The Heike Story Read online

  "Again, Heita," Kiyomori's uncle exclaimed as he laid down the letter with disgust. When he gave his nephew the money the letter requested, Kiyomori's aunt appeared, and she stormed: "Why do you people not go and beg of your mother's kinsmen? Are they not all nobles of the Fujiwara clan?—the most honorable Nakamikado—that dazzling galaxy of aristocrats! Doesn't your mother boast of them? Go, tell this to your father, too!"

  Then began a tirade in which uncle and aunt proceeded to abuse Kiyomori's parents. What could be more humiliating than this—to have others so critical of his father and mother? Large tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Kiyomori knew, none the less, that his uncle's life was no easy one. Although a system of Imperial Guards had been created, and more and more warriors were employed at the Court and the Cloister Palace, the Fujiwara aristocrats regarded the warriors as no better than slaves. They were valued only for their ferocity, likened to that of the hounds of Kishu and Tosa, and not permitted to rank with the courtiers who surrounded the imperial dais; their fiefs in the provinces were mainly barren mountain tracts or waste moors. The warriors were despised, condemned as though they were plebeians; without the honor due their calling, they subsisted precariously on the meager proceeds of their manors, and their poverty had passed into proverb.

  The bitter winds in February were sometimes called the First East Winds, but the longing for spring somehow made them seem more piercing. Perhaps it was the gnawings of hunger that made Kiyomori shiver. Neither his uncle nor his aunt had asked him to stay and dine with them. It was better so, Kiyomori reflected; his one thought had been to escape from that house. Never, never again would he come on another such errand. Not even if he were reduced to beggary. How maddening to have wept, while they probably thought that his tears fell at the sight of the money. How galling! His eyelids were still swollen, and Kiyomori felt passers-by turn to stare at his tear-stained face.

  This, however, was not why strangers turned to peer at him, but rather young Kiyomori's appearance—his wrinkled robe and grimy under-tunic. The ox-tenders and under-servants were more warmly clothed than he. Not even the waifs playing under the Rashomon Gate wore such rags. Had he not carried his long sword, for what would they take him—his mud-splattered sandals and leather socks; the faded, peaked cap from which the lacquer had chipped, tipped rakishly to one side; this stocky figure with its hard muscles; a head slightly too large for the body; eyes, ears, and nose of generous proportions; the eyebrows—like two caterpillars—beneath which the narrow eyes slanted down at the outer corners, lending charm to a face that might otherwise look ferocious or even cruel; this odd-faced little fellow with fair skin and large, ruddy ears, which made the youthful features strangely attractive?

  People in passing wondered who this young warrior could be, where he served as a Guard—remarked how he strode along with his arms folded. Kiyomori knew that this pose which he assumed only in the streets—never before his father—was frowned on by Tadamori, who thought it extremely unseemly for one of high birth. But this manner had become a habit with him on the streets —something Kiyomori had learned from the men who crowded the Shiokoji. He could not possibly go there today; money he had—that galling, borrowed cash! He trembled for himself. The magnetism of the Shiokoji tugged at all his senses. Weak of will, he felt he could never resist going there.

  Arrived at the crossroads, he gave in. The warm wind blowing his way from the Shiokoji brought odors that tantalized him and mocked at his hesitation. There they were, the same ones, at it as usual—the old woman selling roasted pheasant legs and small sizzling birds on spits; next to her stall, a man with a large jug of wine, drunkenly singing and laughing uproariously as he served his customers; there, on the shady side of the market-place, the young orange-seller sitting forlornly with a basket of fruit in her lap; and there the peddler of clogs, the shoe-menders, father and son. There they were—more than a hundred small stalls, side by side, displaying dried fish, old clothes, and gaudy knickknacks with which these people sustained a bare living.

  To Kiyomori each stall, each soul here seemed borne under by the crushing weight of the world; everyone here was a pitiful weed, trodden underfoot—a conglomeration of human lives putting down roots in this slime, living and letting live in the struggle to survive; and he was stirred by the fearful and magnificent courage communicated by the scene. The steam from boiling food and the smoke from roasting meats seemed to veil the secrets of that swarming crowd in mystery—the groups of street gamblers, the enticing smiles of the wantons who threaded their way through the throng, the loud wailing of infants, the drumbeats of the ballad-singers—all that medley of odors and sounds made his head reel. This was the paradise of the lowly, matching the cultivated pleasures of the aristocrats, the gay capital of the common folk. And this was the reason for Tadamori's stern warnings not to disgrace him by coming here.

  But Kiyomori liked it here. He felt at home among these people. Even the Thieves' Market, whose stalls sometimes appeared under the giant nettle tree at the west comer of the market, kept him enthralled. Call them robbers and cutthroats—were they not amiable enough when they had sufficient to fill their bellies? Something was out of joint in a world that drove these men to steal. There were no scoundrels here—rather, they were to be found among the august clouds of Mount Hiei, at Onjoji Temple, and even in Nara, where they made the halls and towers of the Buddhist temples their fortresses—those many evil Buddhas in their robes of brocade and gold.

  Nursing such thoughts, Kiyomori found himself in the midst of the jostling crowds; peering here, pausing there, he strolled about, heedless of the night coming on. Not a soul was to be seen under the nettle tree, but in the gathering twilight he made out the glow of tapers, bouquets of flowers and the quivering ascent of incense smoke. Soon dancing-girls and women of a lower order began to appear in groups, one after another, approaching the tree to worship.

  The old story ran that long ago the mistress of a notorious brigand had lived on the spot where the nettle tree now grew. In time the superstitious came to believe that prayers offered here would cause a maiden's lover to dream of her, or bring a loathsome malady upon a hated rival. The brigand's death in prison on the 7th of February 988 caused a great stir, and from that time on, the ruffians of the market-place and women of various callings perpetuated his memory with offerings of incense and flowers on the seventh day of each month.

  More than a hundred years had passed since this lawless character, the son of a courtier of the Fourth Rank, had gone about wildly burning, pillaging, and murdering, yet he was not forgotten by the common people, for his name seemed branded on their memories. His evil deeds had been the sensation of a period marking the peak of Fujiwara power and magnificence. To the common people the brigand's defiance of the established order was an expression of their secret antagonism, and instead of censuring his deeds they honored them. It was as though neither incense nor flowers would cease to be offered here while a single Fujiwara breathed; and others than the superstitious came to pray here.

  "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 secr
et 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!'"