masako would soon wed Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka. —Are we to abandon this? Naturally, it was this band of youths who first raised the clamor. The issue lay not in Lord Yoritomo's romantic affairs. The lord had always been a philanderer. Such matters scarcely warranted their attention. —The grand design was unraveling. —Masako knows of our scheme. —Should she become the deputy's wife...

It was a panic born of natural yet groundless fears and indignation.

Munetoki visited each conspirator individually and, after arranging another meeting between his sister and Lord Yoritomo, elucidated the truth. "If my sister's change of heart remains absolute," he declared, "I shall atone to each and every one of you with her severed head." Through such placations, he had barely steered through the past few days without incident to reach this gathering—yet now Munetoki stood empty-handed, having failed to produce Masako's head.

“Then, I shall begin.” Adachi Tōkuro Morinaga, with some hesitation, prefaced his remarks before addressing the group. “Last night, at a certain location, we secretly arranged for Her Ladyship Masako to meet with His Lordship as she desired.—Afterward, the thoughts of the princess that we received from His Lordship were of the following particulars.… Please listen.”

What follows is—

What followed was Adachi Tōkuro Morinaga’s disclosure of what was termed “the true heart of marriage” to his trusted comrades, conveyed on behalf of Masako and Yoritomo.

＊　　　　　＊　　　　　＊ If I were to refuse that marriage proposal by shaking my head, Father Tokimasa would have lied. Even if Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka slandered me henceforth, I would become one unable to speak with a warrior's dignity. He must be suffering. And there was Father's distress toward his wife and their daughters. Moreover, on a grander scale, it would naturally lead to discord with Deputy Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka—and ultimately, all manner of troublesome rumors would reach Kyoto.

She stated those reasons, but the greater one was Masako’s own desire to be by Yoritomo’s side without a moment’s delay. All who knew her praised her intellect, yet she too was a woman who, when in love, would become blinded by passion—one who would brave the darkest nights to visit the exiled man. No—given her circumstances and age, Masako’s entire purpose in life had now become single-mindedly fixated on one man. Moreover, that man was the legitimate heir of an exalted lineage that most perfectly matched her ideal. His appearance lacked any rustic coarseness and carried the aura of a noble prince. He was not only skilled in martial matters but also well-versed in cultural pursuits, and his ambitions were grand.

What captivated Masako’s heart was not merely that the man possessed those qualities alone, but that such a scion of nobility found himself in ill-fated circumstances—this was the truth. She fell in love even with Yoritomo’s ill-fated destiny. And from her brother Munetoki— (Shielding and upholding that noble lord) The important matter that had been whispered to her—in truth, she harbored a passion for it surpassing even her brother’s. Not only love, but even that grand success—Masako had contemplated it all within the deep recesses of her chamber.

—And yet. Why should I marry Yamaki no Hangan. Marry—then flee that very night. Go into hiding. It won’t be Father’s fault. Father can simply remain angry at his unruly daughter, and that will suffice. In time, even the embers will cool. By then, I will go to Yoritomo’s side and live with him.—Naturally, the flames of challenge will rise from Yamaki’s faction. We will fight back.

It’s the perfect spark.

To the world, it would appear as a lovers' quarrel. Kyoto would grow complacent. In that window, we would take the first step of our grand endeavor and declare our uprising simultaneously.

＊　　　　　＊　　　　　＊

“Shh…!” “Someone’s coming.”

Morinaga’s account was just coming to an end. One of the lookouts waved his hand from the silvergrass in the distance.

III “They’re the Deputy’s retainers. Yamaki’s retainers are following them.”

When a second warning came from the lookout,

"What? Yamaki no Hangan's retainers are in sight?" The young warriors immediately hardened their expressions and began rising, hands reaching for their tachi.

“Don’t stand up—if you do, they’ll notice us.” Morinaga restrained them, and Munetoki hurriedly joined in to help.

“……” Falling silent together, the group crouched back into the silvergrass once more.

From between the silvergrass swaying in the evening breeze, they cast their eyes into the distance—there indeed were a horse and rider descending from the mountain. The face rocking on horseback glowed red in the evening clouds, his white teeth and unkempt beard clearly visible. It was Mongaku—the monk exiled at Nagokudera Temple. The samurai flanking him appeared to be Deputy’s officials; they kept speaking to the figure on horseback. “Where could he be headed?” “Dressed for travel by the look of it...”

Munetoki, Morinaga, and the others watched suspiciously. In the meantime, the horse and rider began to pass by diagonally across the distant field path. No sooner had they thought this than Mongaku on horseback suddenly looked their way. From his vantage point atop the horse, even while crouched down, the necks and backs of the young men would have been visible to him. “Hey, wait a moment.” Mongaku dismounted from his horse, left both the horse and officials behind, and walked over alone through rustling grass. “Hey!” It was a booming loud voice. Inevitably, Munetoki, Morinaga, and Sanchira all stood up.

“What were you doing here? Quite the gathering of spirited men—starting with Lord Hōjō’s son. Surely you’re not plotting something as petty as stealing women. With this many warriors, you could carve out an entire district.” “Take one district, and soldiers across the province will lick their palms and rise at your call. Seize a province, and the eight eastern lands will be within reach. Ha ha ha… How dangerous this all is.” What was he laughing about? The young warriors deliberately arranged faces that said This isn’t funny, maintaining their silent dismissal of Mongaku.

None of these young comrades had ever truly respected Mongaku from their daily interactions. Merely hearing secondhand accounts from those who had met him was enough to make them dislike him. He possessed a habit of spouting grandiose declarations whenever encountering people. He derided all provincial warriors as incompetent and dismissed urban dwellers as maggots. Because he rushed to embolden youths with excessive agitation and a tone that reeked of sycophancy, all the young men conversely grew to shun approaching the fence of his exile compound.

But Mongaku did not find this lonely. He never visited others; when alone, he simply lived alone. And whenever he happened to meet someone by the roadside—as he had just now—he would immediately approach them and say whatever he wished, unconcerned with their feelings. "You must rise—what else can you do but rise? The cycle of nature has come full circle. If you stare at your own slender arms, you may think yourselves powerless—but observe the heavens' course closely, and you'll realize the time draws near. Don't mistake this for the empty words of stargazing prophets. I speak of earthly matters. Have you seen the capital's condition? Have you truly listened—strained your ears—to the silent cries of provincial lords and commoners? Act now—you're all young men."

“……”

Mongaku turned around. The Deputy’s officials were craning their necks to look this way. He suddenly, as if remembering his destination, “Well then… Farewell.” “…Farewell.” After bowing his head with uncharacteristic formality,

“In truth—through some twist of fate—an edict of pardon from the capital has reached this Mongaku. Having long been cared for in this village, I now depart and am returning to Kyoto. Though I ultimately could not meet him in person… please convey my regards to His Lordship as well. In time, there will surely be an opportunity for us to meet again under the vast heavens. Tell him that this Mongaku believes it will come to pass.”

Having finished speaking, Mongaku strode off, returned to the horse that had been kept waiting, and soon his figure vanished at the edge of the pampas field.

Four

As they watched Mongaku's figure vanish like a black speck into the crimson haze of the setting sun, all feelings toward him—whether fondness or aversion—faded from the young warriors' hearts, leaving only his parting words lingering persistently in the depths of their ears.

Once he was gone, they felt strangely lonesome,

"That monk was a man of singular spirit after all."

And they all continued to gaze at the edge of the plains as though lamenting his departure.

A few days later.

On this day, a group of youths—adding new faces to the gathering—clustered at the western foot of Moriyama, within the precincts of Ganjōju-in.

The precincts of the Hōjō residence were separated from the surrounding area by nothing more than a single moat drawing water from the Kano River.

Munetoki and his younger brother Yoshitoki were also present that evening.

Among those who had not appeared at the recent meeting was Wada Koshirō Yoshimori of the Miura clan, who had brought along Yoshitsura—the youngest son of Miura Daisuke Yoshiaki, said to have recently returned from a mission to the capital. "What's the situation? How fares the capital these days?"

The people gathered around Yoshitsura at this evening's meeting. Whenever someone brought news from the capital, the young warriors pricked up their ears. Like bees drawn to honey, they clustered around wherever new developments were discussed.

After Yoshitsura answered their numerous questions and cited various examples of the Taira clan’s recent tyrannical acts, he offered this warning to all present: “When I accompanied my father Yoshiaki on our recent journey to the capital, I encountered Ōba Kagechika there several times—he too was visiting Kyoto. It was this Kagechika who privately informed my father that upon visiting Tachibana no Tadakiyo, the military governor of the eastern provinces, he found a letter from Nagata Nyūdō of Suruga had arrived in Tadakiyo’s possession.” “The missive reportedly contained an extensive advisory stating that in recent years, factions led by Hōjō Tokimasa and Hiki no Sakanosuke appear to be cultivating rebellious sentiment by rallying around Yoritomo—now come of age—and that even those at Rokuhara must remain vigilant.”

