Musashi: Bushido Code (127 page)

It occurred to Musashi what an odd fact it was that most children could draw—and sing, for that matter—but that they forgot how to as they grew older. Perhaps the little bit of wisdom they acquired inhibited them. He himself was no exception. As a child he had often drawn pictures, this having been one of his favorite ways of overcoming loneliness. But from the age of thirteen or fourteen until he was past twenty, he gave up drawing almost entirely.

In the course of his travels he had often stopped over at temples or the houses of the wealthy, where he had the opportunity to see good paintings—murals, or scrolls hanging in alcoves—and this had given him a lively interest in art.

The aristocratic simplicity and subtle profundity of Liang-k'ai's painting of chestnuts had made an especially deep impression. After seeing that work at Kōetsu's house, he had availed himself of every opportunity to view rare Chinese paintings of the Sung dynasty, the works of the fifteenth-century Japanese Zen masters and the paintings of contemporary masters of the Kanō School, particularly Kanō Sanraku and Kaihō Yūshō. Naturally, he had his likes and dislikes. Liang-k'ai's bold, virile brushwork, as seen by a swordsman's eye, struck him as revealing the prodigious strength of a giant. Kaihō Yūshō, possibly because he was of samurai origin, had in his old age achieved such a high degree of purity that Musashi considered him a worthy man to take as a model. He was also attracted by the light impromptu effects in the works of the hermit priest and aesthete Shōkadō Shōjō, whom he liked all the more because he was reputed to be a close friend of Takuan.

Painting, which seemed far removed from the path he had chosen, was hardly an art for a person who rarely spent a full month in any one place. Yet he did paint from time to time.

As in the case of other adults who have forgotten how to draw, his mind would work, but not his spirit. Intent upon drawing skillfully, he was unable to express himself naturally. Many had been the times he'd become discouraged and quit. Then, sooner or later, some impulse invariably moved him to pick up the brush again—in secret. Being ashamed of his paintings, he never showed them to others, though he allowed people to inspect his sculpture.

Until now, that is. To commemorate this fateful day, he resolved to paint a picture fit for the shōgun, or anyone else, to see.

He worked rapidly and without interruption until it was finished. Then he quietly put the brush in a jar of water and left, without a single backward glance at his work.

In the courtyard, he did turn around for one last look at the imposing gate, one question filling his mind: Did glory lie inside or outside the gate?

Sakai Tadakatsu returned to the waiting room and sat for some time gazing at the still damp painting. The picture was of Musashino Plain. In the middle, appearing very large, was the rising sun. This, symbolizing Musashi's confidence in his own integrity, was vermilion. The rest of the work was executed in ink to capture the feeling of autumn on the plain.

Tadakatsu said to himself, "We've lost a tiger to the wilds."

The Sound of Heaven

"Back already?" asked Gonnosuke, blinking his eyes at the sight of Musashi in stiffly starched formal dress.

Musashi went inside the house and sat down. Gonnosuke knelt at the edge of the reed matting and bowed. "Congratulations," he said warmly. "Will you have to go to work right away?"

"The appointment was canceled," Musashi said with a laugh.

"Canceled? Are you joking?"

"No. And I consider it a good thing, too."

"I don't understand. Do you know what went wrong?"

"I saw no reason to ask. I'm grateful to heaven for the way it turned out." "But it seems a pity."

"Are even you of the opinion I can find glory only within the walls of Edo Castle?"

Gonnosuke did not answer.

"For a time, I had such an ambition. I dreamed of applying my understanding of the sword to the problem of providing peace and happiness for the people, making the Way of the Sword the Way of Government. I thought being an official would give me a chance to test my idea."

"Somebody slandered you. Is that it?"

"Perhaps, but don't give it another thought. And don't misunderstand me. My ideas, I've learned, particularly today, are little more than dreams."

"That's not true. I've had the same idea; the Way of the Sword and the spirit of good government ought to be one and the same."

"I'm glad we agree. But in fact, the truth of the scholar, alone in his study, does not always accord with what the world at large considers to be true."

"Then you think the truth you and I are searching for is of no use in the real world."

"No, it's not that," said Musashi impatiently. "As long as this country exists, no matter how things change, the brave man's Way of the Spirit will never cease to be useful.... If you give the matter some thought, you'll see that the Way of Government is not concerned with the Art of War alone. A flawless political system must be based on a perfect blending of military and literary arts. To cause the world to live in peace is the ultimate Way of the Sword. That's why I've come to the conclusion that my thoughts are only dreams, childish dreams at that. I must learn to be a humble servant of two gods, one of the sword, one of the pen. Before I attempt to govern the nation, I must learn what the nation has to teach." He concluded with a laugh but abruptly stopped and asked Gonnosuke if he had an ink box or a writing kit.

