Musashi: Bushido Code (105 page)

Buckwheat noodles—soba—that's what he wanted! In the country, if a man wanted
soba,
he planted buckwheat in the early spring, watched it flower in the summer, dried the grain in the fall, ground the flour in the winter. Then he could make
soba.
Here it required no more effort than clapping one's hands for service.

"Iori, shall we order some
soba?"

"Yes," came the eager reply.

The proprietress came and took their order. While they waited, Musashi propped his elbows on the windowsill and shaded his eyes. Diagonally across the way was a signboard reading: "Souls polished here. Zushino Kōsuke, Master in the Hon'ami Style."

Iori had noticed it too. After staring for a moment in bewilderment, he said, "That sign says 'Souls polished.' What sort of business is that?"

"Well, it also says the man works in the Hon'ami Style, so I suppose he's a sword polisher. Come to think of it, I ought to have my sword worked on."

The
soba
was slow to arrive, so Musashi stretched out on the tatami for a nap. But the voices in the next room had risen several decibels and become quarrelsome. "Iori," he said, opening one eye, "will you ask the people next door to be a little quieter?"

Only shoji separated the two rooms, but instead of opening them, Iori went out into the hall. The door to the other room was open. "Don't make so much noise," he shouted. "My teacher's trying to sleep."

"Hunk!" The squabble came to an abrupt halt. The men turned and stared angrily at him.

"You say something, shrimp?"

Pouting at the epithet, Iori said, "We came upstairs because of the flies. Now you're yelling so much he can't rest."

"Is this your idea, or did your master send you?"

"He sent me."

"Did he? Well, I'm not wasting my time talking to a little turd like you. Go tell your master Kumagorō of Chichibu will give him his answer later. Now beat it!"

Kumagorō was a great brute of a man, and the two or three others in the room were not much smaller. Cowed by the menace in their eyes, Iori quickly retreated. Musashi had dropped off to sleep; not wanting to disturb him, Iori sat down by the window.

Presently, one of the horse traders opened the shoji a crack and peeked in at Musashi. There followed much laughter, accompanied by loud and insulting remarks.

"Who does he think he is, butting into our party? Dumb rōnin! No telling where he comes from. Just barges in and starts acting like he owns the place." "We'll have to show him what's what."

"Yeah, we'll make sure he knows what the horse traders of Edo are made of."

"Talking's not going to show him. Let's haul him out back and throw a bucket of horse piss in his face."

Kumagorō spoke up. "Hold on, now. Let me handle this. Either I'll get an apology in writing or we'll wash his face with horse piss. Enjoy your sake. Leave everything to me."

"This should be good," said one man, as Kumagorō, with a confident smirk, tightened his obi.

"I beg your pardon," said Kumagorō, sliding the shoji open. Without standing up, he shuffled into Musashi's room on his knees.

The
soba,
six helpings in a lacquered box, had finally arrived. Musashi was sitting up now, addressing his chopsticks to his first helping.

"Look, they're coming in," said Iori under his breath, moving slightly to get out of the way.

Kumagorō seated himself behind and to Iori's left, legs crossed, elbows resting on his knees. With a fierce scowl, he said, "You can eat later. Don't try to hide the fact that you're scared by sitting there playing with your food."

Though he was grinning, Musashi gave no indication that he was listening. He stirred the
soba
with his chopsticks to separate the strands, lifted a mouthful and swallowed with a joyous slurp.

The veins in Kumagorō's forehead nearly popped. "Put that bowl down," he said angrily.

"And who are you?" Musashi asked mildly, making no move to comply. "You don't know who I am? The only people in Bakurōchō who haven't heard my name are good-for-nothings and deaf-mutes."

"I'm a little hard of hearing myself. Speak up, tell me who you are and where you come from."

"I'm Kumagorō from Chichibu, the best horse trader in Edo. When children see me coming, they get so scared they can't even cry."

"I see. Then you're in the horse business?"

