Musashi: Bushido Code (123 page)

"Out with it!"

"But ... I ... I don't know anything."

"Liar!" said Jōtarō, tightening his grip. "Somebody sent you after me. You're a spy!"

"And you—you're a lousy thief!"

"What?" Jōtarō shouted, his face almost touching Iori's.

Iori bent nearly to the ground, broke loose and took off.

Jōtarō hesitated a minute, then set off after him.

Off to one side, Iori could see thatched roofs scattered about like wasp nests. He ran through a field of reddish autumn grass, kicking apart several dusty molehills.

"Help! Help! Thief!" cried Iori.

The small village he was entering was inhabited by families charged with fighting fires on the plain. Iori could hear a blacksmith's hammer and anvil. People came running out of dark stables and houses where persimmons had been hung to dry. Waving his arms, Iori panted, "The man with the bandanna ... chasing me ... is a thief. Capture him. Please! ... Oh, oh! Here he comes."

The villagers stared in bewilderment, some looking fearfully at the two youths, but to Iori's dismay they made no move to capture Jōtarō.

"He's a thief! He stole from the temple!"

He stopped halfway through the village, conscious that the only thing disturbing the peaceful atmosphere was his own shouting. Then he took to his heels again and found a place to hide and catch his breath.

Jōtarō cautiously slowed down to a dignified walk. The villagers watched in silence. He certainly didn't look like either a robber or a rōnin up to no good; in fact, he seemed like a clean-cut youth incapable of committing any kind of crime.

Disgusted that the villagers—grownups!—wouldn't stand up to a thief, Iori made up his mind to hurry back to Nakano, where he could at least present his case to people he knew.

He left the road and struck out across the plain. When he could see the cryptomeria grove behind the house, there was only a mile to go. Filled with relief, he changed his pace, from a trot to a full run.

Suddenly he saw that his way was blocked by a man with both arms outstretched.

He didn't have time to figure out how Jōtarō had got ahead of him, but he was on home ground now. He jumped back and drew his sword.

"You bastard," he screamed.

Jōtarō rushed forward empty-handed and caught Iori's collar, but the boy pulled free and jumped ten feet to the side.

"Son of a bitch," muttered Jōtarō, feeling warm blood running down his right arm from a two-inch cut.

Iori took a stance and fixed his mind on the lesson Musashi had drummed into him. Eyes ... Eyes ... Eyes ... His strength concentrated in his bright pupils, his whole being seemed to be channeled into a pair of fiery eyes.

Outstared, Jōtarō whipped out his own sword. "I'll have to kill you," he snarled.

Iori, taking fresh courage from the strike he had scored, charged, his attack the one he always employed against Musashi.

Jōtarō was having second thoughts. He hadn't believed Iori could use a sword; now he put his full strength into the fight. For the sake of his comrades, he had to get this meddling child out of the way. Seemingly ignoring Iori's attack, he pressed forward and swung viciously, but unsuccessfully.

After two or three parries, Iori turned around, ran, stopped, and charged again. When Jōtarō countered, he retreated again, encouraged to see that his strategy was working. He was drawing the opponent into his own territory.

Pausing to catch his breath, Jōtarō looked around the dark grove and shouted, "Where are you, you stupid little bastard?" The answer was a shower of bark and leaves. Jōtarō raised his head and shouted, "I see you," though all he could actually see through the foliage was a couple of stars.

Jōtarō started climbing toward the rustling sound Iori made as he moved out on a limb. From there, unfortunately, there was nowhere to go.

"I've got you now. Unless you can grow wings, you'd better give up. Otherwise you're dead."

Iori moved silently back to the fork of two limbs. Jōtarō climbed slowly and carefully. When Jōtarō reached out to grab him, Iori again moved out on one of the limbs. With a grunt, Jōtarō caught hold of a branch with both hands and started to pull himself up, giving Iori the chance he'd been waiting for. With a resounding whack, his sword connected with the branch Jōtarō was on. It broke, and Jōtarō plummeted to the ground.

"How do you like that, thief!" gloated Iori.

His fall broken by lower branches, Jōtarō wasn't seriously injured, except for his pride. He cursed and started back up the tree, this time with the speed of a leopard. When he was under Iori's feet again, Iori slashed back and forth with his sword to keep him from getting any nearer.