When he finished writing, he folded up his letter and said to Gonnosuke, "I'm sorry to trouble you, but I'd like to ask you to deliver this for me."

"To the Hōjō residence?"

"Yes. I've written fully about my feelings. Give Takuan and Lord Ujikatsu my warmest greetings.... Oh, there's one more thing. I've been keeping something of Iori's. Please give it to him." He pulled out the pouch Iori's father had left him and placed it beside the letter.

With an anxious look on his face, Gonnosuke moved forward on his knees and said, "Why are you returning this to Iori now?"

"I'm going to the mountains."

"Mountains or city, wherever you go, Iori and I want to be with you as your disciples."

"I won't be away forever. While I am, I'd like you to take care of Iori, say for the next two or three years."

"What? Are you going into retirement?"

Musashi laughed, uncrossed his legs and leaned back on his arms. "I'm much too young for that. I'm not giving up my great hope. Everything's still ahead of me: desire, illusion, everything.... There's a song. I don't know who wrote it, but it goes like this:

While yearning to gain

The depths of the mountains,

I'm drawn against my will

To the places

Where people reside."

Gonnosuke lowered his head as he listened. Then he stood up and put the letter and pouch in his kimono. "I'd better go now," he said quietly. "It's getting dark."

"All right. Please return the horse, and tell Lord Ujikatsu that since the clothes are soiled from travel, I'll keep them."

"Yes, of course."

"I don't think it would be discreet for me to go back to Lord Ujikatsu's house. The cancellation of the appointment must mean that the shogunate regards me as unreliable or suspicious. It might cause Lord Ujikatsu trouble to be associated any more closely with me. I didn't write that in the letter, so I want you to explain it to him. Tell him I hope he's not offended."

"I understand. I'll be back before morning."

The sun was rapidly setting. Gonnosuke took the horse's bit and led the animal down the path. Since it had been lent to Musashi, the idea of riding it never crossed his mind.

It was about two hours later when he reached Ushigome. The men were sitting around, wondering what had become of Musashi. Gonnosuke joined them and gave the letter to Takuan.

An official had already been there to inform them of unfavorable reports on Musashi's character and past activities. Of all the points against him, the most damaging was that he had an enemy who had sworn vengeance. According to the rumors, Musashi was in the wrong.

After the official left, Shinzō had told his father and Takuan about Osugi's visit. "She even tried to sell her wares here," was the way he put it.

What was left unexplained was why people accepted so unquestioningly what they were told. Not just ordinary people—women gossiping around the well or laborers drinking in cheap sake shops—but men who had the intelligence to sift fact from fabrication. The shōgun's ministers had discussed the matter for many long hours, but even they had ended up giving credence to Osugi's calumnies.

Takuan and the others half expected Musashi's letter to express his discontent, but in fact it said little beyond giving his reason for going away. He began by saying that he had asked Gonnosuke to tell them how he felt. Then came the song he had sung for Gonnosuke. The short letter ended: "Indulging my chronic wanderlust, I am setting out on another aimless journey. On this occasion, I offer the following poem, which may amuse you:

If the universe

Is indeed my garden,

When I look at it,

I stand at the exit of

The house called the Floating World."

Though Ujikatsu and Shinzō were deeply touched by Musashi's consideration, Ujikatsu said, "He's too self-effacing. I'd like to see him once more before he goes away. Takuan, I doubt that he'd come if we sent for him, so let's go to him." He got to his feet, ready to leave immediately.

"Could you wait a moment, sir?" asked Gonnosuke. "I'd like to go with you, but Musashi asked me to give something to Iori. Could you have him brought here?"

When Iori came in, he asked, "Did you want me?" His eyes went immediately to the pouch in Gonnosuke's hand.

"Musashi said you were to take good care of this," said Gonnosuke, "since it's the only keepsake you have from your father." He then explained that the two of them would be together until Musashi's return.

Iori couldn't hide his disappointment, but not wanting to appear weak, he nodded halfheartedly.

In answer to Takuan's inquiries, Iori told all he knew about his parents. When there were no more questions, he said, "One thing I've never known is what became of my sister. My father didn't say much about her, and my mother died without telling me anything I can remember. I don't know where she lives, or whether she's alive or dead."