“Huh… Nagata.” The young warriors felt their blood run cold upon realizing such information had already begun leaking as far as Suruga. At the same time, knowing their existence had started pricking Rokuhara’s nerves, they experienced a fierce surge of vitality and abruptly reinforced their resolve to unite. “Tadakiyo had shown him that letter.” “Thus did Ōba Kagechika reportedly say to his father.” “It seems likely Tadakiyo, as military governor of the eastern samurai, was implicitly warning them not to ally with fools and court ruin.” “Since Lord Miura too has children and many spirited young lords within his clan, upon returning to your province, it would be wise to sternly admonish both your children and grandsires against joining such factions—so Kagechika further counseled my father.” “Considering all this, it would be ill-advised for our meetings to occur too frequently.” “I believe we must redouble our caution here.”

Everyone nodded in agreement with Yoshitsura’s opinion. In fact, what had initially been gatherings of no more than four or five young warriors had grown to thirty, then fifty members—and even those who did not show their faces at the meetings,

(If you all are to act—) and there were already two or three middle-aged to elderly local magnates of stature who, through silent agreement, had lent their weight to the cause. Miura Daisuke Yoshiaki—one such figure whom these young warriors called "Great-Grandfather"—already surpassed eighty years of age yet maintained vigor rivaling his grandsons'. Having returned from this recent journey to the capital, he had only strengthened his anti-Taira resolve; far from admonishing his descendants' actions, It is well for spring to be in full bloom. But spring must depart in its fleeting moment. Once we have swept away the garden’s decay, summer’s realm must be entrusted to the vibrant arms of youth—they must fertilize the soil, prune the trees, and renew the very breath of heaven and earth.

he had been urging them on with such words.

Palanquin in the Winter Rain

One

During the day, it occasionally showered with winter rain. No sooner had the rain cleared than a bright winter sun suddenly streamed into the bride’s chamber.

It was December. Let us call it an auspicious day. Today was the day Masako was to wed. There was no reason to choose an inauspicious day.

The Gosho-no-uchi mansion was filled with people and horses who had rushed to the celebration. When the sky clouded over, a white winter shower would come lashing down again. “What fine rain—most auspicious!” “They say rain on a wedding procession is auspicious.” All the guests who came before Tokimasa and his wife to offer their congratulations and take their leave said. The couple was indeed enveloped in an unsettled joy. Leaving the guests to themselves, they repeatedly went to check on the bride’s chamber. The spacious three-by-four-bay room was nearly filled with resplendent bridal accoutrements. From layered silk robes in willow green, cherry pink, golden yellow, crimson plum, and sprout green hues to Chinese-style jackets, and around the mirror stand lay hairpins, rouge pots, and white face powder—all presented a dazzling array.

Masako stood amidst it all.

Surrounded by maids and wet nurses, she was being wrapped in white silk. She glanced back and saw her father’s face watching from the room’s entrance. “…………” Tokimasa’s face was not overflowing with joy alone, much like when he had seen the Great Sun Hall. A lonely shadow was visible.

…Twenty years. Masako thought of all the kindness she had received in her twenty years. Her eyes grew moist. She lowered her head. Tokimasa too stood vacantly. Then her younger sisters, who had been bustling about helping with preparations, "Father, you must not be here today. Please go wait over there."

The two of them pushed him from behind all the way to the end of the corridor. “Ha ha ha. What’s the harm? Ha ha ha ha, what’s wrong with that?”

Pushed along with the mentality of indulging his children, Tokimasa—now left utterly alone in that spot—felt something fragile tremble at his eyelids, nearly spilling over. But immediately, his gaze shifted to the clan members filling Gosho-no-uchi and the various samurai from nearby villages—to the mingled heat of horses and men. What an abundance of young men there were! His personal troops, relatives' children, acquaintances' sons—it seemed to him that Izu had a particularly large number of young men. No, society at large must be like that as well, but he found it strange how there were elders who somehow held sway over all that youthful vigor. Tokimasa did not yet think of himself as an old man—but neither was he one of these youths. He, too, had now come to frequently think about leaving that place someday and what his next life would hold.

“Munetoki, Munetoki!” He suddenly called out loudly, having spotted the clan heir’s figure in the distant corridor. Munetoki hurried through the drizzling rain to the base of the building where his father stood. “You summoned me?” “Hmm.” Tokimasa fell silent for some reason, his eyes scanning their surroundings before speaking again. “Deploy a hundred men to Niriyama’s western hollow, eighty to the woods on Yamanokigō’s southern hill, and fifty around northern Kinashiyama’s rear. Once night falls, position them immediately—in scattered groups to avoid detection.”

“……?” “Do you not understand?” “...Understood, but” “As for the weapons—bundle them all together as part of the baggage train, cover them, and send them ahead to key positions. Then deploy only the men afterward—that should suffice.” “Then, as ambush forces—” “This is a warrior house’s bridal procession. There’s no telling what disturbances may arise. It would be inexcusable to the bridegroom if something were to happen… This is a father’s precaution. Heir, rather than attending the wedding ceremony, you will remain in the shadows and prepare for unforeseen incidents.”

When Munetoki raised his head, his father was no longer there.

II

Amidst the lively bustle that consumed everyone, only Tokimasa’s face remained stiffened to the point of seeming displeased. Preceding Masako's bridal procession, her father may well have been compelled by a father's considerations. Now, having entrusted one of these tasks to Heir Munetoki, he walked straight through the corridor where servants scurried about in disarray, came to the area near his own room, and halted.

“Maki...” “Maki!” he called out for his wife.

And when he saw Maki no Kata, "It can wait until later, but once Masako has finished preparing herself, tell her to come here before she enters the hall." he instructed. Then Tokimasa sat down and wordlessly watched the clouds drift over Moriyama through the eaves.

The garden grew dark. Rain showers mixed with leaves occasionally blew against the wide veranda and railings. The maidservants carrying candles shielded the flames with their sleeves. "My lord... Masako has been waiting before you for some time now." When Maki no Kata said this to him, Tokimasa opened his eyes at last and fixed his gaze on his daughter's bridal form before him—her hands still formally positioned. "..." He stared intently, then spoke as if exhaling a sigh,

“Will you go now?” he said.

Masako seemed to answer something to that, but it did not reach her father’s ears. She was crying. "At this moment, there is nothing more for me as your father to say." "But since you are marrying, a woman should have no one to rely on but her husband." “Your father is a descendant of Taira no Sadamori.” “Needless to say, we are undeniably of the same Taira lineage as the retired Grand Minister and lay priest in the capital.” “...But.” he said, his voice laden with— "A woman’s clan and lineage are first established through the husband she marries." “If your husband is of the Fujiwara clan, you must become the wife of the Fujiwara house.” “If your husband is of the Sugawara clan, you must become the wife of the Sugawara house.”

“...Yes.”

Masako raised her tearful gaze.

Were father’s words to be taken at face value, or was there some hidden meaning in his statement? —she wondered. “Ha ha ha.”

Tokimasa laughed it off. “Are you crying? Well, well—still a child after all,” he said, turning to Maki no Kata.

“I merely offered an example,” “There’s no deeper meaning.” “The Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka you’re marrying into shares our Taira blood—serve him with unwavering devotion.” “…………” Watching Masako lower her head, Tokimasa rose from his seat. “Make haste and repair your makeup—the entire clan awaits in the hall for the nuptial rites.” Maki no Kata escorted her away, murmuring indistinct words beneath the curtain’s shadow.

For a spell, the hall fell completely silent. The bride’s ceremonial rites were solemnly conducted. When that concluded, suddenly the sounds of many people laughing, clapping hands, and singing celebratory songs could be heard, and the bride was surrounded by clan relatives and moved into the palanquin. Even after the bride had hidden herself in the palanquin, within the glow of the evening bonfires, the sheer volume of bridal belongings and the throng of people and horses made it impossible to form an orderly procession. And occasionally, as night deepened, a chillier rain shower caused the flames of the torches and bonfires to flicker.

3

Even she was so overwhelmed that she could hardly tell front from back. When my palanquin was lifted up, like water overflowing from a vessel, my chest heaved, and tears streamed without end. I beg you to forgive this unfilial child’s selfishness. Masako repeated this plea within her heart again and again. To her father Tokimasa—or rather, to the entire clan—to the gate of the ancestral hall passed down from their forebears. Within the heart of the bride about to be wed lay concealed a most extraordinary resolve. Those bearing the palanquin, the people following the procession, and the clan members seeing her off—all naturally believed she was to wed into Yamaki no Hangan’s residence, with none doubting it. Yet in Masako’s heart, she had not the slightest intention of going there.

