SoC 3:1

Tamiko’s Samurai

 

S now settled like a dusting of powdered sugar on Tamiko’s parasol, as she waited with the others for the Samurai to ride into her small village for the yearly repair of their saddles.

The villagers remained at a respectful distance, since tanners and those who slaughtered animals were considered unclean in Japan in the 1800s, and they were not allowed to mingle with, or speak to, the revered Samurai.

With snowflakes dancing around her and expectation mingling with a sense of danger, Tamiko glimpsed the Samurai banner on the horizon. A thunder of horse’s hooves heralded their appearance, and hilts of long and short swords caught the light, their blinding flashes like the blinking of a thousand suns.

The great Samurai warrior astride the lead horse presented an awesome presence, the ends of his black moustache surging on gusts of winter wind as he circled the expectant crowd.

When he rode past Tamiko, his eyes locked with those of the fragile girl who stood shivering under a snow-capped parasol. He reigned in his lathered steed, urged it back,and gazed at her intently. The muscle in his cheek twitched. When she averted her eyes, he drew them back to his like opposite poles of a magnet. Impulsively, he reached down, scooped Tamiko up, and threw her on the back of his steed.

The startled crowd gasped as he galloped away with her, but they dared not utter protest. They watched, horrified, as Tamiko disappeared into the swirling snow, bouncing on the back of the Samurai’s mount.

When the warrior reached his outpost, he dismounted without speaking and pulled the frightened girl off his steed. He lifted the flap of the tent and pushed her in, then strode to the brazier and lit the logs placed there. As the dry wood ignited, snapped and sparked, the Samurai watched, stroking his long moustache and contemplating the repercussions of breaking the taboo.

Why could he not resist a barakumin, an unclean inhabitant of this village of slaughterers and tanners? Why had he touched her? Why had he brought her here? He turned to stare at the girl who ay cowering on the rug. When the tent warmed he approached.

Fear paralyzed Tamiko, yet there was a rush of excitement, anticipation of what was to come. Perhaps it was his eyes that reassured her. Dark and passionate, yet kind and noble, they promised fulfillment.

When the Samurai peeled off his quilted coat, sank to his knees, and gathered Tamiko into muscular arms, she experienced the nearness of a man for the first time. Hesitantly, she responded to his prompting.

After a long, passionate, and fulfilling encounter,the Samurai arose and tossed Tamiko’s kimono to her. She dressed self-consciously, then followed him to his mount for the return to her village. He set her down beside her abandoned parasol and rode off into the twilight.

Although Tamiko fought to deny her feelings for the Samurai who had disrupted her well-ordered life, she thought of him throughout every day and night. There was no denying her longing for his return, even though he had taken her honor, and with it the chance for a traditional life.

The family of Tamiko’s betrothed withdrew from the marriage contract, and Tamiko knew that no other man would seek her hand. She longed for the return of her Samurai when cherry blossoms perfumed the warm spring air, and she thought of him in the heat of summer when quicksilver flashes of lightning spiked the earth. As autumn leaves colored, dried, and fluttered to earth, she anticipated his return.

Tamiko chastised herself for wanting the man who had dishonored her, but she awaited his return with an eagerness she had never known. Each day, thoughts of him consumed the hours. Each night she lay awake staring through the window at the distant stars, knowing that he lay beneath them, too.

Now, as she knelt before the tokonomo, deftly arranging the bare branches of winter in an Ikenobo arrangement, she knew that tomorrow the Samurai would return for their annual visit. Would he seek her out? Would he desire her as passionately as he had when last he visited her village?

When the long anticipated morning finally arrived, Tamiko stood a lonely vigil apart from the many parasols that danced above the crowd like butterflies proliferating in the snow.

As she waited, small clouds swam across the sky likea sea of downy ducklings molting feathery snowflakes that drifted silently to earth. Tamiko pictured her Samurai riding toward her village, the mists over Mt. Fuji parting, and for a brief moment the concave, snow-capped crest emerging, majestic in the winter sun. Then she envisioned a curtain of clouds closing over the summit, as if denying more than a moment of beauty and joy.

Finally her Samurai materialized in the whirling snow. He rode slowly, searching the sea of umbrellas for the painted plum blossoms on Tamiko’s parasol. When he located the girl who had haunted his thoughts, he approached, smiling as he recalled memories of the previous year.

