Musashi: Bushido Code (110 page)

"Collect it when you get there."

Kojirō made a quick search of the riverbank and around the stacks of lumber, deciding as he did so that he'd do just as well to go back to Yajibei's house. There was little point in meeting Musashi without Osugi; it also seemed unwise to face the man in his present state of mind.

Starting back, he came to a firebreak, along one side of which grew a row of paulownia trees. He looked at it for a minute, then as he turned away, he saw the glint of a blade among the trees. Before he knew it, half a dozen leaves fell. The sword had been aimed at his head.

"Yellow-livered coward!" he shouted.

"Not me!" came the reply as the sword struck out a second time from the darkness.

Kojirō whirled and jumped back a full seven feet. "If you're Musashi, why don't you use the proper—" Before he could finish, the sword was at him again. "Who are you?" he shouted. "Aren't you making a mistake?"

He dodged a third stroke successfully, and the attacker, badly winded, realized before attempting a fourth that he was wasting his effort. Changing tactics, he began inching forward with his blade extended before him. His eyes were shooting fire. "Silence," he growled. "There's no mistake at all. Perhaps it'll refresh your memory if you know my name. I'm Hōjō Shinzō."

"You're one of Obata's students, aren't you?"

"You insulted my master and killed several of my comrades."

"By the warrior's code, you're free to challenge me openly at any time. Sasaki Kojirō doesn't play hide-and-seek."

"I'll kill you."

"Go ahead and try."

As Kojirō watched him close the distance—twelve feet, eleven, ten—he quietly loosened the upper part of his kimono and placed his right hand on his sword. "Come on!" he cried.

The challenge caused an involuntary hesitation on Shinzō's part, a momentary wavering. Kojirō's body bent forward, his arm snapped like a bow, and there was a metallic ring. The next instant, his sword clicked sharply back into its scabbard. There had been only a thin flashing thread of light.

Shinzō was still standing, his legs spread apart. There was no sign of blood yet, but it was plain that he'd been wounded. Though his sword was still stretched out at eye level, his left hand had gone reflexively to his neck.

"Oh!" Gasps went up on both sides of Shinzō at the same time—from Kojirō and from a man running up behind Shinzō. The sound of footsteps, together with the voice, sent Kojirō off into the darkness.

"What happened?" cried Kōsuke. He reached out to support Shinzō, only to have the full weight of the other man's body fall into his arms. "Oh, this looks bad!" cried Kōsuke. "Help! Help, somebody!"

A piece of flesh no larger than a clamshell fell from Shinzō's neck. The blood gushing out soaked first Shinzō's arm, then the skirts of his kimono all the way to his feet.

A Block of Wood

Plunk. Another green plum fell from the tree in the dark garden outside. Musashi ignored it, if he heard it at all. In the bright but unsteady lamplight, his disheveled hair appeared heavy and bristly, lacking in natural oil and reddish in color.

"What a difficult child!" his mother had often complained. The stubborn disposition that had so often reduced her to tears was still with him, as enduring as the scar on his head left by a large carbuncle during childhood.

Memories of his mother now floated through his mind; at times the face he was carving closely resembled hers.

A few minutes earlier Kōsuke had come to the door, hesitated and called in: "Are you still working? A man named Sasaki Kojirō says he'd like to see you. He's waiting downstairs. Do you want to speak to him, or shall I tell him you've already gone to bed?"

Musashi had the vague impression Kōsuke had repeated his message but wasn't sure whether he himself had answered.

The small table, Musashi's knees and the floor immediately around him were littered with wood chips. He was trying to finish the image of Kannon he had promised Kōsuke in exchange for the sword. His task had been made even more challenging because of a special request by Kōsuke, a man of pronounced likes and dislikes.

When Kōsuke had first taken the ten-inch block out of a cupboard and very gently handed it to him, Musashi saw that it must have been six or seven hundred years old. Kōsuke treated it like an heirloom, for it had come from an eighth-century temple at the tomb of Prince Shōtoku in Shinaga. "I was on a trip there," he explained, "and they were repairing the old buildings. Some stupid priests and carpenters were axing up the old beams for firewood. I couldn't stand seeing the wood wasted that way, so I got them to cut off this block for me."

The grain was good, as was the feel of the wood to the knife, but thinking of how highly Kōsuke valued his treasure made Musashi nervous. If he made a slip, he would ruin an irreplaceable piece of material.

He heard a bang, which sounded like the wind blowing open the gate in the garden hedge. Looking up from his work, for almost the first time since he had begun carving, he thought: "Could that be Iori?" and cocked his head, waiting for confirmation.

