Pathway to Japanese Literature

Snow a Thousand Fathoms Deep

I “Milord.” “Milord!” “Hey—!” Huddled together in the white demon’s fury of a raging blizzard, seven mounted retainers suddenly reined in their horses. Shouting these words over the storm’s howl, they frantically scanned their surroundings for any trace of their young lord. “He’s vanished!” “Not a sign of him.” “But at dusk—when we reached Shinohara Embankment—he was still riding with us!”

Gloomily, eyes that had lost all means of seeking were now helplessly consumed—solely by the white demon’s fury sweeping through all directions.

“……Could he have fallen into enemy hands?” Everyone was seized by a single dread; for a fleeting moment, they let the snow pile upon their brows, lashes, helmet cords, and saddle horns, drawing their horses together in silence.

It was December of the first year of Heiji (1159). The fact that a great disturbance had erupted in Kyoto since yesterday morning, the 27th, had already spread throughout this Ōmi Province. From beyond Shimei-ga-take and Osaka-no-yama, black smoke had been seen rising all day long; thus, in the post towns and stations along the lakeshore, people were sharing that this battle must have been greater than the Hōgen Rebellion four years prior—when, (—It is Lord Rokuhara’s decree. If you see any Minamoto allies, capture and hand them over. If you encounter any of Yoshitomo’s clan, do not let them pass.)

And so, as Taira warriors and station magistrates came issuing decrees—and as people realized what the war’s outcome must be—it was as though all had agreed: “Let us not suffer misfortune by becoming entangled with defeated warriors or their pursuers.” By evening on the 28th, not a single house in any post station or village across the fields left even the light of its bonfire visible, every door tightly barred.

“……There’s no helping it.”

Before long. Minamoto no Yoshitomo, Director of the Left Horse Bureau, resignedly let out a sigh. He was Milord’s father. He was around thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old. Even among them, both his distinguished features and his build—which would not chafe even the famed horse Kurotōkabake under the saddle—could be recognized at a glance. He had been the head of the Minamoto clan across the provinces and, until his final defeat at the Battle of Rokujō River, was still protected by over a thousand soldiers and his direct retainers’ clan. (Without this lord) he had been the one they relied upon and revered.

The number of companions had been thirty or forty when fleeing the capital, but to avoid drawing attention, some were dismissed and parted ways, others were slain… while those with grave injuries fell behind—by the time they crossed Seta, only eight horsemen remained: father and sons, lord and retainers.

Looking back now, if one were to survey Yoshitomo’s surroundings, there stood his flesh and blood: his eldest son Akugenda Yoshihira, aged nineteen, and his second son Tomonaga, still sixteen. The retainers included Kinnōmaru, Kamata Hyōe Masakiyo, and Hiraga Yoshinobu among others; however, among them had been Yoshitomo’s third son—Yoritomo, the thirteen-year-old Assistant Captain of the Right Guards—whose figure had now somehow been lost sight of. Had he been captured alive? Had he been buried in the snow? The retainers believed their young lord to be resolute, but being only thirteen, his stature was still small. Moreover, for Yoshitomo, this child was more beloved than his eldest son Yoshihira or his second son Tomonaga—and so they wandered endlessly, feeling they could not advance until they found him, even if he were to be buried beneath a thousand fathoms of snow.

Then Yoshitomo,

“Enough.” “Move forward.” “He is my child. If he is meant to live, he will survive even alone.” “If he is meant to die, let him die. There’s no helping it.” Having uttered his words, he resolutely regripped Kurotōka’s reins and, setting his gaze toward the foothills of Ibuki, began to advance.

II

Abandon him and move on. Yoshitomo’s single utterance left everyone struck by an unexpected sensation. This was the father whom people usually called Lord Tōno for being excessively indulgent toward his children— Especially Milord—cherished so dearly one could place him in one’s eye without discomfort—yet even on this battlefield, Yoshitomo had not granted the two Minamoto heirlooms, the armor “Genta’s Birth Robe” and the sword “Beard-Cutter,” to his eldest son Yoshihira or second son Tomonaga. (Since it was his first battle—) —such was the depth of his affection that he had bestowed them upon his third son, Milord, who was merely thirteen years old.

Because it concerned that young lord, they had expected Yoshitomo to take the lead— (Let’s turn back) or, (Split up and search) But contrary to their anticipation of some frantic order—his command cut colder than the blizzard itself: “Abandon him and press on.” Already he was driving his horse forward. The retainers’ eyes burned hotter still at this sight.

Lord Tōno—Yoshitomo’s heart was not difficult to fathom. He was a defeated general who had retreated after causing countless clan members and allied soldiers to perish at Rokujō River. Even if it was his child’s life, there was no reason to make any fuss that would alter that fact. Moreover, what now consumed Lord Tōno’s heart was not solely Yoritomo, the Assistant Captain of the Right Guards, nor even the fates of his other children—but rather this ruinous state of the Minamoto clan as a whole, (How to rally) [This] was the scheming of how to rally [the clan]. It was a great sense of responsibility and a mounting frustration—indeed, he could not leave things as they were.

For now, I should first make my way to Aobano-shuku along Nishi Mino’s coastal highway. The daughter of Ōi—the wealthy man of that post town—was a woman named Enju, whom I had favored in her youth and with whom I had even fathered a girl called Yasha. If I approach them, even her parents would hardly turn me away coldly.

And then—after that— “Yoshihira, my eldest son—rouse the Minamoto forces in Tōsandō and lead the charge north.” “Tomonaga, my second son—descend the Shinano Road and muster the Kai Genji.” He himself would rally kin across Bandō and march west once more along the Tōkaidō. “We strike the capital through all three routes in unison.” He had to make Kiyomori and Shigemori—father and son—tread this same path of thousand-fathom snow and wretched defeat they themselves had walked today; otherwise his heart would never find peace. As chieftain of warriors, there could be no honor in clinging to life. Become a demon god.

Lord Tōno’s heart was utterly consumed by these thoughts. Therefore, his countenance was nothing like his usual self. Even to fathom his inner thoughts was too heartrending and pitiful. “…………” The retainers, precisely because they understood this, found themselves at a loss for words of comfort and continued on in silence, their helmet crests bowed to the whirlwinds of powdery snow swirling around Kurotōka’s tail and the horses’ hooves—when one of their number, Kamata Hyōe Masakiyo, “Lord…—Lord!”

With that, he called out to the silent figure ahead and said, “I cannot presume to know your heart, my lord, but as for Masakiyo, I cannot abandon hope. Please go on ahead. I alone will ride back to confirm whether Lord Sadan lives or dies and rejoin you.”

Upon hearing this, Yoshitomo,

“I see. “Hmm, I see.”

In the blizzard, he turned his horse’s head back and gave a deep, satisfied nod. Beneath the ice-like skin clad in steel armor, the blood of a parent still boiled hot. Realizing this, Kinnōmaru, another retainer, followed Kamata Masakiyo’s example and—

“Lord…! Please grant me leave here as well.” And then, for some reason, he suddenly shouted.

Three Yoshitomo seemed to ponder for a moment, but Kinnōmaru pressed on, “I beg of you. If I may once more return to the capital to confirm the safety of those noble individuals, I will hasten back to serve you in the Eastern Provinces—”

To this voice—eyes blazing with desperate emotion—Yoshitomo too “Alright, go!” finally relented and galloped far into the veils of snow with the remaining few—four or five horsemen.

After seeing them off.

Kamata Hyōe Masakiyo and Kinnōmaru immediately turned their path back westward, and even as they traveled— “Lord Sadan!” “Is Lord Sadan not here?” Even though no human figures were visible, they called into the snow—Could he be buried beneath it?—into the wind—Might he have tumbled into a rice paddy?—across the fields, searching for two or three ri as they pressed onward. “Lord Hyōe.” “Hey.” “What is it?”

“Regrettably, I shall leave the search for Lord Sadan to you.” “Here lies the fork at Moriyama-shuku—I must make haste toward the capital.” As the figure began to depart, “Kinnōmaru.” “Kinnōmaru.”

“Yes.”

“Wait.” “There’s what looks like a hut in that mountain’s shadow.” “Could be a hunters’ shack.” “That far—”

Hyōe Masakiyo said this and ran ahead. Peering into the beast hut, they found no sign of people; in the earthen floor, embers smoldered in a hearth dug into the earth. They added firewood from their surroundings and sat down,

“Kinnōmaru.” “You say you’re returning to the capital—I can’t speak for cowards who beg the Taira for mercy to survive within Kyoto—but for those bearing the Minamoto name, not a single one can walk under the sun’s light anymore… Do you truly grasp the peril you’re walking into?” “Of course I do.” “It has only been a day or two since the rebellion; the lingering embers within the capital must still be smoldering.” “The triumphant Taira warriors must be in high spirits.” “However, I intend to proceed with utmost caution, slipping through the enemy’s notice to blend in.”

“And then?” “Do you mean what follows?” “Then… I’ve roughly discerned the objective behind this mission entrusted to you.” “No—this task was never commanded by Lord Tōno.” “Since I never let it pass my lips, you deduced my inner thoughts—thus I, Kinnōmaru, pleaded with you time and again along our journey until finally receiving your consent to proceed.” “You’ve grasped it well.” “Even should we of the Minamoto clan perish today, the blood flowing toward tomorrow shall never die.” “Those delicate souls and tender children connected to that lineage—they remain in the capital still, do they not?”

The firewood in the earthen hearth burned. Dazzling, the two men’s armor and sword fittings cast light. At this, the snow covering their bodies dripped steadily down. Yet their tears surpassed even that.

“…………”

Lord Tōno had not only the valiant young warriors who had accompanied him in this battle but also three infants—still clinging to their mother’s lap—in another residence. This mother was Tokiwa Gozen, once a serving woman at the Ninth Ward Palace. Being no sheltered noble lady, she had always lived modestly in society, seldom appearing even at her clan’s grand occasions, dwelling unseen like a crimson winter camellia half-hidden among leaves. Yet she had already borne Yoshitomo, Assistant Master of the Left Stables, three sons: Imawaka, now seven years old; Otohime, five; and Ushiwaka, still at the breast—all boys.

A horse’s doze.

I

A prolonged stay would weaken their resolve. If they let the fire burn too long, they would grow accustomed to the warmth, making the aftermath all the more bitter; moreover, there was also the fear of attracting unwanted attention.

The two of them soon abandoned the beast hut and spurred their horses onward. And when they reached the previous fork in the road,

“Well then, Kinnōmaru.”

“Lord Hyōe.”

Once again exchanging immeasurable emotions as they— “I pray for your safe journey,” he said. “I earnestly entrust to you the future of Lady Tokiwa and the young lords.” “Understood,” replied Kinnōmaru with steadfast assurance before continuing: “Even in this area, you must remain vigilant.” “Take utmost care of your noble person.” “May you swiftly meet Lord Sadan, pursue Lord Tōno who rides ahead, and escape unharmed along Mino Road.”

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

“Hah.” “Farewell.”

“Farewell.”

One headed west. Meanwhile, Kamata Hyōe Masakiyo—who had turned east at the crossroads with Lake Biwa to his left—searched once more in every direction for any trace of Lord Sadan. Yet even by morning, he could not find the figure of Minamoto no Yoritomo, Assistant Captain of the Right Guards.

＊　　　　　＊　　　　　＊

Yoritomo did not notice where he had become separated from the group—his father, brothers, and retainers.

When he opened his eyelids—frozen shut with snow—with a start, his father was nowhere to be seen. Nor were his brothers or retainers there.

“So I’ve fallen behind?” Yoritomo suddenly lashed the steed.

Along with his surprise, the steed also startled, suddenly raising a pure white whirlwind as it bolted wildly. However, when he urged it onward even slightly, the steed immediately grew tired. He was tired. There was no loneliness, no carnal desire, no fear.

He just wanted to sleep. He was still a thirteen-year-old child warrior. Clad in the Minamoto clan’s heirloom indigo-laced “Genta-ga-Ubuginu” armor, with the Hige-kiri tachi laid across his waist and mounted on a sturdy sorrel steed, he cut a striking figure—yet for all that, he was still thirteen years old. “...I’m so sleepy.” He felt neither desire nor purpose. Their grip on the saddle and reins naturally took on a frozen, unconscious rhythm, but his mind had no path to follow. The world was white, and so was Yoritomo’s mind—white, white, endlessly white. As he dreamed of this boundless whiteness, he was rocked along.

In retrospect.

He must have repeated this state many times today. In the meantime, he must have strayed from the group of his father Yoshitomo and their retainers. Even separated by a mere ten or twenty ken, they could no longer see each other’s figures in the blinding swirl of white snow. Moreover, the road itself—if one fell behind even a step—whether it turned west or east, there were no traces of hoofprints to be found. Lord Sadan… Lord Sadan… Ugh… He kept feeling as though someone were calling him. Yoritomo opened his eyes with a start. Beautiful! There was nothing but snow—snow he found truly beautiful.

Run as he might, there was not a single human figure. Stop as he might, there was no trace of human presence. Everything was white. He could only think how beautiful a world devoid of human presence could be. Minamoto no Yoritomo once again found himself dozing off atop his horse.

Two

Once, as the fallen end of one such retainer, there lived in Moriyama no Shuku a fearsome rōnin called Gen'naihyōe Naohiro.

Earlier in the day, warriors from Rokuhara had come to this area, gathered the overseer of the inn and local magistrates, issued instructions, and departed. Their words had been: “When members of the Sama-no-kami’s clan or other Minamoto retainers come seeking food due to starvation or begging for medicine for arrow wounds, put on a kind face and let them into your huts. Once you’ve let them in, immediately report to the jito. Alternatively, you magistrates and local samurai can join forces to capture, bind, and expel them.” “In any case, show no mercy.” “If you harbor them, you will be punished.” “Moreover, if you kill a worthy defeated warrior and bring his head as proof, that too shall become a significant promotion for you.” “Whether you receive lavish rewards—enough to lay the foundation for a lifetime of wealth—or not hinges on this moment.”

Such were their words. People may speak of awaiting spring or the year’s end, but Gen'naihyōe had only a single padded robe since autumn. From the thatched hut where snot-nosed children, scaly-headed children, sickly children wracked with coughs, infants wailing at dry breasts, and a shrieking woman lived—they rushed out upon learning of this decree, “I can hear the footsteps of spring!”

He cut bamboo in the back thicket. He coated the sharpened tip with oil, his boar-hunting eyes glinting as he prowled about since daytime, but the footsteps of spring remained invisible to his eyes.

Night came.

In the lull of the blizzard, occasionally, a sky-glow that might be mistaken for a blue moon would glimmer. Like a dog, as he trudged through the outskirts of the post town in his snow boots, ―Crunch.

Then came a sound from the townhouse stable—behind a horse, two naginata blades glinted. “Who’s there?!” Both parties froze mid-crouch. After a moment of mutual recognition: “Gen’nai?” Those who had emerged from the horse feed were fellow rōnin from the post town—comrades who, driven by today’s decree, had cast off their usual indolence and now ignored both cold and drowsiness. “Any luck?” “With what?” “Find any decent heads?” “Not yet.”

“Hmm… Nothing but damn geese flying around.” It was when they were bickering. As they gazed absently at the flock of geese descending diagonally toward the lakeshore, a single mounted warrior passed by with utmost silence directly behind the three men. The highway had been cleared of snow. On both sides, snowbanks rose high enough to nearly reach the eaves. Through the snow, only the upper half of the figure on horseback was glimpsed. “Huh?!” “Shh!” The naginata and bamboo spears clung to the snowbanks as they pursued from behind—but the mounted warrior remained far too composed. There was no sign of the anxious wariness one would expect from a defeated warrior.

“What the hell is he?” “Oh.” “He’s dozing off, the bastard!” Yet the three hesitated. But they could not let his figure pass. He looked like a single star that had abruptly fallen to the earth below. They had no way of knowing it matched the splendor of “Gengatsugasane” or “Hige-kiri,” but regardless, his attire was different in some way. This was it. This was what they called the threshold to momentous promotion. The footsteps of spring—even this encounter was an omen. “Don’t let him escape. Don’t falter.”—Exchanging glances, Gen'nai was the first to leap over the snowbank and charge into the highway.

“Wait, Lord!” “…………” Minamoto no Yoritomo, Assistant Captain of the Right Guards, jerked around as if startled.

Three

The man who had found nothing pointed his bamboo spear and said something. There were also about two men with naginata glaring in his direction. Even so, they kept their distance. Hesitantly, they did not approach. Yoritomo— What? He did not speak. He did not feel fear either. Spears and naginata—he had just seen bloodstained ones to the point of weariness on the battlefield. Even when held by these lowly servants who stood their ground, they only looked like mantises to him.

“Lord Heir, are you deaf?” “…………” “Where did you come from? Where are they taking you?” “Pointless.” “There’s no escape ahead either.” “We’ll give you gruel. Dismount.”

“…………” Yoritomo remained silent and began to urge his horse forward.

“Hey! Won’t you stop?!”

Gen'nai Hyōe already felt as though he had seized this prey. He lunged forward and attacked. Yoritomo clung to the horse’s flat neck. The horse, its legs raised high, retreated backward while thrashing wildly. The bamboo shaft slipped on the snow. He felt he had struck somewhere, but there was no response from his opponent. Gen’nai Hyōe panicked, threw aside his bamboo spear, and drew the longsword at his waist. And, chasing around the saddle of the madly whirling horse,

“Grah!”

He raised his sword overhead on horseback. “Foolish one.” Then Yoritomo opened his mouth for the first time and, as he drew the Hige-kiri tachi, struck Gen’nai Hyōe’s bare head without thought or mind. At the beast-like scream that erupted before his eyes and the gush of dusky black blood, even Yoritomo himself was startled. He felt as though his eyes had snapped wide awake. “Dismount!” The man was still speaking. That was the one gripping the horse’s bridle with a naginata in hand. Heaving up from the saddle, “Scum!”

As he slashed downward over the horse’s forehead, the man leapt back—but lost his arm from the elbow down and fell with a cry. The crimson umbrella of blood spread across the snow appeared terrifyingly large. The remaining naginata wielder could no longer even approach. Toward that fearful face— “You dare come closer?!” Yoritomo barked, and the flat of his tachi struck the horse’s hindquarters repeatedly. Whether it was the sight of blood, the horse too suddenly bristled with ferocity and, as though a snow deity itself were taking flight, raced through the blizzard, cleaving the snowy winds.

Suddenly, Yoritomo became scared.

What had become of Father? What about Elder Brother? And the clan members? Even the horse he relied on—by the next day, he had to part with it. Its leg had broken in the snow. If he were to go on foot, the armor was heavy. Moreover, since they would draw attention, he discarded his ancestral sword and armor along with the horse and walked unencumbered. By the night of the 28th, he himself could no longer tell where he was wandering. His head throbbed dully from sleeplessness. 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 scene of the battlefield refused to fade from his mind. When he closed his eyes, he could see the flames and black smoke from that day that had burned from around Rokujō Riverbed all the way to the vicinity of the Imperial Palace. With a throbbing intensity, the clashes of swords and whirs of arrows revived from the depths of his ears. Headless torsos he had stumbled over countless times, legless corpses—all of it came back to him vividly.

I’m not scared. It wasn’t something as shallow as fear. (Is this what war is...?) That was all Yoritomo could think. And while haunted by such illusions and memories, he had fallen deeply asleep that night—wedged among firewood and pickling tubs beneath the doorless eaves of an unknown hut in the mountain village of Asai, Ōmi Province.

The world

I When dawn broke, someone who seemed to be the master of the house came to the woodshed to fetch firewood for the hearth and had an expression of profound shock. “Wife.” “Come here quick… Hurry.” “Hurry.” His wife also emerged from the kitchen, peered alongside her husband into the spot—then stared wide-eyed as if holding her breath.

Yoritomo, lying among the firewood, slept unaware of dawn’s arrival. Through icicles hanging from broken eaves, morning light fell upon his sleeping face. His countenance shone with the dignified grace of a Buddha statue carved from white jade—slightly elongated, with a fullness in the lower cheeks that suggested innate nobility. Even his snoring carried an air of untroubled repose. “Where does this child hail from...?” … “What path brought him to such a place?”

With a sigh, the master muttered under his breath. Then his wife leaned close to his ear and spoke softly, as though wary of even cats and birds overhearing. “He must be a defeated warrior’s child.” The master’s face jolted with realization. He nodded silently and, as if tiptoeing, left the spot to confer with his wife. “What should we do?” “You should report him.” “He’s pitiful.” “Even if you say such a thing—how many times did the Taira samurai come around just yesterday?” “If we’re suspected of hiding him, that would be…”

“No—he’s pitiable. Among our people too, there’s a child of that age.”

This household made their living by preparing medicinal ointments, so in the main building, their sons and men were grinding ingredients with mortars and kneading ointments.

“Make rice balls, add some miso, give them to that child, and send him away. Show him the way to the mountain path.” Seeming to be a man of compassion, he firmly instructed his wife.

As soon as he was shaken awake, Yoritomo had to leave that place. For the first time in his life, when someone had given him food, even he could not stop tears from spilling over. Even that, he ate only after retreating into the mountains.

Asai’s Northern District was deep in the mountains. He walked naturally toward where the sun was rising. In an area called Kodaira, he met a nun. “Where are you headed?”

“To Aobaka.” “By crossing the mountains?”

The nun shook her head.

“Passing through Fuwa Barrier might be possible,” she said, “but crossing the mountains to Mino in this snow is unthinkable.” “Come to my hut.” The nun invited Yoritomo, recognizing he was no commoner’s child. Yet she asked nothing.

For over a month, Yoritomo lived in the ceiling space of the nunnery. It was dark, cramped, and cold. Straw and mats were brought in, and Yoritomo waited quietly until the day the nun said it was okay. During that time, every single day, what he heard so well he could memorize was the voice of the nun reciting the Lotus Sutra morning and evening. Although he couldn’t comprehend the sutra’s meaning at all, as he listened from the ceiling space, Yoritomo somehow began to feel happy.

Within the sutra’s words, phrases like “World-Honored One” and “Shakyamuni Buddha” were chanted countless times, so he began to feel that this world was not solely inhabited by the Taira clan—there must also be someone like the World-Honored One. That person was fair and just, possessing a heart of boundless great love, and he believed that as long as one had a virtuous heart, this person would also side with them. “You should be able to cross the mountains now.” Told by the nun, Yoritomo emerged from the ceiling space. From beneath the snow, tree buds were sprouting. The early spring world appeared in Yoritomo’s heart with a beauty so dazzling it blinded his eyes. Thirteen years old, as though emerging from his mother’s womb for the first time, he walked the mountain path eastward and ever eastward, gazing with wonder at the birds’ songs and the passing clouds.

Two

Along the Hosodani River path, there was a cormorant fisherman heading out to the village.

The cormorant fisherman had been suspiciously trailing Yoritomo for some time but finally spoke up. “Kazuko.” “Where are you headed?” “To Aobaka.” Yoritomo could only answer that way—he didn’t know any better. “Do you have any acquaintances in Aobaka?” “Mmm.” “What manner of person are they?” “You’ll know when you go.”

“I see.” The cormorant fisherman fell silent. After that, he asked nothing more. However, he seemed to keep his eyes constantly fixed on Yoritomo’s condition. One must never let their guard down around others. Observe not the surface of people, but their hearts. And during the several miles he walked in silence, Yoritomo naturally learned to be cautious of his surroundings.

“Young lord. “I’ll escort you. “Who are you? You must be a child of the Minamoto clan.” The cormorant fisherman suddenly said and exchanged the sword Yoritomo was wearing with the bundle of yam leaves he carried. “I’ll keep it like this for you. “You look like a woman. “If anyone asks, say you’re a woman. “Carry yourself like one. “Understood?”

Whether they were evil or good,Yoritomo couldn't tell.He simply entrusted his fate vaguely to the cormorant fisherman.But he did not fear.After settling into the nunnery and regaining his composure,the memories of war faded into the distance.Having crossed a great wave,in a world that had bobbed up from the depths,your soul even felt amusement.(If you went to Aobaka,your father Yoshitomo would be there.There would be elder brothers.There would also retainers.)

As the road descended southward after crossing the mountain from the north, the boy’s heart too took on the brightness of facing south. Neither the life of a young lord in the capital—occasionally recalled from just yesterday—nor his father’s imposing residence could be considered objects of lingering attachment. This outcome felt natural and inevitable; neither hunger nor hardship was enough to draw his heart into melancholy.

After several days had passed, he arrived at Aobaka. When he first revealed that he was going to the house of Ōi, the village headman, the cormorant fisherman was greatly astonished, “Ah, so you are—” studied Yoritomo’s face intently, returned the sword in its bundle of leaves to his hand, and departed without giving his name.

Until then, Yoritomo—who had been warily suspicious of the cormorant fisherman’s intentions—wore an intensely apologetic expression,

“……Ah. “There was the Buddha.”

he muttered.

Before long, when he visited Ōi’s gate, it was closed, and what appeared to be a mourning placard was posted there. He pushed into the earthen-walled gate at the back and, to a servant,

“I am Yoshitomo’s son, the Assistant Captain of the Right Guards. Is Father present?”

When he asked—soon from the inner chambers of the house— “Ah!”

There was a woman who rushed out as if to say nothing but that, took his hand, washed his feet, and all but carried him into the house. It was Ōi’s daughter, Enju. “How pitiable!” She was overcome with tears, but Yoritomo did not fully grasp 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 to escape toward Owari, but on the third day of the new year, he was betrayed by Nagata Tadamune and cut down without a fight. Not only that—his head was sent to the capital, where the Taira clan displayed it on a hackberry tree before the gates of Higashigoku.” When he heard this, he shattered his expressionless mask and wailed aloud. No one could calm his weeping.

III Since Yoritomo would not stop crying, Ōi, Enju’s father, deliberately strengthened his voice and, “If you are overcome with grief over such a trifling matter, how will you live on?” “You, a child of Lord Yoshitomo, the Sama-no-kami—” he scolded. And,

“There are still more grievances.”

he said. It was not only Tōno who had met a tragic end. He went on to explain that Lord Akugenda Yoshihira, the eldest son, and Lord Tomonaga, the second son, were also no longer of this world— Upon arriving there, Tōno, just as he was about to depart again for Owari, dispatched Yoshihira to Kiso Road and his second son Tomonaga toward Shinshū in accordance with their prior arrangement. However, Tomonaga, unable to endure the wound that had long tormented him, turned back midway to his father’s side and pleaded through tears:

“I can’t go on any longer. Rather than meet a shameful death at the hands of nameless Taira retainers—please kill me yourself, Father.” He had endured his suffering and returned clinging to this resolve. When Lord Tōno heard this, “You too are Yoshitomo’s child.”

With those words, he severed his own child’s head with his own hands. As for the eldest son Yoshihira, he ventured deep into Hida Province rallying local clans here and there—even beginning to organize a small army—but just then word arrived that Lord Yoshitomo had been slain near Nagoya with his head sent to Kyoto’s eastern prison gate mounted on a hackberry tree by Taira hands—at which news his gathered soldiers scattered instantly leaving even his own life imperiled— (In such circumstances—even alone—I shall approach either Kiyomori or Shigemori among our enemies—avenge my father and clan’s bitter grievances—and die as befits a son of Yoshitomo.)

Having resolved thus, he secretly returned to Kyoto and wandered near Rokuhara—only to be swiftly discovered by Taira captors, dragged out to Rokujō Riverbed, and shamelessly beheaded in the spring of his twentieth year—so the story went. Raising his tear-swollen eyelids, Yoritomo listened with an expression as though doubting it were a dream. He had stopped crying. Even if urged to weep, his face showed no sign of tears. Instead, “Do you understand?”

Ōi wiped his tear-streaked nose，and Enju too broke into sobs. “When speaking of the Minamoto clan’s true bloodline… now only you remain．In the capital area，there are said to be noble children of Lady Tokiwa—half-brothers of yours，Wako—but I hear they are still unweaned infants．”

He kept sniffling and wiping his eyes, muttering incoherently to himself—but when Ōi suddenly looked again at Yoritomo’s silent, unresponsive figure, he felt somehow chastened this time, a sense of shame welling up inside him.

Yoritomo pursed his lips, fixed his eyes in one direction, and listened the entire time with a face drained of color—

“I don’t want to cry anymore. Please, everyone, do not cry,” he said. Then, claiming a slight headache, he retired early to bed that night. But when morning came, he declared he would go to the Eastern Provinces no matter what. Though Enju and Ōi tried to dissuade him, he shook his head and left alone. “Father!...” “Elder Brother!” While walking solitary roads near Sekigahara in spring’s first days, Yoritomo would occasionally shout as if in a trance. Gazing at clouds made him feel his father lingered beyond them; looking at mountains made him imagine his brother past their ridges.

“There is no one.” “There is no one.” And he turned fourteen. He was the solitary heir of the realm. He made himself conscious of it once more.

IV

Yohyōe Munekiyo, a retainer of Taira no Morimori, the Governor of Owari, was on his way to the capital, accompanied by a dozen or so minor samurai.

Yoritomo encountered them on the road. However, in his dazed state, he felt no apprehension until they drew near. He walked straight ahead with calm composure. Precisely because of this, Munekiyo’s party did not find him suspicious either; yet while other travelers and peasants scrambled to clear the road, bowing their heads by the roadside, Yoritomo knew nothing of prostrating himself.

He moved slightly to the side and stood at the base of a tree along the highway, gazing.

“Huh?” Munekiyo tilted his head slightly. Yoritomo, too, was gazing in his direction. “Fujizō. Fujizō.”

When Munekiyo called from horseback, a minor samurai named Tanba Fujizō Kunihiro emerged from among the retinue. “Yes, sir? Do you require something?” he ran to his side.

Munekiyo pointed his whip and said, “That boy standing over there… I feel I’ve seen him somewhere.” “Seize him.” “A youth of unusual features—suspicious.”

“Yes, sir!”

Fujizō scanned the area with eyes like a falcon’s, but where Munekiyo had pointed, there was nothing to be seen anymore.

Munekiyo, being on horseback, quickly spotted his whereabouts, “Ah! He’s jumped over the tree-lined embankment and is fleeing over there!” “Chase him—!” He barked a fierce command.

With Fujizō at their head, the samurai surged over the tree-lined embankment. Beyond lay vegetable fields, wheat fields, and thickets surrounding peasants’ huts. After a short while, dragged by imposing voices, Yoritomo was brought back bound. It seemed he had fallen into ditches and tumbled into fields, for he had been reduced to a pitiful state.

Munekiyo restrained his men with “Don’t be rough!” and brought his horse’s head near Yoritomo—who lay thrown upon the earth—as he demanded: “Young master.” “You fled when you saw me.” “Do you know who I am?” he asked. Yoritomo kept writhing against his bonds—hands tied behind his back. This wasn’t an attempt to break free; immobilized as he was, he simply couldn’t rise. “Let me stand.” At Yoritomo’s plea, Tanba Fujizō declared: “You may stand.” “Answer as you are.”

As soon as he said this,

“No—let him do as he wishes,” Munekiyo said. When Fujizō grabbed Yoritomo by the collar and helped him stand, Yoritomo—his face scraped against the ground, half of it oozing blood—abruptly raised it to meet Munekiyo’s gaze and stared straight at him. “Dismount from your horse,” he said accusingly.

“—I am not the son of one who would suffer himself to be addressed from horseback by Taira foot soldiers. If you have questions, dismount and speak them.”

The boy’s scream—half-maddened by torment—could have been heard as such, but Munekiyo, seemingly struck by an extraordinary emotion, promptly leapt from his saddle with an earnestness that rendered him momentarily speechless. And he strode resolutely to Yoritomo’s side and bowed respectfully, “Please state your name.” he said gently.

His retainers had swiftly dispersed the crowd of townspeople, travelers, women, and children who had gathered around them. At Munekiyo’s unexpectedly gentle questioning, Yoritomo momentarily hung his head, but soon lifted his face straightforwardly and— “I am the third son of Sama-no-kami, a man called Uhyōe no Suke Yoritomo.” he answered in a calm voice.

Wild Camellia

One

Among the scholar-monks were many young people. Kiyomizu-dera Temple in Kyoto’s Yasaka district belonged to the Tōdai-ji lineage and maintained a Nanto student dormitory. When night fell and all gathered in one place, even New Year’s evenings remained unchanged—filled with debates and cheerful talk. “Did you go see the Ailanthus tree?” “What’s this ‘Ailanthus tree’?” “The great tree before Gojō prison’s gates. Yoshitomo’s head was displayed there. Later, his son Yoshihira’s head joined it on display.” The questioned monk— “No, I haven’t seen it.” —furrowed his brow.

Then one of them said, “Actually, they’re no longer there since the day before yesterday.” “It seems someone buried them without anyone noticing.” “They must have stolen them.” “Who did?”

Everyone widened their eyes.

“It goes without saying.” “It’s the Minamoto remnants.” “If they were the clan who attended the Rokujō residence morning and evening and revered Lord Tōno, would they simply stand by and watch?” “That’s right.”

The shifting aspects of these turbulent times fleetingly passed through the hearts of the young students. "It's punishment." "Divine punishment." As if flinging something aside, someone muttered. —and another glared back at them,

“Why do you say that?” demanded a person.

“Asking why is sheer folly! Three years ago during the Hōgen Rebellion, didn’t Yoshitomo leave his own father Tameyoshi to die?”

“Rather than Yoshitomo killing him, it was Kiyomori and the Taira who made him do it.” “Since the imperial court had already decreed his execution, even if Yoshitomo tried to shield him, he could not be saved.” “To take up arms against them would mean drawing one’s bow against the imperial court.” “He had no choice but to swallow his tears and have his own son carry out the deed.” “No—whatever one may say, was it not Yoshitomo who first counseled the Emperor and ignited this conflict?” “After being defeated and seeing the Emperor exiled to Sanuki, while his father Tameyoshi failed so utterly that the imperial court sentenced him to death—how could he have endured until now—”

“Pray wait!”

The opponent in the debate raised his hand and— “What you’re speaking of is humanitarian ethics. You must look at it from a grander vantage point.”

“What nonsense! If one strays from the path of human ethics, where can humanity find anything to take pride in?” “Now that you mention it, Yoshitomo may seem inhumane, but expecting a military commander in these turbulent times of rise and fall to have led a flawless life is an impossible demand—one that cannot be met no matter how much you seek it.” “In that case… Though I shouldn’t say this too loudly—what about Rokuhara-dono?” “Are you slandering the Taira faction again?” “I’m not speaking from emotion.” “That’s how it sounds.”

Those around them mixed laughter into it,

“Stop it,” he said, but the other eloquent debater refused to fall silent,

“After all, Yoshitomo was nothing more than a mere military official. Because he entangled himself in political conflicts to fight the Taira clan, he was effortlessly defeated both during the earlier Hōgen Rebellion and this year’s Heiji Rebellion. To someone like Shinzei Nyūdō, Yoshitomo must have seemed an agreeable man who was easily manipulated—and when compared to Rokuhara-dono, even if we disregard martial prowess, in political intellect he could never be a match.”

Regardless of whether one belonged to the Taira or Minamoto clan, one must never engage in gossip. Furthermore, when addressing ministers or elders, even if no one was listening, there existed no law permitting one to omit their titles. They had been constantly sternly admonished by the head of the academy that such presumptuous behavior ought to be met with humility—yet whenever the young peers gathered, they would eventually forget such things.

“……Hm?”

One of them suddenly pricked up his ears and fixed his gaze outward. Everyone fell silent at once and scanned the walls enclosing the frigid night. Somewhere in the distance, an infant’s cry echoed faintly.

Two

The infant’s cry was the voice of dawn. Even in today’s dark age, it was a voice proclaiming to the eternal people of tomorrow.

But. Given that it was late at night and this was a temple where no women should be present, that crying sound strangely aroused suspicion in the young scholar-monks. They did not suspect the infant itself but, immediately letting their conjectures run wild about whoever should naturally be accompanying it, conjured various suspicions— “Is there someone hiding a woman in these sacred precincts?”

As if they had sniffed out someone else’s secret, they suddenly began to whisper to each other.

“I’ll go check.”

Then.

From the corner, a single figure soon stood and began to leave. A gaunt shadow figure moved along the wall and began to head out into the corridor.

“Kōgon.” “Hey, Kōgon!”

Called back from inside the room, “Yes,” he replied. Kōgon showed his face and upper body.

He was a young temple attendant who always feigned illness, remaining stubbornly silent and quiet as ashes. As he was barely seventeen or eighteen years old, the senior students immediately mocked him. “Are you going to check?” “Yes,” he replied.

“What’s this? Are you suddenly getting all jittery and rushing off to check?”

“But I can’t help being concerned.” “So it’s you who’s hiding a woman with a child within the temple, aren’t you?”

“……”

Kōgon’s complexion seemed to turn pale.

However, the moment they did, a large group of students burst into laughter in unison, so— “No, that’s utterly absurd!”

Yet they only found Kōgon’s earnest explanations and guileless demeanor all the more comical, and none thought to question his pallor. The infant’s cries soon faded into silence. Then Kōgon—who had gone to investigate—returned shortly thereafter and,

“It was nothing,” he reported to the group.

“What do you mean, ‘it was nothing’?” When one asked spitefully, “Yes, an elderly woman from the pottery-making household below Sanneizaka had come for a nighttime visit to Koyasu Kannon, carrying her grandson who has a habit of crying at night.” he answered earnestly. “Hahaha!” “Ahahaha!” Since they too had considered that it might very well be as Kōgon said, each of them—who had been conjuring unnecessary worries and suspicions—laughed at themselves and clapped their hands. Taking that as their cue, “Let’s sleep.”

“Well, time to sleep.” They filed out in a line and disappeared one after another into the sleeping quarters of the large temple, leaving only three or four attendants behind to sweep up the scattered crumbs of barley crackers and tidy away the short lamp stands. Finally, when they lowered the shutters and even this last light of Kiyomizu-dera vanished, all that remained from Mount Kachō to Higashiyama was the sound of the wind.

In the depths of the distant night haze, only the waters of the Kamo River were white, as if covered with thin ice. Even though the war had ended, the capital remained in turmoil. Around Rokujō, a vast burnt field had formed, and even around Rokuhara, the ever-visible light of the eternal lanterns was nowhere to be seen.

“Lady Tokiwa.” “Please open it… Do not be alarmed.” “It is I, Kōgon—the one who came earlier.” “……Lady Tokiwa.”

Otowa Falls had turned into icicles. What might have been taken for leaves spilling onto the lattice shutters and verandas of the nearby temple halls were in fact white pellets of hail. “Are you asleep? Lady Tokiwa... I beg you—wake up once more. It’s Kōgon.”

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

三 “Yes.… Just a moment.”

An answer came from inside the hall.

It was a low voice. But even that alone revealed the woman’s maturity. A quiet presence stirred within. Before long, a light shone through the gap in the hall’s door. Since it was a hall where none had ever dwelled—its lattice shutters shattered, soot and rain leaks ravaging its structure—who would lodge here? Thus, suspicion was only natural. Hence, even as Kōgon stood waiting outside for it to open, his unease would not settle.

“My lady… Forgive my presumption, but this is no ordinary circumstance. Please, do not trouble yourself with your appearance—open this quickly and show yourself.”

Urged by Kōgon,

“Yes, yes.” “Just now.”

The next reply sounded so pitifully flustered that Kōgon could no longer bear his feelings of pity and guilt,

“I deeply apologize.”

he added.

At the same time, the hall’s door slid open without a sound. In the cavernous cold and dim flickering lamplight, a single Kannon statue sat imposingly tall, its head nearly brushing the ceiling. Yet when one stepped inside here, they were immediately wrapped in a sweet fragrance that conjured memories of distant childhood. It was the scent of breast milk—so warm it seemed to radiate human warmth. “He has finally fallen asleep.” Near the hem of Kannon’s robes, two straw mats lay spread across the wooden floorboards with the statue’s pedestal serving as a makeshift screen. The woman—now reseated on one mat—faced Kōgon as he leaned forward to peer into the fold of arms cradling her child.

“Yes.” “He’s settled now.”

Tokiwa, too, looked down at the sleeping face cradled in her arms and murmured as if sighing.

It was Ushiwaka, who had just turned two with the arrival of the new year. Though already a fretful child by nature, since the year-end battle he had not slept easily at night and eaten irregularly, so her breast milk had completely dried up. To this was added the nightly cold without bedding. One could hardly blame the child for crying. “Ah—the poor little ones sleep so soundly after all.” Kōgon, forgetting the urgent matter he had come to discuss, gazed at another straw mat and spoke as if sighing from his heart’s depths.

Otohime, who was six this year, and Imawaka, who had turned eight—the two clung tightly to each other against the cold, their breaths soundless in sleep. The only thing spread over them was a single mother’s coat. As he contemplated their ever-shifting circumstances, Kōgon felt his heart well up. The word “impermanence” was one we had grown too accustomed to in sermons and idle talk—so much so that it now evoked only a trite sensation. Yet to witness with one’s own eyes those wandering through this world of impermanent transformations—no heart could remain unbruised.

These three children—known to all—were the undoubted heirs of Sama-no-kami Yoshitomo, who until just yesterday had been revered by the Minamoto clan as their master of bow and arrow and clan elder, a man who once stood shoulder to shoulder with Rokuhara’s Kiyomori and Komatsu-dono’s family. And also, the mother as well— From a young age, she had served at the Kujō nyoin—though her status was that of a lowly zōshime—before Yoshitomo discovered her. Using his influence, he was said to have selected a hundred from a thousand beauties, ten from that hundred, and finally Tokiwa alone from those ten—so renowned was her beauty that it became the talk of the capital’s streets.

At fourteen she first painted her brows; by fifteen she was already trailing her robes behind the bamboo blinds—envied as one borne upon a jade palanquin. Yet now at twenty-three, with three infants clinging to her breasts and no roof to call her own, who from those days could have imagined she would endure this frigid night in the Hall of Great Compassion? As Kōgon thought of these things, he found himself unable to speak. The eyelids of Tokiwa sitting before him—not even shedding tears—struck him as strange beyond measure.

Four

Thus— Then, hardening his heart, Kōgon abruptly spoke out.

“Lady Tokiwa, I hate to rush you, but this hall is no longer safe.” “When night deepens, the young ones’ cries can be heard as far as the main hall.” “It can’t be helped.” “When he starts crying like that, his voice blazes out so fiercely.” “The young people at the seminary grew suspicious of each other again tonight, and we were nearly subjected to an inquiry.” “For about half a month, we hid you at Hanchōdō in the back mountain, but since we could not bring food there, we moved you here two nights ago. However, with so many prying eyes and ears nearby, this place has proven even more dangerous than the back mountain.”

“I have caused you concern.” “There is no alternative.” “We will leave for elsewhere.” “Truly… it is difficult to say.” “No, no. That a mother and her four children have evaded Rokuhara’s watch and survived from New Year’s Eve until today—it has been solely through your compassion.” “Think nothing of it.” Kōgon shook his head with a pained expression, “Though I wear priestly robes, both my late father and uncle were of Minamoto lineage.” “Moreover, my cousin Konōmaru served at Rokujō’s residence from childhood and always accompanied Lord Yoshitomo when he visited your presence.”

“……….”

The infant cradled in Tokiwa’s arms suddenly began to stir restlessly, searching for milk, so Kōgon—as if startled by his own voice—fell silent. As he watched intently, Ushiwaka fortunately fell into a peaceful sleep. Kōgon, careful of his own voice, “Therefore, since the morning of the twenty-sixth day of the year-end when battle began and those terrible flames and black smoke started rising over the capital’s streets, I have spent sleepless nights and restless days gazing from here at the town’s smoke—wondering about both the safety of the lord’s residence and how Your Ladyship fared, or what became of the young ones.” “Then, precisely at midnight on New Year’s Eve, my cousin Konōmaru appeared here carrying the young ones on his back and urging Your Ladyship onward.” “…And now is the time to repay the debt owed since our ancestors’ days.” “Kōgon—I’m counting on you.” “When he said, ‘I must still see to the fate of our lord and clan who have fled from Ōmi Road to Mino,’ I felt both joy at being trusted and utter despair—but such is the sorrow of being in the priesthood; alas, this is all the strength I possess.” “Even if I were to muster a sense of duty beyond what I possess, it would ultimately only serve to offer Your Ladyship and the young ones as trophies to Rokuhara’s constables.” “It is clear that even waiting until tomorrow poses a danger.”

