The Golden Naginata Read Online Free PDF

who met at this time of year on two sides of Heaven’s River to gaze across at one another with sad love.
    Tomoe walked the quietly busy street, listening to an unseen koto harp, traditionally played for lovers. There were puppet shows and other entertainment, each attended by a crowd. In the bamboo trees were hung rectangles of paper bearing poems about and prayers for happy marriage and love affairs. Young women had hung these compositions with strips of cloth or pieces of yarn especially to honor Weaver Maid who symbolized endless longing love.
    The people wore gay colors for the occasion and went about moon-eyed and smiling. Surrounded by all this refined celebrating, Tomoe in her dark hakama and kimono was like a shadow. Her mission was an affront to the day, but it could not be helped.
    Lovely, fragile-seeming women hurried to and fro, colored ribbons trailing from their wooden clogs or geta. Their steps were short and graceful. They sometimes bowed with admiration to the fighting woman who took long strides. Others ignored her as they passed by.
    A magistrate walked slowly, looking extraordinarily pleased. He was followed by a covey of admiring girls. They were too young to interest him much; but boldness among girls was allowed during Star Festival, and the magistrate was obviously flattered to be the constant brunt of this occasion. He wore a flat metal hat and carried a jitte through his obi, between his swords. The jitte was a pronged instrument designed to catch an uncouth fencer’s blow and, with a skilled twist, break the blade. It was also the mantle of the man’s position. Tomoe approached this small group looking far too fierce for a woman during Tana-bata. The young girls backed away. The magistrate withdrew his jitte and looked officious with this badge. He asked,
    â€œThere is trouble, bushi ?” He called her “knight.” She composed her expression so that she looked more pleasant, not having intended to alarm him.
    â€œI’ve need of an address,” she said amiably. “The family of the Imperial Swordsmith’s wife is said to live in Isso.”
    â€œAh!” He looked relieved and pointed toward a certain street with his jitte. He described the house she would see. Thanking him, she bowed, and hurried on her way, arousing no more of his suspicions.
    The house was modest but the garden was rich. As Tomoe walked along the garden path, she was disturbed by the quietude. There were no poems hanging in the bamboos of this garden. There were no offerings to Herdsman and Weaver Maid sitting on a table. There was no incense and no music. Tomoe sensed that she was about to discover a disaster. The fifty assassins had raced faster after all.
    An old woman and an old man lay together in one of the rooms, pierced by the same sword-thrust while they made love. They must have been Okio’s in-laws. Their futon cover was soaked with blood. Their faces were close to one another. By their expressions, it seemed they died at a moment of final ecstacy.
    In the next room were the children and Okio’s wife, scattered about in pools of blood, their faces frozen with terror. Tomoe dropped to her knees amidst this gore and silently reproached herself. She withdrew the longsword and sheath from her obi and set it on the floor in front of her and spoke to it:
    â€œI will not fail you, Okio! I will find the ten men you named for me. Before I kill them, perhaps I can force some of the names of the other forty from their lips.” She bowed to the sword until her forehead touched the tatami mat. She felt the floor vibrating with a footstep. She instantly grabbed the sword’s handle and came to her feet, leaving the sheath on the tatami.
    A young samurai stood in the hallway by the door. His forehead was neatly shaven; his motodori or queue of hair was pressed flat along the top and center of the shaved area. His face was pretty, but his expression was