Musashi: Bushido Code (104 page)

On leaving the temple the following day, he directed his horse toward the village, saying, "It's out of the way, but let's have a look."

A priest came along to show them the way, and while they rode, Sado observed, "Those bodies along the roadside don't look to me as though they were cut down by farmers," and asked his samurai for more details.

The villagers, forgoing sleep, were hard at work, burying corpses and cleaning up debris from the conflagration. But when they saw Sado and the samurai, they ran inside their houses and hid.

"Get one of the villagers to come here, and let's find out exactly what happened," he said to the priest.

The man who came back with the priest gave them a fairly detailed account of the night's events.

"Now it begins to make sense," Sado said, nodding. "What's this rōnin's name?"

The peasant, never having heard Musashi's name, cocked his head to one side. When Sado insisted on knowing it, the priest asked about for a time and came up with the required information.

"Miyamoto Musashi?" Sado said thoughtfully. "Is he the man the boy spoke of as his teacher?"

"That's right. From the way he's been trying to develop a piece of waste land on Hōtengahara, the villagers thought he was a little soft in the head."

"I'd like to meet him," said Sado, but then he remembered the work waiting for him in Edo. "Never mind; I'll talk to him the next time I come out here." He turned his horse around and left the peasant standing by the road.

A few minutes later, he reined up in front of the village headman's gate. There, written in shiny ink on a fresh board, hung a sign: "Reminder for the People of the Village: Your plow is your sword. Your sword is your plow. Working in the fields, don't forget the invasion. Thinking of the invasion, don't forget your fields. All things must be balanced and integrated. Most important, do not oppose the Way of successive generations."

"Hmm. Who wrote this?"

The headman had finally come out and was now bowing on the ground before Sado. "Musashi," he answered.

Turning to the priest, Sado said, "Thank you for bringing us here. It's too bad I couldn't meet this Musashi, but just now I don't have the time. I'll be back this way before long."

First Planting

The management of the palatial Hosokawa residence in Edo, as well as the performance of the fief's duties to the shōgun, was entrusted to a man still in his early twenties, Tadatoshi, the eldest son of the daimyō, Hosokawa Tadaoki. The father, a celebrated general who also enjoyed a reputation as a poet and master of the tea ceremony, preferred to live at the large Kokura fief in Buzen Province on the island of Kyushu.

Though Nagaoka Sado and a number of other trusted retainers were assigned to assist the young man, this was not because he was in any way incompetent. He was not only accepted as a peer by the powerful vassals closest to the shōgun but had distinguished himself as an energetic and farsighted administrator. In fact, he seemed more in tune with the peace and prosperity of the times than the older lords, who had been nurtured on constant warfare.

At the moment, Sado was walking in the general direction of the riding ground. "Have you seen the Young Lord?" he asked of an apprentice samurai coming toward him.

"I believe he's at the archery range."

As Sado threaded his way down a narrow path, he heard a voice asking, "May I have a word with you?"

Sado stopped, and Iwama Kakubei, a vassal respected for his shrewdness and practicality, came up to him. "You're going to talk with his lordship?" he asked.

"Yes."

"If you're not in a hurry, there's a little matter I'd like to consult with you about. Why don't we sit down over there?" As they walked the few steps to a rustic arbor, Kakubei said, "I have a favor to ask. If you have a chance during your talk, there's a man I'd like to recommend to the Young Lord."

"Someone wanting to serve the House of Hosokawa?"

"Yes. I know all sorts of people come to you with the same request, but this man's very unusual."

"Is he one of those men interested only in security and a stipend?" "Definitely not. He's related to my wife. He's been living with us since he came up from Iwakuni a couple of years ago, so I know him quite well." "Iwakuni? The House of Kikkawa held Suō Province before the Battle of Sekigahara. Is he one of their rōnin?"

"No. He's the son of a rural samurai. His name's Sasaki Kojirō. He's still young, but he was trained in the Tomita Style of Kanemaki Jisai, and he learned the techniques of drawing a sword with lightning swiftness from Lord Katayama Hisayasu of Hōki. He's even created a style of his own, which he calls Ganryū." Kakubei went on, listing in detail Kojirō's various exploits and accomplishments.

Sado was not really listening. His mind had gone back to his last visit to the Tokuganji. Though he was sure, even from the little he'd seen and heard, that Musashi was the right sort of man for the House of Hosokawa, he had intended to meet him personally before recommending him to his master. In the meantime, a year and a half had slipped by without his finding an opportunity to visit Hōtengahara.

When Kakubei finished, Sado said, "I'll do what I can for you," and continued on to the archery range.