“Understood,” said Lady Tokiwa. “We shall depart quietly before dawn breaks.” “It’s… regrettable,” Kōgon replied. Finally, Kōgon could no longer endure—tears spilled over as he covered his face with the sleeve of his priestly robe. “If I were not a sickly monk,” he continued, voice trembling, “I would cast off these robes to become a warrior’s child again and accompany you—” The frailer his body grew, the more fiercely his youthful blood seemed to surge within. He sobbed into his robes, then—

“To have no choice but to say ‘Leave’—to Your Ladyship and your young ones, who have nowhere left to go—without even pursuing you… this agony of mine… Forgive me, Your Ladyship. Please forgive me.” Kōgon pleaded thus and prostrated himself on the floor, weeping like a man, but Tokiwa’s eyes merely stared fixedly at a single spot on the wall, showing no tears. Like a pond frozen solid with ice, her eyes had even forgotten how to cry.

Tether Cart

One

It was a dusk of chilling cold under a sky nearing February, the evening air keen and clear. Like waterfowl blown together by the wind, small thatched boats clustered beneath bridges and along the shores of Fushimi’s Funado Port. There were boats that carried travelers to Naniwa. There were cargo boats that transported this village’s mixed grains and firewood to Kyoto’s markets. The fishermen’s cormorant boats had been tied and abandoned, now utterly neglected. The lacquered boat where the shirabyōshi women lived seemed deserted by day, but when night fell they would hang red lanterns beyond the thatch, beckoning capricious men who appeared like stars.

Looking at it this way, even upon the river there lay the fates of spring and autumn, and each day’s livelihood was a hurried affair. “Thank you for your kindness.” “Thanks to your kindness, the children have regained their spirits like this.” “If I go asking for Sumizome, the house we are about to visit may somehow be found.” “…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 had made this boat their household to support their ailing mother. That morning, the younger sister had gone to the market at dawn when frost still whitened the ground. On her return path, she spotted a parent and four children freezing beneath the eaves of a townhouse. Oh, how pitiful. She took the hands of two children trembling from hunger, cradled the infant, and encouraged the elderly woman—who remained crouched in roadside frost without strength to rise—to bring them there.

How many days and nights had passed since leaving the Kannon Hall of Kiyomizu-dera—even Tokiwa herself,

――To think I had survived. I had spent days that felt like a miracle I had survived. And now that I found myself in such circumstances, the fact that I had not been born a sheltered princess or a court lady in service―that in my childhood in rural Fukakusa I had trodden wheat and pounded rice husks, and by age ten or eleven had walked Kyoto’s streets with a basket atop my head selling vegetables and fruit―now seemed to me a blessing. Such a lowly woman I was.

Tokiwa had often reflected—into the world of those who considered it natural to spend snowy days composing waka, listen to incense on moonlit nights, and pass flower-filled afternoons with affairs of the heart—all such elegant pursuits—she had suddenly found herself mingling after being taken in as a maidservant by the Ninth Avenue Imperial Lady. Beyond that, she had even been loved by Minamoto no Yoshitomo, a warlord of fortune whom she had never dared to imagine or desire. (Look there—a wild camellia, placed in a lapis lazuli vase beside the noble’s partitioned screen.)

While being subjected to such jealous gossip by former friends and relatives, she had, before she knew it, become the mother of three children with Lord Tōno. Truly, it had happened without her ever knowing a maiden’s heart— Therefore, from the very beginning, she had neither known the refined elegance of the nobles—such as the way of waka poetry or distinguishing incense scents—nor possessed the knowledge to read difficult texts. She had scarcely understood how society churned and roiled around her—how Lord Tōno of Rokujō’s clan, which cherished her so dearly, and Rokuhara’s Kiyomori’s faction clashed, conflicted, and existed in such perilous tension that even this she did not fully grasp until the day war arrived.

A woman of twenty-three. By the time her eldest was seven, she had three children, and her daily life had been spent with little thought beyond childcare and the morning and evening makeup she diligently applied—so fervently did she will herself not to lose Lord Tōno’s affection. That was all she could manage each day. Now that I look back on my present self, there is no doubt that I cut a pitiful figure—but even so, had I been born into a sheltered life of privilege, ignorant of the hardships of poverty in my youth, I would surely have frozen to death on the roadside last night or the night before, or perhaps thrown myself into some river by now.

No—before that, she might have considered saving herself by handing her three children over to Rokuhara—yet each time Tokiwa reflected on this, she now felt profound gratitude for her impoverished girlhood.

Two

When Tokiwa announced her departure, the Shirabyōshi sisters looked pained, “Then, take care.” They did not try to stop her.

For given how she seemed to fear being seen in daylight, they had likely surmised the general circumstances of her plight.

From the shadow of the thatch, the elderly mother of the sisters—who appeared ill—watched alongside their pale faces as the figures of the mother and children, now being carried or led by hand, timidly stepped across the bridge planks and ascended toward the twilight shore.

“Young masters.” “Please come again.” “If you can’t find the house you seek—” She wiped and wiped her eyes.

“……Farewell.”

Tokiwa bowed respectfully from the shore to the boat. People all wept for her. Because of that, she had received a bowl of gruel and sweets and such, but for some reason, Tokiwa herself did not shed tears.

Yet, as she left the boat, her eyelids suddenly grew hot. Seeing the mother of the Shirabyōshi sisters, the safety of her own mother—who had become separated during their flight from the Rokujō residence— (Where...) because it had suddenly surged up into her chest. Contrary to expectations, if she went to her relatives’ house in Sumizome, she might learn some news. She, alone, encouraged herself with that thought. While keeping watch from behind as Imawaka and Otohime walked ahead hand in hand—

The relatives they were now going to seek out were her uncle and aunt’s household. Her uncle Tobazō had once been a poor farmer but, relying on family ties, petitioned Lord Tōno and secured employment at the Rokujō residence. Until the day of battle, he had overseen the stables at the central gate as cowherd leader—a position that even granted him the right to wear a long sword. Now, she had heard that her aunt was living comfortably in Sumizome village with a sizable house and no hardships—and so, out of gratitude for the favor received from Lord Tōno, she had come to rely on this single refuge.

“Stop it!” “Did not!”

“Mother! Otohime did—” “Nuh-uh!” “Give it back!” “Liar.” “Liar!” The young brothers, who had suddenly broken into a run, had begun arguing over something—there at the roadside, nearly coming to blows as they shouted at the top of their lungs. Lost in thought—so often lost in thought, prone to being caught in contemplation without meaning to—she startled, “Hey!”

She hurried closer, but not only did Imawaka and Otohime refuse to stop fighting—the infant in her arms began to fuss and burst into tears. “There, there… hush now.” If Taira samurai or post town officials were to pass by this place, she felt her heart shrink with restless anxiety, “Imawaka—listen here, Imawaka.” “Elder Brother—what are you doing, for shame!” “How could you strike your dear younger brother like that?”

While nursing the infant at her breast and moving her feet in a silent rhythm, she scolded them, "But..." "But... you see, Mother—"

Imawaka, the elder brother, snatched a skewered persimmon from his younger brother’s hand and thrust it before his mother, his mouth forming a pout as he accused: “Mother—Otohime took this from the farmer’s house where they were drying it...” “What have you done now?” “He took it without asking! When you take things from people’s houses without asking, that makes you a thief—right, Mother?”

Three

Otohime paid no heed to her elder brother Imawaka’s attempts to tattle to Mother. Instead, she opened her small mouth wide, held the skewered persimmon sideways, and munched away without a care. “Oh, Lady Wako… how shameful…”

Though she lamented this, Tokiwa could not bring herself to scold them—not only that— No wonder.

Even feeling pitied, though she herself was there with them, she could not help but feel the guilt of a mother who, over these many days, had been unable to let her children taste anything sweet. In truth, even she herself, when she thought of sweetness, wanted it in her mouth so badly that the pit of her stomach ached. She knew her body was starved for sugar. While cursing his younger brother’s actions, Imawaka, the elder brother, watched enviously as Otohime devoured it freely.

“Lord Otohime—do not eat alone. Share that dried persimmon with your Elder Brother as well.” When Tokiwa said this, “Want some?” Otohime—now with a look of satisfied desire—snapped the skewer in two and offered half to his brother. “I don’t want it…” “I am Minamoto no Yoshitomo’s scion! Who would eat stolen persimmons? …Right, Mother? …Hey, Mother?”

At eight years old, Imawaka already had a sense of self. He was mindful of the household teachings he received daily. Tokiwa drew her sons close to her side, “Please do not say such things—you must take it as well, Lord Imawaka. Though it was wrong of Lord Otohime to bring it here without a word… Wako and her siblings do not yet understand what it means to purchase things—we cannot blame them.” “Please return to the farmhouse where you took the skewered persimmons and go pay its price.”

Tokiwa pulled out a single golden hairpin that had been tucked into her hair and handed it to her brothers. The brothers, holding the golden hairpin, quietly returned as their mother had instructed and went to the farmhouse’s eaves. And then, they inserted the hairpin into the ropes from which other dried vegetables and persimmons were still hanging and returned.

“Now my dears.” “Since you’ve eaten persimmons now walk properly together.” “Just another ri or two.” “When we reach Auntie’s house in Sumizome she’ll give us many delicious things.” “She’ll prepare warm bedding for night too.” “Just endure a little longer.”

Encouraging them along a country path where not a single lamp was visible from the edge of the post road, the mother and children walked haltingly once more. Just when she thought they had quieted down a bit, the six-year-old Otohime was dozing while walking. When she tried to rouse him and urge him on, he declared he no longer wanted to walk. No matter how she reasoned with him, “I don’t want to.” “I don’t want to.”

And then, he plopped down on the ground and burst into sobs.

Though Imawaka—who had some degree of understanding and prided himself on it—was still only eight years old, his very awareness of the world meant he knew fear more keenly than Otohime. Tomorrow—tomorrow. Having been coaxed by his mother into enduring hunger, cold, and loneliness—perhaps even his young heart had come to realize the futility of it all at last—he bent his arms to bury his face and quietly sobbed that night. “What am I to do…?” When she looked at her children in such a state, Tokiwa too wanted to sit down. With one desperate thought flashing through her mind—of stabbing through Wako and her siblings’ throats before dying there herself—

Death. It was a sweet temptation that ceaselessly assailed her. For her now, there was no place that seemed as peaceful and immediately accessible as death. There, her beloved Lord Yoshitomo would be――

But she,

“No!” With that, she effortlessly dismissed such doubts. She quickly regained her strong resolve to live. As the meager breast milk was forcibly sucked out—each time the nipples throbbed with pain—even when she peered into Ushiwaka’s face—she could not think of my life as solely my own.

IV

This area was already near Fukakusa Village. When evening passed, there was nothing but the howls of stray dogs. The terror of the war from about a month prior had yet to fade from the villagers. In the thickets and hollows of mountain fields just nearby, the corpses of defeated warriors who had been cut down and abandoned remained as they were, and on thawing afternoons, they emitted the stench of death. Given that they were nameless foot soldiers, even Rokuhara did not bother to dispose of them, and there was no one to retrieve their heads.

“Who is there? The one knocking at the gate—” “The one knocking at the gate—” In this village, at the house of Tobazō—the cattle herder head now known as a wealthy man—suddenly, such a voice was heard. As the voice spoke, the small lattice shutter of the side window was slightly raised, and light spilled outside—

“Unnecessary.” “Do not open it! Do not look outside!” —and scolded the servant—her aged voice rang out clearly, audible even outside.

“Oh!”

Having seen the light, Tokiwa, who had been standing near the gate for some time, ran around outside the brushwood fence as if about to fall,

“Aunt! … Hello? Hello… Aunt! Was that your voice just now?” “It is I, Tokiwa of the capital.” “I have brought the children and finally managed to arrive here.” Even as she cried out, the infant Ushiwaka began to wail. Making such a conspicuous visit would only draw unwanted attention from neighboring houses. It would also draw unwanted attention from the servants of this household. Tokiwa hurriedly nursed the infant Ushiwaka, crouched at the base of the brushwood fence and waited, but neither that window nor any other door opened—as sightless as a blind man’s eyes.

“Lord Imawaka! Lord Imawaka!” “Yeah.”

“Don’t fall asleep there—wake your younger brother. And even if your aunt may be asleep… we must endure.” “Aunt will surely let us into the house soon.” “I’m not sleepy.” “Mother—whose house is this?”

“It’s someone your mother is close to.” “Surely she would not turn us away so coldly.” “Try knocking on the gate once more.” Imawaka struck the gate with his small hands until they hurt.

In the end, he pushed and shook the fence, “Open up!” “People of this house—open up.” “Open up, I say!” Imawaka screamed.

Because Ushiwaka had stopped crying, Tokiwa too— “Please… Aunt…! Even if it troubles you, I have come here relying solely on your aid. It is I, 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 closer. She gasped and clamped her mouth shut— “I don’t know who you people are or where you’re from, but this is futile.” “The master of this house is in Kyoto, and the lady of the house has departed for a distant province. Aside from us servants, there’s no one here.”

Having said that, he stared intently, “It’s a nuisance having you lot barking and wailing out here.” “Now, hurry up and get moving.” “Be gone.” “If you don’t leave, I’ll report you to the authorities and have you dragged off.” “…………” With eyes that seemed to say, *This is something I will never forget, no matter how hard I try*—Tokiwa looked at the man’s face and stared at the house’s door. “I shall take my leave.” At the feet of the servant, she nevertheless apologized with such courtesy. Her words remained calm and composed.

“Now, Lord Wako—please rise—please open your eyes.” Upon arriving there and—overcome by drowsiness—Otohime had fallen asleep like a puppy at the base of the fence. After shaking him awake, the mother of three once again set off into nowhere, guided by the lingering glow of snow that remained in the distance and around them.

V

It was the next morning.

“I’m back!”

Ox-Handler Chief Tobazō returned home for the first time in a long while.

As soon as he returned, “I want to eat warm food until I’m full.” “Have them boil water for a bath so I can wash off the grime of battle and drink some sake.” “Whew… I’ve really cheated death this time.”

He stretched his legs and back.

His wife and family, upon seeing their master’s safe return, “Well, look at you in one piece!” They rejoiced as though they could relive the New Year they had missed. “This is so good!” “This is the first sake I’ve had in forty days!”

Gulping, Tobazō kept the cup in his hand without setting it down. “What a mess! The lord I serve started this foolhardy war without an ounce of foresight—and in just a single day, Rokujō’s mansion was reduced to ashes, the clan scattered, Lord Yoshitomo and all those connected to him beheaded daily at the riverbank… Truly, there was no semblance of life left.” “I wondered why I hadn’t entered service with the Taira clan from the start—but now it was too late.”

It may not have been due to his daily work with cattle, but he was a man with a face as indolent as a cow’s. He had completely forgotten—as if it were a past life—that it was through his niece Tokiwa’s connections he had acquired such a mansion or attained status worthy of wearing even a single sword. “Now that you mention it…”

Tobazō’s wife—part of a couple who resembled each other—informed him as if she had just remembered. “Rokujō’s niece came to visit, I tell you!”

“Huh? Tokiwa?” He abruptly fixed his eyes. “When?” “When…?” “When was it?” “It was late last night.” “And?” “A-and… where is she now?” “Would I have let her into the house?” “I shut the door tight and drove her off.” “You drove her off?” “Precisely because of our family ties, it was all the more terrifying.” “I claimed we were out and had the servant drive her off.” “Idiot!” “……?” “Half-wit!” “Why?” “Ugh, you witless fool.” “Would any fool drive away such rare fortune—a golden vine brought right to our doorstep—right at the dawn of the new year?” “You’re all a bunch of goddamn fools!”

While cursing, he rose and hastily re-donned the garments and sword he had discarded. “Since they were driven away from here, they must have no other relatives to turn to besides those in Ryūmon of Yamato.” …whether they were carrying an infant or leading a young child by the hand. “Good—they couldn’t have gotten far yet.”

He was filled with terrible resolve. Even his wife, who understood his determination, was left utterly dumbfounded.

From Fukakusa Village toward Yamato Road, he was hurrying as fast as he could. More than fearing he would fail to catch up and lose sight of them, he dreaded that the helpless Tokiwa and her children might effortlessly fall into others' hands. It was near noon the next day, after that night had passed, that Tobazō’s desperate efforts finally led him to discover Tokiwa’s figure. At the edge of the tutelary deity’s shrine within a cedar grove slightly off the roadside, she was soothing her two exhausted children and breastfeeding Ushiwaka. “Oh, there you are… Niece, you’re unharmed?”

Tobazō rushed over to them and called out as though overflowing with heartfelt affection, then grabbed Otohime—who had been innocently playing by her mother’s side— “Lady Wako was here too?” …and suddenly lifted her up. “Kyaa—!” Otohime screamed, and Tokiwa—startled by the abruptness—let out a cry as if she’d been struck by a blade.

Six The one who was startled was not the mother and child who had screamed, but rather Tobazō. “Hush now, hush now,” he said. “Why are you crying so much? This old man is an ally of Lady Wako and her siblings. I am but a humble retainer of Lord Yoshitomo, father to Lady Wako and her siblings.” With that, he released Otohime from his hands and returned her to her mother’s lap,

“That woman too—why does she tremble so upon seeing my form?” he soothed. Tokiwa’s heart palpitations had finally subsided— “Was it you… Uncle from Sumizome? I thought perhaps Rokuhara agents or local bandits had come to suddenly snatch Lady Wako away, and my spirits were utterly crushed.” “I see… No—it’s only natural. With those children in tow, fleeing all the way here surely couldn’t have been easy.” “What a pitiful sight…”

Tobazō pretended to wipe away false tears, sniffling as he— “Alas, words fail to capture how lamentable… how utterly regrettable this is.” “Truly, these are the end times.” “I once thought of taking my own life to follow the entire clan in death… But no matter what—no matter what—I couldn’t stop worrying about that woman and the young Lady Wako and her siblings……” “Then… Uncle, you have been searching for us—”

“To say I searched would be an understatement—no, I’ve suffered terrible hardships through all Kyoto and beyond! Before long, Lord Yoshitomo of the manor will lose his head and become a spectacle at Tōgoku’s gate—”

“…………” “Do you know, Tokiwa?”

“Yes.” “I have been informed.” “Lord Yoshihira, Lord Tomonaga, and the rest of the clan were beheaded daily at Rokujō Riverbed.” “…………” “Are you listening?” “I am here.” “…Tokiwa.” “Yes.” “You are not crying—do you feel no sorrow?” “What you call sorrow is a matter for more commonplace circumstances in the world.” “I have even forgotten how to shed tears.” “At this moment, I can think of nothing but being the mother to these three Lady Wakos.”

“Well.” “So here it is.” Tobazō strained his breath,

“Then—do you know what has become of your mother?” “I do not know.” “She is being held at Rokuhara.”

“……?”

“Night after night, day after day, they say she’s being tortured on the white sands of the interrogation hall.—No doubt she hid Tokiwa.” “Tell us where the children you bore with Yoshitomo are!” “……I-Is that true?” “How could it be a lie?” “In the capital, it’s no secret—everyone’s talking about it.” “Pitifully, that old woman—they’ve been stripping off the nails of her hands and feet one by one, demanding she tell them where Tokiwa is, ordering her to divulge your whereabouts—” “…………”

“How pitiful! How tragic! Even strangers cannot dismiss this as someone else’s affair—where in the world is Tokiwa no Mae? Is she dead? If she lives, how can she abandon her own mother to such a fate—such are the rumors swirling through the capital, on everyone’s lips.” “…………” “Huh? What’s your decision?” “…………”

“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 chest, Ushiwaka wept and trembled, while Imawaka and Otohime clung to her, crying “Mother! Mother!” until their voices were nearly spent.

Seven

The palace of the Cloistered Empress of the Ninth Ward was where Tokiwa had once served as a maid. There, she and the young children were brought back from Yamato Road.

According to her uncle Tobazō’s words, unless she turned herself in, her elderly mother—held captive at Rokuhara—would be subjected to torture akin to the torments of hell, day after day and night after night. Upon hearing this—bereft of self and world—she now made her final resolve.

“It seems Tokiwa no Mae, having realized there was no escape after all, came to cling to the palace—accompanied by someone called her uncle.” The Cloistered Empress’s attendants, now that the era’s great crisis had materialized before their eyes, whispered ominously among themselves or came to peek at the building where she was confined, “Oh—there’s the sound of an infant crying.” “Are those the children born between her and Lord Yoshitomo?” They pricked up their ears to listen to such whispers.

But beyond that—

The Cloistered Empress and her ladies-in-waiting felt a sense of relief—albeit for different reasons. This was because Rokuhara’s investigations and threats—both overt and covert—had extended even there. This was because once Tokiwa surrendered, the suspicions would be lifted. “Well done!” Tobazō was lavishly praised by the palace ladies for his efforts. His diligence in this incident was extraordinary. Even secretly bringing Tokiwa and her children back from Yamato Road to Kyoto must have been no ordinary hardship, yet even after arriving there—

“Tighten the watch.” “If they’re carrying blades—deceive them into surrendering those first.”

With eyes that had neglected sleep and meals, he soon confined Tokiwa to a single room and, deeming this sufficient,

“I’m going to Rokuhara.” He left these words with the palace retainers and strode out with an air of self-importance. It was the evening of the fourteenth day of the second month. That night—being himself a distant relation of the Minamoto clan—it appeared he had undergone interrogation and given testimony at Rokuhara’s judicial office throughout the night, for he did not return to Ninth Ward. He showed himself again at the Cloistered Empress of Ninth Ward’s residence around noon the following day. The plum blossoms of Tsubo no Ume bloomed fragrantly. Summoned, when Tokiwa peered absently through the garden, she saw over ten Rokuhara warriors near the middle gate shouting about something. Harsh voices intermingled,

“Hurry up!” and, “Bring the horses up to the middle gate.” and again—voices of warriors from Rokuhara’s judicial office arguing among themselves: “No need to bind them with ropes—no, put them in formal bonds!”

Although she had braced herself, now that the moment had come—was this her captors arriving?—Tokiwa felt as though a blade had pierced her chest.

Then, from behind, “Niece.” “Let’s go.” Uncle Tobazō, who had positioned himself at the room’s entrance, was already urging her onward. It was as if he were inviting her to one of their usual casual outings.

“Yes…”

She answered, but even mustering her willpower, Tokiwa’s body trembled, and for a time could not rise up. However, once the moment passed, she regained her composure. “Please wait a moment.” Then she erected a standing screen, pulled the comb box closer, and began applying makeup while still holding Ushiwaka. “Mother. Where are we going?” “Where are we going?” “Rokujō’s house?” Imawaka and Otohime both came over and peered at their mother through the mirror. For the children—who likely hadn’t seen their mother apply makeup in dozens of days—this sight made them suddenly burst into playful excitement.

Eight

In the meantime.

Through the ladies-in-waiting who served at the Cloistered Empress’s side, the day’s commotion must have been reported in full detail to her ears—such was the mercy of the Empress of Ninth Ward that, “You poor souls.” “To be paraded through the midday streets to Rokuhara, exposed to all eyes and pointed at—it is too heartrending.” “Give them something like a broken imperial carriage and have oxen pull it.” Through the ladies-in-waiting, special treatment was granted, so even the judicial officers and warriors from Rokuhara who had come to fetch them could not refuse,

“Very well, we’ll permit the carriage—but don’t make a spectacle of it.” “Quickly, now! Get that ox moving!” they barked. Tokiwa closed the mirror, put away the comb box, and drew the infant and two children close on either side. “What time…”

Quietly, she informed those outside that her preparations were complete. Women among women. Even her former peers at the Cloistered Palace—those who had spent their days muttering jealous slanders when she, once a lowly serving woman here, rose to enter the Jeweled Pivot and was loved by Yoshitomo of Rokujō in her prime— “Oh, how pitiable Lady Wako and her children are!” “Knowing nothing, they apply makeup just like Mother.” “They look so happy… What must Mother be feeling in her heart?” “How pitiable!” “Just the sight of it wrenches my heart…”

Muttering such things, they emerged from their chambers and gathered, their eyes brimming with tears as if sending off a coffin; among them were even those who sobbed quietly. Amidst all this, the only one not weeping was Tokiwa. When they stepped out beyond the middle gate, the warriors lying in wait roughly hurried them along,

“Please sit there,” she instructed her children as well, then sat down on the ground to demonstrate. “Then I shall gratefully receive Your Mercy’s carriage,” she declared. “From my days as a girl serving in menial duties until this final day, I have been under Your August Presence’s protection.” She pressed her hands to the ground. “I offer my deepest gratitude.” Since their mother had placed both hands down, Imawaka and Otohime—though unaware of the deeper meaning—pressed their own hands down too. “Farewell,” they said as they bade farewell to the imperial palace.

“Ah, you’ve readied yourselves.” As soon as they departed, at the fork in the road leading to the back gate, an ox-drawn carriage was brought out from the direction of the cowshed with a creaking groan.

It was a lattice-shuttered ladies’ carriage, but having been used so extensively that it had likely long been left in a corner of the carriage shed, covered in soot—the front curtain was torn, the lacquer on the shafts had peeled away, and the only thing attached to pull it was a sturdy, amber-colored young ox. Tokiwa held her child and slipped into the broken carriage. As if on cue, the warriors formed a guard around it front and back. And, “Hurry!” they drove the ox-drivers onward. Tobazō—who until recently had been head of Rokujō-dono’s ox drivers’ lodge—perhaps deeming the driver negligent, snatched the man’s whip.

“Give it here!” Tobazō stationed himself beside the carriage shaft and struck the amber ox’s hindquarters—crack! crack!—with sharp, measured blows.

The wheels of the ox-drawn carriage creaked out through the Imperial Palace’s back gate, bit into stones, tilted through mud, and swayed forward with a heavy groan. Each time it jolted, through the tear in the front curtain, glimpses could be caught of Tokiwa’s pale face and the figures of children clinging to her knees. When had they heard of it, “Look! Lady Tokiwa is being taken to Rokuhara.” “Are those Lord Rokujō’s children too?” Here and there, people gathered in the streets to point, and the tramping footsteps of common folk trailing after the carriage, pointing as they came, could also be heard.

…………

Tokiwa covered her eyes. All through this persisted—the unrelenting tether of a nursing child who would not cease suckling; the tether of small hands clinging fast to her knees. This carriage being dragged toward Rokuhara itself formed part of an aged mother’s tether. Within these bonds she yet retained a living mind and body.

Kiyomori

1

He was in extraordinarily high spirits. Even amid this prolonged stretch of misfortune—while his clan’s brows were clouded with worry—for the most part,

“Foolish! What’s with the gloom?” Kiyomori, ever the life of the party, had been in particularly good spirits of late, so this New Year in Rokuhara truly overflowed with the vibrant cheer befitting early spring.

And. Kiyomori and all the Taira clan members living there—down to the lowest of their retainers— "It is only through our strength that the course of history moves." they had renewed their confidence in this conviction. They had come to understand the power inherent in samurai families themselves. It was this Heiji Rebellion that marked the turning point. Amidst those flames of war, the fact that both His Majesty the Emperor and the Cloistered Emperor sought refuge here in Rokuhara served all the more—

It was an unprecedented honor. This heightened the pride of the Rokuhara warriors.

Both the Minamoto and Taira clans had until now merely followed in the wake of the court nobles and served as their enforcers, but the times were gradually changing. ――It was in this second year of Heiji that samurai families, imperceptibly and without notice, had ceased to be what they once were, coming to regard one another with pride evident in their gestures and eyes.――Or rather, with the renaming of the era, from this New Year onward, it had even become Eiryaku 1, the very era name itself transformed.

Moreover, even the faction of the Minamoto clan—fellow warriors—had been completely wiped out by year’s end last year. Thus when speaking of military houses—though remote regions might still be unaware—in the capital, it meant only the Taira. The Taira clan’s first spring! This New Year was indeed one that could be called such. The aura of their rising fortune had so permeated Rokuhara’s very topography that it seemed as though a painted screen had been unfurled. Just ten years prior, there had stood nothing more than the desolate old estate—encircled by earthen walls and spanning barely a block—where Kiyomori’s father Tadamori, Minister of Justice, once lived facing Rokujō Riverbank. But now that all Taira kinsmen had undertaken construction projects nearby, even if one spoke of “Rokuhara” as a single entity, its vast expanse defied any simple indication by pointing.

To the north lay Rokujō Matsubara.

To the south, around Shichijō. To the east and west, it encompassed everything from the Kamo Riverbank to the mountain ridges, and in the sheltered valley of Komatsu Valley, Shigemori, the eldest son, newly built a residence that was also called Komatsu-dono. In addition to the clan’s residences, propelled by the momentum of the times, it was transforming into a place where political deliberations were held, lawsuits of commoners adjudicated, taxes collected, and—from maintaining city security to issuing decrees across provinces and regions—all matters of governance were centralized.

Or rather, Kiyomori may have already resolved in his heart that governance would not hold unless they did so.

Because. For a long time, the Fujiwara clan had held political power; though they left cultural achievements in their wake, that culture soon gave rise to decadent indolence and the corrupt excesses of a dying era. Not only that—the Fujiwara clan itself, solely preoccupied with self-aggrandizement and fattening their own coffers, created an irreparable societal state where great turmoil erupted ceaselessly in the remote provinces, all stemming from their arrogance that the world existed solely for their benefit. The Masakado Rebellion during the Tengyō era.

The Fujiwara no Sumitomo Rebellion. The innumerable private battles and wars that followed thereafter, as well as all others, were not born from the wilds of the provinces themselves but arose from rot. It was the Fujiwara clan themselves—prospering in the capital, composing poetry, living for romance, devoid of any grand governance plans, knowing only how to demand rice and silk taxes from peasants and families in the provinces—who had finally fermented this rot. Taira no Kiyomori, this year, "Even if I seize power, I won't let my descendants mimic the Fujiwara clan's foolish antics."

And so, at the start of the year, he alone practiced self-restraint and self-admonishment, reflecting deeply upon these matters. He was a man in his prime, having just turned forty-three.

2

Today，once again，Taira no Kiyomori had just returned from attending court. Over tightly packed small pebbles，the thick wheel tracks of an ox-drawn carriage creaked heavily as they wound their way deep into his estate. “He has returned.” “My lord has returned to his mansion！”

Whether it was the samurai quarters or the secluded chambers where the women resided, they all bustled with such excitement that even the babbling of the water in the spring hall seemed to grow more formal. “Hey!” In a loud voice, as if to release tension, Taira no Kiyomori had a habit of saying this to the welcoming party.

As soon as he lifted the carriage’s curtain, “Good work.” He abruptly alighted. He was small in stature. Yet he put on a martial air. Even when attending court in the morning, his diminutive frame led him to look down upon the pliant nobles—and those subjected to his gaze couldn’t help but feel *He’s so full of himself*—provoking antipathy. However, as proof this was never intentional, his household and close attendants conversely thought *He really ought to carry himself with more dignity and solemnity*. This became evident through his frequent grumbling about being indifferent to appearances and refusing to put on airs.

At times, even from his dignified heir Shigemori—(Why must Father be so careless?)—he was admonished on occasion. However, whether it was innate or not, even when Kiyomori himself became conscious of it, the habits from his impoverished upbringing and student-like carelessness remained unchanged. Back when he had been merely a retainer serving as Governor of Aki or Harima, being called an amusing lord who avoided weighty matters had suited him well enough.

The court rank of Senior Third Rank, Consultant was by no means low for a military man. Moreover, the prestige of his authority was such that, in reality, with the Minamoto clan now annihilated, there was no one left to oppose him. There may have been countless ministers and high officials in the imperial court, but even Kiyomori himself paid them no heed—a fact well known to both his clan and retainers. Hence, (If only he would carry himself with a bit more dignity and gravity.) so they hoped.

He was small in frame but had a loud voice. He walked with long strides toward the depths of the mansion while talking all the while. “Leave it for later,” things like, “Let them wait,” like,

“Drive them away.” Such were the brusque orders he barked out.

There were many court noble visitors. It was a strange phenomenon. Since he regularly attended court, they could have met him there, yet many still came to visit his private residence. Especially since the Minamoto clan’s utter defeat in the recent rebellion, those fawning over Kiyomori’s authority had become annoyingly frequent. “Whew,” he said. Kiyomori changed into casual clothes and, with those words, relaxed in his room. His daily routine was also busy. He was not one to tire easily, but when he returned from the imperial court, he would occasionally show a weary expression. It seemed he always returned carrying back something indescribable and complex whenever he attended court in the morning.

The conflict between court nobles who supported the Retired Emperor’s cloistered rule and those who upheld the reigning Emperor had been the root cause of these troubles. Kiyomori was devoted to eradicating them, but uprooting their cause would mean scattering the blossoms. If one tried not to scatter the blossoms, the roots could not be uprooted. “Your Lordship, Ikeno Zenni has been awaiting your return for quite some time.” “Shall I guide you to her?” The attendant seized the moment to ask Kiyomori this. Ikeno Zenni—his stepmother—had apparently been waiting in a separate room with some urgent matter she wished to discuss.

III “What?” “The Nun…?”

Kiyomori tilted his head slightly. He seemed to have no inkling of her purpose. Though she lived out her remaining years peacefully within the same Rokuhara Ikedono complex, this Nun seldom crossed over to Kiyomori’s perpetually busy residence—despite sharing the grounds.

“Well, I’ll meet her.” “There’s no need to guide me there.” “It’s proper for me to go to her… She is my mother after all.” He ended these words as if muttering to himself, his expression shifting to one of slight reluctance as he departed. Though others called him self-willed and headstrong, he showed indulgence toward kin and profound filial devotion toward his parents. For he knew poverty’s bitterness down to his very marrow. Clad in a single tattered hemp underrobe, battered by winter’s biting winds as he carried his father Tadamori’s pleading letters—

*(Hate this, hate this.)* While thinking this, he went to borrow small sums of money from court nobles like Nakamikado-dono and Ōgimachi-dono, *(Again?)* they frowned, *(Don’t come back anymore.)*

Even when treated like pestilent beggars—given nothing but a single bag of millet and a liter of salt, harshly told “Your parents are useless” or “Look at those wretched eyes of the poverty-stricken Taira”—if they saw even that millet and salt, *(Oh, with this, we can survive today and tomorrow—)* It was likely because he had been raised in a household of utter wretchedness—a time when his father and mother felt no resentment but instead rejoiced—that this compassion, which stirred him to pity wherever he looked, was not so much innate as it was deepened by his circumstances.

Even after his father Tadamori’s death, Ikeno Zenni—though she was his stepmother—was served no differently than a true mother. That aspect of her character was admired by all, down to the mansion’s servants. “It is I, Kiyomori. I have just returned… Lately, I’ve been so busy…”

He entered the room where Ikeno Zenni was waiting and made an exceedingly courteous bow. He assumed none of his usual imposing demeanor, remaining simply as he had always been - her son. "Oh ho." Ikeno Zenni shrank back deferentially. The gesture had been too effortlessly sincere.

But it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Though he was her stepson, she felt fortunate to have such a good child.

Even in old age, her still-beautiful eyes narrowed as she— “You must be weary,” she consoled him. “No, the weariness of the body is nothing—unlike my ailing father, I am robust—but spending half a day from morning dealing with these obtuse court nobles makes my head feel as though it’s growing dull.” “It was said by someone some time ago that the Councilor has quite the short temper.” “Because I did shout in the palace, you see.” “It would be better not to do such things.”

“I do try to restrain myself, but now and then…” he laughed, “By the way, do you have some business?” “It is a matter of some urgency.” “……Hmm. When you say it’s a matter of urgency from Mother…” “It concerns Yoshitomo’s child—” “Yoshitomo’s—” “The other day, a retainer of Yorimori of Owari named Yohyoe Munekiyo captured a pitiful child on the Mino Road.”

“Hmm… Is this about Yoshitomo’s third son, Uhyōe no Suke Yoritomo?”

“That is correct.” “That…?” “Though it is said you have been ordered to execute him, in your mercy, could you not spare him?”

Kiyomori immediately shook his head. It was a stubbornness that held no restraint even toward a parent.

“I refuse! I won’t allow it!”

IV “Is there truly no way?” “It cannot be done.”

“No matter what…” “This is not a matter for you to involve yourself in, Mother.”

“……” “……” The Nun and Kiyomori fell silent, each in their own way. An awkward silence lingered endlessly. In the middle pot, one or two red plum blossoms were beginning to open. The Nun, who had averted her eyes, suddenly teared up and—

“It cannot be helped… Now that the late lord is no longer in this world.” She muttered with a sigh.

Kiyomori’s face darkened with anger, “Are you bringing up this grudge again?” “Even if my father Tadamori were alive, it would be the same.” “No—precisely because my father has already passed to the other world, if it were your request, I would be willing to grant even unreasonable demands. But Yoshitomo’s child’s disposition is a grave matter.” “If it were court nobles like Fushimi Chūnagon or Echigo Chūjō, sparing dozens would mean nothing.” “But warrior-born children all share this fearsome nature.”

“Was Lord Kazu not also a warrior’s child? Today’s victim may become tomorrow’s self.” “That is precisely why,” Kiyomori retorted. “A leopard’s cub will inevitably grow fangs when its time comes. By nature, we warriors descend from those left to roam wild until mere yesterday. Even seated upon brocade cushions, our kindred regain their instinct to whet fangs and claws when returned to the wild.” His voice hardened. “In this—though we share this land with court nobles nurtured by Heian decorum and Tenpyō refinement—the tempering of our blood differs entirely.”

“It is not such things that this nun laments.” “Then what is it?” “It is the terror of the afterlife that I fear.” “Again.” “Buddhist tales of cause and effect?”

“Lord Kazu must have many children by now.” “As they are children of warrior houses, we raise them by warrior customs.” “Yet if Lord Kazu’s own children were to become like Yoshitomo’s son now—how would you feel as their parent?”

“Ah ha ha ha!” “This is no laughing matter.” “If you observe how the world has changed—it feels not like yesterday’s work.”

“Mother…”

“What is it?”

“How about going over to the women’s quarters and playing sugoroku or fan tossing?” “Princess Mori intends to present Saibara music, so they have summoned Shirabyōshi from the town and seem to be making merry.” “Let us take our leave.” “I see.” Taking the lead,

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

From the distant building came the sounds of the shō, golden bells, drums, and flutes. The Nun dejectedly returned to her residence at Izumi Hall.

After seeing the Nun off, Kiyomori stood alone at the corner of the bridge corridor. The view of Higashiyama in its entirety seemed to exist solely for the sake of this mansion. When one gazed out at the North Garden, the bright sun was warmly shining upon the wide lawn of the Rose Garden stretching all the way to the Kamo Riverbank. Pom. Pom.

Pom. A bright sound resonated. The young nobles must have been kicking the kemari ball again. From between the young pines, the ball occasionally soared high. He could see Munemori, his third son; Tsunemasa, his cousin; and numerous clan children sprouting from his lineage, tumbling about wildly as they chased the ball. “You fools!” Since New Year’s, his temperament had shifted abruptly. The samurai retainers too were struck with terror. Perhaps Kiyomori’s mind had recalled the words of Ikeno Zenni.

“Shoot a bow!” “Get used to riding horses! Do you think you’re children of court nobles?!”

Plum Moon Night

One

Muneyoshi had now returned from somewhere. The horse was sweating. When he exited the end of Gojō Matsubara, there was a horse track, so he must have given it a whip there. It was not only humans; even horses, if left idle in the stable for a while, would prove useless in battle, no matter how renowned they might be. Therefore, horse training was the samurai’s daily routine. “Ah.” “Oh…”

Those coming and going were all Rokuhara warriors. Some could pass by with a mere greeting from horseback, but Muneyoshi, being an indirect retainer, had to dismount and pay respects each time he encountered members of the Kiyomori clan or prominent direct retainers. “Fujizō.” he said to the young groom. “Yes.” “Today again, especially many clan members and court nobles are passing through.” “Today is no exception.” “No—the world is far too eager to please.” “Ever since the Minamoto clan’s downfall seemed certain, the Rokuhara Gate has been thronged with a constant stream of visitors—ox-drawn carriages, horses, palanquins, and more. The traffic along Yamato Avenue has changed so drastically from before because of this.”

“Turn aside.”

“Shall we proceed via the back road?”

“It’s quiet and secluded—good.” “Plum blossoms have started blooming here and there in great numbers.”

It was the site around Naranda Temple mentioned in *Tsurezuregusa*. Through the plum grove, the timeworn hall of Rokuhara Jizō came into view.

After proceeding a short distance, there was a pond. “Cool its legs.”

When Muneyoshi came to the edge of the pond, he dismounted from the saddle. With a knowing look, “Hah!”

Fujizō immediately pulled the bit of the riderless horse and submerged its legs into the edge of the pond. After a hard ride, it was good to cool the horse’s legs this way. People returning from the horse track often detoured there for this purpose, so the local people around here called it things like “Horse-Cooling Pond.” There was a time when this pond, too, had bustled with Minamoto warriors and their horses. Muneyoshi suddenly reached out his hand and carefully broke off a plum branch blooming by the pond, taking care not to let the flowers fall.

“Fujizō, pull it from behind and put it in the stable. I’ll go on ahead.” Muneyoshi set out on foot. The residence of his master, Governor of Owari Yorimori, was not far away. As a provincial governor, Yorimori was always in residence in Owari. As a result, it was practically an empty mansion. Despite this, for some time now, soldiers in full armor had been standing at both front and back gates—about ten at each. There was a severity to the surroundings that bore no resemblance to their tranquil seclusion. The dull glint of plain spears would circle beyond the earthen wall at intervals with three or four men, yet inside the mansion remained as serenely quiet as a temple, where a nightingale sang persistently.

“Has there been any change?”

Muneyoshi asked the gate guards. “There is nothing.” Nodding at the soldiers’ reply, Muneyoshi proceeded straight through. At the middle gate as well, soldiers were stationed.

“Welcome back, my lord.” “Hmm.” The soldiers’ eyes were drawn to the plum branch he carried. Even those without hearts must have seen it as a fine branch. He carried it all the way to a secluded room deep within. The fragrance of incense lingered constantly. “Lord Sadan.” “Are you well?” As he spoke, from within the room,

“Yahē?”

came a still-youthful voice.

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 had plump, full cheeks but, like his father Yoshitomo’s, was long in shape. Generally, the people of the Minamoto clan had sturdy limbs and long faces with prominent bones. The Taira faction often disparaged them as having bloodlines like southern horses—and indeed, there was such a resemblance. The white wild-silk underrobe and wisteria-violet nobleman’s hakama he had been given since arriving here showed no creases out of place—evidently he folded them himself each morning and evening.

“You must be bored.” Yahē Muneyoshi sat facing him and lightly offered consolation.

Yoritomo formed a dimpled smile at the corners of his lips, “No.” He shook his head quietly.

He quietly shook his head. That luxuriant black hair somehow permeated Muneyoshi’s vision. It was not just his hair. Those eyes like the azure sky of this Kisaragi month, those vermilion lips, those pearl-white teeth—when he considered how all these were destined to be interred in the earth within days, it became 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 interesting? Which do you prefer?” “Poetry does not interest me.” “Then, rather than reading poems by Li Bai or Bai Juyi, do works like China’s *Records of the Grand Historian*—which chronicle governance and upheavals—suit your heart better?” “Uh…” Yoritomo began to nod but faltered upon meeting Muneyoshi’s gaze. “Even if I say I like it, I don’t care for it so deeply.” “Then what do you read that most moves your heart?”

“…………” He did not answer for a while.

His intelligent-looking eyes, round and wide, seemed to be deep in thought. The room was humid with the scent of incense and dimly lit, but within Yoritomo’s eyes, the spring world outside was reflected in full, like a lake. “—Sutras.” Eventually, with an innocent face, he answered Muneyoshi’s question. “If there are any sutras written in kana, please lend them to me next time.” “Hmm, you’re so young—why do you take a liking to sutras and such?”

“I used to visit Seiryōji Temple in Sagano with my late mother,” “and with Nakagawa no Shōnin as well… my heart finds ease.” “Not long ago, I went to Kurodani and listened to the teachings of a young monk named Hōnen Genkū.” “And so…” “Well… before I knew it, listening to explanations of sutras became what I liked most,” he said, looking downward— “I… “If by some chance I were spared execution… I think I would want to enter a temple like Mount Hiei or Seiryōji and devote myself to Buddha.” “If it’s a place to live, I like temples best.”

he said.

Muneyoshi’s eyes caught sight of the small desk in the corner of the room. Though it was not an ancestral tablet, a bowl of water had been offered. Pitifully, even in captivity, it appeared he performed morning and evening memorial services for the spirits of his father and brothers— To scrutinize each word spoken by a fourteen-year-old boy with suspicion, as if probing for hidden depths—was this not a bad habit of adults, a perverse cleverness inherent to humankind? Muneyoshi found himself reflecting. No—when faced with Yoritomo’s presence, he would unwittingly be made to reconsider his thoughts.

Three

“Lord Sadan. I brought back a branch that was blooming by the horse-washing pond to comfort your eyes.” “Please place it somewhere.”

Muneyoshi picked up the branch from the edge of the veranda, came over, and while showing its shape, handed it to Yoritomo. “Ah!”

