Musashi: Bushido Code (102 page)

Again, Iori's weather sense was accurate. The sudden downpour, driven by a raging, gusty wind, that sent Musashi scurrying for shelter developed its own distinctive rhythms. The rain fell in unbelievable quantity for a time, stopped suddenly, then recommenced with even greater fury. Night came, but the storm continued unabated. It began to seem as though the heavens were set on making the entire earth into an ocean. Several times Musashi feared that the wind would rip off the roof; the floor was already littered with shingles torn off its underside.

Morning came, gray and formless and with no sign of Iori. Musashi stood by the window, and his heart sank: he could do nothing. Here and there a tree or a clump of grass was visible; all else was a vast muddy swamp. Luckily, the cabin was still above water level, but in what had been a dry riverbed immediately below it, there was now a rushing torrent, carrying along everything in its path.

Not knowing for sure that Iori hadn't fallen into the water and drowned, Musashi felt time drag on, until finally he thought he heard Iori's voice calling,
"Sensei!
Here!" He was some distance beyond the river, riding a bullock, with a great bundle tied behind him.

Musashi watched in consternation as Iori rode straight into the muddy flow, which seemed about to suck him under at every step.

When he gained the other bank, he was quaking from the cold and wet, but he calmly guided the bullock to the side of the cabin.

"Where have you been?" demanded Musashi, his voice both angry and relieved.

"To the village, of course. I brought back lots of food. It'll rain half a year's worth before this storm's over, and when it is, we'll be trapped by the floodwaters."

After they had taken the straw bundle inside, Iori untied it and removed the items one by one from the inner wrapping of oiled paper. "Here are some chestnuts ... lentil beans ... salted fish.... We shouldn't run out of food even if it takes a month or two for the water to go down."

Musashi's eyes misted over with gratitude, but he said nothing. He was too abashed at his own lack of common sense. How could he guide humanity if he was careless about his own survival? Were it not for Iori, he would now be facing starvation. And the boy, having been raised in a remote rural area, must have known about laying in supplies since he was two years old.

It struck Musashi as odd that the villagers had agreed to furnish all this food. They couldn't have had very much for themselves. When he recovered his voice and raised the question, Iori replied, "I left my money pouch in hock and borrowed from the Tokuganji."

"And what's the Tokuganji?"

"It's the temple about two miles from here. My father told me there was some powdered gold in the pouch. He said if I got into difficulty, I should use it a little at a time. Yesterday, when the weather turned bad, I remembered what he said." Iori wore a smile of triumph.

"Isn't the pouch a keepsake from your father?"

"Yes. Now that we've burned the old house down, that and the sword are the only things left." He rubbed the hilt of the short weapon in his obi. Though the tang bore no craftsman's signature, Musashi had noted when he'd examined the blade earlier that it was of excellent quality. He also had the feeling that the inherited pouch had some significance beyond that of the powdered gold it contained.

"You shouldn't hand keepsakes over to other people. One of these days, I'll get it back for you, but after that you must promise not to let go of it."

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you spend the night?"

"The priest told me I'd better wait there till morning."

"Have you eaten?"

"No. You haven't either, have you?"

"No, but there's no firewood, is there?"

"Oh, there's plenty." He pointed downward, indicating the space under the cabin, where he'd stored a good supply of sticks and roots and bamboo picked up while he worked in the fields.

Holding a piece of straw matting over his head, Musashi crawled under the cabin and again marveled at the boy's good sense. In an environment like this, survival depended on foresight and a small mistake could spell the difference between life and death.

When they had finished eating, Iori brought out a book. Then, kneeling formally before his teacher, he said, "While we're waiting for the water to go down so we can work, would you teach me some reading and writing?"

Musashi agreed. On such a dismal stormy day, it was a good way to pass the time. The book was a volume of the
Analects of Confucius.
Iori said it had been giyen to him at the temple.

"Do you really want to study?"

"Yes."

"Have you done much reading?"

"No; only a little."

"Who taught you?"

"My father."

"What have you read?"

"The Lesser Learning."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, very much," he said eagerly, his eyes brightening.