Tadatoshi was engaged in a contest with some vassals of his own age, none of whom was remotely a match for him. His shots, unerringly on target, were executed with flawless style. A number of retainers had chided him for taking archery so seriously, arguing that in an age of gun and lance, neither sword nor bow was any longer of much use in actual combat. To this he had replied cryptically, "My arrows are aimed at the spirit."

The Hosokawa retainers had the highest respect for Tadatoshi, and would have served under him with enthusiasm even if his father, to whom they were also devoted, had not been a man of substantial accomplishments. At the moment, Sado regretted the promise he'd just made to Kakubei. Tadatoshi was not a man to whom one lightly recommended prospective retainers.

Wiping the sweat off his face, Tadatoshi walked past several young samurai with whom he'd been talking and laughing. Catching sight of Sado, he called, "How about it, Ancient One? Have a shot?"

"I make it a rule to compete only against adults," Sado replied.

"So you still think of us as little boys with our hair tied up on our heads?" "Have you forgotten the Battle of Yamazaki? Nirayama Castle? I have been

commended for my performance on the battlefield, you know. Besides, I go in for real archery, not—"

"Ha, ha. Sorry I mentioned it. I didn't mean to get you started again." The others joined in the laughter. Slipping his arm out of his sleeve, Tadatoshi became serious and asked, "Did you come to discuss something?"

After going over a number of routine matters, Sado said, "Kakubei says he has a samurai to recommend to you."

For a moment there was a faraway look in Tadatoshi's eyes. "I suppose he's talking about Sasaki Kojirō. He's been mentioned several times."

"Why don't you call him in and have a look at him?"

"Is he really good?"

"Shouldn't you see for yourself?"

Tadatoshi put on his glove and accepted an arrow from an attendant. "I'll take a look at Kakubei's man," he said. "I'd also like to see that rōnin you mentioned. Miyamoto Musashi, was it?"

"Oh, you remember?"

"I do. You're the one who seems to have forgotten."

"Not at all. But being so busy, I haven't had a chance to go out to Shimōsa."

"If you think you've found someone, you should take the time. I'm surprised at you, Sado, letting something so important wait until you've got other business to take you out there. It's not like you."

"I'm sorry. There're always too many men looking for positions. I thought you'd forgotten about it. I suppose I should have brought it up again."

"Indeed you should have. I don't necessarily accept other people's recommendations, but I'm eager to see anyone old Sado considers suitable. Understand?"

Sado apologized again before taking his leave. He went directly to his own house and without further ado had a fresh horse saddled and set out for Hōtengahara.

"Isn't this Hōtengahara?"

Satō Genzō, Sado's attendant, said, "That's what I thought, but this is no wilderness. There're rice fields all over. The place they were trying to develop must be nearer the mountains."

They had already gone a good distance beyond the Tokuganji and would soon be on the highroad to Hitachi. It was late afternoon, and the white herons splashing about in the paddies made the water seem like powder. Along the riverbank and in the shadows of hillocks grew patches of hemp and waving stalks of barley.

"Look over there, sir," said Genzō.

"What is it?"

"There's a group of farmers."

"So there is. They seem to be bowing to the ground, one by one, don't they?"

"It looks like some sort of religious ceremony."

With a snap of the reins, Genzō forded the river first, making sure it was safe for Sado to follow.

"You, there!" called Genzō.

The farmers, looking surprised, spread out from their circle to face the visitors. They were standing in front of a small cabin, and Sado could see that the object they'd been bowing before was a tiny wooden shrine, no larger than a birdcage. There were about fifty of them, on their way home from work, it appeared, for their tools had all been washed.

A priest came forward, saying, "Why, it's Nagaoka Sado, isn't it? What a pleasant surprise!"

"And you're from the Tokuganji, aren't you? I believe you're the one who guided me to the village after the bandit raid."

"That's right. Have you come to pay a call at the temple?"

"No, not this time. I'll be going back right away. Could you tell me where I might find that rōnin named Miyamoto Musashi?"

"He's not here anymore. He left very suddenly."

"Left suddenly? Why should he do that?"

"One day last month, the villagers decided to take a day off and celebrate the progress that's been made here. You can see for yourself how green it is now. Well, the morning after that, Musashi and the boy, Iori, were gone." The priest looked around, as though half expecting Musashi to materialize out of the air.

In response to Sado's prompting, the priest filled in the details of his story. After the village had strengthened its defenses under Musashi's leadership, the farmers were so thankful for the prospect of living in peace that they practically deified him. Even the ones who had ridiculed him most cruelly had come forward to help with the development project.