Yoritomo opened his mouth and rejoiced. Truly, like a boy,

“They’re already blooming… outside?” “There’s a bronze vase over there. Let me fetch water for it.” “I’ll do it myself.” He appeared thoroughly delighted. With his own hands, he arranged it in the tarnished bronze vase and placed it beside the small desk holding memorial water, “What a lovely scent—” sniffing the floral fragrance repeatedly with evident joy. “Yahē.”

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

“What might it be?” “Would you grant it?”

“Please go ahead and tell me.” “Might I be granted a small knife and some pieces of wood?” “The small knife—” “Well then, tomorrow marks the thirty-fifth day memorial for my father Yoshitomo.” “I would like to carve small stupas as tokens for the memorial service, but—”

“Ah…” “Has it already been so many days?”

Muneyoshi felt compassion,

“As you are a prisoner, I cannot grant you a bladed tool, but I shall arrange for your wishes to be fulfilled,” he promised.

After retreating to his room, he had his retainer Tanba Fujizō prepare a hundred small stupas and deliver them to Yoritomo’s cell. Yoritomo appeared deeply satisfied,

“I will not forget this,” he had Fujizō convey once more through the retainer. “How pitiable,” Muneyoshi thought privately. “If only I could find a way to spare his life...” Secretly, Muneyoshi wrestled with the dilemma. No—this went beyond mere contemplation. As a suitable confidant, he had secretly turned to Ike no Zen’ni—who served both as mother to his lord Owari no Moriyori and stepmother to Kiyomori—the perfect intermediary. Zen’ni was known as a devout Buddhist and woman of great compassion. Days earlier under pretext of delivering his lord’s messages, Muneyoshi had visited her dwelling. When he cautiously broached Yoritomo’s circumstances, Zen’ni—

(Oh, pitiable one.)

Tears welled up— *How does he fare day-to-day?* *What of his temperament?*—

As she kept asking question after question, Muneyoshi spoke freely as he wished— (I see.) She took a deep breath.

Then, the next day—on his way back from the temple he visited daily—his son Yorimori suddenly stopped by the absentee residence.

Though he was not originally a public figure, he quietly observed Yoritomo. And then he gave Yoritomo some sweets and left. (Her son Umanosuke Iemori—who had died seventeen years prior—resembled Yoritomo so closely they could have been two peas in a pod.) (If Umanosuke were still alive—she found herself reminiscing—tears spilled forth uncontrollably.) This was Zen’ni’s recollection when Muneyoshi later visited Izumi-dono, and furthermore, (Even if it proves impossible—through this nun’s own plea—I shall beseech Lord Kiyomori to somehow spare Yoritomo’s life.)

she had even said as much. Relying on that promise, Muneyoshi waited yesterday and waited today; even though the date for the death penalty by beheading had already been tentatively set for the thirteenth day of this month—he still had not informed Yoritomo and was single-mindedly awaiting auspicious news from Zen’ni.

Four

Unable to wait any longer, Muneyoshi visited Izumi-dono the following day and requested an audience with Zen’ni.

Without Muneyoshi even having to broach the subject, Zen’ni perceived the purpose of his visit. “What am I to do… This nun no longer has any pleas left to make, but...” she said dejectedly.

And with the thirteenth day—when Yoritomo’s head would be severed—fast approaching, she even shed tears and decried Kiyomori’s cruelty. “No, no.” Muneyoshi shook his head to reassure Zen’ni, “That Lord Kiyomori is cruel is but the world’s judgment. In truth, he is surely a man prone to tears and exceedingly susceptible to compassion.” “Yet precisely because he leads the august clan and cannot govern the realm effectively otherwise, he forces himself to maintain this unfeeling guise—knowing his own vulnerabilities—or so I believe.”

“But this time, no matter how this nun may plead and plead, he will not consent.” “Would you be so kind as to write a letter with your brush?”

“A letter?” “Yes. To Lord Komatsu.” Zen’ni relaxed her eyebrows,

“Do you also think so? This nun had also come to think there was no choice but to seek Lord Komatsu’s aid, but...” “I, Muneyoshi, will make haste and undertake this errand.” Zen’ni immediately wrote a letter.

Carrying it, Muneyoshi visited the nearby Lord Komatsu—the mansion of Kiyomori’s eldest son Shigemori. And when he met Shigemori, he thoroughly conveyed the depth of Zen’ni’s great compassion. Indeed, even the profound sympathy that Muneyoshi himself held for Yoritomo was conveyed to Shigemori entirely as Zen’ni’s words.

Having read the letter, Shigemori said, “Understood.”

“Understood,” he said.

His face did not look particularly troubled. "I beg you to wield your influence..."

Muneyoshi clung desperately, pressing his forehead to the ground as though his own child’s life hung in the balance. But when I realized that even as the lowliest retainer, I remained a Taira warrior—that showing excessive zeal might harm Yoritomo’s chances and invite suspicion upon myself— “Should Lord Rokuhara reject the plea for mercy, I humbly ask to be granted the duty of performing the beheading on the thirteenth day.” With these dissembling words, he took his leave from the gate—yet no sooner had he departed Lord Komatsu’s estate than—

“I shouldn’t have said such unnecessary things.” “The only one who wishes to save Yoritomo is Zen’ni; if Lord Komatsu were to perceive that the samurai of the world and the common people are indifferent, his lordship’s thoughts would naturally incline coldly…” he regretted. Without bringing any attendants or taking a horse, Muneyoshi walked from Komatsudani. The evening moon was white. A fragrant wind scented sleeves and faces. The roadside plum blossoms were whiter than the moonlight.

“Yahē—are you still walking?”

When someone suddenly called out to him from behind and he looked up in surprise, it was Shigemori.

Shigemori said from horseback. “Take hold of the horse’s bridle.” “Perfect timing.” “I am now going to meet Father, but on the way, guided by you, I will go to see Yoshitomo’s child in the secluded place.”

Muneyoshi, overjoyed, answered with a gasp and ran up to the horse’s bridle. He was both surprised by the swiftness with which Shigemori—who usually remained secluded as if timid—had emerged immediately after he took his leave, and felt so grateful that the corners of his eyes grew hot.

Five

It was a mansion without its master. The night was even more desolate, and the lamplight only illuminated the rooms where distant attendants remained. Walking ahead along the long veranda, Muneyoshi, “Would your lordship care to address him?” he whispered quietly to Shigemori approaching from behind. Shigemori replied softly, “Depending on how matters present themselves at the time.” he said.

He had guided him to the secluded chamber where Yoritomo was.

No lamps were placed there to begin with. Though it was spring, the night was still cold—yet someone had left all lattice shutters wide open. From beyond the great eave’s overhang glowed an evening moon still low in its arc; one might have thought they cherished its light too much to shutter it away. “This is your chamber.” Even when Muneyoshi whispered this guidance behind him, Shigemori stood motionless on broad planks of moonlit veranda—gazing through frozen stillness at what lay within—and did not nod.

Yoritomo was sitting. The moonlight shone pure white down to the area around his knees resting on the round cushion. Having requested them from Muneyoshi the day before, he placed the hundred small wooden stupas—received as alms—beside him. Holding them in his left hand and a brush in his right, he inscribed memorial dedications one by one for his father Yoshitomo’s thirty-fifth-day memorial that very night, his demeanor seeming oblivious to the coldness of his fingers. …?

Suddenly. Sensing the presence of someone standing there, he stopped his brush and raised his round eyes. The eyes that had turned toward the moonlight appeared to gleam sharply. However, the person standing on the wide veranda and looking at him had their back to the moon, so they appeared only as a black shadow figure.

“…………” At any moment now—would he say something? Even a single word? Muneyoshi, crouched at Shigemori’s feet, waited motionless while swallowing his saliva. But Shigemori remained like stone, never speaking a word. “…………” Yoritomo, too, stayed silent. It was only natural. If footsteps came from anyone but Muneyoshi, he must have thought they were someone coming to kill him. After a moment— Seeming to realize the visitor meant no harm, Yoritomo silently bowed his head toward Shigemori’s figure.

In response, Shigemori too bowed his head courteously, and then for the first time spoke to Muneyoshi. “Have you ensured the bedding for the night is not too cold?” “Yes. It is not too cold.” “As for the meals—” “He does not partake of fish, so the rest are provided as usual.” “Did you arrange the plum blossoms in that vase? I find your tasteful consideration admirable.” “You honor me.” “Son of Lord Yoshitomo.” Then, this time, he turned gently to Yoritomo and said, “You, unlike a child, are diligently conducting memorial services. 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 and be reunited with your late father?” “I do not think so.” “What do you think?” “To die is dreadful.” “Nothing terrifies me more than death.” “Yet you did take part in battle.”

“During the battle… I was simply absorbed in the moment…” “If you were to live on—how would you wish to be?” “I wish to become a disciple at Seiryō-ji Temple.” “If I become a monk…”

Still holding the brush, he bent his elbow，covered both eyes with it，and began to sob quietly. “Forgive me.” “I asked a heartless question.” “…Forgive me…”

Shigemori turned his face away. Seeing by the moonlight a single white streak flowing down that cheek, Muneyoshi secretly strengthened his resolve. He felt that this young lord would survive.

Buddha’s Child and Mortal

I

The night watchmen stationed close to their lord’s quarters had of course heard everything from start to finish, and Kiyomori’s voice even reached as far as the waiting areas of the opposite building and the distant guards’ post.

“Foolish!” “Foolish!”

This was not an unusual phrase, as it was something one heard from time to time, but— “To your own father—!” Such a rebuke was not something that should ever leak from the residence of Rokuhara-dono, Senior Third Rank Counselor. If one were a lowly commoner, they would not know of such things. With the shinden at the center—from the left and right tai-no-ya to the northern moya and even the innermost chambers—as though a nue had materialized in the night sky’s clouds, everything fell silent and became utterly still. As the night deepened, Kiyomori’s voice grew all the more grating.

“Shigemori. You are my child! You’re my child! No matter how much you posture as wise—” “Yes. I am aware of my position.” “What was that you just said? How dare you call your parent a merciless, pitiless *rakshasa*! Without mercy—how could you have grown up?!” “I have no recollection of slandering Father as a *rakshasa*.” “My ears were shut. Don’t nitpick my words! It’s just my nature to flare up like that.— However, he barked—as though on the verge of saying it—” “I did not berate you.” “It’s a hassle. Enough trivialities. In words, I cannot match you.—But I say again. Even if Her Ladyship the Nun says whatever she pleases—what must not be allowed must not be allowed. It is absolutely unthinkable.—To spare Yoritomo’s life and let him live—such a thing…”

“…………” “Don’t you understand, Waro? Just think! —That’s Yoshitomo’s third son we’re talking about.” “Though there’s the second son Asanaga and eldest Yoshihira above him—look how Yoshitomo deliberately bypassed those brothers to bestow both the ancestral ‘Hige-kiri’ blade and Genta-gasane robe upon his third son! Doesn’t that prove this boy Yoritomo is extraordinary?” “—No father misjudges his own child.”

“But… Father.” “Silence! Wait!” He suppressed it again with a sigh laden like a poetic recitation. “None can surpass a father in understanding his own child— Shigemori, you too will come to understand soon enough.” “That is precisely why I implore mercy here—even Her Ladyship the Nun—” “You blame everything on Her Ladyship the Nun, but in truth it’s you yourself, Waro—despite your youth—who meddles with Buddhism and apes monastic ways. To take your half-baked wisdom—your talk of transmigration and karma, your prattle about bodhi and Buddha-mind—and apply that petty compassion directly to the living world… That is your true heart’s desire as I perceive it. Don’t err! The world moves! Humans are living creatures! Between wars and politics, indulge your Buddhist play as you will—but keep it within temple halls or Komatsudani’s halls. Do not bring such matters before me.”

Kiyomori’s face reddened as he spoke. He believed he had said it over and over, ranting vehemently.

But when he licked his heat-parched lips and looked back at Shigemori, from the very start to this etched moment in time, Shigemori had remained as clear as water untainted by even a wisp of murk.

“That’s right. As you have discerned, Father—not only Her Ladyship the Nun, but I too undoubtedly desire this.” “Because I consider the future of our clan and Father’s reputation.” “After the Hōgen Rebellion, when Lord Shinzei—acting on his usual grievances—mercilessly slaughtered every defeated enemy, old and young alike, simply for having ties to the opposing side… what became of his end?” “For those of us destined to be born into the warrior class and die in it, even the fate of today’s enemy is not someone else’s destiny.”

“What are you saying!” “It’s precisely because this father does not want Waro and his lot to end up like that—”

“If compassion for one’s child exists even in birds and beasts as innate nature—” “It is not solely you, Father—” “Lectures! Enough!” “Silence!”

Kiyomori, having unleashed his final rebuke, covered both ears with his hands.

“I’m so brimming with compassion and human feeling it bewilders even me.” “Quiet!” “Not another word!”

II

While likes and dislikes between strangers were one matter, even one’s own child could be disliked. Kiyomori had come to dislike his eldest son Shigemori. It was because the boy spoke nothing but straightforward truths. Once involved in politics and such worldly affairs, things could not proceed as Shigemori suggested. Moreover, Kiyomori detested how he constantly invoked Buddhism and Confucianism on every occasion. It was acceptable to revere the Buddha and respect scholarship, but amid raw political strife and the tumult of war, he had concluded such things would only hinder the mind rather than provide sturdy support. If one were to use Buddhism or Confucianism for political ends, that he could understand—but to devote oneself to them and become ensnared in another’s philosophy was utter folly, he declared.

Kiyomori was endowed with Kiyomori’s life and character and born into this era and this land; therefore, to live through it as he was and die in the end was precisely how he would fulfill his heavenly mission. If Confucius deems this impertinent, let him say so. If Buddha deplores me as a heretic, let him deplore. I too am a distant scion of Amatsuhiko. Who would pray for hell in this land? Do I not weigh the suffering of these very subjects? I pray that I am acting for the good of all the common people as well. In my heart, there is not a shred of duplicity as I pray for the ever-increasing glory of Amatsuhiko. To achieve that, I will cut down every last hindrance. Let them call me a heretic; let them brand me a demon king. Moreover, without maintaining such a countenance, one cannot push through and prevail in the political struggles and battles of today. It might have been bearable to live as a hermit, but for Kiyomori, there was no value in living on merely gazing at the moon and flowers. “Because I cannot become a hermit,” he honestly admitted his own nature and declared.

Yet when he voiced such self-assertions to his clan and vassals, all would listen with reverent awe; but when directed at Shigemori alone, they were met only with a silent repayment—a cold glint of disdain and a faint wry smile in those wise eyes. If he were to open that mouth. Shigemori’s wisdom and erudition—with patient earnestness, neither heated nor pressing, as effortlessly as twisting an infant’s hand—would refute Father’s crude and shallow arguments and utterly demolish them without leaving a single flaw intact. Shigemori was devotedly filial and would never dare to overstep—yet from Kiyomori’s parental perspective, it felt as though he might do just that. For even as a parent, he could not help but acknowledge the ways in which he was surpassed. However, children who surpass their parents rarely bring them joy.

Moreover, Kiyomori was still young—or at least considered himself so. Finally escaping poverty and gaining others’ deference, he—now past forty—had begun embracing the youth others experienced in their prime. He burned with vitality. One moment he would draft grandiose plans spanning all Japan; the next, cling obsessively to trifles of food and clothing—his desires surging at every turn.

He would voraciously gorge himself on food, and even before his clan and children, would casually discuss women and such. At times, he would suddenly notice Shigemori among them frowning in distaste, and quickly shift the conversation elsewhere—though such moments were fleeting.

――Anyway. Given that they were such a father and son, the plea to spare Yoritomo’s life seemed to everyone like a task for which there was no one more suitable than Shigemori; yet when faced with reality, it only heightened Kiyomori’s displeasure and stubbornness. Shigemori, too―like the Nun―silently returned to Komatsudani mansion through the cold plum-scented midnight, in vain.

It was about two days later.

It was when Tokiwa Gozen, holding her three children, had been hidden within Kujō-in, and then someone came forth to report her intent to surrender to Rokuhara.

III From the day he heard Tokiwa had been captured and brought in, Kiyomori persistently—

“Where has she been until now? Why was she hiding?” like, “Does she have the children with her?” and, “Is she haggard?” he inquired persistently of the samurai retainers and judicial officials who occasionally appeared with such questions. From the judicial office, they soon sent over to Kiyomori’s residence a detailed written record of her interrogation—accompanied by a request for instructions regarding her punishment—in the same format used for ordinary criminals.

Then, Kiyomori became extremely displeased with the magistrate’s handling of the matter, “She is, at the very least, Yoshitomo’s beloved. Even though there is a nursing infant, why have you not prepared even a single room among your samurai instead of confining her to a judicial prison?” and reproached their heartlessness,

“I will interrogate her myself.” “I’ll see her in the west room.” “Bring her here at once.” These were unexpected words. The judicial officials, having previously heard indirectly of Kiyomori’s unsparing disposition toward Yoritomo, had treated Tokiwa with even harsher measures to align with their lord’s perceived will; but finding reality contrary to their expectations, they were utterly confounded. When they later escorted her to the mansion’s lower house, they soothed and comforted her as though tending to a guest.

“Provide her a seat!” At Kiyomori’s words, the samurai began spreading a rush mat in the garden below the veranda.

“Up here. Up here is fine,” he said brusquely. —“‘Up here’?” When the magistrate looked up at Kiyomori’s face in confusion, Kiyomori jerked his chin toward the upper veranda. “Yes, my lord!” The magistrate bowed deeply before turning to Tokiwa. “Please ascend.” He urged her forward, but Tokiwa kept her face lowered. The nursing infant remained oblivious, yet Imawaka and Otohime—still trembling from two nights in prison—clung to their mother’s knees without loosening their grip. “By His Lordship’s command,” the magistrate pressed again, “you are to take your seat on the floor above.”

Since she did not rise, the magistrate urged her again; Tokiwa, soothing and coaxing the two children, finally sat at the edge of the wide veranda, her face mostly downcast. The mother and her three children huddled together like nestling birds, small and shrunken. Unfamiliar, frightening men stood imposingly on either side of Kiyomori, so Imawaka and Otohime clung to their mother’s lap as though they might dig their nails into her knees. “……” Kiyomori looked between the young ones and Tokiwa’s haggard face.

This was not the first time he had seen Tokiwa. From her days serving at the Ninth Ward—when her renown as a beauty shone brightest—he had often glimpsed her. Both Yoshitomo of blessed memory and Kiyomori had been men quick to notice women. Whenever warriors' talk turned to which chamber held what sort of lady or how some Middle Counselor's daughter fared, Minamoto and Taira alike would clamor without distinction of clan. They took sport in plucking flowers others courted, flaunting their trophies like battle honors second only to leading the vanguard. Tokiwa's case proved no exception. In those days Kiyomori had been but a lowly hemp-robed functionary, while Yoshitomo stood at his glorious zenith.

But now— What a drastic transformation. Kiyomori too wore a countenance that could not remain unmoved. After some time had passed, he finally spoke to Tokiwa for the first time. "Is your milk flowing?" "...Are you producing enough milk?"

IV He was both a man to be feared and the widely renowned Lord Rokuhara. Given that this was Kiyomori, one would have expected some kind of fierce interrogation, but— “Is your milk coming in?” This question—being the first uttered—must have taken Tokiwa by surprise, while the samurai and those gathered in the judicial hall wore dumbfounded expressions and remained silent. “……” Because she held Ushiwaka in one arm, bracing herself against the floor with her free hand alone, Tokiwa faintly shook her head sideways—and Kiyomori nodded.

“It’s not coming out?” “That must be why.” And then, as if muttering to himself once more,

"My mother also struggled when we were poor, for her milk would not come." "Mothers are foolish creatures—they make nonexistent food appear as if it exists to feed their husbands, give it to their crawling children, refrain from eating themselves, and still have their nursing infants demand milk." "It’s unbearable." “……” "Even the beauty that once bewitched Yoshitomo—alas, now she’s withered beyond recognition." His lament was genuine. Alas—the word had sprung from the depths of his heart.

“Tokiwa.” “……Yes.”

“You seem to tremble, but there’s no cause for fear.” “You bear no guilt.” “This battle was wrought by Kiyomori and Yoshitomo.” “……” “Though such matters lie beyond women’s ken—in truth, it was Yoshitomo’s own folly that granted Kiyomori fortune.” “He remained but a mere warrior—lacking any statecraft akin to mine—yet dared meddle in courtiers’ power games. Shall we name that his undoing?... However one judges it, though warrior custom demands such outcomes, true pity lies with the clansmen—and you who knew nothing of this.... Yet Kiyomori has no mind to slay ones such as you.” “Set your heart at ease.”

“Please...” “…Please…!”

Tokiwa desperately cried out. “I do not hold my own life in the slightest regard.” “…Have mercy.” “Please spare my children’s lives.” He did not wait for her words to end. With a roar so fierce it seemed as if shouted by a completely different person, “Don’t push your luck!” “You wench!” “……….”

“Show mercy and they’ll grow insolent at once.” “A hateful trait of women.” “You were always a serving girl at Kujō-in without lineage—even favored by Yoshitomo, you remain a flower beyond the gate.” “Yet those boys you nurse bear true Minamoto blood—all males at that.” “I cannot permit their survival.”

At that fearsome visage and the severity of his voice, Imawaka began to sniffle. Otohime also started crying. Tokiwa remained prostrated. Kiyomori fixedly glared at her black hair, but— “Tch, such foolishness.” And, as if regretting something, he abruptly stood up, “Retreat to the servants’ quarters!”

When he commanded the officials, he shook his head as if to cover his ears and retreated behind the curtained dais of the main hall.

The servants’ quarters were separated by a long corridor and lay far beyond the back garden, but even from there, it felt as though the nursing infant’s cries could be heard late into the night. However, that might have been due to Kiyomori’s own ears. For he appeared unable to sleep through the night. “If only I had been born into a family that knew nothing of society’s depths or poverty,” Kiyomori thought, “I wouldn’t have such worries.” Unusually, no sooner had he risen early the next morning than—

“Summon Lord Komatsu.” With that, he had the attendant rush off to fetch Shigemori.

Five

In a room bathed in morning light, Shigemori saw his father’s face. “Is something the matter?”

“Hmm… My head feels heavy.” “The fatigue must have accumulated. When you rise each morning, there seem to be countless vexations—Lady Nun appeared deeply concerned about this as well.” “Did you meet with Lady Nun?”

“Yes.” “Regarding the matter from the other day—”

“Is Lady Nun still lamenting that matter?” “She has not relinquished her grief.” “She spoke of memories of her late birth son and Yoritomo, was questioned about them, and pleaded most earnestly.” “She must resent Kiyomori as a heartless man.” “She does not voice it aloud.” “Shigemori.” “Yes.” “After the previous war—the Hōgen Rebellion—Monk Shinzei acted with ruthless resolve, hunting down and slaughtering his political enemies and remnants… But lying awake last night pondering—I realized the results proved counterproductive.”

“If you kill people needlessly, you cannot expect to be well-regarded.” “The reason people gradually turned away from Monk Shinzei was that he was too decisive and resolute, leaving no room for compassion whatsoever.” “Hmm...” “In this recent battle, it was precisely Monk Shinzei who became the target of hatred. They set fire to his Nishinotouin residence first, pursued him as he fled, and he met a tragic end at the hands of Minamoto no Mitsuyasu in the fields of Tawara.” “There is no one to mourn him—this is the retribution for his merciless slaughter.” “Shall we call it the cycle of rebirth?” “Or shall we call it the cycle of karma?”

“Enough of this Buddhist talk.” “This isn’t idle tea-drinking chatter.” “Last night, I thought deeply.” “About that Monk Shinzei’s methods—the repercussions they had in the world and their results.” “...and I tell you, it’s no good.” “A poor strategy.” “It doesn’t win people over.” “When you consider how we’ve handled the Yoshitomo clan’s aftermath—” “Hmm…” Shigemori smiled faintly—almost saying, “Have you realized?”—but his father detested receiving counsel framed as another’s advice. Even when acting on such counsel, he insisted it appear to spring from his own deliberation—knowing this trait well,

“As you command.” “Truly, your thoughts are spot on.” He chimed in.

Then, Kiyomori,

“I see. Do you also think so, Kazurō? To achieve greatness, one must exercise benevolence. Executing a mere child like Yoritomo would only make the world frown. I will spare his life. Sentence him to exile.” “Wh-what…? Then.”

Rather than being daunted by that composure, it was Shigemori who felt as though he had been outmaneuvered. His father’s face, after uttering those words, now bore a refreshed morning glow in its complexion. “You have shown great compassion,” he said. “Should Lady Nun hear of this, one can only imagine how overjoyed she would be. Let us proceed at once to Lady Izumi’s chambers.” “I performed one act of filial piety.”

“Ah, what a truly splendid morning this is.”

Shigemori, too, felt refreshed. He had never held in his heart anything this noble toward his father beyond familial affection. To Shigemori, who was promptly and gladly setting out,

“Ah. “And then,” Kiyomori stated this quite simply as well. “While you’re at it, release Tokiwa Gozen as well—she turned herself in to the judicial office.” “Since all the children are boys, have them enter temples. As for the nursing infant—if he’s immediately torn away, he’ll cry himself to death.” “Grant the mother a hundred-day reprieve and send him up to Kurama Mountain or somewhere.”

Spring Dawn

1 Last night, Yoritomo had been quietly counseled by Munekiyo about preparing himself for death. "When the moment comes," Munekiyo said, "you must keep a heart ready to die settled in your breast—so you meet it without shame." "For you to become a laughingstock would disgrace not only the Minamoto clan." "It would shame all samurai." "For my part," Yoritomo answered with his usual earnestness, "I believe I can die properly." "If I simply press my palms together like this—" His composure showed no trace of unease—a calm that somewhat reassured Munekiyo.

Yoritomo, upon rising this morning as well, sat alone in the dimly lit room, his face bearing a pensive expression. The thirteenth day was that day.

“Today is the day I’ll be beheaded.”

He knew this. It was both frightening and yet nothing at all—. The warbler’s song caught his ear again this morning. And— The shadow of that warbler darted like a warrior’s arrow through the sunlight in the garden. The sound of hurried footsteps racing along the long veranda seemed to startle someone. _...Have they come?_ Yoritomo's face turned as white as wax. Even his eyes had begun to dart restlessly. “My Lord.”

It was Munekiyo. As soon as he appeared there, he spoke with an animated voice. “Rejoice. Though I cannot speak of it yet, today there will soon be good news—good news.” Even so, his trembling did not cease immediately, and he could not comprehend the meaning, but after Munekiyo left, having declared, “Soon now, Lord Komatsu will arrive here—”, he finally—

“Ah… Could it be?”

Yoritomo realized, and suddenly began to feel as though he could no longer keep his body there. The half-day that followed was a time when he was terrified, utterly terrified, and wanted to flee as quickly as possible, even if he had to break through this cage.

Around noon. When Komatsu Shigemori appeared and conveyed to Yoritomo that his life would be spared through the Nun of the Pond’s entreaties and Kiyomori’s mercy, Yoritomo burst into sobs again and again, “Ah—thank you very much.” and expressed his gratitude sincerely. Though sincere, he seemed to grow ashamed almost immediately at having wept so undignifiedly—straightening his posture and pressing his hands together in formal composure.

“I do not know where I am to be exiled, but kindly convey my respects to the Nun of the Pond.” “No—before that, you shall first have an audience to express your gratitude. I will make arrangements.” When Shigemori returned that evening, Rokuhara officials arrived bearing the formal decree and—

The decree of exile to Izu Province. On the twentieth day of the third month, he was to depart the capital and proceed to the place of exile. They announced both matters. How fervently Yoritomo must have waited for that day to arrive. He had been gazing at the sky from his dim cell. As the day approached, Munekiyo,

“On your journey down to Izu, escort inspectors and blue-robed guards from Rokuhara will accompany you—needless to say, they will not be kind. Is there no one among your relations who could accompany you, even if only part of the way?” he asked. Yoritomo tilted his head slightly, seeming to try hard to recall the names of those his father had known or retainers, but eventually shook his head and— “There are none.—Even if there were, fearing Lord Rokuhara, no one would come to accompany me.”

II

A public notice board was erected. "Look—what’s this?" Such gazes gathered around it. In the market, at the foot of the bridge, and before the gates of Tōgoku—such crowds could be seen everywhere. "It says exile." “Exile?” “To Izu Province.” “To Izu?” “…Hmm.” As for Izu—what kind of remote province it was, the people of Kyoto could not even begin to imagine.

“But it’s better… Better than seeing the young Wako children’s heads being cut off at Kamo River again.” Everyone there let out a breath as if relieved. Rokuhara’s judgment— “A merciful approach.” and implicitly praised it. At that time, among the populace, Kiyomori—the man who was now poised to become their sovereign in the aftermath of the war—had risen vividly—abruptly vividly—into their awareness. “If he is such a merciful and benevolent ruler, His governance will surely improve from here on.”

Along with this, a sense of reassurance was intermingled.

However, on one side— Kiyomori’s reputation was rather poor within the Taira clan itself. The handling of Yoritomo was the most criticized, “He executed Yoshitomo, Yoshihira, and all the rest—so why did he spare that boy alone?”

“This is unlike Your Lordship’s customary disposition that thoroughly handles all matters.” “They say it was due to the intercession of the Nun of the Pond and Lord Komatsu—yet Your Lordship is not one to have your will swayed by others’ counsel.” Among the young warriors, voices of discontent swarmed like bees. If such personal sentiments and covert dealings existed in this great enterprise achieved through martial force, it would be a dragon painted without eyes. If one considered the Taira clan’s future, Yoritomo should not be spared—such vehement arguments could be heard in no small measure.

“But that’s not all.” Among a faction of hardline comrades, they voiced their discontent repeatedly.

“How was Tokiwa’s guilt decided?” “The disposition of the three boys she cares for isn’t stated on the notice board either.” “We’ve heard nothing from the tribunal since then.” “It’s suspicious.” “This should be called handling things in secret from start to finish.” “Is there not some hidden scheme behind this?”

Rumors begat rumors.

That Tokiwa had recently been released from prison and was now safely residing in a small residence near Shichijō Suzaku along with her mother and children. And from time to time, on nights when an unmarked palanquin would arrive at that gate—the gossip-loving townsfolk would whisper, (Lord Rokuhara is visiting in secret) They were chiefly spreading such rumors—and there were those who would solemnly pass them along as if they were indisputable truths. Tokiwa’s beauty was renowned, and Kiyomori’s susceptibility to women was an undeniable fact, evident even from his conduct in younger days.

Therefore, this foolish rumor was not so easily dismissed,

“Hmm.” “Such a thing cannot be said to be entirely impossible.”

Even among their own clan, there were those who half-believed it. Amidst such worldly gossip and the stirrings of a populace that had finally begun to forget the nightmare of war, March 20th arrived.

Yoritomo had been moved to the Spring Hall of the Nun of the Pond since the previous day, the nineteenth, and through that sleepless night spent preparing for his journey to a distant place of exile, he waited for dawn.

III

The sound of horses neighing began to be heard from the front. Gradually, it began to include human voices and the sound of hoofbeats as well. From the gate of the Spring Hall to the front area, there was an air of people gathering. “The night has ended.”

Yoritomo stood up from his bed. In response to his rising, the maids of Spring Hall opened the lattice doors and raised the shutters. However, the night was not yet fully broken. It was the dark of dawn where even stars were visible. “Ah… Excuse me—”

One of the maids, seeing that Yoritomo was tidying his own bedding, hurried over and said— “We will handle the cleaning here. Please ready yourself and come to the Nun of the Pond’s chamber.” “Has the Nun awakened?” “Yes—though she spoke with you late into the night, my lord, she slept but briefly afterward.”

Yoritomo, as he was told, tidied his appearance and peered into one of the adjoining rooms. “Yahyoue, are you awake?” he called out and approached.

Immediately, Munekiyo showed his face, “Oh, Lord Sadan.” and stood aligned on the veranda, “You’re up early.” “Last night, you were conversing with the Nun of the Pond until late, so you probably didn’t get a moment’s sleep.” “No, I slept plenty.” “I see.” “Today marks the start of a long journey. Please ensure you do not doze off on horseback and become separated from your companions.” “Ha ha ha ha. “I’ll be fine today.” Yoritomo laughed.

Munekiyo also laughed together. Because he had dozed off on horseback and become separated from his father and clan on the snowy Ōmi Road—having innocently recounted this story the previous night while surrounded by the Nun of the Pond, Shigemori, Munekiyo, and others—he remembered it now.

Speaking of innocence— After his death sentence had been commuted and exile to Izu decided, Yoritomo had grown childlike even in his manner of speech. He had spent each day until now in carefree simplicity, (I can’t wait. I can’t wait. I want to see the land of Izu soon.) he had been saying. The previous night too, when the Nun of the Pond asked him— (Shall I give you a farewell gift? What would you like?) —Yoritomo had replied:

(I want a backgammon set. When I go to Izu, it will be lonely.) When he answered thus—even to that response—the Nun of the Pond— (How innocent you are...)

And she teared up. For the Nun of the Pond—whose uneventful days held no purpose beyond Buddhist offerings—performing this act of merit by sending Yoritomo off to the eastern provinces today was both a secret, immense joy and something that gave her life meaning. “Now then…” “You must have been waiting eagerly.” “Let us go and visit the room.” Munekiyo urged him on and, taking Yoritomo with him, crossed the corridor of Izumi Hall—resplendent as a grand temple—and went to bid farewell at one of the Nun of the Pond’s chambers facing the wide, flat garden.

The room was still dimly lit, with cord-bound lampstands glowing both in the adjacent chamber and beside the Nun of the Pond. Yet the chilly morning air permeated the space, turning the lamplight pallid. "Oh, Lord Sadan—must you depart already?... How deeply I shall miss you," she said. The Nun turned toward Yoritomo and studied his form intently. That morning, even Yoritomo seemed choked with emotion—unsure what words to offer, he remained kneeling with hands pressed firmly against the floor.

Four

Eventually, Yoritomo spoke: “Through your benevolence, I have miraculously prolonged this life.” “Throughout all my existences, I shall never forget.” “Even after descending to Izu, I shall pray morning and evening for your felicity, Nun of the Pond.” This morning, he indeed spoke with uncharacteristic maturity, eyes clouded by tears. The Nun—who often remarked “He might as well be my own child”—felt her heart swell at his words. Overwhelmed by unbidden tears, she responded: “Well spoken.” “Truly, your life persists through Buddha’s protection—no mortal deed sustains it. As I said yestereve: revere enlightenment’s fruits, fix your heart upon bodhi, and devote your days to memorial rites for your departed mother and father.”

“…Yes.” “Never dwell on the path of bow, arrow, and sword—abandon all thought of blood-stained deeds. Even if others urge you, do not heed them.”

“Yes.” “People’s mouths are meddlesome things.” “Never let yourself fall into such grievous bonds again!” “When you arrive in Izu, immediately seek out a worthy spiritual guide, shave your hair, and ensure this nun’s aspirations are not rendered futile…” “Yes.”

The Nun of the Pond looked satisfied as she smiled and turned to Munekiyo. “Is there still some time remaining?” “I believe it will not take long—only the duration needed to load the luggage onto the packhorses…” Having answered, Munekiyo tactfully excused himself to oversee the preparations. The nun then quietly urged Yoritomo: “There is someone waiting in that annex who wishes to see you one last time.” “Go and say your farewells.”

Who? And so Yoritomo went to the annex. There, three people whose faces he recognized were waiting. One was his uncle Sukenori. Another was a Minamoto family rōnin who gave his name as Kōketsu Gengo Moriyasu. And Hiki no Tsubone.

――So there were three people. Hiki no Tsubone was a woman who had been Yoritomo’s wet nurse and was known as Lady Naishi of Tango during her time at Nijō-in. Since parting with his mother in death last March, she had become all the more dear to Yoritomo as a wet nurse.

“……”

Yoritomo stood rigidly, suppressing surging emotions. Hiki no Tsubone wept ceaselessly, unable to properly lift her gaze to his figure— “Lord Wako. I have come to tend to your hair. Please… Allow me this final service before we part…” With these words, Yoritomo silently turned his back and sat down. The lady-in-waiting combed and retied his locks through her tears, then whispered into his ear: “Today is not our last farewell. Even after your journey east, this nurse shall find ways to attend you…”

she whispered.

Kōketsu Gengo Moriyasu also sidled up and said rapidly,

“Lord Wako.” “Lord Wako.” “By Hachiman Daibosatsu’s divine design, your life was miraculously spared.” “No matter who compels you, you must never shave that hair.” “Cherish it with your whole being.” “……Yeah.”

Yoritomo nodded. When told by the Nun of the Pond to take monastic vows, he answered “Yes”; when told by Kōketsu Gengo Moriyasu to cherish his hair, he nodded emphatically to that as well. As the saying goes, “The abyss that ensnares men makes no sound.” they say.

He was undoubtedly an obedient child.

Five At that moment, by the middle gate, there was someone shouting loudly.

“Lord Sadan! What are you delaying for? Come out at once!” “Hurry up and come out!” “It is time.” “Make haste!” The escort inspector was likely a subordinate of Taira no Suefusa. It was a voice that brooked no mercy.

Inside the annex, Yoritomo, who was having his hair styled, “Nurse, that’s enough.” Then, from beneath Hiki no Tsubone’s hands that lingered regretfully—still combing his hair as if unwilling to let go—she abruptly stood up as though in a fit of irritation.

Yoritomo observed the sight of the lady-in-waiting, his uncle Sukenori, and others weeping for him. “Why are you crying?” he said reproachfully.

“While being exiled to a commoner’s place of banishment may be sorrowful, should we not consider Yoritomo’s departure today as an era-defining auspicious day and rejoice?” The three individuals, upon hearing this—as if struck in some unguarded part of their hearts—jerked their tear-stained faces awake with a start. But by then, Yoritomo’s retreating figure had already left the annex and strode into the distant throng. Around Izumi-dono’s entranceway, corridor gate, and main gate, human whirlpools of congestion briefly swirled. Just as Higashiyama’s contours—mountains like Kachōzan and Nyoi-ga-take—stood etched sharply against the dawn sky, with morning light streaking through crimson banner-like cloud rifts, stepping onto the thoroughfare revealed Kyoto’s town and Kamo’s waters still slumbering beneath the waning moon’s faint glow.

“—Move!” “You at the front—advance!” “Shh—Move…!” The procession started to move but did not. Surrounding the horse carrying Yoritomo—the blue-robed retainers’ horses clashed frantically against one another.

From horseback— “Well then,”

And Yoritomo bowed his head once more toward the people seeing him off from Izumi-dono. At once, the sound of hooves began to clatter in unison. His own horse had also joined the procession. He turned to look back again and again. Darkly, the cluster of human figures remained visible before Izumi-dono for a long time. Among the over a dozen escort officials—those who seemed to have been granted special exemption—the faces of his uncle Sukenori and Kōketsu Gengo were also mixed in, following from behind.

It was an auspicious day. It was a morning of joy. There could be no more auspicious departure than this.

Yoritomo, atop the saddle, recalled his own words that he had earlier spoken to his three relatives. When he looked up at the dawn sky dyed in crimson, he was overcome with an urge to let out a dry laugh—or perhaps to burst into song. Clip-clop, clip-clop. The horses’ hooves fell into step. The fourteen-year-old boy’s heart leapt. He hadn’t thought about tomorrow. He had forgotten yesterday’s events. Or rather, he had even forgotten that just moments ago, he had been earnestly advised by the nun to take monastic vows and had replied, “Yes.”

In his saddlebag lay clutched a beautiful sugoroku game box—a farewell gift from the nun—treasured like some precious thing. And because he had seized one of their guards and begun chattering about sugoroku games, Inspector Suefusa— (A bit simple-minded?)

he suspected.

They approached Awataguchi. Along the rows of trees here and there, many roadside people had come out to watch. Amidst the white morning mist blending into their figures, there were also monks, rōnin, and townspeople steadying themselves on the ground as they watched him depart. Among them must have been members of the Minamoto clan living in hiding. There must have been no small number who shed tears in secret. Yet that morning—what shone as if gathering all the joys of spring that year—was Yoritomo’s face, over which many wept crying “O innocent child! O obedient Wako!”

Gold dust

One

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

Bringing along numerous fellow merchants and the many servants and men attached to them—with dozens of horses bearing tightly packed cargo and rugged boxes tied to their backs, the station bells clanging solemnly—this large merchant caravan would enter the capital, forming a winding column of people and horses.

He was the leader of that merchant caravan, a man from Oshu Kurihara Village named Yoshikichi. He was a man in his forties, possessed of a robust merchant spirit. “Yoshikichi is coming through—” “Gold-Seller Yoshikichi heads to the capital.” When word spread along the highway, it was already around April on the Tōkaidō, and the capital was adorned with young cherry leaves. This year, too—

The third year of Nin’an. 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 at the open grounds of Sanjō Riverbed. There, the dozens of merchants in the group divided their luggage among themselves, split the travel expenses equally, and celebrated their safe arrival to the capital without incident—all before... “Alright, let’s meet again in June.” And they would disband the caravan, each going their separate ways to inns around the city—as was their custom. Even though they had traveled together on the road, the purposes of their goods and sales routes were varied.

Oshu-produced fine cloths and Date silks. Eagle feathers used for arrows. Otter pelts and other animal pelts. Lacquer. Gold leaf. Wooden goods. Nambu horses and thoroughbreds welcomed in the capital. Among these overlapping goods, Yoshikichi handled much gold dust. The gold production from Oshu was in endless demand in the capital.

Of course, the payment was in goods, and on the return journey, products from the capital would be loaded onto the horses’ backs. The culture of Oshu was now voraciously seeking goods from the capital. They imported everything from Buddhist statues by master sculptors and paintings to living beauties—in such quantities that no matter how much they sent, it was never enough.

In that land, “Chancellor Taira—who is he?” there was Fujiwara no Hidehira, who from afar glared down upon Kyoto’s sphere of influence. That the culture and goods which the Fujiwara clan had drawn from the capital over three generations had built a metropolis in the region called Hiraizumi—one that rivaled Kyoto—was something the people of the capital often heard from merchants in this caravan. But— “No way!” They laughed and refused to believe it. For the Kyoto residents, who could only imagine places like the Musashi Plain in the Eastern Provinces or Hirugakojima in Izu as dreamlike, distant frontiers merely from hearing their names,

“—How many hundred *ri* beyond that?” When they heard such things about Mutsu, they dismissed it outright as impossible, branding it a lie from the start. “But that is no lie.” “It is the truth.” “If you deem it a lie, then when I return home this time, shall I accompany you?” “How about it?”

At the residence of Lord Ichijō Tomonari, Yoshikichi—on a day in early summer—had set aside his commercial dealings and was arguing fervently. “Ha, ha, ha. Hahaha.” His interlocutor was none other than the master of the house, Lord Ōkura-kyō. The nobleman laughed as if he would never stop. Yoshikichi closed his mouth—his face now wearing an expression that said further speech would be futile.

A hemp-cloth hakama, a light blue hitatare, and one traveling nodachi were simply laid out in the next room. No matter how much he inwardly boasted of gold’s power, appearing before the capital’s nobles only to be seen as a mere merchant from Michinoku was exasperating.

Two He could not get angry. If a merchant got angry, it was certain to be a loss—but even without telling himself that, Yoshikichi was a veteran of that path. He was a master at becoming their plaything and playing the fool when dealing with court nobles and military commanders. “A horse gave birth to a foal—or rather, during this recent journey.”

He blurted out something absurd and began to laugh hollowly by himself. “Have you ever seen a foal?” “They start walking as soon as they’re born.” “Ah, such adorable little things.” “What nonsense is this? A foal?” “Utterly pointless.” Ichijō Tomonari yawned,

“I’ve grown weary of this lengthy discourse.” “If you’ve no business, return another time.” “You’ll likely remain in the capital awhile yet.” “Yes—until summer’s onset this time as well…” “Business?” “Indeed… Regarding that matter you requested previously—” “Ah—Lord Rokuhara’s construction works?” “That among others. I hear Lord Komatsu too undertakes temple complex construction.—You must require considerable gold dust, gilt paste, leaf gold and such.”

“There may be some.” “With your recommendation, were this Yoshikichi to receive such commissions, I could distribute substantial gifts to your esteemed residence as well.” Here, Yoshikichi released some of his pent-up frustration. Surveying his surroundings, everything indeed appeared impoverished. While wealthy court nobles were scarce in general, particularly in this mansion—even while sitting there—the stench of poverty lingered.

The ox-drawn carriage for official duties was—from what he had glimpsed upon arrival—a shabby vehicle whose lacquer had not been renewed in five years; the oxen in the stable were emaciated. The master’s coarse clothes were as old as the torn eaves.

