Authors: Eiji Yoshikawa
In 1151 the boy-Emperor Konoyй became thirteen. At about this time he began to have trouble with his eyes, which he constantly kept covered with pads of red silk. The Regent, Tadamichi, for whom the young ruler had developed a strong attachment, found a skilled physician, one lately returned from China, and sent him to attend the Emperor. The Emperor's increasing distress touched Tadamichi, who visited him often and sought by kind words to console him. The spectacle of this frail boy, immured from birth in sunless palace rooms, prisoner to his sovereign position, the victim and pawn of savage rivalries that surrounded him, moved Tadamichi to deep pity. He could not help thinking how the young ruler's life was far from a happy one. Hedged about by rigid court rituals, what did he know of the abandon and joys of a carefree boyhood? When had he ever played in the winter snows; whistled in the springtime when every tree broke into blossom; splashed like the water imps in the summer rivers, and basked under the hot sun; or climbed the hills in autumn and shouted from their tops until his lungs were stretched to bursting? It was doubtful, however, that Tadamichi ever reflected that he himself was one of those who had helped create this pallid figure of pathos.
On the 24th of July 1155, the Emperor Konoyй died in his seventeenth year. His reign had lasted less than five years. The people mourned for him. His father, the Cloistered Emperor, was struck down with grief, and Lady Bifukumon was inconsolable.
Soon after the boy-Emperor's death a strange tale was brought to Lady Bifukumon by one of her ladies-in-waiting, Lady Kii, the wife of Councilor Shinzei. She had heard a chilling story from one of her serving-women, who said she had heard it from a wandering friar. The Emperor Konoyй had died unnaturally. Some persons unknown had invoked the death-curse against him and brought about his untimely end. Almost a year before, she was told, the friar had himself seen the evil rites performed in a lonely shrine on Mount Atago. Lady Bifukumon was horrified and distraught by what Lady Kii told her, and ordered her to send at once for a medium—Yasura of Shin-kumano Shrine.
The medium arrived and for a long while was wrapped in meditation. Suddenly a violent trembling came over her; she shook free her long hair as the spirit of the dead Emperor took possession of her and spoke through her mouth: "... A spell was cast over me. Spikes were hammered into the Tengu Demon's image in Mount Atago Shrine. I was blinded by them. They caused me to die. Ah . . . woe is me!" When the voice ceased, Yasura fell to the floor and lay unconscious. Lady Bifukumon shrieked loudly in horror and, clutching wildly at her robes, abandoned herself to a paroxysm of weeping so violent that her distressed gentlewomen grew afraid and called loudly for water and restoratives as they carried her away to her bedchamber.
The medium meanwhile came to herself and departed as though nothing unusual had happened, clasping in her arms a cloth bundle in which were the various paraphernalia of her profession and some gifts that Lady Kii had given her. As Yasura stepped out by one of the rear gates, she paused to peer into her bundle and with a pleased air drew from it an appetizing morsel that smelled like roasted duck meat; greedily stuffing it into her mouth, she turned to go home, thoughtfully chewing, when she noticed some dogs following her, and stooped to sweep up some stones to fling at them. One of the missiles struck the wheel of a passing cart; the young workman pulling it came to a stop and hailed Yasura familiarly:
"Well, Yasura, on your way home?"
The medium approached him with a coy air and stopped to chat in low tones, sharing with him another tidbit from her bundle. When they had finished eating, he helped her onto his cart and once more continued in the direction of Shin-kumano Shrine.
Two years earlier, in January 1153, Kiyomori's father, Tadamori of the Heike, died suddenly after a few weeks of illness brought on by a cold. He was then fifty-eight. In the last years of his life Tadamori had accomplished little, for those years also marked Yorinaga's rise to power and his open favoring of Tameyoshi of the Genji and his sons. It was not likely that any Heike would forget that it was Yorinaga who had once demanded the death penalty for Kiyomori in the trial following the desecration of the Sacred Shrine, and it also stood to reason that the Minister would give the Heike no quarter. Yet Kiyomori showed no sign of resenting Yorinaga's partiality for the Genji. Utterly bereft, Kiyomori felt in his loneliness that the supporting pillar of his life had been torn away. And before he had time to recover from his grief, Kiyomori found new anxieties crowding on him. Not only did he have numerous sons of his own, but the guardianship of his younger brothers and half-brothers was now his. As the young chieftain of the clan, he had much to learn, for the future of the Heike was in his hands.
