AmeCon 2006 Writing Contest - 2nd Place
Hi all,
Here is the 2nd place entry.
KIBOU NO AI MONOGATARI
BY STEPHEN FRENCH
CHAPTER ONE:
TAKUMI AND HARUKA
The afternoon in the Imperial city was golden in every sense. The sun shimmered across the slate that rested on top of the estates of Nijo, the second street and closest in proximity to the elaborate Imperial palace. There had been rain in the early afternoon that had moistened the stone carriageways between residences giving a curious reflective quality to them in the light. There was also a spray mist one would associate with the coastline that had the miraculous ability to refresh the weary were they to inhale deeply.
Outside the two story residence of the Minister of the Left, Sugawara no Tokio, a servant borne carriage arrived. It would be unfavourable to compare the carriage to the spherical style of classic western design because the Fujiwara carriage that pulled up to His Grace’s Nijo mansion was square in its geometry but much more than that in its artistry. The red hue was most prominent, an expensive dye to use and indicative of the owner’s high status. This was coupled with a traditional green variant and carefully placed gold effigies to various Gods and great scenes of history’s past. The openings in the body of the carriage were covered with shimmering silk, as opposed to the more common paper screens and as the carriage pulled up, one of these silk coverings was pushed slightly to one side and a pair of curious eyes came to rest in the open hole.
In unison, the male servants all wearing standardized black kimonos, lowered the carriage within a few feet of the door to the estate. One servant broke away from the others and marched with great discipline to the front gate where he was met by a young serving girl in white. “I announce the arrival of His Eminence, Sessho of the Imperial Court; Fujiwara no Tadahira and His Lordship, Minister of the Fourth Rank; Fujiwara no Takumi!” The servant spoke with strength and authority, much of which was exaggerated for the pretty serving girl in front of him. For her part, she offered a curt bow to the lead servant and disappeared into the building, announcing in turn the arrival of the Fujiwara gentlemen.
With announcements over, the silk that was carefully moved earlier was brushed aside completely. A single wooden geta sandal, the raised sandal known for its loud clack across the wooden floorboards of homes throughout the country, and the foot of its occupant stepped down gracefully from the opening making a wet, muted clack followed by a beautifully rich red coloured hakama billowing in the soft wind as the pleats so carefully woven caught the rogue gusts and dispersed them around the wearer’s legs. Full exposure was not far off as the red kimono with oversized sleeves that covered the torso of the wearer appeared simultaneously with the face and red eboshi of Fujiwara no Takumi. Takumi’s beauty was not remarkable. He was not what one would say, a fair comparison to his contemporary; The Shining Prince but nor was he like much of the court nobles in their distinct mediocrity of appearance. He was a powerful man, unusually tall and well postured giving him an air of authority those who chose to slump lacked. His face was serious and focused. His eyes were likewise small and strained and he possessed a strong, dramatically angled nose that refused to be too far away from the rest of his face. His investment in red dye immediately singled him out as a man of great wealth and dignity and it was precisely the effect he was looking to garner from his expenditure.
Around the other side, a man of smaller stature took a far less graceful approach to disembarking. Fujiwara no Tadahira was a man of fifty years, some thirty years senior to Takumi, whose likeness of face was unmistakable for the two were father and son. Having stumbled out of the carriage, the natural busy-body, Tadahira was quick to wipe down his Kimono and check his eboshi was in place by using the reflection cast by the small puddle before him.
Takumi strode around the carriage to his father’s side and let the quietest of sighs sound as he viewed his father’s frantic preparations for audience. Tadahira remained ignorant of the sound but looked up at his son soon enough. “This is an extremely important event, Takumi. Sugawara is delighted that his daughter should be the first wife of such a bright and promising minister. I don’t share his exuberant praise for your promise but I hope I do not need to stress how this union will deflect a large number of our detractors.” Tadahira barely paused for breath during his speech.
“Your detractors, Father, not mine.” Takumi added with an unmistakable sneer etched across his otherwise serene face.
The serving girl hurriedly returned, bowing sweetly, but without dignity before the two visitors and then speaking quietly to the Lead Servant. She curtly bowed before him before shuffling back inside the mansion. The Lead Servant turned to his masters. “Your Eminence, Your Lordship; Sugawara no Tokio and his daughter await your arrival with hope and respect. You may enter at your discretion.” Tadahira ground his teeth before pacing into the mansion with some speed. Takumi held back for a moment, taking a deep breath and betraying the mask of indifference he had erected. He was fearful of this encounter. His life had been dedicated to court, much to his father’s disdain, and he had no time for the frivolities that were expected of him as the minor son of a great lord. He had dedicated his life to the servitude of the realm in desperation to prove himself and this would be his first foray into women in twenty years of life. He knew nothing but success in his career, achieving a fine rank at such a young age and hearing whispers throughout the court of his suitability to eventually become Kampaku; a rank granting power equal to that of the Emperor and a rank his father had failed to achieve. His inexperience in matters of the heart worried him, he did not know what he would be faced with and being unable to see variations of the future left him unsure of his ability to succeed. Shaking the self doubt from his face, Takumi moved forwards, gliding with effortlessness through the open gates.
Takumi kneeled rigidly on a decorated pillow before the white drapes that separated him from his fiancée. His meeting with her father had gone well and lasted little more than an hour. Now Tokio and Tadahira were drinking Sake in the garden, talking about old times and exaggerating their desire to be linked through family. A cold sweat had taken over Takumi and he had not said a word nor exchanged papyrus paper with his bride to be. Poetry had been difficult for him as he had abandoned literature against his father’s wishes far back in his youth. He lacked finery in his expression and had little to no use of inter-textual echoes because he simply had not read a great deal of popular or classical poetry for many years. With an embarrassed lowering of the head, he removed a piece of paper from inside his kimono. He slowly read it over several times, hoping there was nothing within it that could embarrass him before slowly slipping it beneath the drapes. His arm was trembling as he ushered it through and he was greatly relieved for the drape protecting his vulnerability where other more frivolous men of the court would find challenge in trying to remove the anonymity.
Surrounded by ladies in waiting on the other side of the drapes was an unusually small but utterly captivating fifteen year old girl. Her confusion was etched upon her face mixed with a degree of fear. Her eyes, exceptionally large and round, lacking the strong fox-like slant of her fiancée and several of the ladies surrounding her, were wide and barely blinking. She trembled slightly beneath the oversized kimono which spread out from her like a wedding cake. She was not ready for this; her slender features gave her feelings away. Sugawara no Haruka’s button nose itched with nervous tension, her jaw shook as she bit her teeth together and her hairless brow darkened as if it had never been shaved, the muscles casting a shadow where once hair had been. The light was low with the afternoon sun lowering steadily all the time, but a pink glow remained, cast through the open shutters and illuminating the area where Haruka kneeled, like the sight of the outside of one’s fingers when held up to the light. The note was passed along between the Ladies before stopping in front of Haruka, who nervously and with a hint of saddened regret, unfolded the paper revealing a bold, but messy hand.
My heart is empty
Waiting for one such as you
Come fill it with joy
Haruka blinked, strongly before throwing her excessively long black hair behind her shoulders with a flick of her head. The poem was crude, but sweet and she felt a strong sense of guilt that she felt no passion for this man’s correspondence. He had revealed himself to be a bore and she was privately devastated but sought to hide her disappointment from the ladies around her. She called for the instruments she needed to reply and they were placed in front of her. Were he merely a suitor she would have let one of her ladies reply but this man was to be her husband, with a heavy heart she inked her reply in her own hand.
The note was passed under the drape and almost immediately snatched from the hand that had delivered it. Takumi had been waiting in silence, trying to retain his composure but unable to avoid unwanted fidgeting and excessive sweating. He had never known nerves like this in all his years and he had confronted what many consider to be far more daunting situations. The idea struck him that he should hint upon this exchange being the personal equivalent of his ancestor’s move from Nara to Kyoto but for now he settled upon greedily unfolding the papyrus paper and reading its contents.
You expect much, Love
The confusion of my heart*
Knows no emotion
I will love thee as husband
And hope much adventure comes
Takumi was not so naïve as to mistake her meaning within the Uta she had composed. He recognized the skill as far superior to his own and was struck cruelly by her dismissal of him from the single poem he had composed. He struggled to suppress the rage that quelled within his breast and at the rejection and audacity but found solace in the appreciation of the brave and fiery nature she must possess to have addressed him so. Even so, his pride had taken a knock that had dislodged a dam as tears broke free of his defence. They came forth in deadly silence, threatening to submerge his notion of strength, once again giving him cause to hold the drapes that separated him from Haruka in the highest of regard. It took him a few minutes to regain his composure and take more paper, quill and ink to form his reply. He did so with care, precision and with the constant overtone of melancholy. He was crushed and his worldview would fast need re-evaluation. He read the simple haiku he had written back to himself.
Admirable needs
I will prove my worth to you
Fun shall reign at home
Takumi knew this was barely a poem. Shifting it beneath the drape he knew it was more of a promise and that Haruka would not be impressed. Stoically he rose and stormed out from the room, his hakama billowing behind him violently and with crimson intensity.
