Musashi: Bushido Code (107 page)

As he squatted in the grass like a frog, Iori heard an otherworldly voice call, "Otsū!" and was sure it had come from one of the fox's companions.

The rider had nearly reached a turnoff, where a road diverged to the south, and the upper part of her body glowed reddish. The sun, sinking behind the hills of Shibuya, was fringed by clouds.

If he killed her, he could expose her true fox form. Iori tightened his grip on the sword and braced himself, thinking: "Lucky it doesn't know
I'm
hiding here." Like all those acquainted with the truth about foxes, he knew the animal's spirit would be situated a few feet behind its human form. He swallowed hard in anticipation, while waiting for the vision to proceed and make the turn to the south.

But when the horse reached the turnoff, the woman stopped playing, put her flute in a cloth wrapper and tucked it into her obi. Lifting her veil, she peered about with searching eyes.

"Otsū!" the voice called again.

A pleasant smile came to her face as she called back, "Here I am, Hyōgo. Up here."

Iori watched as a samurai came up the road from the valley. "Oh, oh!" he gasped when he noticed that the man walked with a slight limp.
This
was the fox he had wounded; no doubt about it! Disguised not as a beautiful temptress but as a handsome samurai. The apparition terrified Iori. He shivered violently and wet himself.

After the woman and the samurai had exchanged a few words, the samurai took hold of the horse's bit and led it right past the place where Iori was hiding.

"Now's the time," he decided, but his body would not respond.

The samurai noticed a slight motion and looked around, his gaze falling squarely on Iori's petrified face. The light from the samurai's eyes seemed more brilliant than the edge of the setting sun. Iori prostrated himself and buried his face in the grass. Never in his entire fourteen years had he experienced such terror.

Hyōgo, seeing nothing alarming about the boy, walked on. The slope was steep, and he had to lean back to keep the horse in check. Looking over his shoulder at Otsū, he asked gently, "Why are you so late? You've been gone a long time just to have ridden to the shrine and back. My uncle got worried and sent me to look for you."

Without answering, Otsū jumped down from the horse.

Hyōgo stopped. "Why are you getting off? Something wrong?"

"No, but it's not fitting for a woman to ride when a man's walking. Let's walk together. We can both hold the bit." She took her place on the other side of the horse.

They descended into the darkening valley and passed a sign reading: "Sendan'en Academy for Priests of the Sōdō Zen Sect." The sky was filling with stars, and the Shibuya River could be heard in the distance. The river divided the valley into North Higakubo and South Higakubo. Since the school, established by the monk Rintatsu, lay on the north slope, the priests were casually referred to as the "fellows of the north." The "fellows of the south" were the men studying swordsmanship under Yagyū Munenori, whose establishment was directly across the valley.

As Yagyū Sekishūsai's favorite among his sons and grandsons, Yagyū Hyōgo enjoyed a special status among the "fellows of the south." He had also distinguished himself in his own right. At the age of twenty, he had been summoned by the famous general Katō Kiyomasa and given a position at Kumamoto Castle in Higo Province at a stipend of fifteen thousand bushels. This was unheard of for a man so young, but after the Battle of Sekigahara, Hyōgo began to have second thoughts about his status, because of the danger inherent in having to side with either the Tokugawas or the Osaka faction. Three years earlier, using his grandfather's illness as a pretext, he had taken a leave of absence from Kumamoto and returned to Yamato. After that, saying he needed more training, he had traveled about the countryside for a time.

He and Otsū had been thrown together by chance the previous year, when he had come to stay with his uncle. For more than three years prior to that, Otsū had led a precarious existence, never quite able to escape from Matahachi, who had dragged her along everywhere, glibly telling prospective employers that she was his wife. Had he been willing to work as an apprentice to a carpenter or a plasterer or a stonemason, he could have found employment on the day they arrived in Edo, but he preferred to imagine they could work together at softer jobs, she as a domestic servant perhaps, he as a clerk or accountant.

Finding no takers for his services, they had managed to survive by doing odd jobs. And as the months passed, Otsū, hoping to lull her tormentor into complacency, had given in to him in every way short of surrendering her body.

Then one day they had been walking along the street when they encountered a daimyō's procession. Along with everyone else, they moved to the side of the road and assumed a properly respectful attitude.

The palanquins and lacquered strongboxes bore the Yagyū crest. Otsū had raised her eyes enough to see this, and memories of Sekishūsai and the happy days at Koyagyū Castle flooded her heart. If only she were back in that peaceful land of Yamato now! With Matahachi at her side, she could only stare blankly after the passing retinue.