The bridal procession had harbored a broken mirror from the moment it departed her family’s gate. Therefore, Masako’s tears differed entirely from those of an ordinary bride leaving her ancestral home. Moreover, in steeling her resolve until now, it was not merely a matter of her path as a woman—naturally, someone as astute as she could not have failed to consider what grave consequences this outcome might instantly bring about. The Hōjō clan was a military house leading its kin; Yamaki no Hangan too was a military house. It would mean casting everything into the carnage of bow, arrow, and sword. For what could be called nothing but selfish love—to make nine clans take up halberds and drive peasants into war’s calamity—what a terrible sin this was. Yet she was not so ignorant and blind as to lack all understanding of these consequences.

Unfilial—and consequently, a disloyal child. The bride trembled, knowing the full horror of her own terrible sin. She was utterly consumed by grief—yet within those sorrowful tears worked a cool intelligence so subtle that none could detect it. How should she escape? Where could she hide afterward? The oblivious procession sang celebratory songs with renewed vigor as the palanquin swayed forward from Karahashi Bridge within the Gosho precincts. Countless torches crossed there, staining the moat's water crimson. The mansion's bonfires burned so fiercely they dyed the mountain trees scarlet. Celebratory songs flowed onward—townspeople had lit bonfires at every eave. People and horses followed the melodies while the palanquin's glittering canopy drifted through those beautiful flames.

However, when they left the post town, the road was pitch dark. Only the torches brandished by the guarding samurai smoldered onward. With a sudden whoosh, a brief rain shower swept sideways across the field. The road was terribly muddy. The people whose festive clothes were soaked by the rain trembled violently from the cold. Yet the distance to Yamanoki Village’s groom’s residence was only about two *ri*. Ahead in the night sky loomed the dark base of Mount Nira.

Before long. At the base of Mount Nira as well, numerous lights began flickering into view. It must have been the forest surrounding Yamaki no Hangan’s residence. Closer still, a cluster of flames seemed to churn like molten metal in a crucible—likely the welcoming party advancing to the village outskirts. The palanquin would soon reach that point. The procession’s torches merged with the welcoming lights, both currents sweeping toward the magistrate’s compound. Every temple and shrine along the way blazed with bonfires. Somewhere in the distance drifted music—bells, flutes, gongs—its festive notes barely audible over the din. Amidst the cacophony of voices and seething crowd, the bride inside the palanquin felt her head swim as though she might faint.

The horses of her father Tokimasa and the clan members, who had hurried from behind, also arrived simultaneously at the Yamaki residence’s gate.

4 It was a mountain with exposed rocks and few trees. The abundance of rocky mountains was characteristic of Izu. Such low peaks rose abruptly from the fields, several of them jutting upward. “They’re passing through—passing through now!” “That line of torches!” “The young mistress’s palanquin…” Lookout soldiers crouched at the rocky outcrop exchanged urgent whispers. Two or three scrambled down into the valley behind them. Seventy or eighty soldiers had remained motionless since evening—drenched by drizzle, stationed beneath rock overhangs and tree cover.

“Lord Munetoki! Lord Munetoki!” “Lord Munetoki.”

At the lookout's voice, "Right." A response came from somewhere. With no bonfires and no stars in the rainy night, they had to rely almost entirely on sound, "Where might you be, my lord?"

“Here, here. I’m under the cedar tree.”

“Oh…” “Lady Masako’s palanquin and its procession have just arrived at Yamanoki Village.” “They’ve arrived?” “They appear to have entered the magistrate’s residence now.” “Good. You lot return to your former positions and keep maintaining watch. Report immediately if you notice anything unusual at Yamaki’s residence.”

“Yes, sir!” The soldiers immediately clambered up the rocks and returned to their original peak. By his father Tokimasa’s orders, Munetoki—the clan heir—had divided troops into groups of seventy and fifty among the mountains near Yamanoki Village, lying in wait with weapons since evening to prepare for any emergency. But why had his father excluded him from the wedding itself while assigning him to this preparation? Munetoki could not fathom Tokimasa’s intentions. From his father’s usual assertions, there should have been no reason to anticipate disturbances at tonight’s wedding—yet why had he ordered their household retainers to arm themselves and prepare ambushes? No matter how much Munetoki wrestled with this contradiction, he could not unravel it.

Plink, plink—the drizzle dripping from the cedar treetops seeped through Munetoki’s armor into his underrobe. …How must she be feeling— Munetoki pondered this as he gazed at the black clouds where the rain had briefly subsided, alongside soldiers who did not even clear their throats. “Halt!”

“W-who goes there?!”

It was near the narrow mountain stream below. No sooner had a soldier on sentry duty suddenly let out a loud shout than the sound of footsteps rushing up from there could soon be heard.

"They’re here." Munetoki had already stood up. And before even hearing the words of the sentry soldier who had come to him, "Could it be that Lord Doi and Lord Nitta have come into view?" he said. "That's correct." "Escort them here."

They appeared to have been waiting impatiently. Immediately, the figures of those people ascended from below. It was Doi Jirō Sanchira. Next was Nitta Shirō Tadatsune. Fujiwara no Kunimichi and Amano Tōkage had also arrived together. However, they were all so thoroughly disguised with straw raincoats over their armor and black cloth wrapped around their faces that they were unrecognizable. “Lord Munetoki?”

“Ah, you’ve all gathered,” Munetoki acknowledged. “We assembled here as planned,” replied the warrior, “but why were you excluded from the wedding rites, Lord Munetoki? Why lead such a force to lie in ambush at this place? When your messenger came earlier, we were startled—with no time for questions, we had no choice but to take winding paths to meet you.” These men neither acted under Tokimasa’s orders nor knew what he had commanded Munetoki. Their suspicion hung thick in the air.

Five

When Munetoki explained that tonight’s deployment was not his own decision but rather under his father Tokimasa’s orders, the group grew all the more— “What? You’re saying Lord Hōjō ordered these forces to lie in wait here? Then could it be… our plot has already been leaked to the enemy?” Doi Sanchira and the others exchanged glances and were momentarily gripped by suspicion. Munetoki had also been cautious, assuming that his father must have vaguely sensed the secret plot of their young group. However, that was an everyday matter. As for tonight’s affair alone—no matter how sharp-eyed Father might be—there was no way he could know. Munetoki saw no possibility at all.

To his persistently anxious friends,

“No, it’s a coincidence. Father must have ordered the deployment of troops merely out of vague precaution—something about local warlords in nearby villages or potential emergencies. Otherwise, he would have had to confine me, Munetoki—the mastermind of this conspiracy—before anyone else.” He spoke as he believed.

Munetoki continued, “Even if Yamaki no Hangan and Father have some inkling of our plans, we cannot alter our strategy at this critical juncture. It is simply a matter of persisting with our convictions to the very end. Should we be mistaken, over two hundred soldiers stand ready here and there. Carry out resolutely our prearranged plan without deviation.” he urged them.

What the group feared was not their own peril but the possibility of Munetoki and his father Tokimasa coming into direct conflict; however, upon hearing this from Munetoki’s own lips, “Alright. If even Lord Munetoki is resolved in that manner, then we have no reason to hesitate. Then, when flames are seen at Yamaki’s magistrate residence, take that as your signal.” Triggered by Doi Sanchira’s words, the group of sworn friends—Fujiwara no Kunimichi, Nitta, Amano, and others—showing warrior-like shivers beneath the dripping straw raincoats and masks, vanished into the darkness once more through the newly falling drizzle.

“…………” Munetoki silently watched until those figures vanished into the distance, then, as if snapping back to himself, began climbing up the rocky peak. From there, the magistrate’s residence in Yamanoki Village was clearly visible. The light of bonfires and torches reflected on the low-hanging rain clouds, and in the pitch-black world, only there was dimly beautiful.

By now, his sister must have alighted from the palanquin. With what feelings must she have passed into the inner quarters of the Yamaki household? She must trust her brother and his friends, yet even so—how painfully those resplendent bonfires and the lamplight in every room must have appeared in her heart as a sister.

“Just wait... Just wait.” Munetoki stood rigid, grinding his teeth as he agonized over Masako’s plight. The rain slackened to a drizzle. A skein of wild geese cried overhead. With each passing moment, his heart thundered in rhythm with what he imagined to be his sister’s pulse at her forced wedding ceremony. What felt like hours passed in minutes. Then— “Fire! Fire!” The lookout soldier’s panicked shout pierced the night. Munetoki snapped, “Silence!” and gripped the man’s arm, eyes riveted on the magistrate’s compound where faint flames now licked at the kitchen annex. Through the downpour, he watched smoke billow from what appeared to be storehouse eaves.

The fire seemed to have started from either the kitchen building or storehouse there. The figures, causing an uproar and rushing about in confusion, looked like mosquitoes in the firelight.