*Refers to a passage in the first Uta of ‘The Tales of Ise’ referring to coming of age
CHAPTER TWO:
STOLEN HEART
The thumping sound of tiny feet hurrying across the treated boards sounded from the modest residence of Fujiwara no Takumi. The minister’s precocious daughter, Hitomi had heard the arrival of her father’s carriage and run from her mother’s side to welcome her father. The three year old could barely contain her glee as she stumbled on her oversized Kimono, one dyed in the finest red that her father loved so much. Hitomi jumped into her father’s stomach as he shuffled through the door, causing him to gasp in surprise. Takumi had, as always, entered the house dishevelled and preoccupied. The past four years had eroded not only the domineering physical presence of the man, but his strength of conviction too. His face, although never beautiful was now gaunt, lined and black rings surrounded his sleepless eyes. The sight and touch of his daughter had now pierced the black cloud that fogged him, creating just enough space for a smile to escape bursting from his face like a sunbeam through thick gloom. Takumi picked Hitomi up by the waist and clutched her tightly to his chest, snuggling her small head into his shoulder.
He looked around the corridor before him. Where the exterior was modest and not unlike other minister’s homes, inside was sumptuous. The night had rendered much of the hall dark, but open slides spilled amber light from lamps into the darkness, casting menacing shadows across the beautiful tapestries Takumi had commissioned for his marital home. Again the theme was red, although many of the tapestries’ colour in the minimal amber light was that of blood. Some were dully lit in their entirety, others half shadowed, like a crescent moon. Takumi placed his tiny daughter back to the ground, kneeling to bring him down to her eye level. “Go to your wet nurse, Hitomi. I need to spend some time with your mother.” Hitomi’s face scrunched up at the brow, her lip curling in mild annoyance and Takumi could not help but broadly smile. “I will come to you before you sleep and read a story. I promise.” The little girl’s shoulder length hair swirled as she nodded vigorously with a cheeky smile. Satisfied, she kissed her father on the cheek before turning and running back the way she came, cutting into the first door on her right. A few seconds passed before she popped her head back out, laughing mischievously at an oversight of hers. She waved at her father and closed the slide to the room.
The sound of a so no koto arose through the murky atmosphere and a mistake in the tune caused gleeful laughter from the room Hitomi had entered. Satisfied his daughter was being cared for appropriately, Takumi rose from his haunches and shuffled his way down the corridor and up the steps to the second level, whose two rooms were first, a small one that came before the balcony where Takumi often went to look out at the night in fits of melancholy and second, the large bedroom he shared with his wife. Inside the room Haruka knelt before their expertly carved, dragon themed, table and poured tea, accompanied by her ladies in waiting. Takumi entered the room and all turned to him, offering a small bow of the head in reverence, including his wife. This upset Takumi greatly as he had always wanted Haruka to be his partner in everything, to talk to him and offer advice. Deferring to him like this meant she had no desire to share in his career and that was something he felt further compounded the servitude she believed the marriage to be, greatly distancing herself from the love that he had craved they would share. With a fierce glance, Takumi dismissed the ladies from the room, waiting impatiently as they scurried out of the door behind him and made no eye contact thereafter. Aggressively, Takumi padded towards the table, kneeling down besides his wife, their hakama touching. The tension was unbearable for both, Takumi always felt unwelcome around his wife and she feared his anger which had surfaced many times in their brief marriage, especially in instances like these when Takumi was feeling particularly insecure in his position as her husband. Haruka poured the tea from a gold rimmed China pot with painted green images of rice paddies adorning the sides and into a matching cup in front of Takumi. “How was court, husband?” She asked shyly.
“I did not attend today.” Takumi curtly replied, bringing the tea to his lips, revelling in the pain inflicted by the heat that occupied his mind for a few seconds before it returned to the painful business of his marriage.
There was a rapping at the front doorway. Takumi turned his neck towards the noise with speed and instinct, pausing to decipher what it was. He was just about to write it off as a gust of wind when the rapping returned with a little more force. There was definitely someone at the door and Takumi could only imagine what it could be. His father or one of the senior nobles coming to admonish his lack of appearance at court on this and several other occasions would have been announced to the household as was custom. In fact, the idea of any resident of the Imperial City not being announced at the door of a minister was as alien to Takumi as the world beyond Cathay. He gave his wife a stern look, in essence telling her to wait where she was as he thumped his way out of the room and back down to the front door.
Tentatively, Takumi placed his hands on an outcrop in the slide. He noticed his arms were shaking, not uncontrollably nor with any particular visibility to others but the idea came to him that his wife must see him as a common coward. Today was not a good day for Takumi’s thoughts and the single mindedness of his preoccupation was beginning to wear thin, even on him. He shook away the negative feelings in his head and stood tall, before drawing the slide back with one short, sharp pull. The sight that stood before him and how it was dressed would be one that would stay with him forever.
Standing in the doorway, covered in thick, slimy manure and wearing common, linen hunting garments with no hint of artificial colouring, was the very poor excuse of a Lord, Minamoto no Hiroshi and on his face, the biggest grin Takumi had ever seen. “Well, good day to you, Lord Fujiwara!” Hiroshi exclaimed with a bright chirpiness one would associate with the criminally insane. “Are you not going to embrace an old friend?” He added with mischievous glee.
Takumi smirked. “I would stutter to call a walking pile of faeces an ‘old friend’.” Both men burst into fits of laughter and for a time, Takumi forgot the troubles of his life in favour of reminiscing a more innocent time, embodied perfectly within the string bean like frame of the man who stood before him.
Hiroshi had been staying at Takumi’s residence for three days and for three days Takumi had been a far happier man. Entertaining his guest had taken the bulk of his attention and he was less prone to the bouts of depression that had plagued him for the past four years. Takumi, Hiroshi and Hitomi knelt around a dinner table in the main living area of the house and spread before them, a mighty feast of epic proportions. That was all just as well, for Hiroshi’s appetite challenged a horse’s and the crudity of his table manners accentuated the analogy. For all this, the finery he wore was in stark contrast. His attire was almost identical to that of Takumi and yet he had forgone expensive red dye for green, a colour more commonly associated with his family, the Minamoto than any other. He did, however, insist upon wearing his eboshi slightly off centre, exposing some of his scalp, an act noted by Hitomi who was prone to fits of giggles at the sight. During one of these fits, she sought to speak. “So you slept with the pigs?”
Hiroshi smiled at the girl, with whom he had become fast friends and nodded, trying to keep his mouthful of food from spilling out as he chewed with gusto. At the first chance he got, he gulped down the half chewed chunk of boar and answered her. “I had no choice; your grandfather was petrified a man of my reputation would spoil Suzaku’s new house staff so I was locked in the pen.”
“But aren’t you supposed to protect Suzaku...” She began to reference Hiroshi’s new position as a Guardian of the Imperial palace but was immediately shot with a vicious stare from her father and she shrunk back within herself, knowing she had overstepped the mark.
“Daughter, I don’t care how this riff-raff speaks, but you are not to address His Majesty by any other term, least of all his name without honorific!” Takumi bellowed.
Hiroshi protruded his lower lip in a mock sulk as he turned to Takumi. “Riff-raff...?” His hurt tones trailed off as yet another broad grin, this one more brilliant than the moon, erupted from his formerly sullen features. “Your father is right Hitomi. You are fortunate to be allowed the run of the house and the level of insolence you are forgiven... You will make a difficult wife, but a fun one no doubt!” He turned back to face Takumi. “You wanted a boy didn’t you old friend?”
The two friends burst once again into thunderous laughter, a laughter that caused the ground to shake and several items of food and drink to bounce off of the table and onto the floor. Servants were quick to action in cleaning it up and this served to humour the two men even more. Hitomi, however, was not so impressed. The comment had not been lost on her bright intellect and she sat, arms folded with her pretty face screwed up in disgust. This was a sight so frighteningly funny that when Hiroshi turned into it, he almost passed out in glee.
Once finished, all three retired to bed, seeking gluttonous rest. Takumi removed his kimono with delicate care, folding it neatly before laying it in a small pile with his hakama and tatami shoes. Naked, he slipped in next to Haruka and his jovial mood descended into the sexual and the quantity of wine in his veins dulled any thoughts that may have upset him regarding his wife’s unwillingness to face him as he made love to her. However, it could not dull the clarity with which he saw in climax as his sight ran along his wife’s outstretched arm, holding the drape open a fraction with an unmistakably clear sight across the hall into the small room by the balcony that Hiroshi had taken as guest quarters. Takumi could see Haruka’s wide and awake eyes staring at the naked torso of his great friend as he swung a practice sword with great finery and ferocity wearing travelling hakama. Rage poured over Takumi, but he held firm, turning to look up at the ceiling for what seemed like forever and long after Hiroshi’s exercise had ceased. Leaning over to check that Haruka’s traitorous mind was deep in sleep, Takumi stole from the bed and crouched, moving like a spider across the floor to the dresser that she guarded so privately. Routing through the drawers, he came across several pieces of elaborate, scented papyrus, the newest of which read words that pierced Takumi’s fragile heart, words written in Hiroshi’s distinctive hand.
The insect and dove
Different without measure
May lie together
Only if the turtle dies
And the insect imprisoned
She had contacted Hiroshi and he had rejected her, referring to himself as an insect, but she still desired him, he who did not love her, over the husband to whom she occupied every waking thought. The notion chilled Takumi to his core and he sat, head in his hands, sobbing profusely.