Shortly after the boy-Emperor's death, Councilor Shinzei summoned Kiyomori to him. Kiyomori, after Tadamori's death, had come to regard Shinzei, his senior in age and rank, as a friend and a source of solace and strength. Not only did he consider the Councilor his benefactor, the man to whom he owed his life, but he counted on Shinzei as the single protecting influence between the Heike and Yorinaga, the Minister of the Left. He was certain that Yorinaga, with all his singleness of purpose, was no match for the shrewd Councilor, for Shinzei was inscrutable and let no man into his thoughts. There were depths in him that no one had yet dared to explore; he excelled in the discharge of the delicate functions of his office—no easy task for most men;—demanding no recognition and quietly persevering in his duties year after year.
In the privacy of Shinzei's office Kiyomori was entrusted with a curious and secret mission.
"Grave issues are involved. This is urgent. Any indiscretion on your part may rouse the suspicions of Yorinaga and Tameyoshi of the Genji—to your undoing. Wait until sundown, then send out your men one by one," Shinzei said, repeating his warning.
That night a band of some fifty warriors left the capital and started toward the hills northwest of Kyoto, a good distance beyond the city gates. They were soon making their way swiftly up the slopes of Mount Atago, converging on one of the crags, where they met to take counsel. Shortly afterward they were again on their way, in search of Jomyo, chief priest of Mount Atago. Arrived at his gates, they pounded loudly, calling for admittance.
"We come from the Cloister Palace, soldiers of Kiyomori of the Heike, Lord Aki. We have reports that someone has tampered with the Tengu Demon in the main shrine here and brought the death-curse on the late Emperor. The Cloistered Emperor orders Lord Aki to make a search and obtain evidence. Lead us to the shrine. Refuse, and you will be guilty of resisting an imperial order!"
A sound of confused movements arose within; then Jomyo himself appeared and spoke to Kiyomori. "If you come on his majesty's business, you bear papers. Permit me to see them."
"Ho, you there, kneel!"
As Jomyo came to his knees, Kiyomori thrust the official writ at him.
"There is no mistake about it—I cannot refuse. The doors will be opened immediately. This way, your lordship." Calling for more torches, Jomyo led the way toward the shrine. His shadow loomed up gigantic against the sanctuary doors. A key grated harshly in the lock. Great tongues of flame undulated eerily, lighting up the cavernous interior, and there in front of Kiyomori towered an image of the Tengu Demon, a spike protruding from either eye.
"What—spikes!" Kiyomori gasped, as did Jomyo and the others who craned over their shoulders.
There was nothing more to do. Kiyomori had seen that for which he had been sent. It was uncanny and the sight made his flesh creep. He had always scoffed at stories of witchcraft, but this—! A cold shiver ran down his spine.
"Good. This shall be reported at once." Kiyomori turned away, shaken by what he had seen. The doors were secured and Kiyomori's seal affixed. Ordering the greater part of his soldiers to stay behind on guard, Kiyomori rode that same night back to Kyoto and to Shinzei.
For an instant Shinzei's eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets as Kiyomori related what he had seen; then he relapsed into his usual composure, remarking: "As I thought. . . ."
It was Lady Bifukumon who had urged the Cloistered Emperor to send Kiyomori and his soldiers to Mount Atago, and who carefully imparted her belief that Yorinaga and his father had caused the young Emperor's death by witchcraft. She furthermore warned him against these two, whom she said had designs on the throne. In due course two hermits appeared at the Palace as witnesses and described the evil rites they had seen performed by some wandering friars. Where these friars had gone no one knew, for they had vanished like the summer clouds, they said. And not long after, Yorinaga and his father were forbidden the Cloister Palace.
