Free The Heike Story by Eiji Yoshikawa
Authors: Eiji Yoshikawa
applause shook the air. A flourish of drums rolled at the goal post, where a crimson flag waved to signal that the Palace horses had won the day. A chorus of voices burst into a victory song, which rose and swelled around the ex-Emperor's pavilion.
Wataru muttered a few words and left. Kiyomori also turned to go. He pushed his way through the crowds in the direction of the main stand. Yasuko's eyes, like an angler's line, seemed to draw him in closer and closer to her. As he drew near her, her eyes asked: "And did you come, after all?"
Kiyomori, making his way toward his mother, felt only hatred for her. All his hate and rage were in the look that he gave her as he approached the pavilion where she sat. As he became conscious of the many women around him, he suddenly felt awkward and shy, and waves of red dyed his cheeks and large ears.
"You amusing child!" Yasuko laughed as she studied her son's discomfiture. "What makes you so shy? Am I not after all your mother? Come here to me."
In her voice were all those accents of love which only a mother knows how to employ. But it was not his mother who had caused him to blush. To him she was not a woman, but the embodiment of beauty—a beauty that he hated and yet prized above everything. With a sensation of hurling himself over an invisible barrier, Kiyomori came close to her. It was neither strange nor unnatural to be close beside her like this, he thought, but his glance wandered vaguely as if seeking refuge from the eyes turned on him.
Yasuko observed his uneasiness and quickly concluded that Ruriko was the cause of his discomfiture. She stole a side look at one and then at the other and, turning to Ruriko, whispered: "This is my son, Heita Kiyomori, of whom I spoke one day."
To Kiyomori she then said: "When you were three or four years old, you visited the Nakamikado with whom Ruriko is now staying."
In spite of Yasuko's efforts to put him at his ease, Kiyomori remained silent. His pounding heart made him flush more deeply. Ruriko saw this and turned crimson. Her eyelids fluttered and drooped as though she faced a glare, and an audible sigh escaped from her lips.
Kiyomori felt a familiar, nauseating sensation come over him as he stood beside his mother. (Beautiful and deceitful, that she was!) He felt impelled to question her once more. Was he the son of an emperor or of a debauched priest? Who was his real father? An insupportable grief over her unchasteness seemed to goad him to seek an answer. To him she now seemed more sullied than all the common whores and courtesans in the capital.
In a period of grossly unrestrained relations between the sexes, Kiyomori realized that he expected of his mother a chastity that he had no reason to demand. Yet as her child, her son, he had wanted to believe that she was the purest of women, the noblest, the archetype of love itself. From those infant years when he had nursed at her breast, he had gazed up at this ideal—his mother; throughout his boyhood, the figure had not changed, until with Morito's revelation she was transformed into a soiled lump of flesh. Utterly revolted, Kiyomori felt her uncleanness to be also his; until that time he had been happy in the thought that the blood of Tadamori of the Heike and a chaste mother ran in his veins, but now he felt only a self-loathing.
On that night when he met Morito and was told of his mother's past, Kiyomori in rage and despair cast his youth and innocence to a whore. The contempt for his mother was that which he now felt for himself. He loathed his own flesh and his blood; the only thing that held him back from a course of lust and dissipation was Tadamori, this man who was not his real father, the Squint-Eyed One whose great love and forbearance he could not bring himself to spurn. Tadamori's love alone made Kiyomori vow that he would be a worthy son and keep watch over his unruly passions.
The sight of his mother was enough to
Wataru muttered a few words and left. Kiyomori also turned to go. He pushed his way through the crowds in the direction of the main stand. Yasuko's eyes, like an angler's line, seemed to draw him in closer and closer to her. As he drew near her, her eyes asked: "And did you come, after all?"
Kiyomori, making his way toward his mother, felt only hatred for her. All his hate and rage were in the look that he gave her as he approached the pavilion where she sat. As he became conscious of the many women around him, he suddenly felt awkward and shy, and waves of red dyed his cheeks and large ears.
"You amusing child!" Yasuko laughed as she studied her son's discomfiture. "What makes you so shy? Am I not after all your mother? Come here to me."
In her voice were all those accents of love which only a mother knows how to employ. But it was not his mother who had caused him to blush. To him she was not a woman, but the embodiment of beauty—a beauty that he hated and yet prized above everything. With a sensation of hurling himself over an invisible barrier, Kiyomori came close to her. It was neither strange nor unnatural to be close beside her like this, he thought, but his glance wandered vaguely as if seeking refuge from the eyes turned on him.
Yasuko observed his uneasiness and quickly concluded that Ruriko was the cause of his discomfiture. She stole a side look at one and then at the other and, turning to Ruriko, whispered: "This is my son, Heita Kiyomori, of whom I spoke one day."
To Kiyomori she then said: "When you were three or four years old, you visited the Nakamikado with whom Ruriko is now staying."
In spite of Yasuko's efforts to put him at his ease, Kiyomori remained silent. His pounding heart made him flush more deeply. Ruriko saw this and turned crimson. Her eyelids fluttered and drooped as though she faced a glare, and an audible sigh escaped from her lips.
Kiyomori felt a familiar, nauseating sensation come over him as he stood beside his mother. (Beautiful and deceitful, that she was!) He felt impelled to question her once more. Was he the son of an emperor or of a debauched priest? Who was his real father? An insupportable grief over her unchasteness seemed to goad him to seek an answer. To him she now seemed more sullied than all the common whores and courtesans in the capital.
In a period of grossly unrestrained relations between the sexes, Kiyomori realized that he expected of his mother a chastity that he had no reason to demand. Yet as her child, her son, he had wanted to believe that she was the purest of women, the noblest, the archetype of love itself. From those infant years when he had nursed at her breast, he had gazed up at this ideal—his mother; throughout his boyhood, the figure had not changed, until with Morito's revelation she was transformed into a soiled lump of flesh. Utterly revolted, Kiyomori felt her uncleanness to be also his; until that time he had been happy in the thought that the blood of Tadamori of the Heike and a chaste mother ran in his veins, but now he felt only a self-loathing.
On that night when he met Morito and was told of his mother's past, Kiyomori in rage and despair cast his youth and innocence to a whore. The contempt for his mother was that which he now felt for himself. He loathed his own flesh and his blood; the only thing that held him back from a course of lust and dissipation was Tadamori, this man who was not his real father, the Squint-Eyed One whose great love and forbearance he could not bring himself to spurn. Tadamori's love alone made Kiyomori vow that he would be a worthy son and keep watch over his unruly passions.
The sight of his mother was enough to