CHAPTER THREE:
THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR
The next morning was a wet one. The damp in the air on top of his sleepless night had stiffened Takumi’s bones to the point where he wished not to rise at all. Eventually he rolled out of bed, moving groggily to the open window and sliding on an informal morning gown of pure white with black trimmings. He looked out at the torrential rain ramming into the ground to the side of his Sanjo estate, the avenue behind Nijo where Sugawara no Tokio resided as Minister of the Left. Takumi could feel a Typhoon coming; high winds and unfathomable rain with the strength of battering rams had already characterized its arrival and the thought was oddly comforting to Takumi. The environment obviously sympathized with his predicament as it sought to imitate his inner turmoil.
He looked over his shoulder with a longing glance. Haruka laid quite still, whispers of breath emitting from her small, perfectly formed lips and her chest gently rising mere millimetres with each tiny breath. She was a beauty, it had to be said and although she continually frustrated him, Takumi could not help but objectify the shell in which she resided, further compounding his unhappiness.
Movement in the balcony room drew Takumi’s attention and he looked up to see Hiroshi carefully lowering an elaborate bamboo chest plate, made of tens of cylindrical shoots laid horizontal, over his head with quiet reverence. Takumi edged closer, coming to the doorway of his own room and observed the martial attention that held Hiroshi tightly as he finalized his elaborate appearance by placing his Wakizashi, a small, dagger like blade whose ornamental black and gold handle had no brethren to Takumi’s mind, and his Katana, a traditional long sword with an identical hilt pattern to the smaller side sword’s, beneath the belt that held his practical green kimono into place. The combination of Kimono and armour added a Golden shimmer to the dress that gave Hiroshi an extremely regal look so far removed from his appearance before Takumi four days ago that one had to blink repeatedly to see the same man. Hiroshi spat in the face of impractical tradition on such a regular basis that one became accustomed to it at the cost of the knowledge that in practical tradition, Hiroshi shone like no other.
In a moment of bizarre catharsis, Takumi could readily see the fascination with which his wife must have felt observing this contradictory stranger. The rebellious nature inside her that was quelled when she entered into marriage with a court noble, the most rigid and respectful of traditionalists, would have been reawakened by such a warrior who embodied adventure and a new future, even to Takumi’s eye. He was struck suddenly by doubt for now, after untold years of working to rise in court and show his father that he was the brightest and most capable of his offspring in the ‘family business’, Takumi was beginning to question that career path. He wished now that he had spent his youth chasing young women and learning to defend the realm as his father had originally wished of him so he could become the exciting, fragrant man his wife had always hoped for. He was also aware of the cruelty of the fact that he would never have been allowed to marry the first daughter of the Minister of the Left were it not for his hard work in attaining the rank and influence he possessed at the time. It struck him now that his situation was set in such a way that he could be both. He could be worthy of his wife and bask in her admiration. All it would take was a little help from the man who stood before him in Imperial regalia.
Hiroshi said his goodbyes that morning to the household, with Haruka the only notable absence. He had made himself a popular figure amongst the staff and a great friend to Hitomi, who couldn’t stop crying when Hiroshi revealed that he was moving to the palace. Gathering his modest possessions into a plain linen sack, he flung it effortlessly over his shoulder, pulled the front slide aside and walked slowly out into the rain, savouring the feeling of the fresh water hitting his skin with force to raise goose bumps. Before he could get too far, a delicate hand touched him on the shoulder and he turned to face whoever it was. To his horror it was Takumi, dressed in his finest clothes now having them drenched in the downpour. Hiroshi could read the pain on his friend’s face and realised that Takumi had uncovered the notes he had scrawled to Haruka and feared that his friend had interpreted his intentions wrongly.
“Hiroshi,” Takumi spluttered with sadness, “I know that Haruka confessed feelings for you.” Hearing this, Hiroshi found his perky smile absent and his jovial face taking on a seriousness that amplified the angles. Takumi slumped into his friend’s chest, gripping hard at the exposed part of the kimono, losing all will to retain composure. Hiroshi was petrified someone of importance would see them standing in Sanjo like this and seek to tarnish Takumi’s reputation. Takumi, for his part, tried to regain some composure, the rain hiding from view the tears that were streaming from his eyes by engulfing them within a steady stream. “I love her so much, Hiroshi. She won’t, she won’t return any affection and yet she looks on you with such lust it drives me insane! Please, help me. Help me change to make her happy. Please. Make me a warrior.”
Feeling as though some irreversible shift had occurred in their relationship, Hiroshi struggle to find words that could transcend how upset he was by this turn of events. To see a Fujiwara, not least a Fujiwara he had known for unparalleled composure in all the years they had been friends, descend into such desperation was a terrible abomination and a mixture of confused feelings passed through his mind. Firstly disgust for the insecurity Takumi had let consume him, but secondly admiration for his strength of conviction. Feeling he needed to readdress the balance and through complete selflessness, Hiroshi kneeled before his superior as he spoke his answer. “My Lord and greatest friend you honour me with your request but I will not allow you to compromise yourself. For a Fujiwara of the court to become a master of violence is unprecedented. Those of your family who gave into those emotions in times past were exiled, sent to far off provinces, a disgrace upon the family name. After all you have worked, do you wish such a thing to unravel everything?”
“Everything is already unravelled, Hiroshi. Where have I gone in the past four years? I am lucky to remain in my seat. I must win my wife over. There is nothing beyond that.” Takumi’s dangerous obsession was now clear for Hiroshi to see. He had been outraged by Haruka’s advances towards him but soon came to understand the young woman, for she had been a kindred spirit. She was locked in a loveless marriage and honourable enough to see it through as had many before her. This would be enough for any normal man of the time, but Hiroshi knew his friend’s obsession with success and how it would command him. He knew he had to help light a spark between the two or Takumi would self destruct. He forced a smile and although brilliant, would be hard pressed to convince anyone that it was genuine.
“I will do what I can to aid Your Lordship.” Hiroshi paused, his fake grin broadening into one far more believable. “The artisan’s† path would have been far easier.” And with this, the two men laughed deeply, but mostly to hide the terrible thing that had passed between them and throughout their humour they looked ominously to the heavens and at the giant black clouds of the typhoon.
Takumi was thrust to the ground by Hiroshi’s clever footwork and the forward motion of his wakazashi hilt. The embarrassed look on the Minister’s face was painful to watch and unbecoming of a man of his status. He was, in essence being re-schooled and that came with the sense of embarrassment associated with failure. Hiroshi was unsure the Minister’s pride would allow for this to happen too long. He hoped Takumi would pick up the basics quickly but at the moment His Lordship was struggling in keeping balance and safe distance. Hiroshi offered his arm, which, foul tempered though he was at that moment, Takumi took and dragged himself up with.
“Wide stance, Takumi! When advancing at this level, keep it wide for better footing.” Hiroshi instructed. Takumi’s face, though red and flustered showed determination and deep focus, with this, Hiroshi was pleased but this alone was not enough. He stepped back and bowed before Takumi again.
The sight of this lesson was unique in many ways, not least because it saw the usually extravagant Takumi dressed down in brown linen. A simple plain kimono and separated travelling hakama, more readily identifiable as modern day trousers than modern skirt like formal ones. Both were soft and spacious, allowing for better movement. To say Takumi looked uncomfortable would be an understatement and he would anxiously look around every few seconds to make sure no one was watching him. It was during one of these self-inflicted diversions that Hiroshi quickly edged forwards, catching Takumi off guard and sliding his practice sword down the shaft of Takumi’s using the movement to lurch to one side and send it spinning from the Minister’s grasp. Hiroshi followed though by grabbing the outstretched lead arm of Takumi and twisting it into submission, before planting an elbow deep into his friend’s chest, sending him crashing to the ground yet again.
“Concentrate! Damn it Takumi! You can’t fight if you’re worried someone is going to see you in informal dress! I will tell you one thing, if you try fighting in those ridiculous kimonos you wear in court you are going to die very quickly! Again.” Hiroshi was stern, far more so than he thought he would be as a teacher. He had notions of retiring to Hitachi and spending his time instructing young villagers with an easy going outlook and stress free attitude that would see him live a long life. Sometimes, he mused, you even surprise yourself.
The two stood again, Takumi watching his mentor with a hawk like eye, observing every movement, every nuance of muscle. He brushed himself down half heartedly with his off hand, never removing the point of his wooden practice sword from its intended destination; Hiroshi’s head. Hiroshi, for his part, stood limber and relaxed, the earlier thought at the forefront of his mind. Takumi, all concentration now on Hiroshi, gripped his wooden sword tightly. The instructor, sensing it was time, sought to lunge past the stoic stance of his pupil, using the lack of movement as another lesson to learn. Only Takumi did not remain stoic and with the flexibility of water, spun his shoulder and wrist in a certain way that flicked his wooden sword out, batting away the thrusting blade Hiroshi was wielding and sending the Minamoto forwards and off balance. Side stepping, Takumi casually patted Hiroshi on the backside with the flat of his practice sword. Hiroshi’s amazement was communicated with a wide eyed and open mouthed stare.
“Playing dumb,” the warrior could not suppress a grin, “is a tactic I was not expecting you to be ready for until at least the spring.
†The name Takumi is Japanese for Artisan.