Takuan placed the pouch on his knee and took out a crumpled piece of paper. As he read the cryptic message Iori's father had written, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Staring hard at Iori, he said, "This tells us something about your sister."

"I thought maybe it did, but I didn't understand it and neither did the priest at the Tokuganji."

Skipping over the first part, Takuan read aloud: "'Since I had resolved to die of starvation before serving a second lord, my wife and I wandered around for many years, living in the humblest circumstances. One year we had to abandon our daughter at a temple in the central provinces. We put 'one sound of heaven' in her baby clothes and entrusted her future to the threshold of compassion. Then we went on to another province.

"'Later, I acquired my thatched house in the fields of Shimōsa. I thought back to that earlier time, but the place was far away and we had had no word, so I feared it might not be in the girl's interest to try to find her. I consequently left matters as they were.

"'How cruel parents can be! I am reproved by the words of Minamoto no Sanetomo:

Even the animals,

Which cannot speak their feelings,

Are not bereft of

The tender generous love

Of parents for their offspring.

"'May my ancestors take pity on me for refusing to sully my honor as a samurai by taking a second lord. You are my son. No matter how much you crave success, do not eat dishonorable millet!"'

As he placed the paper back in the pouch, Takuan said, "You'll be able to see your sister. I've known her since I was a young man. Musashi knows her too. Come with us, Iori." He gave no hint as to why he said this, nor did he mention Otsū or the "sound of heaven," which he recognized to be her flute.

They all left together and hurried to the cabin, arriving shortly after the first rays of the rising sun touched it. It stood empty. On the edge of the plain was one white cloud.

Book VII • THE PERFECT LIGHT

The Runaway Ox

The shadow of the plum branch cast on the white plaster wall by the pallid sun was beautiful in a restrained way evocative of monochrome ink painting. It was early spring in Koyagyū, and quiet, the branches of the plum trees seemingly beckoning southward to the nightingales that would soon flock to the valley.

Unlike the birds, the
shugyōsha
who presented themselves at the castle gate knew no season. They came in a constant stream, seeking either to receive instruction from Sekishūsai or to try their hand against him. The litany varied little: "Please, just one bout"; "I beg you, let me see him"; "I'm the only true disciple of so-and-so, who teaches at such-and-such a place." For the past ten years, the guards had been giving the same reply: because of their master's advanced age, he was unable to receive anyone. Few swordsmen, or would-be swordsmen, would let it go at that. Some launched diatribes on the meaning of the true Way and how there should be no discrimination between young and old, rich and poor, beginner and expert. Others simply pleaded, while still others rashly tried to offer bribes. Many went away muttering angry imprecations.

Had the truth been generally known, namely that Sekishūsai had passed away late the previous year, matters might have been greatly simplified. But it had been decided that since Munenori couldn't get away from Edo until the fourth month, the death should be kept secret until the funeral service had been held. One of the handful of people outside the castle who knew the circumstances now sat in a guest room asking rather insistently to see Hyōgo.

It was Inshun, the elderly abbot of the Hōzōin, who throughout In'ei's dotage and after his death had upheld the temple's reputation as a martial arts center. Many even believed he had improved it. He had done everything possible to maintain the close ties between the temple and Koyagyū that had existed since the days of In'ei and Sekishūsai. He wanted to see Hyōgo, he said, because he wanted to have a talk about the martial arts. Sukekurō knew what he really wanted—to have a bout with the man whom his grandfather had privately regarded as a better swordsman than either himself or Munenori. Hyōgo, of course, would have no part in such a match, since he thought it would benefit neither side and was therefore senseless.

Sukekurō assured Inshun that word had been sent. "I'm sure Hyōgo would come to greet you if he were feeling better."

"So you mean to say he still has a cold?"

"Yes; he can't seem to get rid of it."

"I didn't know his health was so frail."

"Oh, it isn't really, but he's been in Edo for some time, you know, and he can't quite get used to these cold mountain winters."

While the two men chatted, a servant boy was calling Otsū’s name in the garden of the innermost encirclement. A shoji opened, and she emerged from one of the houses, trailing a wisp of incense smoke. She was still in mourning more than a hundred days since Sekishūsai's passing, and her face looked as white as a pear blossom.

"Where've you been? I've been looking everywhere," asked the boy. "I've been in the Buddhist chapel."

"Hyōgo's asking for you."

When she entered Hyōgo's room, he said, "Ah, Otsū, thank you for coming. I'd like you to greet a visitor for me."

"Yes, of course."

"He's been here quite a while. Sukekurō went to keep him company, but listening to him go on and on about the Art of War must have Sukekurō pretty exhausted by now."

