Seven Japanese Tales Read online

After that came the battles of Anegawa and Sakamoto, and then there were negotiations for peace. But the truce was broken and the Asai domains were still being whittled away steadily by the Oda forces. Our bold general had not been mistaken: there was good cause to remember his advice. In two or three short years all our minor strongholds had fallen, and the main castle of Odani stood naked and unprotected, with the enemy pressing up to its very walls. An attacking force of over sixty thousand mounted warriors ringed the castle round as tightly as a coiled snake. Lord Nobunaga himself was in command, and he was aided by renowned heroes such as Shibata Katsuie. Lord Hideyoshi, who was then a minor commander known simply as Tokichiro, had built a small fortress on a hill only a thousand yards from our castle and kept us under close surveillance. There were splendid warriors among the Asai vassals too, but even some of those you would have relied on to the death had a change of heart and began slipping out one by one to surrender to the Oda, so that every day our strength weakened a little.

  At first our morale had been very high; and there were more people than usual at Odani, what with women and children who were being held as hostages, and samurai who had escaped and fled to us from the smaller castles. Day and night we vied with each other in our bravery, singing songs like this:

  Sadness lasts but a moment,

  And once you awaken

  Happiness was only a dream.

  But soon the two Asai housemen who were in charge of the middle ring of fortifications — between the outworks held by Hisamasa and the central stronghold held by Nagamasa — secretly got in touch with Hideyoshi and led the enemy into their part of the vast castle grounds. Suddenly all the castle's defenders lost heart.

  At this point Nobunaga sent an envoy to say that his quarrel with us had been started because of Asakura, but now that he had killed him and conquered Echizen he felt no enmity toward us, nor did we ourselves, surely, owe any further duty to the Asakura cause. If we would give up the castle and withdraw elsewhere, he for his part, in view of the intimate relations between our two families, would be perfectly satisfied; and if we would henceforth follow the banner of the Oda family and serve it loyally, he was prepared to grant us the province of Yamato. It was a most courteous message.

  In the castle, some were delighted and said that everything would be settled just in the nick of time; but others said: “No, you can't trust him — he probably means to save his sister and then make our lord commit suicide.” There were all shades of opinion about it; but Nagamasa, when he finally received the envoy, gave him a flat refusal. He was grateful for Lord Nobunaga's kindness, he said, but having sunk so low he had nothing left to live for and wished only to die honorably in battle.

  Nobunaga sent another envoy to assure Nagamasa, since he seemed doubtful, that the offer was sincere, and to urge him not to seek death in battle but to withdraw quietly from the castle in confidence of being well treated. Nagamasa refused to listen, saying that he had made his mind up once and for all.

  So, on the evening of the twenty-sixth day of September in the year 1573, Lord Nagamasa adopted a posthumous Buddhist name and had it carved on a tombstone. Then, during the early morning hours of the twenty-seventh, well before sunrise, Lord Nagamasa gathered together all the samurai who were under siege with him and prepared to hold his own last rites, with the abbot Yuzan of the Bodai Temple officiating. Taking a seat beside his tombstone, he asked his retainers to burn incense and pray for his spirit. Naturally they declined at first, but he was so insistent that they had to go through with the ceremony. Later the stone tablet was secretly taken outside the castle walls and sunk in the depths of Lake Biwa, about a thousand yards east of the island of Chikubu. Every man at the castle knew of this, and resolved to fight to the death.

  Lady Oichi had given birth to the young lord in June of that year and had spent more than a month in bed recuperating. I was constantly in attendance on her, sometimes massaging her back and shoulders, sometimes gossiping with her to try to amuse her. Yes, and Lord Nagamasa, for all that he was such a bold warrior, was extremely kind and gentle. All day long he would risk his life in savage fighting, but when he came to the inner apartments he drank saké in the best of humor and did everything he could to entertain her. He even joked with her ladies in waiting, and with me, as if he'd completely forgotten that thousands and thousands of enemy troops were ringed all around the castle. Of course, even those who are closest to a great lord and his lady can't expect to know how they feel toward each other. Still, it seemed to me that my mistress suffered grievously from the pain of being torn between her elder brother and her husband, and that Lord Nagamasa felt deeply sorry for her and did his best to cheer her up, so that she would be spared any sense of humiliation.