CHAPTER FOUR:
THE HITACHI ASSASSINS
The last two years had been anything but easy for Takumi and his pursuit of martial skill. The effort of finding places in which to train and be instructed was draining, both emotionally and physically. Wherever they went they had to be careful not to be seen and Hiroshi had finally convinced the proud minister that they must travel out of the city as peasants, wearing the simplest of garments and riding the most modest of steeds. At first Takumi had found joy in the rebellious nature of his new pursuit and the areas that he had discovered that were isolated and far from human touch. Today he and Hiroshi sparred eagerly amongst the green and yellow beauty of a large grove that was hidden deep within a forest North West of Heian-Kyo††. Off to one side of the grove was a felled tree, the only sign of human existence in this microcosm of paradise and running almost down the centre was a clear, freshwater river with a strong current. Takumi stood in this cool and invigorating liquid, the current swirling around his shins, pushing in many different spots, trying to shift him into imbalance. The water had soaked through the plain linen hakama he wore, right up to the bottom of the knee and Takumi paid it no mind. His concentration was firmly directed at the bank in front of him, where an identically clothed Hiroshi stood before him, his hair unmoving in the windless grove, his wooden practice sword, the Bo-Ken, held forward in preparation for an attack.
When it came, the attack was swift, fierce and almost overpowering. Takumi could feel the air displacement in detail, so forceful was the strength of Hiroshi’s movement, but still, Takumi felt equal too it, carefully widening his stance in the water, making sure that his centre of gravity was in a position to absorb the impact. Takumi braced himself, but the faintest gust of wind that blew softly across his tanned forehead, catching a lock of hair on the temple and tickling the top of his ear with it, revealed to him that he had lost this exchange. The premonition was correct as the finest split of a second later held for him a dull ache and the collapse of his trailing leg, taking him off balance and forcing him to groan to one side, teetering for a moment before being felled like the tree in the grove had been and landing with an almighty crash that soaked the bank of the river behind him. Hiroshi had guided his Bo-Ken to the back of Takumi’s knee having performed an impossibly fast feint from an already advantageous position on the high ground and with that, the contest was over.
Takumi smashed his fist into the water as he lethargically raised himself onto his knees, the water having now darkened his plain travelling garments in their entirety. Water dripped from his chin in slow, annoying droplets and he looked at Hiroshi, now back on the bank in front of him with a dark malice in his eyes. “There are still some issues with your defence in disadvantageous positions. Your focus should not be on countering the opponent’s strike; it should be about blocking all attacks and moving back to an equal footing.” Hiroshi spoke with the commanding tone of an instructor rather than the jovial speech of a friend.
The young minister nodded, refusing to make eye contact with Hiroshi. He looked out over the grove taking in its beauty before closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He imagined sitting here with Haruka, sharing a joke and eating a picnic with Hitomi running around the field catching butterflies whose wings changed from one vibrant colour to another. He imagined bandits intruding on the happy scene, stealthily emerging from the trees like gangrene spreading from a wound and of his heroic action in speedily dispatching them with his Katana before they could pose any threat to his family.
Back in reality he sighed deeply. He had never felt so far from this scene as he did now amongst this placid beauty. His melancholy was interrupted by a hand grasping his shoulder. Hiroshi turned him around to face him. “I think that’s enough for today, my friend. Don’t think too much about it. Learning means making mistakes. You can’t get everything first time.” Hiroshi spoke, lending Takumi his support but knowing full well it would not soothe the impatient and deeply ambitious minister.
Their walk through the forest and back to reality was a contemplative one. Neither man spoke to the other, Hiroshi taking in all energy of movement that surrounded him. There were small animals being chased by larger ones, birds flapping from tree to tree with less grace than one would include in the poetry they wrote about the scene and deer basking in sun beams that pierced the thick canopy above them. Such life invigorated Hiroshi, played on his sense of wonder and fulfilled his desire to be part of a greater system. Takumi, on the other hand, walked sullenly, his eyes set firmly upon the moist and fertile soil beneath him. He was not looking at the nuances in colour or the roots of plants that nestled, suggestively, under the surface but instead looking at what was not there, reviewing his bitter defeat regardless of the excuses behind it and continuing to obsess over his cold and distant wife.
Breaking through the forest came after much walking, but was a relief to both men as the evening sun beat down on them from the West. As he had seen the deer doing within the forest, Hiroshi raised his head to bask in the warm, golden glow of the retreating light. Takumi, for his part, tried to penetrate the gloom in his mind by doing the same as his friend, but his eyes were open and it was he who saw the cloud of dust coming ever closer to their position. The horses they had tethered to the trees reared high in fear as the cloud sped forth. Having come closer, Takumi could make out a Lordly carriage, not of the refinery of his own, but one well suited to a provincial noble. Worryingly he could also see seven black garbed horsemen behind the carriage, pursuing with rallying calls and katana’s held aloft. Takumi knew there was going to be trouble and his sour mood helped calm any excitement he may have felt. Almost instinctively he felt his hand upon the hilt of his blade. “Hiroshi, we have something that needs to be taken care of before we go home.” Takumi spoke with little emotion.
The carriage tumbled past them and they had a split second to make a move on the rampaging marauders. Takumi leapt through the air with silent, aerodynamic grace, unsheathing his katana and slicing at the first horseback rider, severing the reins and taking the tips of a couple of fingers. The rider soon lost control and was bucked from the horse, landing with a nasty crack that indicated to Takumi that something had been broken. Looking at the man rolling around, clutching his side, Takumi wryly snorted an affirmation that it was the assailant’s hip.
Hiroshi’s opening strike was, in comparison to his student’s, wondrous. He had jumped as though gravity was nothing to him, taking a handful of clothing in his left hand’s grip as he passed over the first rider, yanking the man from his mount. Before landing, he brought his already unsheathed sword down in a simple slash, cutting the next rider in line’s thigh deeply, rendering him all but useless.
The two men now stood several metres from each other and stood firm in front of the second line of four riders that were about to run them down. Hiroshi pulled his wakazashi from his belt, unsheathed it and with a smart, efficient flick of the wrist, threw it at the rider furthest left of their position. It lodged in the side of the man’s neck and instinctively, he leaned to his left hand side, causing his horse to follow the same direction and unintentionally collide with the animal next to it, sending its rider over the top of its neck and trampling him beneath its hooves.
Takumi waited longer to make his final strike and there was no room for error for if one broke free, he and Hiroshi could not catch up with their own mounts, still tethered to the trees on the border of the forest. He took a deep breath, trying to focus, to feel the air being dispersed throughout his body and take oxygen to all his muscles, strengthening them. In the moment that the heads of the two horses passed his back, Takumi hopped, spinning as he did so from one foot into their air, turning three times with his sword held out, his arm and the weapon powering forwards like the forearm volley of a powerful tennis player. He removed the head of the marauder to his right with the first strike and severed the spinal column of the marauder to his left as he completed his third revolution. The speed and power of his movement had made him appear to be a human tornado but the continued circular motion after the assault sought only to bring him to the ground with soft grace. He bent his knees as he landed, trying to look calm and unfazed, but struggling with his inner joy and excitement over the execution of this phenomenal movement.
Hiroshi looked at the young minister for a moment as Takumi raised from his half crouch with his eyes closed. He couldn’t help but produce a broad grin looking on at the minister because he was impressed with Takumi’s assault but most importantly for Hiroshi, he knew how worked up Takumi would be inside over what he had done and could see through the serene presentation the closed eyes were supposed to be indicating. Lightening the tone, Hiroshi danced up to Takumi with zero grace, humming a barely recognizable tune as he did so, looking vaguely like an Orang-utan. When the minister opened his eyes and saw this most ridiculous of sights, he nearly choked trying to suppress the riotous laugh that would have been considered undisciplined were any court nobles to appear from the carriage.
As they stood, surveying their handiwork, the provincial carriage came to a stop and out jumped a portly man in fine green robes, marking him out clearly as a Minamoto. About halfway through his bumpy gallop, the portly Minamoto stopped running and began to walk and again before he reached the two warriors he reduced his speed to a crawl. Before he got too close, Takumi covered his face with a shawl from one of the dead marauders. He could not allow this Minamoto to see a Fujiwara minister engaging in such blood sports.
Once he was stood before them, panting a wheezing, with his over fed stomach shuddering from the exertion a look of curious recognition formed across Hiroshi’s face. “Mamoru?” He questioned, looking at the fat man with some distaste, and perhaps influenced by the wafting stench the Lord had failed to conceal.
Mamoru took even longer to recognize the kin that stood before him in unflattering linen robes. He made a quick glance towards the companion, seeing the face concealed immediately signalled to his primitive way of thinking that this was a leper warrior, one easily thrown into battle and not too sorely missed. Glancing back at Hiroshi it suddenly clicked with him and his eyes lit up like a greedy little piggy. “Hiroshi! Cousin!” He exclaimed, engulfing the younger, fitter man in a sticky embrace. Hiroshi pushed him away as soon as politeness allowed.
“Well, Stinks, what was all that about?” Hiroshi asked.
Mamoru looked offended by the old nickname, but thinking about what had happened spooked him even further and he tentatively spoke on the subject with an unnecessary quietness. “I come to inform the Emperor of treachery. Those were the minions of Taira no Masakado.
