Musashi: Bushido Code (84 page)

"Now go away from here, Miyamoto Musashi! As fast as you can! Mount Hiei rejects you!"

Their anger spent, the priests marched off in a body.

Though he'd borne this last torrent of abuse silently, it wasn't because he had no answer to their charges. "Whatever they say, I was right," he thought. "I did the only thing I could to protect my convictions, which are not mistaken."

He honestly believed in the validity of his principles and in the necessity of upholding them. Once the Yoshiokas had set Genjirō up as their standard-bearer, there had been no alternative to killing him. He was their general. So long as he lived, the Yoshioka School would remain undefeated. Musashi could have killed ten, twenty or thirty men, but unless Genjirō died, the survivors would always claim victory. Killing the boy first made Musashi the victor, even if he'd later been killed in the fighting.

By the laws of swordsmanship, there was no flaw in this logic. And to Musashi those laws were absolute.

Nevertheless, the memory of Genjirō disturbed him profoundly, giving rise to doubt, grief and pain. The cruelty of his act was repellent, even to himself.

"Should I throw away my sword and live like an ordinary man?" he asked himself, not for the first time. In the clear, early evening sky, the white petals of the cherry blossoms fell randomly, like flakes of snow, leaving the trees looking as vulnerable as he now felt, vulnerable to doubts about whether he should not change his way of life. "If I give up the sword, I could live with Otsū," he thought. But then he remembered the easygoing lives of the Kyoto townspeople and the world inhabited by Kōetsu and Shōyū.

"That's not for me," he said decisively.

He went through the gate and entered his room. Seated by the lamp, he took up his half-finished work and began carving rapidly. It was vitally important to finish the statue. Whether the craftsmanship was expert or not, he wanted desperately to leave something here to comfort the spirit of the departed Genjirō.

The lamp dimmed; he trimmed the wick. In the dead stillness of evening, the sound of tiny chips falling on the tatami was audible. His concentration was total, his whole being focused with perfect intensity on the point of contact with the wood. Once he had set himself a task, it was his nature to lose himself in it until it was completed, unmindful of boredom or fatigue.

The tones of the sutra rose and fell.

After each trimming of the wick, he resumed his work with an air of devotion and reverence, like the ancient sculptors who were said to have bowed three times to the Buddha before picking up their chisels to carve an image. His own statue of Kannon would be like a prayer for Genjirō's happiness in the next life and, in a sense, a humble apology to his own soul.

Finally, he mumbled, "I guess this will do." As he straightened up and examined the statue, the bell in the eastern pagoda sounded the second watch of the night, which began at ten o'clock. "It's getting late," he thought, and left immediately to pay his respects to the head priest and ask him to take custody of the statue. The image was roughly carved, but he had put his soul into it, weeping tears of repentance as he prayed for the dead boy's spirit.

No sooner was he out of the room than Seinen came in to sweep the floor. When the room was again tidy, he laid out Musashi's pallet and, broom over shoulder, sauntered back to the kitchen. Unknown to Musashi, while he was still carving, a catlike figure had crept into the Mudōji, through doors that were never locked, and onto the veranda. After Seinen was out of sight, the shoji onto the veranda slid silently open and just as silently shut.

Musashi returned with his going-away presents, a basket hat and a pair of straw sandals. Placing them beside his pillow, he extinguished the lamp and crawled into bed. The outer doors were open and a breeze blew softly through the corridors. There was just enough moonlight to give the white paper of the shoji a dull gray hue. Tree shadows swayed gently, like waves on a calm, open sea.

He snored softly, breathing more slowly as he sank deeper into sleep. Silently, the edge of a small screen in the corner shifted forward, and a dark figure crawled stealthily out on hands and knees. The snoring halted, and the black form quickly spread itself flat on the floor. Then, as the breathing steadied, the intruder advanced inch by inch, patiently, cautiously, coordinating his movements with the rhythmical breathing.

All at once, the shadow rose like a cloud of black floss and descended on Musashi, crying, "Now I'll teach you!" A short sword swept toward Musashi's neck. But the weapon clattered to one side as the black form flew back through the air and landed with a crash against the shoji. The invader emitted one loud wail before tumbling, along with the shoji, into the darkness outside.

At the instant Musashi made his throw, it crossed his mind that the person in his hands was as light as a kitten. Though the face had been swathed in cloth, he thought he had caught a glimpse se of white hair. Without pausing to analyze these impressions, he grabbed his sword and ran out onto the veranda.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Since you've gone to the trouble of coming here, give me a chance to greet you properly!" Leaping to the ground, he ran swiftly toward the sound of retreating footsteps. But his heart was not in it. After a few seconds, he stopped and watched laughingly as some priests disappeared into the darkness.