  Once, when I was waiting on them, Lord Nagamasa called out to me: “Never mind the samisen — can't we have something livelier to drink to? How about doing that 'Laundry dance'?”

  I performed my clumsy dance to amuse them, as I sang:

  “Sweet sixteen,

  Taking clothes from the laundry pole

  —

  How lovely!

  Drawing them in hand over hand

  —

  How lovely!

  But putting

  your arm around her slim waist —

  How much more lovely!”

  It was a comic dance that I had invented; my queer, groping gestures as I pantomimed “putting your arm around her slim waist” left everyone weak from laughter. When I heard Lady Oichi's voice in the midst of the noisy gaiety, I was delighted to think that she seemed a little more cheerful. How rewarded I felt! But, to my sorrow, as the days went by I never heard more than a faint laugh from her, no matter what I did. Before long she seldom responded even that much.

  One day my mistress complained that her shoulders were stiff, so I took up my position behind her and began massaging them. She was sitting on her bed, leaning against an armrest; soon I began to think she was dozing. But she wasn't — now and then I heard her sigh. In the past I had always chatted with her as I worked, but these days she hardly spoke to me. So I kept a respectful silence and went ahead with my treatment, though the feeling of constraint became almost more than I could bear. Of course, blind people develop a sharp intuition. And I was all the more sensitive to her moods since it was my duty to attend her day or night: I knew her body so well that even her innermost secrets seemed to be communicated to me through my fingertips. Thus, as I was silently massaging her, unhappy thoughts filled my heart.

  By that time Lady Oichi was past twenty and already the mother of five children. Yet she was such a natural beauty, and had always led such a sheltered life, a life protected from every care, every gust of rough wind, that the feel of her soft rich flesh under my fingers — if I may be excused for speaking of it — was like nothing I had experienced with other women. To be sure, she had recently given birth for the fifth time and was not quite so plump as usual, but her very slenderness only increased my astonishment at the beauty of her exquisite body. I have spent all my life at this profession, and I've massaged any number of young ladies, but never, to this day, have I touched a more lithe, beautiful body. And then the smoothness and fine texture of her skin, the flowerlike freshness of her sleek arms and legs — surely that is what is meant by “a dewy skin.” Her hair, which she told me had thinned out noticeably since her confinements, flowed in wonderful abundance down to her feet: so thick it seemed almost oppressive, yet every strand as straight and perfect as if silk threads had been laid out one by one. It spread out over her back so profusely that it was hard for me to massage her shoulders.

  But what would become of this noble lady if the castle fell? Would that dewy skin, that long, luxuriant hair, that soft flesh covering the delicate bones — would all that go up in smoke with the castle towers? Though the taking of human life is only to be expected in time of war, how could it be right to kill such a frail, beautiful lady? Perhaps Lord Nobunaga himself was planning at that very moment to save
his sister. Oh, it was useless for a person like me to worry, but fate had brought me into her service — my blindness had allowed me the privilege of touching such a lady, of massaging her morning and night, and that task alone had made life precious to me. Now, when I wondered how much longer I would be able to serve her, the future seemed black. All at once my chest throbbed with pain.

  Then Lady Oichi sighed again, and spoke my name. The others at the castle had various nicknames for me, or called me by saying: “You, there!” But she insisted that I have a proper name of my own and gave me the name of Yaichi.

  “Yaichi,” she repeated, “what is wrong?” I mumbled something nervously, and she said: “You seem to have lost your strength today. Rub a little harder, won't you?”

  “I am very sorry, madam,” I apologized, wondering if my futile worries had made my hands falter. I set to work in earnest, massaging her briskly. But that day her shoulders were especially stiff; it wasn't easy to smooth away the tensions that had so painfully tightened the muscles at the nape of her neck. Yes, I told myself, it must be torture for my lady. She must have suffered great anxiety and spent many sleepless nights. I felt a surge of sympathy for her.