Six

The Hōjō family’s parents and relatives on one side, and the Yamaki clan on the other, sat divided in silence within the vast, brilliantly lit hall.

The bridegroom had not yet taken his seat. The bride, still alighted from the palanquin, was waiting in one of the rooms around this time.

Hōjō Tokimasa, the bride's father, conversed in an exceedingly amiable manner with the elderly man who was the groom's father. With his socially adept manner of speaking, Tokimasa addressed the rest of the clan: "There has never been a night as joyous as this." "Though I must say she proved unexpectedly childish - when I offered a word of instruction about upholding wifely virtues as she departed home, she wept like an infant and left me quite flustered." "Ha ha ha! I myself shall likely face disappointment hereafter." "When I consider having raised this sole daughter to twenty years, I find myself abruptly tallying my own advancing age."

While they were engaged in such small talk within the vast estate—though quite distant—the sounds of servants’ footsteps and shouts of “Fire! Fire!” suddenly erupted as they began running about.

“What?!” “An accidental fire.” All the people stood up in an uproar. Particularly, the members of the Yamaki family were thrown into utter panic and all rushed out. The lamps’ lights here and there flickered dimly under layers of soot, and along with the violent clamor from the fire’s origin, a tremendous creaking of the house suddenly enveloped everything. The bride was quietly surveying her surroundings. The women who had been attending in that room also all left their positions and ran off somewhere. “……….”

She chuckled quietly. Then she extinguished the candlestick's flame and walked through the deserted room like flowing water. A Yamaki family samurai suddenly noticed this and, growing suspicious, began following the bride. Masako stepped out into the room beyond the hall, but upon seeing light there, she turned back down the corridor and dashed into the garden still clad in her white robes.

“Ah!” “Where do you think you’re going?!” Someone grabbed her. Masako did not make a sound. When she turned around and saw his face—since it was a retainer of the Yamaki family— “I’m going to take shelter from the fire.”

“I’m going to take shelter from the fire,” she said calmly. “The fire’s being contained by many hands,” replied the retainer. “It won’t escalate further. Given your suspicious conduct, I cannot permit you to leave the estate.” “How presumptuous.” “I care not for your opinion.” “Release me…” “No. Return immediately.” As he finished speaking, the retainer suddenly shoved Masako’s shoulder with violent force.

In pain and losing herself, Masako screamed—but at that same moment, an eerie groan spilled from the retainer’s mouth. The retainer was stabbed through the flank by someone’s blade. “Lady Masako.” “On my back.”

A masked man holding a dagger in one hand turned his back to her. It was Doi Jirō Sanchira. The fire in the kitchen hall had likely been set by Sanchira's comrades from the start. Carrying Masako on his back, he ran toward the earthen wall—and from the tree shadows there, several other figures followed.

Since most were distracted by the fire and had no time to notice anything else, the young men easily seized the bride and crossed the moat outside the earthen wall. "I've taken horses from the stable. Sanchira! Sanchira! Put the princess on this one!"

It was Nitta Shirō Tadatsune's voice. Praising his success again and again, Adachi Tōkuro Morinaga commended him; Sanchira, holding the princess, leaped on. Following the horses, the group also dashed out. And as they reached the mountains once more, Sanchira repositioned Masako on his back and climbed up the precipitous back path along the spine of the Izu Mountain peninsula, slipping as he went.

Banner of Love

I

The second year of Jishō arrived.

Even as the year turned and Izu eventually became spring, the conflict that had begun with the bride's disappearance the previous year still carried ominous clouds through this land's skies.

“They must have hidden her with the Hōjō family.” “It’s Tokimasa’s scheme.” “No, this appears to be a father and son’s collusive scheme.” It was only natural that the Yamaki faction flew into a rage. Furthermore, using the incident of that night, they demanded accountability from Tokimasa, Masako’s father, “Depending on how this proceeds,” It was only natural that the clan members swelled with determination, vowing to stake their very bows and arrows to uphold the honor of their son-in-law, Magistrate Kanetaka. “I will certainly uphold your honor.” Tokimasa swore.

And as the parent of his daughter, “No matter what reproaches you may level, there is no means to apologize.” “No path remains to salvage dignity.” “I have contemplated seppuku—yet death comes easily. Should I perish now, it would only compound my household’s confusion without purpose.” “Rather than bear this disgrace, nothing surpasses chastising my detestably willful daughter to restore your honor… I beg but brief forbearance.”

He persisted in an apology-focused strategy.

During that time, relatives from both sides gathered several times at meetings for post-incident measures or negotiations,

“I’m sorry.” “I have no excuse at all.” Sticking solely to this approach, Hōjō Tokimasa persisted in offering profuse apologies all along.

As this dragged on, time passed, but none of Tokimasa’s promised apologies materialized into fact, leaving the Yamaki faction seething with impatience— “When will you bring us Lady Masako’s head?” “You can’t possibly be unaware as her parent.” “And with this, do you call yourself the esteemed master of the Hōjō family? Do you settle for being a father of a military house?” “Lord Fool. You’re not yet at the age to be senile, are you?” Every insult and fierce demand assailed him, but

“We are searching with utmost effort.” and, “Please grant us a little more time.” and such. And still, whenever he sat before the Yamaki relatives, he would discard all status and shame to bow low; whenever he received envoys for negotiations, he would exhaust polite phrases in apology. At times, To live was agony, yet death eluded me—to be tormented by such suffering, what evil karma from past deeds could this be?

There were even times when he shed tears. He had grown markedly gaunt. His white hair had increased.

His white hair had grown more.

Even the Yamaki family members, who were frantic with resentment over the Hōjō family’s incompetence and irresponsibility, had lately begun to feel such sympathy when they saw him. In truth, since then, the Hōjō family had been conducting searches not only throughout the mountains of Hakone and Izu but even into neighboring provinces, dividing their efforts to track down Masako’s whereabouts. They had their retainers walk in groups of ten or twenty, continuously, as in a mountain hunt. But they brought forth no leads whatsoever.

“What half-hearted efforts!” Of course, the Yamaki faction also dispatched their forces everywhere and were searching frantically. Particularly around Hirugakojima, where they suspected foul play, they secretly stationed lookouts along the roads day and night to monitor comings and goings.

Then, when March arrived.

Ito no Nyudo Yasukiyo sent a letter to Yamaki Kanetaka. It clearly stated where Masako was hiding.

II According to the written report that had been quietly sent by Ito no Nyudo, (Masako was being sheltered in one of the halls of Izu Mountain Gongen. The Hōjō family must have been aware of this from the start. The perpetrators of the disturbance on the wedding night were believed to be local troublemakers who typically gathered around Yoritomo’s place of exile.)

it stated, and furthermore, (Yoritomo, this exile, is a troublesome man.) First he ensnared my own daughter, and now steals your family’s bride. This is utterly inexcusable. Leave such a man alive, and Izu’s peace cannot endure. File charges with Rokuhara while sending troops to Izu Mountain Gongen. (Through our longstanding bond, I shall secure the Atami passage myself—rest assured none shall slip through.)

and so it was written. According to the text, not only had the fleeing Masako taken refuge at Izu Mountain Gongen, but Yoritomo had also relocated there, and they appeared to be cohabiting— “You wretch!”

Yamaki Kanetaka burned with anger, heedless of the situation.

“Go at once!” With that, hundreds of family retainers, upon receiving his command, vied to be the first to scramble up Jukkoku Pass. Meanwhile, having received an urgent missive, Ito no Nyudo Yasukiyo also deployed his forces, crossed Ajiro, and blocked the Atami Entrance.

However, when the Yamaki forces attempted to head along the pass toward Izu Mountain, they were blocked by a troop of soldiers along the way and could not proceed further. "If you wish to pass, try doing so through our arrows and bows." "Not a single one of you will return alive!" With reckless countenances, they formed ranks on the plateau and bellowed. There were no banners, nor could any figure resembling a commander be seen. They were truly a motley force, their weapons and gear varied and mismatched, yet their young physiques stood splendidly matched. And the ferocious fighting spirit that blazed in every eye sent a chill through the Yamaki forces.

“Where do each of you hail from, and whose retainers are you?” Even when questioned thus, “We belong to no one.” they declared, “Why do you block our path?” Even when pressed, “We cannot let you pass, so we shan’t. If you wish to proceed, come through our arrows and bows!”

That was their brand of violent rhetoric. Even among the Yamaki forces, the hot-blooded ones—

“Push through!” Some among their ranks shouted such things, but ultimately seeing they stood no chance of prevailing, they tenaciously kept trying to talk their way past.

Before long, soldiers of the Yamaki forces,

"There are Hōjō family retainers mixed in among them! The Hōjō retainers who have been combing these mountains daily under the guise of searches are now among this lawless mob blocking our path—this is unconscionable!" they began clamoring. Upon scrutinizing them closely, they recognized not only Hōjō clansmen but also Doi Sanchira's retainers, Nitta's kin, servants of Usami, Katō, and Amano, along with numerous second and third sons of Izu's local lords among the ranks.