“Well… Since Imperial Court supplies fall under our purview, we have no connection to Lord Rokuhara. Should we start handling gold merchants, other merchants would resent us, and the world’s gossip would become a nuisance.” “No, no—others may not know this, but regarding the ties between this residence and Lord Rokuhara…” “Why do you insist on such closeness?”

“Heh heh heh… I’m well aware.” “Yoshikichi has long paid visits to Lady Kujō too—been granted leave to come and go for sundry matters.”

“The Kujō cloistered empress.” “Right.” “What riddle are you speaking of?” “You are quite skilled at playing innocent… This concerns the lady of this house.” “The world may have completely forgotten, but Yoshikichi remembers each time he has the honor of meeting you.” “—her appearance from when she served at Kujō-in.” “Are you speaking of Lady Yukari?” “Lady Yukari.—That would be the name she took after remarrying into your esteemed house, would it not?” “Previously, she was certainly Lady Tokiwa.”

“……” “That was the case, was it not?” When Yoshikichi thrust his head forward and spoke, Tomonari averted his gaze,

“Who would have secretly spread such matters to the world? “It’s no secret—not in the slightest. “By Lord Rokuhara’s decree that she remarried me—this was an open public affair with nothing concealed. —What are you dredging up now?” Tomonari suddenly grew thoroughly displeased. Whenever talk touched upon his wife’s former identity, matters always took this turn. For a man like Yoshikichi, manipulating the sentiments of unworldly court nobles proved easier than soothing an infant.

Three

Damn it—looks like the medicine worked a bit too well.

Yoshikichi, no sooner had he thought this than—

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

“……” Tomonari’s ill humor had yet to subside. With a face as if he had bitten into something bitter, he gazed vacantly at the dazzling early summer garden.

It was already nine years ago— Kiyomori had mentioned there being a pitiable woman and suggested taking her as a second wife; since it came through Lord Rokuhara’s recommendation, and by accepting her himself, he could save that unfortunate woman from her circumstances— *(I will take her as my wife.)*

And thus, with her three children in tow, he had taken her in as his second wife. That was Tokiwa. After she became his principal wife, her name was changed, and the children were each disposed of elsewhere under Kiyomori’s private orders—yet society, (Nosy busybodies…) , (There must be some deeper reason behind it.) , (There was no need for him to flatter Lord Rokuhara so much and scheme for advancement.) they viciously slandered him as if he had done it for some personal gain—things like that.

To be sure, by societal norms of the time, even those with ties to the Minamoto clan were expected to curry favor with the Taira side as much as possible to align with the prevailing winds—there was simply no need for anyone to take in a woman entangled in complex circumstances, children in tow, as a second wife. If he was going to take her in, there must have been some compensating gain—it was only natural, one might say, for people to pry into nonexistent secrets.

Because of this, Ichijō Tomonari had kept his distance from Rokuhara more than ever before. He had long been fully aware that frequently approaching Kiyomori and maintaining his favor was of course a path to advancement—but sensing that society viewed him with suspicion, he had deliberately kept his distance for these past few years. His current wretched poverty, his stagnant court rank, his friends keeping their distance—the cause was none other than that.

(Well, it’s fine. Even in poverty, I am comforted by my wife—) In exchange for that price, he alone cherished his duties as a mere financial official at the imperial court and a decade of unchanging routine.—Amidst the currents of the time, where all those under Lord Rokuhara’s influence shone brilliantly through glorious promotions and splendid transformations, he remained solitary, honestly clinging to his wife and poverty. Taking advantage of that poverty, the gold merchant Yoshikichi had begun approaching his private residence. He had been coming and going since around two years prior. Each time he came,

“For Her Ladyship.”

Saying things like, “For Her Ladyship,” he would bring Oshu souvenirs. When they carelessly kept them, he came again the following year. And again, he came this year. And in the third year, he voiced his true intentions.

"If your grace would intercede to secure a construction project for Lord Rokuhara." It was a presumptuous request. That was all well and good, but by mentioning Tokiwa's former status, he had inadvertently echoed the same tone as the malicious gossip from nine years prior. Even for the good-natured Ichijō Tomonari, it was only natural he became displeased. "...My apologies."

Yoshikichi suddenly returned once again to the room where he was. And before Tomonari’s eyes, he laid out the customary gifts: ten bolts of Date silk, a lacquered pail, and other such offerings.

IV “Please, do not concern yourself over it. “I’ve been prattling about nothing but trivial matters.” “This is nothing special—merely an annual gift—but please accept it as a small token of my regards.”

After placing the gifts, Yoshikichi said a few light remarks and left.

After Yoshikichi had left, when Ichijō Tomonari casually glanced over the gifts of Date silk and lacquered pail, something unexpected was discovered. It was a bag of gold dust. It was an amount that couldn’t quite be lifted to one’s knee with a single hand. “What an audacious man…” At the time he had been furious, but as days passed, he came to realize the folly of his anger. Moreover, Yoshikichi never showed his face again for the remainder of that year.

By the time they passed from year’s end into early spring, more than half of the gold dust had been used up.—And the snow melted. April and May were approaching. It would be around the time when Yoshikichi the gold merchant would come to Kyoto. Tomonari, the honest man, began to grow concerned. Oh well—all he had to do was pass along his request, and that would be that. Even with Rokuhara, no matter how one looked at it, he had severed ties far too thoroughly. At a time like this, it could serve as a pretext. He decided to go there and make an earnest plea for Yoshikichi’s request.

He directed his ox-drawn carriage, repainted at year’s end, toward Rokuhara for the first time in ages.

“Are we heading to Rokuhara?” The servant accompanying him pressed his master doubtfully for confirmation. “Yeah… Rokuhara it is.”

But when he passed through the splendid gate of Nishihachijō, he felt an unpleasant emotion. Until just before the Hōgen and Heiji Wars, Kiyomori—who had been looked down upon as “that one-eyed brat from Aki”—had risen from Minister of the Interior to Chancellor in the blink of an eye—a fact as unbelievable as a lie. Oppressed by the grandeur around him, he suddenly became aware of his own shabbiness. “Ho. How unusual.” When he got out of the ox-drawn carriage, he encountered Munemori, the third son of Lord Nyūdō. If Munemori remembered him—he felt somewhat relieved,

“Is Lord Chancellor in attendance?” “He is present.” “As it has been quite some time since I last paid my respects—” “Well, though you’ve gone to the trouble, visiting would prove futile.” “You see, Father is occupied today—welcoming envoys from the palace, with the entire clan gathered for what appears to be a council.” “……Hmm.” His own face—which looked utterly idle—left Tomonari at a loss for what to do with himself.

“Well then… Though it cannot be helped, I must humbly ask even you…” “Though it cannot be helped, I must quietly ask even you…” “If this Munemori is acceptable, I will find an opportunity to relay it to Father.” Munemori invited him to a private room and listened to his story. Munemori had initially taken an interest, thinking it might be a matter of political significance, but since it was merely the introduction of some trivial merchant from Oshu, he began feigning attention partway through, treating it dismissively— “No, that’s not the issue at all.” “When I saw your face, I remembered something.”

Suddenly, Munemori said something Tomonari had not anticipated. “To be direct—your wife has a child from her former marriage. That is, one of Yoshitomo’s surviving sons—the youngest sent to Kurama. In the mountains, they call him Shanaō… that boy Ushiwaka.” “What seems to be the issue?” “From both Kurama Temple monks and mountain officials, unfavorable reports keep arriving.”

“...What kind?” “He despises the monks, obsesses over martial arts, and even defies his monastic teachers at the slightest provocation.” “Regarding that matter, my wife has long been concerned about it, and I have frequently sent letters of admonition, but…” “If they are mere admonitions, that’s one thing—but surely they aren’t incitement? You wouldn’t happen to have secretly sent something like Minamoto genealogical records from your wife to the mountains, would you?” “After all, my father, the Lord Chancellor, is already enraged at this time.” “If someone were to see your face there now, it would be like pouring oil onto the flames.” “Well, for now, you should lay low and avoid contact. More importantly, have that boy at Kurama shave his head without delay.” “The only way is to shave it all off.”

Tengu’s Gale

1 The house of Shirabyōshi Suiga in Rokujōbōmon had also become Yoshikichi’s regular lodgings. Suiga’s younger sister was named Chōon. He was Chōon’s patron.

About seven days ago, he arrived in the capital and had settled there again this year. However, having only just reunited with Chōon after a year apart, he still hadn’t shown his face anywhere in public.

When he had learned of that—

“A messenger has arrived.” And thus, a letter from Ichijō Tomonari was delivered into his hands. “Ah,” he snorted. “Fearing I’d confront them head-on, they’ve struck first.” When he opened it, the contents matched Yoshikichi’s expectations—first came excuses about last year’s gold payments. Next came news of Tomonari’s failed lobbying efforts at Rokuhara: having incurred Lord Chancellor Kiyomori’s displeasure over some matter, there was no hope of progress under his own authority for now. The letter closed with vague promises to explain everything when they met face-to-face—

Yoshikichi wrote a spiteful reply and had the messenger take it. "The reason you incurred His Lordship’s displeasure must be those strange rumors lately circulating about various tengu appearing around the young child at Kurama. Rumors do seem to be quite abundant. I, too, have long heard of it from my associates. Therefore, I can no longer rely on you either. We are devising strategies and plotting our course of action. I, too, have been indulging in unbecoming fantasies for a merchant—such as joining the ranks of various tengu and astonishing the human world."

A pouch of gold dust—such a thing could never contain dreams of this scale. Set your mind at ease, set your mind at ease. Then, with a thoroughly carefree expression, he mentally rehearsed once more the phrases of the reply he had composed—a blend of sarcasm and amusement—

That’s exactly right. …Hundreds of miles from Oshu—even my annual journeys there are a gamble with death. If I’m going to risk my life either way, I might as well aim for something grand.

Shifting from fantasy to confidence, he let out a “Hmm,” and began folding his arms grandly.

He seemed a man who could indulge in fantasies endlessly; unaware the sun had set, he sat meditating with closed eyes. Being a man who unfailingly treks on foot from Oshu to the capital twice a year, he appeared like an unlearned Zen monk—one whose only cultivated trait was a bold-hearted nature. “Oh my, what has you so deep in thought?” Chōon brought a portable lamp over to him and, placing it at a moderate distance from his profile, smiled amusedly.

“...Has the lamp come already?” “It isn’t too dark yet.” “Ah! Ah!” Stretching his limbs and thrusting both fists toward the ceiling, “Once the lamp’s lit, let’s drink and make merry again.” “Tell Suiga to come.” “Gather all the other courtesans here too.” “Elder Sister has been completely summoned by Lord Rokuhara from tonight through tomorrow and the day after.” “Three days straight?” “Yes.” “You’re such a fool. Why do you let yourself be bound like that? —What’s the point of living that way?”

“But it’s none other than the estate. If I don’t go, I can’t go on living.” “Then just you and whatever courtesans are here will do.” “Get the sake and instruments ready.” “I must hurry with my makeup and attend Lord Shigemori of Komatsudani’s guest gathering…” “What? You’re going out too? Quit it—I’ll stop you.” “If you do that…” “Say you’re ill. Even if all the shirabyōshi courtesans in the capital exist solely for the Taira’s sons and clan, they wouldn’t execute a courtesan just for refusing an invitation.”

“They might do it.”

“Don’t talk nonsense! What’s the Taira? What’s a samurai? The world isn’t run by bows and arrows alone. Who do you think is running the power of gold? —Don’t go—stay right here in this house. No—I’ll show you I can support every courtesan in Kyoto with just the tip of my little finger!”

II

Chōon burst into tears. “...You’re just being unreasonable.”

Having retreated to her room, she continued to sob so loudly that it seeped into Yoshikichi’s chamber without end. “This isn’t amusing.” Yoshikichi was lying sprawled with his arm as a pillow, but finding the noise unbearable, he abruptly sat up again,

“Go then! If you want to go so badly you’d cry…”

he bellowed. In the shadow of the curtain in the distant room,

“I won’t go.” As Chōon sobbed and resisted strongly, she retorted— “Go then!” he shouted again. “I won’t go.” “I said go!”

“I don’t care…”

“Then I’ll go out first!”

Yoshikichi, in a fit of anger, left Suiga’s house and wandered aimlessly down the main avenue.

There was a noble's palanquin swaying the blinds with a soft jingle as it passed by. In the evening breeze walked a group of beauties gliding like graceful fish. There stood a nun at the gate of the weaver's workshop, clutching a small naginata under her arm and gripping a rosary in her left hand.

The prosperity of the capital was said to consist of over ninety thousand households within the city. The Hōgen and Heiji Rebellions had become memories of ten years past, and lately, even the evenings were bustling. However, Yoshikichi—compared to the Fujiwara clan’s city of Hiraizumi in Oshu— “What of it?”

He walked on, viewing everything with a defiant spirit that refused to be bested. Alas, though Hiraizumi was a city, it was not the imperial capital. Moreover, when it came to beauties, they could only import Kyoto’s blood. There were none as beautiful as Chōon. As for the rest—whether the gates of nobility or the solemnity of government offices—none of it surprised him. His rebellious spirit only stirred up scornful laughter within him.

“Hmph… How long will this last?” Tonight especially, that contrarian spirit surged within him. His homeland had originally been fortified by the Fujiwara no Hidehira clan, whose blood was deeply entwined with that of Hachimantarō Yoshiie and his descendants. No matter how much Chancellor Kiyomori might proclaim his supremacy in the capital, the lands of Oshu paid him no mind. If forced to categorize their lineage as Minamoto or Taira, the Minamoto blood ran thicker.—Yoshikichi too had been one of their devotees.

Before he knew it, he had wandered out to the riverbank. As the Kamo River’s shimmering waters brushed against him, his simmering anger felt somewhat soothed. Yoshikichi sat down on the young grass of the embankment. He hugged his knees and sat in silence, staring down the Thirty-Six Peaks. The lamps of Komatsudani, the lamps of Rokuhara, the lamps of Izumiden, the lamps of warrior residences and government offices, the lamps of the Taira clan’s affiliated mansions, the lamps upon lamps of shrines and temples—it was as though jewels had been scattered across the earth. Ah, how prosperous it all was—even his rebellious spirit could only groan from the depths of his belly.

Then, before long.

...Hm? Then he shifted his gaze closer. A figure had appeared on the riverbank directly below him—a place he had believed empty. He scanned the area with the look of someone awaiting another, wondering who this slender monk-like figure might be, but when no one descended to the riverbank, he settled back among the stones like a river deer. Who are they waiting for, I wonder? Precisely because it was a young monk, Yoshikichi's curiosity stirred. He let his imagination run wild—perhaps a beautiful Kyoto woman would appear as the companion, making for quite a spectacle—

Three

Contrary to his expectations, someone soon approached the monk waiting on the riverbank—walking along the same bank and speaking in a hushed voice— “…Kōgon?”

The one who had called out was a militant carrying a large wooden sword immediately recognizable even by his silhouette in the night. “Ah… Brother!” The emaciated young monk clung to the militant’s chest as though he were a lover. The rugged militant’s hands gently embraced him, and seeing him murmur something, it was clear they were true kin. Eventually, the militant spoke. “…Did you have another message from Lady Tokiwa today?” “Yes, I have received and brought the letter as usual.”

The monk looked around and quietly handed it into his brother’s hand. The militant pressed the letter to his forehead reverently before tucking it into his robe.

“Is that all?” “Yes, that was all for today.” “However, she did say this in her words.” “Is this a message for Lord Ushiwaka?” “No—do not let Lord Ushiwaka hear of this.” “She wished to make it clear—to you and others—that even occasional letters sent to Kurama should now cease.” “Hmm…” “I too have heard recent rumors that Rokuhara’s eyes are turning their attention toward Lord Ichijō’s household.”

“Yes.” “For her husband’s sake—for her husband’s clan’s sake.” “Do not resent me.” “For Lord Ushiwaka and the other three surviving children of the late Lord Yoshitomo, they must not bring calamity upon her current husband—he who granted them the grace of rebirth.” “Nor can she break the vow made with her husband when she remarried.” “Thus did she lament with desperate entreaties even before my eyes.” “Her anguish appeared so profound that sitting before her felt unbearable.” “Truly, one must now regard her resolve as doubly resolute.”

“It cannot be helped…”

Both of them raised their eyes melancholically and fixed their gaze upon the stars.

“Kōgon, I understand. I too will no longer come down to receive letters from Kurama. However, regarding Lord Ushiwaka’s safety—inform Her Ladyship that we old retainers still remain, so she need not worry in the slightest—when you next meet her, convey this quietly.” “Yes. …However, today Her Ladyship also pressed upon me not to tread too often to the mansion, so once autumn comes and she attends the sermon mats at Chion-in Temple, I shall quietly whisper it into her ear then.”

“Anytime is fine… But Kōgon, you take care too.” “Oh, I’m being careful… But even when the officials pressed her about how I sheltered her ten years ago when she was taken to Rokuhara, Lady Tokiwa never spoke a word of it. Even now, I’m still astonished at the strength of her will.”

“Ah… We shouldn’t stay here talking too long—it might draw attention.” “Well then, Kōgon.”

“Will you be returning to the mountains?” “Mm... Before dawn breaks.” “Then... until next time.”

The two figures parted ways. Even after climbing up to the embankment, Kōgon continued to watch his brother’s receding figure for a time. Ah, that young monk who often comes to Ichijō Tomonari’s residence for Buddhist sermons. No wonder I thought I’d seen him somewhere before… Yoshikichi, concealed in the shadow of an ancient willow, fixed his gaze—with those sharp eyes that were his true tools—on Kōgon’s figure as it passed close by, scrutinizing him from profile to the tips of his toes.

Kōgon, unaware of anything, was crossing a makeshift bridge slightly downstream to the east. Around the time that shadow finished crossing, Yoshikichi—whether spurred by some thought—abruptly quickened his steps and strode out onto the bouncing planks of the makeshift bridge.

Four When he had just finished climbing Sanneizaka，Yoshikichi called out from behind.

“—Kōgon-san.” “Huh? ……Who are you?” “……Who are you?”

“Even if I tell you my name, you probably wouldn’t know it, Kōgon-san.” “I’m a gold merchant from Oshu.” “Do you have business with me?” “Let’s sit on the wet veranda of that Kannon Hall over there.” “…My apologies for my earlier rudeness.” “Earlier…?” “Just now.” “At Kamo Riverbed.” “What? At the riverbed?” “I’ve overheard everything.” “I don’t mean any harm—but being downwind, even when I tried not to listen, your whispers with the messenger from Kurama reached my ears—”

“Ah—you mean the talk with my brother?” “Yep. Every last word.”

“You heard.” “I heard.” Perched on the rain-dampened temple veranda with feigned nonchalance, Yoshikichi met Kōgon’s glare—the monk’s face pale, his eyes wracked by suspicion, fear, murderous intent, and a churning storm of emotions.

A spy? Extortion?

“I’ve heard there’s a gang of bandits called Amagiri no Akushirō that’s been attacking temples lately—are you one of their underlings?” Kōgon had interpreted this in various ways, but what suggested otherwise was the other party’s next words. “Please, have a seat.” “You may laugh at a reckless Oshu merchant like me for having no sense of self-preservation, but even I have my share of human worries.” “Truly, I followed you here from the riverbank thinking that if I could receive just one word of enlightenment from a wise mentor like yourself, the fog in my chest might clear away all at once.” “I believe it is your duty to save us ordinary mortals from our worldly desires, but…”

“……?” “Will you listen?” “Go ahead and say it.”

However, Kōgon’s reply carried none of a monk’s composure, his voice edged with needles. His brow remained tightly knit, his body stiff as stone.

“Since this mountain’s deserted, I’ll speak plainly.” “Truth is, my dilemma’s how to turn bigger profits than now.—Don’t scorn me for that.” “Let me make this clear—I’m no warrior.” “Born and bred a merchant.” “…………” “Monks commit to the Dharma’s path.” “Warriors pledge themselves to bow and blade.” “When I consider matching their devotion in my trade, agony takes root.” “As things stand, I’ll never reap real gains.” “Can’t bend the world through wealth alone, see?”

“…………”

“So, if you ask how a merchant like me can thrive—well, if the world stays this peaceful, it’s no good. Things need to get noisier and start moving with a lot more hustle. …It’s war. Even something like the Hōgen or Heiji uprisings confined to the capital aren’t enough. If the realm splits into two or three factions fighting each other, this Yoshikichi here will have mountains of grand tasks he wants to do. When warrior clans have spilt blood against blood and fought to the end, the land should be held by farmer-samurai. For I shall hold the realm’s treasures.”

“When I thought you might say something… You’ve gone mad, haven’t you?” “Why?” “I am a monk. Matters of money, profits, wars or peace—such worldly affairs mean nothing to me even if I hear them.” “Don’t understand? … Heeh… Are you saying you don’t know…? Hmm…. Heh heh heh.”

Yoshikichi laughed.

Five

“Kōgon-san.” “There’s no need to make such a fearsome face or keep secrets.” “Even this Yoshikichi may serve the Taira in business matters, but wash away the blood and I’m but a humble parishioner of the Minamoto.” “Why don’t we discuss one true matter tonight?” “What nonsense!”

and, instead, sharply— “If you had just stayed silent and listened from the start—first wanting to request a sermon to resolve your worries, then intending to discuss making money—….” “To me, a monk—are you mocking me, or trying to probe my true intentions?” “Isn’t it fine? The money-making will be done by Yoshikichi the merchant.” “You can focus on achieving your own desires.” “My wish is to fully become a disciple of Buddha.” “Your path and mine are diametrically opposed.”

“Not at all—they’re the same. …You also want to overthrow the Taira’s reign, don’t you?” “Wh—what did you say?” “If not for that, why would *you*, a monk, do such dangerous things—taking requests from Tokiwa Gozen, holding secret meetings with Kurama’s tengu—that’d cost you your head if discovered? …Tsk tsk. Lucky for you it was *me*, Yoshikichi—but chatting about rebellion out in the open like that?”

“…………”

“Moreover, I’ve found the recent rumors rather strange as well. Even in Oshu, where no one’s ever seen a tengu-sama, there’s talk of them appearing frequently at Kurama on the capital’s outskirts. You city folk call us Oshu people ‘Kumaso’ or ‘Ebisu barbarians’—yet you’re the ones who truly believe in tengu. It’s almost admirable how contradictory that is.”

“…………” “I’d been wishing to meet a tengu as an Oshu souvenir story—and just the other day, I actually encountered one.” “Moreover, there were two tengu whispering secretly.” Before long, one tengu had returned to Kurama, and the other tengu now sat before Yoshikichi’s eyes with a face that seemed to say, “Oh no.” “…Right, Kōgon-san? You’re one of the tengu’s comrades too, aren’t you?”

Kōgon’s face transformed into a mask of livid fury when pointed at. “You bastard!” he roared, his mouth seeming to spew flames—then from beneath his monk’s robes, a short blade he had drawn suddenly thrust toward Yoshikichi’s chest where he sat on the damp veranda edge. Yoshikichi kicked off the ground and leapt onto the Kannon Hall’s veranda edge, but immediately jumped back down to seize Kōgon in a full nelson from behind. Pressing close to the ear of Kōgon—who struggled with all his might—he whispered in a voice as faint as a mosquito’s buzz:

“Let’s not turn on each other, shall we? I’ll be your ally. ……Let me join the tengu’s comrades too.”

Six

In this state, there was no way he could match Yoshikichi by force. Kōgon was frail. Yoshikichi was robust. “You should quit messing around with blades.” “That’s precisely the kind of behavior unbecoming of someone in the Buddhist clergy.” Wresting the blade from Kōgon’s hand, Yoshikichi pressed further.

“I understand your heart well.” “It’s not just your own life at stake here.” “If this gets exposed, it’ll be catastrophic.” Another head mound would soon rise at Rokujō Riverbed. “That’s precisely why you’d rather die than speak here.” “Of course you wouldn’t confide in a nobody like me—some Oshu vagrant of unknown stock. But why haven’t you questioned how every detail—Lady Tokiwa’s letters to Kurama, even that simpleton Ichijō Tomonari being branded rebellion’s kindling—keeps reaching Rokuhara’s ears?”

“…………” “Kōgon-san.” “You seem cautious, but you’re still young.” “Hiding in priestly robes and claiming to go for sermons—your frequenting of Ichijō Tomonari’s inner quarters was well executed. But you likely don’t know that Lady Tokiwa has an uncle in Fushimi named Toba Kura whom she can’t sever ties with.” “I’ve glimpsed him once or twice myself—a sharp-eyed, base-looking man at first glance.” “Back when Lady Tokiwa was under investigation, this uncle—despite owing his position to the Minamoto clan’s favor—secretly informed Rokuhara. For that treachery, he was rewarded: now he struts about with forty or fifty samurai at his beck, playing the loyal hound at the Taira’s tribunal—a despicable wretch! And this very same uncle still slinks into Ichijō Tomonari’s mansion reeking of liquor, pretending kinship.”

“Oh…” “Then, could that be the uncle who previously informed on Lady Tokiwa?” “He often comes visiting for leisure—there’s a warrior named Kaneda Toba Kura Masatake in his fifties.” “Originally a cowherd without even a family name—he bundled up his lord’s child and own niece to sell them to the enemy. With that merit, he’s now grafted himself that imposing name.” “This one reeks. I’ve thought so from the start—but as an entry gift for joining the tengu’s ranks and proof of my undivided loyalty to the Minamoto clan—I’ll dispose of that Toba Kura for you.”

“What do you mean by ‘take care of’?” “Well.” “Just wait and see.” “Kōgon-san, let’s meet again afterward.” “Though I might not return this year due to business matters.” “……Then again next year.” By the time he finished speaking, Yoshikichi’s figure was already sinking into the depths of the darkness—from Sanneizaka toward Gojō no Kubo, he had vanished like the wind.

It was a humid evening in early June, after the rainy season had passed, when the fresh green leaves had suddenly begun to deepen in color.

A fire broke out in Sajou Ushikoji. The area was densely packed with small houses in neighborhoods like Shichijōbōmon, Shiokōji, and Yanagikōji—yet what burned down was a single samurai residence serving Rokuhara. It was the home of Kaneda Toba Kura Masatake. That too was peculiar. Even stranger was how Toba Kura’s entire household had been slaughtered and reduced to ashes—but wait, just as one thought so, there at Rokujō Riverbed, dangling like a tasseled ornament from a willow branch amidst the leafy boughs, hung Toba Kura’s head, untouched by flames.

To the first bloody commotion in a long time, even the ox-drawn carriages of idle court nobles came to spectate. And beneath that willow, their eyes also caught sight of the head mound from the Heiji Rebellion—now a decade past—swathed in riverbank mugwort. When night fell, fireflies flitted over the mound, among the willows, and above the water. Around the time of that commotion, the large merchant convoy from Oshu gathered at the vacant lot in Sanjō as they did every year, departed from Keage to Ōtsu, and returned to their distant homeland.

Child of the Mountains

One

The tree buds began to blush red. Spring had arrived.

The haze enveloping the mountains around Kurama was tinged with pale red.

This year was the second year of Jōan.

Ushiwaka turned fourteen. He was a child of the mountains, raised there since the age of seven. He inherited his blood from Yoshitomo and his spirit from the mountain ranges. Moreover. The monks of Kurama were reputed to be no less formidable than the militant monks of Enryaku-ji and Nanto. In the mountains, there was even an arsenal. The entire mountain community might as well have been warrior monks. Even in ordinary times, they walked around carrying naginata. In that environment, Ushiwaka, the child of the mountains, had been thoroughly bullied for seven years without anyone to protect him. Like a snowdrop that cannot help but sprout from beneath the snow, no matter how much piled up, he had turned fourteen.

His frame was small but sturdy. Yet this was no stunted smallness - his face stayed sharply defined with tightly drawn features. Round grape-like eyes peered out beneath perpetually disheveled hair that resisted all attempts at taming into something more than a bird's nest. His feet remained perpetually bare, his hakama trousers and kosode robe endlessly fraying at every seam. Even the temple monks likened him to an incorrigible flying squirrel. But this state suited him naturally. Among the mountains, none showed special reverence for his lineage - they saw only a child fated to be raised among these peaks until death. Though many children his age roamed these slopes, whenever Ushiwaka stood out slightly from the others during their games, the monks would occasionally remark—

"That's Yoshitomo's child," they would say. Even if someone occasionally pointed at him and uttered such words,

“Hmm.” “Yoshitomo’s offspring?” They would only nod in response. Even toward the present-day Taira clan, the mountain monks never truly submitted in their hearts. As for the fallen Minamoto clan, they did not so much as glance at them like scattered cherry blossoms.

Moreover, Ushiwaka was not a child people pitied. For despite his small stature, he possessed a fierce countenance. “We need to make that brat cry his eyes out at least once.” Even though there were monks who hated him, “Poor little child.” There was no one who pitied him with words like “poor little child.” He remained unfazed. Ushiwaka’s daily existence seemed to declare through his actions: though he dwelled in the mountains, he did not live among the monks. Today was no different. Since morning, Lord Shanaō had not been seen. Lord Shanaō was the name his teacher Tōkōbō Rennin had given him in recent years.

“Alright.” “Now’s the time.” Three or four monks went out to search. They must have been determined to catch him and teach him a lesson. At the mountain gate of Jūōdō Hall, they waited. They had been waiting there, assuming he had gone down to the foothills, but Ushiwaka came up from the back mountain valley. One of them quickly spotted him, “Shana—!” He called out to stop him. He was fourteen in traditional reckoning, but he looked no more than eleven or twelve. He was still barefoot and covered in mud. It was only in recent years that his nose stopped running.

“What…?” To the nonchalant face of the returning figure, “What do you think you’re saying?! There are plenty of children here, but none as insolent toward their elders as you brat!” One of them snarled. “…………” Ushiwaka bit his nails. His nostrils were blackened all the way up, but the bridge of his nose was delicate and slightly upturned, bearing a faint resemblance to his mother Tokiwa.

Two

Glaring at Ushiwaka, “Where have you been?” When one monk interrogated him, the others gathered around and looked down from above his head, threatening his small frame. “Hey, Shana! Why are you silent? Why won’t you answer?” Then Ushiwaka retorted sharply, his lips pursed in protest as if to say there was no reason for him to be scolded. “I haven’t been anywhere at all.” “I’m right here, aren’t I?” “Stop lying! You weren’t here.”

“I was here.” “This brat.” Switching the naginata from his right hand to his left, he reached toward Ushiwaka’s collar—but Ushiwaka stepped back, “I was properly in the mountains, yet you say I wasn’t—is it acceptable for monks to lie?” He snapped back. The monks seethed, “You just came up from the back mountain valley right now, didn’t you?” “Since morning, you haven’t shown your face even at the main hall—and yet you claim you were here?” “Say…”

“What?” “I was in the mountains!” Ushiwaka squared his shoulders. “……” The monks’ faces froze in astonishment—they wore exasperated looks, utterly speechless. “—As long as I stay on this mountain, that’s enough, isn’t it? Both Master and the Rokuhara forces strictly forbade me from going beyond the foothills, so I haven’t left. I’ve obeyed every order perfectly—what exactly have I done wrong?”

A hawk’s chick is born with the defiant bones of its kind. This defiant spirit had witnessed the fires of the Heiji Rebellion in the year of his birth, drawn from his mother’s breast her indomitable will forged through countless trials, and was now being pounded and kneaded by Kurama’s peaks and its warrior monks into something ever more fierce. Yet he lacked both the social grace to cloak this ferocity and the years to know fear. To say he didn’t know—he didn’t even know the world beyond this mountain. The people of the world existed only as faint memories from before he turned seven. What he gradually came to know was,

Why am I not allowed to take even a single step beyond this mountain? That was the question.

The reason gradually became clear to him—in truth, it was he himself who was steering his own life into perilous waters. The strict surveillance grew even stricter. And his inborn defiant soul, too, was being nurtured by that environment. “I won’t let this slide today!”

Brandishing the hilt of his naginata, the monk suddenly struck Ushiwaka.

Ushiwaka failed to escape and was struck hard around the waist, “Ouch!” he cried out while falling.

“Ouch!” he cried out as he fell. “That’ll teach you.” The monks’ high clogs and wooden sandals stomped on his back. Ushiwaka, frustrated, clung to their hairy shins but was bound tightly with coarse rope.

“Drag him here!” One monk ordered another and strode ahead. He was dragged all the way beneath Bishamon Hall. Because he refused to cry, the monks’ fury grew fiercer in their punishment. “This will do.”

One monk looked up at the bell tower and spoke. They hoisted him up and bound him to one of the square pillars. Then they hammered a board atop the pillar and departed.

When they left, Ushiwaka twisted his body and looked up at the text on the board.—His usually defiant eyes held a tinge of sorrow. The rope must not be untied without permission. Punishment according to mountain regulations. Tōkōbō Duty Monk Ryōhan it read.

III

After returning to Chūin, the monks led by Ryōhan promptly reported to Ushiwaka’s teacher, Tōkōbō. “We are entrusted by Rokuhara,” they said, “but Lord Shanaō’s conduct has grown intolerable.” “As punishment, we have bound him to the bell tower. We ask your understanding.” The Ajari listened. “……Hmph.” “Is that so.”

He merely laughed. This old monk alone had never yet scolded Ushiwaka. The Ajari was spoiling him. There were even those who said such things.

Night fell. When they heard Lord Shanaō had been bound, the other young acolytes in Chūin— “Shall we go see?” —came together as if drawn by personal concern, gathering to peer up at the bell tower. Ushiwaka leaned against the pillar, gazing vacantly at crimson evening clouds. “Shana.” “Did they tie you up?” “What happened?” “Will you be here tonight too?” “Why won’t you apologize?”

Gradually drawing closer, his friends spoke with comforting expressions, but Ushiwaka— “Go on, get away.—Get away!” He seemed to hate being seen in such a state; he shook his head and suddenly put on a strong face.

Somewhere, far away,

“Don’t go near there!” “Anyone who approaches Shana will be tied up along with him!” “There are still three pillars left!” The monk’s shouting voice rang out. The young acolytes scrambled away in all directions.

As the people around him disappeared and the sun set, it grew completely dark. From Kurama, about twelve kilometers away, the lights of Kyoto dimly flickered, three or four in number.

Far away, faintly, they glimmered. Ah... That place with the lights. Ushiwaka sighed. I want to see her. And he recalled. He could no longer endure it. To his mother, Tokiwa—it was. He felt like dragging both the temple bell and bell tower as he walked there—his mind raced, and the blood throughout his body raged. But—he knew full well he was fated never to meet her. At seven years old. Even before then, he had already been officially listed as a ward of Kurama Temple—but it was in the spring when he turned seven that they finally took him to Kurama.

At that time, the parting words spoken by his mother—owing to his childish mind—he could not clearly remember them, but the sadness alone he could not faintly forget.

He also dimly remembered the figure of his mother, who had been crying since the previous night. In front of the Kurama monks who had come to retrieve him and the Rokuhara officials, from his mother— “You are no longer my child. I am no longer your mother.”

The single set of words spoken to him had been so deeply imprinted into his young mind that he would likely never forget them even in his lifetime. So whenever he thought of his mother, those words would immediately pierce upward from the depths of his heart like a drill bit. But it’s not that Mother is at fault. It was the Taira clan that tore me and Mother apart. From around the time he came to understand this, he was no longer an ordinary child. At the same time, he yearned to know keenly the manner of death of the man who was his father. And when he finally learned, he raised the corners of his eyes,

“Damn heavens!” he shouted toward the clouds. At that moment, something lodged heavily into his young chest. While biting his lips and shedding tears profusely, in his belly swelled a heart that feared not even heaven.

Valley and Sky

1

In *The Pillow Book*, there was a passage: "Things near yet far—the zigzagging path of Kurama..." Once the sun set, there were none who traveled through. If any did pass, they would be Hiei warrior monks clutching great naginatas or perhaps monkeys. Moreover, it was believed that ferocious bandits still roamed the foothills of Ichiharano. Legends such as Minamoto no Yorimitsu slaying Kidōmaru and tales of highwaymen found in *Chōmonshū* had all become associated with this area, their stories seeping into the minds of villagers and travelers alike.

Even the main foothill entrance was like that.

The pathless back mountains and valleys became almost a world of imagination. In Sōjōga Valley—located ten *chō* northwest of Kurama Temple—there had resided since ancient times a tengu called Tarōbō; and when light shone through the clouds from that place, the villagers firmly feared and believed 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 suffer divine punishment! Yet despite such warnings being common knowledge among villagers—what manner of fool was this?—a lone man descended a pathless peak into the dark abyss.

“Tsk….” “Damn it!” From time to time, the man probed the ground at his feet and threw stones into the treetops. It must have been monkeys. The sound of them noisily scampering from treetop to treetop grew intense. As the man slid down the cliff as if fleeing, they pursued him once more.

“Tsk… There’s no end to this!”

Clicking his tongue in frustration, the man sat down halfway down the cliff. He untied the black cloth covering his head, wiped his sweat, then rewrapped it around his face. It was Yoshikichi of Oshu. He wore straw sandals with fastened shin guards and tied-up sleeves. With a leather-hilted field sword at his waist—his keenly alert eyes and agile limbs making him appear as reckless as any bandit—he waited. When the monkeys’ cries faded, a low roar surged upward from the valley depths to buffet his face—the cold wind lashing against sheer cliffs and the mountain stream’s thunderous rush.

“Hmm. Since evening, all I’ve encountered are still just monkeys. As expected, just as Kōgon had dismissed—the rumors were merely rumors after all.” Yoshikichi muttered and looked up at the stars. He seemed to be assessing his bearings and confirming the path he had taken. Without a doubt, he thought, this below must be Sōjōga Valley. If this was Sōjōga Valley, he should have encountered them by now—and yet he still hadn’t. However, what he had come here expecting was not a tengu. They were humans. To ascertain whether the widely held rumors of high society or his own scrutinizing observations were correct, he had come to the capital earlier than usual this spring—just as he had the previous year and the year before that—

*This year—this year without fail—* *This year—this year without fail.)*

It was to resolve this long-cherished yet unfulfilled task—one that had gone unaddressed over time—that he had mustered his courage and come here.

It had already been three years. They had once captured Kōgon of Chion-in and nearly grasped the thread of a certain secret, but at that time, when they carelessly trusted Kōgon’s promise to meet there again the following night and disclose everything—only to wait through the next evening—Kōgon had, the very next day, taken his own life with grim finality on Chion-in’s back mountain. Dead men tell no tales. It had to end there—but Yoshikichi was not one to abandon his once-held ambitions and suspicions toward Kurama over something as trivial as Kōgon’s death.

Two

Shibuya Kinnōmaru and Kamata Saburō Masachika sat together on a massive rock. In Sōjōga Valley, this spot had always been fixed as the meeting place whenever comrades gathered. Peaks in every direction stood cloaked in primordial pines and cedars. The Maōdō—known as the tengu shrine—perched atop one such peak. Beneath their feet, a mountain stream gnawed at jagged rocks, its roaring voice swallowing the valley whole. “……” Both men kept silent. Kinnōmaru stared at the stars; Saburō watched the water. Each found himself in precarious circumstances. They belonged to those called Minamoto remnants—men who since the Heiji Rebellion could no longer stride boldly beneath open skies.

However, the vines in the shade burned with dreams of stretching toward the sun. Grief and indignation were now things of the distant past. After over ten years of life in the shadows, they found their own way to survive there, could connect with others sharing their plight, and precisely because of their adversity fostered a resilient fighting spirit—and even hope.

“They seem to have come.” Saburō whispered. Kinnōmaru also turned his gaze.

From the darkness of the opposite ravine, shadowy figures moved together like a troop of monkeys under the stars of the mountain stream, leaping across the water as they came along the rocks. Three... four... seven and then. Most were dressed as commoners, with a few warriors mixed in, but many appeared to be woodcutters or hunters. There were also men who appeared to be mountain ascetics.

“We’re late.” “Nei, Ogino, and two or three others are coming from behind.” Surrounding the two who had arrived first, they formed a circle atop a massive boulder before settling onto nearby rocks as they pleased. “Who has come for tonight’s gathering?” When one man asked, Saburō Masachika replied, “It was my turn to attend, but due to the route arrangements for inviting Lord Shibuya, I had the Young Lord of Hakata go in my stead. He should be bringing them here shortly.”

he said.

As if waiting for that person, they were engrossed in idle talk. Whatever they might say, there was nothing to hold back here—yet no one puffed out their chests to make grand proclamations. There was no one who pointlessly disparaged the Taira clan's golden age and twisted themselves with resentment. It was all utterly carefree small talk. They exchanged banter among friends and laughed together. The gatherings in this valley had convened several times a month in this manner. Each time, there wasn't exactly an abundance of fresh incidents or new intelligence about the Taira. It was enough, first and foremost, for them to confirm each other's safety. Moreover, they were protecting and educating Ushiwaka—the late Yoshitomo's surviving son at Kurama Temple—from afar, and awaiting the day of his coming of age for what was to come.

(—It is precisely this Lord Kazuko whom we must raise and nurture.) And so, nurturing this single seedling called Ushiwaka and watching him grow had become both their shared joy and the very heart of their covenant. Several times a month, welcoming the young lord there, Yoshitomo’s former retainers each drew upon their own expertise to take on the duty of instructing Ushiwaka. There were those who lectured on histories from antiquity to nurture Ushiwaka’s brilliance as a military commander, taught military strategy, and recounted the origins of the Minamoto clan up to Yoshitomo’s era—all to instill in him, from an early age, an understanding of what he truly was. At other times, they would take wooden practice swords and deliberately surround the young lord alone, driving into him—almost to excess—both an unyielding spirit and physical training.

The group’s expectations were not betrayed. Ushiwaka, from the strict Kurama monastery, seemed to look forward to the nights when he would come here, waiting for everyone to fall asleep.

III

“They’re late.” “Not like other days.” Finally, when the conversation in this valley had run dry enough that people began murmuring and grew conscious of time’s passage, “He’s here! He honors us with his presence.” declared a man who had been standing watch atop the rock.

The Young Lord of Hakata, who had gone to fetch Ushiwaka, soon came running here. However, Ushiwaka, whom the people had been eagerly awaiting, was not with him.

In bewilderment, Saburō Masachika, Kinnōmaru, and the others all raised their voices in unison, “Huh? Where is the Young Lord?” “Where is the Young Lord?” When they asked, the Young Lord of Hakata replied, “Well then. “The Young Lord has been beaten by monks who’ve long resented him. Today they claimed discipline required binding him to a pillar of the bell tower—that’s why we were delayed.” “What? Bound to the bell tower?” The crowd paled, anxiety swelling like a jewel cracking in their clenched palms.

“Speak in more detail.” “That alone isn’t clear.” “Calm down and speak.” Kinnōmaru reprimanded him. The shock they had all received was so great that he could see they were on the verge of erupting into needless commotion.

“Yes, the matter stands thus.”

The Young Lord of Hakata conveyed the unvarnished story he had heard directly from Ushiwaka himself at that bell tower, and— “When I untied his bonds and tried to bring him here regardless, the Young Lord said, ‘It would be better not to go to the valley tonight.’” “For at some hour in the middle of the night, the monks who bound me will surely come to inspect the bell tower.” “For if my figure is not seen at that time, the Rokuhara custodians will surely raise an uproar across the entire mountain, claiming I have fled into obscurity—and there is no telling whether their inquiries might even extend to our allies who gather in the valley.” “...If I endure just one night’s hardship, tomorrow the bonds will be loosened—it is not a matter of life and death.” “Please convey to everyone that they need not worry... Those were his words.”

“Ah! So he declared that the exposure of our group is more critical than his own suffering?” Saburō Masachika and Kinnōmaru stood transfixed, deeply moved, their eyes fixed on the black shadow of Kurama’s peak. A stifled sob rose from the crowd. Ushiwaka’s words—sparked by this divine trial—were both joyous and agonizing to hear. At once, seeing how their devotion had borne fruit—how the sapling they had nurtured now stood firm—they suddenly felt their chests tighten with emotion.

“There is no alternative. For now, we shall await another opportunity—but let two or three of us ensure no harm comes to the Young Lord.”

“You needn’t concern yourselves. We shall stay by his side in secret and stand guard through the night.” Four or five men declared in unison.

Shibuya, Nagata, and the others each began to disband the gathering and part ways.

Then, suddenly, one man barked out a shout. “Huh?! Who’s there? Someone’s here!” “What?!” At the sound of the voice, those who had started to leave wheeled around and surged forward like a black tide toward its source. From the shadow of a rock, the one who had spotted him lunged ahead and wrestled a man to the ground as though tackling a wild boar barehanded. “Drag him out! Drag him out!”