Musashi treated them all fairly and equally, first convincing them that it was pointless to live like animals. He then tried to impress upon them the importance of exerting a little extra effort so as to give their children a chance for a better life. To be real human beings, he told them, they must work for the sake of posterity.

With forty or fifty villagers pitching in to help each day, by fall they were able to keep the floodwaters under control. When winter came, they plowed. And in the spring, they drew water from the new irrigation ditches and transplanted the rice seedlings. By early summer the rice was thriving, while in the dry fields, hemp and barley were already a foot high. In another year, the crop would double; the year after that, triple.

Villagers began to drop in at the cabin to pay their respects, thanking Musashi from the bottom of their hearts, the women bearing gifts of vegetables. On the day of the celebration, the men arrived with great jars of sake, and all took part in performing a sacred dance, accompanied by drums and flutes.

With the villagers gathered around him, Musashi had assured them that it was not his strength, but theirs. "All I did was show you how to use the energy you possess."

Then he had taken the priest aside to tell him that he was concerned about their relying on a vagabond like him. "Even without me," he said, "they should have confidence in themselves and maintain solidarity." He had then taken out a statue of Kannon he'd carved and given it to the priest.

The morning after the celebration, the village was in an uproar.

"He's gone!"

"He can't be."

"Yes, he's disappeared. The cabin's empty."

Grief-stricken, none of the farmers went near the fields that day.

When he heard about it, the priest reproached them sharply for their ingratitude, urging them to remember what they'd been taught and subtly coaxing them to carry on the work that had been started.

Later, the villagers had built the tiny shrine and placed the treasured image of Kannon in it. They paid their respects to Musashi morning and evening, on their way to and from the fields.

Sado thanked the priest for the information, concealing the fact that he was disconsolate as only a man of his position could do.

As his horse made its way back through the evening mist of late spring, he thought uneasily: "I shouldn't have put off coming. I was derelict in my duty, and now I’ve failed my lord."

The Flies

On the east bank of the Sumida River where the road from Shimōsa converged with a branch of the Ōshū highroad rose a great barrier with an imposing gate, ample evidence of the firm rule of Aoyama Tadanari, the new magistrate of Edo.

Musashi stood in line, idly waiting his turn, Iori at his side. When he had passed through Edo three years earlier, entering and leaving the city had been a simple matter. Even at this distance, he could see that there were far more houses than before, fewer open spaces.

"You there, rōnin. You're next."

Two officials in leather
hakama
began frisking Musashi with great thoroughness, while a third glared at him and asked questions.

"What business do you have in the capital?"

"Nothing specific."

"No special business, eh?"

"Well, I'm a
shugyōsha.
I suppose it could be said that studying to be a samurai is my business."

The man was silent. Musashi grinned.

"Where were you born?"

"In the village of Miyamoto, district of Yoshino, Mimasaka Province." "Your master?"

"I have none."

"Who furnishes your travel money?"

"No one. I carve statues and draw pictures. Sometimes I can exchange them for food and lodging. Often I stay at temples. Occasionally I give lessons in the sword. One way or another, I manage."

"Where are you coming from?"

"For the past two years, I've been farming in Hōtengahara in Shimōsa. I decided I didn't want to do that for the rest of my life, so I've come here."

"Do you have a place to stay in Edo? No one can enter the city unless he has relatives or a place to live."

"Yes," replied Musashi on the spur of the moment. He saw that if he tried to stick to the truth, there was going to be no end to it.

"Well?"

"Yagyū Munenori, Lord of Tajima."

The official's mouth dropped open.

Musashi, amused at the man's reaction, congratulated himself. The risk of being caught in a lie did not trouble him greatly. He felt that the Yagyūs must have heard about him from Takuan. It seemed unlikely they would deny all acquaintance with him if questioned. It might even be that Takuan was in Edo now. If so, Musashi had his means of introduction. It was too late to have a bout with Sekishūsai, but he longed to have one with Munenori, his father's successor in the Yagyū Style and a personal tutor of the shōgun.

The name acted like magic. "Well, well," said the official amiably. "If you're connected with the House of Yagyū, I'm sorry to have troubled you. As you must realize, there are all sorts of samurai on the road. We have to be particularly careful about anyone who appears to be a rōnin. Orders, you know." After a few more questions for the sake of form or face, he said, "You can go now," and personally escorted Musashi to the gate.

"Sir," Iori asked when they were on the other side, "why are they so careful about rōnin and nobody else?"

"They're on the lookout for enemy spies."