"You bet I am. I sell to the samurai. You'd better remember that when you're dealing with me."

"In what way am I dealing with you?"

"You sent that runt there to complain about the noise. Where do you think you are? This is no fancy inn for daimyō, nice and quiet and all. We horse traders like noise."

"I gathered that."

"Then why were you trying to bust up our party? I demand an apology." "Apology?"

"Yes, in writing. You can address it to Kumagorō and his friends. If we don't get one we'll take you outside and teach you a thing or two." "What you say is interesting."

"Hunk!"

"I mean your way of speaking is interesting."

"Cut out the nonsense! Do we get the apology or don't we? Well?" Kumagorō's voice had gone from a growl to a roar, and the sweat on his crimson forehead glistened in the evening sun. Looking ready to explode, he bared his hairy chest and took a dagger from his stomach wrapper.

"Make up your mind! If I don't hear your answer soon, you're in big trouble." He uncrossed his legs and held the dagger vertically beside the lacquered box, its point touching the floor.

Musashi, restraining his mirth, said, "Well, now how should I respond to that?"

Lowering his bowl, he reached out with his chopsticks, removed a dark speck from the
soba
in the box and threw it out the window. Still silent, he reached out again and picked off another dark speck, then another.

Kumagorō's eyes bugged; his breath halted.

"There's no end to them, is there?" remarked Musashi casually. "Here, Iori, go give these chopsticks a good washing."

As Iori went out, Kumagorō faded silently back into his own room and in a hushed voice told his companions of the incredible sight he had just witnessed. After first mistaking the black spots on the
soba
for dirt, he had realized they were live flies, plucked so deftly they had had no time to escape. Within minutes, he and his fellows transferred their little party to a more remote quarter, and silence reigned.

"That's better, isn't it?" said Musashi to Iori. The two of them grinned at one another.

By the time they'd finished their meal, the sun was down, and the moon was shining wanly above the roof of the "soul polisher's" shop.

Musashi stood up and straightened his kimono. "I think I'll see about having my sword taken care of," he said.

He picked up the weapon and was about to leave when the proprietress came halfway up the blackened staircase and called, "A letter's come for you."

Puzzled that anyone should know his whereabouts so soon, Musashi went down, accepted the missive and asked, "Is the messenger still here?"

"No; he left immediately."

The outside of the letter bore only the word "Suke," which Musashi took to stand for Kimura Sukekurō. Unfolding it, he read: "I informed Lord Munenori that I saw you this morning. He seemed happy to receive word of you after all this time. He instructed me to write and ask when you will be able to visit us."

Musashi descended the remaining steps and went to the office, where he borrowed ink and brush. Seating himself in a corner, he wrote on the back of Sukekurō's letter: "I shall be happy to visit Lord Munenori whenever he wishes to have a bout with me. As a warrior, I have no other purpose in calling on him." He signed the note "Masana," a formal name he seldom used.

"Iori," he called from the bottom of the stairs. "I want you to run an errand for me."

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to deliver a letter to Lord Yagyū Munenori."

"Yes, sir."

According to the proprietress, everybody knew where Lord Munenori lived, but she offered directions anyway. "Go down the main street until you come to the highroad. Go straight along that as far as Nihombashi. Then bear to the left and go along the river until you get to Kobikichō. That's where it is; you can't miss it."

"Thanks," said Iori, who already had his sandals on. "I'm sure I can find it." He was delighted at the opportunity to go out, particularly since his destination was the home of an important daimyō. Giving no thought to the hour, he walked away quickly, swinging his arms and holding his head up proudly.

As Musashi watched him turn the corner, he thought: "He's a little too self-confident for his own good."

The Soul Polisher

"Good evening," called Musashi.

Nothing about Zushino Kōsuke's house suggested it was a place of business. It lacked the grilled front of most shops, and there was no merchandise on display. Musashi stood in the dirt-floored passageway running down the left side of the house. To his right was a raised section, floored with tatami and screened off from the room beyond it.