"The abbot of the Hōzōin?"

"Um."

Otsū smiled faintly, bowed and left the room.

Meanwhile, Inshun was not too subtly feeling Sukekurō out regarding Hyōgo's past and character.

"I'm told that when Katō Kiyomasa offered him a position, Sekishūsai refused to consent unless Kiyomasa agreed to an unusual condition."

"Really? I don't recall ever hearing of any such thing."

"According to In'ei, Sekishūsai told Kiyomasa that since Hyōgo was extremely quick-tempered, his lordship would have to promise in advance that if Hyōgo committed any capital offenses, he would pardon the first three. Sekishūsai was never known to condone impetuosity. He must have had rather a special feeling about Hyōgo."

This came as such a surprise that Sukekurō was still at a loss for words when Otsū entered. She smiled at the abbot and said, "How good to see you again. Unfortunately, Hyōgo is tied up preparing a report which must be sent to Edo immediately, but he asked me to convey his apologies at not being able to see you this time." She busied herself serving tea and cakes to Inshun and the two young priests attending him.

The abbot looked disappointed, though he politely ignored the discrepancy between Sukekurō's excuse and Otsū's. "I'm sorry to hear that. I had some important information for him."

"I'll be happy to pass it on," said Sukekurō, "and you can rest assured Hyōgo's ears alone will hear it."

"Oh, I'm sure of that," said the old priest. "I just wanted to warn Hyōgo in person."

Inshun then repeated a rumor he'd heard about some samurai from Ueno Castle in Iga Province. The dividing line between Koyagyū and the castle lay in a sparsely inhabited area about two miles to the east, and ever since Ieyasu had confiscated it from the Christian daimyō Tsutsui Sadatsugu and reassigned it to Tōdō Takatora, many changes had been taking place. Takatora had, since taking up residence the previous year, repaired the castle, revised the tax system, improved the irrigation facilities and carried out other measures to consolidate his holdings. All this was common knowledge. What In-shun had got wind of was that Takatora was in the process of trying to expand his lands by pushing back the boundary line.

According to the reports, Takatora had dispatched a number of samurai to Tsukigase, where they were building houses, cutting down plum trees, waylaying travelers and openly trespassing on Lord Yagyū's property.

"It could be," observed Inshun, "Lord Takatora is taking advantage of your being in mourning. You may think I'm an alarmist, but it looks as though he's planning to push the boundary back in this direction and put up a new fence. If he is, it'd be a lot easier to attend to things now than after he's finished. If you sit back and do nothing, you'll regret it later, I'm afraid."

Speaking as one of the senior retainers, Sukekurō thanked Inshun for the information. "I'll have the situation investigated, and lodge a complaint if one is warranted." Expressing thanks on behalf of Hyōgo, Sukekurō bowed as the abbot took his leave.

When Sukekurō went to inform Hyōgo of the rumors, Hyōgo just laughed. "Let it be," he said. "When my uncle gets back, he can look into it."

Sukekurō, who knew the importance of guarding every foot of land, wasn't quite satisfied with Hyōgo's attitude. He conferred with the other ranking samurai and together they agreed that, though discretion was called for, something should be done. Tōdō Takatora was one of the most powerful daimyō in the country.

The following morning, as Sukekurō was leaving the dōjō above the Shinkagedō after sword practice, he ran into a boy of thirteen or fourteen.

The lad bowed to Sukekurō, who said jovially, "Hello there, Ushinosuke. Peeking into the dōjō again? Did you bring me a present? Let's see ... wild potatoes?" He was only half teasing, since Ushinosuke's potatoes were always better than anyone else's. The boy lived with his mother in the isolated mountain village of Araki and often came to the castle to sell charcoal, boar meat and other things.

"No potatoes today, but I brought this for Otsū." He held up a package wrapped in straw.

"What's that, now—rhubarb?"

"No, it's alive! In Tsukigase, I sometimes hear nightingales singing. I caught one!"

"Hmm, you always come by way of Tsukigase, don't you?"

"That's right. That's the only road."

"Let me ask you a question. Have you seen a lot of samurai in that area lately?"

"Some."

"What are they doing there?"

"Building cabins . . ."

"Have you seen them putting up fences, anything like that?"

"No."

"Have they been cutting down plum trees?"

"Well, besides the cabins, they've been fixing bridges, so they've been cutting down all kinds of trees. For firewood too."

"Are they stopping people on the road?"

"I don't think so. I haven't seen them do that."