While they were locked in stalemate, the plaintive tones of a
shakuhachi
came to their ears. For a moment, they both stopped and listened.

Then Jōtarō decided to try reasoning with his adversary. "All right," he said, "you put up a better fight than I expected. I admire you for that. If you'll tell me who asked you to follow me, I'll let you go."

"Admit you're licked!"

"Are you crazy?"

"I may not be very big
_;
but I'm Misawa Iori, the only disciple of Miyamoto Musashi. Begging mercy would be an insult to my master's reputation. Give up!"

"Wh-what?" said Jōtarō incredulously. "S-say that once more." His voice was shrill and unsteady.

"Listen carefully," Iori said proudly. "I am Misawa Iori, the only pupil of Miyamoto Musashi. Does that surprise you?"

Jōtarō was ready to admit defeat. With a mixture of doubt and curiosity, he asked, "How is my teacher? Is he well? Where is he?"

Astonished, but keeping a safe distance from Jōtarō, who was moving closer, Iori said, "Ha!
Sensei
would never have a thief for a disciple."

"Don't call me that. Didn't Musashi ever mention Jōtarō?"

"Jōtarō?"

"If you're really Musashi's pupil, you must've heard him mention my name sometime or other. I was about your age then."

"That's a lie."

"No it isn't. It's the truth."

Overcome with nostalgia, Jōtarō reached out to Iori and tried to explain that they should be friends because they were disciples of the same teacher. Still wary, Iori took a swipe at his ribs.

Squeezed precariously between two limbs, Jōtarō barely succeeded in clasping his hand around Iori's wrist. For some reason, Iori let go of the branch he was holding on to. When they fell, they fell together, one landing on top of the other, both knocked senseless.

The light in Musashi's new house was visible from all directions, since, though the roof was in place, the walls hadn't been built yet.

Takuan, arriving the day before for an after-the-storm call, had decided to wait for Musashi's return. Today, just after nightfall, his enjoyment of his solitary surroundings had been interrupted by a mendicant priest asking for hot water to go with his supper.

After his meager meal of rice balls, the aged priest had taken it upon himself to play his
shakuhachi
for Takuan, fingering his instrument in a halting, amateurish fashion. Yet as Takuan listened, the music struck him as having genuine feeling, albeit of the artless sort often expressed in poems by non-poets. He thought, too, that he could recognize the emotion the player was attempting to wring from his instrument. It was remorse, from the first off-key note to the last—a wailing cry of repentance.

It seemed to be the story of the man's life, but then, Takuan reflected, that couldn't have been too different from his own. Whether people were great or not, there was not much variety in their inner life experience. Any difference lay merely in how they dealt with common human weaknesses. To Takuan, both he and the other man were basically a bundle of illusions wrapped in human skin.

"I do believe I've seen you before somewhere," Takuan murmured thoughtfully.

The priest blinked his almost sightless eyes and said, "Now that you mention it, I thought I recognized your voice. Aren't you Takuan Sōhō from Tajima?"

Takuan's memory cleared. Moving the lamp closer to the man's face, he said, "You're Aoki Tanzaemon, aren't you?"

"Then you
are
Takuan. Oh, I wish I could crawl into a hole and hide this miserable flesh of mine!"

"How strange we should meet in a place like this. It's been nearly ten years since that time at the Shippōji, hasn't it?"

"Thinking of those days gives me a chill." Then he said stiffly, "Now that I'm reduced to wandering about in darkness, this wretched sack of bones is sustained only by thoughts of my son."

"Do you have a son?"

"I've been told he's with that man who was tied up in the old cryptomeria tree. Takezō, was it? I hear he's called Miyamoto Musashi now. The two of them are said to have come east."

"You mean your son is Musashi's disciple?"

"That's what they say. I was so ashamed. I couldn't face Musashi, so I resolved to put the boy out of my mind. But now ... he's seventeen this year. If only I could have one look at him and see what kind of a man he's growing up to be, I'd be ready and willing to die."

"So Jōtarō's your son. I didn't know that," said Takuan.

Tanzaemon nodded. There was no hint in his shriveled form of the proud captain filled with lust for Otsū. Takuan gazed at him with pity, pained to see Tanzaemon so tormented by guilt.