"All right then. I'll teach you all I know. Later on, you can find somebody better educated to teach you what I don't know."

They devoted the rest of the day to a study session, the boy reading aloud, Musashi stopping him to correct him or explain words he did not understand. They sat in utter concentration, oblivious of the storm.

The deluge lasted two more days, by which time there was no land visible anywhere.

On the following day, it was still raining. Iori, delighted, took out the book again and said, "Shall we begin?"

"Not today. You’ve had enough of reading for a while."

"Why?"

"If you do nothing but read, you'll lose sight of the reality around you. Why don't you take the day off and play? I'm going to relax too."

"But I can't go outside."

"Then just do like me," said Musashi, sprawling on his back and crossing his arms under his head.

"Do I have to lie down?"

"Do what you want. Lie down, stand up, sit—whatever's comfortable."

"Then what?"

"I'll tell you a story."

"I'd like that," said Iori, flopping down on his stomach and wiggling his legs in the air. "What kind of story?"

"Let me see," said Musashi, going over the tales he had liked to hear as a child. He chose the one about the battles between the Genji and the Heike. All boys loved that.

Iori proved to be no exception. When Musashi came to the part about the Genji being defeated and the Heike taking over the country, the boy's face became gloomy. He had to blink to keep from crying over Lady Tokiwa's sad fate. But his spirits rose as he heard about Minamoto no Yoshitsune learning swordsmanship from the "long-nosed goblins" on Mount Kurama and later making his escape from Kyoto.

"I like Yoshitsune," he said, sitting up. "Are there really goblins on Mount Kurama?"

"Maybe. Anyway, there're people in this world who might as well be goblins. But the ones who taught Yoshitsune weren't real goblins."

"What were they?"

"Loyal vassals of the defeated Genji. They couldn't come out in the open while the Heike were in power, so they stayed hidden in the mountains until their chance came."

"Like my grandfather?"

"Yes, except he waited all his life, and his chance never came. After Yoshitsune grew up, the faithful Genji followers who had looked after him during his childhood got the opportunity they had prayed for."

"I'll have a chance to make up for my grandfather, won't I?"

"Hmm. I think it's possible. Yes, I really think so."

He pulled Iori to him, lifted him up and balanced him on his hands and feet like a ball. "Now try being a great man!" He laughed.

Iori giggled, and stammered, "You ... you're a gob-goblin too! Stop ... it. I'll fa-fall." He reached down and pinched Musashi's nose.

On the eleventh day, it finally stopped raining. Musashi chafed to be out in the open, but it was another week before they were able to return to work under a bright sun. The field they had so arduously carved out of the wilderness had disappeared without a trace; in its place were rocks, and a river where none had been before. The water seemed to mock them just as the villagers had.

Iori, seeing no way to reclaim their loss, looked up and said, "This place is beyond hope. Let's look for better land somewhere else."

"No," Musashi said firmly. "With the water drained off, this would make excellent farmland. I examined the location from every angle before I chose it."

"What if we have another heavy rain?"

"We'll fix it so the water doesn't come this way. We'll lay a dam from here all the way to that hill over there."

"That's an awful lot of work."

"You seem to forget that this is our dōjō. I'm not giving up a foot of this land until I see barley growing on it."

Musashi carried on his stubborn struggle throughout the winter, into the second month of the new year. It took several weeks of strenuous labor to dig ditches, drain the water off, pile dirt for a dike and then cover it with heavy rocks.

Three weeks later everything was again washed away.

"Look," Iori said, "we're wasting our energy on something impossible. Is that the Way of the Sword?" The question struck close to the bone, but Musashi would not give in.

Only a month passed before the next disaster, a heavy snowfall followed by a quick thaw. Iori, on his return from trips to the temple for food, inevitably wore a long face, for the people there rode him mercilessly about Musashi's failure. And finally Musashi himself began to lose heart.

For two full days and on into a third, he sat silently brooding and staring at his field.

Then it dawned on him suddenly. Unconsciously, he had been trying to create a neat, square field like those common in other parts of the Kanto Plain, but this was not what the terrain called for. Here, despite the general flatness, there were slight variations in the lay of the land and the quality of the soil that argued for an irregular shape.

