Musashi: Bushido Code (146 page)

Musashi's feet left the water and touched the sand at almost the same instant that Ganryū's sword—his whole body—hurtled at him like a flying fish. When Musashi sensed that the Drying Pole was coming toward him, his body was still at the end of the motion that had taken him out of the water, leaning slightly forward.

He held the wooden sword with both hands, extended out to the right behind him and partially hidden. Satisfied with his position, he half grunted, an almost noiseless sound that wafted before Ganryū's face. The Drying Pole had appeared to be on the verge of a downward slice, but it wavered slightly, then stopped. Nine feet away from Musashi, Ganryū changed direction by leaping nimbly to the right.

The two men stared at each other. Musashi, two or three paces from the water, had the sea to his back. Ganryū was facing him, his sword held high with both hands.

Their lives were totally absorbed in deadly combat, and both were free from conscious thought.

The scene of the battle was a perfect vacuum. But in the waiting stations and beyond the sound of the waves, countless people held their breath.

Above Ganryū hovered the prayers and the hopes of those who believed in him and wanted him to live, above Musashi the prayers and hopes of others. Of Sado and Iori, on the island. Of Otsū and Osugi and Gonnosuke, on the beach at Shimonoseki. Of Akemi and Matahachi, on their hill in Kokura.

All their prayers were directed to heaven.

Here, hopes, prayers and the gods were of no assistance, nor was chance. There was only a vacuum, impersonal and perfectly impartial.

Is this vacuum, so difficult of achievement by one who has life, the perfect expression of the mind that has risen above thought and transcended ideas?

The two men spoke without speaking. Then to each came the unconscious realization of the other. The pores of their bodies stood out like needles directed at the adversary.

Muscles, flesh, nails, hair, even eyebrows—all bodily elements that partake of life—were united into a single force against the enemy, defending the living organism of which they were a part. The mind alone was one with the universe, clear and untroubled, like the reflection of the moon in a pond amidst the ragings of a typhoon. To reach this sublime immobility is the supreme achievement.

It seemed like eons, but the interval was in fact short—the time required for the waves to come in and recede half a dozen times.

Then a great shout—more than vocal, coming from the depths of being—shattered the instant. It came from Ganryū, and was followed immediately by Musashi's shout.

The two cries, like angry waves lashing a rocky shore, sent their spirits skyward. The challenger's sword, raised so high that it seemed to threaten the sun, streaked through the air like a rainbow.

Musashi threw his left shoulder forward, drew his right foot back and shifted his upper body into a position half-facing his opponent. His wooden sword, held in both hands, swept through the air at the same moment that the tip of the Drying Pole came down directly before his nose.

The breathing of the two combatants grew louder than the sound of the waves. Now the wooden sword was extended at eye level, the Drying Pole high above its bearer's head. Ganryū had bounded about ten paces away, where he had the sea to one side. Though he had not succeeded in injuring Musashi in his first attack, he had put himself in a much better position. Had he remained where he was, with the sun reflecting from the water into his eyes, his vision would soon have faltered, then his spirit, and he would have been at Musashi's mercy.

With renewed confidence, Ganryū began inching forward, keeping a sharp eye out for a chink in Musashi's defense and steeling his own spirit for a decisive move.

Musashi did the unexpected. Instead of proceeding slowly and cautiously, he strode boldly toward Ganryū, his sword projecting before him, ready to thrust into Ganryū's eyes. The artlessness of this approach brought Ganryū to a halt. He almost lost sight of Musashi.

The wooden sword rose straight in the air. With one great kick, Musashi leapt high, and folding his legs, reduced his six-foot frame to four feet or less.

"Y-a-a-ah!" Ganryū's sword screamed through the space above him. The stroke missed, but the tip of the Drying Pole cut through Musashi's headband, which went flying through the air.

Ganryū mistook it for his opponent's head, and a smile flitted briefly across his face. The next instant his skull broke like gravel under the blow of Musashi's sword.

As Ganryū lay where the sand met the grass, his face betrayed no consciousness of defeat. Blood streamed from his mouth, but his lips formed a smile of triumph.

"Oh, no!"

"Ganryū!"

Forgetting himself, Iwama Kakubei jumped up, and with him all his retinue, their faces distorted with shock. Then they saw Nagaoka Sado and Iori, sitting calmly and sedately on their benches. Shamed, they somehow managed to keep from running forward. They tried to regain a degree of composure, but there was no concealing their grief and disillusion. Some swallowed hard, refusing to believe what they had seen, and their minds went blank.

In an instant, the island was as quiet and still as it had ever been. Only the rustle of the pines and the swaying grasses mocked the frailty and impermanence of mankind.

Musashi was watching a small cloud in the sky. As he did, his soul returned to his body, and it became possible for him to distinguish between the cloud and himself, between his body and the universe.

Sasaki Kojirō Ganryū did not return to the world of the living. Lying face down, he still had a grip on his sword. His tenacity was still visible. There was no sign of anguish on his face. Nothing but satisfaction at having fought a good fight, not the faintest shadow of regret.

The sight of his own headband lying on the ground sent shivers up and down Musashi's spine. Never in this life, he thought, would he meet another opponent like this. A wave of admiration and respect flowed over him. He was grateful to Kojirō for what the man had given him. In strength, in the will to fight, he ranked higher than Musashi, and it was because of this that Musashi had been able to excel himself.

What was it that had enabled Musashi to defeat Kojirō? Skill? The help of the gods? While knowing it was neither of these, Musashi was never able to express a reason in words. Certainly it was something more important than either strength or godly providence.

Kojirō had put his confidence in the sword of strength and skill. Musashi trusted in the sword of the spirit. That was the only difference between them.

Silently, Musashi walked the ten paces to Kojirō and knelt beside him. He put his left hand near Kojirō's nostrils and found there was still a trace of breath. "With the right treatment, he may recover," Musashi told himself. And he wanted to believe this, wanted to believe that this most valiant of all adversaries would be spared.

But the battle was over. It was time to go.

"Farewell," he said—to Kojirō, then to the officials on their benches. Having bowed once to the ground, he ran to the reef and jumped into the boat. There was not a drop of blood on his wooden sword.

The tiny craft moved out to sea. Who is to say where? There is no record as to whether Ganryū's supporters on Hikojima attempted to take revenge.

People do not give up their loves and hates as long as life lasts. Waves of feeling come and go with the passage of time. Throughout Musashi's lifetime, there were those who resented his victory and criticized his conduct on that day. He rushed away, it was said, because he feared reprisal. He was confused. He even neglected to administer the coup de grace.

The world is always full of the sound of waves.

The little fishes, abandoning themselves to the waves, dance and sing and play, but who knows the heart of the sea, a hundred feet down? Who knows its depth?