Osugi, after her bone-jarring landing, lay on the ground groaning with pain.

"Why, Granny, it's you!" he exclaimed, surprised that his attacker was neither a Yoshioka man nor one of the irate priests. He put his arm around her to help her up.

"Now I begin to understand," he said. "You're the one who told the priests a lot of bad things about me, aren't you? And since the story came from a courageous, upright old lady, they believed every word of it, I suppose."

"Oh, my back hurts!" Osugi neither confirmed nor denied his accusation. She squirmed a bit but lacked the strength to put up much resistance. Feebly she said, "Musashi, since it's come to this, it's no use worrying about right and wrong. The House of Hon'iden has been unlucky in war, so just cut off my head now."

It seemed unlikely to Musashi that she was merely being dramatic. Hers sounded like the honest words of a woman who had gone as far as she could and wanted to put an end to it.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, refusing to take her seriously. "Where does it hurt? You can stay here tonight, so there's nothing to worry about." He lifted her in his arms, carried her inside and laid her on his pallet. Sitting by her side, he nursed her through the night.

When the sky lightened, Seinen brought the lunch box Musashi had requested, along with a message from the head priest, who, while apologizing for being rude, urged Musashi to be on his way as quickly as possible.

Musashi sent word explaining that he now had an ailing old woman on his hands. The priest, not wanting Osugi at the temple, offered a suggestion. It seemed that a merchant from the town of Ōtsu had come to the temple with a cow and left the animal in the head priest's care while he went off on a side trip. The priest offered Musashi the use of the animal, saying that Musashi could let the woman ride it down the mountain. In Ōtsu, the cow could be left at the wharf or at one of the wholesale houses in the vicinity.

Musashi accepted the offer gratefully.

A Drink of Milk

The road descending along a ridge from Mount Hiei came out in Ōmi Province, at a point just beyond the Miidera.

Musashi was leading the cow by a rope. Looking over his shoulder, he said gently, "If you want, we can stop and rest. It's not as though either of us is in a hurry." But at least, he thought, they were on their way. Osugi, unused to cows, had at first flatly refused to get on the animal. It had taken all his ingenuity to persuade her, the argument that worked being that she could not remain indefinitely in a priestly bastion of celibacy.

Face down on the cow's neck, Osugi groaned painfully and readjusted herself. At every sign of solicitude on Musashi's part, she reminded herself of her hatred, silently conveying her contempt at being cared for by her mortal enemy.

Though he was well aware that she lived for no other reason than to take revenge on him, he found himself unable to regard her as a genuine foe. No one, not even enemies much stronger than she was, had ever caused him so much trouble or embarrassment. Her trickery had brought him to the brink of disaster in his own village; because of her he had been jeered and reviled at Kiyomizudera; time and again she had tripped him up and thwarted his plans. There had been times, such as the previous night, when he had cursed her and very nearly given in to the urge to slice her in two.

Still, he could not bring himself to lay a hand on her, especially now, when she was ailing and bereft of her customary verve. Oddly, the inactivity of her vicious tongue depressed him, and he longed to see her restored to health, even if this meant more trouble for him.

"Riding that way must be pretty uncomfortable," he said. "Try to bear up a little longer. When we get to Ōtsu, I'll think of something."

The view to the northeast was magnificent. Lake Biwa was spread out placidly below them, Mount Ibuki was just beyond, and the peaks of Echizen rose in the distance. On the near side of the lake, Musashi could make out each of the famous Eight Views of Karasaki in the village of Seta.

"Let's stop for a while," he said. "You'll feel better if you get off and lie down for a few minutes." Tying the animal to a tree, he put his arms around her and lifted her down.

Face down on the ground, Osugi pushed his hands away and let out a groan. Her face was feverishly hot and her hair was a mess.

"Don't you want some water?" Musashi asked, not for the first time, rubbing her on the back. "You should eat something too." She shook her head stubbornly. "You haven't drunk a drop of water since last night," he said pleadingly. "If you keep this up, you'll just make yourself worse. I'd like to get some medicine for you, but there aren't any houses around here. Look, why don't you eat half of my lunch?"

"How disgusting!"

"Huh?"

"I'd rather die in some field and get eaten by the birds. I'd never sink so low as to accept food from an enemy!" She shook his hand off her back and clutched at the grass.

Wondering if she would ever get over her basic misunderstanding, he treated her as tenderly as he would his own mother, patiently trying to soothe her each time she lashed out at him.

"Now, Granny, you know you don't want to die. You've got to live. Don't you want to see Matahachi make something of himself?"