The area was narrow, so those who couldn’t get close spoke up. Understanding, they grabbed him by the collar and wrists, dragging him with a scraping sound toward the stream’s glimmering water until they pulled him out. “He’s a Rokuhara spy.” The group surrounded him, glaring with eyes like tengu at the man now groveling on the ground.

Four

Blunder. I failed to escape.

Yoshikichi, deep in his heart, thought *I’ve messed up* while pressing his face to the ground, shrinking his body as much as possible, and feigning meekness.

And he persisted— (Those around me are not humans but true tengu.) He strove to convince himself of this. For if he were to think of them as humans, there was no guarantee that his innate fearlessness wouldn’t surface. Having ranged from Oshu to Kyoto, Yoshikichi had always told people that he had never met a human being in this world who was frightening. But now, because he knew that showing his true face would get him killed on the spot,

“I-I’m… a t-traveler… not used to traveling through mountains… I-I’ve… l-lost my way…” “Y-yes… I am someone who’s always honest in my dealings…”

He clasped his hands together and pretended to pray. Chanting “Lord Tengu, Lord Tengu” like a spell while bowing to each of their shadows, he feigned terror with trembling limbs. Kinnōmaru and Saburō Masachika’s companions snickered. The rumors from the village had spread so widely that even travelers now believed they were tengu—a situation both amusing to them and precisely what they had intended. “Shh…” With that, someone gently tugged the sleeves of those laughing, and the people instantly resumed being tengu.

“You’re not from Rokuhara, then.” “Then where did you come from?” “I am... I am a mere packhorse driver hired by the Oshu merchant group.” “What business brings you to this sacred mountain?” “I was accompanying my master to make an offering at Kibune Shrine, but I became separated from him.” “So you got lost in the wrong direction while searching for your master?” “Yes… Yessir.” “Yessir.” Because Yoshikichi’s exaggerated performance looked utterly comical, one of the tengu, unable to hold back any longer, burst out laughing. To cover for that, the other tengu,

“What a pitiful creature—a human who lets out a voice as faint as an insect’s.” With that, they raised their voices in unison and burst into laughter that echoed through the valley.

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

One tengu said to a large-bodied tengu.

The Great Tengu solemnly said, “He appears to be a man of no consequence.” “The crime of violating this valley is unforgivable, but spare his life and cast him back into the world.” “How do we cast him back?” “As you see fit.”

“Understood.”

“Wait. Before that—strip him naked and thoroughly inspect his belongings first.” “Before that—strip him naked and thoroughly inspect his belongings first.”

“Right!” Yoshikichi was stripped naked in an instant. Fortunately, he carried nothing that might seem suspicious. Yet when someone’s faded crimson Buddhist robe—though whose it was he couldn’t tell—was yanked over his head and coarse ropes wound tightly around him, even Yoshikichi felt his courage turn to ice. As death seemed imminent, he resolved to confess his true identity and reveal his connection to Kōgon of Chion-in. But knowing Kōgon had died by suicide under mysterious circumstances, he feared mentioning that name might doom him faster than silence.

“Cast him back into the world,” they had decreed. Since this oracle had been pronounced, he might endure some pain, but it wouldn’t endanger his life—Yoshikichi closed his eyes with this thought. Soon his body was hoisted onto someone’s shoulders. They raced like a stormwind—leaping mountain streams, dashing through valleys, scaling cliffs—until he felt himself drifting through the clouds.

The next morning. The shrine keepers and villagers of Kibune Shrine were astonished. They looked up to see a human figure wrapped in an old crimson Buddhist robe hanging from the treetop of a tall tree beside the torii with coarse rope. Of course, deeming this a human who had incurred the wrath of the tengu, the head priest rushed into the shrine to offer sacred lights, conducted a half-hour ritual, and then—with a large group—lowered him from the tree.

Mountain Festival

Part I

That autumn. It was around the time when Yoshikichi of Oshu had already returned to his home province.

A disturbance occurred in Kurama Valley. Before even the locals knew what was happening, three to four hundred Rokuhara soldiers entered from Sanjikigatake and Kumogahata and surrounded Sōjōga Valley. The battle cries of the tengu and the battle cries of humans clashed, echoing against each other.

After that, the villagers— (A great number of tengu heads had been displayed—) went out of their way to travel all the way to the distant upper reaches of Kamo to see them. And the stories they told upon returning— (They looked just like humans) so they said. The cause of this was said to stem from someone secretly reporting to Rokuhara via written accusation. At Kurama Monastery, this temporarily sparked various debates—even discussions about Superintendent Ren'nin taking responsibility—but in essence, The root of the problem was that they hadn’t made Ushiwaka take the tonsure sooner.

they arrived at the conclusion that going forward, while strictly monitoring his conduct and absolutely severing all external communications, the best course was to seize any opportunity to shave Ushiwaka’s head as soon as possible. Having settled on this course of action, they expressed profound gratitude and contrition to Rokuhara, and thus managed to have the matter overlooked. The problem lay in Ushiwaka’s ordination and tonsure ceremony. Even if he himself ardently desired it, ordination and precept-bestowal required meeting age requirements, qualifications in training, and adhering to strict monastic regulations. In the minds of the monks, who took pride in prioritizing the regulations of their monastic order over the governmental decrees of the time,

(The sooner, the better.) Even though they thought it best to do it as soon as possible, putting it into practice was accompanied by various difficulties.

To make matters worse, Ushiwaka himself had no intention of taking monastic vows, his conduct was utterly neglectful of his studies, and his teacher Ren’nin— (Well, it’s fine. Well, it’s fine.) —remained as lenient as ever. While they had since become strict about completely cutting off external communications and not allowing him to take a single step alone from Nakanoin, the matter of shaving his head continued to drag on indefinitely.

But—that too would not last long. It was the spring of the second year. Superintendent Ren'nin called him and told him: “Shana, you have already turned sixteen.” “This year, you must shave your head.” “You claim to dislike becoming a monk—but by now you should understand your ordained destiny, your upbringing, and these times.” “Resign yourself to entering the Buddhist priesthood. Become Amida’s disciple and abandon this wild heart.” “Is that clear?” “Yes…”

“What are you crying for?” “And at sixteen years old!” “M-Master…” “What’s wrong?” “I understand…” “But it pains me so.” Ushiwaka bent his left arm to his face and wept convulsively. “If I take vows… must I part with this black hair? With these beautiful-sleeved robes?” “That much is obvious. How long will you cling to childhood?”

“Please,” “Wait until Kurama’s mountain festival.” “Once May passes, I will take vows.” “Why must you refuse until then?” “On the festival day, countless pilgrims climb the mountain.” “I cannot bear to be seen then.” “As I do every year—let me tie my hair in a child’s topknot and wear fine robes one last time… Just this final year.” “As farewell… Master.” “Please wait until that day ends.”

In the end, he was sobbing uncontrollably. Ren'nin was gazing at his form with a look of bewilderment—but recalling the sentiment he too had felt in his own boyhood days,

“Then it’s decided.” “Once May passes, I’ll brook no objections!” he pressed.

II

The rainy season had ended, and blighted leaves lay sodden on the mountain ground. The song of the first cicadas hung faint in the air. At the inner shrine of Mount Kibune—where visitors were ordinarily scarce—there lingered a sense that someone had just clapped hands in prayer and departed from near the worship hall. “Priest?” A traveler peered into the entrance of the priest’s residence and called out.

“Is... anyone here?” “Is there really no one here?”

After a while, “Is someone there?” An old priest who appeared to have been napping emerged leisurely and— “Ah! The Oshu merchant.” “It’s been too long.” “I’ve come up to the capital again this year.” “You’ve come at last.” “Come in, come in.” “Forgive the intrusion.” After washing his feet, Yoshikichi was ushered into a room and made himself comfortable. “I’ll be direct. Given this mountain shrine’s remoteness, bringing bulky gifts seemed impractical. Though impertinent of me, please accept this toward the shrine’s repair expenses—if only as a token contribution.”

and presented a sealed bag of gold as a donation.

The priest narrowed his eyes,

“Well, this is most generous.” “Last year and the year before as well, you’ve given such substantial donations.” “Not at all. For me, this honorable shrine is the guardian deity who protects my life.” “Even recalling it sends shivers down my spine—when I encountered a tengu two years ago, I was on the verge of losing my life, but you saved me. This meager offering doesn’t even amount to one ten-thousandth of the debt I owe for your kindness.” “Truly… that was quite an ordeal you endured back then.”

“To have been hung from a tree nearly six meters tall close to midnight—that was truly a first in my life.” “No one forgets such an experience… But soon after, Rokuhara’s forces launched their tengu hunts. They lined the riverbank below with severed heads left exposed for days—among them faces I thought I recognized. Charcoal burners and hunters from these mountains, their features so altered you could scarcely tell.” “Some began whispering those weren’t tengu at all, but Lord Yoshitomo’s old Minamoto retainers… though such talk didn’t last.” “What were they truly—tengu, rebels—that I encountered in Sōjōga Valley?”

“Absolutely not—they were no humans!” Yoshikichi dismissed this with exaggerated emphasis, “First of all, just think—if they were Minamoto remnants, why would they bother capturing a nobody like me and hanging me from that great tree beside the torii here?” “Delighting in such fiendish acts is something tengu often do.” “I, too, along with the villagers, believe it to be the work of tengu, but…” “If the Rokuhara forces failed to slay real tengu, it would cast doubt on the illustrious Lord Taira no Kiyomori’s might. So they must have proclaimed those heads of woodcutters and hunters—mountain men of lowly birth—to be tengu and displayed them.”

“I see.” “Though called a man of Oshu, you prove an unexpectedly wise thinker.” “There can be no doubt it is exactly as you say.” “By the way... Priest.” “What is it?” “On this occasion, I have a small request—might I trouble you to hear it?” “Hoh... A request for me?” “On my way to the capital, many companions became entangled in troublesome quarrels—the commotion is unbearable.” “For half a month, I wish to take refuge here and recuperate somewhat. Might you spare an available room?”

Three It had been a three-year-long plan. He believed that by wielding his business acumen—which had always staked its luck on and conquered difficult, large-scale ventures—this plan too, though requiring patience, would not prove overly arduous. Moreover, taking every precaution and thoroughly considering even future complications, after returning to Oshu Hiraizumi two years prior and receiving various commercial commissions while interacting with Fujiwara no Hidehira’s inner circle as if he were a stipendiary vassal, he had secretly broached his plan—

(His Lordship found it most intriguing. However, it would not do for the world to perceive this as the Fujiwara clan’s scheme. It must appear solely as my own initiative—or that Ushiwaka himself fled from the Taira’s grasp and, with nowhere else to turn, sought refuge with the Fujiwara clan by his own will. In that case, His Lordship declared he would extend full protection.) Such was the Fujiwara clan’s collective will. This work had confirmed matters up to that point.

Moreover, the reason he had gone so far as to secure such a firm commitment was also due to his own foresight. (The Fujiwara of Oshu maintained an outward appearance of calm within their sphere of influence, but they were hardly pleased with the ascendancy of the Taira clan or Chancellor Kiyomori’s autocratic ways.) Rather, they feared its expansion. However, they also wanted to avoid direct confrontation at all costs. What they secretly desired was for the Minamoto and Taira clans’ power to balance each other. If the two clans kept each other occupied in the central provinces, Oshu could build up their resources, maintain peace, and even expand westward beyond their current borders.)

This was common knowledge not only within the Fujiwara clan but among all classes in Oshu who possessed even minimal awareness of such matters. Thus Yoshikichi’s plan—a mere pebble cast to stir great waves in the capital—had obtained silent assent from Hiraizumi’s halls.

“Master Yoshikichi.” “You don’t seem bored at all these days, do you?”

Since lending him a room at the shrine priests’ quarters, more than half a month had already passed. With the cicadas’ song as his hand pillow, Yoshikichi lay alone,

“Ah, I dozed off.” He stretched and sat up, “As you’ve surmised, I’ve grown rather bored.” “But for humans, rarely experiencing boredom isn’t such a bad thing.” “Staying here at the mountain and thinking it over, I realize that a merchant like myself has been far too unaccustomed to boredom in my daily life.” “Day and night, I can’t stop thinking about gambling, you know.” “Hahahaha.” “Here, even if you have money, there’s nothing to be done with it.”

“I’ve grown frightened.” “I must gradually take my leave from this mountain.” “What has made you frightened?” “As you just observed—when I’m too far removed from matters of money and worldly desires, I find myself assailed by something akin to a bodhi mind. My innate wickedness fades excessively.” “If that diminishes, my merchant spirit weakens.” “Now, do take your ease.” “Before long comes the Kurama Festival...” “Ah yes—what day was that again?”

“It falls on the twentieth day of this month.”

“Then that’s already the day after tomorrow.” “With the once-a-year crowds, not only people from nearby villages but even pilgrims from the capital can be seen in great numbers.” “Then I’ll watch that and take my leave.”

Even before that, he had occasionally gone out alone. He had spoken of having recently visited places like Ryūō Falls and even gone as far as Hotaruishi, but the priest had taken his words at face value and never once doubted where he had gone.

The twentieth day arrived. That day, he stayed in his room all day—but on the morning of the festival’s midpoint,

“Depending on how things go, I may watch the Kurama Festival and then take my leave.” With that, he gave his greetings and left.

IV

At the mountain festival, it was Kurama’s young acolytes who were wildly frolicking without restraint.

For even these heavenly peaks were now thronged with crowds no different from the world below, and this remote mountain had taken on hues indistinguishable from the mundane realm. Ushiwaka too was among them. "Shana! Shana!"

At the thunderous clatter of footsteps echoing through the great corridor, one of the monks emerged from the duty priest’s quarters and barked a reprimand. “Yes, sir!” “What is it?” The seven or eight acolytes who had been rampaging about all clustered together and turned around. Their looped hair, sleeves dyed in dawn hues, gold-thread embroidery, and deep purple hakama trousers were perfectly uniform—yet being mountain-born through and through, they wiped sweat and scrubbed their noses with those very sleeves, reducing the carefully applied white powder and eyebrow ink to a farcical mess.

“What do you mean, ‘What is it?’?! You lot are supposed to wait quietly in attendance for Acharya-sama and be ready to serve!”

"A guest from the capital has come to Acharya-sama’s quarters, and he ordered that if we were waiting in attendance, we should go somewhere far away for a while because we’d be too noisy." "So we all played together."

“Shana.” “Aren’t you sixteen already? You’re the eldest among these acolytes—what’s this slovenly appearance?” “Fix your collar.” “Yes.” “If Acharya-sama tells you to withdraw for a private discussion, you should go wait quietly in a distant corridor.” “Shana—at your age, there’s no excuse for not knowing this.” “This mountain festival isn’t meant for the likes of you!” “I understand.” The scoldings had become all too familiar—both for the one giving them and the one receiving. Ushiwaka turned to his young companions,

“Let’s go over there.” He pointed and was about to stomp off when once more, a monk from behind— “Didn’t I tell you not to run?!” “Walk quietly.” —snapped angrily.

Hanging their heads, the acolytes slowly turned the corridor and went on. When they turned that corner, the Kannondō and Sōjōbō's temple complex embraced a wide courtyard. At the edge of the Kannondō's veranda, several bundles of thick green bamboo were piled up. Soon, there, the mountain's monastic community would hold a Buddhist ceremony, and afterward, these were the preparations for conducting an event called the bamboo-cutting ritual. Moreover, come evening, they would seat a single layperson from the village in Sōjōbō's main hall and publicly demonstrate their spiritual power by cursing someone to death and reviving them through incantations.—With crowds awaiting these events and pilgrims streaming up the mountain one after another, the air grew thick with the rare stench of humanity.

Then. In the midst of that human whirlpool, there was a playful man who imitated a bird’s cry. Ushiwaka abruptly halted at the corridor corner, his eyes scanning for the voice’s source. “……?” The man who had mimicked the bird call ducked his head once, but while watching Ushiwaka’s figure from afar, he now thrust a hand above the human wave.

Yoshikichi’s face appeared there.

Ushiwaka, upon finding his face, “Yeah. Later.” With that, he gave a single nod and chased after the other acolytes, darting off with terrifying swiftness. Eventually, as the bamboo-cutting ritual concluded and the daytime bustle cooled slightly beneath the white evening star, the mountain began raising countless crimson flames of great bonfires within boundless darkness.

V

In the main hall of Bishamondō, a layman had been made to sit alone. Apart from the wild monk—who claimed he would demonstrate his power to control life and death through spiritual force—rubbing his prayer beads and fervently chanting some incantation, the vast floor lay desolate, with only the faint flicker of lamplight causing two shadows to waver indistinctly in the dimness.

But. From the corridor just outside to the wide courtyard, countless human figures were packed so densely in the sweltering night that they appeared as a solid black mass. Moreover, they were quietly observing the test of spiritual power inside the hall. Even the mountain’s monks and acolytes were holding their breath; on this night, all had gathered there completely. This ritual of cursing to death and cursing to life—though it was something performed every year—each year, the crowd would still fix their eyes in drunken fascination on the mysterious power of the incantations.

The wild monk under the curse had tied the sleeves of his robe behind his back, pressed his prayer beads, and—now as if possessed by a tengu—hoarsened his throat from chanting sutras, formed hand seals, and was loudly rebuking the layman undergoing the death curse.

Then.

Gyaaah! A scream tore through the air—as if someone had ripped into the thigh of a living hawk. It wasn’t that man. Nor was it the monk who had formed the hand seals. The direction from which the bizarre scream had come seemed to be right above this Bishamondō’s roof—no, even farther away, perhaps the distant mountain path on the back ridge.

“Huh…?” “Hm…?” The monk, who had nearly been possessed by a tengu, and the man who had been entranced by the spell’s power, both snapped their eyes open as if waking from a trance, looking around in bewilderment. No sooner had this happened than—

Thudding, from the mountain path near the back of the hall, a torrent of footsteps came crashing down. Not knowing what it was—merely, “Huh?!” “What’s that?!” As the monks in the corridor all sprang to their feet, the crowd filling the garden burst into commotion, surging back and forth. The metallic reek of blood—the scent humans recognize most acutely—spread like spilled ink, swift and directionless. On the mountain path immediately above Bishamondō stood a single barrier. Officials from the foot of the mountain had been coming in shifts to stand guard. Given that security was especially tight during the festival, several dozen Rokuhara samurai had come to the mountain and were supposed to be keeping watch at each barrier.

The guards came fleeing, covered in blood.

And then, they shouted loudly like this: “An acolyte has escaped! —The one wearing a white robe—” When they heard “acolyte,” “It’s Shana!” The mountain’s monks said in unison. They had all been thinking the same thing all along. But given that they had been watching Ushiwaka—who, even at sixteen, remained as petulant as a spoiled child, showing no trace of maturity— (Someday such a thing would happen) While they had harbored such premonitions, they had ultimately been too indulgent toward his mischievousness, viewing him too much as a child.

“There, catch him!” When the commotion erupted, the wounded guards once again—

“He’s not alone! A strong-armed man accompanies him! Stay vigilant!” The wounded guards shouted their warning from behind the monks racing forward. This was no longer about testing spiritual powers. Mountains bellowed and valleys echoed. Torch flames darted through patches of darkness everywhere.

“So… he’s finally gone.”

Alone.

Only Ajari Rennin, Ushiwaka’s teacher, sat alone in the now-empty hall and muttered those words. Was he praying for the departed one’s future to be blessed, or entreating that he be caught and brought back? His white brows simply hung heavily.

Spirited Away

I This was no path meant for walking as common sense dictates. It was sheer reckless abandon. They fled for their lives along the mountain ridges—through cliffs, mountain streams, darkness, and thickets. “Lord Ushiwaka.” “Let’s catch our breath here.” “This is Mount Kibune.” “That over there is Kibune’s Okunoin. …Hah, they’re running along the foothills.” Yoshikichi let out a faint smile. Torch flames trailed long tails as they raced through the depths of the darkness visible from there.

“…………” When Ushiwaka came to his senses, he kept looking around the area. His eyes showed no fear—only the flustered joy of having escaped his cage. “Uncle.” “Hey—come over here. Let’s rest on these worship hall steps.” “Yoshikichi… I want to see Mother soon. You’ll really let me meet her, won’t you?” “I’ll make certain you do.” “Then we go to Oshu—just as you said. We’ll put our trust in this Fujiwara no Hidehira.”

“Once we escape the capital and reach Musashi Province or thereabouts, we’ll be safe—but getting that far will take real effort.” “Don’t panic.” “Yoshikichi’s a grown man—leave it to me.” “...Yeah.” “Ah—you were barefoot! There’s blood... Lord Ushiwaka, does it hurt?” “It doesn’t hurt at all. Let’s hurry to the capital.” “Wait.” Yoshikichi grabbed a bamboo pole lying nearby and fished out something from beneath the hall’s floorboards.

They were bundled commoner’s clothing and straw sandals wrapped in plant fibers. He made Ushiwaka strip off all his robes, dressed him in the commoner’s garments instead, and swathed his face in a filthy rag. He strapped a backpack frame called a “seaoi hashigo” to his back and thrust a short woodsman’s knife into his waistband. “This will do.” He took down an old bow hanging from the hall’s ridgepole and tucked it under his arm. Every action unfolded as though following prearranged steps.

Of course, from his perspective, one might say it had been a two-year-long endeavor to get this far. To even approach Ushiwaka, Yoshikichi must have made countless pilgrimages to Kurama over the past two years—who knows how many times he had repeated them last year and this year.

Moreover, to get Ushiwaka to fully understand, Yoshikichi must have persuaded him countless times. No matter how inherently trusting Ushiwaka was of others, he would not have readily believed the words of a stranger like Yoshikichi—but ever since two years before, when Rokuhara soldiers had swept into Kurama Valley and purged all suspicious individuals living nearby, Ushiwaka had become utterly isolated. He had no one to confide in—and just as he was sinking into the depths of loneliness and despair, Yoshikichi began visiting him in secret, whispering promises. The boy’s heart was naturally drawn toward dreams.

Moreover, the word “eastern provinces” had been engraved in his heart since childhood. It was said many of the Minamoto clan still remained there. They also spoke of Mount Fuji where fine horses were bred, and plains that stretched endlessly. ("We will come to escort you to the eastern provinces before long") This was the voice he had heard day and night from Kurama Valley’s people too. The eastern provinces where the sun rises! Ushiwaka had yearned with each sunrise—just as when moonlight faded, he would surely recall his mother in the capital.

Deliberately taking a long detour—crossing Nishigamo’s Daibizan and Mangoku Pass, emerging at Ōgamine—Yoshikichi and Ushiwaka slipped into the town from northern Kyoto as night began fading into dawn.

“Hey—wake up! Not planning to rise?”

In the dim light of lingering morning mist at Rokujōbōmon, Yoshikichi stood before the house of the shirabyōshi courtesan Suiga and knocked on the gate.

Two

In this house, there was a separate building used exclusively when Yoshikichi appeared—so much so that it could practically be called his room. It was accessed through a covered walkway from the courtyard. The side facing the main house had been walled off, so whether lying down or drinking, there was no fear of anyone seeing one’s face. “This is a relative’s house of mine, so you can rest easy,” Yoshikichi said. After bringing Ushiwaka and hiding there the previous morning, Yoshikichi had not gone to the main house since.

Ushiwaka sat listlessly, remaining seated.

The mountains were cool. The heat in Kyoto’s town center was intense. However, he did not shift his knees.

“You must be hot.” “Please make yourself comfortable.” “Feel free to lie down or stretch out your legs—” Even as she urged him from beside,

“Mm… Mm.”

Ushiwaka did little more than nod, barely speaking at all.

He was docile. He was well-mannered. He seemed like a completely different person from the Ushiwaka who had been in the mountains. Yet, if one were to put themselves in Ushiwaka’s place, it was only natural—being placed amidst such worldly clamor must have been his first experience since birth, and he must still harbor considerable wariness toward Yoshikichi as a person. Moreover, from the direction of the main house, there was the constant sound of women’s bright laughter and replies. If he were to think of his current situation and what lay ahead as anxiety, he would surely be assailed by unbearable anxiety.

“Yoshikichi.” “Yes, my lord?” “When will I get to meet Mother?”

“Please wait. I’m currently working on that plan.” “I want to meet Mother soon.”

“I understand your feelings.” “And let’s make haste to Oshu. Staying in this place any longer would only mean wasting our days.” “No.”

Yoshikichi strongly denied. “I have not wasted a single day. For the next few days, Rokuhara’s search will likely remain strict. They seem to be in the midst of frantically searching for your lordship.” “I see.” “‘I see,’ you say—as if it’s someone else’s affair—but even within these walls, Yoshikichi’s ears and eyes can clearly hear it. I can see it as clearly as if it were right before my eyes. …Therefore, please endure a little longer. It must be uncomfortable for you,”

“Mm.” He was obedient.

Yoshikichi was impressed by this, but once ten days had passed, the mountain child reverted to his true self and began to grow restless.

Suddenly waking from a nap,

“Lord Ushiwaka. What are you doing there?” When he peered into the next room and saw that Ushiwaka was not there, he was startled. He called for the sisters Suiga and Chōon and asked— “Isn’t he here?” They, too, wore expressions of ignorance. “Th-This is bad!” Even Yoshikichi, who was not one to be easily rattled, seemed to have been struck with fear. He went out to search frantically. Then, around dusk, Ushiwaka returned alone from somewhere, “Where’s Uncle?”

Noticing Yoshikichi’s absence, he instead looked suspicious and asked Suiga and Chōon.

The sisters were taken aback, “My, what a child this is.—Yoshikichi must have quite the taste to buy such a peculiar boy.” the sisters muttered. The sisters still had not been told the truth by Yoshikichi. At that time, as women and children from the capital were being actively bought and taken to Oshu, they seemed to think Yoshikichi had bought a servant from somewhere.

III

Yoshikichi also returned before long, but upon seeing Ushiwaka, who had come back earlier and was sitting there unconcernedly, “What is the meaning of this?”

In the same breath as his exhausted groan, both relief and irritation escaped him. “Even though I strictly forbade it, where in the world did you go off to without a word?” He asked with a mix of reproach, “But Yoshikichi, if I keep sitting like this forever, my legs and heart will rot.” “I just went to see the town.” he said nonchalantly. “No—it wasn’t just that, was it? There must have been something you wanted when you went out.”

When Yoshikichi pressed him, there was still something boyish about him. “To tell the truth, Yoshikichi, I heard that Mother’s residence was around Horikawa, so I went to take a quiet look.” “Huh… You went looking for Lord Ichijō’s residence?”

“I asked someone and found out right away.” “But I didn’t go to visit.” “From afar… I just looked through the willow trees along Horikawa, saw the embankments and roofs, and came back—that’s all.” “Hmm…” “I know full well that if this Ushiwaka were to go and visit, it would cause trouble for Mother.” “I see… Well, if that’s all, then I suppose it’s fine…” Even that was impermissible—Yoshikichi couldn’t bring himself to say outright. However, just listening to the story made Yoshikichi’s blood run cold.

“Lord Ushiwaka. So then, with that, you must have felt as though you had met your mother. You must have settled your feelings now.” “Why?” “But if you saw the residence…” “How could that settle it?!” He bit his lip and glared fiercely at Yoshikichi—Yoshikichi flinched. They did not seem like the eyes of a boy. Within them was something akin to burning fire. Moreover, the flames in his pupils were blurred with tears. “…But, Yoshikichi.”

Ushiwaka wept softly, then bowed his head and let tears fall onto his lap. "I've resigned myself. It would be wrong to make you suffer. You must have told that lie to lure me out of the mountains—but no matter how I consider it, in our current situation, Mother and I could never meet... And I knew full well it would only bring her misfortune." "S-so... You had thought through all that, Lord Ushiwaka?"

“That’s only natural.”

He wiped his tears,

“More than my own affairs or what lies ahead, the thing I think about most is how Mother can find happiness.” “Isn’t that only natural for a child?” “And yet… I have this overwhelming desire to see her.” “I am in awe.” Yoshikichi involuntarily placed both hands on the ground and pressed his forehead against the straw mat. This was the first time he had ever bowed his head so low from the heart. He felt as though his own luggage had suddenly begun to grow heavy.

At that very inopportune moment, younger sister Chōon had come to the room’s entrance. Since she seemed to have been standing there watching the situation, if they did not explain the circumstances to her, there was a fear that they would be viewed with suspicion.

“Chōon, sit down here for a moment.”

Yoshikichi then revealed the general circumstances to her.

四

Chōon showed no particular surprise. Nor had she guessed it was Ushiwaka before being told. In short, she seemed not to consider the matter as grave as the man believed. Toward worldly affairs she remained utterly indifferent. She was merely one of the Shirabyōshi courtesans who attended banquets for nobles. "Do you understand, Chōon?" "Yes." "Don't breathe a word of this." "Yes." "If they learn Lord Ushiwaka has been hidden here, you and your sister will share equal blame."

“I won’t tell anyone.” “Make sure to tell your sister as well.”

“Shall I go tell her right away?”

“Wait.”

Yoshikichi lowered his voice and,

“I will depart tonight.” “Huh… Tonight?” “I’ve observed the town’s mood—the embers have cooled considerably. Even Rokuhara’s own samurai claim Lord Ushiwaka’s disappearance was a Spirited Away. It seems they can’t shake this tengu notion from their heads.” “We’ve heard as much ourselves.” “Where?” “At various noble mansions.” “The rumors about Lord Ushiwaka?” “Yes. Whether they call it a Spirited Away—the Taira generals and court nobles all say it.”

“If even Rokuhara’s might can’t capture a lone sixteen-year-old Lord Ushiwaka, this becomes a matter of their credibility.” “Moreover, if both the monks of Kurama Temple and the current officials simply write it off as a ‘Spirited Away,’ then no one will be held responsible—and in every way, that’s the safer course of action.” “You are quite the mischievous god, aren’t you?” “Me? No—I’m just the messenger Konoha Tengu.” “The true master resides in Hiraizumi of Oshu.”

There had never been a case where trusting women too much turned out well. Yoshikichi, while admonishing himself for his own loose-tongued manner, abruptly grew solemn. “This is sudden, but lend me a set of your clothes.” “What will you use them for?” “We’ll dress Lord Ushiwaka in them.—You and Suiga must do his makeup and attire him so skillfully that no one who sees him could mistake him for anything but a woman. Before that, I’ll start preparing myself.”

“I’ll go call my sister right away.”

Before long, Suiga arrived. Suiga, being older, had long sensed that her sister’s husband was financially well-off but somehow dangerous. Yoshikichi’s departure would be a relief that lasted until the early summer of the following year. “Oh, you’re leaving tonight? How sad to part.”

Then Suiga gathered their garments and tried dressing Ushiwaka in various ways. She undid Ushiwaka’s hair and restyled it into a woman’s coiffure, applying white powder. “How beautiful…” The sisters gazed at Ushiwaka like doll makers marveling at a doll they had created themselves. Ushiwaka remained silent and let them handle his body. While being freely handled by the young, strikingly alluring Shirabyōshi sisters, his blood pounded with a great throbbing he had never known since birth. The scent of women was far too overpowering—so much that his face burned hot and his chest tightened, making him want to turn away.

“That’s enough—enough!” Finally unable to endure it any longer, he shook off the sisters’ hands and finished preparing by himself. While Yoshikichi sent someone to fetch a horse from the house where his companions always stayed and had them prepare provisions and bento boxes, what was supposed to be a nighttime departure had somehow turned into an early dawn hour.

Five

The town was still dark, and the fog was thick. Yoshikichi removed the horse’s bit, and Ushiwaka—now disguised as a woman—fastened the hat and luggage to the saddle and clung to the horse’s back. Yoshikichi looked up and, “Act like a woman—timidly. Yes, like that. Ride like that.”

he cautioned. “It’s fine! Since this is my first time riding a horse, even if I don’t act scared, I’m still scared!” Ushiwaka said. But Yoshikichi had already resolved since the previous evening not to let his guard down against this boy’s boyish words—What I meant by “scared” was that it’s us who are scared. As they turned the corner and looked back at the house they had left, Suiga and Chōon stood at the gate seeing them off. Though it was still dark with no onlookers in sight—though one could never be sure someone wasn’t watching—Yoshikichi frantically waved his hand.

Get back inside. Get back inside.

like that. In a flurry, the sisters' figures retreated into the house. Ushiwaka watched this with lingering reluctance. The white powder on his face and the scent of tomiki incense permeating his clothes stirred within him a sensation as if the sisters' pale hands still touched him—a feeling he couldn't shake. "You're a woman now.—I won't call you Lord Ushiwaka during the journey." Yoshikichi warned him repeatedly. "Yeah, yeah."

They emerged onto Sanjō. They began ascending toward Keage.

The sun rose.

From the town of Kyoto, the morning mist paled and drifted away.

“Yoshikichi, wait.” Ushiwaka stopped his horse at the top of the slope. And he stared fixedly at the rooftops of the capital, unceasingly.

“…………” Yoshikichi remained silent and gazed up at that face from below. He was not crying. Nor were his eyes those of someone lingering reluctantly as he departed. Rather，it seemed to glare at something. Yoshikichi tried in various ways to divine Ushiwaka’s intentions，but his preconception of him as a sixteen-year-old child inevitably took precedence. _Nah，it’s not as complicated as adults make it out to be._ He dismissed it accordingly.

Thanks to the checkpoint offices, their travels had proceeded smoothly without incident. After crossing the Mino Road and approaching the fields of Owari, the cross-dressed lord began to throw a tantrum. “Yoshikichi! Yoshikichi!”

“What is it?” Yoshikichi scanned the road. Just when he appeared to be maintaining his feminine disguise with grace, he would suddenly issue a rebuke beyond even an adult’s capacity—each time jolting Yoshikichi with alarm. “It’s hot!—I hate this kimono.” “The lacquered hat chafes.” “……Hey Yoshikichi—can’t I take this off?” “And wear what if you do?” “At that post town back there—I had them prepare a cool underrobe with short hems.” “That would suffice.” “Even peasant children’s garb would serve.”

“That won’t do.” “Why?!”

“You’re a woman…”

“I am a man.”

“Ah! Travelers are coming from over there! If they find you suspicious, we’ll be reported immediately.” “I don’t care.” “This isn’t something to ignore!” “I said I don’t care—are you not listening to me?!”

Snatching the lacquered hat from his head, Ushiwaka hurled it at Yoshikichi’s face. “Ah!” Discarding his look of exasperation, Ushiwaka suddenly yanked the horse’s neck forward. The horse charged forth like a gale.—Laughing at Yoshikichi, who scrambled in panic to chase after him from behind, Ushiwaka’s figure soon vanished into the distance.

First Crown

I

What mattered now was the horse’s speed. Yoshikichi ran out of breath. Exhausted, he kept running. At last, he gasped as though he might cough up his lungs and heart through his mouth.

“Ugh… I can’t go on.” It was agonizing. Sweat stung his eyes. Had he realized his folly? He beat his chest and sat down by the roadside.

Behind them stood the Mori no Miya. In the shade of fresh green leaves, the chorus of cicadas rang cool and clear. Then from the edge of the small shrine,

“Yoshikichi. What’s wrong?” Ushiwaka called out. Tethering the horse, he sat there. A closer look revealed he had discarded the sleeves and cords of his female disguise, unloaded the luggage from the horse’s back, and changed into a lighter outfit entirely on his own. He was smiling cheerfully. Yoshikichi had never been more furious. Seething with rage toward that pretty-faced brat, he nearly wanted to retaliate somehow—but even as he stewed in bitterness,

“Yoshikichi.” “Are you taking the women’s clothes I took off?” “Or will you abandon them here?” “Such things…” Biting his lips in frustration, Yoshikichi muttered,

“But these are Chōon’s clothes, right?” “Chōon is your…” He formed a mocking smile.

Yoshikichi muttered to himself again. He actually had the nerve to say that. If I thought he was just some clueless grub, I was sorely mistaken—why, he wasn't just extraordinary; he was downright precocious!

“Yoshikichi, Yoshikichi.” “What is it?” “If they’re unnecessary, you should roll up those clothes and stuff them deep under the floor of this shrine hall.” “Right.”

Though he reflexively replied, Yoshikichi burned with fury. Before he knew it, this brat had begun ordering people about with a jerk of his chin like some menial servant. Through feeding it milk and tending its needs, claws had gradually grown on the leopard cub. Unlike Kurama’s cage or the capital’s fenced confines, this was an untamed wilderness—difficult to manage—and he found it increasingly hard to control.

“Ah… Finally cooling off a bit.” “Lord Ushiwaka, you really gave me a hard time there.” “Hahaha!” “This is no joke!” “If you keep tormenting your benefactor Yoshikichi like this, it’ll curse your future martial fortunes!”

“Are you angry, Yoshikichi?” “Of course anyone would be angry!” “I didn’t have such bad intentions, you know.” “I just tried playing at being spirited away.”

“…” Yoshikichi stared dumbfounded at his face as he spoke. When he recalled how Ushiwaka had complained that morning they left the capital—terrified to ride a horse he’d never mounted before—it became even clearer this leopard cub could not be left unattended. He began growing wary, thinking if he slipped up, those fangs might bite his hand.

“Behind this shrine lies a well.” “Find some vessel, draw water, and bring it here for me to drink.”

Reluctantly, Yoshikichi drew water into a bamboo tube and brought it back, whereupon Ushiwaka drank it all down and then—

“Yoshikichi, you drank some yourself before bringing me the water. You’re a base fellow,” he scolded.

And once again, not letting Yoshikichi get a word in edgewise, he issued his next command.

“Give water to the horse too. It’s not just humans suffering in this heat.”

He no longer had leisure to grow angry at every provocation. As Yoshikichi silently led the horse toward the well, Ushiwaka trailed behind and—

“Is there not a shrine in this region with ties to the Minamoto clan? —You travel this road every year, so you must know of one.”

he asked.

II

The abrupt question threw Yoshikichi off balance once more. But posing sudden questions to exploit an adult’s carelessness was simply in a child’s nature—there was no profound reasoning behind it. Yoshikichi wore an expression that dismissed it all as trivial,

“Who knows? “I don’t know.” “Even if there are shrines with Minamoto ties somewhere—if you look hard enough, I suppose they might exist—” he dismissed airily. Then Ushiwaka, “You don’t know?”

This time, he began speaking in an instructive tone. “I’ve heard that the mother of my half-brother Yoritomo was a daughter of Fujiwara no Suenori, Chief Priest of Atsuta Shrine near what’s called Nagoya.” “If that’s true, wouldn’t that make it a shrine deeply connected to my late father Yoshitomo and the Minamoto clan?” “Who told you that?” “Even something like this?” “I learned it from the tengu of Sōjōga Valley.” “Huh.” “So the tengu taught you everything?” As Yoshikichi retorted dismissively in exasperation, Ushiwaka nodded solemnly,

“Though I’ve yet to meet my half-brother, they say there’s even a well in that Hataya district or whatever it’s called where Yoritomo had his first bath.” “It seems my half-brother was born in Atsuta.” “I too shall go to that place of deep connection and become a man.” “Yoshikichi, let us now take the road to Atsuta.” “Huh? Become a man?” “I will undergo my coming-of-age ceremony. At sixteen, my hair was nearly shaved off, but I intend to tie up this hair in a manly style and receive my first ceremonial cap.”

“No, that’s—”

Yoshikichi hurriedly interjected, “Please wait a little longer, your lordship. The one your lordship shall henceforth rely upon is Lord Fujiwara no Hidehira of Hiraizumi in Oshu—a man whose wealth and power rival even those of Chancellor Taira. By humbly requesting Lord Hidehira to serve as your ceremonial father, you may properly undergo your coming-of-age.” “……” “Do you dislike it?”

“……” “Not just for your coming-of-age ceremony—for everything, relying on Lord Hidehira is best.” “Without Lord Hidehira’s protection, you cannot survive.” “We shall cling to him as both staff and pillar.” “If we feign such pitifulness, humans cannot help but be ensnared, you see.” “I refuse.” Ushiwaka once again snapped off Yoshikichi’s words—which had begun to regain momentum as his composure returned—without hesitation.

“If I were to make Hidehira my ceremonial father and become a man, even if I later rise to lead the Minamoto clan, I would be unable to look Hidehira in the eye. If I were to involve myself, even my half-brother Yoritomo would face trouble, and it would become a weakness for the Minamoto clan’s samurai. ...That’s why I refuse.”

“That’s not the case.”

“There is!”

And he refused. And Ushiwaka continued. “And besides—what do we even know about Hidehira? He could be good or evil for all we know! Even if I take shelter there, I need not ask them to be my ceremonial father.—I have decided that the priest of Atsuta Shrine will officiate my coming-of-age ceremony. If you won’t come, I’ll go alone.”

Ushiwaka moved onto the horse’s back and, once again paying no heed to him, started hurrying down the road. Yoshikichi had already apologized—he wanted to shout. He could do nothing but follow closely behind, trying to appease him.

At the post station, Yoshikichi also hired a horse, and after several days, they entered Atsuta. Upon arriving there, Ushiwaka immediately tied his horse to the shrine’s forest and went straight into the divinely solemn depths of the summer grove.

III

Ushiwaka stood beneath the worship hall and clapped his hands together. For a very long time, he kept his clasped hands pressed to his chest in prayer. Yoshikichi, standing behind him, clapped his hands sharply. The sound rang clear, but it was merely going through the motions of prayer. Drawing a deep breath, “This is refreshing,” he muttered.

“Yoshikichi.” “Yes.” “Where is the shrine priest’s household?” “Well, where might that be?” “To perform my coming-of-age ceremony, we must ask the Negi. Go and make the request to the shrine priest’s household.” “Huh? What... do you mean?” “Although I am but the son of an unnamed samurai from the Eastern Provinces, tell them to conduct the cap-binding ceremony before the gods.” “They may find that strange.” “Why?” “If a traveler—without even parents accompanying them—were to request a coming-of-age ceremony…” “Never mind that. Say I’m an orphan—that’s the truth anyway.”

“Then I’ll act as your uncle and make the request.” “Such formalities are unnecessary,” Ushiwaka cut him off. “Simply say you’re my retainer.” Yoshikichi’s jaw tightened in suppressed fury. Though he had pretended moments earlier not to know the shrine priest’s whereabouts, he now marched toward it with long, purposeful strides.

After that, he did not return to give a reply. However, Ushiwaka remained unperturbed. As if his presence mattered little whether he stayed or left, he waited intently, gazing up at the veranda of the worship hall for the shrine priest to appear.

Eventually, the young shrine priest kneeled on the corridor and asked, “Is it your lordship who wishes to have your coming-of-age ceremony performed before the gods?” When Ushiwaka answered yes, the priest inquired about his birthplace, his father’s name, and his reasons for seeking the ceremony at this shrine. “My father was a warrior from the Eastern Provinces,” Ushiwaka replied. “Circumstances prevent me from disclosing his name.” “As I am practically an orphan, I saw no objection to holding my coming-of-age within these sacred grounds.” “Moreover, having heard that Atsuta Shrine enshrines Yamato Takeru himself, I believed receiving my first crown before such a venerated deity would grant me fortune as a man.”

“Then, please wait here for a moment.”

The young shrine priest, seemingly unable to act on his own authority, said this and retreated into the inner chambers. After a short while, he reappeared there, “Please come up.” Then he spread out a blue rush mat on the worship hall’s floor and had Ushiwaka sit down. They lit the sacred lamp, offered sacred sake, and together with another shrine priest recited Shinto prayers. Then they placed a ceremonial black cap upon Ushiwaka’s head. The cord too was tied by the shrine priest. With a sakaki branch, they purified Ushiwaka’s body. As the white shimenawa rustled and green winds swept through, Ushiwaka felt an inexplicable shudder course through his frame.

Gazing intently at the reflection in the sacred mirror deep within,

"Since you have deigned to make me a man, deign to bestow upon me even a shadow of the gods' spirit and power," he prayed inwardly.

“Thank you most sincerely.” After receiving the sacred sake from the earthenware cup and returning it to the ceremonial tray, he expressed his gratitude courteously and was about to rise when an elderly man resembling the Chief Priest—having one attendant carry a tray bearing robes while he himself bore another tray with a long sword—quietly approached from the connecting corridor beyond.

IV As Ushiwaka was about to descend the stairs, the old chief priest called out to stop him and presented a long sword and a set of garments. “I present these in celebration of your becoming a young lord.”

and placed them before him. Ushiwaka rested both hands and, “And you are?”

and stared at the man’s face as if to bore a hole through it.

The old chief priest too gazed ceaselessly at Ushiwaka’s form. At some point, without them noticing, all the other young shrine priests had left. Before the two were only sakaki leaves, a sacred lamp, and the sacred mirror in the depths of the shrine. “I am Chief Priest Fujiwara no Suenori. … You likely have no recollection of me.” Eventually, lowering his voice, Suenori spoke, and Ushiwaka shook his head slightly,

“N-no.” “Do you… have any recollection? Have you heard anything about me?” “Though from afar, I have known of you. You and I are not strangers to each other.” “Hmm…” Suenori’s eyes began to well up. “Were you aware?” “How could I not know? Your Excellency would have been my late father’s father-in-law. And to the mother of my half-brother Yoritomo, you would be her father.” “Ah—Lord Shanaō. Ever since I heard you had vanished from Kurama, I had been worried for you from afar.”