"What a fool I've been," he exclaimed aloud. "I tried to make the water flow where I thought it should and force the dirt to stay where I thought it ought to be. But it didn't work. How could it? Water's water, dirt's dirt. I can't change their nature. What I've got to do is learn to be a servant to the water and a protector of the land."

In his own way, he had submitted to the attitude of the peasants. On that day he became nature's manservant. He ceased trying to impose his will on nature and let nature lead the way, while at the same time seeking out possibilities beyond the grasp of other inhabitants of the plain.

The snow came again, and another thaw; the muddy water oozed slowly over the plain. But Musashi had had time to work out his new approach, and his field remained intact.

"The same rules must apply to governing people," he said to himself. In his notebook, he wrote: "Do not attempt to oppose the way of the universe. But first make sure you know the way of the universe."

Mountain Devils

"Let me make myself clear. I don't want you to go to any trouble on my account. Your hospitality, which I appreciate greatly, is quite sufficient."

"Yes, sir. That's very considerate of you, sir," replied the priest.

"I'd just like to relax. That's all."

"By all means."

"Now
I hope
you'll forgive my rudeness," said the samurai, stretching out casually on his side and propping his graying head on his forearm.

The guest who'd just arrived at the Tokuganji was Nagaoka Sado, a high-ranking vassal of Lord Hosokawa Tadaoki of Buzen. He had little time for personal matters, but he invariably came on such occasions as the anniversary of his father's death, usually staying overnight, since the temple was some twenty miles from Edo. For a man of his rank, he traveled unostentatiously, accompanied this time by only two samurai and one young personal attendant.

To get away from the Hosokawa establishment even for a short time, he had had to trump up an excuse. He rarely had the chance to do as he pleased, and now that he did, he was fully enjoying the local sake while listening to the croaking of frogs. Briefly he could forget about everything—the problems of administration and the constant need to be attuned to
the
nuances of daily affairs.

After dinner, the priest quickly cleared the dishes and left. Sado was chatting idly with his attendants, who were seated next to the
wall,
only their faces showing in the light of the lamp.

"I
could just lie here forever and enter Nirvana, like the Buddha," Sado said lazily.

"Careful you don't catch cold. The night air is damp."

"Oh, leave me alone. This body's survived a few battles. It can hold its own against a sneeze or two. But just smell those ripe blossoms! Nice fragrance, isn't it?"

"I don't smell anything."

"Don't you? If your sense of smell is that poor ... you sure you don't have a cold yourself?"

They were engrossed in this kind of seemingly light banter when suddenly the frogs fell silent, and a loud voice shouted, "You devil! What're you doing here, staring into the guest room?"

Sado's bodyguards were on their feet instantly.

"What is it?"

"Who's out there?"

As their cautious eyes scanned the garden, the clatter of small feet receded in the direction of the kitchen.

A priest looked in from the veranda, bowed and said, "Sorry for the disturbance. It's only one of the local children. There's nothing to worry about." "Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course. He lives a couple of miles from here. His father worked as a groom, until he died recently, but his grandfather is said to have been a samurai, and every time he sees one, he stops and stares—with his finger in his mouth."

Sado sat up. "You mustn't be too hard on him. If he wants to be a samurai, bring him in. We'll have some sweets and talk it over."

By now Iori had reached the kitchen. "Hey, Granny," he shouted. "I've run out of millet. Fill this up for me, will you?" The sack he thrust out to the wrinkled old woman who worked in the kitchen would have held half a bushel.

She shouted right back. "Watch your tongue, you beggar! You talk as if we owe you something."

"You've got a lot of nerve to begin with!" said a priest who was washing dishes. "The head priest took pity on you, so we're giving you food, but don't be insolent. When you're asking a favor, do it politely."

"I'm not begging. I gave the priest the pouch my father left me. There's money in it, plenty of money."

"And how much could a groom living out in the sticks leave his son?" "Are you going to give me the millet? Yes or no?"