The man sleeping on the tatami with his arms resting on a strongbox resembled a Taoist sage Musashi had once seen in a painting. The long, thin face was the grayish color of clay. Musashi could detect in it none of the keenness he associated with sword craftsmen.

"Good evening," Musashi repeated, a little louder.

When his voice penetrated Kōsuke's torpor, the craftsman raised his head very slowly; he might have been awakening from centuries of slumber.

Wiping the saliva from his chin and sitting up straight, he asked lackadaisically, "Can I help you?" Musashi's impression was that a man like this might make swords, as well as souls, duller, but he nevertheless held out his own weapon and explained why he was there.

"Let me take a look at it." Kōsuke's shoulders perked up smartly. Placing his left hand on his knee, he reached out with his right to take the sword, simultaneously bowing his head toward it.

"Strange creature," thought Musashi. "He barely acknowledges the presence of a human being but bows politely to a sword."

Holding a piece of paper in his mouth, Kōsuke quietly slid the blade out of the scabbard. He stood it vertically in front of him and examined it from hilt to tip. His eyes took on a bright glitter, reminding Musashi of glass eyes in a wooden Buddhist statue.

Snapping the weapon back into its scabbard, Kōsuke looked up inquiringly at Musashi. "Come, have a seat," he said, moving back to make room and offering Musashi a cushion.

Musashi removed his sandals and stepped up into the room.

"Has the sword been in your family for some generations?"

"Oh, no," said Musashi. "It's not the work of a famous swordsmith, nothing like that."

"Have you used it in battle, or do you carry it for the usual purposes?"

"I haven't used it on the battlefield. There's nothing special about it. The best you could say is that it's better than nothing."

"Mm." Looking directly into Musashi's eyes, Kōsuke then asked, "How do you want it polished?"

"How do I want it polished? What do you mean?"

"Do you want it sharpened so it'll cut well?"

"Well, it is a sword. The cleaner it cuts, the better."

"I suppose so," agreed Kōsuke with a defeated sigh.

"What's wrong with that? Isn't it the business of a craftsman to sharpen swords so they'll cut properly?" As Musashi spoke, he squinted curiously into Kōsuke's face.

The self-proclaimed polisher of souls shoved the weapon toward Musashi and said, "I can't do anything for you. Take it to somebody else."

Strange, indeed, thought Musashi. He could not disguise a certain vexation, but he said nothing. Kōsuke, his lips tightly set, made no attempt to explain.

While they sat silently staring at each other, a man from the neighborhood stuck his head in the door. "Kōsuke, have you got a fishing pole? It's high tide, and the fish are jumping. If you'll lend me a pole, I'll divide my catch with you."

Kōsuke plainly regarded the man as one more burden he ought not to have to bear. "Borrow one somewhere else," he rasped. "I don't believe in killing, and I don't keep instruments for murder in my house."

The man went quickly away, leaving Kōsuke looking grumpier than ever.

Another man might have become discouraged and left, but Musashi's curiosity held him there. There was something appealing about this man—not wit nor intelligence, but a rough natural goodness like that of a Karatsu sake jar or a tea bowl by Nonkō. Just as pottery often has a blemish evocative of its closeness to the earth, Kōsuke had, in a semi-bald spot on his temple, a lesion of some sort, which he'd covered with salve.

While attempting to conceal his growing fascination, Musashi said, "What is there to keep you from polishing my sword? Is it of such poor quality you can't put a good edge on it?"

"Of course not. You're the owner. You know as well as I do it's a perfectly good Bizen sword. I also know you want it sharpened for the purpose of cutting people."

"Is there anything wrong with that?"

"That's what they all say—what's wrong with wanting me to fix a sword so it'll cut better? If the sword cuts, they're happy."

"But a man bringing in a sword to be polished naturally wants—"

"Just a minute." Kōsuke raised his hand. "It'll take some time to explain.

First, I'd like you to take another look at the sign on the front of my shop." "It says 'Souls polished,' or at least I think so. Is there any other way of

reading the characters?"