"Otsū, isn't that you?" The conical sedge hat came low over the samurai's face, but as he drew closer, Otsū had seen that it was Kimura Sukekurō, a man she remembered with affection and respect. She couldn't have been more amazed or thankful if he had been the Buddha himself, surrounded by the wondrous light of infinite compassion. Slipping away from Matahachi's side, she had hurried to Sukekurō, who promptly offered to take her home with him.

When Matahachi had opened his mouth to protest, Sukekurō said peremptorily, "If you have anything to say, come to Higakubo and say it there."

Powerless before the prestigious House of Yagyū, Matahachi held his tongue, biting his lower lip in angry frustration as he sullenly watched his precious treasure escape from him.

An Urgent Letter

At thirty-eight, Yagyū Munenori was regarded as the best swordsman of them all. This hadn't kept his father from constantly worrying about his fifth son. "If only he can control that little quirk of his," he often said to himself. Or: "Can anybody that self-willed manage to keep a high position?"

It was now fourteen years since Tokugawa Ieyasu had commanded Sekishūsai to provide a tutor. for Hidetada. Sekishūsai had passed over his other sons, grandsons and nephews. Munenori was neither particularly brilliant nor heroically masculine, but he was a man of good, solid judgment, a practical man not likely to get lost in the clouds. He possessed neither his father's towering stature nor Hyōgo's genius, but he was reliable, and most important, he understood the cardinal principle of the Yagyū Style, namely that the true value of the Art of War lay in its application to government.

Sekishūsai had not misinterpreted Ieyasu's wishes; the conquering general had no use for a swordsman to teach his heir only technical skills. Some years before Sekigahara, Ieyasu himself had studied under a master swordsman named Okuyama, his objective being, as he himself frequently expressed it, "to acquire the eye needed to oversee the country."

Still, Hidetada was now shōgun, and it would not do for the shōgun's instructor to be a man who lost in actual combat. A samurai in Munenori's position was expected to excel over all challengers and to demonstrate that Yagyū swordsmanship was second to none. Munenori felt he was constantly being scrutinized and tested, and while others might regard him as lucky to have been singled out for this distinguished appointment, he himself often envied Hyōgo and wished he could live the way his nephew did.

Hyōgo, as it happened, was now walking down the outside passageway leading to his uncle's room. The house, though large and sprawling, was neither stately in appearance nor lavish in its appointments. Instead of employing carpenters from Kyoto to create an elegant, graceful dwelling, Munenori had deliberately entrusted the work to local builders, men accustomed to the sturdy, spartan warrior style of Kamakura. Though the trees were relatively sparse, and the hills of no great height, Munenori had chosen the solid rustic style of architecture exemplified by the old Main House at Koyagyū.

"Uncle," called Hyōgo softly and politely, as he knelt on the veranda outside Munenori's room.

"Is that you, Hyōgo?" asked Munenori without removing his eyes from the garden.

"May I come in?"

Having received permission to enter, Hyōgo made his way into the room on his knees. He had taken quite a few liberties with his grandfather, who was inclined to spoil him, but he knew better than to do that with his uncle. Munenori, though no martinet, was a stickler for etiquette. Now, as always, he was seated in strict formal fashion. At times Hyōgo felt sorry for him.

"Otsū?" asked Munenori, as though reminded of her by Hyōgo's arrival.

"She's back. She'd only gone to Hikawa Shrine, the way she often does. On the way back, she let her horse wander around for a while."

"You went looking for her?"

"Yes, sir."

Munenori remained silent for a few moments. The lamplight accented his tight-lipped profile. "It worries me to have a young woman living here indefinitely. You never know what might happen. I've told Sukekurō to look for an opportunity to suggest she go elsewhere."

His tone slightly plaintive, Hyōgo said, "I'm told she has no place to go." His uncle's change of attitude surprised him, for when Sukekurō had brought Otsū home and introduced her as a woman who had served Sekishūsai well, Munenori had welcomed her cordially and said she was free to stay as long as she wished. "Don't you feel sorry for her?" he asked.

"Yes, but there's a limit to what you can do for people."

"I thought you yourself thought well of her."

"It has nothing to do with that. When a young woman comes to live in a house full of young men, tongues are apt to wag. And it's difficult for the men. One of them might do something rash."

