Musashi: Bushido Code (139 page)

While she stared at the face and shed bitter tears, there passed before her eyes a vision of herself as she must have appeared in all those ugly past encounters with Otsū. The realization of how thoroughly wicked she had been gripped at her heart. Over and over she murmured, "Forgive me ... forgive me." She even wondered if it wouldn't be right to sit there until she joined the girl in death.

"No!" she exclaimed decisively. "No more weeping and moaning. Maybe .. . maybe she's not dead. If I try, maybe I can nurse her back to life. She's still young. Her life is still ahead of her."

Gently she laid Otsū back on the ground and crawled out of the cave into the blinding sunlight. She shut her eyes and cupped her hands to her mouth. "Where is everybody? You people from the village, come here! Help!" Opening her eyes, she ran forward a few steps, still shouting.

There was some movement in the cryptomeria grove, then a shout: "She's here. She's all right after all!"

About ten members of the Hon'iden clan came out of the grove. After hearing the story told by the blood-smeared survivor of the fight with Jōtarō the night before, they had organized a search party and set out immediately, despite the blinding rain. Still wearing their rain capes, they had a bedraggled look about them.

"Ah, you're safe," exulted the first man to reach Osugi. They gathered around her, their faces reflecting their immense relief.

"Don't worry about me," Osugi commanded. "Quick, go and see if you can do something for that girl in the cave. She's been unconscious for hours. If we don't give her some medicine right away ..." Her voice was thick. Almost in a trance, she pointed toward the cave. Perhaps not since Uncle Gon's death had the tears she'd shed been those of grief.

The Tides of Life

Autumn passed. And winter.

On a day early in the fourth month of 1612, passengers were arranging themselves on the deck of the regular ship from Sakai in Izumi Province to Shimonoseki in Nagato.

Informed the ship was ready to leave, Musashi got up from a bench in Kobayashi Tarōzaemon's shop and bowed to the people who had come to see him off.

"Keep your spirits up," they urged as they joined him for the short walk to the pier.

Hon'ami Kōetsu's face was among those present. His good friend Haiya Shōyū had been unable to come because of illness, but he was represented by his son Shōeki. With Shōeki was his wife, a woman whose dazzling beauty turned heads wherever she went.

"That's Yoshino, isn't it?" a man whispered, tugging at his companion's sleeve.

"From Yanagimachi?"

"Umm. Yoshino Dayū of the Ogiya."

Shōeki had introduced her to Musashi without mentioning her former name. Her face was unfamiliar to Musashi, of course, for this was the second Yoshino Dayū. Nobody knew what had happened to the first one, where she was now, whether she was married or single. People had long since stopped talking about her great beauty. Flowers bloomed and flowers fell. In the floating world of the licensed quarter, time passed rapidly.

Yoshino Dayū. The name would have evoked memories of snowy nights, of a fire made of peony wood, of a broken lute.

"It's been eight years now since we first met," remarked Kōetsu.

"Yes, eight years," echoed Musashi, wondering where the years could have gone. He had the feeling his boarding the ship today marked the close of one phase of his life.

Matahachi was among the well-wishers, as were several samurai from the Hosokawa residence in Kyoto. Other samurai conveyed best wishes from Lord Karasumaru Mitsuhiro, and there was a group of between twenty and thirty swordsmen who, despite Musashi's protest, had been led by their acquaintance with him in Kyoto to regard themselves as his followers.

He was going to Kokura in the province of Buzen, where he would face Sasaki Kojirō in a test of skill and maturity. Due to the efforts of Nagaoka Sado, the fateful confrontation, so long in the making, was finally to take place. Negotiations had been long and difficult, necessitating the dispatch of many couriers and letters. Even after Sado had ascertained the previous autumn that Musashi was at Hon'ami Kōetsu's house, completion of the arrangements had required another half year.

Though he knew it was coming, Musashi had not in his wildest dreams been able to imagine what it would be like to set forth as the champion of a huge number of followers and admirers. The size of the crowd was an embarrassment. It also made it impossible for him to talk as he would have liked to with certain people.

What struck him most forcefully about this great send-off was its absurdity. He had no desire to be anybody's idol. Still, they were here to express their goodwill. There was no way to stop them.

Some, he felt, understood him. For their good wishes he was grateful; their admiration infused him with a sense of reverence. At the same time, he was being swept up on a wave of that frivolous sentiment called popularity. His reaction was almost one of fear, that the adulation might go to his head. He was, after all, only an ordinary man.

Another thing that upset him was the long prelude. If it could be said that both he and Kojirō saw where their relationship was leading them, it could also be said that the world had pitted them one against the other and decreed that they must decide once and for all who was the better man.