Sukekurō cocked his head. "I've heard those samurai are from Lord Tōdō's fief, but I don't know what they're doing in Tsukigase. What do people in your village say?"

"They say they're rōnin chased out of Nara and Uji. They didn't have anyplace to live, so they came to the mountains."

Despite what Inshun had said, Sukekurō thought this a not unreasonable explanation. Ōkubo Nagayasu, the magistrate of Nara, had not relaxed his efforts to keep his jurisdiction free of indigent rōnin.

"Where's Otsū?" asked Ushinosuke. "I want to give her her present." He always looked forward to seeing her, but not just because she gave him sweets and said nice things to him. There was something about her beauty that was mysterious, otherworldly. At times, he couldn't decide whether she was human or a goddess.

"She's in the castle, I imagine," said Sukekurō. Then, looking toward the garden, he said, "Oh, you seem to be in luck. Isn't that her over there?" "Otsū!" Ushinosuke called loudly.

She turned and smiled. Running breathlessly to her side, he held up his package.

"Look! I caught a nightingale. It's for you."

"A nightingale?" Frowning, she kept her hands close to her sides. Ushinosuke looked disappointed. "It has a beautiful voice," he said. "Wouldn't you like to hear it?"

"I would, but only if it's free to fly wherever it wants to. Then it'll sing pretty songs for us."

"I guess you're right," he said with a little pout. "Do you want me to turn it loose?"

"I appreciate your wanting to give me a present, but yes, that'd make me happier than keeping it."

Silently, Ushinosuke split open the straw package, and like an arrow the bird flew away over the castle wall.

"There, you see how glad it is to be free?" said Otsū.

"They call nightingales harbingers of spring, don't they? Maybe somebody'll bring you good news."

"A messenger bringing news as welcome as the coming of spring? It's true there's something I'm longing to hear."

As Otsū started walking toward the woods and bamboo grove in back of the castle, Ushinosuke fell in at her side.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I've been inside a lot lately. I thought I'd go up the hill and look at the plum blossoms for a change."

"Plum blossoms? Those up there aren't much to look at. You should go to Tsukigase."

"That might be nice. Is it far?"

"A couple of miles or so. Why don't you go? I brought firewood today, so I have the ox with me."

Having scarcely been outside the castle all winter, Otsū made up her mind quickly. Without telling anyone where she was going, the two of them strolled down to the back gate, which was used by tradesmen and others having business at the castle. It was guarded by a samurai armed with a lance. He nodded and smiled at Otsū. Ushinosuke, too, was a familiar figure, and he let them out the gate without checking the boy's written permission to be in the castle grounds.

People in the fields and on the road spoke a friendly greeting to Otsū, whether they knew her or not. When the dwellings became sparser, she looked back at the white castle nestled on the skirt of the mountain and said, "Can I get back home while it's still light?"

"Sure, but I'll come back with you anyway."

"Araki Village is beyond Tsukigase, isn't it?"

"It doesn't matter."

Chatting about various things, they passed a salt shop, where a man was bartering some boar meat for a sack of salt. He finished his transaction, came out and walked along the road behind them. With the snow melting, the road grew worse and worse. There were few travelers.

"Ushinosuke," said Otsū, "you always come to Koyagyū, don’t you?"

"Yes."

"Isn’t Ueno Castle closer to Araki Village?"

"It is, but there’s no great swordsman like Lord Yagyū at Ueno Castle."

"Do you like swords?”

"Uh-huh."

He stopped the ox, let go of the rope and ran down to the edge of the stream. There was a bridge from which a log had fallen. He put it back in place and waited for the man behind them to cross first.

The man looked like a rōnin. As he walked by Otsū, he eyed her brazenly, then glanced back several times from the bridge and from the other side, before disappearing into a fold of the mountain.

"Who do you suppose that is?" asked Otsū nervously.

"Did he frighten you?"

"No, but . . ."

"There're lots of rōnin in the mountains around here."

"Are there?" she said uneasily.

Over his shoulder, Ushinosuke said, "Otsū, I wonder if you'd help me. Do you think you could ask Master Kimura to hire me? I mean, you know, I could sweep the garden, draw water—do things like that."

It was only recently that the boy had received special permission from Sukekurō to enter the dōjō and watch the men at practice, but already he had only one ambition. His ancestors bore the surname Kikumura; the head of the family for several generations had used the given name Mataemon. Ushinosuke had decided that when he became a samurai he would take the name Mataemon, but none of the Kikumuras had done anything of particular note. He'd change his surname to that of his village, and if his dream came true, become famous far and wide as Araki Mataemon.