This time Hyōgo was silent, but not because he took his uncle's remarks personally. He was thirty and, like the other young samurai, single, but he firmly believed his own feelings toward Otsū were too pure to raise doubts about his intentions. He had been careful to allay his uncle's misgivings by making no secret of his fondness for her, while at the same time not once letting on that his feeling went beyond friendship.

Hyōgo felt that the problem might lie with his uncle. Munenori's wife came from a highly respected and well-placed family, of the sort whose daughters were delivered to their husbands on their wedding day in curtained palanquins lest they be seen by outsiders. Her chambers, together with those of the other women, were well removed from the more public parts of the house, so virtually no one knew whether relations between the master and his wife were harmonious. It was not difficult to imagine that the lady of the house might take a dim view of beautiful and eligible young women in such proximity to her husband.

Hyōgo broke the silence, saying, "Leave the matter to Sukekurō and me. We'll work out some solution that won't be too hard on Otsū."

Munenori nodded, saying, "The sooner the better."

Sukekurō entered the anteroom just then, and placing a letter box on the tatami, knelt and bowed. "Your lordship," he said respectfully.

Turning his eyes toward the anteroom, Munenori asked, "What is it?" Sukekurō moved forward on his knees.

"A courier from Koyagyū has just arrived by fast horse."

"Fast horse?" said Munenori quickly, but without surprise.

Hyōgo accepted the box from Sukekurō and handed it to his uncle. Munenori opened the letter, which was from Shōda Kizaemon. Written in haste, it said: "The Old Lord has had another spell, worse than any previous. We fear he may not last long. He stoutly insists his illness is not sufficient reason for you to leave your duties. However, after discussing the matter among ourselves, we retainers decided to write and inform you of the situation."

"His condition is critical," said Munenori.

Hyōgo admired his uncle's ability to remain calm. He surmised that Munenori knew exactly what was to be done and had already made the necessary decisions.

After some minutes of silence, Munenori said, "Hyōgo, will you go to Koyagyū in my stead?"

"Of course, sir."

"I want you to assure my father there's nothing to worry about in Edo. And I want you to look after him personally."

"Yes, sir."

"I suppose it's all in the hands of the gods and the Buddha now. All you can do is hurry and try to get there before it's too late."

"I'll leave tonight."

From Lord Munenori's room, Hyōgo went immediately to his own. During the short time it took him to lay out the few things he would need, the bad news spread to every corner of the house.

Otsū quietly went to Hyōgo's room, dressed, to his surprise, for traveling. Her eyes were moist. "Please take me with you," she pleaded. "I can never hope to repay Lord Sekishūsai for taking me into his home, but I'd like to be with him and see if I can be of some assistance. I hope you won't refuse."

Hyōgo considered it possible that his uncle might have refused her, but he himself did not have the heart to. Perhaps it was a blessing that this opportunity to take her away from the house in Edo had presented itself.

"All right," he agreed, "but it'll have to be a fast journey."

"I promise I won't slow you down." Drying her tears, she helped him finish packing and then went to pay her respects to Lord Munenori.

"Oh, are you going to accompany Hyōgo?" he said, mildly surprised. "That's very kind of you. I'm sure my father will be pleased to see you." He made a point of giving her ample travel money and a new kimono as a going-away present. Despite his conviction that it was for the best, her departure saddened him.

She bowed herself out of his presence. "Take good care of yourself," he said with feeling, as she reached the anteroom.

The vassals and servants lined up along the path to the gate to see them off, and with a simple "Farewell" from Hyōgo, they were on their way.

Otsū had folded her kimono up under her obi, so the hem reached only five or six inches below her knees. On her head was a broad-brimmed lacquered traveling hat and in her right hand she carried a stick. Had her shoulders been draped with blossoms, she would have been the image of the Wisteria Girl so often seen in woodblock prints.

Since Hyōgo had decided to hire conveyances at the stations along the highroad, their goal tonight was the inn town of Sangen'ya, south of Shibuya. From there, his plan was to proceed along the Oyama highroad to the Tama River, take the ferry across, and follow the Tōkaidō to Kyoto.

In the night mist, it was not long before Otsū’s lacquered hat glistened with moisture. After walking through a grassy river valley, they came to a rather wide road, which since the Kamakura period had been one of the most important in the Kantō district. At night it was lonely and deserted, with trees growing thickly on both sides.