"No. You'll notice it doesn't say a word about polishing swords. My business is polishing the souls of the samurai who come in, not their weapons. People don't understand, but that's what I was taught when I studied sword polishing."

"I see," said Musashi, although he didn't really.

"Since I try to abide by my master's teachings, I refuse to polish the swords of samurai who take pleasure in killing people."

"Well, you have a point there. But tell me, who was this master of yours?"

"That's written on the sign too. I studied in the House of Hon'ami, under Hon'ami Kōetsu himself." Kōsuke squared his shoulders proudly as he uttered his master's name.

"That's interesting. I happen to have made the acquaintance of your master and his excellent mother, Myōshū." Musashi went on to tell how he had met them in the field near the Rendaiji and later spent a few days at their house.

Kōsuke, astonished, scrutinized him closely for a moment. "Are you by any chance the man who caused a great stir in Kyoto some years ago by defeating the Yoshioka School at Ichijōji? Miyamoto Musashi was the name, I believe."

"That is my name." Musashi's face reddened slightly.

Kōsuke moved back a bit and bowed deferentially, saying, "Forgive me. I shouldn't have been lecturing you. I had no idea I was talking to the famous Miyamoto Musashi."

"Don't give it a second thought. Your words were very instructive. Kōetsu's character comes through in the lessons he teaches his disciples."

"As I'm sure you know, the Hon'ami family served the Ashikaga shōguns. From time to time they've also been called upon to polish the Emperor's swords. Kōetsu was always saying that Japanese swords were created not to kill or injure people but to maintain the imperial rule and protect the nation, to subdue devils and drive out evil. The sword
is
the samurai's soul; he carries it for no other purpose than to maintain his own integrity. It is an ever-present admonition to the man who rules over other men and seeks in doing so to follow the Way of Life. It's only natural that the craftsman who polishes the sword must also polish the swordsman's spirit."

"How true," agreed Musashi.

"Kōetsu said that to see a good sword is to see the sacred light, the spirit of the nation's peace and tranquility. He hated touching a bad sword. Even being near one used to nauseate him."

"I see. Are you saying you sensed something evil in my sword?"

"No, not in the least. I just felt a little depressed. Since coming to Edo, I've worked on any number of weapons, but none of their owners seem to have an inkling of the sword's true meaning. I sometimes doubt they have souls to polish. All they care about is quartering a man or splitting his head open—helmet and all. It got so tiresome. That's why I put up a new sign a few days ago. It doesn't seem to have had much effect, though."

"And I came in asking for the same thing, didn't I? I understand how you feel."

"Well, that's a beginning. Things may turn out a little differently with you. But frankly, when I saw that blade of yours, I was shocked. All those nicks and stains, stains made by human flesh. I thought you were just one more senseless rōnin, proud of himself for committing a number of meaningless murders."

Musashi bowed his head. It was the voice of Kōetsu, coming from Kōsuke's mouth. "I'm grateful for this lesson," he said. "I've carried a sword since I was a boy, but I've never really given sufficient thought to the spirit that resides in it. In the future, I'll pay heed to what you've said."

Kōsuke appeared vastly relieved. "In that case, I'll polish the sword for you. Or perhaps I should say I consider it a privilege for one in my profession to be able to polish the soul of a samurai like yourself."

Twilight had faded, and the lights had been lit. Musashi decided it was time to go.

"Wait," said Kōsuke. "Do you have another sword to carry while I'm working on this one?"

"No; I have only the one long sword."

"In that case, why don't you pick out a replacement? None of the swords I have here now are very good, I'm afraid, but come and take a look."

He guided Musashi into the back room, where he took several swords out of a cabinet and lined them up on the tatami. "You can take any one of these," he offered.