“All right. If this is their scheme, we have our own plans. If we retreat, it will bring disgrace upon the Yamaki clan and damage the deputy’s authority—we must risk death rather than yield! Trample them down and push through!” Finally, when even the elderly retainers of the Yamaki forces—who had been restraining their allies while abandoning negotiations—could do nothing but shout in this manner, a group of warrior monks came running from beyond the plateau, waving their hands and raising loud voices. It was Gyōjitsu, the administrator of Hakone Gongen, followed by about ten warrior monks.

III

Gyōjitsu, surrounded by warrior monks, stood between the two armies and said: “Though I do not know the cause of this conflict, we cannot remain silent when troops are deployed recklessly near the sacred territories of Hakone and Izu Gongen. First, let us hear Lord Yamaki’s account.”

Then, from among the Yamaki forces, an elderly samurai stepped forward. “By order of our master Kanetaka, we have come to retrieve Lady Masako, who we have heard is being sheltered at Izu Mountain Gongen.” “However, when those rabble forces arrayed their bows and arrows to block us, we had no choice but to prepare for battle.”

Having declared this, Gyōjitsu retorted with blatant partiality, setting aside any pretense of impartiality: “This recent claim we’ve heard sounds most peculiar. Who declared that Lady Masako hides at Izu Mountain Gongen? Did you witness this with your own eyes, or do you possess evidence?”

Setting aside the rights and wrongs of the matter, he retorted in a tone that was utterly one-sided in its partisanship. Then, as if someone had alerted them, warrior monks from Izu Mountain’s Running Hot Spring came rushing in—group after group, dozens strong— “The claim that we are sheltering Lord Hōjō’s daughter is an accusation we cannot let pass unaddressed. If you make groundless claims and dare to trample upon our sacred mountain lands, we too are prepared.” they thundered.

As time passed, the Yamaki forces found themselves increasingly disadvantaged, their initial fervor diminished. If they acted carelessly, there was even a risk their retreat route might be cut off. Moreover, whether in the capital or provinces, no one had ever gained advantage by quarreling with warrior monks. “Go back and confirm Judge Yamaki’s resolve once more,” they declared. “If you insist on resorting to arms, we will gladly face you at any time.” Subjected to the warrior monks’ torrent of insults, the Yamaki forces had no choice but to retreat. When word spread that these crucial Yamaki troops had withdrawn, even Ito Nyudō’s soldiers—who had advanced as far as Netsu no Kuchi—lost all reason to maintain their position there.

"What am I to do?" Yamaki no Hangan had no outlet for his fury. His honor was utterly trampled. The more he struggled and thrashed about, the more he only layered shame upon himself.

"The Taira clan's governance is poor," he seethed. At last, his resentment turned toward the central authorities' incompetence, leaving him writhing in solitary anguish. From his position as deputy, he had repeatedly petitioned the central government. Reports further indicated that hearts across Izu were subtly turning against the Taira clan, with young scions of provincial landowning families espousing particularly worrisome ideologies. If this dangerous sprout went unplucked now, it might ferment unforeseeable disasters. Yet deputy's edicts alone could not suppress it, while military force required more troops than he possessed. "I need them to issue an urgent suppression order—somehow."

Messengers had been dispatched like arrows, pressing for a response. Nevertheless, there was no word from Rokuhara. On the contrary, they were ordering investigations into provincial warlords and others. What particularly displeased Judge Yamaki was that Rokuhara had gone so far as to demand a written explanation of the circumstances from the Hōjō family.

If they had the Hōjō family write their account, they would undoubtedly distort it to their advantage—and it might already have been submitted to Rokuhara. One could infer that the central officials, ignorant of local affairs—perhaps trying to maintain fairness—were passing their days comparing the Yamaki faction's complaints and the Hōjō family's written explanations on paper. "What is this?" Thus Yamaki no Hangan Kanetaka spent his days grinding his teeth. As this resentment accumulated, he became a bitter man who found no joy. Even his will for revenge had vanished, transforming him into someone who loathed being seen by others.

"Until now, I had treated the lawsuits and disputes of common people as another's concern, handling them carelessly—but only when it struck me did I learn the rot within officialdom." "This too must be heaven's punishment." As he reflected thus, he found himself unable to perform even his duties as deputy—the work of a Rokuhara functionary who governed locals through authority alone—with any semblance of diligence.

IV

No matter what turmoil arose in the world, the place of exile remained ever a tranquil place of exile. Pretending not to know, it remained silent.

At that place of exile, one unusual event had occurred. Skylarks had hatched their eggs. Adorable chicks had begun to grow. Yoritomo did not love small birds such as these. Even as the place of exile remained in idle days, there were no idle days in his heart. The man who enjoyed these idle days and often discussed matters of the realm—having come here as a guest and stayed on indefinitely—had eventually slid into becoming Yoritomo’s private scribe, and was none other than the painter Fujiwara no Kunimichi, who diligently drew maps of nearby villages.

The skylarks too had been hatched by him. “Kunimichi, is the map still not finished? Don’t just dote on the skylarks.” “That isn’t so.” Kunimichi—who had placed a skylark cage on the veranda and been gazing at them entranced—hurriedly straightened his posture when Yoritomo entered.

“As you can see, I’ve been working on it.” “Hurry it up.” “Yes… You’ve suddenly required it,” he replied with deference. “It isn’t urgent.” “Another year or two should still suffice.” “There’s no predicting when it might become necessary.” “Since last winter—after that affair involving Lady Masako—keen-eyed sentries have ceaselessly patrolled around the Yamaki estate. We still haven’t managed to survey that vital vicinity.”

“It should be fine by now… The embers have cooled considerably.” “I do think so, but—” “Go scout it out once.” “No—we mustn’t. If we go copying maps near the Yamaki residence now and get caught, it would be like reigniting flames that have finally died down.” “That’s fair.” “You must be bored.”

Kunimichi looked up at Yoritomo’s face. Through the eaves, clouds heralding summer could be seen. But Yoritomo’s eyes were not on the clouds—they were fixed on the sky above Izu Mountain Gongen beyond a layer of mountains. “How about… sneaking out again tonight?” “What if we were to slip out once more this evening?” Perceiving Yoritomo’s feelings, Kunimichi gently suggested. Though there were family members at the exile site and numerous people coming and going, he alone could speak so casually to Yoritomo about such matters. Therefore, among the solemn faction that sought to make Yoritomo their leader and regard him as a wise ruler,

Keeping Kunimichi by one's side was ill-advised. He was not only skilled in the arts but silver-tongued—a man of the banquet halls.

There were those who scorned him with such words.

But Yoritomo liked him. At the very least, he loved him more than the skylarks. “I want to go, but...”

Yoritomo muttered honestly in response to his invitation. Even after the band of young followers surrounding him had seized Masako and hidden her in a temple at Izu Mountain Gongen, he had managed through his allies’ arrangements to visit her several times—yet under such strict surveillance that their meetings remained formal exchanges too superficial to be called love. “I’ll accompany you.” The easygoing Kunimichi began preparing at once, but Yoritomo still hesitated. “I cannot leave without informing Morinaga, Sadatsuna, and the retainers. If I tell them my intent, they’ll only raise objections again…”

“What need is there for hesitation toward your retainers? The reason others raise objections stems from concern about unforeseen incidents along the way, but as for that matter, you needn’t worry.” He spoke with self-assured conviction, “Thanks to my time spent mapping the mountains, I know paths unseen by others. I shall guide you along such a route. Let me inform the retainers of your departure on my way out.”

He was, through and through, an optimist who took matters lightly.

V

Hōon Bikuni of Hashiriyu was said to be a holy nun who had never violated the precepts. She lived in a men-forbidden forest, where even the priests from nearby Izu Mountain Gongen could not enter.

The nunnery's garden was flat, but to the east lay the cliffs of Izu Mountain, and to the south stretched a peninsula's promontory that sloped mountainously down toward the fishing village of Atami and into the sea.

On windy days, the wind was strong. But on clear days, the view was excellent. Masako never tired of it.

Every day, vacantly—in a manner that at first glance appeared so—she would lean on the veranda of the nunnery and gaze out at the sea. Night and day, the sound of the sea never ceased there. Amidst the ceaseless roar of the sea, her heart had finally begun to find calmness these days. “Lady Masahime. You must be feeling so lonely.” When Hōon Bikuni saw her sitting there in solitary stillness, she would come to her side and speak—perhaps out of a desire to offer comfort.

This nun had frequented the Hōjō household for some time, and she had a particular connection with Masako, having taught her waka poetry and the Lotus Sutra since her childhood—a bond of affection akin to that of a close teacher and disciple.

