The Golden Naginata by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

another again. Ich ’yama said, “We should accept Shuzo’s declaration, Tomoe! We are evenly matched!”
    She said, “I could kill you any time.”
    Ich ’yama was indignant. “How can you say so? Admit I fight as well as you!”
    â€œI have tested out your weak spots,” said Tomoe. “I know how to land a cut. If this were true steel, I could kill you right now.”
    â€œYou are too boastful!” said Ich ’yama. “I will not consider Prince Tahara’s decision any longer!”
    Tomoe’s teeth shined in the darkness. It was a smile. She said, “Good,” then moved forward.
    She waited for his attack. Instead of blocking, she placed her wooden sword against his neck, hard enough to surprise him but not hard enough to bruise.
    â€œI’ve killed you,” said Tomoe.
    Ich ’yama’s boken was held firmly against the side of Tomoe’s ribs. A real sword would have continued to her breast bone and exposed her heart.
    Prince Tahara said, “Tomoe has won the match.”
    Ich ’yama jerked around furiously and faced Shuzo. “It was a draw! We killed each other at the same instant!”
    â€œVictory for a samurai is more than coming away alive,” said Shuzo Tahara. “Tomoe was more prepared to die. That is how she won.”
    The ronin’s face was hot with anger. He threw the scarred and dented boken on the ground and said, “I accept defeat!” As he stomped into the house to find a place to sleep, bonze Shindo came out into the yard. He had been listening out of curiosity, though by his own oath he was not allowed to watch.
    â€œA good night for moon gazing!” said Shindo, his positive disposition regained. But nobody listened, nor looked into the sky.
    The samurai was disappointed in her behavior. She’d won the bout with the ronin, but not with herself. It was unlike her to be temperamental, to insist on a fight when one was unnecessary. Now that her anger was assuaged, her guilt was heightened. When the broad-shouldered Hidemi and child-faced Prince Shuzo suggested turning in for the night, Tomoe decided on the monk’s occupation instead: moon-gazing. Shindo sat on smooth moss near a large, artificially made pond in the middle of the gardens. The rising moon reflected in the pond.
    â€œWould I interrupt your meditation,” asked Tomoe, “if I sat beside you?”
    Shindo showed her his homely, pleasant face, round as the moon. He smiled welcome. They sat together. Tomoe said,
    â€œYou are a novice of the yamahoshi ? I’ve met mountain men before. They’re usually less pleasant that you.”
    The bonze was unoffended. “As you are different from many women of samurai caste, so am I different from many of my sect.”
    Tomoe’s awkward attempt to start a conversation ended there. They were silent for a long while, listening to the night birds and insects. A frog swam through the moon’s reflection, carving a transitory wedge. After a while, Shindo said,
    â€œIt’s odd that no one spied a single man of the fifty today. I suspect they repaired to a shrine or hot springs to purify themselves after they completed their unholy commission. If that is true, they will be cleansed by now. They’ll return to Isso tomorrow and celebrate the last day of Star Festival with abandon. We must arrange the revenge-taking in darkness, so that Okio’s ghost can come up from the Land of Gloom and watch us.”
    Tomoe did not respond. Her thoughts were elsewhere. The bonze recognized her trouble. “Don’t treat yourself so harshly,” he said. “The fight with the ronin is done, and great harm was avoided.”
    â€œI try to make myself a little better every day,” said Tomoe. “How could I let a mere ronin ruffle my disposition?”
    Bonze Shindo grinned and looked another way.
    â€œYou think it’s funny?” asked Tomoe.
    â€œI