Tamiko, seized by panic as he neared, turned and hurried toward her home. Balancing precariously on stilted wooden gaita, she ran with knees close together and toes turned in. Breathless, she kicked off the geta, yanked open the sliding door, and threw the snow-covered parasol aside without closing it.

Without pausing to slip sandals over her one-toed tabis, she dashed to the window to see her Samurai dismount. He vaulted up the porch steps, then silence. He had paused to remove his boots—a sign of respect.

The warrior who had consumed her thoughts for the past year stepped through the sliding door. His skin, bronzed by sun and glazed by wind, stretched taut over sculpted cheekbones. Teeth, white as new ivory, flashed under the long black moustache that draped his lip. Dark sensuous eyes bespoke pleasures remembered. His voice, combining a knell of authority with the muted peal of passion, resounded under the low ceiling as he greeted her. “I see your parasol in the snow. Why you run away?”

Tamiko bent in a deferential bow. “I am Tamiko,” she said, hoping he would respond with his name.

He smiled, but said nothing.

She slid a delicate hand into her obi to retrieve the fan placed there and snapped it open, shielding her face from him. Eyes, the dark purple of November grapes gazed from under smooth-crested lids to speak desire above the fan. Quickly she averted her eyes, lest her overt admiration be mistaken for disrespect.

He took her hand and led her to the tatami mat, neatly rolled. He released the string, unfurled it, and spread it on the floor. He reached for the jime, the braided cord that encircled her obi, and undid it. When it dropped to the mat, he unwrapped the date jime, and then the koshi himo. With three layers of the obi removed, her kimono parted, welcoming his strong hands. Tamiko again experienced the exaltation, the satisfaction, of having her Samurai beside her.

During their long-awaited tryst, Tamiko snuggled in the crook of his arm, blending her breathing with his. She reverberated to the beat of his heart, fantasizing a life with him that could never be.

Moonlight filtering through rice paper bathed their caresses, and the perfume of jasmine permeated the star-crowned night. Temple bells, stirred by the December breeze, tinkled faintly in the distance.

When the moon sank below the horizon, the Samurai rode away under a midnight sky to rejoin his men.

Tamiko remained to endure the stares and comments of the village women, her daily routine sustaining her through the months that ensued. She watched in silent anguish as village children emerged from the bud of childhood to flower like orange blossoms in the spring. The babes of others, mere ghost-children of those she would never share with her Samurai.

At night,she dreamed that her warrior would return to claim her, but in the searing sun of day, she realized the futility of that dream. Never would a child suckle at her breast, never would she preside over a family of her own.

Throughout the year, Tamiko turned the pages of the calendar until the day for the arrival of the warriors was at hand. She stood a lonely vigil apart from the crowd, harboring trepidation and excitement.

The snow-dusted plum blossoms on her parasol attracted her Samurai like a beacon. Assured that he had seen her, Tamiko hurried home, kicked off her geta, stepped inside. She waited breathlessly for her Samurai to follow.

Suddenly, the door slid open and he stepped into the low-ceilinged room. Silhouetted against the light, his shoulders rose like granite cliffs, and sturdy forearms forged in battle almost obscured the small package he carried.

He paused momentarily to admire Tamiko’s dark hair, glistening like polished ebony. It encircled her head and wound into a thick bun high above the crest of a graceful neck. Faceted beads dangled from bamboo shafts that protruded from the lacquered coil of hair. Her persimmon-colored kimono, embroidered with gold and silver cranes in flight, had been chosen for this moment.

Tamiko bowed and waited respectfully for him to acknowledge her. After he had, the gentle murmur of silk as she moved toward him voiced the hushed excitement of their reunion. She stood before him, eyes averted, lest they betray her delight at being close to him again.

He offered the package. “For you.”

Tamiko accepted with a gracious nod.

“Open it,” he commanded.

Tamiko pulled the silken cord. The rice paper fell away to reveal an apple-green jade netsuke—a crouching rabbit with elongated ears--to be tucked into her obi along with the ojime and inro figures traditionally worn there.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes speaking more devotion than custom permitted. Tamiko held the rabbit in her hand, admiring it and remarking, “Little paws peek out from under body. See?”

The Samurai lifted the rabbit from Tamiko’s hand and set it on a low table. He drew her to him and buried his face in her soft neck. He said, “You wait here for me next year. I come to your home.”

