Authors: Eiji Yoshikawa
"Something of that brigand is in my blood, too," Kiyomori mused; the glowing points of light under the tree began to look like beacons pointing the way to his own future, and he suddenly grew afraid. Turning on his heel, he prepared to take flight.
"Well, Heita of Isй! Why the staring and for so long—these young women who come to pray under the nettle tree?"
In the dark Kiyomori could not tell who addressed him. In the next instant the stranger stepped forward and seized Kiyomori by the shoulders and shook him so violently that his head wobbled helplessly.
"Ah, you—Morito!"
"Who else but the warrior Morito? That you should forget me! What are you doing here and why the dazed look?"
"Eh, dazed? I didn't realize that. Are my eyes still swollen?"
"Ho, ho! So there's been a quarrel between your beauteous mother and the Squint-Eyed One, and you could not endure it at home?"
"No. My mother's ill."
Morito laughed coldly. "Ill?"
Morito had been his schoolmate at the Imperial Academy; though a year younger than Kiyomori, he had always seemed the elder even then, and mature. Kiyomori and the others had lagged far behind Morito in their studies, and their teacher had predicted a brilliant career for this pupil.
Morito laughed again: "I mean no disrespect, but the lady, I assure you, suffers from attacks of self-love and capriciousness. There's no need to worry, my dear lad; instead, let us be off—for some wine."
"Eh—wine?"
"Certainly. The Lady of Gion's the mother of many sons, but she hasn't changed much from that lady of old. Come, stop fretting."
"Morito, who is this Lady of Gion?" Kiyomori stammered.
"Don't you know of your gracious mother's past?"
"No. And you do?"
"Hmm—if you wish, let me tell you. Come with me, anyway. Leave the Squint-Eyed One to his fate. These are troubled times, Heita. Why let your spirits grow hunchbacked in the springtime of your youth? I thought nothing could trouble you. Stop blubbering and behaving like that woman!"
So saying, Morito once more shook Kiyomori roughly, then strode ahead into the dark.
The room had no walls; thin wooden partitions separated it from the next room; an old strip of cloth took the place of curtains, and a piece of straw matting hung in the doorway. Not even a sound sleeper could sleep through the uproar in the next room— the thumping of hand-drums, the clashing of earthenware, and the obscene singing. A sudden thud as of a body falling shook the house; a loud burst of men's and women's voices raised in laughter followed.
"What! Where am I? Confound it, what time is it?" Kiyomori woke suddenly in great confusion. A woman lay sleeping beside him. There was no mistake about it—this was the brothel on Sixth Avenue. Morito had brought him here. What a fix! He must get home.
What lie could he tell them at home? He could see his father's furious look, hear his mother's nagging and the sound of his little brothers crying with hunger. Good! At least he had not spent all the money borrowed from his uncle. He would go now; Kiyomori sat up wide awake. Where was Morito—still carousing? He would see what all the noise was about.
He trod on the woman's dark hair as he stepped over her sleeping form and peered through a knothole, which let in a thin stream of light; some pine-oil lamps lighted an unfurnished room; straw mats covered the plank floor, and three or four evil-faced priests in clerics' robes, wearing long swords, held dancing-girls on their laps or were embracing them. A few empty wine-flasks lay rolling on the floor.
So Morito had gone, leaving him alone here!
Overcome by panic fear, Kiyomori pulled on his ragged outer robe, buckled on his sword, and in great agitation felt his way along a passage toward a door. In the darkness his fumbling foot struck a metal object that clanged loudly as he stepped outside.
At this sound the priests sprang out of their room, shouting: "Stop, stop! Who dares knock down my halberd and then leave? Wait, you little rascal, there!"
Kiyomori came to a halt, petrified. As he turned to look back, the cold glitter of a halberd flashed in his eyes. This was without doubt the cunning hand of one of those burly priests from Mount Hiei or Onjoji Temple. The challenge had come as swift as the hand of the God of Death. At once the fumes of the wine vanished, the memory of delights, the remorse, and Kiyomori, turning, fled with all his might into the night winds.
As he came in sight of his home, his heart sank. There was the crumbling, wattled-clay wall, covered here and there with dead grass, and the sagging roof of the main gate. What was he to do? What was he to say? Tonight he shrank from the mere thought of seeing his mother; he would rather face his father's wrath. Anger boiled up in Kiyomori; he could not endure the thought of hearing her voice; otherwise, he would have her plead with his father, would beg her forgiveness, and even seek her caresses. Where in the world could a son nurse more treacherous thoughts than he did tonight? Looking up at the wall, he felt sick at heart and abandoned. Sanguine and emotional, he was now assailed by a wild tumult of thoughts that made his eyelids and temples twitch. If only he had not heard of his mother's past! If only he had not listened to that Morito!
Remorse overcame him—the memory of Morito, the carousing with those women. All the events of that drink-sodden evening drifted back in snatches. More vividly than all these he recalled that room in the brothel—the dark, tangled hair and the warm, limp limbs. What did it matter whether she was a beauty or a hag? He was twenty and had tasted for the first time of a strange, unforgettable sweetness, an ecstasy that flooded all his senses with amazement. His mind kept revolving round a memory that smoldered hot in him. Did the scent of her body cling to his? The thought held him back for an instant; then with one great leap he cleared the wall. Never had he landed on the other side with such a deep sense of guilt as tonight. He often came home this way after his usual night escapades. He found himself in the familiar vegetable patch behind the stable.
"Oh, is it you, my young master, Heita?"
"Hmm—is it you, Old One?" Kiyomori quickly stood erect, pushing back his tumbled hair. It was the aging retainer, Mokunosukй, who could make him feel almost as guilty as his father did.