††Heian-Kyo was the period name for the city of Kyoto, then the nation’s capital
Thanks,
- Jay
Here is the 2nd place entry.
KIBOU NO AI MONOGATARI
BY STEPHEN FRENCH
CHAPTER ONE:
TAKUMI AND HARUKA
The afternoon in the Imperial city was golden in every sense. The sun shimmered across the slate that rested on top of the estates of Nijo, the second street and closest in proximity to the elaborate Imperial palace. There had been rain in the early afternoon that had moistened the stone carriageways between residences giving a curious reflective quality to them in the light. There was also a spray mist one would associate with the coastline that had the miraculous ability to refresh the weary were they to inhale deeply.
Outside the two story residence of the Minister of the Left, Sugawara no Tokio, a servant borne carriage arrived. It would be unfavourable to compare the carriage to the spherical style of classic western design because the Fujiwara carriage that pulled up to His Grace’s Nijo mansion was square in its geometry but much more than that in its artistry. The red hue was most prominent, an expensive dye to use and indicative of the owner’s high status. This was coupled with a traditional green variant and carefully placed gold effigies to various Gods and great scenes of history’s past. The openings in the body of the carriage were covered with shimmering silk, as opposed to the more common paper screens and as the carriage pulled up, one of these silk coverings was pushed slightly to one side and a pair of curious eyes came to rest in the open hole.
In unison, the male servants all wearing standardized black kimonos, lowered the carriage within a few feet of the door to the estate. One servant broke away from the others and marched with great discipline to the front gate where he was met by a young serving girl in white. “I announce the arrival of His Eminence, Sessho of the Imperial Court; Fujiwara no Tadahira and His Lordship, Minister of the Fourth Rank; Fujiwara no Takumi!” The servant spoke with strength and authority, much of which was exaggerated for the pretty serving girl in front of him. For her part, she offered a curt bow to the lead servant and disappeared into the building, announcing in turn the arrival of the Fujiwara gentlemen.
With announcements over, the silk that was carefully moved earlier was brushed aside completely. A single wooden geta sandal, the raised sandal known for its loud clack across the wooden floorboards of homes throughout the country, and the foot of its occupant stepped down gracefully from the opening making a wet, muted clack followed by a beautifully rich red coloured hakama billowing in the soft wind as the pleats so carefully woven caught the rogue gusts and dispersed them around the wearer’s legs. Full exposure was not far off as the red kimono with oversized sleeves that covered the torso of the wearer appeared simultaneously with the face and red eboshi of Fujiwara no Takumi. Takumi’s beauty was not remarkable. He was not what one would say, a fair comparison to his contemporary; The Shining Prince but nor was he like much of the court nobles in their distinct mediocrity of appearance. He was a powerful man, unusually tall and well postured giving him an air of authority those who chose to slump lacked. His face was serious and focused. His eyes were likewise small and strained and he possessed a strong, dramatically angled nose that refused to be too far away from the rest of his face. His investment in red dye immediately singled him out as a man of great wealth and dignity and it was precisely the effect he was looking to garner from his expenditure.
Around the other side, a man of smaller stature took a far less graceful approach to disembarking. Fujiwara no Tadahira was a man of fifty years, some thirty years senior to Takumi, whose likeness of face was unmistakable for the two were father and son. Having stumbled out of the carriage, the natural busy-body, Tadahira was quick to wipe down his Kimono and check his eboshi was in place by using the reflection cast by the small puddle before him.
Takumi strode around the carriage to his father’s side and let the quietest of sighs sound as he viewed his father’s frantic preparations for audience. Tadahira remained ignorant of the sound but looked up at his son soon enough. “This is an extremely important event, Takumi. Sugawara is delighted that his daughter should be the first wife of such a bright and promising minister. I don’t share his exuberant praise for your promise but I hope I do not need to stress how this union will deflect a large number of our detractors.” Tadahira barely paused for breath during his speech.
“Your detractors, Father, not mine.” Takumi added with an unmistakable sneer etched across his otherwise serene face.
The serving girl hurriedly returned, bowing sweetly, but without dignity before the two visitors and then speaking quietly to the Lead Servant. She curtly bowed before him before shuffling back inside the mansion. The Lead Servant turned to his masters. “Your Eminence, Your Lordship; Sugawara no Tokio and his daughter await your arrival with hope and respect. You may enter at your discretion.” Tadahira ground his teeth before pacing into the mansion with some speed. Takumi held back for a moment, taking a deep breath and betraying the mask of indifference he had erected. He was fearful of this encounter. His life had been dedicated to court, much to his father’s disdain, and he had no time for the frivolities that were expected of him as the minor son of a great lord. He had dedicated his life to the servitude of the realm in desperation to prove himself and this would be his first foray into women in twenty years of life. He knew nothing but success in his career, achieving a fine rank at such a young age and hearing whispers throughout the court of his suitability to eventually become Kampaku; a rank granting power equal to that of the Emperor and a rank his father had failed to achieve. His inexperience in matters of the heart worried him, he did not know what he would be faced with and being unable to see variations of the future left him unsure of his ability to succeed. Shaking the self doubt from his face, Takumi moved forwards, gliding with effortlessness through the open gates.
Takumi kneeled rigidly on a decorated pillow before the white drapes that separated him from his fiancée. His meeting with her father had gone well and lasted little more than an hour. Now Tokio and Tadahira were drinking Sake in the garden, talking about old times and exaggerating their desire to be linked through family. A cold sweat had taken over Takumi and he had not said a word nor exchanged papyrus paper with his bride to be. Poetry had been difficult for him as he had abandoned literature against his father’s wishes far back in his youth. He lacked finery in his expression and had little to no use of inter-textual echoes because he simply had not read a great deal of popular or classical poetry for many years. With an embarrassed lowering of the head, he removed a piece of paper from inside his kimono. He slowly read it over several times, hoping there was nothing within it that could embarrass him before slowly slipping it beneath the drapes. His arm was trembling as he ushered it through and he was greatly relieved for the drape protecting his vulnerability where other more frivolous men of the court would find challenge in trying to remove the anonymity.
Surrounded by ladies in waiting on the other side of the drapes was an unusually small but utterly captivating fifteen year old girl. Her confusion was etched upon her face mixed with a degree of fear. Her eyes, exceptionally large and round, lacking the strong fox-like slant of her fiancée and several of the ladies surrounding her, were wide and barely blinking. She trembled slightly beneath the oversized kimono which spread out from her like a wedding cake. She was not ready for this; her slender features gave her feelings away. Sugawara no Haruka’s button nose itched with nervous tension, her jaw shook as she bit her teeth together and her hairless brow darkened as if it had never been shaved, the muscles casting a shadow where once hair had been. The light was low with the afternoon sun lowering steadily all the time, but a pink glow remained, cast through the open shutters and illuminating the area where Haruka kneeled, like the sight of the outside of one’s fingers when held up to the light. The note was passed along between the Ladies before stopping in front of Haruka, who nervously and with a hint of saddened regret, unfolded the paper revealing a bold, but messy hand.
My heart is empty
Waiting for one such as you
Come fill it with joy
Haruka blinked, strongly before throwing her excessively long black hair behind her shoulders with a flick of her head. The poem was crude, but sweet and she felt a strong sense of guilt that she felt no passion for this man’s correspondence. He had revealed himself to be a bore and she was privately devastated but sought to hide her disappointment from the ladies around her. She called for the instruments she needed to reply and they were placed in front of her. Were he merely a suitor she would have let one of her ladies reply but this man was to be her husband, with a heavy heart she inked her reply in her own hand.
The note was passed under the drape and almost immediately snatched from the hand that had delivered it. Takumi had been waiting in silence, trying to retain his composure but unable to avoid unwanted fidgeting and excessive sweating. He had never known nerves like this in all his years and he had confronted what many consider to be far more daunting situations. The idea struck him that he should hint upon this exchange being the personal equivalent of his ancestor’s move from Nara to Kyoto but for now he settled upon greedily unfolding the papyrus paper and reading its contents.
You expect much, Love
The confusion of my heart*
Knows no emotion
I will love thee as husband
And hope much adventure comes
Takumi was not so naïve as to mistake her meaning within the Uta she had composed. He recognized the skill as far superior to his own and was struck cruelly by her dismissal of him from the single poem he had composed. He struggled to suppress the rage that quelled within his breast and at the rejection and audacity but found solace in the appreciation of the brave and fiery nature she must possess to have addressed him so. Even so, his pride had taken a knock that had dislodged a dam as tears broke free of his defence. They came forth in deadly silence, threatening to submerge his notion of strength, once again giving him cause to hold the drapes that separated him from Haruka in the highest of regard. It took him a few minutes to regain his composure and take more paper, quill and ink to form his reply. He did so with care, precision and with the constant overtone of melancholy. He was crushed and his worldview would fast need re-evaluation. He read the simple haiku he had written back to himself.
Admirable needs
I will prove my worth to you
Fun shall reign at home
Takumi knew this was barely a poem. Shifting it beneath the drape he knew it was more of a promise and that Haruka would not be impressed. Stoically he rose and stormed out from the room, his hakama billowing behind him violently and with crimson intensity.