“Oh, thank you—? Thank you—?” She paused after each unspoken question, waiting expectantly, but he did not reveal his name. Instead, he led her to the tatami mat, where they reprised the rapture of previous encounters.

Although he appeared fearsome on his charging steed,on the tatami mat his eyes radiated tender compassion. He stroked Tamiko’s neck, bestowed subdued kisses behind each ear, and cradled her in powerful arms.

After their passion had been spent, Tamiko slipped away to fill the high round wooden tub with steaming water. She dropped in a scented pellet, and with a slight bow and respectful wave of her arm, invited her Samurai to step into the refreshing bath.

He came toher and slid beneath the water.

Tamiko immersed a sponge and squeezed the warmth over taut shoulders. She scrubbed his hard body, and when he emerged refreshed, she dried him with a warm, thirsty towel. She led him back to the mat where she walked on his back to release the last vestiges of stress and knotted tendons. With delicate touch she anointed her lover with a thin veil of scented oil before covering him with a downy futon.

When the Samurai awoke, he found Tamiko seated behind a low table, her slender hands fluttering like pale canaries over utensils for the tea ceremony. She steeped the leaves with reverence, poured the tea, wiped the edge of the cup, turned it three times, and when all rituals had been performed, she presented it to him.

As he drank the fragrant liquid, Tamiko moved to her koto.She pulled the plectrums from between the strings, placed them on her fingers, and began strumming an ancient melody.

When the song ended, she arose, moved toward him and spoke, her voice the modulated purr of a contented cat. “Thank you for the ojimi you bring from faraway for me to wear in my obi with the cuddly rabbit.”

He nodded, and gathered her close in one last embrace.

With each year’s visit their commitment grew, but neither of them acknowledged it. It lay unspoken between them like a precious jewel.

She felt his reluctance at parting as clearly as she knew her own, but as the sun slid into the cauldron of evening sky, he arose, slipped into his quilted coat, and prepared to rejoin his men.

Tamiko closed dark amethyst-tinted eyes and turned away, unable to observe his departure. He paused on the porch to pull on his boots before his footsteps faded. The sound of hoof beats receded into the dusk. Her Samurai would be but a memory for another lonely year.

Throughout the day she held her emotions in check, but at night she cried, each tear a tribute to her longing for him. Tamiko prayed that her Samurai’s seed would produce a child to fill the days between his visits, but as crocus buds thrust through the snow, she acknowledged that Buddha had denied her pleadings.

When great blobs of hydrangea blossoms, blued by acid soil, crouched under dark green leaves in summer, then dried to crisp tan in the cool autumn air, Tamiko prayed for her warrior’s safe return. Finally, winter’s snow lay heavy on the earth and a full moon flexed its muscle in the dark December sky, portending the return of her Samurai.

In the snowfall of early morning, parasols bounced along the path like flour-dusted mushrooms bobbing in a cauldron of sizzling oil, but Tamiko’s was not among them. She awaited the arrival of her Samurai in her home. Perhaps this year he would divulge his name.

With the sun hidden behind gathering clouds, Samurai warriors thundered into the village. Erect on his steed, Tamiko’s beloved peeled off from the phalanx that followed in close formation. Eager for the long awaited rendezvous, he smacked his horse’s withers with the reigns and galloped past the do-se-do of umbrellas weaving along the crowded path.

Upon reaching Tamiko’s house, he reigned in his steed, dismounted, bounded up the steps, kicked off his boots, and slid the door open.

At the sight of him, Tamiko’s eyes misted with tears of joy. She murmured, “You come back.”

He ran to her, gathered her in his arms, and whispered into the soft flesh of her neck, “Even a Samurai has a heart, and you have captured mine.”

Luminous snow crystals, dancing prisms of refracted light, pirouetted beyond shuttered windows. Tamiko and her Samurai embraced, merging into one complete being.

Their passion assuaged, the warrior released her and prepared to leave. Snow fell silently in the moonlight beyond the bamboo shutters as he rode into the night.

*****************

Tamiko’s fragile beauty bleached under the suns of time. Silver strands crept through dark hair and fine lines etched the corners of her eyes, yet every year her Samurai returned. Although his hair and moustache had turned to antique pewter, time seemed to stand still between their visits. To him, Tamiko appeared as lovely as when she first shivered beneath her parasol, and he had whisked her away to his tent. The fulfillment of this visit was no less than the first, the parting no less grievous.