It had started with people saying, "I hear they're going to have it out." Later, it was: "Yes, they're definitely going to face each other."

Still later: "When is the bout?"

Finally, the very day and hour were being bruited about before the principals themselves had formally decided them.

Musashi resented being a public hero. In view of his exploits, it was inevitable that he would be made one, but he did not seek this. What he really wanted was more time to himself for meditation. He needed to develop harmony, to make sure his ideas did not outpace his ability to act. Through his most recent experience with Gudō, he had advanced a step on the path toward enlightenment. And he had come to sense more keenly the difficulty of following the Way—the long Way through life.

"And yet . . ." he thought. Where would he be if it were not for the goodness of the people who supported him? Would he be alive? Would he have the clothes on his back? He was dressed in a black short-sleeved kimono sewn for him by Kōetsu's mother. His new sandals, the new basket hat in his hand, all the belongings he carried now, had been given to him by someone who valued him. The rice he ate—grown by other people. He lived on the bounties of labor not his own. How could he repay people for all they had done for him?

When his thoughts turned in this direction, his resentment at the demands made on him by his legion of supporters lessened. Nevertheless, the fear of letting them down lingered.

It was time to set sail. There were prayers for a safe voyage, final words of farewell, invisible time already flowing between the men and women on the pier and their departing hero.

The moorings were cast off, the ship drifted toward the open sea, and the great sail spread like wings against the azure sky.

A man ran out to the end of the pier, stopped and stamped his foot in disgust. "Too late!" he growled. "I shouldn't have taken a nap."

Kōetsu approached him and asked, "Aren't you Musō Gonnosuke?" "Yes," he replied, tucking his staff under his arm.

"I met you once at the Kongōji in Kawachi."

"Yes, of course. You're Hon'ami Kōetsu."

"I'm glad to see you're well. From what I heard, I wasn't sure you were still alive."

"Heard from who?"

"Musashi."

"Musashi?"

"Yes; he was staying with me until yesterday. He had several letters from Kokura. In one, Nagaoka Sado said you'd been taken prisoner on Mount Kudo. He thought you might have been injured or killed."

"It was all a mistake."

"We learned, too, that Iori is living at Sado's house."

"Then he's safe!" he exclaimed, relief flooding his face.

"Yes. Let's sit down somewhere and talk."

He steered the burly staff expert to a nearby shop. Over tea, Gonnosuke told his story. Luckily for him, after one look Sanada Yukimura had come to the conclusion he was not a spy. Gonnosuke was released, and the two men became friendly. Yukimura not only apologized for his subordinates' error, but sent a group of men to search for Iori.

When they failed to find the boy's body, Gonnosuke assumed he was still alive. He had spent his time since then searching the neighboring provinces. When he heard that Musashi was in Kyoto and a bout between him and Kojirō was imminent, he had intensified his efforts. Then, returning to Mount Kudo yesterday, he had learned from Yukimura that Musashi was to sail for Kokura today. He had dreaded facing Musashi without Iori at his side, or any news of him. But not knowing whether he would ever again see his teacher alive, he came anyway. He apologized to Kōetsu as though the latter were a victim of his negligence.

"Don't let it worry you," said Kōetsu. "There'll be another ship in a few days."

"I really wanted to travel with Musashi." He paused, then went on earnestly. "I think this trip may be the decisive point in Musashi's life. He disciplines himself constantly. He isn't likely to lose to Kojirō. Still, in a fight like that, you never know. There's a superhuman element involved. All warriors have to face it; winning or losing is partly a matter of luck."

"I don't think you need to worry. Musashi's composure was perfect. He seemed completely confident."

"I'm sure he did, but Kojirō has a high reputation too. And they say since he went into Lord Tadatoshi's service, he's been practicing and keeping himself fit."

"It'll be a test of strength between a man who's a genius, but really somewhat conceited, and an ordinary man who's polished his talents to the utmost, won't it?"

"I wouldn't call Musashi ordinary."

"But he is. That's what's extraordinary about him. He's not content with relying on whatever natural gifts he may have. Knowing he's ordinary, he's always trying to improve himself. No one appreciates the agonizing effort he's had to make. Now that his years of training have yielded such spectacular results, everybody's talking about his 'god-given talent.' That's how men who don't try very hard comfort themselves."

"Thank you for saying that," said Gonnosuke. He felt Kōetsu might have been referring to him, as well as to Musashi. Looking at the older man's broad, placid profile, he thought: "It's the same with him too."