She bared her teeth and snarled, "What's that got to do with you? Matahachi'll get ahead one of these days without your help, thank you."

"I'm sure he will. But you must get well so that you yourself can encourage him.

"You hypocrite!" the old woman screamed. "You're wasting your time if you think you can flatter me into forgetting how much I hate you."

Realizing that anything he said would be taken the wrong way, Musashi stood up and walked away. He chose a spot behind a rock and began eating his lunch of rice balls stuffed with a dark, sweetish bean paste and individually wrapped in oak leaves. Half of them he left uneaten.

Hearing voices, he looked around the rock and saw a country woman talking with Osugi. She was dressed in the
hakama
worn by the women of Ohara, and her hair hung down around her shoulders. In stentorian tones, she was saying, "I've got this sick person at my place. She's better now, but she'd recover even quicker if I could give her some milk. May I milk the cow?"

Osugi lifted her face and looked at the woman inquiringly. "We don't have many cows where I come from. Can you actually get milk from her?"

The two exchanged a few more words as the woman squatted down and began squirting milk into a sake jar. When it was full, she stood up, clutching it tightly in her arms, and said, "Thanks. I'll be going now."

"Wait!" cried Osugi in a raspy voice. She stretched out her arms and glanced around to make sure Musashi was not watching. "Give me some milk first. Just a sip or two will be enough."

The woman watched, astonished, as Osugi put the jar to her lips, closed her eyes and gulped greedily, dribbling milk down her chin.

When she was through, Osugi shuddered, then grimaced as though she might vomit. "What a nasty taste!" she whined. "But maybe it'll make me better. It's awful, though; viler than medicine."

"Is something the matter? Are you sick?"

"Nothing serious. Cold and a little fever." She stood up briskly, as though all her ailments had dropped away, and after again reassuring herself that Musashi wasn't looking, drew closer to the woman and asked in a low voice, "If I go straight down this road, where will it take me?"

"Just above the Miidera."

"That's in Ōtsu, isn't it? Is there a back way I could take?"

"Well, yes, but where do you want to go?"

"I don't care. I just want to get away from that villain!"

"About eight or nine hundred yards down this road, there's a path going off to the north. If you keep on that, you'll end up between Sakamoto and Ōtsu."

"If you meet a man looking for me," Osugi said furtively, "don't tell him you saw me." She bumbled off, like a lame praying mantis in a hurry, brushing clumsily past the woman.

Musashi chuckled and came out from behind his rock. "I suppose you live around here," he said amicably. "Your husband, he's a farmer, woodcutter, something like that?"

The woman cowered, but answered, "Oh, no. I'm from the inn at the top of
¹
the pass."

"So much the better. If I gave you some money, would you run an errand for me?"

"I'd be glad to, but you see, there's this sick person at the inn."

"I could take the milk back for you and wait for you there. How would that be? If you go now, you should be back before dark."

"In that case, I guess I could go, but—"

"Nothing to worry about! I'm not the villain the old woman said I am. I was only trying to help her. If she can get about on her own, there's no reason for me to worry about her. Now I'll just write a note. I want you to take it to the house of Lord Karasumaru Mitsuhiro. That's in the north part of the city."

With the brush from his writing kit, he quickly scribbled the words he had been longing to write to Otsū during his recuperation at the Mudōji. Having entrusted his letter to the woman, he mounted the cow and lumbered off, repeating the words he had written and speculating on how Otsū would feel when she read them. "And I thought I'd never see her again," he mumbled, suddenly coming to life.

"Considering how weak she was," he mused, "she may be sick in bed again. But when she receives my letter, she'll get up and come as fast as she can. Jōtarō too."

He allowed the cow to proceed at her own pace, stopping from time to time to let her nibble grass. His letter to Otsū was simple, but he was rather pleased with it: "At Hanada Bridge, it was you who waited. This time, let it be me. I've gone on ahead. I'll wait for you in Ōtsu, at Kara Bridge in the village of Seta. When we're together again, we'll talk of many things." He had tried to give the matter-of-fact message a poetic cast. He recited it again to himself, pondering the "many things" they had to discuss.

When he reached the inn, he got off the cow and, holding the jar of milk in both hands, called, "Anybody here?"

As was usual in roadside establishments of this sort, there was an open area under the front eaves for travelers who stopped to have tea or a light meal. Inside was a tea room, a section of which formed the kitchen. Rooms for guests were in the rear. An old woman was putting wood into an earthen oven, on top of which was a wooden steamer.

As he took a seat on a bench out front, she came and poured him a cup of lukewarm tea. He then explained himself and handed her the jar.

"What's this?" she asked, eyeing him dubiously.