Long before Kiyomori was born, Mokunosukй had come to serve in this house; his two front teeth were now gone, and though people gossiped about his spineless master and jeered at the poverty of the Heike, loyal Mokunosukй alone sternly stood guard over the dignity of his master's house, maintained its ceremonials, and never relaxed from those offices he thought due from a retainer to his warrior lord.
"And you, my young master, what have you been doing with yourself? There's not a single light to be seen on the roads at this time of night," he said, stooping to pick up Kiyomori's worn cap; as he handed it to Kiyomori, his eyes searched him, scenting something amiss.
"Could you have been brawling with those roistering monks or been mixed in some bloody quarrel at the crossroads? Though I begged the master to go to rest, he would not. Ah, well—welcome back, welcome back."
The narrowed eyes filled with relief, but Kiyomori shrank from the searching look bent on him. So his father was still awake! What of his mother? He quailed at the thought of what lay in store for him. Mokunosukй, without waiting for any questions, began: "Set your mind at rest, my young master, and quietly off to rest. Now to your bed."
"Is it all right, Old One, for me not to go to my father's apartments?"
"In the morning. Let this Old One come with you and add his excuses."
"But he must be furious at my tardy return."
"More than usual. He summoned me at sundown. He seemed beside himself and ordered me to 'go search for that rascal in the Shiokoji.' I patched things up as best I could."
"Yes, and what lie did you give him?"
"Remember, my young master, that it pained me to lie to him, but I told him that I ran to your uncle's, found you in bed with a pain in your stomach, and said that you would return as soon as it was day."
"I'm sorry, Old One, forgive me."
The blossoms of the plum tree by the stable gleamed icily against the dark night. The chilled scent of the blossoms suddenly stung Kiyomori's nostrils, and a spasm passed over his face. Hot tears spilled on Mokunosukй's shoulder as Kiyomori flung his arms ground the old man, who stood rigid with foreboding. Under the brittle ribs of his old body, a great wave of feeling suddenly seemed to swell. The long-suppressed love of the stoic old man went out to meet Kiyomori's intense burst of emotion. Together they broke into loud weeping, clinging to each other, until they sank to the ground overcome. "Oh, my young master, do you—do you so depend on me?"
"You are warm. Listen, Mokunosukй, only your old body seems warm to me. I am alone like the solitary crow abandoned to the winter winds. My mother is what you know her to be. That father is not mine—Tadamori of the Heike is not my father!"
"Eh! who has been saying such a thing?"
"For the first time I've heard the secret about my father! Morito of the Guards told me."
"Ah—that Morito!"
"Yes, Morito. Listen, he said: 'The Squint-Eyed One is not your real father. The Emperor Shirakawa sired you, and you, the son of an emperor, go about with an empty belly, in those rags and worn sandals. What a spectacle!'"
"Enough! Say no more," Mokunosukй cried, flinging up his arm as though to silence Kiyomori. But Kiyomori seized his wrist and wrenched it savagely.
"There is more—and you, Old One, know more of this! Why have you kept this from me so long?"
He glared at the old retainer. Mokunosukй, his wrist aching, cringed under that menacing look; the words seemed to be wrung from him as he said: "There, there, calm yourself. If that is so, then Mokunosukй must also speak, though I don't know what Morito of the Guards has been telling you."
"Listen, this is what he said: 'If you're not the son of the late Emperor Shirakawa, then without doubt you're the son of one of those vile priests from Gion. Whether you're the son of an emperor or the offspring of an evil priest, I make no mistake in telling you that you're not Tadamori's real son.' "
"What does that callow Morito know? A touch of learning has turned his head and he thinks all men are fools. As for him, people call him a wastrel. You are rash to believe that shallow-minded fellow, my young master."
"Then, Old One, tell me under oath whether I am an emperor's son or the seed of some debauched priest. Speak! I dare you to tell me!"
Kiyomori was determined that the old man should not protest ignorance. Actually, Mokunosukй was the only other party to this secret, and his candid face clearly showed that he knew it.
THE LADY OF GION
Kiyomori of the Heike was born in 1118. His father, Tadamori, at that time was twenty-three. Although known as the Squint-Eyed One, mocked at for his poverty, made the laughing-stock of the common people, and looked down on by other members of the Heike clan, this had not always been so.
Tadamori's father had served three successive emperors, been high in their favor as a shrewd and loyal attendant, and Tadamori had grown up in the midst of palace splendors. When the Heike warriors were called up to serve in the Imperial Guards, and gradually outnumbered the Genji warriors, Tadamori and his father became figures of importance. The Emperor Shirakawa chose them to remove Genji warriors from the Court; pitted the two against the powerful armed clergy, and installed father and son in the Court itself as a check on the influence of the Fujiwara courtiers.
Following his abdication, when he became known as the ex-Emperor Shirakawa, the aging monarch took the tonsure and retired to the Cloister Palace. There he established an administration independent of the central government, a Cloister Government, an anomaly which not only made it a rival of the regnant sovereign, but further sharpened the conflict between the Genji and Heike clansmen.
After his father's death Tadamori succeeded to his father's position, and the ex-Emperor placed even greater trust in the modest Tadamori by appointing him his personal bodyguard. On the visits that the abdicated monarch made from his palace on West Third Avenue to Gion, on the other side of the Kamo River, he always summoned Tadamori and his retainer, Mokunosukй, to accompany him. These clandestine excursions at night were to visit his mistress, for though well in his sixties, he was endowed with unusual vitality, and his amorousness matched the vigor with which he conducted the affairs of his Cloister Government.