*Refers to a passage in the first Uta of ‘The Tales of Ise’ referring to coming of age
CHAPTER TWO:
STOLEN HEART
The thumping sound of tiny feet hurrying across the treated boards sounded from the modest residence of Fujiwara no Takumi. The minister’s precocious daughter, Hitomi had heard the arrival of her father’s carriage and run from her mother’s side to welcome her father. The three year old could barely contain her glee as she stumbled on her oversized Kimono, one dyed in the finest red that her father loved so much. Hitomi jumped into her father’s stomach as he shuffled through the door, causing him to gasp in surprise. Takumi had, as always, entered the house dishevelled and preoccupied. The past four years had eroded not only the domineering physical presence of the man, but his strength of conviction too. His face, although never beautiful was now gaunt, lined and black rings surrounded his sleepless eyes. The sight and touch of his daughter had now pierced the black cloud that fogged him, creating just enough space for a smile to escape bursting from his face like a sunbeam through thick gloom. Takumi picked Hitomi up by the waist and clutched her tightly to his chest, snuggling her small head into his shoulder.
He looked around the corridor before him. Where the exterior was modest and not unlike other minister’s homes, inside was sumptuous. The night had rendered much of the hall dark, but open slides spilled amber light from lamps into the darkness, casting menacing shadows across the beautiful tapestries Takumi had commissioned for his marital home. Again the theme was red, although many of the tapestries’ colour in the minimal amber light was that of blood. Some were dully lit in their entirety, others half shadowed, like a crescent moon. Takumi placed his tiny daughter back to the ground, kneeling to bring him down to her eye level. “Go to your wet nurse, Hitomi. I need to spend some time with your mother.” Hitomi’s face scrunched up at the brow, her lip curling in mild annoyance and Takumi could not help but broadly smile. “I will come to you before you sleep and read a story. I promise.” The little girl’s shoulder length hair swirled as she nodded vigorously with a cheeky smile. Satisfied, she kissed her father on the cheek before turning and running back the way she came, cutting into the first door on her right. A few seconds passed before she popped her head back out, laughing mischievously at an oversight of hers. She waved at her father and closed the slide to the room.
The sound of a so no koto arose through the murky atmosphere and a mistake in the tune caused gleeful laughter from the room Hitomi had entered. Satisfied his daughter was being cared for appropriately, Takumi rose from his haunches and shuffled his way down the corridor and up the steps to the second level, whose two rooms were first, a small one that came before the balcony where Takumi often went to look out at the night in fits of melancholy and second, the large bedroom he shared with his wife. Inside the room Haruka knelt before their expertly carved, dragon themed, table and poured tea, accompanied by her ladies in waiting. Takumi entered the room and all turned to him, offering a small bow of the head in reverence, including his wife. This upset Takumi greatly as he had always wanted Haruka to be his partner in everything, to talk to him and offer advice. Deferring to him like this meant she had no desire to share in his career and that was something he felt further compounded the servitude she believed the marriage to be, greatly distancing herself from the love that he had craved they would share. With a fierce glance, Takumi dismissed the ladies from the room, waiting impatiently as they scurried out of the door behind him and made no eye contact thereafter. Aggressively, Takumi padded towards the table, kneeling down besides his wife, their hakama touching. The tension was unbearable for both, Takumi always felt unwelcome around his wife and she feared his anger which had surfaced many times in their brief marriage, especially in instances like these when Takumi was feeling particularly insecure in his position as her husband. Haruka poured the tea from a gold rimmed China pot with painted green images of rice paddies adorning the sides and into a matching cup in front of Takumi. “How was court, husband?” She asked shyly.
“I did not attend today.” Takumi curtly replied, bringing the tea to his lips, revelling in the pain inflicted by the heat that occupied his mind for a few seconds before it returned to the painful business of his marriage.
There was a rapping at the front doorway. Takumi turned his neck towards the noise with speed and instinct, pausing to decipher what it was. He was just about to write it off as a gust of wind when the rapping returned with a little more force. There was definitely someone at the door and Takumi could only imagine what it could be. His father or one of the senior nobles coming to admonish his lack of appearance at court on this and several other occasions would have been announced to the household as was custom. In fact, the idea of any resident of the Imperial City not being announced at the door of a minister was as alien to Takumi as the world beyond Cathay. He gave his wife a stern look, in essence telling her to wait where she was as he thumped his way out of the room and back down to the front door.
Tentatively, Takumi placed his hands on an outcrop in the slide. He noticed his arms were shaking, not uncontrollably nor with any particular visibility to others but the idea came to him that his wife must see him as a common coward. Today was not a good day for Takumi’s thoughts and the single mindedness of his preoccupation was beginning to wear thin, even on him. He shook away the negative feelings in his head and stood tall, before drawing the slide back with one short, sharp pull. The sight that stood before him and how it was dressed would be one that would stay with him forever.
Standing in the doorway, covered in thick, slimy manure and wearing common, linen hunting garments with no hint of artificial colouring, was the very poor excuse of a Lord, Minamoto no Hiroshi and on his face, the biggest grin Takumi had ever seen. “Well, good day to you, Lord Fujiwara!” Hiroshi exclaimed with a bright chirpiness one would associate with the criminally insane. “Are you not going to embrace an old friend?” He added with mischievous glee.
Takumi smirked. “I would stutter to call a walking pile of faeces an ‘old friend’.” Both men burst into fits of laughter and for a time, Takumi forgot the troubles of his life in favour of reminiscing a more innocent time, embodied perfectly within the string bean like frame of the man who stood before him.
Hiroshi had been staying at Takumi’s residence for three days and for three days Takumi had been a far happier man. Entertaining his guest had taken the bulk of his attention and he was less prone to the bouts of depression that had plagued him for the past four years. Takumi, Hiroshi and Hitomi knelt around a dinner table in the main living area of the house and spread before them, a mighty feast of epic proportions. That was all just as well, for Hiroshi’s appetite challenged a horse’s and the crudity of his table manners accentuated the analogy. For all this, the finery he wore was in stark contrast. His attire was almost identical to that of Takumi and yet he had forgone expensive red dye for green, a colour more commonly associated with his family, the Minamoto than any other. He did, however, insist upon wearing his eboshi slightly off centre, exposing some of his scalp, an act noted by Hitomi who was prone to fits of giggles at the sight. During one of these fits, she sought to speak. “So you slept with the pigs?”
Hiroshi smiled at the girl, with whom he had become fast friends and nodded, trying to keep his mouthful of food from spilling out as he chewed with gusto. At the first chance he got, he gulped down the half chewed chunk of boar and answered her. “I had no choice; your grandfather was petrified a man of my reputation would spoil Suzaku’s new house staff so I was locked in the pen.”
“But aren’t you supposed to protect Suzaku...” She began to reference Hiroshi’s new position as a Guardian of the Imperial palace but was immediately shot with a vicious stare from her father and she shrunk back within herself, knowing she had overstepped the mark.
“Daughter, I don’t care how this riff-raff speaks, but you are not to address His Majesty by any other term, least of all his name without honorific!” Takumi bellowed.
Hiroshi protruded his lower lip in a mock sulk as he turned to Takumi. “Riff-raff...?” His hurt tones trailed off as yet another broad grin, this one more brilliant than the moon, erupted from his formerly sullen features. “Your father is right Hitomi. You are fortunate to be allowed the run of the house and the level of insolence you are forgiven... You will make a difficult wife, but a fun one no doubt!” He turned back to face Takumi. “You wanted a boy didn’t you old friend?”
The two friends burst once again into thunderous laughter, a laughter that caused the ground to shake and several items of food and drink to bounce off of the table and onto the floor. Servants were quick to action in cleaning it up and this served to humour the two men even more. Hitomi, however, was not so impressed. The comment had not been lost on her bright intellect and she sat, arms folded with her pretty face screwed up in disgust. This was a sight so frighteningly funny that when Hiroshi turned into it, he almost passed out in glee.
Once finished, all three retired to bed, seeking gluttonous rest. Takumi removed his kimono with delicate care, folding it neatly before laying it in a small pile with his hakama and tatami shoes. Naked, he slipped in next to Haruka and his jovial mood descended into the sexual and the quantity of wine in his veins dulled any thoughts that may have upset him regarding his wife’s unwillingness to face him as he made love to her. However, it could not dull the clarity with which he saw in climax as his sight ran along his wife’s outstretched arm, holding the drape open a fraction with an unmistakably clear sight across the hall into the small room by the balcony that Hiroshi had taken as guest quarters. Takumi could see Haruka’s wide and awake eyes staring at the naked torso of his great friend as he swung a practice sword with great finery and ferocity wearing travelling hakama. Rage poured over Takumi, but he held firm, turning to look up at the ceiling for what seemed like forever and long after Hiroshi’s exercise had ceased. Leaning over to check that Haruka’s traitorous mind was deep in sleep, Takumi stole from the bed and crouched, moving like a spider across the floor to the dresser that she guarded so privately. Routing through the drawers, he came across several pieces of elaborate, scented papyrus, the newest of which read words that pierced Takumi’s fragile heart, words written in Hiroshi’s distinctive hand.
The insect and dove
Different without measure
May lie together
Only if the turtle dies
And the insect imprisoned
She had contacted Hiroshi and he had rejected her, referring to himself as an insect, but she still desired him, he who did not love her, over the husband to whom she occupied every waking thought. The notion chilled Takumi to his core and he sat, head in his hands, sobbing profusely.