“How did you come to realize this?” “The servant who visited the shrine family spoke suspiciously, so when I secretly observed your appearance from the shadows, I was astonished by how much you resembled him.” “Who do I resemble?” “To Lord Tōno—your father, Lord Yoshitomo.” “Ah….” “S-so it is?”

Ushiwaka rubbed his eyes with his fist. Tears fell in drops onto the rush mat. “Does it trouble you?”

“No.” “Nowadays... No—rather than that—being told I resemble Father somehow fills me with joy.” “Where do you intend to take refuge from here?” “I am on my way to seek shelter with Lord Fujiwara no Hidehira of Oshu.” “Once you reach that place, we can devise plans for the days to come.” “However, take utmost care on your journey.” “Yes. … Then I shall gratefully receive these gifts.” “You may wear them.” “It’s not so conspicuous an outfit.”

The hunting robe was not overly flashy, perfectly suited for a young noble on a journey. Ushiwaka received it reverently, changed into it, and fastened the long sword at his waist. “Hmm. You make a fine young man. I wish the late Lord Tōno could see you now. You have undergone the coming-of-age ceremony—but by what name will you be called?” “Yes. When one undergoes genpuku, changing one’s name was customary. —I have heard that the distant ancestor of the Minamoto clan was Prince Tsunemoto. —Then through generations—Yoshiie, Tameyoshi, Yoshitomo—the character *yoshi* has been used in the names of Minamoto lords. Therefore, I will take the name... Yoshitsune.”

“And what will you be called?” “As the eighth son of Yoshitomo, I would customarily be called Hachirō—but I have an uncle named Chinzei Hachirō Tametomo. To avoid confusion with his martial renown, I shall take the name Kurō Yoshitsune.”

“Kurō Yoshitsune?” “Yes.”

“That is a fine name.” “It was an auspicious day.” “Well then, as there are many Taira followers in this area, you should make haste to the eastern provinces without delay.”

“Thank you very much. —Well then,” After descending from the worship hall, Yoshitsune called out “Yoshikichi! Yoshikichi!” and searched for his figure.

“I am here.”

Yoshikichi was sitting right below the worship hall, hugging his knees and leaning against the base of a pillar. He was thorough. He wore an expression that showed he had taken in every word of the conversation above without missing a single thing.

Five

The journey continued for days. In the midsummer sky, Fuji’s peak loomed so close it seemed to press against their brows, its outline from summit to foothills standing out starkly until it vanished into the earth below. This was the mountain trail through Ashigara Pass.

“Yoshikichi. Let’s rest.” Lord Kurō sat down on a rock by the roadside. Since they were near the summit, if they stopped walking, the wind turned cold, and the sweat all over their bodies dried instantly.

“Lord Kurō. You have an unexpected grasp of all things—you likely already know this—but with Usui marking our northern boundary and Ashigara Pass our southern limit, what lies ahead eastward we call Kantō. That is to say, we now enter what are known as the Eight Eastern Provinces.”

“Mm. Mm.” Kurō nodded repeatedly.

“We’ve finally come this far.—Yoshikichi, your labors were not wasted.” “I shall not forget.”

he said with an unusually deep bow of gratitude.

It was something that had never occurred before. Yoshikichi reacted with flustered haste, "Why—it was nothing," he stammered. "When addressed so honorably, I scarcely know how to apologize for my inadequacies." "No—gratitude shall be stated as gratitude," came the reply, "and favors remembered long as favors. But Yoshikichi—"

“Yes.”

“You tried twice to discipline this Minamoto Kurō by borrowing others’ hands.” “I wasn’t so easily controlled by you—you must’ve been furious—but since you couldn’t act yourself directly, you had that bandit Kumasaka from the post town ambush me in my sleep and incited mountain bandits to threaten me.” “Ah—Lord Kurō.” “Please say no more.” “Yoshikichi is deeply ashamed.” “...Instigating Kumasaka Chōhan and others was entirely my own mischief—now I’ll feel no resentment however your lordship commands me.”

“If you try to act, it’ll just be wasted effort.” “It is exactly as you say.”

“But Yoshikichi. Even if we reach Hiraizumi, don’t tell Hidehira anything. I want to become an adult all at once—in five or six years. Until then, I plan to stay idle.”

“Understood. To Lord Hidehira and the mansion’s family as well, I shall relay matters favorably.” “In return—when I grow—you may use my name to gain great profit.” “But abandon petty greed.” “Yoshikichi had thought himself grandly ambitious and styled himself an unyielding man, but your lordship appears to have thoroughly disarmed me.”

“Ah. I can see the Sagami Sea… and the Izu Islands too.” Kurō no longer responded to Yoshikichi’s repeated entreaties and instead fixed his unblinking gaze on the rainbow-hued haze veiling the mountains of the Izu Peninsula and the sky beyond.

The place of exile of his half-brother Yoritomo.

He had vaguely heard of Hirugakojima in Izu, but where exactly was this Hirugakojima? A half-brother with a different mother. An unseen half-brother. Do you know whether you have a half-brother named Kurō Yoshitsune or not? "...But the blood is one." "I too am a son of my late father Yoshitomo." "And surely, his aspirations are no different from this Kurō's." "How I long for you, dear brother." "Today your half-brother Kurō crosses over this Ashigara Road to the east." "Someday I will surely meet you." "That opportunity will surely be guided by my late father and the ancestors of the Minamoto clan."

He had been calling out thus from the depths of his heart. He believed that thought would soar through the universe and reach his half-brother in exile.

Gentian

1

In the earth's crust of this land, veins of fire burned. There were many places where hot springs welled up.

The mountains, too, had a nature that could erupt at any moment. Mount Fuji, Mount Aitaka, the Hakone mountain range, and others. In general, on the land of the Izu peninsula, such climate and natural features were well reflected even in the people’s appearance and temperament. Generally, both men and women were precocious. They were also full of passion. However, because it was mountainous with scarce resources, on one hand, they were modest and held old-fashioned grandeur in high regard. Moreover, perhaps due to their proximity to the sea, they were enterprising. Though a remote region, there were many who maintained an interest in the rumors of the capital and the political affairs of the central government.

This year was already the second year of An’ei. Speaking of the second year of An’ei, it was two years after Yoshitsune—now having come of age—had crossed nearby Ashigara Mountain and departed for Oshu.

At that time, Minamoto no Yoritomo, the Uhyōe no Suke— Counting on his fingers, he realized that this year marked exactly the seventeenth since he had been sent to this place of exile.

He was twenty-nine years old.

“At thirty, one stands firm.” That ancient proverb—he too must have whispered it secretly in his heart this year. Yet his seventeen years in exile were exceedingly tranquil—so much so that he grew rather weary of peace.

The days of peace and idleness remained unchanged even now. Yet in the mountains and rivers, flowers bloomed and fell, and birds and fish came and went. In the fields of the exile mansion, this year too, eggplant flowers were blooming.

“Oh, scary!” In the melon field, two young girls who were picking melons covered their ears as if in unison.

“Thunder-sama!” they exclaimed, looking up at the mountain. The Hakone mountain range became swiftly enveloped by storm clouds as they watched, while on the middle slopes of nearby Kannami, the sun blazed a brilliant white. This could be described as the southern foothills of Hakone—a slightly elevated field surrounded by cliffs whose base soil was being washed by the Kano River’s flow no matter where one looked. An island thicketed in the river’s midst. This might have been why local people had come to call it Hirugakojima. Where thickets had been cleared to create residential plots and farmland stood the exile residence. The compound enclosed by earthen walls spanned a considerable area, though its buildings remained crude from their inception, with open spaces converted into fields.

Even so. As an exile's residence, it could be considered remarkably well-maintained. At the heart of the main building stood both a private Buddhist chapel and samurai quarters. Bedchambers, kitchens, maid's rooms, servant huts—most striking was the stable. Yoritomo's movements appeared largely unrestricted within designated boundaries—whether hunting or making pilgrimages to Hakone's hot springs. Plink... plink.

The rain came down at an angle.

From here, not even a league away, areas like Shizuura and Enoura along Suruga Bay were already blanketed by a thick layer of low clouds, and the sea surface that had been bathed in sunlight until just moments ago vanished without a trace of its waters visible.

“Ah, a sudden rainstorm!”

Carrying her basket, the girl fled into the eaves of a nearby stable. White rain streaked across the sky in an instant. A loud noise, like a thunderous crash, resounded nearby.

“Oh, that was terrible!”

Looking up at the blue gaps in the clouds that had cleared so quickly, the girls exchanged relieved glances. Then one of them peeked inside the stable and let out a shrill cry. "Oh. "The horse isn’t here." "The Lord is here, but only Rindou…" "Where has Rindou gone?"

II Valuing horses surpassed currency in worth. A good horse was considered so difficult to obtain even with gold that it ranked among one's treasures. For warriors especially, while bows, arrows, and swords mattered greatly, maintaining renowned steeds in their stables stood as a foremost priority. Yet even the exceptional horses emerging from provincial pastures to market remained few in number, so any steed with modest renown inevitably found itself purchased by the moneyed capital. Thus when witnessing this, the young nobles of the Taira clan each competed to possess renowned steeds. In acquiring these prized horses, disputes and even brawls frequently erupted. Among such Taira clansmen, even this saying circulated:

(People belong to the capital; Horses too—no renowned steeds exist in the countryside.)

Truly, these were arrogant words. Indeed, were there no people in the countryside? Were there truly no renowned steeds in the provinces? Yoritomo had personally named it Rindou Kuro, kept this black bay in his stable with an attendant groom called Onitōji, and doted on it so thoroughly that this steed was said to be a rarity even in the capital—an exceptional creature. Moreover, this black horse was one that Hōjō Tokimasa—a powerful clan leader of West Izu who had also been tasked by Rokuhara with managing the exile residence’s finances and overseeing Yoritomo’s affairs—had specifically selected from his own stock and sent on one occasion.

On a day when he had been invited to the Hōjō family’s residence located not far from this exile residence, (With no horse, I face inconveniences in every matter.) When Yoritomo let slip this complaint, it was Masako—Tokimasa’s daughter, whom he had met for the first time on that occasion—who, (Lately, the black bay he acquired has been said to be too spirited—since he hasn’t ridden it and keeps it tied in the stable—how about offering that one?) implicitly urged her father Tokimasa, so that even a saddle was included when they returned.

Masako had left a favorable impression, and upon taming the steed, it proved to be unexpectedly swift; thus, whenever Yoritomo heard noises from the stable—even in the dead of night—he would take up a paper torch, *Don’t let them bite it.* *Is there something wrong?*

To such an extent that he would come to issue reminders to Onitōji, who always lived there alongside the horse. That the master cherished Rindou Kuro so deeply was something the servants knew full well—which made its abrupt disappearance from the stable all the more alarming and perplexing. “Mr. Onitōji. “Mr. Onitōji—” The two girls went to inform at the stableman’s hut, but even Onitōji—who was ever-present there—had vanished. There had never been occasion to lead it beyond the exile residence’s bounds even for grazing. The morning and evening care of the steed was a duty performed by none other than the master himself, Yoritomo.

Yoritomo was occupying himself with sutra copying at the private chapel window again today. Since they had just seen his figure from the melon field, their suspicion refused to dissipate. “I should inform Lord Moritsuna. Where might Lord Moritsuna be?” “Perhaps he went down to the riverbank again to fish for dace.” “Ah! Of course. That must be it.” When they ran out, they reached the edge of a cliff thick with mixed trees. Peering down through rain-drenched foliage, they saw the Kano River’s torrent shining pale through the gaps.

“Lord Moritsuna! Lord Moritsunaaaah!”

The girl cupped her hands near her mouth and shouted. From the recent evening shower, the mountain stream roared with a fearsome intensity. The man—who looked like a young peasant and had been dangling his fishing line in the rapids there since earlier—turned his sunburned face around and, while looking up at the cliff above,

“What the—” “If you’ve got business, come down here already!” he answered in a rough voice.

Three

The evening shower had just cleared. The cliff soil was slippery. The two girls finally made their way down to the riverbank. “Lord Moritsuna! The horse is gone from the stable! Onitōji’s disappeared too—we called and called, but he isn’t anywhere!” They reported in unison.

"What! Rindou's gone?" A dace was hooked.

Moritsuna turned around while raising his fishing rod. With a flick, the dace leaped into his hand. While removing the fish from the hook,

“Really?”

“It really is!”

The girl said with wide eyes. "That Onitōji bastard." "I had noticed something suspicious about him lately." "Oh! ...And today's market day."

He had climbed the cliff and was investigating the stablehand’s hut when, suddenly— “I’m going to the market. If someone asks for Elder Brother, tell them I’ll be back by evening.” After instructing the kitchen servant, he dashed off somewhere as if flying. The manors were distinguished by names such as Nanjō, Nakanojō, and Hōjō, but the towns in this area were built up around Yokkaichi, which lay on the outskirts of Hōjō.

It was so called because a market was held on the fourth day of each month. Saburō Moritsuna had remembered that today was that very day. Grains, animal hides, lacquer, textiles—all manner of goods and wares were being traded. A horse market was also being held. Dozens of horses—bays, chestnuts, grays, blacks—stood lined up at the hitching post. Among them was one black horse with a white stripe along its nose. The saddle and stirrups had been removed, making it slightly unrecognizable at first glance, but Moritsuna’s eyes could not have been mistaken.

“Ah, Rindou!”

When he laid hands on it, a horse trader rushed over and suddenly reprimanded him. “What are you doing?” “What do you mean? Is this yours?” “I paid good money for this horse at today’s market.” “That’s unfortunate. This is my master’s horse.” “What did you say?” “Who’d you buy it from?” “Don’t know his name—some young man brought it to market.” “Was that young man called Onitōji?” “Name means nothing to me, but see that mat-covered hut yonder? He’s there now—gambling with the merchants and horse traders.”

“Ah, so…” 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.”

Moritsuna stated this firmly, then walked toward the mat-covered hut and quietly peeked inside.

Four “Hmm, he’s not here?” Moritsuna muttered. Among the companions there, Onitōji’s face was nowhere to be seen. He searched elsewhere. There was not just one or two enclosures where such mischief was taking place. The prevalence of gambling had become a terrible trend among both high and low, following the Hōgen and Heiji Rebellions and rising in tandem with the Taira clan’s prosperity. Those who neglected their daily duties and indulged in it were not limited to commoners. My child has reached twenty, Only through gambling can one truly live.

To the gamblers of the provinces, Even a child deserves no scorn Do not inflict wounds upon them. Ōji Sumiyoshi Nishi Shrine

It was common to hear old women with grandchildren on their backs singing such songs. When people lamented the decline of public morals, travelers crossing from Fuji no Yado over Ashigara Pass would often remark how even in those rugged mountains, brothels with thatched roofs draped with bamboo screens had recently appeared—places that looked eerily ominous when seen at night. These were deep mountains where only the cries of strange birds and beasts echoed, so the women working there were mostly elderly, and travelers had taken to calling them "mountain hags."

In an age where even at Ashigara Mountain’s checkpoint, women of dubious intent solicited travelers with sleeve-tugging enticements, one could scarcely fathom how debauched and dissolute the conduct along highways and in provincial capitals had grown. Moreover, on market days—amid gatherings of petty merchants from various hamlets, horse traders, and all manner of folk—such mischief as occurred might still have ranked among society’s lesser sins, committed as it was openly in daylight without fear of witnesses. “Ah! There he is.” Within one enclosure, Moritsuna at last found him.

Onitōji, absorbed in his game, did not notice until Moritsuna’s arm reached his collar and grabbed him by the scruff. “You insolent wretch!” When the voice at his ear made him gasp and jerk backward, Onitōji’s back was already scraping against the ground as he was dragged dozens of feet across the earth with a grating rasp. “Please forgive me!” “—Wait!” “I apologize.” “Lord Moritsuna!”

“Shut up!” “I have no excuse… It was just… just a momentary impulse.” “Shut up!” Raising his foot, Moritsuna delivered a blow to his face while demanding, “Hand over all the money you got in exchange for the horse here.” “I have no money.” “What do you mean?” “I lost it all gambling.” “You bastard!” Moritsuna, blazing with rage, barked, “How dare you laugh it off like that! Hand over everything you have!” “I—truly—have not a single coin left. I’ll find a way to get it back somehow, so please, just give me a little more time.”

He had intended to plead desperately, but his entreaties seemed only to further inflame Moritsuna’s rage. With a terrifying roar of “Insolent wretch!”, Moritsuna drew his waist sword and struck a single blow from behind at Onitōji’s shoulder as he scrambled to flee.

Onitōji let out a scream and fell, but fortunately collapsed into the surrounding crowd that had formed a ring around him. The people who had formed a ring to watch were startled and scattered in disarray. Onitōji also ran through their midst, still covered in blood. “This black steed is my lord’s mount.” “To demand stolen goods is the demander’s own loss.” “In any case, I’ll take charge of this!” Untying Ryūtan from the hitching post where he had been tied before, Moritsuna leapt onto the horse and, in the commotion of the people’s uproar, dashed off like an arrow toward the Exile Place at Hirugakojima.

Lord of the Exile Place

One

The mountains were still mist, the fields mist, and the Kano River mist—all from the early dawn.

In the family Buddhist hall of the Exile Place, the resonant sound of sutra chanting could be heard. For ten years as if a single day, every dawn without fail, this had been Yoritomo’s religious observance. In his youth, when he had stood on the brink of execution, Ike no Zennyo had saved him; on the day she sent him away from the capital, “Even if tempters come, you must never take up sword practice. Pray for your parents’ and brothers’ afterlife, shave your head, and never let this nun see you bound in ropes again—” he had engraved those earnest admonitions from that time deep into his heart, and now still appeared to uphold them without forgetfulness.

However, that nun had already passed away; she was no longer of this world.—In the resonant tones of his sutra chanting, one could clearly discern that he was now praying for her afterlife. That said, he had never once kept the single article she had earnestly urged upon him while she was alive: to shave his head. His twenty-nine-year-old black hair, thickly bundled up, rather boasted of its luster. Moreover, even regarding his daily sutra recitations—whether they truly manifested an irrepressible longing for enlightenment, merely served as fragmented offerings to his father Yoshitomo, brothers, and clan who had met tragic ends, or were simply a deceptive recitation to fool the world—the innermost heart of this man remained as inscrutable as ever to those who observed only his elegant appearance.

Those who observed him, those who heard him, and those who surrounded the Exile Place—each of their thoughts must have naturally varied as well.

But the fact was unshakable. Whatever Yoritomo’s true intentions were, his life at the Exile Place was reported to Kyoto as one of exemplary conduct. Therefore, year by year, the surveillance and restraints imposed upon him were gradually relaxing. The placement of a woman as a serving attendant was also being tacitly permitted. —Kame no Mae, who had lately been quietly serving in the inner quarters, was his second lover.

The term “second” referred to an incident that had occurred about two years earlier, when he had fallen in love with the daughter of Izu no Suke Sukechika and even fathered a child with her. Upon Sukechika’s discovery, the child had been cast into a pool—an event that had become widely rumored throughout Izu for a time. Sukechika was a local warlord clan in Ito and an influential house rivaling the Hōjō; thus, in that incident, with Sukechika himself glaring at him and people quick to label him a “hardened exile,” Yoritomo should have been thoroughly chastened by the harsh treatment he endured. Yet before long, there he was with a different woman attending him, and appearances of them conversing in love too conspicuous to overlook were often observed.

Kame no Mae had an unreserved nature, unlike the women of Izu. Around that time, there was a mocking song among the local functionaries: Women unafraid of men Kamo women, Iyo women, Kazusa women Such lyrics existed—but why were the women of Izu not counted among them? There were days when even Yoritomo found his mind possessed by such earthly passions. Perhaps it stemmed from his youthful body and an ennui so unbearable it defied endurance. To cleanse these passions and the murkiness in his mind, the morning devotions were necessary for him personally. His voice rang out so powerfully that one might say it was his voice that brought dawn to Hirugakojima.

“Kame.” “Water.”

When he exited the family Buddhist hall, his face glistened with sweat. Taking a cup of cold water from Kame no Mae's hand and draining it in one gulp, he immediately rose, trod upon the dew-chilled summer grass, and made for the stable—a routine repeated every morning.

Two

The horse was safely in the stable, and since no one had reported yesterday’s incident, Yoritomo stood there and— “Onitōji, Onitōji.” —called him over to his sleeping hut.

Then, answering “Hai!”, the one who emerged from behind the stable was Saburō Kanja Moritsuna, “I will lead him out at once.” With a knowing look, he untied Ryūtan Kuro from the stable and led him forward. Yoritomo looked suspiciously,

“What has become of Onitōji? Did you tend to the stable this morning?” he inquired. Moritsuna assumed a nonchalant expression. “Last night, late, he apparently fell suddenly ill and returned to Nanjō Village. Since it was the middle of the night, he must have left without taking his leave,” he replied. Since it was a matter concerning a mere servant, Yoritomo paid no mind and, as was his usual morning routine, mounted Ryūtan’s saddle and headed out to tend to his steed in the fields.

By the time the people and horses returned from the fields, having worked up a sweat, the sun broke through the morning mist and rose above the mountains. “I see.” Moritsuna—though what exactly had impressed him was unclear—grasped the horse’s halter as they returned and looked up at Yoritomo’s figure. “My elder brother Sadatsuna always says he’s astonished at your hearty appetite—how someone with such a delicate frame drinks several bowls of soup in the morning! But indeed, seeing this, it’s no wonder you’re famished……” “Even this lowly Moritsuna has been left starving this morning—so much it’s dizzying.”

he said. Yoritomo laughed, “Tending horses is one thing—try reciting two volumes of the Lotus Sutra from your gut at dawn. Your innards’ll be scraped clean.” “Ah, but since we brothers came to serve at your exile residence—over ten years now—it’s been fine discipline for us.” “Has it truly been ten years?” “It has. By my father’s orders—when I first arrived here, I was still a snot-nosed brat, and even Elder Brother Sadatsuna was just a fledgling samurai.”

As he stepped on the dew, Moritsuna looked at his own bare feet. They were no different from a farmer’s. Moritsuna was the third son among four siblings. Sasaki Genzaburō Hideyoshi, Moritsuna’s father, had been a resident of Ōmi but was driven out of the province for refusing to submit to the Taira, taking refuge with Shibuya Shōji Shigekuni in Musashi.—Though he never neglected to send letters and gifts to Yoritomo in nearby Izu, he ultimately sent his eldest son Sadatsuna and third son Moritsuna here to serve as household servants at the exile place.

Though an exile, Yoritomo—still permitted a largely aristocratic lifestyle—had grown quite capricious in his dealings with the household servants at his place of exile. Moritsuna, angered by this, had fled back to Shibuya time and again. Each time, admonished by his father, he would return. They were master and servant who had shared hardships in the truest sense. Thus had their bond become one that could no longer be severed between lord and household. Looking back across those long years—such things too had come to pass.

His elder brother Sadatsuna was no less skilled than their father Hideyoshi at fletching arrows, but one night, as the brothers worked on arrows by lamplight, Yoritomo saw them and— (When will the day come when I can draw to the full, with these hands, the arrows you make?)

When he muttered this, the brothers suddenly felt their chests tighten and, unable to answer anything, ended up crying. Master and servant, as the lamplight was about to die out, took each other’s hands and wept. “……How many times must the nails on my toes regrow and peel before that day arrives?” Moritsuna, this morning as well—while thinking such thoughts—led his master’s horse back. Then, at the gate of the exile place—though what exactly had occurred was unclear—a crowd of commoners had gathered, clamoring noisily.

Three

“Hey!”

“The exile’s master and servant!” “There they come!” “They’re back!”

The commoners, showing blatant hostility, pointed and shouted. And they surged forward with such force that it seemed they would swarm around Yoritomo. "What is the meaning of this?"

Yoritomo looked back at Moritsuna. Moritsuna spread both hands in front of the horse while,

“I don’t understand what’s happening at all,” he answered. “Right now, I will investigate the matter.” All the while, the commoners continued hurling foul curses from all around. “Horse thief!” “You master and servant—colluding to swindle us out of the horse payment!” “Exile’s scum!” “Parasite of the exile place!” “Return the horse!” “Hand it over!” Their meaning seemed clear enough. These were market ruffians and horse traders. The thick dialect of their abuse had initially baffled Yoritomo, but now his expression shifted faintly.

“Moritsuna, what’s going on?” “Yes, my lord?” “Isn’t this some sort of misunderstanding?” “It is.” “Why do you remain silent?” “While their accusations stem partly from misconception, not all are groundless.” “You admit fault?” “There is some basis to it.” “In truth, I had entirely forgotten to pay the city’s horse traders—hence their claims.” “The horse payment?” “Yes.” “Which horse’s payment?” “I have no defense.” “I humbly beg your pardon.”

Moritsuna did nothing but bow his head and apologize. The man who had sought Rindō Kuro at the market yesterday, prodded by his companions, timidly stepped forward— “That’s it. That’s the horse!”

he pointed at the one Yoritomo was riding. “What? The payment for this horse?”

Yoritomo dismounted. And he silently listened to the horse traders' litany of complaints. When he heard their account, it wasn’t truly Moritsuna’s fault—so why was the man hanging his head in shame? His simpleminded earnestness struck Yoritomo as comical. “Do not make a fuss. If I pay for the horse, that should settle it.” “We’ll have no complaints if you just pay!” “Then wait!” “Oh, we’ll wait.” The crowd had also sat down by the roots of the exile place’s deer fence and in the nearby grassy thickets, still clamoring suspiciously.

Their suspicion was not entirely unreasonable. Yoritomo’s impoverished way of life had been evident even from just peeking through the fence there on ordinary days. The stipend for exiles consisted solely of fixed amounts—several dozen koku of grain, several to of oil, and several tan of cloth—as there was no other form of income.

“Hmm. This is a problem.” Leaving Moritsuna outside, Yoritomo went inside, but there were no possessions equivalent to the horse’s price. There remained clothes, sutra scrolls, and expensive prayer beads that Ike no Zennyo had sent from the capital once each year during her lifetime. From time to time, there were personal furnishings and miscellaneous utensils that his wet nurse Hiki no Tsubone had sent as thoughtful gifts. Yet all these were tokens of his benefactors’ sincerity that he could not bear to hand over to others; moreover, even were he to surrender them all, they would likely not amount to the horse’s value.

“Lady Kame, bring me that writing paper and inkstone here.”

Remaining seated on the veranda, Minamoto no Yoritomo wrote a letter and addressed it on the envelope to "Lady Masako of Lord Hōjō's household." Kame no Mae briefly showed a look of having glimpsed the addressee's name when Yoritomo—

“Summon Sadatsuna.”

Being told this, she obediently stood up and headed toward the samurai quarters.

IV

Seeing his elder brother Sadatsuna riding their master’s Rindō Kuro and hurriedly departing from the exile place, Saburō Moritsuna, who was outside—

“Brother, where are you going?”

he called out. “To Lord Hōjō’s place.” Sadatsuna whipped the reins and hurried off. Carrying a letter addressed to Masako, he soon visited the Hōjō family’s residence. From the start, she was a daughter raised in deep seclusion. There was no possibility of meeting her directly. He waited for a reply through the retainers’ hands. “This is my lord’s message.” The retainer handed over a set of Tang damask kosode and a single Tang mirror to Sadatsuna, along with Masako’s reply letter. Sadatsuna took those and hurried back to the exile place once more.

Yoritomo read Masako’s letter and immediately tore it into small pieces. And then he called over Moritsuna, who was outside, “Take these two items and give them to the market commoners 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 place, they must’ve thought he was bringing officials, so they scattered in all directions and ran off.”

Moritsuna spoke with amusement, but Yoritomo thought it a pitiful thing—for if word spread that he had oppressed lowly people, it would be a lifelong disgrace to Yoritomo. He ordered Moritsuna to immediately go to the market and either give these items directly to them, exchange them for money, or entrust them to their care and return. When Moritsuna went out, Sadatsuna also asked, "Have you finished your business?" and withdrew to the samurai quarters.

Half a day was wasted on the unexpected incident. Outside, the scorching sky blazed with nothing but the sweltering heat of the grass and the cries of cicadas.

"If I go now, there'll be no time to speak...and I'd return after dark." "Perhaps I should try tomorrow instead." Yoritomo gazed through the eaves at summer clouds as he muttered these thoughts. Recently, through Nagazane—younger brother of Hakone's temple administrator—he'd learned of a small mountain village called Nagoya two ri away, where Venerable Mongaku of Takao lived in exile after being banished from the capital for some offense. He's an exile—I'm an exile too. Meeting him might yield news from the capital. This possibility had lingered in Yoritomo's mind for weeks now—*Should I go today? Tomorrow?*—becoming an unresolved question that demanded resolution.

"But... Even that—is it worth considering?" His meticulous nature tended to overthink and fall into confusion. When weighing whether visiting Mongaku would bring benefit now or later, he grew more guarded than when sending letters to the daughter kept in deep seclusion. “Hmm…?”

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—Yoritomo knew all too well. It must have been because he had sent a messenger to Masako. To probe deeper into her heart—why had she neither consulted me about procuring the horse payment nor sent word to my father, Lay Priest Yoshihashi Tarō? She must resent that as well. Moreover, no matter how honest her nature might be, as a woman, she must also feel jealousy. Because it was in her nature to be unable to express those feelings through actions or words, she knew no way to express herself except through crying. Yoritomo’s gaze—though fully aware of this—held a slight harshness as he spoke curtly.

“What are you crying for? …A woman could never fathom a man’s heart. If you want to cry, go over there and cry. …It’s hot! Shut up!”

Five The more she was scolded not to cry, the more Kame no Mae became drenched in tears.

Yoritomo clicked his tongue and, “In this heat, even the cicadas’ cries are more than enough.” “…You’re so unreasonable.”

And with that, he stood up. Kame no Mae, for the first time, pleaded in a small voice while sobbing into her sleeve. “For a while, I humbly request to return to my family home.” “Going back?” Yoritomo asked in return. He deliberately cast a cold gaze.

“Very well. Don’t bother saying it’s temporary—stay wherever you wish for as long as you like.” A sudden sob erupted behind him—the sound of someone crumpling to the floor in tears. He kept walking without turning back, his footsteps echoing heavily across the lengthy wooden veranda.

To the west of the building stood a single structure enveloped by trees. Perhaps intending to take a nap, he strode in with large steps— “...Oh!” Someone turned around in surprise from in front of the small desk. It was Fujiwara no Kunimichi—a traveling painter who had wandered from the capital. He was a carefree man who danced well when drinking sake and possessed a lively disposition that made him amusing company. Having been persuaded by Yoritomo to stay, he had now spent over half a year as a resident at this exile place.

“I thought it was someone else—it’s you, my lord! You startled me.” “You’re working on it, I see.” Yoritomo erased the expression he had shown Kame no Mae and replaced it with a smile, then stood behind Kunimichi and peered over the desk cluttered with his brushes and paints. “In this manner, I often walk around various places, take sketches, and then work on them, so progress has been rather slow.”

Fujiwara no Kunimichi explained. What was being drawn there was not merely a picture; it was a map of half of Izu province. From mountains and rivers to the locations of roads, post stations, and shrines and temples, it was quite detailed, with some parts partially completed.

“It’s hot.” “The walking must be difficult.” “It would suffice if completed within the year.” “It will be completed within the year.” “Once snow falls, the paths through Hakone and other mountains become untraceable—that’s why I’m currently prioritizing mapping the mountainous regions first.”

“Hmm…”

Along the edge of the veranda, morning glory vines crept up. A single white flower trembled in the wind. Yoritomo, as if remembering something,

“Kunimichi. Could you do an errand for me?” “Where would you have me go?” “Kame no Mae says she wants to return to her foster parents’ home. Take her to Nyūdō Yoshihatirō’s residence.” “Oh. So she is to return?” “To send her back alone would be cruel. Could you escort her there?”

“That is well and good, but will you not face any inconveniences in your personal arrangements?”

“It’s nothing serious.” “My lord, have you had some quarrel? After all, women are women. Please calm yourself and share a cup with me tonight. I could perform sarugaku for you again.” “Sarugaku—I’ve just done one now. A foolish sarugaku, even by my own measure.”

Having said that abruptly, he shut himself in the Buddhist hall. Whenever something arose, he would slip in there. While there, he became a man with no thoughts beyond copying and chanting sutras. The vigorous gall and blood of twenty-nine years occasionally needed cooling in that incense-ice chamber.

Before long. Once again, the daily sutra chanting spilled forth from within. Kame no Mae waited outside the room to bid her farewell, but she only sobbed and left quietly.

An evening wind began to rise through the grass seed heads.

The cicadas were crying out—

Mystic Monk

One

Autumn comes early to the mountains. The ivy and lacquer trees were already as red as if touched by frost.

“Elder Brother. Let’s go back.” “But the sun’s still up.” “But I’ve had enough.” It was the brothers Sadatsuna and Moritsuna who had gone deep into Nira Mountain, prepared for hunting.

Even though the arrows they had brought were running low, they had only managed to catch four or five birds to hang at their waists.

“What a day.” “If only some boar piglets would show up…” “It’s still too early in the season.”

The two threw their tired legs onto the grass.—The valley was nearing dusk, but atop Hakone’s peak, a red sun still lingered.

“Brother.” “Hmm?” “Yesterday too, you took His Lordship’s letter and went on an errand to Lord Hōjō’s inner quarters.” “I went.” “You do go often—frequently.” “It was ordered.” Moritsuna said with a brusque expression. He seemed to want to say it wasn’t as if he went of his own volition.

The sound of sutra chanting could be heard from the mountain temple just below. As if reminded by the sutra, "...What a bother."

Sadatsuna muttered to himself.

“What?”

Moritsuna sharpened his gaze at his brother’s melancholy. Sadatsuna stared back at those eyes— “You’re such a carefree soul—that’s why you’re perfectly suited for errand-running and such.” “His Lordship has never once ordered this Sadatsuna to go.” “Elder Brother… Are you being resentful?” “Don’t talk nonsense!”

“Am I a carefree soul…?” “Because you have no worries.” “Worrying won’t change anything.—Is that really okay? I often think that myself, but…” “Even you think so?” “There’s nothing unexpected about that.” “Father certainly assigned us brothers to serve such a lord. Though it’s presumptuous, sighs escape me at times.” “The Minamoto clan has no luck, and the Taira clan has good luck. It can’t be helped.” “Moritsuna, our service at the exile place has already spanned over ten years. Can you resign yourself to it? I can’t resign myself to it… Let us, as brothers, once state our opinions. Let’s try to sound out that lord’s true intentions.”

“Opinion?” “What?” “First he caused that incident with Ito Sukechika Nyudo’s daughter—one would think he’d learned his lesson from that—yet before long he brought Kame no Mae into the exile place. That’s fine too.” “But here we go again.” “He sent Kame no Mae back to her hometown over a minor fit of anger though she’d done nothing wrong, and since around this summer he’d been dispatching messengers nonstop with letters to Lord Hōjō’s daughter whom he’d left alone for some time.” “…What on earth does he call this conduct?”

“Are you truly suggesting we mention this?” “To speak frankly is a retainer’s duty.” “I refuse.” “Why?” “Matters concerning women... It’s common to all men.” “Fool! You mistake leaves for roots. My censure isn’t for trifling conduct alone. Even were his leniency toward women excusable—so long as he kept sight of weightier affairs—yet by my judgment—” “You deem him unreliable?” “It gives cause for concern.”

“I don’t think so.”

Moritsuna seemed to view all matters in broader strokes than his elder brother.

“People often say women are difficult, but since he has such skill in handling them, he must surely have given ample thought to other matters as well. Unlike you, Elder Brother, he can’t just take matters into his own hands.” Moritsuna laughed at his elder brother’s impatience.

Two

Their gazes drifted toward the evening clouds, and the brothers remained utterly silent. Even serving the same lord, the two did not view things the same way. “……It’s unclear.”

As if still unsatisfied with what he had said, Sadatsuna soon muttered to himself. "Just when you think him indolent by nature, he applies himself beyond others to daily discipline, martial arts, and literary studies." "Just when you deem him cold and tearless by birth, he shows tenderness—nay, an amorous folly that makes one suspect such indulgences." "No sooner was he loved by Yaehime of Ito Nyudo than he shifted to Kame no Mae and now sends letters to Lord Hōjō's secluded chambers." "...What a fool." "...Even bystanders click their tongues... Yet through such days, he never neglects reciting the Universal Gateway Chapter, never fails his hundred daily nenbutsu chants, nor once has forgotten his monthly pilgrimages to Mishima Shrine."

“Elder Brother, shall we go?” Looking bored, Moritsuna began to rise from the grass while brushing off dust—and in that instant, he spotted something. He raised the bow he carried and nocked an arrow with a sharp click.

Sadatsuna gazed at the arrowhead,

“Brother, what are you shooting?” “…………” Moritsuna did not answer. He pulled the string taut, snapped it with a twang, and let fly. The arrow passed through the treetops of the grove that covered the mountain temple below the cliff, leaving four or five leaves fluttering behind. “—It fell.” The figure of a bird struck by an arrow descended vertically toward the rear of the mountain temple. Since Moritsuna had run down, and since it was their return path anyway, Sadatsuna followed a little later. The mountain temple below was an ancient temple known as Kannon-in or Nagotani-ji, its principal image being the Kannon of Great Compassion. Next to the kitchen stood a monk’s quarters—a single building that appeared newly constructed. In the deepening evening gloom, the whiteness of its fresh wood paneling and roof stood out conspicuously.

As Moritsuna picked up the hunted bird and arrow and was about to leave— —The sound of sutra chanting ceased. —And then a large man abruptly emerged onto the edge of the new wooden veranda and barked. “Who’s there—” “Wait!” Moritsuna turned around. He simply thought, *A monk.* “What?”

Then, the large monk barked: "You trespassed into walled grounds without permission—what kind of greeting is that?" "Did this place even have walls?" Moritsuna retorted. "We came down from the back mountain—we didn’t know." "I still won’t forgive this," the monk thundered. "You brat! You shoot an arrow into someone’s garden and think to leave without apologizing?" "My bad." "—That’s not enough." "Then what do you want me to do?" "Grovel on your hands!" He declared from the veranda above, his voice dripping with contempt.

He had bulging muscles and a protruding lower belly that made him appear to deliberately arch his back. His coarse, untamed beard and combative glare seemed ill-suited for a monk. Confronted with such eyes—Moritsuna, with his Bandō-bred stubbornness and natural inability to apologize even when remorseful—

“I won’t apologize any further.” “What’ll you do if I don’t grovel and apologize?” he sneered.

The monk thrust out a hairy iron fist,

“Brat! You want a taste of this?”

he said.

III

“What?!” As Moritsuna approached, placing his hand on his long sword, the large monk— “Country bumpkin! Think you can cut me?” “Can you even cut me?” —and bellowed a laugh, his mouth gaping wide. At the words “country bumpkin” that he had used to berate his brother, Sadatsuna, who had been watching from afar, seemed to recall something and ran over, “Stand down.”

He scolded his brother. Then he turned to the monk and inquired: “Might you be Lord Mongaku?” “I am Mongaku.”

“Ah, so it is!”

“Where do you people hail from?” “My apologies.—Moritsuna, apologize. This is the holy priest of Takao.” He scolded his younger brother like that, but Moritsuna’s face showed he had no intention of bowing his head. He simply kept his eyes fixed on Mongaku’s face. “I see.” Mongaku suddenly bared his white teeth. Upon hearing Moritsuna’s name, he must have quickly deduced the connection. He guffawed and said: “Ah, so you people are retainers of Yoritomo, who they say is at Hirugakojima.”

“We are exactly as you have surmised.” “I am Tarō Sadatsuna, son of Sasaki Genzō, and this crude one here is Saburō Moritsuna.” “This is a humble place. Come in.” Mongaku guided them to the hearth and sat down first before it.

“Brother, what should we do?”

When he conferred in a whisper, Moritsuna said, “Since he says to come in, let’s go in.”

“Don’t put on unnecessary bravado.” Sadatsuna entered the room while quietly reprimanding his brother. Mongaku was breaking firewood and adding it to the hearth. Red flames cast their glow upward onto his face. Much had long been heard about this priest’s background. This was because he had often become a topic of conversation even in the capital, and after being exiled to Izu, the villagers there would gossip about him at every turn. From the very moment of his awakening, this man’s path diverged from that of ordinary monastic vows. He was born into the Endō family with the given name Moritō, rising from a North Face warrior to become a guard for the retired emperor. However, at eighteen, he killed a married woman named Kesa and, overwhelmed by remorse, shaved his head and entered the priesthood—this was said to be his motivation.

His subsequent training had also surpassed that of ordinary people—even ascetic practices like those at Nachi Mountain were something he had experienced time and again across the famous peaks and rivers of every province. People called him the Wild Priest of Takao, but since coming to Izu, he had taken to calling himself: “Man of Virtuous Countenance.” Was this truly a virtuous countenance? That he styled himself so revealed an amiable nature. Yet his face, lit by the hearth’s crimson flames, appeared fearsome instead.

The reason he had been exiled here was equally gruesome. He had been soliciting donations from the capital’s citizens to restore the ruined Jingo-ji Temple, revive Buddhism’s prosperity, and pray for his parents’ posthumous bliss—but one day, hearing that many nobles had gathered at Hōjū-ji Temple’s Dharma Hall, he went to seek alms there, yet none paid him heed. Thereupon, Mongaku entered the garden without permission and began bellowing the solicitation text. At that moment, the nobles and courtiers who had been listening to flute music tried in alarm to drag him from the temple grounds—prompting Mongaku to reportedly kill or injure several.—Even with his patchily shaven head, the blood of Endō Moritō had not yet shed its dragon-in-the-abyss-like nature. Thus, even his self-styled title of “Man of Virtuous Countenance”—unless viewed with that very intent—might at any moment bare fangs and spew tongues of flame.

Four

Before long, Mongaku asked while comparing the Saitō brothers before the hearth: “It has already been many years in Izu. Has Lord Sadan reached adulthood without mishap?” Moritsuna merely sat with an unamiable expression, so Sadatsuna became doubly attentive to their lord and responded with utmost courtesy: “Indeed, his residence in exile has now entered its seventeenth year. He remains in vigorous health, and his character continues to be most ordinary.” “How old has he become?”

“He is twenty-nine years old.”

“He’s almost thirty.” Mongaku grumbled something, “Time flies.” “Yet the Taira, grown complacent in their prosperity, wouldn’t bother counting the years since Yoshitomo’s son was born.” “Not a soul in Izu frets needlessly over Lord Sadan’s presence anymore.” “For the Minamoto remnants, this should be counted a godsend.” “…………” “Isn’t that so?”

“Yes.” “You there—fine young men—surely you haven’t attached yourselves to Lord Sadan just to spend your lives serving an exile in this remote place of exile, eating potatoes and millet, have you?” “…………” How should they respond? As this monk said, even Rokuhara was not indifferent. Even in rural society, one could not afford to be careless. Moreover, this eccentric monk had an established reputation as “a monk who has words but lacks virtuous conduct.” Whether he was someone to be trusted or someone not to be trusted—Sadatsuna could not discern.

Mongaku did not betray public opinion—he was a man of many words. He paid no heed to his listener’s expressions and said exactly what he wanted to say. “Convey this to Lord Sadan.” “I hear he diligently performs his morning and evening recitations—however many volumes of the Lotus Sutra—and has even vowed to copy them by hand, or so the rumors go. But this trivial Buddhist playacting, whether it’s some scheme toward Kyoto or not—he ought to know when enough is enough.” “Given that he’s twenty-nine already, this is no time for such dalliance.”

It took the form of a solo sermon. And before long, he would blend into his speech a tone and fervor as if he himself were Yoritomo. One could sense in Mongaku an extraordinary fervor and stubborn conviction, but upon closer listening, he utterly conflated his own position and emotions with those of others, insisting his own views and doctrines were the only truth—preaching them to people and imposing them on the world. When things did not go as he intended, this very trait seemed to drive him further into erratic words and deeds.

“No—his daily conduct matters little, but after seventeen years in this remote countryside, has Lord Sadan’s vision not become confined to half of Izu? Has he forgotten to see the world from a grander perspective?” “It is a cause for concern.” “It is lamentable.—First and foremost, one must thoroughly understand the affairs of the capital and, by extension, the sentiments of the provinces—but from whom has he been gathering information on these matters, and with what mindset has he been preparing?” “Thank you very much for everything.” “When he returns, I will convey your message well. …As the day has grown late, I shall take my leave here.”