Despite the craftsman's modest disavowal, they were all weapons of excellent quality. Musashi had difficulty choosing from the dazzling display, but finally he selected one and immediately fell in love with it. Just holding it in his hands, he sensed its maker's dedication. Drawing the blade from the scabbard confirmed his impression; it was indeed a beautiful piece of workmanship, probably dating from the Yoshino period in the fourteenth century. Nagged by the doubt that it was too elegant for him, once he had brought it close to the light and examined it, he found his hands reluctant to let it go.

"May I take this one?" he asked. He could not bring himself to use the word "borrow."

"You have the eye of an expert," observed Kōsuke, as he put away the other swords.

For once in his life, Musashi was swamped by covetousness. He knew it was futile to mention buying the sword outright; the price would be far beyond his means. But he couldn't help himself.

"I don't suppose you'd consider selling me this sword, would you?" he asked.

"Why not?"

"How much are you asking for it?"

"I'll let you have it for what I paid for it."

"How much was that?"

"Twenty pieces of gold."

An almost inconceivable sum to Musashi. "I'd better give it back," he said hesitantly.

"Why?" asked Kōsuke with a puzzled look. "I'll lend it to you for as long as you wish. Go on, take it."

"No; that'd make me feel even worse. Wanting it the way I do is bad enough. If I wore it for a while, it would be torture to part with it."

"Are you really so attached to it?" Kōsuke looked at the sword, then at Musashi. "All right then, I'll give it to you—in wedlock, as it were. But I expect an appropriate gift in exchange."

Musashi was baffled; he had absolutely nothing to offer.

"I heard from Kōetsu that you carve statues. I'd be honored if you'd make me an image of Kannon. That would be sufficient payment."

The last Kannon Musashi had carved was the one he'd left in Hōtengahara. "I have nothing on hand," he said. "But in the next few days, I can carve something for you. May I have the sword then?"

"Certainly. I didn't mean to imply I expected it this minute. By the way, instead of putting up at that inn, why don't you come and stay with us? We have a room we're not using."

"That would be perfect," said Musashi. "If I moved in tomorrow, I could start on the statue right away."

"Come and take a look at it," urged Kōsuke, who was also happy and excited.

Musashi followed him down the outside passageway, at the end of which was a flight of half a dozen steps. Tucked in between the first and second floors, not quite belonging to either, was an eight-mat room. Through the window Musashi could see the dew-laden leaves of an apricot tree.

Pointing at a roof covered with oyster shells, Kōsuke said, "That's my workshop there."

The craftsman's wife, as if summoned by a secret signal, arrived with sake and some tidbits. When the two men sat down, the distinction between host and guest seemed to evaporate. They relaxed, legs stretched out, and opened their hearts to each other, oblivious of the restraints normally imposed by etiquette. The talk, of course, turned to their favorite subject.

"Everybody pays lip service to the importance of the sword," said Kōsuke. "Anybody'll tell you the sword's the 'soul of the samurai' and that a sword is one of the country's three sacred treasures. But the way people actually treat swords is scandalous. And I include samurai and priests, as well as townsmen. I took it upon myself at one time to go around to shrines and old houses where there were once whole collections of beautiful swords, and I can tell you the situation is shocking."

Kōsuke's pale cheeks were ruddy now. His eyes burned with enthusiasm, and the saliva that gathered at the corners of his mouth occasionally flew in a spray right into his companion's face.

"Almost none of the famous swords from the past are being properly taken care of. At Suwa Shrine in Shinano Province there are more than three hundred swords. They could be classed as heirlooms, but I found only five that weren't rusted. Ōmishima Shrine in Iyo is famous for its collection—three thousand swords dating back many centuries. But after spending a whole month there, I found only ten that were in good condition. It's disgusting!" Kōsuke caught his breath and continued. "The problem seems to be that the older and more famous the sword is, the more the owner is inclined to make sure it's stored in a safe place. But then nobody can get at it to take care of it, and the blade gets rustier and rustier.

"The owners are like parents who protect their children so jealously that the children grow up to be fools. In the case of children, more are being born all the time—doesn't make any difference if a few are stupid. But swords . . ."