CHAPTER THREE:
THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR
The next morning was a wet one. The damp in the air on top of his sleepless night had stiffened Takumi’s bones to the point where he wished not to rise at all. Eventually he rolled out of bed, moving groggily to the open window and sliding on an informal morning gown of pure white with black trimmings. He looked out at the torrential rain ramming into the ground to the side of his Sanjo estate, the avenue behind Nijo where Sugawara no Tokio resided as Minister of the Left. Takumi could feel a Typhoon coming; high winds and unfathomable rain with the strength of battering rams had already characterized its arrival and the thought was oddly comforting to Takumi. The environment obviously sympathized with his predicament as it sought to imitate his inner turmoil.
He looked over his shoulder with a longing glance. Haruka laid quite still, whispers of breath emitting from her small, perfectly formed lips and her chest gently rising mere millimetres with each tiny breath. She was a beauty, it had to be said and although she continually frustrated him, Takumi could not help but objectify the shell in which she resided, further compounding his unhappiness.
Movement in the balcony room drew Takumi’s attention and he looked up to see Hiroshi carefully lowering an elaborate bamboo chest plate, made of tens of cylindrical shoots laid horizontal, over his head with quiet reverence. Takumi edged closer, coming to the doorway of his own room and observed the martial attention that held Hiroshi tightly as he finalized his elaborate appearance by placing his Wakizashi, a small, dagger like blade whose ornamental black and gold handle had no brethren to Takumi’s mind, and his Katana, a traditional long sword with an identical hilt pattern to the smaller side sword’s, beneath the belt that held his practical green kimono into place. The combination of Kimono and armour added a Golden shimmer to the dress that gave Hiroshi an extremely regal look so far removed from his appearance before Takumi four days ago that one had to blink repeatedly to see the same man. Hiroshi spat in the face of impractical tradition on such a regular basis that one became accustomed to it at the cost of the knowledge that in practical tradition, Hiroshi shone like no other.
In a moment of bizarre catharsis, Takumi could readily see the fascination with which his wife must have felt observing this contradictory stranger. The rebellious nature inside her that was quelled when she entered into marriage with a court noble, the most rigid and respectful of traditionalists, would have been reawakened by such a warrior who embodied adventure and a new future, even to Takumi’s eye. He was struck suddenly by doubt for now, after untold years of working to rise in court and show his father that he was the brightest and most capable of his offspring in the ‘family business’, Takumi was beginning to question that career path. He wished now that he had spent his youth chasing young women and learning to defend the realm as his father had originally wished of him so he could become the exciting, fragrant man his wife had always hoped for. He was also aware of the cruelty of the fact that he would never have been allowed to marry the first daughter of the Minister of the Left were it not for his hard work in attaining the rank and influence he possessed at the time. It struck him now that his situation was set in such a way that he could be both. He could be worthy of his wife and bask in her admiration. All it would take was a little help from the man who stood before him in Imperial regalia.
Hiroshi said his goodbyes that morning to the household, with Haruka the only notable absence. He had made himself a popular figure amongst the staff and a great friend to Hitomi, who couldn’t stop crying when Hiroshi revealed that he was moving to the palace. Gathering his modest possessions into a plain linen sack, he flung it effortlessly over his shoulder, pulled the front slide aside and walked slowly out into the rain, savouring the feeling of the fresh water hitting his skin with force to raise goose bumps. Before he could get too far, a delicate hand touched him on the shoulder and he turned to face whoever it was. To his horror it was Takumi, dressed in his finest clothes now having them drenched in the downpour. Hiroshi could read the pain on his friend’s face and realised that Takumi had uncovered the notes he had scrawled to Haruka and feared that his friend had interpreted his intentions wrongly.
“Hiroshi,” Takumi spluttered with sadness, “I know that Haruka confessed feelings for you.” Hearing this, Hiroshi found his perky smile absent and his jovial face taking on a seriousness that amplified the angles. Takumi slumped into his friend’s chest, gripping hard at the exposed part of the kimono, losing all will to retain composure. Hiroshi was petrified someone of importance would see them standing in Sanjo like this and seek to tarnish Takumi’s reputation. Takumi, for his part, tried to regain some composure, the rain hiding from view the tears that were streaming from his eyes by engulfing them within a steady stream. “I love her so much, Hiroshi. She won’t, she won’t return any affection and yet she looks on you with such lust it drives me insane! Please, help me. Help me change to make her happy. Please. Make me a warrior.”
Feeling as though some irreversible shift had occurred in their relationship, Hiroshi struggle to find words that could transcend how upset he was by this turn of events. To see a Fujiwara, not least a Fujiwara he had known for unparalleled composure in all the years they had been friends, descend into such desperation was a terrible abomination and a mixture of confused feelings passed through his mind. Firstly disgust for the insecurity Takumi had let consume him, but secondly admiration for his strength of conviction. Feeling he needed to readdress the balance and through complete selflessness, Hiroshi kneeled before his superior as he spoke his answer. “My Lord and greatest friend you honour me with your request but I will not allow you to compromise yourself. For a Fujiwara of the court to become a master of violence is unprecedented. Those of your family who gave into those emotions in times past were exiled, sent to far off provinces, a disgrace upon the family name. After all you have worked, do you wish such a thing to unravel everything?”
“Everything is already unravelled, Hiroshi. Where have I gone in the past four years? I am lucky to remain in my seat. I must win my wife over. There is nothing beyond that.” Takumi’s dangerous obsession was now clear for Hiroshi to see. He had been outraged by Haruka’s advances towards him but soon came to understand the young woman, for she had been a kindred spirit. She was locked in a loveless marriage and honourable enough to see it through as had many before her. This would be enough for any normal man of the time, but Hiroshi knew his friend’s obsession with success and how it would command him. He knew he had to help light a spark between the two or Takumi would self destruct. He forced a smile and although brilliant, would be hard pressed to convince anyone that it was genuine.
“I will do what I can to aid Your Lordship.” Hiroshi paused, his fake grin broadening into one far more believable. “The artisan’s† path would have been far easier.” And with this, the two men laughed deeply, but mostly to hide the terrible thing that had passed between them and throughout their humour they looked ominously to the heavens and at the giant black clouds of the typhoon.
Takumi was thrust to the ground by Hiroshi’s clever footwork and the forward motion of his wakazashi hilt. The embarrassed look on the Minister’s face was painful to watch and unbecoming of a man of his status. He was, in essence being re-schooled and that came with the sense of embarrassment associated with failure. Hiroshi was unsure the Minister’s pride would allow for this to happen too long. He hoped Takumi would pick up the basics quickly but at the moment His Lordship was struggling in keeping balance and safe distance. Hiroshi offered his arm, which, foul tempered though he was at that moment, Takumi took and dragged himself up with.
“Wide stance, Takumi! When advancing at this level, keep it wide for better footing.” Hiroshi instructed. Takumi’s face, though red and flustered showed determination and deep focus, with this, Hiroshi was pleased but this alone was not enough. He stepped back and bowed before Takumi again.
The sight of this lesson was unique in many ways, not least because it saw the usually extravagant Takumi dressed down in brown linen. A simple plain kimono and separated travelling hakama, more readily identifiable as modern day trousers than modern skirt like formal ones. Both were soft and spacious, allowing for better movement. To say Takumi looked uncomfortable would be an understatement and he would anxiously look around every few seconds to make sure no one was watching him. It was during one of these self-inflicted diversions that Hiroshi quickly edged forwards, catching Takumi off guard and sliding his practice sword down the shaft of Takumi’s using the movement to lurch to one side and send it spinning from the Minister’s grasp. Hiroshi followed though by grabbing the outstretched lead arm of Takumi and twisting it into submission, before planting an elbow deep into his friend’s chest, sending him crashing to the ground yet again.
“Concentrate! Damn it Takumi! You can’t fight if you’re worried someone is going to see you in informal dress! I will tell you one thing, if you try fighting in those ridiculous kimonos you wear in court you are going to die very quickly! Again.” Hiroshi was stern, far more so than he thought he would be as a teacher. He had notions of retiring to Hitachi and spending his time instructing young villagers with an easy going outlook and stress free attitude that would see him live a long life. Sometimes, he mused, you even surprise yourself.
The two stood again, Takumi watching his mentor with a hawk like eye, observing every movement, every nuance of muscle. He brushed himself down half heartedly with his off hand, never removing the point of his wooden practice sword from its intended destination; Hiroshi’s head. Hiroshi, for his part, stood limber and relaxed, the earlier thought at the forefront of his mind. Takumi, all concentration now on Hiroshi, gripped his wooden sword tightly. The instructor, sensing it was time, sought to lunge past the stoic stance of his pupil, using the lack of movement as another lesson to learn. Only Takumi did not remain stoic and with the flexibility of water, spun his shoulder and wrist in a certain way that flicked his wooden sword out, batting away the thrusting blade Hiroshi was wielding and sending the Minamoto forwards and off balance. Side stepping, Takumi casually patted Hiroshi on the backside with the flat of his practice sword. Hiroshi’s amazement was communicated with a wide eyed and open mouthed stare.
“Playing dumb,” the warrior could not suppress a grin, “is a tactic I was not expecting you to be ready for until at least the spring.
†The name Takumi is Japanese for Artisan.