The following March, when snow melted and shoots of green life sprang from moist earth, Tamiko acknowledged a stirring in her belly. For so many years, she had hoped, fantasized, and prayed for the child that would unite them, now it seemed that her dream was about to come true. She cupped her hands over the beginning of new life, and thanked Buddha for blessing her with the baby she had so long dreamed of carrying.

Tamiko warmed with love for the child she nurtured, and when she fingered the jade trinket-gifts in her obi, she thought, now I will present my Samurai with an even more precious gift--the gift of life. I will give him a beloved a child who will revere his bravery, welcome him to the village in his declining years, and honor him as noble father.

To track the remaining days, Tamiko placed 153 pebbles in a lotus bowl and set it next to the mat. Each evening she withdrew one pebble from the bowl, counting the days until the birth of her precious child. The baby would be three months old when her Samurai rode back into her village, and she imagined how her child would look on that glorious day. Would he be a boy with dark flashing eyes, or a girl with eyes glazed the deep purple of violets? She decided on a boy, and envisioned his eyes filled with love for his mother and respect for the bravery of his father.

When only thirteen pebbles remained in the bowl, Tamiko experienced a gnawing pain, followed by intermittent seizures, then prolonged stabbing thrusts. She collapsed onto the mat where she writhed in the agony of childbirth.

She implored Buddha to ease her suffering, but the pain only grew more intense. When shecould stand it no more, she called out for help, but no one heard--no one came.

Tamiko surged in and out of consciousness for many hours before she felt a rush of warmth between her legs. Barely able to move, she reached to retrieve her baby, but tear-flooded eyes focused on a child who had turned blue and lifeless. Tamiko roused to revive her baby, gently breathing into his tiny mouth, lightly massaging his small chest, tenderly rubbing his delicate arms, but there was no response.

She pressed the lifeless form to her breast and sobbed silently, unwilling to accept this savage fate. Over the hours, tears falling on the mat spread into a dark stain. Eventually she fell into an exhausted, troubled slumber, her lifeless child clutched to breasts swollen with the milk of life.

Tamiko lay on the mat, enshrouded in grief, subsisting on favors granted by grudging neighbors.

That is how her Samurai found her when he returned in December. He appeared on the threshold like a phantom of her subconscious. When he leaned over her and she saw that he was real, tears escaped eyes with seamless lids. She tried to reach out to him, but her hand remained limp at her side.

Her Samurai lifted her fingers to his lips and brushed them with a gentle kiss before placing her hand over her breast. He knelt beside her and whispered, “I cherish you, my Tamiko. Please, please do not leave me.”

He remained with her long after she had breathed her last. When finally he arose, he walked to the parasol that leaned against theteakwood chest. He picked it up, opened it, and beheld the plum blossoms that he had first seen in the falling snow. The clasp gave way beneath his trembling thumb, and the umbrella sank inward against the shaft, enveloping the plum blossoms.

The flame of the candle he had placed to illuminate Tamiko’s countenance, flickered, then died. He returned to her side and stroked her slender hand, now cold and unresponsive to his touch. He nuzzled the flesh of her neck, and stroked dark hair streaked with silver.

He recalled their first encounter so many years ago; a frightened girl shivering under a parasol painted with plum blossoms. Nevermore would he hold her and lose himself in a passion he had never felt with any other.

He reflected on the days they had shared, and the exultation of their devotion. He regretted that he had not been able to offer more. Why had he withheld his name? He fell to his knees, placed his lips close to Tamiko’s ear and whispered, “My name is Hiroshi.”

Snow drifted silently to earth beyond the bamboo shutters.

Hiroshi arose, wiped his eyes, and walked to the door. He turned for one last look at the woman who had compelled him to defy convention, to betray his beliefs, to evoke contempt in the eyes of his men. He knew that given the chance, he would choose the same fate again. Neither in this life or the next would he forsake his beloved Tamiko.

He stepped out onto the porch and summoned a neighbor. He pressed gold coins into the man’s hand, and instructed him to see that Tamiko had a proper burial.
After one last glance at the humble dwelling, Hiroshi swung up onto his mount. He hesitated, head bowed, unwilling to endure the last goodbye.

The horse whinnied and scratched the earth with an impatient hoof. Hiroshi gently jangled the reins and rode slowly away from this lowly village, where his heart would forever remain with his beloved Tamiko.