  Just then she spoke again. “Yaichi,” she asked, “how long do you intend to stay in the castle?”

  “My own wish,” I answered, “is to serve you always. I know I am clumsy and of no use to you, but I'll be grateful if you will take pity on me and let me stay.”

  “Oh?” she said, rather sadly. She was silent for a moment. “Still, as you know, our men have been slipping away from the castle, till there are very few of us left now. When even warriors abandon their lord and flee, why should anyone who isn't a samurai stand on ceremony? And you can't see, either — if you wait too long you're sure to get hurt!”

  “It is very kind of you to think of me,” I said, “but there are those who prefer to desert the castle and those who prefer to stay. Probably I could leave under cover of darkness if I had my sight; as it is, though, with the castle surrounded like this, even if you dismissed me I'd have no way to escape. I know I'm only a worthless blind servant, but I don't want to let myself fall into the hands of the enemy.”

  Lady Oichi made no reply. She seemed to be wiping away a tear — I heard the rustle of paper handkerchiefs as she took a packet of them from her bosom. My deepest concern was not for myself, but for her. What would she do? At heart, I was desperately anxious to know whether she would stay with her husband to the end, or whether, out of pity for her five children, she might possibly have some other intention. But I could hardly be so impertinent as to ask a question of that kind, and she said no more. I had to let it go at that and keep my thoughts to myself.

  That was two days before the memorial service in front of Lord Nagamasa's tombstone. At about dawn on the morning of the twenty-seventh of September, after he had had the samurai burn incense for him, Lord Nagamasa summoned his wife, his children, the ladies in waiting, and even servants like me to the same place, and said: “I want all of you to pray for me too.” But the women were overwhelmed with grief. Alas, they thought, can it be true that the fate of the castle has been decided, and that our lord is going to kill himself? Not one of them made the slightest move toward the altar.

  For the past two or three days the enemy troops had been attacking more violently than ever; the battle had gone on day and night without interruption. That morning, however, the enemy seemed to have tired at last. The attack eased off and a hush fell over the castle, inside and out. The great hall was deathly still. It was just before sunrise in mid-autumn, there on a windswept mountaintop in northern Omi. As I sat in my humble place at the back of the hall I felt chilled by the piercing wind and I could hear crickets shrilling away endlessly in the garden. One of the women sitting in a corner began sobbing quietly; and then other women, who had managed to control themselves until that moment, burst out weeping, and even the children began to wail. But my mistress remained perfectly calm. “Now, now, don't cry,” she scolded Ochacha firmly. “You're the oldest, you know. Remember what I have always told you about being brave.” And she called little Lord Mampukumaru's nurse, and said to her: “Let us go ahead. My son should be the first to offer incense.” When Mampukumaru had finished taking part in the ceremony, and had been followed by the baby born that year, she said: “Ochacha, it is your turn.”

  But Lord Nagamasa spoke up sternly. “Why do you not precede your daughter?”

  Lady Oichi murmured something, as if agreeing, but she remained in her place. At this, Lord Nagamasa, who had always been so gentle to her, spoke with deliberate harshness. “I have talked to you about this often enough. Are you going to disobey me now?”

  Still she was unflinching, and refused to get up. “I am sorry,” she said, “though I respect your intentions.”

  Then Lord Nagamasa roared out at her. “So you've forgotten your duty, have you? A true wife should pray for me after my death and care for my children. If you can't agree to that, I shall never think of us as husband and wife again!” He railed at her so fiercely that his voice reverberated through the great hall. Everyone gasped, wondering what would happen. For a few moments there was not a sound. At last I heard the whisper of a gown trailing over the straw-matted floor — it was Lady Oichi going, most reluctantly, to make her offering of funeral incense. She was followed by Ochacha, her eldest daughter, by Ohatsu, her second, and by Kogo, her third, each burning incense and saying a prayer in turn. Finally all the others went through with the ceremony too.