“No.”

Masako shook her head. When asked if she felt lonely, Masako had never once answered "Yes." The nun pitied her all the more, thinking she must be maintaining a brave front to conceal tears—but Masako was not deceiving herself. Truthfully, since fleeing the Yamaki household on her wedding night, she had never been shackled by such trifling sentiments as loneliness or ennui. Even when moments came where the restlessness in her blood refused to quieten with the midnight sea's roar, she had never once perceived her present circumstances as sorrowful or lonesome.

Sentimentality typical of a maiden seemed foolish to her. Her youth burned with far more practical substance. Even if there were equally young dreams, her blood didn’t stir a ripple at their being mere fantasies. Speaking of dreams. Once, when her younger sister had dreamed an auspicious dream, Masako had playfully purchased it from her. But this wasn’t because she’d bought into relying on fleeting oneiromancy for her fate—it had been pure playacting to amuse her sisters.

Now.—What must my younger sisters back home be thinking of their sister’s current state?

(The dream divination I had thought auspicious might in truth have been an ill-omened dream—and ended up bringing disaster upon themselves—) they might be interpreting it in such a naive way and lamenting.

Though her sisters were not much younger than her, to Masako they appeared like utterly naive dolls. Now that she had left home and was here, reflecting on it made that impression even stronger. The sheltered maidens who knew nothing of the world appeared pitiable to her.

It wasn't just her blood sisters. Most women from respectable families in the world were like that. They were those married off for political strategy and taken away by military force. People had grown so accustomed to this as the ways of the time that they no longer found it strange. At the very least, Masako had long held an antipathy toward such customs. (She alone) (She alone) had held such an ideal. She had been seeking the fate of being wed to the one to whom she should be wed.

When she first received Yoritomo's love letter, her heart did not falter. Rather, this was because she herself had already been conveying her earnest intentions to Yoritomo even before that moment. She had been drawn to Yoritomo's princely bearing and noble character, but had also come to love his misfortunes—the circumstances of an exile condemned to this penal settlement.

――How is he faring? Even now, as she was lost in such thoughts, Hōon Bikuni approached and spoke to her. When asked if she was lonely, her "No" was an honest reply.

Six “My lady.” “Yes.”

"It would be advisable not to dwell too much on the distant future, I say."

"I am not thinking about anything." "Even if you try to hide it, my heart aches to see how haggard you have become these days." Hōon Bikuni said with tears in her eyes. Having raised Masako with her own hands since childhood, she still seemed to think of her as a child.

Masako found herself bewildered every time the nun shed tears out of concern for her over trivial matters. The nun seemed convinced that her actions stemmed entirely from a maiden's blind passion. She appeared terrified, as if she herself had committed some irreparable transgression or mortal sin. This was far removed from Masako's true sentiments. Watching the nun tearfully attempt to console her, Masako rather looked on with amusement, (Teacher has grown old)

That was all she did—think. "—Teacher." "Please do not concern yourself with my circumstances." "Because I acted with firm convictions of my own." “You have quite a strong temperament indeed.” The nun looked up,

“Since you were little, you’ve always had a strong temperament—but no matter what they say, a woman’s lot—”

And with her age-old habitual saying, her tone naturally took on an admonishing quality.

“There is nothing weaker than a woman. Even men who take up bows and arrows find it no easy matter to survive in this world and stand among enemies—yet you, a woman, have made fearsome enemies and must hide yourself, to the point where your very life is imperiled. How could I not worry for you?” “I’m all right.” “How can you say you’re all right?” “My brother Munetoki is protecting me from afar. All of my brother’s friends—as I’m telling you now—are protecting me, and they’ve promised to continue working together with him from here on.”

“Do you realize who you’re dealing with?” Overcoming her sorrow, the nun’s voice turned admonishing. “He **is** the Rokuhara Deputy! Should you draw your bow against him, you would make enemies of the entire realm.”

“That’s correct.” “…Is that so?” The nun stared fixedly at the princess’s face with skepticism. A faint quiver rose into her eyes.

Masako was already bored with talking to this world-renouncing nun. The mountains were in their fresh greenery, the sea endlessly blue—she wanted to savor this sensation alone, as if her very lungs might be dyed by the azure storm. Soon enough, she needed to quietly organize her thoughts about what would become reality. “Venerable Elder Nun. “O-Kayo from Hikigane no Maki is here.”

Just then, a nun disciple came to report. Hōon Bikuni—whether from some weariness today or having lost the heart to admonish Masako further—rose weakly at this interruption, “She comes to see Her Ladyship.” “Bring her through the garden entrance.” With those words left behind, she withdrew into the cold recesses of the nunnery. Kayo was wife to the master of Hikigane Pasture, though formerly she had been a woman in service to the Hōjō household. Whenever her errands took her to Mishima or Itsukaichi, she would afterward call at the residence, maintaining cordial ties with her former fellow retainers.

“I am Kayo.” “Would you care for a refill?” When she saw the woman who had timidly entered the garden and crouched down, Masako’s expression shifted from before, as if she had been waiting impatiently.

“Oh, Kayo. I was worried since I hadn’t seen you these past ten days and more. No need for reserve. Sit there.” She offered her a spot at the veranda’s edge.

Seven

Kayo remained crouched on the ground, "Is there anyone here besides you, Princess?" Kayo looked around.

Masako also looked around, "What is it?" she lowered her voice.

Kayo quickly approached and handed something into Masako’s hand. And, “A letter from Lord Yoritomo.”

She whispered, then immediately returned to her previous position on the ground and propped her hands.

Masako opened her father’s letter.

Using Kayo, the wife from the pasture, her father Tokimasa often sent messages here.

Outwardly, of course, disownment followed suit—though this daughter had maintained a pretense of anger by refusing to call him "Father" since that incident—yet there had been no change in Tokimasa’s love.

No—rather, out of parental compassion, his affection had grown stronger and deeper, and he seemed to worry about Masako’s well-being day and night. And so, with every letter, what was invariably written was: "Is there any change?" Furthermore, "Do not act rashly. Wait steadfastly for the time to arrive." They were the sorts of things he wrote. If Masako, gripped by despair, were to take her own life—this was the sole fear her father never failed to express in every letter, never omitting to write of "awaiting the right time."

However, today's letter had addressed this matter in somewhat more concrete terms. It stated that society's rumors had considerably subsided. Moreover, the opposing side's (the Yamaki family) sentiments were no longer as intense as before; consequently, just as he himself had been considering, prospects for resolving the incident were gradually coming into view—these matters were detailed as always, ("Do not act rashly. Do not act rashly.") while admonishing through implication—he had written with meticulous care. Masako tore the letter into tiny pieces immediately after reading it, forming them into a small ball within her palm. Then tossing it lightly toward Kayo, who promptly retrieved and concealed it somewhere.

“Princess…”

She stood up and, placing something resembling a gift she had brought beside Masako, “Staying cooped up inside all day isn’t good for your health. You should walk from the back mountain to near my pasture. It will lift your spirits. Kayo will guide you.” Kayo urged. Though her words were merely formal, her eyes conveyed a different message to Masako’s. “…………” Masako nodded silently.

When she saw the blush suffusing her cheeks, that alone seemed enough for her to comprehend the meaning.

Taking care not to be noticed by Hōon Bikuni in the inner quarters or anyone else, Masako quietly slipped out through the nunnery’s rear fence.

Kayo took the lead, “This way.” Beckoning her onward, she climbed a rather steep, rocky mountain path.

The nunnery’s roof was now directly below them. The hall buildings of Izu Mountain Gongen also came into view below. Below them, the white waves crashing against the rocky shore beneath the cape’s cliffs could also be seen.

“Can you manage the climb, Princess?” “Yes. This much of a path.” The wife from the pasture was naturally accustomed to the mountains. However, she occasionally turned around, concerned about Masako’s unfamiliarity with the terrain, but Masako—desperately clinging to camellia branches and bamboo grass roots—climbed up from behind.

The mountains grew deeper.

The silence of a grove had been quietly awaiting the sound of Masako’s labored breathing as she approached, having anticipated it for some time now. Needless to say, it was Yoritomo of Hirugakojima.

Eight

He saw Masako. Masako also caught sight of Yoritomo. So expressionless they might have seemed, the two approached each other without uttering a sound. Silently, they sat down in the grassy area around the tree roots there. They drew close, and even after doing so, there were no words for a time…

For no words could convey what lay in Masako's heart at this moment. —I feel the same. Sensing her silence, Yoritomo kept quiet too. But this place was already right below Hikane's pasture. No one was there. No worldly eyes watched them. Neither Fujiwara no Kunimichi, who had accompanied Yoritomo, nor Kayo, Maki's wife, remained by their side.