"Gloomy, isn't it?" said Hyōgo with a smile, again slowing down his naturally long strides to let Otsū catch up with him. "This is Dōgen Slope. There used to be bandits around here," he added.

"Bandits?" There was just enough alarm in her voice to make him laugh.

"That was a long time ago, though. A man by the name of Dōgen Tarō, who was related to the rebel Wada Yoshimori, is supposed to have been the head of a band of thieves who lived in the caves around here."

"Let's not talk about things like that."

Hyōgo's laughter echoed through the dark, and hearing it made him feel guilty for acting frivolous. He couldn't help himself, however. Though sad, he looked forward with pleasure to being with Otsū these next few days.

"Oh!" cried Otsū, taking a couple of steps backward.

"What's the matter?" Instinctively, Hyōgo's arm went around her shoulders. "There's somebody over there."

"Where?"

"It's a child, sitting there by the side of the road, talking to himself and crying. The poor thing!"

When Hyōgo got close enough, he recognized the boy he had seen earlier that evening, hiding in the grass in Azabu.

Iori leaped to his feet with a gasp. An instant later, he uttered an oath and pointed his sword at Hyōgo. "Fox!" he cried. "That's what you are, a fox!"

Otsū caught her breath and stifled a scream. The look on Iori's face was wild, almost demonic, as if he were possessed by an evil spirit. Even Hyōgo drew back cautiously.

"Foxes!" Iori shouted again. "I'll take care of you!" His voice cracked hoarsely, like an old woman's. Hyōgo stared at him in puzzlement but was careful to steer clear of his blade.

"How's this?" shouted Iori, whacking off the top of a tall shrub not far from Hyōgo's side. Then he sank to the ground, exhausted by his effort. Breathing hard, he asked, "What did you think of that, fox?"

Turning to Otsū, Hyōgo said with a grin, "Poor little fellow. He seems to be possessed by a fox."

"Maybe you're right. His eyes are ferocious."

"Just like a fox's."

"Isn't there something we can do to help him?"

"Well, they say there's no cure for either madness or stupidity, but I suspect there's a remedy for his ailment." He walked up to Iori and glared sternly at him.

Glancing up, the boy hastily gripped his sword again. "Still here, are you?" he cried. But before he could get to his feet, his ears were assailed by a fierce roar coming from the pit of Hyōgo's stomach.

"Y-a-a-w-r!"

Iori was scared witless. Hyōgo picked him up by the waist, and holding him horizontally, strode back down the hill to the bridge. He turned the boy upside down, grasped him by the ankles and held him out over the railing.

"Help! Mother! Help, help!
Sensei!
Save me!" The screams gradually changed to a wail.

Otsū hastened to the rescue. "Stop that, Hyōgo. Let him go. You shouldn't be so cruel."

"I guess that's enough," said Hyōgo, setting the boy down gently on the bridge.

Iori was in a terrible state, bawling and choking, convinced there was not a soul on earth who could help him. Otsū went to his side and put her arm affectionately around his drooping shoulders. "Where do you live, child?" she asked softly.

Between sobs, Iori stammered, "0-over th-th-that way," and pointed. "What do you mean, 'that way'?"

"Ba-ba-bakurōchō."

"Why, that's miles away. How did you get all the way out here?" "I came on an errand. I got lost."

"When was that?"

"I left Bakurōchō yesterday."

"And you've been wandering around all night and all day?" Iori half shook his head, but didn't say anything. "Why, that's terrible. Tell me, where were you supposed to go?"

A little calmer now, he replied promptly, as though he'd been waiting for the question. "To the residence of Lord Yagyū Munenori of Tajima." After feeling around under his obi, he clutched the crumpled letter and waved it proudly in front of his face. Bringing it close to his eyes, he said, "It's for Kimura Sukekurō. I'm to deliver it and wait for an answer."

Otsū saw that Iori took his mission very seriously and was ready to guard the missive with his life. Iori, for his part, was determined to show the letter to no one before he reached his destination. Neither had any inkling of the irony of the situation—a missed chance, a happening rarer than the coming together across the River of Heaven of the Herdboy and the Spinning Maiden.

Turning to Hyōgo, Otsū said, "He seems to have a letter for Sukekurō."

"He's wandered off in the wrong direction, hasn't he? Fortunately, it's not very far." Calling Iori to him, he gave him directions. "Go along this river to the first crossroads, then go left and up the hill. When you get to a place where three roads come together, you'll see a pair of large pine trees off to your right. The house is to the left, across the road."