"What're you standing there gaping for?" Kōsuke shouted at his wife. "Can't you see the man's badly wounded? It doesn't make any difference which room!"

Behind Kōsuke, the men carrying Shinzō excitedly offered to help.

"Any spirits to wash the wound with? If there aren't, I'll go home for some."

"I'll fetch the doctor."

After the commotion died down a bit, Kōsuke said, "I want to thank all of you. I think we saved his life; no more need to worry." He bowed deeply to each man as he left the house.

Finally it penetrated Musashi's consciousness that something had happened and Kōsuke was involved. Brushing the chips from his knees, he descended the staircase formed by the tops of tiered storage chests and went to the room where Kōsuke and his wife stood staring down at the wounded man.

"Oh, are you still awake?" asked the sword polisher, moving over to make a place for Musashi.

Sitting down near the man's pillow, Musashi looked closely at his face and inquired, "Who is he?"

"I couldn't have been more surprised. I didn't recognize him until we got him back here, but it's Hōjō Shinzō, the son of Lord Hōjō of Awa. He's a very dedicated young man who's been studying under Obata Kagenori for several years."

Musashi carefully lifted the edge of the white bandage around Shinzō's neck and examined the wound, which had been cauterized, then washed with alcohol. The clam-sized piece of flesh had been sliced out cleanly, exposing the pulsating carotid artery. Death had come that close. "Who?" Musashi wondered. From the shape of the wound, it seemed probable the sword had been on the upswing of a swallow-flight stroke.

Swallow-flight stroke? Kojirō's specialty.

"Do you know what happened?" Musashi asked.

"Not yet."

"Neither do I, of course, but I can tell you this much." He nodded his head confidently. "It's the work of Sasaki Kojirō."

Back in his own room, Musashi lay down on the tatami with his hands under his head, ignoring the mess around him. His pallet had been spread, but he ignored that too, despite his fatigue.

He had been working on the statue for nearly forty-eight hours straight. Not being a sculptor, he lacked the technical skills necessary to solve difficult problems, nor could he execute the deft strokes that would cover up a mistake. He had nothing to go on but the image of Kannon he carried in his heart, and his sole technique was to clear his mind of extraneous thoughts and do his best to faithfully transfer this image to the wood.

He would think for a time that the sculpture was taking form, but then somehow it would go wrong, some slip would occur between the image in his mind and the hand working with the dagger. Just as he felt he was making progress again, the carving would get out of hand again. After many false starts, the ancient piece of wood had shrunk to a length of no more than four inches.

He heard a nightingale call twice, then dropped off to sleep for perhaps an hour. When he awoke, his strong body was surging with energy, his mind perfectly clear. As he arose, he thought: "I'll make it this time." Going to the well behind the house, he washed his face and swilled water through his teeth. Refreshed, he sat down by the lamp again and took up his work with renewed vigor.

The knife had a different feel to it now. In the grain of the wood he sensed the centuries of history contained within the block. He knew that if he did not carve skillfully this time, there would be nothing left but a pile of useless chips. For the next few hours, he concentrated with feverish intensity. Not once did his back unbend, nor did he stop for a drink of water. The sky grew light, the birds began to sing, all the doors in the house save his were thrown open for the morning's cleaning. Still, his attention remained focused on the tip of his knife.

"Musashi, are you all right?" asked his host in a worried tone, as he slid open the shoji and entered the room.

"It's no good," Musashi sighed. He straightened up and tossed his dagger aside. The block of wood was no larger than a man's thumb. The wood around his legs lay like fallen snow.

"No good?"

"No good."

"How about the wood?"

"Gone....I couldn't get the bodhisattva's form to emerge." Placing his hands behind his head, he felt himself returning to earth after having been suspended for an indeterminate length of time between delusion and enlightenment. "No good at all. It's time to forget and to meditate."

He lay on his back. When he closed his eyes, distractions seemed to fade away, to be replaced by a blinding mist. Gradually, his mind filled with the single idea of the infinite void.

Most of the guests leaving the inn that morning were horse traders, going home after the four-day market that had ended the day before. For the next few weeks, the inn would see few customers.

Catching sight of Iori going up the stairs, the proprietress called out to him from the office.

"What do you want?" asked Iori. From his vantage point, he could see the woman's artfully disguised bald spot.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Upstairs, where my teacher is. Something wrong?"

"More than you know," replied the woman with an exasperated glance. "Just when did you leave here?"

Counting on his fingers, Iori answered, "The day before the day before yesterday, I think."

"Three days ago, wasn't it?"

"That's right."

"You certainly took your time, didn't you? What happened? Did a fox bewitch you or something?"

"How'd you know? You must be a fox yourself." Giggling at his own riposte, he started for the top of the stairs again.