"What spy would be stupid enough to come here looking like a rōnin? The officials are pretty dumb—them and their stupid questions! They made us miss the ferry!"

"Shh. They'll hear you. Don't worry about the ferry. You can look at Mount Fuji while we're waiting for the next one. Did you know you could see it from here?"

"So what? We could see it from Hōtengahara too."

"Yes, but it's different here."

"How?"

"Fuji's never the same. It varies from day to day, hour to hour." "Looks the same to me."

"It's not, though. It changes—time, weather, season, the place you're looking at it from. It differs, too, according to the person who's looking at it, according to his heart."

Unimpressed, Iori picked up a flat stone and sent it skimming across the

water. After amusing himself in this fashion for a few minutes, he came back

to Musashi and asked, "Are we really going to Lord Yagyū's house?" "I'll have to think about that."

"Isn't that what you told the guard?"

"Yes. I intend to go, but it's not all that simple. He's a daimyō, you know." "He must be awfully important. That's what I want to be when I grow up." "Important?"

"Umm."

"You shouldn't aim so low."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at Mount Fuji."

"I'll never be like Mount Fuji."

"Instead of wanting to be like this or that, make yourself into a silent, immovable giant. That's what the mountain is. Don't waste your time trying to impress people. If you become the sort of man people can respect, they'll respect you, without your doing anything."

Musashi's words didn't have time to sink in, for just then Iori shouted, "Look, here comes the ferry," and ran ahead to be the first one on board.

The Sumida River was a study in contrasts, wide in places, narrow in others, shallow here and deep there. At high tide, the waves washing the banks took on a muddy hue. Sometimes the estuary swelled to twice its normal width. At the point where the ferry crossed, it was virtually an inlet of the bay.

The sky was clear, the water transparent. Looking over the side, Iori could see schools of countless tiny fish racing about. Among the rocks he also spotted the rusty remains of an old helmet. He had no ears for the conversation going on around him.

"What do you think? Is it going to stay peaceful, the way it is now?" "I doubt it."

"You're probably right. Sooner or later, there'll be fighting. I hope not, but what else can you expect?"

Other passengers kept their thoughts to themselves and stared dourly at the water, afraid an official, possibly in disguise, might overhear and connect them with the speakers. Those who did take the risk seemed to enjoy flirting with the ubiquitous eyes and ears of the law.

"You can tell from the way they're checking everybody that we're heading for war. It's only very recently they've been clamping down like that. And there're a lot of rumors about spies from Osaka."

"You also hear about burglars breaking into daimyō's houses, though they try to hush it up. It must be embarrassing being robbed when you're supposed to be the enforcers of law and order."

"You'd have to be after more than money to take that kind of risk. It's got to be spies. No ordinary crook would have the nerve."

As he looked around, it occurred to Musashi that the ferry was transporting a fair cross section of Edo society. A lumberman with sawdust clinging to his work clothes, a couple of cheap geisha who might have come from Kyoto, a broad-shouldered roughneck or two, a group of well-diggers, two openly coquettish whores, a priest, a beggar monk, another rōnin like himself.

When the boat reached the Edo side and they all piled out, a short, heavyset man called to Musashi, "Hey, you. The rōnin. You forgot something." He held out a reddish brocade pouch, so old that the dirt seemed to shine more brightly than the few gold threads left in it.

Musashi, shaking his head, said, "It's not mine. It must belong to one of the other passengers."

Iori piped up, "It's mine," snatched the pouch from the man's hand and stuffed it into his kimono.

The man was indignant. "What're you doing, grabbing like that! Give it here! Then you're going to bow three times before you get it back. If you don't, you're going to get thrown in the river!"

Musashi intervened, asking the man to excuse Iori's rudeness because of his age.

"What are you?" the man asked roughly. "Brother? Master? What's your name!"

"Miyamoto Musashi."

"What!" exclaimed the ruffian, staring hard at Musashi's face. After a moment he said to Iori, "You'd better be more careful from now on." Then, as though eager to escape, he turned away.

"Just a moment," said Musashi. The gentleness of his tone took the man completely by surprise.

He whirled around, his hand going to his sword. "What do you want?" "What's your name?"

"What's it to you?"

"You asked mine. As a matter of courtesy, you should tell me yours." "I'm one of Hangawara's men. My name's Jūrō."

"All right. You can go," said Musashi, pushing him away.

"I won't forget that!" Jūrō stumbled a few steps before he found his feet and fled.

"Serves him right, the coward," said Iori. Satisfied that he'd been vindicated, he looked up worshipfully at Musashi's face and moved closer to him.