Thinking that perhaps she was deaf, he slowly repeated what he had said.

"Milk, you say? Milk? What for?" Still puzzled, she turned toward the interior and called, "Sir, can you come out here a minute? I don't know what this is all about."

"What?" A man ambled around the corner of the inn and asked, "What's the trouble, ma'am?"

She thrust the jar into his hands, but he neither looked at it nor heard what she was saying. His eyes were glued on Musashi, his face a study in disbelief. Musashi, equally astounded, cried, "Matahachi!"

"Takezō!"

The two rushed at each other, stopping just before they collided. When Musashi held out his arms, Matahachi did the same thing, letting go of the jar. "How many years?"

"Not since Sekigahara."

"That makes it ... "

"Five years. It must be. I'm twenty-two now."

As they hugged each other, the sweet odor of the milk from the broken jar enveloped them, evoking the time when they had both been babes in arms.

"You've become very famous, Takezō. But I guess I shouldn't be calling you Takezō. I'll call you Musashi, like everyone else. I've heard many stories about your success at the spreading pine—and about some things you did before that too."

"Don't embarrass me. I'm still an amateur. But the world's full of people who don't seem to be as good as I am. Say, are you staying here?"

"Yes, I've been here about ten days. I left Kyoto with the idea of going to Edo, but something came up."

"I'm told somebody's sick. Oh, well, can't do anything about it now, but that's why I brought the milk."

"Sick? Oh, yeah ... my traveling companion."

"That's too bad. Anyway, it's good to see you. The last I heard from you was the letter Jōtarō brought when I was on my way to Nara."

Matahachi hung his head, hoping Musashi wouldn't mention the boastful predictions he'd made at the time.

Musashi put his hand on Matahachi's shoulder, thinking how good it was to see him again and how he'd like to have a good long talk.

"Who's traveling with you?" he asked innocently.

"Oh, it's nobody, nobody you'd be interested in. It's just—"

"It doesn't matter. Let's go somewhere where we can talk."

As they walked away from the inn, Musashi asked, "What are you doing for a living?"

"Work, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I don't have any special talents or skills, so it's hard to get a position with a daimyō. I guess I can't say I do anything in particular."

"You mean you've been loafing all these years?" asked Musashi, vaguely suspecting the truth.

"Stop it. Saying things like that brings back all sorts of unpleasant memories." His mind seemed to drift back to those days in the shadow of Mount Ibuki. "Where I made my great mistake was in taking up with Okō."

"Let's sit down," said Musashi, crossing his legs and dropping to the grass. He felt a twinge of exasperation. Why did Matahachi persist in considering himself inferior? And why did he attribute his troubles to others? "You blame everything on Okō," he said firmly, "but is that any way for a full-grown man to talk? Nobody can create a worthwhile life for you but you yourself."

"I admit I was wrong, but ... how can I put it? I just don't seem able to alter n y fate."

"In times like these, you'll never get anywhere thinking that way. Go to Edo if you want, but when you get there, you're going to find people from all over the country, everyone hungry for money and position. You won't make a name for yourself just doing what the next man does. You'll have to distinguish yourself in some way."

"I should have taken up swordsmanship when I was young."

"Now that you mention it, I wonder if you're cut out to be a swordsman. Anyway, you're just starting out. Maybe you should think of becoming a scholar. I suspect that'd be the best way for you to find a position with a daimyō."

"Don't worry. I'll do something." Matahachi broke off a blade of grass and put it between his teeth. His shame weighed him down. It was mortifying to realize what five years of idleness had done. He'd been able to brush off stories he'd heard about Musashi with comparative ease; confronting him in the flesh like this drove home the contrast between them. In Musashi's overpowering presence, Matahachi had trouble remembering they had once been the best of friends. Even the man's dignity was somehow oppressive. Neither envy nor his competitive urge could save him from the painful awareness of his own inadequacy.

"Cheer up!" said Musashi. But even as he slapped Matahachi on the shoulder, he sensed the man's weakness. "What's done is done. Forget about the past," he urged. "If you killed five years, so what? All it means is you're starting out five years later. Those five years may in their own way hold a valuable lesson."

"They were lousy."

"Oh, I forgot! I just left your mother a little while ago."

"You saw my mother?"

"Yes. I must say, I can't understand why you weren't born with more of her strength and tenacity." Nor, he thought to himself, could he understand why Osugi had a son like this, so shiftless and full of self-pity. He felt like shaking him and reminding him how lucky he was to have a mother at all. Staring at Matahachi, he asked himself how Osugi's wrath could be assuaged. The answer came immediately: if Matahachi would only make something of himself . . .