Sadatsuna, having spoken appropriately, began to rise, but even when urged by his brother, Moritsuna made no move to stand up immediately. His eyes remained fixed from the start, staring without reserve solely at Mongaku’s face. And rather than being moved by the fervor that surfaced on his skin through his loquacity, he observed it coolly, a faint bitter smile lingering at the corner of his lips.

Five It was the gaze of a younger brother who looked as if he was about to start some argument. Sadatsuna, seemingly fearing they had overstayed their welcome even more, promised Mongaku they would visit another day and forcibly urged Moritsuna to leave the place. “If you push that brushwood there, you will come out beside the kitchen. Use the mountain gate to descend.”

Mongaku instructed from behind.

Passing through the precincts of Nakodani Temple, the brothers hurried on their way back.

The evening sky was hazy with nebulae. When they emerged onto the country path, darkness stretched endlessly with only insect sounds. "You must be anxious." "It grew late before I noticed." Sadatsuna appeared troubled by their negligence during the hectic evening, but Moritsuna— "Brother. Brother." —called out to him, "The evening duties are surely finished by now." "Night roads don't darken with sunset." "Let us return at leisure."

he said calmly. When told so, perhaps it was indeed the case. The road to the place of exile still had over four kilometers remaining. Sadatsuna, too, resigned himself, “However—we have no report to bring back to our lord.” “Because Lord Yoritomo had even mentioned something like ‘Shall I try visiting Mongaku once?’” “Brother, you were told on your way back that he would come again—do you intend to guide our lord there?” “I believe he is a holy man worth meeting.” “Would he not be considered an eminent monk in recent times?”

“Moritsuna remains unimpressed.” “You’ve been judging that holy man through emotion from the start.” “That’s part of it,” Moritsuna acknowledged frankly. “But even setting aside that reason—I still dislike him. If he’d openly carried a tachi like us warriors and declared himself one, that would be acceptable. But a monk who doesn’t even act like a monk?” “That’s precisely his virtue,” Sadatsuna countered. “Among today’s monks who just go through the motions—do you think any true holy men remain?”

“There are.”

Moritsuna cut off his words, “In Kurodani of the capital, there is Hōnen Shōnin. Lately, the sound of Hōnen-bō’s nenbutsu has been resonating deeply, reaching even the countryside.” “Are you impressed with such teachings as nenbutsu, the easy path, other-power reliance? They don’t even act like monks.” “No—though the path we follow differs as much as east from west, for the vast multitude of beings, having someone like that emerge in one part of the world is somehow reassuring, even if it’s none of our concern. As for the likes of Mongaku—they’re better off not existing. Even we warriors do not willingly seek the path of Asura. A bloodstained world is something to be avoided as much as possible. It is the warrior’s path of Asura to overcome only when one cannot proceed to the next world without doing so. As for monks like that, they bark ferociously at all times and places, as if it were an inborn chronic disease. He’s got too much ambition—I can’t stand him.”

“But today’s words—he must have vented his feelings like that out of excessive pro-Minamoto bias.” “For us warriors, such favoritism is rather an unwelcome burden—nothing but a hindrance.” “As for arranging a meeting for our lord, Moritsuna believes it would be better to refrain.” “If word were to spread that Lord Sadan had secretly gone to the mad monk who openly curses the Taira, it would not be in our lord’s best interest.”

A light appeared in the darkness filled with insect sounds. Before they knew it, they had returned to Hirugakojima. Then came the sight of two cloaked figures standing at the exile place’s gate. As the brothers stood frozen watching, a princess emerged stealthily from near the Lord’s chambers—her face hidden beneath a lacquered wide-brimmed hat—and vanished into a dew-heavy path overgrown with grass, guarded by two attendant-like shadows waiting outside.

“…Ah.” “Who was that person just now?”

Sadatsuna looked at his younger brother’s face and gasped.

Moritsuna, who often handled letter deliveries, had immediately recognized her as Lord Hōjō’s woman but feigned ignorance, “Who cares who it is—?” Laughing, he strode ahead of his brother through the exile place’s gate and at once began loudly complaining to the caretakers about today’s hunt yielding no game.

Masako

I

It was early winter.

The rice harvest was also completed. On days like that day when Mount Fuji stood vivid against the sky, the wind bit piercingly cold against the skin.

“How was this year’s rice harvest?” “Was it better than usual?”

Hōjō Tokimasa turned around from his horse and looked back at his two eldest sons, Munetoki and Yoshitoki. "Well, this year again saw flooding along the Kano River and severe storms, so it hasn’t been a bountiful harvest—but at least it hasn’t reduced the peasants to destitution." It was Munetoki’s reply. Father Tokimasa nodded and turned his gaze toward the vista. All the while, dry road dust from the procession accompanying the father and his two sons drifted thinly into the sky. Tokimasa was a man in his fifties, in his prime, his robust frame surpassing even those of his sons. His eyebrows were excessively thick, lending him an almost vulgar appearance, but the eyes set deep in their sockets held a peculiar intensity. Moreover, having frequently traveled to Kyoto and been exposed to central affairs and knowledge, his countenance carried a certain sophistication when seen in this rural setting—even his rugged features bore traces of intellectual vitality.

“It’s nearly upon us.” “The mansion’s woods, Kano River’s waters, post-town’s rooftops.” “They’ve already come into view yonder.” Munetoki pointed.

Munetoki imagined how dearly his father must have cherished those sights. “Hmm… Umm,” Tokimasa nodded. As far as the eye could see, the mountains and rivers were his domain. Descended from Taira no Sadamori, one could say regional power was divided between Itō Sukechika of Itō and the Hōjō of Hōjō. He had heirs; his retainers were strong; clan discord remained negligible; annual harvests proceeded without incident. For now—so long as he maintained favor with Retired Lord Kiyomori in Kyoto and Rokuhara—his house’s stability stood assured. Provided he neither coveted excess nor encroached on neighboring warlords’ borders, his future beyond forty might unfold leisurely, exactly as he envisioned.

Even he had plans for his old age. He had begun to consider them in due course. Part of those plans had taken shape as marriage discussions for his eldest daughter Masako; unexpectedly, preliminary arrangements had even been settled during this journey. He had until recently been in Kyoto serving in the capital guard. Since his term of service had ended, he had now returned to his home province after a long absence. The sons had gone to Mishima at dawn to welcome their father; surrounding his robust figure upon return, they mingled with household members and baggage train as they eagerly made their way back.

“Is Masako well?” Though he had other daughters, Tokimasa had specifically mentioned only her name because the marriage arrangement settled during his journey had lingered in his thoughts ever since—not as a conscious worry, but as a constant presence. “Yes, she is well.” When Munetoki answered, Yoshitoki added from atop his black horse behind him: “She’s too lively.” “With Father away, the inner chambers have been bustling every day beyond description.” “And she’s naturally cheerful to begin with.”

he added. Ah, I see. I see. That put Tokimasa’s mind at ease. He nodded and smiled. No matter how old they became, all children still appeared as children. However, regarding Masako alone, his perspective had begun to change slightly during this return journey. For during his travels, he had met Deputy Governor Yamaki Kanetaka’s wife and had promised to give her [Masako] to them. For any man, it was when marriage talks began that a father came to see his daughter anew as a woman in her own right.

Two

The day they unpacked their travel gear passed uneventfully, and in the days that followed—between clan visits and inquiries about duties during his absence—Tokimasa still had no time to relax as a family man. But at last came the day when he found a moment of respite. He visited his daughters’ chambers, laid out the souvenirs from Kyoto, watched their delight, and thus passed a carefree half-day.

(Lord Hōjō is blessed with fine children—) As people often remarked, Tokimasa had not yet reached fifty, yet he had three daughters of marriageable age. There were sixteen- and eighteen-year-old sisters, along with an eldest daughter from his former wife who had just turned twenty. That eldest sister was Masako. In terms of appearance, even viewed through a parent’s biased eyes, all three were not particularly outstanding. Only Masako bore some resemblance to the looks of his deceased former wife.

Just as their appearances differed, Masako’s temperament was markedly different from her two younger sisters’. Perhaps because she always kept in mind that she alone had a different mother, she skillfully managed the maidservants around her, avoided disturbing her stepmother’s disposition, and was even revered by her younger sisters as their elder sister.

However, her father Tokimasa found this intelligent and beautiful Masako to be his greatest burden. For if one were to consider Masako’s feelings, she must surely be wishing to marry a man from the capital—and given her intelligence and daily preferences, this was not difficult for a parent’s eyes to discern. For young men of respectable families in the capital, it could safely be said that there were practically none who would go out of their way to take a wife from the remote countryside of Izu. In the neighboring provinces of Izu and Sagami, there were indeed young lords who longed even for a glimpse of Lord Hōjō’s daughter—imagining her as some renowned flower raised in seclusion—but to elegant beauties like those overflowing the streets of Kyoto, such nobles would say:

(Even if melon flowers and bean flowers were called beautiful, they would smell of earth.) It was not a disposition to even give them a second glance. Particularly in these times—when even minor officials were filled with those connected to the Taira clan amid an overripe central culture, when sensibilities pathologically cherished only the excessively ornate and delicate—not one of the Hōjō family's daughters could satisfy the tastes of those capital dwellers. That being said, Masako's temperament and preferences appeared such that she had no inclination to marry the sons of local warlords from neighboring provinces like Izu, Sagami, or Musashi. She cherished her own intelligence and beauty more than anyone else did. Moreover, she seemed to harbor the pride of being a Hōjō daughter—holding it even higher than her father Tokimasa did, though secretly.

As for the second reason, "They were Bando warriors." Possessing only that rugged fortitude while lacking intellect—all brawn and vigor—among the many local warlords who seemed to have sprouted directly from the earth, there were no noblemen who could capture her heart in such aspects. To be twenty meant her prime was already waning—something people nowadays even viewed with suspicion—and yet she remained unmarried precisely for those reasons.

What burdened Tokimasa more were his less comely younger daughters; however, even to marry those girls off to other families, the pressing matter that required immediate resolution was first marrying off his eldest daughter, Masako.

“A messenger from Deputy Governor Lord Yamaki Hangan has arrived with a letter.” Just then, a young retainer brought a letter to Tokimasa’s hand, and Tokimasa, seizing the opportunity—

“What? From Lord Yamaki? Take it over there. I’ll need to send a formal response in due course.”

He hurriedly left his daughters’ chambers and moved to his own room.

Three It was around the time when Deputy Governor Yamaki’s messenger—having received a reply from Tokimasa—left the residence referred to by local peasants as *Gosho-Horiuchi*, crossed its moat bridge, and departed. Tokimasa addressed his wife, Maki no Kata: “We have been rushing the wedding preparations like this from the start, but Yamaki Kanetaka would not disgrace Masako as her husband. “Once the new year comes, she’ll be twenty-one. “She herself must be growing restless by now—I doubt she’ll refuse this match. …Though the ceremonial arrangements—”

and now, showing the letter that had come from Yamaki Kanetaka, he abruptly began requesting both the date and his wife’s opinion at the same time.

Maki no Kata, as her stepmother, naturally strove to approach Masako with a parental affection surpassing even that for her own children. "I believe it would be a favorable marriage alliance with Deputy Governor Yamaki Hangan, but has the arrangement progressed so far already?" "On my way back from Kyoto, when I happened to spend a night at the same inn as Lord Yamaki, our conversation turned to Masako’s reputation. The Deputy Governor confided that he had long secretly desired to take her as his wife." "If that’s agreeable, we settled then and there on sending her as his wife."

“Oh… Then… you’ve already formally agreed to this arrangement?” “What nonsense! I must have told you immediately upon returning.” “But I never imagined matters would advance so abruptly…” “Then what did you expect?” “I thought you had instructed me… to discreetly sound out Masako’s feelings when opportune…” “If we kept inquiring whether she likes or dislikes him each time, her prime would pass unnoticed. It’s natural for you as her stepmother to hesitate—but I’ve been too lenient. No need for questions now. Tell her he’s a son-in-law chosen by her father’s discernment.”

“But a woman’s entire life—” “That’s precisely why we must hurry.” “But… She is a daughter who thinks far beyond ordinary people—even if you marry her off to a place she doesn’t favor—” “She’ll grow fond of him after marriage. —No matter where we send the bridal palanquin, we can’t keep daughters at their parents’ side forever.”

“I humbly wish that Your Excellency would be the one to inform her. If I were to tell her myself, and if she shows reluctance toward this marriage proposal—weeping and voicing her maidenly feelings—then, as a woman who understands a woman’s heart, I would find myself unable to insist she marry against her will.”

“What…?” Tokimasa looked slightly puzzled, “You yourself seem less than enthusiastic about this marriage alliance.” “That is not the case.”

“What’s this? …Has something changed in Masako’s conduct during my absence?” “That is not the case.” “Then why the reluctance?” “I would never—” “You, of all people, should be the first to rejoice… What is the meaning of that bewildered expression? …No—you’re hiding something from me.”

“That’s absurd!”

“No—it does appear that way.” “Shielding her just because she’s your stepchild will do her no good in the end.” “If you consider that as chastity toward your husband—me—it’s a grave mistake.” “……Very well, I won’t ask you any further.” “Summon Masako’s brother.” “Call Munetoki here.”

Tokimasa’s voice grew louder. Before long, Munetoki, the eldest son, was summoned and sat before his father. And while comparing his father’s stern expression with his stepmother’s demeanor, “Is there something you require?” he inquired lightly.

Four

“I ask you—”

“Yes.”

“During my absence, was there any change in Masako?” “When you say ‘changes’…?” “For instance—”

Tokimasa, as a father, seemed to find it difficult to speak and slightly twisted his mouth. “Because she’s of marriageable age now—she’s already…” “Ah. Regarding my sister’s conduct…” “That’s right.” “Stepmother—did Your Ladyship also speak to him about that matter?” Munetoki said bluntly. “N-no…,”

Maki no Kata, with a troubled look, shook her head slightly. Tokimasa both sympathized with his wife’s position and found her presence bothersome, so...

“You should not be here.” “Withdraw over there for a while.”

With that, he dismissed her. He was left alone with the eldest son. Tokimasa assumed an even sterner expression and interrogated Munetoki.

“The truth is…” “Yes.”

“I was just discussing with Maki—Deputy Governor Yamaki Kanetaka has requested to take Masako as his wife during this visit… We’ve made an agreement.” “So that’s what this is about.” “You’ve heard?” “A little from Stepmother.” “Exactly! Yet despite knowing full well, you feign ignorance and give only vague replies!” “There’s no fault here. Even Stepmother has unspoken care for Masako.”

“If it’s you, you can answer anything.” “So—what do you think of the marriage alliance I’ve arranged?” “That seems rather hasty.” “Hasty, you say?” “My sister will surely refuse. In your eyes, Father, she may appear otherwise, but in such matters, Masako differs from ordinary women.” “I shall speak plainly.” “As for us…” “Hmm.” “Deputy Governor Yamaki Kanetaka is undoubtedly ill-suited to my sister’s temperament.” “A man who turns quarrelsome when drunk is no better than a vagabond.” “Though he may curry favor in the capital, his arrogant posturing as Deputy Governor—flaunting authority and putting on airs—proves unbearable even to us.” “Needless to say, his standing among the local folk fares no better.”

“If you keep tallying every human flaw like this, there’ll be no end to it—no matter who you’re talking about.”

“His temperament aligns with yours, Father. A man of talent remains a man of talent.” “Then you too disagree with this marriage alliance?”

“More than me or even you, Father—the crucial person herself will not be willing to marry.” “How can you presume to speak so definitively about Masako’s heart?” “Then—since it would be difficult for Stepmother to speak, and it feels cruel to make Masako say it herself, I will explain everything on their behalf—and at the same time, I ask that you hear my opinion.” “The truth is that—” As Munetoki grew solemn, Tokimasa’s face clouded with unconcealable bewilderment—for the promise made to Deputy Governor Yamaki could no longer be reneged upon.

“Wait, Munetoki.” Flustered, he shook his head. Though aware of his own obstinacy, Tokimasa found himself brandishing a strict father’s authority. “Let me be clear—this marriage alliance differs from our usual arrangements.” Having weighed the matter judiciously, Tokimasa had determined that even with Deputy Governor Yamaki Kanetaka’s flaws, the union would serve both the family’s prestige and Masako’s future—and with the wedding date fixed before year’s end, discreet preparations were already advancing. “At this stage, I cannot possibly break the engagement. Bear that in mind when you speak. “I will not tolerate excessive insistence on Masako’s whims or your juvenile notions. “Do you understand? Is that clear?”

Five Before he could even begin to speak, his father had preemptively shut him down, leaving Munetoki unable to say anything. Secretly priding himself on his youthful passion and purity, he could not bear how his father Tokimasa—no matter the matter, even when considering his own daughter’s marriage—would invariably steer affairs toward bolstering the clan’s power or wield them as political instruments. And that frustration always transformed into sympathy for his sister.

Earlier, when he had described Deputy Governor Yamaki as "a man of practical savvy reeking of bureaucracy," Munetoki had partly directed that barb at his father as well—yet Tokimasa showed not the slightest indication that he believed his own scheming disposition degraded his character in any way.

Rather, it appeared as though he believed such devoted consideration constituted parental love itself. “Munetoki... Keeping your mouth shut like that—what displeases you?” “But given your current words, there remains nothing more for me to say.” “Then do you too reject the marriage alliance I have brokered?” “Since I am not the bridegroom, I naturally harbor no objections.” “Yet Masako will never consent.”

“Why?”

“For Masako—because Masako has someone she secretly holds in her heart—” Munetoki saw his father’s complexion shift abruptly at his words, but resolved to speak on his sister’s behalf before withdrawing. “—That man may live in solitude now, but he remains unmistakably the Minamoto clan’s legitimate heir—a lord who stands apart even to our eyes. My sister desires to wed Lord Yoritomo.”

“…………”

After a moment, groaning, Tokimasa turned to his son Munetoki,

“……Is that true?” he said in a parched voice, holding back— When Munetoki spoke without hesitation—recounting how recently there had been conspicuous exchanges of love letters between Lord Yoritomo and his sister, even nights of secret meetings—Tokimasa’s face became enveloped in an indescribable mix of bewilderment and anger.

Munetoki, fearing his father’s anger might fall directly upon Masako and his stepmother, tried to appease him afterward. “As for Deputy Governor Yamaki—allow me to tactfully decline the proposal on our behalf.” “Please rest assured regarding that matter.” “And I humbly beseech you—from me, her brother—to grant Masako’s wish and send her to Lord Yoritomo.” Leaning on both hands as he spoke for his sister, Munetoki watched Tokimasa abruptly rise to his feet,

“Wh-what are you—how dare you spout such foolish nonsense! Do you even know who Lord Yoritomo *is*? Understand that before you presume to speak! How could this daughter of Tokimasa ever wed a Rokuhara criminal—an exiled convict?! Moreover, I, Tokimasa, have even been entrusted by the Retired Chancellor with monitoring him… To make my daughter the wife of that exile… Foolish! No matter how mad one might be—how could such idiocy be possible? Could it ever be done? You should know it cannot!”

While spraying spittle, he glared at Munetoki’s head and barked. Yet even after his furious roar, his bewilderment remained unshaken. Tokimasa strode out into the garden. He wandered wordlessly through the wooded hills until at last he dispatched a court page to his daughters’ chambers: “The great lord summons you.” “You are to come alone, Lady Masako.” Thus did he send for 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, she remained composed and continued facing the mirror. The two sisters, separated by a curtain, were quietly huddled together. One sat at her writing desk, while the other leaned her cheek on her hand, engrossed in reading the narrative texts of the picture scrolls their father had recently brought back from the capital as gifts.

But now, when they heard the voice of the court page who had come to inform Masako and left, “……Just Older Sister?”

“Yes… That’s what it sounded like.” “Could it be a scolding?” “Who knows?” Suddenly overcome by anxiety, the youngest sister quietly peeked through a gap in the curtain to observe Masako’s state. “What kind of face is Older Sister making….” “Does she look frightened?”

Silently, the youngest sister shook her head. And then, she whispered into her sister’s ear in a small voice. “She’s calm.—Not at all.” Just like that, Masako made her way down to the garden. After dismissing her maids, her figure was seen heading alone into the depths of the garden with a smile. The half-sisters, though of a different mother, were by no means at odds with Masako.

Earlier, in Father’s room, upon hearing from Munetoki, the eldest son, about Masako’s conduct during his absence, Father had flown into a rage—those here had already come to know this as well. Masako knew, and the two sisters knew as well.

“Our kind Father has never been so angry with us before—and to have gone out of his way to summon only Older Sister from the mountain residence.” “Could it be he means to give her some harsh punishment?”

The sisters ran down the corridor, searching for their mother.

Maki no Kata and Munetoki, the eldest son, sat facing each other in a room, sunk in worry. Of course, they had immediately realized it concerned Masako’s situation. “Older Sister has been summoned to the mountain residence all alone—is it truly acceptable for no one to accompany her?”

When the younger sisters reported this to them, Munetoki stood up,

“Father is at the mountain residence too?”

“Yes, for a long time he walked alone back and forth across the garden, until at last he seemed to be resting on the veranda of Dainichi Hall in the mountains.” “I see.” “I will go see.” “Stepmother and the young ladies need not worry.” Munetoki too went out into the garden, but Maki no Kata followed behind him, speaking in a tone that was all pleading—urging him not to speak rashly and not to anger Father Tokimasa any further.

“Do not worry—but inevitably, it cannot remain unknown forever. I understand Father’s difficult position, but now that things have come to this, it would be better for everything to be brought to his ears for the sake of what follows.—All of this is my fault, so I intend to take responsibility.” He was somewhat agitated. With that, he strode off into the garden. Even from behind, his ears were crimson. For him, this was not merely a matter of his sister’s romance, nor was it just a family dispute. In Munetoki’s heart, a far greater wave of the era was crashing. The hawser of his grand ambitions, which sought to ride that wave, had yet to be cast off from the shore and remained taut.

Seven

Dainichi Hall stood on a hill within the palace grounds. During his father Tokiie’s time, it had been moved here to these gardens from Ganjōju-in in Moriyama. When burdened by weighty matters, Tokimasa would often come here to meditate. Standing in this spot allowed him to survey all the lands his ancestors had cultivated. And when he bowed before Dainichi’s statue, that flaw of his—the tendency to flare into rage when confronting difficulties—

――That’s not it! He felt himself being calmed.

“Father. Did you summon me here?” Unaware that Masako had climbed up there and now stood before him, he remained seated on the damp veranda of Dainichi Hall, arms folded and head bowed. “Oh…”

With that, Tokimasa raised his bloodshot face. When he saw his obedient daughter’s slightly anxious eyes, he felt a pang of pity— “Masako.” “Sit here.” “Well… It’s not as if I called you here for anything particularly urgent, but I thought it’d be better to speak where no one else is around.” “Do you have something to ask of me…?” “It concerns your marriage.”

“……Yes.”

Masako quietly sat down beside her father and gazed at the fallen maple leaves at her feet. “You know Yamaki Kanetaka, don’t you? Deputy Governor Yamaki.” “I am aware of him.” “He is a man of stature.” “The regard from Rokuhara is also most favorable.” “Therefore, judging him to be a man who will prosper in the future, I have decided to send my daughter.” “You have no objections, I trust.” “…………” “There are none, I trust.”

In Tokimasa’s eyes, parental authority and affection clashed unresolved, their contradiction gleaming fiercely. The figure of the father, attempting to impose his own will even by force upon others, began to appear all the more formidable as time passed.

“Your answer… What say you…?” “A husband chosen by a father’s eye has no reason to pray for misfortune… You don’t dislike him, do you?” “…………” “Do you object?” “……I do not.” With a sigh, Masako replied. Her voice was faint. She lifted a face verging on pallor. Tokimasa, in contrast, dissolved his paternal solemnity into artless relief,

“Oh! You’ll marry?” he said with a buoyant voice. “Then I’ve settled it. Will you consent to wed?” “If it is your command…” “Good—you’ve accepted! You’ve reached marriageable age. No—to have your two younger sisters wed as well, you must first be settled.” “That matter too had weighed on me. …Therefore, I have one request.”

“Hmm. What is it?”

Tokimasa shifted his knees forward. As if embodying the proverb “Worrying is harder than the doing,” the weight of his earlier anxieties made him drop his stern demeanor all the more, laying bare his indulgent side as a father. “Since I have resolved to marry, I wish to do so without delay... And Father, as I have been an inherently willful daughter who has burdened you with nothing but trouble even until today, I ask that you once again inquire of Deputy Governor Yamaki whether he will pardon this willfulness of mine even after our union.”

Then, Tokimasa, acting as though he himself were the prospective son-in-law, waved his hand dismissively and refused. “Well, as a parent, I have already told him that many times myself—the fact is, you are not an unreasonable person.” “But Deputy Governor Yamaki says that is precisely your good point—your broad and bright disposition—and he is aware of your shortcomings even more than I am.” “I will add this as a precaution, but there is no need for you to concern yourself.” “Ha ha ha ha ha. Even you, bride-to-be, are no living Kannon.”

8

Tokimasa stood up. He took on the countenance of a contented father who seemed untouched by hardship even upon scrutiny.

“Masako.” “Let us return.” With that, he began to walk away.

Masako still remained on the veranda of the prayer hall. She was looking down. “I will follow shortly.”

“Don’t catch cold.” “It grows cold when the sun dips.” “Yes.” “Will you not come?” “I shall return after paying respects.”

Tokimasa nodded twice and descended the path, looking down at the mansion’s roof and wide garden below.

As their father's figure sank into the shade of the trees, as though he had been waiting in ambush, Munetoki, the eldest son, emerged from beside the prayer hall.

“Sister!” As he rushed up to her, he grabbed Masako’s wrist so hard it hurt and said, “You—you! What on earth do you intend to do?” “Do you intend to marry Deputy Governor Yamaki?” “Hey, Masako! You—” “Please calm yourself.” Masako reprimanded her agitated brother, “There is also Father’s position to consider.” “It is also our parents’ command.” “There are also the feelings of my stepmother and half-sisters.” “…This time, I have decided to marry.” she said without shedding a tear.

Munetoki could not endure his indignation at this sister who, while facing such a problem, had given their father such consent without consulting him. Seeing Masako’s unexpected composure, he found her serene face—though she was his sister—all the more hateful. “Hmph. So you’ve deceived Lord Sadan, then. Have you been toying with love like a courtesan? Doesn’t your heart ache?”

“That’s rather excessive language.” “Even were you my elder brother—”

“What?!” “Do you think of Masako as such a woman? …How mortifying.” “The one who’s frustrated here is me, your brother! You spoke of Father’s position—but what of Munetoki’s? No—she’s my own sister. I can’t even grumble. But what of the comrades who shielded your relationship with Lord Sadan and secretly conspired with you about matters of grave importance for the future?” “Masako has also been considering this.” “Well? …How have you been thinking about this?”

“Please calm yourself.”

“Fool! I *am* calm!” “With such an irritated tone, I cannot speak of what I am thinking.”

“Of course! How could I stay calm about this?! Even if you’re my own sister—if things come to it, I’m ready to take your head and apologize to the comrades I swore oaths with! If my voice sounds sharp or my eyes look fierce—that’s a brother’s love for you!”

“…Heh heh heh.” Masako laughed and gazed at her honest brother with pity.

“Brother. When I observe the schemes you all pursue—though your hearts may be courageous—your actions resemble a child’s reckless fireplay. You seem only eager to demolish everything at once.” “Don’t feign wisdom!” “No—it isn’t just you. The comrades in your faction are all young men; while youthful recklessness is expected, even so, it’s excessively—” “You impudent wretch! Are you claiming this brother and our allies are all milk-scented infants?”

“I do think so.” “You said it!” “You see? This is exactly your impatience. In that case, even if I speak, it would be futile—please allow me one more night to meet Lord Sadan. I will tell that lord everything. As for Elder Brother and the rest of your faction, hear it from Lord Sadan’s own mouth. Until then, even among siblings, I will not speak my heart’s depths to anyone. It will not be revealed to anyone.”

A Band of Youths

One

It was a field of silver grass. The foothills of Kannami stretched in a gentle slope, and at the far end, on the roofs of the distant town, the winter sun was beginning to sink.

“Is someone passing by…?”

One person stretched their neck out from the silver grass and looked around. “A woodcutter.” The head sank back down. A silver rustling swept across.—Behind the wind’s passage, an old quail cried. “So… What did Lord Sadan say?”

They were young warriors from nearby villages—Nitta Shirō Tadatsune, Minamijō Kojirō, Amano Tōkage, Sanada Yoichi, and others. Perhaps fourteen or fifteen in number, they sat lower than the silver grass, forming a tight circle as they exchanged hushed voices. “Morinaga—you tell us,” said Doi Jirō Sanepira. “Munetoki might find it difficult to speak of his sister.”

At his side was Hōjō Munetoki, the clan heir. And beside him sat Adachi Tōkuro Morinaga and his wife—retainers from the exile’s household who constantly attended to Yoritomo.

They were positioned slightly apart from the other young men, facing each other.

In form, the three appeared to hold the position of ringleaders in this gathering of young men. The rumor that Lord Hōjō’s daughter and Deputy Governor Yamaki were to marry soon had become impossible to conceal, and winter had reached mid-November.

For some time now, it had been Masako’s wish to meet Yoritomo one last time before her marriage. She had also intended to convey her true feelings to Lord Sadan. —This had been carried out the previous night, so today, that very Lord Sadan,

(Having met her, what had she confided?) They were close friends who had gathered here to hear what he had to say.

Though they were called friends, this group of young comrades from the Tōsō region had no desire to imitate the lukewarm youth of the Taira nobles—their love games and song-filled banquets. They harbored even more robust desires within their sturdy bodies, striving to rise toward realms beyond the peninsula.

No—or rather, to put it more bluntly, they sought to overthrow the Taira clan and aimed to replace them. However, they all possessed ambitions and ideals to build an era greater than what had come before. They did not think they were merely aiming to recklessly start a rebellion and usurp the realm. It was their firm belief that their emergence would bring happiness to all common people and serve as the sole righteous path to appease the imperial heart.

Among them were those who were merely local samurai, but Hōjō Munetoki, of course, as well as Doi Jirō Sanepira, Amano Tōkage, and Nitta Shirō Tadatsune—all were scions of old families in this region. Before they knew it, this group of youths had united around the young Yoritomo, (When the time comes—)

With “When the time comes—” in mind, they kept watch on the movements of the world. When it came to matters concerning Lord Sadan, this young group handled even the aftermath of his fickle romances from the shadows. In particular, they had entwined their own objectives around that romance with Lord Hōjō’s daughter.—For if they were to raise their banner there, the influence of the Hōjō family could not be ignored. If they did not win over Tokimasa, they could not lift a finger.

To move Tokimasa, even the heir's wisdom and passion proved futile. Even if the local youths banded together to persuade him, they would merely be laughed off for their youth.

But Tokimasa was indulgent toward his children—especially doting on Masako as a parent. If a bond spanning two lifetimes were to form between Masako and Lord Sadan, Munetoki—the heir—and the rest of the young band had reasoned that Tokimasa would rise against the Taira, willing or not. Thus they had secretly guarded the path between the exile’s residence and the Hōjō household.

Two

The written vow between Masako and Yoritomo, which had seemed to bind two generations, lay torn asunder. Masako was to marry Deputy Governor Yamaki in the near future. ——Would we simply let this stand? Naturally, it was this band of youths who first raised the clamor. The issue was not Lord Sadan’s romantic entanglements. Lord Sadan had always been a philanderer. Such matters scarcely warranted their attention. ——This was the unraveling of everything.

——Lady Masako knew about our plot... ——If she became the Deputy Governor’s wife—

It was a panic born of natural yet unfounded fears and indignation. Munetoki had visited each one individually and, after arranging another meeting between his sister and the lord, would elucidate the truth. Should his sister’s change of heart prove irrevocable, he would assuredly offer apologies to each of them with her severed head. Through such placating efforts, they had barely endured these past days without incident until today’s gathering—yet now Munetoki arrived without Masako’s head. “Then I shall speak first.” Tōkuro Morinaga offered this preface with measured deference before addressing the assembly.

“Last night, at a certain place, I secretly arranged a meeting with Lord Sadan in accordance with Lady Masako’s wishes.—Afterward, the details of the princess’s thoughts that I received from Lord Sadan were as follows… Please listen.”

The following is—— Tōkuro Morinaga, acting on behalf of Masako and Yoritomo, disclosed to their trusted allies what was termed "the true heart of marriage."

＊　　　　　＊　　　　　＊ If I were to refuse that marriage proposal, Father Tokimasa would be proven a liar. From now on, even if Deputy Governor Yamaki slanders me endlessly, I shall become one who cannot speak with a warrior’s dignity. The anguish must be unbearable. There is also Father’s delicate position regarding his wife and her daughters. Moreover—and this weighs heavier—estrangement from Deputy Governor Yamaki would inevitably follow, breeding troublesome rumors that might even reach Kyoto.

She said this, but the greater reason was that Masako herself wanted to be by Yoritomo's side as quickly as possible.

All who knew her praised her intelligence, but she too was a woman who would become so blinded by love and impassioned as to brave moonless nights to visit the exiled man. No—given her circumstances and age, Masako’s entire purpose in life had now become single-mindedly fixed upon one man. Moreover, this man was the legitimate heir of an illustrious lineage that perfectly matched her ideals. His bearing carried no provincial coarseness but rather the fragrance of nobility. He possessed not only martial prowess but also cultivated appreciation for refined arts—and his aspirations burned grandly.

What captivated Masako’s heart was not merely that the man possessed these qualities, but that such a scion of nobility found himself in such ill-fated circumstances—this was the truth. She had fallen in love even with Yoritomo’s ill-fated circumstances. And from her brother Munetoki, (To protect and uphold him—) In response to the grand endeavor that had been whispered to her, in truth, she harbored even greater passion than her brother. Not only love—but even its grand success—Masako had been contemplating these in seclusion. And yet—

Why would I marry Deputy Governor Yamaki? Marry him, then flee that very night.

She would go into hiding.

It would not be Father’s fault. Father would only need to remain angry at his unruly daughter. In time, the embers would cool. By then, she would go to Yoritomo’s side and live with him.—Naturally, the flames of challenge would rise from Yamaki’s faction. We would fight too. It was the perfect spark. To the world, it would likely be perceived as a lovers’ quarrel. Kyoto would let its guard down. Taking advantage of that opportunity, they would take the first step of their grand endeavor and simultaneously declare their uprising.

＊　　　　　＊　　　　　＊

“Shh…! People are coming.”

It was just as Morinaga’s account was coming to an end. A lookout waved his hand from amidst the silver grass in the distance.

III “Deputy Governor’s retainers.” “Yamaki’s retainers are following them.”

When the second voice reached them from the lookout,

“What? Deputy Governor Yamaki’s retainers are here?” The young warriors immediately hardened their eyes and began to rise, their hands reaching for their swords.

“Don’t rise.—If you do, you’ll be noticed ahead of time.” Morinaga held them back, and Munetoki too hurriedly joined in restraining them. ………… Falling silent, the group once again crouched down amidst the silver grass. Through the silver grass swaying in the evening breeze, when they gazed into the distance, sure enough, there were a horse and figures descending from the mountains. The face that came swaying on horseback was reddened by the evening clouds, his white teeth and unkempt beard clearly visible. It was Mongaku, the monk who had been at Nakodani Temple’s place of exile. The samurai flanking him appeared to be officials of the Deputy Governor and were saying something to the person on horseback.

“Now where could they be headed?” “Their garb seems like they’re setting out on a journey, but…”

Munetoki, Morinaga, and the others watched suspiciously. In the meantime, diagonally across the distant path through the fields, the horse and figures began to pass by. Just then, Mongaku on horseback suddenly looked this way. Because he was on horseback, even though they were crouching, he could apparently see the youths’ heads and backs. “Wait a moment.”

Mongaku dismounted, left his horse and the officials behind, and walked over alone, rustling through the grass. “Hey.” It was a booming voice. Reluctantly, Munetoki, Morinaga, and Sanepira stood up. “What were you all doing? You’ve gathered quite the lively crowd here—starting with Lord Hōjō’s son—but surely you’re not discussing something as petty as stealing women.……With this many stalwarts, you could carve your way through an entire district. If you seize one district, the soldiers of a province will rise up with eager hands. If you occupy one province, then aiming for all eight provinces will be no great challenge. Hahaha! How perilous...”

What was there to laugh about? Deliberately matching their expressions as if to say, "This isn’t amusing at all," the young warriors kept ignoring Mongaku. From their daily interactions, none among these young comrades had ever truly respected Mongaku. Even those who only knew him by hearsay found him unlikable. He habitually boasted grandly whenever he met people. He dismissed regional warriors as incompetent and likened urban dwellers to maggots. Yet his very eagerness to rouse the youths—his excessive zeal for agitation and cloyingly flattering tone—only made all the young men avoid approaching even the fence of his place of exile.

But Mongaku did not find this lonesome. He did not visit others, and if 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, without concerning himself with their feelings, say whatever he wanted to say. “Rise! What will you do if you don’t rise?” “The cycle of nature has come full circle.” “If you look at your own slender arms, you might think it impossible—but observe heaven’s movement closely, and you should realize the time is near.” “Do not think this matches the words of prophets who expound celestial phenomena.” “I speak of earthly matters.” “Have you observed the capital’s condition?” “Have you truly listened—strained your ears—to the silent voices of regional warlords and common folk?” “Act now—you are all young.”

“…………”

Mongaku turned around. The Deputy Governor’s official stretched up and was looking this way. He abruptly, as if remembering his destination,

“Well then.” “…Farewell.”

After bowing his head with uncharacteristic politeness, "In truth—through some twist of fate—this Mongaku has received an official pardon from the capital. I must now depart this village where I've long been sheltered and am presently returning to Kyoto... Though I never managed an audience with him, pray convey my respects to Lord Sadan." "In time beneath these vast heavens, an opportunity will surely arise for us to meet Lord Sadan." "Tell him Mongaku believes this absolutely."

Having finished speaking, Mongaku strode off briskly, returned to his waiting horse, and soon vanished from sight at the edge of the susuki fields.

Four As they watched Mongaku’s shadow vanish into the red haze of the setting sun like a distant black speck, all feelings of fondness or aversion toward him faded from the young warriors’ hearts, leaving only his lingering words strangely lodged in the depths of their ears. Once he was gone, an unexpected loneliness lingered, "That monk truly had an uncommon spirit."

As if lamenting his departure, they all continued to gaze at the edge of the field.

Several days later.

On this day, a group of young people—joined by new faces—gathered at the western foot of Mount Mori within the precincts of Ganjōju-in Temple.

The area within the Hōjō family's residence was separated from the surrounding region by nothing more than a single moat channeling water diverted from the Kano River.

Munetoki and his younger brother Yoshitoki had also come that evening. Among those who had not appeared at the previous gathering was Wada Kojirō Yoshimori of the Miura clan, who had brought along Yoriyuki—the youngest son of Miura Daisuke Yoshiaki, said to have recently returned from a mission to the capital.

“What’s the current situation in Kyoto these days?” The people gathered around that night’s assembly with Yoriyuki at its center.

If there was anyone who brought news from Kyoto—no matter to whom—the young group strained their ears. Like bees to honey, they gathered around where new developments could be heard. Yoriyuki answered the many questions, and after speaking at length—citing various examples of the recent tyrannical behavior of the Taira clan—he issued this caution to all present. “When I recently accompanied my father Yoshiaki on his journey to the capital, we happened to meet Ōba Kagechika several times during his own stay there—and it was this Kagechika who quietly informed my father of the following: On one occasion, when Kagechika visited Kazusa no Suke Tadakiyo, the Samurai Magistrate of the Eastern Provinces, a letter from Nagata Nyūdō of Suruga had arrived in Tadakiyo’s possession.” “The letter reportedly contained a lengthy admonition stating that in recent years, factions such as Hōjō Tokimasa and Hiki Kōmon no Suke appear to be fostering momentum for rebellion by rallying around Yoritomo, who has now come of age—and that even those in Rokuhara must not let their guard down.”

“Hm… So it was Nagata.” The young warriors felt a chill down their spines at the realization that such matters had already begun leaking as far as Suruga; simultaneously, knowing their existence had now grazed Rokuhara’s awareness, they were struck by a surge of resolve and abruptly strengthened their unity. “I had been shown that letter by Tadakiyo.” Ōba Kagechika reportedly said this to his father. It was thought that Kazusa no Suke Tadakiyo, as Samurai Magistrate of the Eastern Provinces, had likely allied himself with fools and been subtly warned not to ruin himself. “Since Lord Miura has children and many spirited young lords in his clan, upon your return to the province, you must thoroughly admonish both your children and grandchildren not to join such factions”—Kagechika had reportedly reiterated this counsel to his father. “Considering all this,” Yoriyuki continued, “it seems unwise for our meetings to convene too frequently.” “Here, we must redouble our prudence.”

Everyone nodded in agreement with Yoriyuki’s opinion. In fact, what had initially been gatherings of young groups limited to four or five people had grown to thirty, then fifty—and even those who did not show their faces at the meetings, (If you all are the ones to do it—) And there were already two or three middle-aged to elderly landowners of stature who, through unspoken agreement, lent their weight to the cause. Miura Daisuke Yoshiaki—one of those whom this young group affectionately called “great-grandfather”—was already over eighty years old, yet he rivaled his grandchildren in vigor. Having returned from this recent journey to the capital, he had only strengthened his anti-Taira resolve; far from restraining his grandchildren’s actions,

(Spring may blaze in splendor—and that is well enough. But spring departs in but a moment of spring. Once the garden's dust has been swept away, the verdant realm of summer must be entrusted to the arms of the young—the soil must be enriched, the trees pruned, and the energy of heaven and earth renewed.) He continued to exhort them in this manner.

Palanquin in the Passing Shower

One During the day, passing showers fell intermittently.

No sooner had one thought this than the rain cleared, and suddenly—*kaa*—the bright winter sun came streaming into the bride’s room.

It was December. Let us call it a day of good fortune. Today was the day Masako would wed. There was no reason to select an ill-omened date. The mansion within Gosho-no-uchi stood filled with celebrants and their steeds who had hastened to the occasion.

When the sky clouded over, a white shower would come pouring down again.

“What auspicious rain! A most fortunate sign.” “They say rain on a bridal procession is auspicious.” The guests who came before Tokimasa and his wife, offered their greetings, and withdrew all said. The couple was, indeed, enveloped in restless joy. Leaving the guests to themselves, they repeatedly went to check on the bride’s chamber. The spacious three-by-four bay room was almost entirely filled with resplendent bridal preparations. From the layered robes of willow green, cherry pink, kerria yellow, plum red, and fresh leaf hues to the karaginu jackets, around the mirror stand lay hairpins, rouge, white powder, and more—a dazzling array.

Masako stood amidst it all.

Surrounded by maids and 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 they had seen the Great Sun Hall that day. A lonely shadow was visible. Twenty years… Masako thought of the kindness she had received over her years. Her eyes began to well up. She lowered her head. Tokimasa, too, stood vacantly.

Then, the younger sisters, who had been bustling about helping with various tasks,

“Father, you must not remain here today. Please go over there.” The two of them pushed him by the back all the way to the corridor’s end. “Hahaha. What’s wrong with that?” “Hahahaha, isn’t it fine?” Pushed along with childlike indulgence, Tokimasa—now left utterly alone—felt something fragile well up, a tear nearly spilling from his eyelid. But immediately his gaze shifted to the clan filling Gosho-no-uchi, the samurai from nearby villages, and the mingled steam of horses and people. What a multitude of young men there were. His own troops, relatives’ children, acquaintances’ sons—it seemed to him Izu held an especially large number of youths. True, society at large might be thus, but there was something uncanny about an old man who somehow grasped all that youthful vigor. Tokimasa did not yet consider himself old, yet neither was he part of these young men’s ranks. Before long he too had left that place and come to ponder frequently his next life’s affairs.

“Munetoki! Munetoki!” He called out abruptly. Having spotted the heir’s figure in the distant corridor. Through the thin rain, Munetoki ran and reached the foot of the building where his father stood. “You summoned me?” “Hmm.” Yet Tokimasa fell strangely silent. He surveyed his surroundings. Then he spoke. “Hide a hundred men in Nirasaki’s western hollow—eighty in Yamanoki Village’s southern hill forest—fifty around Kinashi Mountain’s northern backside. At dusk, deploy them immediately—in scattered groups, unseen.”

“……?” “Don’t you understand?” “……Understood, but…” “The weapons should be bundled together as packhorse loads, covered, and sent ahead to key positions. And then only the men need to be positioned afterward.” “Then, as an ambush force…” “This is a military family’s wedding. There’s no telling what disturbances may arise. If something happens, we’ll have no excuse before the son-in-law… A father’s precaution. You, the heir, should stay in the shadows and prepare for unforeseen events rather than attend the ceremony.”