As they walked into the city, Musashi said, "Iori, you have to realize that living here is not like being out in the country. There, we had only foxes and squirrels for neighbors. Here, there're lots of people. You'll have to be more careful about your manners."

"Yes, sir."

"When people live together in harmony, the earth is a paradise," Musashi went on gravely. "But every man has a bad side as well as a good side. There are times when only the bad comes out. Then the world's not paradise, but hell. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, I think so," said Iori, more subdued now.

"There's a reason we have manners and etiquette. They keep us from letting the bad side take over. This promotes social order, which is the objective of the government's laws." Musashi paused. "The way you acted ... It was a trivial matter, but your attitude couldn't help but make the man angry. I'm not at all happy about it."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't know where we'll be going from here. But wherever we are, you'd better follow the rules and act courteously."

The boy bobbed his head a couple of times and made a small, stiff bow. They walked on in silence for a short while.

"Sir, would you carry my pouch for me? I don't want to lose it again." Accepting the small brocade bag, Musashi inspected it closely before tucking it into his kimono. "Is this the one your father left you?"

"Yes, sir. I got it back from the Tokuganji at the beginning of the year. The priest didn't take any of the money. You can use some of it if you need to." "Thanks," Musashi said lightly. "I'll take good care of it."

"He has a talent I don't have," mused Musashi, thinking ruefully of his own indifference to personal finances. The boy's innate prudence had taught Musashi the meaning of economics. He appreciated the boy's trust and was growing fonder of him by the day. He looked forward with enthusiasm to the task of helping him develop his native intelligence.

"Where would you like to stay tonight?" he asked.

Iori, who had been looking at his new surroundings with great curiosity, remarked, "I see lots of horses over there. It looks like a marketplace, right here in town." He spoke as though he had run across a long-lost friend in a strange country.

They had reached Bakurōchō, where there was a large and diverse selection of tea shops and hostelries catering to the equine professions—sellers, buyers, draymen, grooms, a variety of lesser factotums. Men in small groups haggled and babbled in a welter of dialects, the most prominent being the tangy, irate-sounding speech of Edo.

Among the rabble was a well-groomed samurai, searching for good horses. With a disgruntled look, he said, "Let's go home. There's nothing here but nags, nothing worth recommending to his lordship."

Striding briskly between the animals, he came face to face with Musashi, blinked, and stepped back in surprise. "You're Miyamoto Musashi, aren't you?"

Musashi looked at the man for an instant, then broke into a grin. It was Kimura Sukekurō. Although the two men had come within inches of locking swords at Koyagyū Castle, Sukekurō's manner was cordial. He seemed to bear no lingering rancor from that encounter.

"I certainly didn't expect to see you here," he said. "Have you been in Edo long?"

"I've just come from Shimōsa," replied Musashi. "How's your master? Is he still in good health?"

"Yes, thank you, but of course at Sekishūsai's age ... I'm staying with Lord Munenori. You must come to visit; I'd be glad to introduce you. Oh, there's something else, too." He flashed a meaningful look and smiled. "We have a beautiful treasure that belongs to you. You must come as soon as you can."

Before Musashi could inquire what the "beautiful treasure" might be, Sukekurō made a slight bow and walked rapidly away, his attendant trailing along behind.

The guests staying at the inexpensive inns of Bakurōchō were mostly horse traders in from the provinces. Musashi decided to take a room there rather than in another part of town, where the rates would most likely be higher. Like the other inns, the one he chose had a large stable, so large in fact that the rooms themselves seemed rather like an annex. But after the rigors of Hōtengahara, even this third-rate hostelry seemed luxurious.

Despite his feeling of well-being, Musashi found the horseflies annoying and began grumbling.

The proprietress heard him. "I'll change your room," she offered solicitously. "The flies aren't so bad on the second floor."

Once resettled, Musashi found himself exposed to the full strength of the western sun and felt like grumbling again. Only a few days ago, the afternoon sun would have been a source of cheer, a bright ray of hope shedding nourishing warmth on the rice plants and portending good weather for the morrow. As for the flies, when his sweat had attracted them while he worked in the fields, he had taken the view that they were only going about their chores, just as he was going about his. He had even regarded them as fellow creatures. Now, having crossed one wide river and entered the maze of the city, he found the heat of the sun anything but comforting, the flies only an irritation.

His appetite took his mind off the inconveniences. He glanced at Iori and saw symptoms of lassitude and gluttony in his face too. Small wonder, for a party in the next room had ordered a great pot of steaming food and was now attacking it ravenously, amid much talk, laughter and drinking.