"Your teacher's not here anymore."

"I don't believe you." He ran up the stairs, but soon came back with a dismayed look on his face. "Has he changed rooms?"

"What's the matter with you? I told you he left."

"Really gone?" There was alarm in the boy's voice.

"If you don't believe me, look at the account book. See?"

"But why? Why would he leave before I got back?"

"Because you were gone too long."

"But ... but . . ." Iori burst into tears. "Where did he go? Please tell me." "He didn't tell me where he was going. I imagine he left you behind because you're so useless."

His color changing, Iori charged out into the street. He looked east, west, then he gazed up at the sky. Tears poured down his cheeks.

Scratching the bald spot with a comb, the woman broke into raucous laughter. "Stop your bawling," she called. "I was only fooling. Your teacher's staying at the sword polisher's, over there." She had barely finished speaking when a straw horseshoe came sailing into the office.

Meekly, Iori sat down in formal fashion at Musashi's feet and in a subdued voice announced, "I'm back."

He'd already noticed the atmosphere of gloom hanging over the house. The wood chips had not been cleaned up, and the burned-out lamp was still sitting where it had been the night before.

"I'm back," Iori repeated, no more loudly than before.

"Who is it?" mumbled Musashi, slowly opening his eyes.

"Iori."

Musashi sat up quickly. Although relieved to see the boy back safe, his only greeting was: "Oh, it's you."

"I'm sorry I took so long." This met with silence. "Forgive me." Neither his apology nor a polite bow elicited a response.

Musashi tightened his obi and said, "Open the windows and tidy up the room."

He was out the door before Iori had time to say, "Yes, sir."

Musashi went to the room downstairs at the back and asked Kōsuke how the invalid was this morning.

"He seems to be resting better."

"You must be tired. Shall I come back after breakfast so you can have a rest?"

Kōsuke answered that there was no need. "There is one thing I would like to see done," he added. "I think we should let the Obata School know about this, but I don't have anybody to send."

Having offered to either go himself or send Iori, Musashi went back to his own room, which was now in good order. As he sat down, he said, "Iori, was there an answer to my letter?"

Relieved at not being scolded, the boy broke into a smile. "Yes, I brought a reply. It's right here." With a look of triumph, he fished the letter from his kimono.

"Let me have it."

Iori advanced on his knees and placed the folded paper in Musashi's outstretched hand. "I am sorry to say," Sukekurō had written, "that Lord Munenori, as tutor to the shōgun, cannot engage in a bout with you, as you requested. If, however, you should visit us for some other purpose, there is a possibility that his lordship may greet you in the dōjō. If you still feel strongly about trying your hand against the Yagyū Style, the best plan, I think, would be for you to confront Yagyū Hyōgo. I regret to say, however, that he left yesterday for Yamato to be at the bedside of Lord Sekishūsai, who is gravely ill. Such being the case, I must ask you to postpone your visit until a later day. I shall be happy to make arrangements at that time."

As he slowly refolded the lengthy scroll, Musashi smiled. Iori, feeling more secure, extended his legs comfortably and said, "The house is not in Kobikichō; it's at a place called Higakubo. It's very large, very splendid, and Kimura Sukekurō gave me lots of good things to eat—"

His eyebrows arching in disapproval at this display of familiarity, Musashi said gravely, "Iori."

The boy's legs quickly shot back to their proper place under him. "Yes, sir." "Even if you did get lost, don't you think three days is a rather long time? What happened?"

"I was bewitched by a fox."

"A fox?"

"Yes, sir, a fox."

"How could a boy like you, born and raised in the country, be bewitched by a fox?"

"I don't know, but afterward I couldn't remember where I'd been for half a day and half a night."

"Hmm. Very strange."

"Yes, sir. I thought so myself. Maybe foxes in Edo have it in for people more than the ones in the country do."

"I suspect that's true." Taking into account the boy's seriousness, Musashi did not have the heart to scold him, but he did feel it necessary to pursue his point. "I also suspect," he continued, "you were up to something you shouldn't have been up to."

"Well, the fox was following me, and to keep it from bewitching me, I cut it with my sword. Then the fox punished me for that."

"No, it didn't."

"Didn't it?"

"No. It wasn't the fox punishing you; it was your own conscience, which is invisible. Now, you sit there and think about that for a while. When I come back, you can tell me what you think it means."

"Yes, sir. Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes; to a place near the Hirakawa Shrine in Kōjimachi."

"You'll be back by evening, won't you?"

"Ha, ha. I should be, unless a fox gets me."

Musashi departed, leaving Iori to ponder his conscience. Outside, the sky was obscured by the dull, sullen clouds of the summer rainy season.