They could speak freely. And it was an opportunity rarely granted. Masako parted her lips. “Are the preparations complete? I’ve spent every day waiting for this alone. When will you hold our wedding ceremony?” “...A little later still.” “Every word you utter—” Masako scoffed faintly at his indecisive tone, “Has it not been over half a year since then? Can you still not finish your various preparations?”

“No preparations are needed for the wedding itself, but to hold it requires—simultaneously—great resolve.” “I’ve understood that from the start. Wasn’t this resolve meant to be settled from the very beginning—not something to be mustered now? ...From the very moment you and I became bound together—” “My resolve was fixed from the outset.” “Then what more could you possibly fear or hesitate over at this point? If you keep agonizing over every detail, the day to act will never come. That unwavering resolve always prevails—I learned this through my flesh when fleeing Yamanoki District last winter. And so we’ve come this far. Now everything depends on your decision. Or is there still some doubt lingering within you?”

"I have no hesitation, but I must gauge the timing. A crossroads of life—I do not consider this merely the love between us. This concerns the great matter of the realm—what lies within a man's heart." "But... has not the timing already ripened? Even Father Tokimasa—at first, I had resigned myself to him being one who would never support our grand ambition, prepared to betray even my own father. Yet looking upon matters now, that very father has proven our greatest ally—understanding us better than any other. While feigning anger before the world, he has secretly shielded me behind the scenes. From that night of my wedding procession to the Yamaki household until today, when I reflect on how events have unfolded thus, it feels less like my own courage and more as though I have walked the path Father envisioned while sheltered by his guidance...... Thus if only your resolve settles this matter, Father will undoubtedly rise as our ally when the time comes."

“I’ve heard that from Munetoki as well… But my gaze extends beyond Izu province alone.” “……” “A woman’s eyes cannot see it. Not even Tokimasa’s vision reaches that far. Yoritomo shall not rise until he discerns the workings of this vast realm… You who were reared in Izu—your sight remains provincial.”

The two continued conversing there for quite some time thereafter. But their conversation held no honeyed words of love—for Yoritomo and Tokimasa alike, romance was a secondary concern. Yet Masako, precisely because she was a woman, was more pure in her resolve than either her father or Yoritomo. From the very beginning, it had been a matter of life and death.

White-Robed Messenger

I

The persimmons at the exile residence were mostly knocked down and devoured by its inhabitants.

At the tips of branches where neither hands nor poles could reach, two or three vividly ripe ones remained as if reserved for crows. Upon those branches, the Izu sunset arrived once more, already tinged with winter’s chill.

“Ah. …So this is the place.” A mountain ascetic halted his staff. Standing outside the exile residence, he peered at the roof structure in the distance, “Ah… Have you spent such long years dwelling here?”

And his face was enveloped in boundless reminiscence.

Eventually, the mountain ascetic strode resolutely forward. Within the enclosure were fields; a stable was visible; there was a kitchen building. From the kitchen building drifted smoke from the evening meal, but no human figures were visible. "Hmm?"

He searched for the entrance and turned sideways. Unbeknownst to the mountain ascetic, Sasaki Moritsuna—who had been watching a pale figure from within the stable—came running over in suspicion. “I request an audience!”

Planting his staff, he approached from the entrance,

“Who goes there?” Moritsuna called out from behind. “Ah!” The mountain ascetic turned around. “Are you in service here?” “Yes. If you seek alms, go around to the kitchen.” “I come not for alms.”

"Then who are you?" he demanded. The mountain ascetic looked at Moritsuna with an unyielding gaze and said, "It will become clear when I meet His Lordship. Since you serve here, announce me." "I cannot announce someone of unknown purpose. State your name and origin." "I mean no harm. All will be revealed when I meet His Lordship—" "You speak with unwarranted familiarity. You appear neither from neighboring lands nor with legitimate business here in this ascetic guise—it is only natural we retainers should be suspicious. However insistent you may be, without disclosing your name and homeland, I cannot grant you audience."

“And who might you be?” “I am Saburō Moritsuna, son of Sasaki Genzō.” “I see.” “The son of Genzō Hideyoshi?” “I had heard rumors beforehand, but it seems it was no lie—there truly are remarkable young men among His Lordship’s kin.” “In that case, I may as well state it without reservation.” “I am Shinomiya Jūrō Yukie—to His Lordship, I am his uncle.” “Inform him that I have come from the capital to visit.”

Moritsuna was startled.

Apologizing for his abruptness, he hurriedly retreated into the interior. Before long, lamplight shadows wavered across the corridor’s polished black floorboards and pillars. Then Yoritomo himself emerged—a noble prince in bearing—striding forth resolutely. He stood peering at the figure in the twilight’s gloom, “Lord Jūrō of Mutsu?” he inquired. The mountain ascetic drew near and stared up at Yoritomo, “...My lord?” he uttered,

“Yes. ‘Shinomiya Jūrō Yukie’ is a name I recently adopted—you should have recognized me by my former name, Mutsu Jūrō Yoshimori. I’m that uncle Jūrō.” “Ah! You—” “There’s an urgent matter I must discuss with you. That’s why I’ve come all this way in such a guise. May I enter?” Yoritomo turned around,

“Moritsuna, Moritsuna.” “Fetch water for Uncle.” “Now then, please wash your feet and come in.” With that, Yoritomo took the lead and accompanied Yukie into the interior.

II

“You must be exhausted.” Yoritomo said.

It was nothing more than a greeting one would give to any ordinary guest. Yukie looked slightly unsatisfied.

For he was overwhelmed by far too many emotions. Yukie had known Yoritomo since he was twelve or thirteen years old. He had often seen the young Yoritomo in the household of his brother Yoshitomo during the era when Yoshitomo flourished in Rokujō. Seventeen or eighteen years had passed since then. A decade past— Truly, a decade had passed.

The years had passed in a boundless flow. And here in the mountains of Izu, Yoritomo—now thirty years old—was a man in his prime. He bore some resemblance to his father Yoshitomo, yet possessed even greater dignity. He had an intellectual air and a gentle demeanor.

……

Yukie could not help but be overcome with emotion. But Yoritomo was not particularly moved. To a degree not much different from how he received visitors morning and night,

(...The matter you wish to discuss—) he wore an expression that seemed to prompt him onward.

However, upon closer consideration, this was not because Yoritomo lacked passion, but rather because his childhood memories contained little beyond having an uncle named Yukie. Between Yukie's reminiscences and Yoritomo's recollections, there was naturally a significant disparity, along with the difference in their ages. "Have you been residing in the capital these days? Or have you been in your home province?" Since Yukie remained silent for too long, Yoritomo kept bringing up such topics repeatedly,

“While staying here, I remain entirely ignorant of worldly matters. This evening, I would have you recount the capital’s recent state at your leisure. …Well—though there will be no feast after you’ve bathed—pray make yourself comfortable.”

he said. That, too, sounded like nothing more than the most perfunctory hospitality. At first, Yukie felt somewhat dissatisfied, but realizing that it was he himself who was being unreasonable—having suddenly come to visit Yoritomo in Izu after seventeen or eighteen years, expecting familial affection from someone who had been there since the age of fourteen—

“No.” “Before that—”

he too adopted a formal manner, composed himself, and brought up the matter,

“I wish to discuss this in strict secrecy. Would you be so kind as to keep people away for a while to prevent your servants from entering or leaving?” “That’s easily done.” Yoritomo stood up, “In here, no one will enter.”

With that, he guided him to the family chapel. Just moments before, he had finished his daily sutra recitation there, so the lamps on the altar were still lit. Yukie entered the chapel and, upon seeing the memorial tablets of Yoshitomo and the clan, was immediately moved to tears and worshiped before the altar. But then he suddenly noticed red and white molded dried sweets offered before a separate small memorial tablet cabinet. "Whose is this?" he asked, turning to look at Yoritomo. Yoritomo, too, while looking up,

“This is the memorial tablet of Ike no Zenni—someone I could never forget,” he answered. When Yukie learned that Yoritomo, not forgetting the benefactor from when he was fourteen, still offered lights to that person’s spirit— *After all, this nephew of mine is not a cold and heartless man who understands neither duty nor emotion.* As he thought this, he suddenly felt his own passion rekindled within him. Whether that was the reason or not, he abruptly assumed a piercing gaze. “To tell the truth, my journey to the eastern provinces this time is not a personal matter. I have come bearing a decree from Prince Mochihito’s faction to secretly investigate the movements in the east and discern what intentions the warriors of various provinces hold.”

he solemnly began to speak.

III

Upon hearing it was a messenger from the Prince, even Yoritomo seemed surprised.

“Please wait a moment.” After saying this to his uncle Yukie, he left the family chapel and went elsewhere. Having purified his hands, rinsed his mouth, and changed into fresh ritual headgear and garments, he soon returned and solemnly reseated himself there. The attendants had withdrawn to a distance, “What manner of imperial decree could possibly come to this exile site? I humbly beg you to deign to inform me.”