  As I've said before, the stone tablet was taken from the castle and sunk in the bottom of the lake. They say Lady Oichi spent the whole of that night pleading with her husband, arguing that although she had consented to take part in the last rites for him, having been pressed to do so before all the others, she felt that she could not go on living after he committed suicide. She couldn't bear to have people point at her contemptuously behind her back, and say: “That's Nagamasa's widow!” And so she begged him to let her accompany him in death, but he showed not the least sign of agreeing to what she asked.

  Then on the next day, the twenty-eighth, at about ten o'clock in the morning, Nobunaga's envoy came for the third time and delivered a message asking if Nagamasa might not care to reconsider, and give himself up. To which Lord Nagamasa replied: “I can never forget the many kindnesses of Lord Nobunaga, but I have resolved to commit hara-kiri in this castle. However, since my wife and daughters are his close relatives, I wish to send them to him immediately. I shall be very grateful if he will mercifully spare their lives, and grant them his protection in the years to come.” After sending the envoy back with this polite request, he seems to have spent a long time arguing with Lady Oichi again.

  Of course, the two had always been so happy together that he could hardly take offense at her for wanting to die with him. When you think of it, their married life had lasted less than six years, and during those years the world had been in turmoil: sometimes Nagamasa was far away in the capital or on campaigns in southern Omi; he had never been able to enjoy a full day of ease and relaxation. It's no wonder that my mistress wanted to die with him, to be eternally by his side on a lotus flower in Paradise. But Nagamasa had the compassion of a real man of valor. To kill his young wife in cold blood would have been unbearably painful to him — he must have wanted to do everything he could to save her. And he must have worried about the future of his children.

  Well, it seems that he did his best to persuade her to leave, using all the arguments he could think of, and at last she consented. It was agreed that she would go home to her parents and take their daughters along with her. Though the two boys were still very young, Lord Nagamasa said it would be dangerous to let them fall into the hands of the enemy; and so, late on the night of the twenty-eighth, little Mampukumaru was smuggled out of the castle in the care of a page named Kimura Kinainosuke, to be taken to the home of a trusted friend in Echizen. The youngest child, only a tiny infant, was to be placed in the
charge of the nearby Fukuden Temple; he was smuggled out the same night, attended by his nurse and two samurai. I heard later that they had to draw their boat in among the reeds along the lake shore and stay in hiding for several hours before they reached the temple.

  Throughout the night of the twenty-eighth Lady Oichi and Lord Nagamasa exchanged farewell cups of saké, but as they talked on and on of their inexhaustible grief at parting, the long autumn night came to an end. Dawn was glowing in the eastern sky when, after a final word of farewell, my mistress got into her palanquin at the castle gate. Her three daughters, together with their nurses, got into the palanquins which were to follow. The party was guarded by men under the command of a samurai who had been in Lady Oichi's service ever since he came with her from the Oda family at the rime of her marriage. In addition, some twenty or thirty ladies in waiting accompanied her as she left Odani.

  Lord Nagamasa came out to the palanquin to see her off. They say he was already dressed in his last costume: a suit of black-braided armor, draped over with a surplice of gold brocade. When the palanquin was lifted up, he called to her: “Now everything is in your hands — I wish you well!” His voice was clear and strong and full of courage.

  Of course, my mistress kept her feelings under control, never shedding a tear. “You need not worry,” she replied in a steady voice. “Give a good account of yourself!” The two younger daughters had no idea what was going on, and lay calmly in their nurses' arms. But Ochacha looked back at her father again and again, wailing bitterly all the while; and she kept on crying in spite of attempts to soothe her. It was this that the attendants found hardest to bear. Who could have imagined that all three daughters were destined to rise to such heights — Ochacha to become the Lady of Yodo, the favorite of Lord Hideyoshi; Ohatsu the wife of Lord Kyogoku Takatsugu; and Kogo, the youngest of all, nothing less than the wife of the present Shogun? Truly, there is no way of telling what the future holds!