In the meantime the question of selecting a new emperor had become urgent, and Yorinaga and his father were mystified when they found themselves barred from the high councils. The reason for their sudden fall from grace soon became clear to them, but when they declared their innocence in letters to the Cloistered Emperor, their pleas for a hearing came back unanswered through Councilor Shinzei's office. Nothing they did seemed to soften Toba's displeasure.
Between the lattices of one of the Palace windows an official watched father and son enter their carriages and drive away for the last time. Shinzei smiled sardonically; had they known, they would have watched their steps more closely; Yorinaga had never had cause to suspect that this silent figure, hunched over his desk for years, was his bitterest enemy. Nor did the Minister know that this man's wife, Lady Kii, was Lady Bifukumon's confidante.
Shinzei broke into soundless laughter. "See, my fine demons —doesn't it hurt? A spike in the right eye and one in the left? Who is to tell you that it was I, Shinzei, who did this?"
THE WILLOW-SPRING PALACE
For close to fourteen years the existence of a certain man had almost been forgotten. This was the ex-emperor Sutoku, who, forced to abdicate when he was twenty-three, had gone to live at the Palace of the Willow Spring with only a small retinue. Those years were spent in the practice of various religious devotions in his private chapel, in reading, and the writing of poetry. It was also his habit to stroll unaccompanied through the Palace park and to rest in the shade of a giant willow tree that grew beside a bubbling spring. This spring, renowned for the sweetness and purity of its waters, had been there even before Kyoto had been founded, people said, and in times long forgotten a willow tree had sprung up beside it. The waters of the Willow Spring, as it came to be called, were kept only for the ex-Emperor's table, and a caretaker lived in a small lodge near by.
As he stood under the giant willow one day, Sutoku called to the guardian of the spring: "I thirst—bring me water."
The caretaker quickly appeared, carrying a newly baked clay bowl, which he filled with the sparkling water.
"Sweetness itself—like the dew from heaven," the ex-Emperor said, handing back the empty vessel and seating himself on a stone in the willow tree's shade. The caretaker brought a freshly woven reed mat, which he spread for his visitor.
Then Sutoku said: "You seem contented, caretaker. How long is it since you came here?"
"I have watched for fourteen years over this spring, your majesty, for I was with your housemen when you came to live here."
"Fourteen years! And what did you do before that?"
"My father was a court musician and taught me from childhood to play on the flute and flageolet; at ten I was sent to the Palace Academy of Music, and when I was fourteen I performed for the first time before your majesty. It was an honor I shall never forget. Then came your abdication at the end of that year."
"Then you and your father before you are not of the common people, for there are only four families in this capital admitted to that calling."
"My father was Abй Torihiko, a musician of the Sixth Rank."
"And your name?"
"I—" the caretaker bowed low—"I am called Asatori."
Sutoku's eyes settled in wonder on the bowed head before him. "What made you leave your calling—your father—to become a mere caretaker of this spring?"
Asatori shook his head in denial. "No, this is no menial task, sir, for water is the very source of life, and to guard this spring which quenches your majesty's thirst is no mean calling. My father long ago gave your majesty lessons on various instruments, and was a favorite of Lady Bifukumon. Though musicians, we are needy folk, so when the time came to celebrate my coming of age, some of your robes were sent to me for a gift; these were made into my ceremonial suit, so I was turned out like a fine young gentleman. I shall remember that for the rest of my life!"
"Oh, did such a thing ever happen?"
"Your majesty would not recall such favors to your humble subjects, but my father never forgot them. When the time of your abdication came, I shall never forget how he said: 'Asatori, it will not be possible for me to follow his majesty, but you are only a pupil at the academy and may go wherever you choose. Follow his majesty and serve him loyally in my stead. I have other sons to carry on our name and our calling.' He then gave me a flute as a parting gift, and I came with you here and have watched over this spring ever since."