Seeing that despite his priestly garb he lacked even the comfort of religious faith, Takuan decided the first thing he should do was bring him face to face with the Buddha Amida, whose infinite mercy saves even those guilty of the ten evils and the five deadly sins. There would be time enough after he'd recovered from his despair to look for Jōtarō.

Takuan gave him the name of a Zen temple in Edo. "If you tell them I sent you, they'll let you stay as long as you wish. As soon as I have time, I'll come and we'll have a long talk. I have an idea where your son might be. I'll do everything I can to make sure you see him in the not too distant future. In the meantime, give up brooding. Even after a man's fifty or sixty, he can still know happiness, even do useful work. You may live for many more years. Talk it over with the priests when you get to the temple."

Takuan shooed Tanzaemon out the door, unceremoniously and without showing any sympathy, but Tanzaemon seemed to appreciate the unsentimental attitude. After numerous bows of gratitude, he picked up his reed hat and
shakuhachi
and left.

For fear of slipping, Tanzaemon chose to go through the woods, where the path sloped more gently. Presently his cane struck an obstacle. Feeling around with his hands, he was surprised to find two bodies lying motionless on the damp ground.

He hurried back to the cabin. "Takuan! Can you help me? I came across two unconscious boys in the woods." Takuan roused himself and came outside. Tanzaemon continued: "I don't have any medicine with me, and I can't see well enough to get water for them."

Takuan slipped on his sandals and shouted toward the bottom of the hill. His voice carried easily. A farmer answered, asking him what he wanted. Takuan told him to bring a torch, some men and some water. While he waited, he suggested to Tanzaemon that the road was the better way to go, described it in detail and sent him on his way. Halfway down the hill, Tanzaemon passed the men coming up.

When Takuan arrived with the farmers, Jōtarō had come to and was sitting underneath the tree, looking dazed. One hand resting on Iori's arm, he was debating whether to revive him and find out what he wanted to know or to get away from there. He reacted to the torch like a nocturnal animal, tensing his muscles, ready to run.

"What's going on here?" asked Takuan. As he looked more closely, inquisitive interest turned to surprise, a surprise matched by Jōtarō's. The young man was much taller than the boy Takuan had known, and his face had changed quite a bit.

"You're Jōtarō, aren't you?"

The youth placed both hands on the ground and bowed. "Yes, I am," he replied haltingly, almost fearfully. He'd recognized Takuan instantly.

"Well, I must say, you've grown up to be a fine young man." Turning his attention to Iori, he put his arm around him and ascertained that he was still alive.

Iori revived, and after looking around curiously for a few seconds, burst into tears.

"What's the matter?" Takuan asked soothingly. "Are you hurt?"

Iori shook his head and blubbered, "I'm not hurt. But they took my teacher away. He's in the prison in Chichibu." With Iori bawling the way he was, Takuan had trouble understanding him, but soon the basic facts of the story became clear. Takuan, realizing the seriousness of the situation, was nearly as grieved as Iori.

Jōtarō, too, was deeply agitated. In a shaky voice, he said abruptly, "Takuan, I have something to tell you. Could we go somewhere where we can talk?"

"He's one of the thieves," said Iori. "You can't trust him. Anything he says will be a lie." He pointed accusingly at Jōtarō, and they glared at each other.

"Shut up, both of you. Let me decide who's right and who's wrong." Takuan led them back to the house and ordered them to build a fire outside.

Seating himself by the fire, Takuan commanded them to do likewise. Iori hesitated, his expression saying very plainly he had no intention of being friendly with a thief. But seeing Takuan and Jōtarō talking amiably over old times, he felt a pang of jealousy and grudgingly took a seat near them.

Jōtarō lowered his voice, and like a woman confessing her sins before the Buddha, became very earnest.

"For four years now, I've been receiving training from a man named Daizō. He comes from Narai in Kiso. I've learned about his aspirations and what he wants to do for the world. I'd be willing to die for him, if necessary. And that's why I've tried to help him with his work.... Well, it does hurt to be called a thief. But I'm still Musashi's disciple. Even though I'm separated from him, I've never been apart from him in spirit, not even for a day."