When Munetoki raised his head, his father was no longer there.

二

Amidst everyone being swept up in gilded bustle, only Tokimasa’s face remained rigid—almost sullen. Before Masako’s bridal procession, the father might well have been driven by paternal considerations. Now, having entrusted one such matter to heir Munetoki, he strode straight through the corridor where servants scurried in disarray and halted near his own chamber. “Maki….” “Maki… Maki!”

And he called out for his wife. And when he saw Maki no Kata’s figure,

“It can wait until later, but once Masako’s preparations are complete, have her come here before entering the main hall,” he instructed.

Just like that, Tokimasa took his seat and silently watched the clouds drift over Mount Mori through the eaves.

The garden was growing dim with dusk. A wintry shower mixed with leaves occasionally blew against the 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 spoke these words, Tokimasa opened his eyes for the first time and fixed his gaze upon his daughter’s bridal form before him—her hands clasped in restraint. “…………” He stared intently, then exhaled as if sighing. “Will you go now?” he said. Masako appeared to answer, but her father could not discern her words. She was weeping.

“At this moment, there is nothing more for me as your father to say anew.” “However, since you are marrying, a woman should have nothing to rely on but her husband.” “Your father is a descendant of Taira no Sadamori.” “Needless to say, the Chancellor Nyūdō in the capital is undoubtedly of the Taira clan that shares this lineage.” “…But,” he said, lowering his voice, “A woman’s clan and family are first determined by the husband she marries.” “If your husband is Fujiwara, then you shall be a wife of the Fujiwara house.” “If your husband is Sugawara, then you are a wife of the Sugawara house.”

“……Yes.” Masako lifted tear-brimmed eyes.

Were her father’s words to be taken at face value, or was there some hidden meaning in his words? ——. “Hahaha.” Tokimasa laughed it off. “Are you crying? Well, well—you’re still a child, aren’t you?”

And, glancing at Maki no Kata, “I have given you an example. There’s no difficult meaning to it. The Deputy Governor Yamaki Kanetaka, whom you are marrying, is fortunately of the same clan as the Taira—serve him faithfully and enduringly.” “…………” Watching Masako lower her head, Tokimasa stood up, “Hurry and fix your makeup. The many clan members are already waiting in the main hall for the standing celebration.”

Maki no Kata, accompanying her, was whispering something in the shadow of the curtain.

For a time, the main hall remained hushed. The ceremonial rites where the bride stood were solemnly performed. When these concluded, a multitude of laughter, handclaps, and celebratory songs abruptly arose, and the bride—surrounded by kin of the clan—was ushered into the palanquin.

Even after the bride had hidden herself in the palanquin, amidst the glow of evening bonfires, the confusion of her numerous belongings and the throng of people and horses made it hard for the procession to assemble properly. And occasionally, as night deepened, a chill drizzle would make the flames of torches and bonfires flicker.

III Even she was so overwhelmed that she could hardly tell front from back. When her own palanquin was finally lifted, her chest heaved like water overflowing from a vessel, and tears streamed forth without end.

――Please forgive this unfilial child’s selfishness. Masako repeated it over and over in her heart. To Father Tokimasa—or rather, to the entire clan, to the gate of their ancestors’ ancient hall. Within the heart of the bride about to be wed, a peculiar resolve had been concealed. The palanquin bearers, those following in the procession, and the clan members seeing her off all naturally believed she was being wed into Deputy Governor Yamaki’s household—none doubted this—yet Masako’s heart held no intention of going there.

From the moment the bridal procession departed the gates of her family home, it already carried within it the seeds of its own dissolution. Therefore, Masako’s tears were wholly unlike those shed by ordinary brides when leaving their family homes. Moreover, in steeling her resolve until now, it was unthinkable that she—astute as she was—had not considered not only her own path as a woman but also what grave consequences this outcome might instantly bring—for the Hōjō Family was a warrior clan leading its house, and Deputy Governor Yamaki too was a warrior clan. It would likely plunge everything into the carnage of bow, arrow, and sword. For what amounted to nothing more than a single act of selfish love—to compel nine clans to take up arms and drive commoners into war’s ravages—what a dreadful sin it would be. Yet she was not so ignorant or blind as to lack understanding of these things.

(Unfilial... Furthermore—a disloyal child.)

The bride trembled, knowing her own terrible sin. She was inconsolable with sorrow—yet within those grieving tears worked a cold wisdom no one could detect. (How should I escape?...) (Where should I hide after fleeing?) The oblivious procession followers struck up celebratory songs anew, and soon the bridal palanquin swayed forward from Karahashi Bridge within the palace grounds. Countless torches crossed until even the moat’s water turned crimson. The mansion’s bonfires burned so fiercely they dyed the mountain trees in their glow. —Celebratory songs flowed onward—townsfolk had lit bonfires at every eave. Following the songs, people and horses with the palanquin’s glittering canopy streamed through those beautiful flames.

But when they left the post town, the road was pitch dark. Only the torches brandished by the guarding samurai smoldered onward. With a sudden rush, a shower swept sideways across the field. The road was terribly muddy. The people in their festive attire, drenched by the rain, shuddered from the cold. However, the distance to the marital home in Yamanoki Village was only about two ri. Ahead in the night sky, the foothills of Nirasaki loomed blackly.

Before long. At the foothills of Nirasaki too, countless flickering lights began to appear. It must have been the woods surrounding Deputy Governor Yamaki’s estate. Closer still, a mass of flames writhed like molten metal in a crucible—likely the welcoming party gathered at the village entrance. The palanquin would soon reach them. The procession’s torches merged with the welcoming fires, streaming toward the deputy governor’s residence. Every temple and shrine blazed with bonfires. From somewhere came the distant chime of bells, the wail of flutes, the pulse of ceremonial drums. Amidst the cacophony of voices and press of bodies, the bride within her swaying litter felt dizziness overtake her.

The horses of her father Tokimasa and the rest of the clan, who had hurried from behind, also arrived at the gate of the Yamaki residence at the same time.

IV

It was a mountain with exposed rocks and few trees. The abundance of rocky mountains was another characteristic of Izu. Several such low mountains rose abruptly from the fields.

“They’re passing through! They’re passing through!” “That line of torches.” “That’s the young mistress’s palanquin…”

The scout soldiers crouched on the rocky outcrop of the stony mountain exchanged words. Two or three soldiers clattered down into the rear valley.

Seventy to eighty soldiers, drenched from the evening’s light rain, remained motionless in the shadows of rocks and beneath trees, lying in wait.

“Lord Munetoki!” “Lord Munetoki.”

At the scout’s voice, “Here!” a voice answered from somewhere.

With no bonfires and a starless rainy night, they relied almost entirely on sound. “Where might you be?”

“Here! Here!” “Under the cedar tree.” “Oh…” “Lady Masako’s palanquin and its retinue have just arrived at Yamanoki Village.”

“Have they arrived?” “It appears Her Ladyship has immediately deigned to enter the Deputy Governor’s residence.” “Good. You lot—return to your former positions and keep watching.” “If you notice anything unusual at Yamaki’s residence, report back at once.” “Yes, sir!”

The soldiers immediately clambered up the rocks and returned to their original peak. On his father Tokimasa’s orders, Munetoki—the clan heir—had divided seventy here and fifty there among the soldiers in the mountains near Yamanoki Village, keeping their weapons hidden since evening to prepare for any unforeseen incident. But—why had his father stationed him here with such precautions, even keeping him away from the wedding ceremony?—Munetoki could not fathom his father’s intentions. From his father’s usual stance, there was no reason to anticipate any unforeseen incidents at tonight’s wedding—so why had he ordered the family’s retainers to arm themselves and arrange ambushes? No matter how much Munetoki pondered it, he could not resolve this contradiction.

Drip, drip—the droplets from the late autumn drizzle falling from the cedar branches seeped through Munetoki’s armor and into his underclothes. “……What state of mind was sister in—”

As Munetoki pondered this while considering [her situation], he kept his gaze fixed on the black clouds where the rain had slackened, alongside soldiers who stifled even their coughs. "Halt!"

“Wh-who’s there?” It was near the narrow stream below.

No sooner had the sentry soldier’s loud shout rung out than the sound of running footsteps approached from that direction.

“They’re here.” Munetoki had already risen. And before he could even hear the words of the sentry soldier who had come to them, “Could that be Lord Doi and Lord Nitta?” he said. “Yes.” “Lead them here.”

They appeared to have been waiting impatiently. From directly below, the figures of those people came climbing up. It was Doi Jirō Sanepira.

And Nitta Shirō Tadatsune. Tōkuro Morinaga and Amano Tōkage had also come together. However, they were all clad in straw raincoats over their armor and had black cloths wrapped around their faces to such an extent that one could not recognize them. “Lord Munetoki?” “Oh, you’ve all gathered here.” “We have gathered here as previously arranged, but Lord Munetoki—why have you left the wedding ceremony to lead such a large force and lie in wait in a place like this?” “…Earlier, we were startled to receive a messenger, but we had no time to inquire into the matter, so we had no choice but to take a detour and come to meet you.”

These men were not acting under Tokimasa’s orders, nor did they know what Tokimasa had commanded Munetoki; they seemed utterly unable to contain their suspicions.

5

When Munetoki explained that tonight’s troop deployment was not his own decision but rather under his father Tokimasa’s orders, the group grew all the more— “What? So Lord Hōjō ordered these forces to lie in wait here?—Then perhaps our plot has already been leaked to the enemy.” At this, Doi Sanepira and his men exchanged glances and were momentarily gripped by suspicion. As for their own secret plot by the young allies, Munetoki had been on guard, believing that their father must have vaguely sensed it. However, that was an everyday matter. As for tonight’s affair, no matter how sharp-eyed Father was, there was no way he could know. Munetoki could only conclude that such a thing was absolutely impossible.

And to his friends, who were growing increasingly anxious,

“No—it’s a coincidence. Father must have ordered the troop deployment merely out of vague precaution against local warlords or contingencies. Otherwise, before anyone else, he would have had to confine me, Munetoki, the mastermind behind this conspiracy.”

He spoke as he believed. Munetoki continued, adding more words, “Even if Deputy Governor Yamaki and Father have some inkling of our plans, at this critical juncture, we cannot alter our strategy.” “We must press forward with our convictions to the very end.” “Even if it’s a mistake, there are over two hundred soldiers stationed here and there.” “Proceed with the matter without hesitation, exactly as previously arranged.” Munetoki encouraged them. What the group feared was not their own danger but the possibility of Munetoki and his father Tokimasa coming into open conflict; however, upon hearing this from Munetoki’s own lips,

“Alright.” “If Lord Munetoki is resolved in his determination, then we have no reason to hesitate.” “Then, when you see flames at Deputy Governor Yamaki’s residence, take that as your signal.” Seizing on Doi Sanepira’s words, the band of sworn friends—Tōkuro Morinaga, Nitta, Amano, and others—showing a warrior’s tremor beneath their straw raincoats and masks, vanished into the dark drizzle that had begun to fall again, scattering without a trace.

……

Munetoki silently watched until those people disappeared into the distance; then, as if coming to himself, he climbed up to the rocky peak.

From there, the deputy governor’s residence in Yamanoki Village was clearly visible. The light of bonfires and torches reflected off the low-hanging rain clouds, making that single spot faintly beautiful amidst the pitch-black world. By now, my sister must have alighted from the palanquin. What must she have felt as they led her into the Yamaki household’s inner chambers? Though she surely trusted her brother and his friends, how bitterly must those dazzling flames and room after room of lights have pierced her heart? “Just wait… Now.” Munetoki stood motionless, teeth clenched as he agonized over Masako’s plight. The rain slackened to a drizzle. Wild geese cried overhead as they passed.

Moment by moment, Munetoki’s chest tightened with palpitations akin to those his sister must have been feeling at the wedding venue. The brief span of time felt as though half the night had passed.

Then, suddenly,

“Ah! Fire! Fire!”

Then, a sentry standing nearby shouted. Munetoki— “Shh! Quiet!”

he hissed while straining his eyes. And he stared at the flames of the Deputy Governor’s residence, where tongues of fire had just begun to flicker. The fire seemed to have started from either the kitchen building or the storehouse area there. In the firelight, the figures panicking and darting about looked like mosquitoes.

Six

The parents of the Hōjō family, along with their relatives and the Yamaki family’s clan, had divided into two sides and were seated quietly within the spacious hall illuminated by wedding candles.

The groom had not yet taken his seat.

The bride, still having alighted from the palanquin, was waiting in one of the rooms somewhere around this time.

The bride’s father, Hōjō Tokimasa, was conversing in an extremely friendly manner with the elderly father of the groom. Tokimasa, with his socially adept manner of speaking, addressed the rest of the clan as well, “There has never been such a joyous night as this.” “However, she was unexpectedly childlike; when she left home, I gave her a single admonition to uphold womanly virtues, but she burst into tears like an infant, which left me at a loss.” “Ha ha ha ha, even I expect I will be disappointed after this.” “When I think of having raised a single daughter to twenty years old, I find myself suddenly counting my own age.”

While they were engaged in such small talk—the mansion being so vast that though quite distant—the sounds of servants’ footsteps and shouts of “Fire! Fire!” suddenly began to echo as they ran about. “What?!” “It’s an accidental fire.”

All the people stood up in an uproar. In particular, the members of the Yamaki household were thrown into utter panic and all rushed out. Here and there, the lights of the standing lamps and lanterns, blackened with soot, flickered dimly, and along with the violent noises from the source of the fire, a terrible creaking of the house instantly enveloped everything.

The bride calmly gazed around her surroundings. The women who had been waiting in that room all left their places and ran off somewhere. “………”

She chuckled softly. Then she blew out the candlelight and glided through the deserted room like water. A Yamaki household samurai abruptly noticed this and, suspicion growing, began trailing the bride. Masako stepped into the next room beyond the hall, but seeing light there, she turned back down the corridor and ran into the garden, still clad in 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 that face—it was a retainer of the Yamaki household— “I’m going to get away from the fire.” she said quietly. “The fire is being extinguished by many people. “It will not escalate into a serious situation.” “Given your suspicious behavior, we cannot possibly allow you to step outside the mansion.” “That would be presumptuous.”

“No matter what.”

“Let me go…” “No. Return at once.”

As soon as he finished speaking, that samurai suddenly and roughly shoved Masako’s shoulder back.

Overcome by pain, Masako screamed out—yet at that same moment, an eerie groan spilled from the samurai’s lips. The man had been stabbed through the flank by a blade-wielding assailant. “Lady Masako. Onto my back.”

A masked man holding a dagger in one hand turned his back to her. It was Doi Jirō Sanepira. The fire in the kitchen area had likely been set by Sanepira’s comrades from the start. As he carried Masako and ran toward the earthen wall, several other figures followed from the shadows of the trees there. Since most were preoccupied with the fire and had no time to look around, the young men seized the bride without difficulty and even crossed the moat outside the earthen wall.

“I took horses from the stable. Sanepira! Sanepira! Put the princess on here!”

It was Nitta Shirō’s voice. With “Splendid work! Splendid work!” Tōkuro Morinaga praised; Sanepira, clutching the princess, leapt aboard.

Following the horse, the group also dashed out. Then, as they reached the mountains, Sanepira re-adjusted Masako on his back and pressed onward, sliding and scrambling up the steep back path of Izu Mountain—its ridge forming the backbone of the peninsula.

Banner of Love

1

The year turned to Jishō 2.

Even as the year changed and Izu eventually turned to spring, the conflict that had erupted from last year with the bride’s disappearance continued to hang over the land like ominous clouds. "They must have concealed her with the Hōjō family." “It’s Tokimasa’s treacherous plot.” “No—it appears to be collusion between father and son.”

The Yamaki faction’s fury was only natural. Furthermore, using that night’s incident, they demanded accountability from Tokimasa—Masako’s father— “Depending on how this unfolds—” It was only natural that the clan members were in an uproar, vowing even to stake their bows and arrows to restore the honor of their son-in-law, Deputy Governor Kanetaka. “I will most certainly restore your honor.”

Tokimasa vowed. And as his daughter’s father, “However you may condemn me, there exists no means to make amends.” “No path remains to restore honor.” “Though I have contemplated ritual suicide, death would be too simple. Should I perish now, it would only deepen my family’s confusion without achieving anything.” “Rather than that—I shall bear this disgrace and assuredly punish my hatefully willful daughter to uphold your son-in-law’s dignity… I beg but a brief measure of your forbearance.”

He persisted with apologies as his sole tactic.

During this time, relatives from both sides gathered on several occasions at meetings for post-incident measures and negotiations, “I’m sorry. I can only offer my deepest apologies.”

Sticking solely to this approach, Tokimasa continued to apologize profusely all along.

As time passed without any evidence materializing to substantiate Tokimasa’s apologies, the Yamaki faction’s frustration reached a boiling point. “When will you deliver Masako’s head?” “As her father, you can’t feign ignorance.” “And with this disgrace, do you still dare call yourself master of the Hōjō household? Is this how a warrior clan’s patriarch conducts himself?”

“Great Fool of a Lord! You’re not yet at an age to be senile!” Every manner of insult and relentless demand assailed him— “We on our part are also searching with utmost effort.” and, “I humbly beg for just a little more of your patience.” and so on. And still, whenever he sat before the Yamaki relatives, he would cast aside all dignity and shame to bow low; when receiving envoys from the negotiations, he could only exhaust polite phrases and apologize.

At times,

“To live is agony, yet death eludes me—to be tormented by such suffering must be the retribution of some evil deed I committed.” There were even times when he shed tears. He had grown strikingly haggard. —His white hair had multiplied.

Even the Yamaki family members, who had been incensed by the Hōjō family’s incompetence and irresponsibility, had lately begun to feel a flicker of sympathy whenever they saw him. In fact, 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 been grouping their retainers into units of ten or twenty and having them comb the mountains in an unending search. But they brought back no leads whatsoever.

“What half-hearted efforts!”

And of course, the Yamaki faction too dispatched forces to various places and were in a frenzy. In particular, around Hirugakojima—which they suspected was a likely hideout—they secretly stationed lookouts along the roads day and night to monitor the comings and goings there. Then, when March arrived. Itō Nyūdō Sukechika sent a letter to Yamaki Kanetaka. In it was clearly written the location where Masako was hiding.

Two According to the document that Itō Nyūdō had someone secretly report and send,

"(Masako is being sheltered in one of the halls of Izu Mountain Gongen. I believe the Hōjō family has been fully aware of this from the beginning. The perpetrators who caused the disturbance on the night of the wedding are believed to be local troublemakers from nearby villages who usually gather at Yoritomo’s place of exile.) It stated, and further,

(Yoritomo, this exile, is a troublesome man. In times past, my own daughter was ensnared by him, and now he has stolen your family’s bride. This outrage defies all words. If one such as him is permitted to live, Izu’s peace cannot endure. You must formally accuse him before Rokuhara while sending troops to Izu Mountain Gongen. Out of our longstanding bond, I shall personally secure Nejiriguchi Pass and ensure neither escapes.)

So it was written. According to the document, not only had the fugitive Masako taken refuge at Izu Mountain, but Yoritomo too had moved there, appearing to live with her. “You!” Yamaki Kanetaka burned with rage, heedless of reason. “Go at once!” As if driven by this command alone, hundreds of family retainers scrambled to scale Jikkoku Pass the moment they received his orders. Meanwhile, Itō Nyūdō Sukechika—having received urgent word—also deployed his forces, crossed Ajiro, and blocked the Nejiriguchi entrance.

However, when the Yamaki forces tried to advance along the mountain pass toward Izu Mountain, they were intercepted midway by a troop of soldiers and could proceed no further. "If you wish to pass, try getting through our arrows first." "None of you will return alive!" The reckless-looking men formed ranks across the plateau as they kept shouting. There were no banners visible, nor any figure who appeared to command them. They resembled a true ragtag force with mismatched weapons and armor, yet their young bodies stood uniformly impressive. The Yamaki forces felt their courage freeze at the fierce combativeness blazing in every pair of eyes.

“Whose retainers are you, and from where?” Even when asked that, “We are no one’s retainers.” they replied, “Why do you block our path?”

Even when they pressed further,

“Since we can’t let you pass, we won’t let you through. If you want passage, come through our arrows!” Such were their violent words. Even among Deputy Governor Yamaki’s forces, the hot-blooded members— “Force your way through!” Some among their ranks shouted such challenges, but seeing victory seemed unlikely, they stubbornly persisted in trying to argue their way past. Meanwhile, soldiers of the Yamaki faction cried out: “There are Hōjō retainers among them! Day after day, those Hōjō men who parade through the mountains under pretense of search now join this rabble to block us—an outrageous act!”

and they began to stir up a commotion. Upon closer inspection, not only were there members of the Hōjō family, but also Doi Sanepira’s retainers, Nitta’s relatives, servants of Usami, Katō, and Amano, and even the second and third sons of Izu’s local lords—many such faces could be discerned among them.

“All right! If they’ve plotted this ambush, we’ve our own designs. Retreat would shame the Yamaki clan and undermine the Deputy Governor’s authority—persist even if you die by the sword! Trample them and force through!” Finally, when even the elderly retainers of the Yamaki faction—who had abandoned negotiations and restrained their allies—could only shout these words, a band of warrior monks came charging from across the plateau, waving their hands and roaring. They were Bettō Yukizane of Hakone Gongen, followed by about ten warrior monks.

Three

Bettō Yukizane, surrounded by warrior monks, stood between the two armies and said: “Though I know not the cause of this strife, we cannot remain silent while troops move wantonly near the sacred grounds of Hakone and Izu Gongen. First, let us hear Lord Yamaki’s side.” Then from among Yamaki’s ranks, an aged samurai stepped forth. “By our master Kanetaka’s order, we came to retrieve Lady Masako, who we heard shelters at Izu Mountain Gongen. Yet when that rabble lined their bows to block us, we had no choice but to ready for battle.”

Having proclaimed this,

“That’s a strange tale we’ve been hearing of late.” “Who claims Lady Masako hides at Izu Mountain Gongen?” “Did you witness this yourself? Have you any proof?” They retorted brusquely, dismissing all consideration of fairness as they threw their weight entirely behind one side.

Then, as if someone had informed them, warrior monks from Izu Mountain’s Running Hot Springs came rushing in—scores of them, group after group— “We cannot let such slander pass unchallenged—this talk of us sheltering Lord Hōjō’s daughter!” “If you insist on these false charges and dare trample our sacred mountains, know we stand ready!” They thrust out their chests defiantly. With each passing moment, the Yamaki forces grew more disadvantaged, their initial fervor waning. A misstep risked having their retreat cut off. Moreover, neither capital nor countryside had ever seen profit come from crossing blades with warrior monks.

“Go back and properly ascertain Deputy Governor Yamaki’s true intentions. If you insist on settling this with bow and arrow, we’ll be ready to face you anytime.” Showered with the warrior monks’ insults, the Yamaki forces had no choice but to retreat. Hearing that the crucial Yamaki forces had retreated, the troops of Itō Nyūdō, who had deployed all the way to Atami Bay, also lost any reason to remain encamped there any longer. _What am I to do?_

Deputy Governor Yamaki had no outlet for his fury. His honor had been utterly trampled. The more he struggled and thrashed about, the more he only succeeded in layering shame upon shame.

“The Taira’s rule is flawed.” Finally, he directed his resentment toward the incompetence of the central authorities and writhed in torment by himself.

From his position as Deputy Governor, he had submitted appeals to the central authorities many times. Furthermore, it was reported that the hearts and minds of the people in the Izu region were vaguely inclining against the Taira, and particularly that the ideologies of the young sons of local lords were extremely unfavorable. If these dangerous buds were not nipped now, who knew what calamities they might brew in the future. However, relying solely on the Deputy Governor’s decrees could not suppress them, and he lacked sufficient troops to enforce it militarily. He wanted them to issue an urgent directive.

He had dispatched messengers as swiftly as arrows to press his demands. Nevertheless, there was no response from Rokuhara. On the contrary, they had instead been ordering investigations into provincial samurai commanders in nearby regions. What particularly displeased Deputy Governor Yamaki was the fact that Rokuhara was requesting reports from the Hōjō family regarding the circumstances. If they had the Hōjō family write their account, they would undoubtedly distort it to their advantage—it might already have been submitted to Rokuhara.

The central officials, unfamiliar with local affairs, seemed to spend their days comparing—on paper—the Yamaki faction’s appeals and the Hōjō family’s explanations, perhaps intending to maintain fairness or something of the sort. _What is the meaning of this?_ And so, Yamaki Kanetaka spent each day grinding his teeth. As this accumulated, he became a resentful and joyless man. He had even lost the will for revenge, and had come to change in such a way that he loathed being seen by others.

“Until now, I had treated the common people’s lawsuits and disputes as others’ affairs and handled them half-heartedly, but now that it has fallen upon me, I’ve come to know the corrupt ways of officialdom.” “This too must be heaven’s punishment.” As he reflected thus, he could no longer perform even his duties as Deputy Governor—those of a Rokuhara official who approached local people with authority alone—with any true diligence.

IV

No matter what occurred in the world, the place of exile remained ever a tranquil place of exile. The place of exile feigned ignorance and remained silent.

At the place of exile, one unusual event occurred. A skylark hatched its eggs. The adorable chicks began to grow. Yoritomo did not love small birds. Even amidst the idle days of exile, his heart knew no idleness. The man who enjoyed leisurely days and often discussed matters of the realm had come here as a guest and ended up staying long, gradually becoming firmly entrenched as Yoritomo’s scribe while diligently drawing maps of nearby villages—this was the painter Fujiwara no Kunimichi.

The skylark too had been hatched by him.

“Kunimichi, is the map still not finished? —Don’t just fuss over the skylarks.” “That’s not the case, but…” Kunimichi, who had placed the skylark cage on the veranda and was gazing at them in fascination, hurriedly sat up straight when Yoritomo entered. “As you can see, I am working on it.” “Hurry up a little.”

“Yes… It’s suddenly become necessary.” “It isn’t urgent.” “One or two years should still suffice.” “There’s no predicting when it might be required.”

“Since last winter—after that incident with Lady Masako—watchers with razor-sharp eyes have been constantly patrolling around the Yamaki residence. That critical area still remains untouched.” “It should be fine now….” “The embers appear to have cooled considerably.” “I do think so…” “Go scout it out once.” “No, we shouldn’t.” “If we’re caught copying maps near the Yamaki house now, it would reignite what’s finally begun to die down.”

"That may be so." "You must be bored."

Kunimichi looked up at Yoritomo’s face. Through the eaves, clouds of the approaching summer could be seen. But Yoritomo’s eyes were not on the clouds; they were fixed on the sky beyond the single range of mountains where Izu Mountain Gongen stood. “...How about it? What if you were to steal away again tonight?” Perceiving Yoritomo’s feelings, Kunimichi gently suggested. Although there were family members at the place of exile and many people coming and going, he was the only one who could speak to Yoritomo about such matters with such nonchalance. Thus, among a certain strict faction that took Yoritomo as their leader and wished to regard him as a wise lord,

“Having Kunimichi by your side is unwise. He’s naught but a smooth-tongued entertainer—a man akin to a banquet facilitator.” Thus did some scorn him in such terms. Yet Yoritomo favored him. At the very least, he cherished this man more than his own skylarks. “I would go...” Yoritomo murmured truthfully to Kunimichi’s invitation. Though his band of young followers had spirited Masako away to a cloister at Izu Mountain Gongen, and though intermediaries had arranged several visits thereafter, these meetings under relentless surveillance amounted to mere formalities—too hollow to bear love’s name.

“I will accompany you.”

The carefree Kunimichi immediately began preparing, but Yoritomo had yet to reach a firm decision, "It would not do to leave without informing Morinaga, Sadatsuna, and the retainers." "If I tell them that, they will likely raise objections again…" "What need is there for you to hesitate before your own retainers?" "The reason people around you express concerns is that they worry about unforeseen incidents along the way, but since that is the case, there is nothing to worry about." And he resolved himself alone, "Thanks to having walked around copying mountain maps, I believe I know the mountains well, so I will guide you along a path that avoids all eyes." "As for the retainers, I will briefly inform them of your departure."

He was an inveterate optimist who took everything lightly.

Five

Hōon Bikuni of Hashiriyu was said to be a holy nun who had never violated her precepts. She lived in a forest off-limits to men, where even the monks 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—along mountain slopes that sloped toward the sea—it formed the tip of a peninsula extending to Atami’s fishing village.

On windy days, the wind was strong. But on clear days, the view was excellent. Masako never tired of it. Every day, absently—in a manner that at first glance seemed so—she would lean on the edge of the nunnery and gaze at the sea. Day and night, the sound of the sea could be heard there without ceasing. Amidst the sound of the sea, her heart had finally begun to find calm around this time. “Lady Masako. You must be feeling lonely.” “You must be feeling lonely.”

When Hōon Bikuni saw her solitary figure, perhaps intending to comfort her, she would come to her side and speak. This nun had frequented the Hōjō household for some time, and due to having taught Masako waka poetry and provided instruction on the Lotus Sutra’s interpretation from her childhood, there existed a bond akin to that between a close teacher and disciple. “No.” Masako shook her head. When asked if she was lonely, Masako had never once answered “Yes.” The nun, assuming Masako’s fortitude kept her from showing tears to others, pitied her all the more—but Masako was not being false to herself.

To be honest, since fleeing the Yamaki household on her wedding night, she had never once been ensnared by such trivial feelings as loneliness or ennui. Even during nights when the midnight sea roar accompanied a restlessness in her blood that refused to subside, she never once perceived her present self as sad or lonely. Maidenly sentimentality seemed foolish to her. Her youth burned with far more tangible concerns. Even if there were youthful dreams shared by all, her blood did not stir even a ripple at the fact that they were mere dreams.

Speaking of dreams... Once, when her younger sister had seen an auspicious dream, Masako had playfully bought that dream. However, this was not because she had purchased it through reliance on fleeting dream divination to trust in her future fate—it had been nothing more than a playful game to amuse her younger sisters. Now.—What must the younger sisters back home be thinking of their elder sister’s current state? (The dream divination I thought was auspicious might actually have been an ill-omened dream. ...that I ended up bringing disaster upon myself—) they might be making such naive interpretations and lamenting.

Though her sisters differed little in age, to Masako they appeared as utterly naive dolls. Now that she had left home and looked back from this place, that impression felt all the more acute. The maidens of secluded chambers, knowing nothing of the world, seemed pitiable.

It was not only her blood sisters. The women of many respectable households were all like that. They were married off for political strategy and taken away by military force. People grew so accustomed to seeing this as the way of the world that they no longer questioned it. At least Masako had long held an antipathy toward such customs. (I alone) There was an ideal. She sought the fate of marrying where she ought to marry.

When she first received Yoritomo’s love letter, her feelings remained unshaken. In truth, this was because she herself had already been sending tokens of her regard to Yoritomo even before that moment. She had been drawn to Yoritomo’s princely demeanor, yet she had also come to love his wretched circumstances—the very fact of his existence as an exile. —How fares he now? Even now, as she sat absorbed in these solitary musings, Hōon Bikuni approached and spoke. When asked whether she felt lonely, her “No” rang true.

VI

“Princess.” “Yes.”

“You need not dwell on what lies far beyond the present—it would be wiser not to.” “I am thinking of nothing.” “Even if you conceal it, your recent haggardness wounds this nun’s heart.” Hōon Bikuni spoke with glistening eyes. Having raised Masako with her own hands since childhood, she seemed to still regard her as a child. Whenever anything occurred, Masako found herself discomfited by how the nun would shed tears to console her.

The nun seemed to think that what she had done stemmed entirely from a maiden’s blind heart. She appeared terrified, as though regarding it an irreparable blunder—as if she herself had committed some mortal sin. It lay worlds apart from Masako’s own heart. Watching the nun weep while attempting to console her, Masako found the spectacle almost comical— (Even Teacher has aged.) —was all she thought. “Teacher.” “Please refrain from worrying about my circumstances.” “I too acted upon firmly held convictions.”

“You have such a fierce spirit.”

The nun looked up, “Since you were little, you’ve had a strong spirit—but no matter what, a woman’s lot is…” It was her age-old refrain, and her tone naturally turned admonishing. “There is nothing weaker than a woman. Even for men who take up bow and arrow—warriors—merely surviving in this world and standing among enemies is no simple matter. Yet for a woman to make fearsome enemies, to have to hide herself or risk her very life... How could I not worry about you?”

“There’s no need to worry.” “How can you say that?” “My brother Munetoki is protecting me from afar.” “My brother’s friends—as I’m telling you now—are shielding me and have pledged to keep working alongside him from here on.” “Who do you think your opponent is?”

Beyond sorrow, the nun’s voice took on a scolding tone.

“It is none other than the Deputy Governor of Rokuhara! And if you oppose him, you will have to make enemies of the entire realm.”

“That’s right.” “Is that… truly so?”

The nun stared at the princess's face as though doubting her. A faint quiver rose into those eyes.

Masako had grown bored of talking with this world-renouncing nun. The mountains were in their season of fresh greenery; the sea stretched endlessly blue. She wanted to savor alone—in utter solitude—this sensation as if her very lungs might be dyed by the azure wind. And she wanted to calmly gather her thoughts about what would soon become reality.

“Venerable Nun.” “O-Kaya from Nichikin’s Pasture has arrived.” Just then, a nun disciple came to report. Hōon—whether from some inner cause today—rose weakly as if her resolve to admonish Masako had finally broken, “She comes to see the Princess.” “Bring her through the garden entrance.” With those words left behind, she withdrew into the chilly nunnery’s depths.

Kaya was the wife of the master of Nichikin’s Pasture but had previously served the Hōjō family. Whenever she went out to places like Mishima or Itsukaichi, she would often stop by the mansion afterward and remain on friendly terms with her former colleagues. “It is I, Kaya.” “Is there anything else you might require?” When Masako saw the woman who timidly entered the garden and crouched down, her expression changed from before as if she had been waiting impatiently, “Ah, Kaya.” “I was worried—I hadn’t seen you for over ten days.” “No need for formalities.” “Sit there.” She gestured toward the edge of the veranda.

and she gestured toward the edge of the veranda.

Seven

Kaya remained crouched on the ground. "Is there anyone else here besides you, Princess?" she looked around.

Masako also looked around. "What is it?" She lowered her voice.

Kaya swiftly approached and placed something into Masako’s hand. And then, “A letter from the Lord.” She whispered, then immediately returned to the ground as before and propped her hands. Masako opened her father’s letter. Using Kaya—the wife from the pasture—as a messenger, her father Tokimasa had often sent messages here. Publicly, of course, it was tantamount to disownment—though she was a daughter who had maintained the pretense of anger by refusing to call him Father since that incident—yet Tokimasa’s love remained unchanged.

No—rather, it seemed his parental compassion had only intensified his affection, and he now watched over Masako’s well-being day and night.

And every time there was a message, what was surely written was: —Is everything unchanged? And again, —Do not act rashly. Wait patiently for the time to come. Such were the contents. If Masako—gripped by despair—were to take her own life—this was the sole fear her father harbored in every letter he wrote, never failing to mention the matter of timing.

However, today’s letter had described it in somewhat more concrete terms. The rumors in society had also considerably subsided, it said. Moreover, the feelings of the opposing side (the Yamaki family) were no longer as they had been some time ago, and consequently, as he had been considering, prospects for resolving the incident had gradually begun to emerge—such things as these, as always, (Do not act rashly. Do not act rashly.) and, while admonishing between the lines, had written in meticulous detail.

As soon as Masako finished reading it, she tore it into tiny pieces and formed them into a small ball in her palm. Then she tossed it in front of Kaya with a flick, and Kaya immediately picked it up and hid it somewhere.

“Princess…”

She stood up and, while placing something that seemed to be a gift she had brought beside Masako, “If you stay cooped up inside too much, it won’t be good for your health. Please take a walk from the back mountain all the way to near my pasture. It will lift your spirits. I will guide you,” she suggested. Her words were merely formal, but her eyes were signaling something else entirely to Masako. “…………” Masako silently nodded.

When Kaya saw the flush rise to her cheeks, that alone seemed to convey she had understood. Careful not to be seen by Hōon Bikuni in the inner quarters or anyone else, Masako quietly slipped out through the rear fence of the nunnery.

Kaya went ahead, “This way.” Gesturing repeatedly, she began climbing the steep mountain path strewn with rocks.

The nunnery’s roof was now directly below them. The hall of Hashiriyu Gongen also came into view below. Below the cape’s cliff, the white waves pounding the rugged shore were also visible.

“Can you climb, Princess?” “Yes. This much of a path.” The wife from the pasture was naturally accustomed to the mountains. However, occasionally turning around in concern for Masako—unaccustomed to such terrain—she saw Masako clinging desperately to mountain camellia branches and bamboo grass roots as she climbed up behind. The mountains deepened.

The silence of a cluster of trees had been quietly awaiting the heaving of Masako's breath as she approached since some time ago.

Needless to say, it was Yoritomo of Hirugakojima.

VIII

He saw Masako’s figure. Masako also spotted Yoritomo’s figure. So expressionless they seemed almost devoid of emotion, the two approached each other without uttering a sound.

Silently, they sat down in the grassy area by the tree roots there. They drew close, and even then, for a while, there were no words…

No matter what words she might use, Masako felt none could suffice to convey what lay within her heart at this moment.

――I too am the same. Reading her silence, Yoritomo too remained wordless, sharing the same state of mind. But here was already right below Nichikin’s Pasture. There was no one. There were no prying eyes of society. Neither Fujiwara no Kunimichi, who had accompanied Yoritomo, nor Kaya, the wife of Nichikin’s Pasture, were by their side. They could say anything. And it is also a rare opportunity.

Masako parted her lips. “Are the preparations ready? Every day I spend waiting for that alone. When will you hold our wedding ceremony?” “......A little later.” “Every time you speak,” Masako said with a hint of scorn for his indecisive tone, “It’s already been over half a year since then—yet you still can’t complete all the various preparations?” “No preparations are needed for the wedding ceremony itself. But to hold it requires great resolve—at the same time.”

“That much is perfectly clear. That isn’t a resolve to be held from now onward—wasn’t it something decided from the very beginning? …The union of you and I was a matter from the very beginning.” “From the very beginning, I too have resolved myself.” “What more could you possibly fear or hesitate over at this point? If you keep fretting over this and that, the day to rise will never come. The conviction that a single-minded resolve will surely prevail—I realized this through my own experience when I fled from Yamanoki Village at the end of last year. And things have progressed to this point. Now, everything rests on your decision. Or are you still hesitating over something?”

“I have no hesitation, but I must gauge the moment. The crossroads of a lifetime—I do not consider it merely our love.—This concerns the realm’s great matter, one that lies within a man’s heart.”

“But... isn’t the time already ripe? At first, I had resigned myself to Father Tokimasa being someone who would never support our great ambitions in the end—I was even prepared to rebel against him—but looking at things now, it is precisely that father who has been our greatest source of understanding and strength. While putting on a show of anger toward society, he has been protecting me behind the scenes. When I reflect on how things have unfolded from the night of my bridal procession to the Yamaki household until today... it feels less like my own courage and more as though I’ve walked the path Father had envisioned, sheltered by him all along...... So if your resolve is firm, Father will surely rise as our ally at any moment.”

“I heard that from Munetoki as well. ...However, I am not looking only at Izu province.”

“…………” “A woman’s eyes cannot perceive it.” “Nor can even Tokimasa fully grasp it.” “Yoritomo will not rise without discerning the movements of this vast realm.” “...You who were reared in Izu still harbor narrow vision.”

The two continued talking there together for a considerable length of time after that. But their conversation held no honey of love.—For Yoritomo and Tokimasa alike, love was a secondary concern. Yet Masako, precisely because she was a woman, was more pure than either her father or Yoritomo. From the very beginning, she had staked her life on it.

The white-robed messenger

I

The persimmons at the exile residence had mostly been knocked down and eaten by its inhabitants.

At the tips of branches beyond the reach of hands or poles，two or three crimson-ripe ones had been left as if for crows. Upon those treetops，the setting sun of Izu had already arrived with its chill today as well.

“Oh… So this is the place.” A mountain ascetic planted his staff and halted. He stood outside the exile residence, peering intently at the roof structure deep within. “Ah… Have you spent all these long years living here?” As he did so, his face became wrapped in boundless reminiscence.

Before long, the mountain ascetic strode resolutely through. Within the palisade were fields, a stable stood visible, and there was a kitchen building. Smoke from the evening meal drifted from the kitchen building, but no people were in sight.

“Huh?”

He turned sideways, searching for the entrance.

The mountain ascetic remained unaware that Saburō Moritsuna - who had been observing the pale figure from within the stable - had grown suspicious and come running over. "Hear me!" As he planted his staff and approached from the entrance,

“Who are you?”

Moritsuna called out from behind. “Oh?” he turned around and, “Are you a member of this household?” “That’s correct.—If you’re seeking alms, go around to the kitchen.”

“No—not alms.” “Then who are you?” he demanded. The mountain ascetic looked sidelong at Moritsuna with an unyielding gaze as he spoke: “You’ll understand once I meet Lord Yoritomo. You there—since you’re of this household, arrange an audience.” “I cannot pass along someone whose purpose remains unknown. State your name and province.” “I mean no harm. All will be clear when I meet with Lord Yoritomo—” “You speak with unwarranted familiarity. Since you neither appear from nearby provinces nor have cause to come here as a mountain ascetic, it is only natural we household members remain wary. However insistent you may be, without disclosing your origin and full name, no audience shall be granted.”

“Who are you?” “I am Saburō Moritsuna, son of Sasaki Genzō.” “I see—Genzō Hideyoshi’s son? I’d long heard rumors of capable young men among Lord Yoritomo’s retainers; clearly no falsehood.” He paused infinitesimally before continuing: “Then I need hold nothing back—I am Shingū Jūrō Yukie, uncle to Lord Yoritomo himself. Announce my arrival from the capital.”

Moritsuna was startled. Apologizing for his abruptness, he hurried inside.

Before long, lamplight shadows wavered across the corridor’s glossy black floorboards and pillars. Then Yoritomo himself emerged—a noble prince in bearing, his elegant features resolute as he strode forward. He stood there peering into the twilight at the figure shrouded in gathering darkness. “Lord Jūrō of Mutsu?” he inquired.

The mountain ascetic approached and, this time too, stared fixedly up at Yoritomo, “...Lord?” he said, “That’s right. Shingū Jūrō Yukie is a name I recently adopted; you would not have known me unless by my former name, Mutsu Jūrō Yoshimori. I’m that uncle Jūrō, you see.”

“Oh—you are—” “There is an urgent matter I must discuss with you—that is why I have come all this way in such a guise. May I come up?” Yoritomo turned around,

“Moritsuna, Moritsuna. Fetch water for my uncle.” “Now—wash your feet and come through.”

With that, Yoritomo led the way and escorted Yukie into the inner rooms.

II

“You must be tired.”

Yoritomo said. It was nothing more than a greeting one might give to any ordinary guest. Yukie looked somewhat dissatisfied.

For he was overwhelmed with profound emotions. Yukie had known Yoritomo from when he was still twelve or thirteen years old. In the household of his brother Yoshitomo during the latter’s prosperous days in Rokujō, he had often seen the young Yoritomo. Seventeen or eighteen years had passed since then. A long time— Truly, it had been an age. The years and months had passed endlessly. And here in the mountains of Izu, Yoritomo was now thirty years old, in the prime of manhood. He bore some resemblance to his father Yoshitomo, yet possessed even greater dignity. He had an intellectual air and a kindly demeanor.

……

Yukie could not help but be overcome with emotion. But Yoritomo was not particularly so. To a degree not much different from how he received visitors morning and evening,

(—Your business?) He wore an expression that seemed to prompt. However, upon closer consideration, this was not because Yoritomo lacked passion, but rather because his childhood memories held nothing more than having an uncle named Yukie. Between Yukie’s reminiscences and Yoritomo’s recollections, there was naturally a significant difference, compounded by their age gap. “Have you been residing in the capital as of late? Or perhaps in your home province?” Because Yukie remained silent for too long, Yoritomo brought up such topics again,

“Here in exile, I know nothing of worldly affairs. Tonight, at your leisure, please allow me to hear of the capital’s recent state… Well, though there is no feast to offer beyond a bath, do make yourself comfortable.”

Yoritomo said. Even this sounded like nothing more than utterly perfunctory hospitality. At first, Yukie felt somewhat dissatisfied, but realizing it was he who had suddenly come to visit Yoritomo—who had been in Izu since age fourteen—after seventeen or eighteen years while expecting familial affection, he recognized his own unreasonableness,