"There you go again. Just look at yourself. You're crazy, taking orders from that fool rōnin. Where did he come from anyway? Who is he? Why should he be eating your food?"

"None of your business."

"Hmph. Digging around in that barren plain where there's never going to be a field or a garden or anything else! The whole village is laughing at you."

"Who asked for your advice?"

"Whatever's wrong with that rōnin's head must be catching. What do you expect to find up there—a pot of gold, like in a fairy tale? You're not even dry behind the ears, and you're already digging your own grave."

"Shut up and give me the millet. The millet! Now."

The priest was still teasing Iori a couple of minutes later when something cold and slimy hit his face. His eyes popped, then he saw what it was—a warty toad. He screamed and lunged for Iori, but just as he collared him, another priest arrived to announce that the boy was wanted in the samurai's room.

The head priest had also heard the commotion and rushed to the kitchen. "Did he do something to upset our guest?" he asked worriedly.

"No. Sado just said he'd like to talk to him. He'd like to give him some sweets too."

The head priest hurriedly took Iori by the hand and delivered him personally to Sado's room.

As Iori timidly sat down beside the priest, Sado asked, "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"And you want to become a samurai?"

"That's right," replied Iori, nodding vigorously.

"Well, well. Why don't you come and live with me, then? You'd have to help with the housework at the beginning, but later I'd make you one of the apprentice samurai."

Iori shook his head silently. Sado, taking this for bashfulness, assured him that the offer was serious.

Iori, flashing an angry look, said, "I heard you wanted to give me some sweets. Where are they?"

Paling, the head priest slapped him on the wrist.

"Don't scold him," Sado said reprovingly. He liked children and tended to indulge them. "He's right. A man should keep his word. Have the sweets brought in."

When they arrived, Iori began stuffing them into his kimono.

Sado, a little taken aback, asked, "Aren't you going to eat them here?" "No. My teacher's waiting for me at home."

"Oh? You have a teacher?"

Without bothering to explain himself, Iori bolted from the room and disappeared through the garden.

Sado thought his behavior highly amusing. Not so the head priest, who bowed to the floor two or three times before going to the kitchen in pursuit of Iori.

"Where is that insolent brat?"

"He picked up his sack of millet and left."

They listened for a moment but heard only a discordant screeching. Iori had plucked a leaf from a tree and was trying to improvise a tune. None of the few songs he knew seemed to work. The grooms' chantey was too slow, the
Bon
festival songs too complicated. Finally, he settled on a melody resembling the sacred dance music at the local shrine. This suited him well enough, for he liked the dances, which his father had sometimes taken him to see.

About halfway to Hōtengahara, at a point where two streams joined to make a river, he gave a sudden start. The leaf flew from his mouth, along with a spray of saliva, and he leapt into the bamboo beside the road.

Standing on a crude bridge were three or four men, engaged in a furtive conversation. "It's them," Iori exclaimed softly.

A remembered threat rang in his frightened ears. When mothers in this region scolded their children, they were apt to say, "If you're not good, the mountain devils will come down and get you." The last time they had actually come had been in the fall of the year before last.

Twenty miles or so from here, in the mountains of Hitachi, there was a shrine dedicated to a mountain deity. Centuries earlier, the people had so feared this god that the villages had taken turns making annual offerings of grain and women to him. When a community's turn came, the inhabitants had assembled their tribute and gone in a torchlight procession to the shrine. As time went on and it became evident that the god was really only a man, they became lax in making their offerings.

During the period of the civil wars, the so-called mountain god had taken to having his tribute collected by force. Every two or three years, a pack of brigands, armed with halberds, hunting spears, axes—anything to strike terror into the hearts of peaceful citizens—would descend on first one community, then the next, carrying away everything that caught their fancy, including wives and daughters. If their victims put up any resistance, the plundering was accompanied by slaughter.

Their last raid still vivid in his memory, Iori cringed in the underbrush. A group of five shadows came running across the field to the bridge. Then, through the night mist, another small band, and still another, until the bandits numbered between forty and fifty.