CHAPTER FOUR:
THE HITACHI ASSASSINS
The last two years had been anything but easy for Takumi and his pursuit of martial skill. The effort of finding places in which to train and be instructed was draining, both emotionally and physically. Wherever they went they had to be careful not to be seen and Hiroshi had finally convinced the proud minister that they must travel out of the city as peasants, wearing the simplest of garments and riding the most modest of steeds. At first Takumi had found joy in the rebellious nature of his new pursuit and the areas that he had discovered that were isolated and far from human touch. Today he and Hiroshi sparred eagerly amongst the green and yellow beauty of a large grove that was hidden deep within a forest North West of Heian-Kyo††. Off to one side of the grove was a felled tree, the only sign of human existence in this microcosm of paradise and running almost down the centre was a clear, freshwater river with a strong current. Takumi stood in this cool and invigorating liquid, the current swirling around his shins, pushing in many different spots, trying to shift him into imbalance. The water had soaked through the plain linen hakama he wore, right up to the bottom of the knee and Takumi paid it no mind. His concentration was firmly directed at the bank in front of him, where an identically clothed Hiroshi stood before him, his hair unmoving in the windless grove, his wooden practice sword, the Bo-Ken, held forward in preparation for an attack.
When it came, the attack was swift, fierce and almost overpowering. Takumi could feel the air displacement in detail, so forceful was the strength of Hiroshi’s movement, but still, Takumi felt equal too it, carefully widening his stance in the water, making sure that his centre of gravity was in a position to absorb the impact. Takumi braced himself, but the faintest gust of wind that blew softly across his tanned forehead, catching a lock of hair on the temple and tickling the top of his ear with it, revealed to him that he had lost this exchange. The premonition was correct as the finest split of a second later held for him a dull ache and the collapse of his trailing leg, taking him off balance and forcing him to groan to one side, teetering for a moment before being felled like the tree in the grove had been and landing with an almighty crash that soaked the bank of the river behind him. Hiroshi had guided his Bo-Ken to the back of Takumi’s knee having performed an impossibly fast feint from an already advantageous position on the high ground and with that, the contest was over.
Takumi smashed his fist into the water as he lethargically raised himself onto his knees, the water having now darkened his plain travelling garments in their entirety. Water dripped from his chin in slow, annoying droplets and he looked at Hiroshi, now back on the bank in front of him with a dark malice in his eyes. “There are still some issues with your defence in disadvantageous positions. Your focus should not be on countering the opponent’s strike; it should be about blocking all attacks and moving back to an equal footing.” Hiroshi spoke with the commanding tone of an instructor rather than the jovial speech of a friend.
The young minister nodded, refusing to make eye contact with Hiroshi. He looked out over the grove taking in its beauty before closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He imagined sitting here with Haruka, sharing a joke and eating a picnic with Hitomi running around the field catching butterflies whose wings changed from one vibrant colour to another. He imagined bandits intruding on the happy scene, stealthily emerging from the trees like gangrene spreading from a wound and of his heroic action in speedily dispatching them with his Katana before they could pose any threat to his family.
Back in reality he sighed deeply. He had never felt so far from this scene as he did now amongst this placid beauty. His melancholy was interrupted by a hand grasping his shoulder. Hiroshi turned him around to face him. “I think that’s enough for today, my friend. Don’t think too much about it. Learning means making mistakes. You can’t get everything first time.” Hiroshi spoke, lending Takumi his support but knowing full well it would not soothe the impatient and deeply ambitious minister.
Their walk through the forest and back to reality was a contemplative one. Neither man spoke to the other, Hiroshi taking in all energy of movement that surrounded him. There were small animals being chased by larger ones, birds flapping from tree to tree with less grace than one would include in the poetry they wrote about the scene and deer basking in sun beams that pierced the thick canopy above them. Such life invigorated Hiroshi, played on his sense of wonder and fulfilled his desire to be part of a greater system. Takumi, on the other hand, walked sullenly, his eyes set firmly upon the moist and fertile soil beneath him. He was not looking at the nuances in colour or the roots of plants that nestled, suggestively, under the surface but instead looking at what was not there, reviewing his bitter defeat regardless of the excuses behind it and continuing to obsess over his cold and distant wife.
Breaking through the forest came after much walking, but was a relief to both men as the evening sun beat down on them from the West. As he had seen the deer doing within the forest, Hiroshi raised his head to bask in the warm, golden glow of the retreating light. Takumi, for his part, tried to penetrate the gloom in his mind by doing the same as his friend, but his eyes were open and it was he who saw the cloud of dust coming ever closer to their position. The horses they had tethered to the trees reared high in fear as the cloud sped forth. Having come closer, Takumi could make out a Lordly carriage, not of the refinery of his own, but one well suited to a provincial noble. Worryingly he could also see seven black garbed horsemen behind the carriage, pursuing with rallying calls and katana’s held aloft. Takumi knew there was going to be trouble and his sour mood helped calm any excitement he may have felt. Almost instinctively he felt his hand upon the hilt of his blade. “Hiroshi, we have something that needs to be taken care of before we go home.” Takumi spoke with little emotion.
The carriage tumbled past them and they had a split second to make a move on the rampaging marauders. Takumi leapt through the air with silent, aerodynamic grace, unsheathing his katana and slicing at the first horseback rider, severing the reins and taking the tips of a couple of fingers. The rider soon lost control and was bucked from the horse, landing with a nasty crack that indicated to Takumi that something had been broken. Looking at the man rolling around, clutching his side, Takumi wryly snorted an affirmation that it was the assailant’s hip.
Hiroshi’s opening strike was, in comparison to his student’s, wondrous. He had jumped as though gravity was nothing to him, taking a handful of clothing in his left hand’s grip as he passed over the first rider, yanking the man from his mount. Before landing, he brought his already unsheathed sword down in a simple slash, cutting the next rider in line’s thigh deeply, rendering him all but useless.
The two men now stood several metres from each other and stood firm in front of the second line of four riders that were about to run them down. Hiroshi pulled his wakazashi from his belt, unsheathed it and with a smart, efficient flick of the wrist, threw it at the rider furthest left of their position. It lodged in the side of the man’s neck and instinctively, he leaned to his left hand side, causing his horse to follow the same direction and unintentionally collide with the animal next to it, sending its rider over the top of its neck and trampling him beneath its hooves.
Takumi waited longer to make his final strike and there was no room for error for if one broke free, he and Hiroshi could not catch up with their own mounts, still tethered to the trees on the border of the forest. He took a deep breath, trying to focus, to feel the air being dispersed throughout his body and take oxygen to all his muscles, strengthening them. In the moment that the heads of the two horses passed his back, Takumi hopped, spinning as he did so from one foot into their air, turning three times with his sword held out, his arm and the weapon powering forwards like the forearm volley of a powerful tennis player. He removed the head of the marauder to his right with the first strike and severed the spinal column of the marauder to his left as he completed his third revolution. The speed and power of his movement had made him appear to be a human tornado but the continued circular motion after the assault sought only to bring him to the ground with soft grace. He bent his knees as he landed, trying to look calm and unfazed, but struggling with his inner joy and excitement over the execution of this phenomenal movement.
Hiroshi looked at the young minister for a moment as Takumi raised from his half crouch with his eyes closed. He couldn’t help but produce a broad grin looking on at the minister because he was impressed with Takumi’s assault but most importantly for Hiroshi, he knew how worked up Takumi would be inside over what he had done and could see through the serene presentation the closed eyes were supposed to be indicating. Lightening the tone, Hiroshi danced up to Takumi with zero grace, humming a barely recognizable tune as he did so, looking vaguely like an Orang-utan. When the minister opened his eyes and saw this most ridiculous of sights, he nearly choked trying to suppress the riotous laugh that would have been considered undisciplined were any court nobles to appear from the carriage.
As they stood, surveying their handiwork, the provincial carriage came to a stop and out jumped a portly man in fine green robes, marking him out clearly as a Minamoto. About halfway through his bumpy gallop, the portly Minamoto stopped running and began to walk and again before he reached the two warriors he reduced his speed to a crawl. Before he got too close, Takumi covered his face with a shawl from one of the dead marauders. He could not allow this Minamoto to see a Fujiwara minister engaging in such blood sports.
Once he was stood before them, panting a wheezing, with his over fed stomach shuddering from the exertion a look of curious recognition formed across Hiroshi’s face. “Mamoru?” He questioned, looking at the fat man with some distaste, and perhaps influenced by the wafting stench the Lord had failed to conceal.
Mamoru took even longer to recognize the kin that stood before him in unflattering linen robes. He made a quick glance towards the companion, seeing the face concealed immediately signalled to his primitive way of thinking that this was a leper warrior, one easily thrown into battle and not too sorely missed. Glancing back at Hiroshi it suddenly clicked with him and his eyes lit up like a greedy little piggy. “Hiroshi! Cousin!” He exclaimed, engulfing the younger, fitter man in a sticky embrace. Hiroshi pushed him away as soon as politeness allowed.
“Well, Stinks, what was all that about?” Hiroshi asked.
Mamoru looked offended by the old nickname, but thinking about what had happened spooked him even further and he tentatively spoke on the subject with an unnecessary quietness. “I come to inform the Emperor of treachery. Those were the minions of Taira no Masakado.
††Heian-Kyo was the period name for the city of Kyoto, then the nation’s capital
Thanks,
- Jay