He pressed both hands to the ground respectfully.

Yukie reverently presented the Prince’s imperial decree, which he had carried close to his body wrapped in a brocade pouch, holding it to his forehead. “Approach.”

he beckoned. Yoritomo edged closer on his knees and received it reverently with both hands. —But before he could open it, Yukie cautioned him: “One contains your pardon from imperial censure, while the other bears a decree issued jointly to you and Lord Hōjō.” “Therefore, I advise you to receive them in Lord Hōjō’s presence.” Yoritomo started. At the word “pardon”— And again at Yukie’s insistence about Lord Hōjō’s presence— Immense joy and profound bewilderment crossed his face in an instant.

The dark wall of exile had been lifted after more than a decade. Yet greater than that joy was his bewilderment—he still had not met with Tokimasa since the incident involving Masako. Though recent words from Masako suggested Tokimasa bore no hatred toward either her or Yoritomo, and was rather maneuvering behind the scenes to ensure their love might be fulfilled—so Yoritomo had been told—for Yoritomo himself, even now, meeting the man still felt profoundly difficult.

And the next morning. Yoritomo, while last night's guest still slept, dispatched a messenger to summon Munetoki—Tokimasa's clan heir—and "What should I do?" he consulted with Munetoki—the one to whom he could lay bare any matter.

Munetoki’s young eyes sparkled, "I cannot say what business the Prince’s messenger brings, but with a pardon involved, this cannot be ordinary affairs." "The hour has come—I feel it in my bones." "Why let yourself be bound by petty sentiments?"

“Then, if I, Yoritomo, were to suddenly visit Lord Hōjō’s residence, there would be no displeasure, would there?” “What of it?” he declared confidently, “I shall return ahead of you and inform Father Tokimasa of the particulars. There is no reason for Father to obstruct the Prince’s secret envoy.” “However, even if we receive the imperial decree, should Lord Tokimasa hold differing views, is there not a fear he might inform Rokuhara? Considering that my uncle Yukie has come down in secret, disguising himself as a mountain ascetic, one can reasonably infer that the imperial decree must not be leaked.”

…………

Munetoki had been bowing his head, but soon looked directly at Yoritomo and spoke in a somber whisper. “Righteousness overcomes familial bonds. “The uprising we seek to undertake—sworn to be for the sake of the Imperial House above and the people below—is it not a righteous cause we have pledged ourselves to?” “That goes without saying.” “Then... I beg you to rest assured. “Munetoki has the resolve to make this decision. “Please leave this matter to me.”

With those words, he left. He had departed with a tragic expression, but his retreating figure showed no signs of disarray. Yoritomo watched him go through the veranda and felt his resolve strengthen to the point where he thought that with him alone, it could be done.

Four That night, Yukie visited the Hōjō residence together with Yoritomo in secret.

The mansion had been cleaned.

The host and guest remained hidden in a deep inner room, the retainers were kept at a distance, and outside the room, Munetoki, the clan heir, stood guard.

Afterward, a small banquet was held with Yukie as the guest of honor. Only those in the innermost circle.

The night deepened, and the conversation grew informal,

“What do you think? In that case, why not go ahead and formally marry Masako to the Lord?” Yukie, acting as an uncle, proposed to Tokimasa.

“I have no objections. The time is already ripe.” Tokimasa said.

Munetoki looked at Yoritomo’s face. Yoritomo suddenly felt his eyes grow hot and looked down. It was something he had wanted to propose himself, and he was glad their love had been formally acknowledged by his lover’s father. Regarding the content of Prince Mochihito’s imperial decree that Yukie had brought, neither Yoritomo nor Tokimasa mentioned a single word at the small banquet. It was both too august a matter and not something to be spoken of carelessly. However, what was not difficult to infer here was that—though the full implications remained unclear—Tokimasa had given his consent to the grave matter brought by the secret envoy.

Regarding that crucial plan, the fact that Yoritomo’s resolve and Tokimasa’s considerations aligned perfectly—without the slightest discrepancy—could be discerned from their demeanor as they conversed over cups of sake. To Yoritomo, it was surprising that Tokimasa had held such thoughts, but even more unexpected was how—from the very beginning of Masako’s engagement to the Yamaki family—Tokimasa’s mind had apparently acknowledged the reality of their relationship: (Two who could not refuse even if they refused) ...as if recognizing they were bound together beyond denial.

Why he had promised his daughter to Yamaki no Hangan despite being aware of this—though Tokimasa himself said nothing— (Since Yamaki had made the request, were they to refuse him and wed her to Yoritomo, both Rokuhara and the neighboring provinces would suspect it as the Hōjō clan's deliberate scheme. If it were love, people would permit any reckless act dared—society would not question it. Unless it were an act born of blind love through and through, there would be no way to unite the two.)

It seemed he had thoroughly reasoned through this. In other words, his manner suggested that from the very beginning, he had anticipated the outcome and merely used Masako’s marriage into the Yamaki family as a “method” to that end. “A father-in-law not to be underestimated.” Yoritomo inwardly feared the future implications of his father-in-law’s far-reaching schemes, but having such a strategist in his camp when facing great events was profoundly reassuring. “If Lord Hōjō consents so graciously, I would consider myself fortunate to witness the auspicious union of the two while I am still here, before returning to the capital.”

As Yukie pressed further,

“That is acceptable. Let us proceed without delay.”

Munetoki also agreed.

Suddenly, the discussion reached a conclusion. Even if the Yamaki family were to find out eventually, it would be better not to make it public. It would be unwise to provoke his fighting spirit from their side. Moreover, with her still officially disowned and him an exile in a penal colony, utmost modesty was essential. It would be best to hold it secretly. In accordance with Tokimasa’s advice, the wedding ceremony was held about ten days later in a room at the exile residence—not with splendid festivity, but in quiet solemnity. Masako, who had secretly come from the Izu Mountain nunnery, was also dressed in very plain clothing. The bridegroom Yoritomo, too, was devoid of any color in his appearance. Yet, in their very lack of vividness lay a pure elegance. The cold lamp of the exile residence was instead divine.

Tokimasa too had secretly attended. Masako's siblings were also present. The retainers of the exile residence - who had long served through countless hardships - could not hold back their tears of joy at seeing the two. That night, the sound of mist falling against the eaves filtered through stealthily, making them recall all the more vividly that night of winter rain from the year before.

Denizen of Hōko

I

Kiyomori's villa in Nishihachijō had grown desolate this particular autumn. Since August, when Shigemori's illness had worsened and he finally died at forty-two, even the Chancellor Novice's once-boundless vitality appeared to have greatly diminished. Autumn... The Chancellor Novice gazed intently from his chamber at autumn's thousand hues. They called this room Hōko because mugwort grew thick throughout the garden.

"I have passed sixty by two years."

That he had come to acknowledge his own old age with such faint-heartedness was also something that had begun since losing Shigemori.

Normally, on some impulse, when his children or clan members would— “You are already advanced in years.” were to let slip such words, “Nonsense!” the Chancellor Novice would immediately put on a deliberately youthful-sounding voice, but this autumn, not even such a voice was heard in Hōko. As ever, he detested the smell of incense and the sound of sutra recitations. Yet despite grieving Shigemori’s death so deeply that he had lost all vigor, not once had he secluded himself in the Jibutsudō chapel to recite even a single sutra.

“He was a good child,” “My right arm.” He would weep without regard for appearances, yet he would not perform memorial rites.

And yet, despite having shaved his head to become Jōkai Nyūdō and donned monastic robes, to him this was neither contradictory nor anything of the sort. “Keeping white hair grown out isn’t as neat as shaving it off. Rather than being constrained in elaborate court robes, for this aged body, wearing monastic robes daily proves far more convenient and practical.” he would explain.

However, his aversion to incense was not born of any disagreement with Buddhism’s fundamental principles. It was antipathy toward the form of present-day Buddhist practitioners that his eyes and ears had witnessed over time. That which he had stubbornly harbored since his youth still clung tenaciously to him even in old age. (——In this world, there is not a single thing that does not bend to the will of the Chancellor Novice.) People in the world say such things, but when it came to the Chancellor Novice himself, (Not a single thing in this world went as he wished.)

he felt like lamenting so intensely.

Mountains and temples were one example of this. The monk communities' power concentrated at Mount Hiei and Miidera. He skillfully manipulated Archbishop Myōun and others, maintaining a facade of harmonious embrace on the surface, but in reality merely kept control by quelling his rage at every turn. If the Chancellor Novice were to assert his authority as such, their temple halls and pagodas would be burned to ashes in a single night, leaving not a speck of gold leaf or brocade amidst the scorched ruins, (This is the true Buddha.)