Iori held his breath and stared while they debated a course of action. They soon reached a decision. Their leader issued a command and pointed toward the village. The men rushed off like a swarm of locusts.

Before long, the mist was rent by a great cacophony—birds, cattle, horses, the wailing of people young and old.

Iori quickly made up his mind to get help from the samurai at the Tokuganji, but the minute he left the shelter of the bamboo, a shout came from the bridge: "Who's there?" He had not seen the two men left behind to stand guard. Swallowing hard, he ran for all he was worth, but his short legs were no match for those of grown men.

"Where do you think you're going?" shouted the man who got hold of him first.

"Who are you?"

Instead of crying like a baby, which might have thrown the men off guard, Iori scratched and fought against the brawny arms imprisoning him.

"He saw all of us together. He was going to tell somebody."

"Let's beat him up and dump him in a rice field."

"I've got a better idea."

They carried Iori to the river, threw him down the bank and jumping down after him, tied him to one of the bridge posts.

"There, that takes care of him." The two ruffians climbed back up to their station on the bridge.

The temple bell tolled in the distance. Iori watched horrified as the flames rising from the village dyed the river a bloody red. The sound of babies crying and women wailing came closer and closer. Then wheels rumbled onto the bridge. Half a dozen of the bandits were leading oxcarts and horses loaded with loot.

"Filthy scum!" screamed a masculine voice.

"Give me back my wife!"

The scuffle on the bridge was brief but fierce. Men shouted, metal clanged, a shriek went up, and a bloody corpse landed at Iori's feet. A second body splashed into the river, spraying his face with blood and water. One by one farmers fell from the bridge, six of them in all. The bodies rose to the surface and floated slowly downstream, but one man, not quite dead, grasped at the reeds and clawed the earth until he had pulled himself halfway out of the water.

"You!" cried Iori. "Untie this rope. I'll go for help. I'll see that you get your revenge." Then his voice rose to a bellow. "Come on. Untie me. I've got to save the village."

The man lay motionless.

Straining at his bonds with all his might, Iori finally loosened them enough to squirm down and kick the man in the shoulder.

The face that turned toward his was blotched with mud and gore, the eyes dull and uncomprehending.

The man crawled painfully closer; with his last ounce of strength, he undid the knots. As the rope fell loose, he collapsed and died.

Iori looked cautiously up at the bridge and bit his lip. There were more bodies up there. But luck was with him. A cartwheel had broken through a rotten plank. The thieves, hurrying to pull it out, didn't notice his escape.

Realizing he couldn't make it to the temple, Iori tiptoed along in the shadows until he reached a place shallow enough to cross. When he gained the other bank, he was on the edge of Hōtengahara. He covered the remaining mile to the cabin as though lightning was nipping at his heels.

As he neared the knoll where the cabin stood, he saw that Musashi was standing outside, looking at the sky. "Come quick!" he shouted.

"What happened?"

"We have to go to the village."

"Is that where the fire is?"

"Yes. The mountain devils have come again."

"Devils? ... Bandits?"

"Yes, at least forty of them. Please hurry. We have to rescue the villagers." Musashi ducked into the cabin and emerged with his swords. While he was tying his sandals, Iori said, "Follow me. I'll show you the way."

"No. You stay here."

Iori couldn't believe his ears.

"It's too dangerous."

"I'm not scared."

"You'd be in the way."

"You don't even know the shortest way there!"

"The fire's all the guide I need. Now just be a good boy and stay right here."

"Yes, sir." Iori nodded obediently, but with deep misgivings. He turned his head toward the village and watched somberly as Musashi streaked off in the direction of the red glow.

The bandits had tied their female captives, moaning and screaming, in a row and were pulling them mercilessly toward the bridge.

"Stop your squawking!" shouted one bandit.

"You act like you don't know how to walk. Move!"

When the women held back, the ruffians lashed them with whips. One woman fell, dragging down others. Seizing the rope and forcing them back on their feet, one man snarled, "Stubborn bitches! What have you got to groan about? Stay here and you work like slaves the rest of your lives, all for a bit of millet. Look at you, nothing but skin and bones! You'll be a lot better off having fun with us."