Kōetsu looked like what he was, a man of leisure who had deliberately set himself apart from the rest of the world. At the moment, his eyes lacked that gleam that emanated from them when he concentrated on artistic creation. Now they were like a smooth sea, calm and unruffled, under a clear, bright sky.

A young man stuck his head in the door and said to Kōetsu, "Shall we go back now?"

"Ah, Matahachi," Kōetsu replied amiably. Turning to Gonnosuke, he said, "I suppose I'll have to leaye you. My companions seem to be waiting."

"Are you going back by way of Osaka?"

"Yes. If we get there in time, I'd like to take the evening boat to Kyoto." "Well, then, I'll walk that far with you." Rather than wait here for the next boat, Gonnosuke had decided to travel overland.

The three of them walked side by side, their talk rarely straying from Musashi, his present status and past exploits. At one point, Matahachi expressed concern, saying, "I hope Musashi wins, but Kojirō's sharp. His technique is terrific, you know." But his voice lacked enthusiasm; the memory of his own encounter with Kojirō was too vivid.

By twilight, they were on the crowded streets of Osaka. Simultaneously Kōetsu and Gonnosuke noticed Matahachi was no longer with them.

"Where could he have gone?" asked Kōetsu.

Retracing their steps, they found him standing by the end of the bridge. He was looking spellbound out over the riverbank, where wives from nearby dwellings, a row of broken-down shacks covered by a single roof, were washing cooking utensils, unhulled rice and vegetables.

"That's an odd expression on his face," said Gonnosuke. He and Kōetsu stood a little apart and watched.

"It is her," cried Matahachi. "Akemi!"

In the first flash of recognition, he was struck by the capriciousness of fate. But immediately it began to seem otherwise. Destiny was not playing tricks—merely confronting him with his past. She had been his common-law wife. Their karmas, too, were entwined. So long as they inhabited the same earth, they were fated to come together again, sooner or later.

He'd had trouble recognizing her. The charm and coquettishness of even two years ago had vanished. Her face was incredibly thin; her hair was unwashed and tied in a bun. She wore a tubular-sleeved cotton kimono reaching slightly below her knees, the utilitarian garment of all lower-class urban housewives. It was a far cry from the colorful silks she had donned as a prostitute.

She was crouching down in the position expected of peddlers and had in her arms a heavy-looking basket, from which she was selling clams, abalone and kelp. The things still left unsold suggested business was not very good.

Tied to her back with a soiled strip of cloth was a baby about a year old.

More than anything else, it was the child that made Matahachi's heart beat faster. Pressing his palms against his cheeks, he counted up the months. If the baby was in its second year, it had been conceived while they were in Edo... and Akemi had been pregnant when they were publicly whipped.

The light of the evening sun, reflected from the river, danced on Matahachi's face, making it seem bathed in tears. He was deaf to the bustle of traffic moving along the street. Akemi was walking slowly down by the river. He started after her, waving his arms and shouting. Kōetsu and Gonnosuke followed.

"Matahachi, where are you going?"

He had forgotten all about the two men. He stopped and waited for them to catch up. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "To tell the truth ... " Truth? How could he explain to them what he was going to do when he couldn't explain it to himself? Sorting out his emotions was beyond him at the moment, but finally he blurted out, "I've decided not to be a priest—to return to ordinary life. I haven't been ordained yet."

"Returning to ordinary life?" exclaimed Kōetsu. "So suddenly? Hmm. You look strange."

"I can't explain it now. Even if I did, it'd probably sound crazy. I just saw the woman I used to live with. And she's carrying a baby on her back. I think it must be mine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, well ... "

"Now calm down and think. Is it really your child?"

"Yes! I'm a father! ... I'm sorry. I didn't know ... I'm ashamed. I can't let her go through life like that—selling things out of a basket like a common tramp. I've got to go to work and help my child."

Kōetsu and Gonnosuke looked at each other in dismay. Though not quite sure whether Matahachi was still in his right mind, Kōetsu said, "I suppose you know what you're doing."

Matahachi took off the priest's robe covering his ordinary kimono and handed it to Kōetsu, together with his prayer beads. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but will you give these to Gudō at the Myōshinji? I'd appreciate it if you'd tell him I'm going to stay here in Osaka, get a job and be a good father."

"Are you sure you want to do this? Give up the priesthood, just like that?"

"Yes. Anyway, the master told me I could go back to ordinary life anytime I wanted to."

"Hmm."

"He said you don't have to be in a temple to practice religious discipline. It's more difficult, but he said it's more praiseworthy to be able to control yourself and keep your faith in the midst of lies and filth and conflict—all the ugly things in the outside world—than in the clean, pure surroundings of a temple."