Musashi: Bushido Code (24 page)

Musashi had since learned a few things and now recognized that his actions at the age of seventeen had been both mindless and devoid of accomplishment. For a man to serve his lord faithfully, it was not enough to jump blindly into the fray and brandish a lance. He must go all the way, to the brink of death.

"If a samurai dies with a prayer for his lord's victory on his lips, he has done something fine and meaningful," was the way Musashi would have put it now. But at the time neither he nor Matahachi had had any sense of loyalty. What they had been thirsting for was fame and glory, and more to the point, a means of gaining a livelihood without giving up anything of their own.

It was odd that they should have thought of it that way. Having since learned from Takuan that life is a jewel to be treasured, Musashi knew that far from giving up nothing, he and Matahachi had unwittingly been offering their most precious possession. Each had literally wagered everything he had on the hope of receiving a paltry stipend as a samurai. In retrospect, he wondered how they could have been so foolish.

He noticed that he was approaching Daigo, south of the city, and since he'd worked up quite a sweat, decided to stop for a rest.

From a distance, he heard a voice shouting, "Wait! Wait!" Gazing far down the steep mountain road, he made out the form of the little water sprite Jōtarō, running for all he was worth. Presently the boy's angry eyes were glaring into his.

"You lied to me!" Jōtarō shouted. "Why did you do that!" Breathless from running, face flushed, he spoke with belligerence, though it was clear he was on the verge of tears.

Musashi had to laugh at his getup. He had discarded the work clothes of the day before in favor of an ordinary kimono, but it was only half big enough for him, the skirt barely reaching his knees and the arms stopping at the elbows. At his side hung a wooden sword that was longer than the boy was tall, on his back a basket hat that looked as big as an umbrella.

Even as he shouted at Musashi for having left him behind, he burst into tears. Musashi hugged and tried to comfort him, but the boy wailed on, apparently feeling that in the mountains, with no one around, he could let himself go.

Finally Musashi said, "Does it make you feel good, acting like a crybaby?"

"I don't care!" Jōtarō sobbed. "You're a grownup, and yet you lied to me. You said you'd let me be your follower—then went off and left me. Are grownups supposed to act like that?"

"I'm sorry," said Musashi.

This simple apology turned the boy's crying into a pleading whine.

"Stop it now," said Musashi. "I didn't mean to lie to you, but you have a father and you have a master. I couldn't bring you with me unless your master consented. I told you to go and talk with him, didn't I? It didn't seem likely to me that he'd agree."

"Why didn't you at least wait until you heard the answer?"

"That's why I'm apologizing to you now. Did you really discuss this with him?"

"Yes." He got his sniffling under control and pulled two leaves from a tree, on which he blew his nose.

"And what did he say?"

"He told me to go ahead."

"Did he now?"

"He said no self-respecting warrior or training school would take on a boy like me, but since the samurai at the inn was a weakling, he ought to be just the right person. He said maybe you could use me to carry your luggage, and he gave me this wooden sword as a going-away present."

Musashi smiled at the man's line of reasoning.

"After that," continued the boy, "I went to the inn. The old man wasn't

there, so I just borrowed this hat from off the hook under the eaves." "But that's the inn's signboard; it has 'Lodgings' written on it." "Oh, I don't mind. I need a hat in case it rains."

It was clear from Jōtarō's attitude that as far as he was concerned, all necessary promises and vows had been exchanged, and he was now Musashi's disciple. Sensing this, Musashi resigned himself to being more or less stuck with the child, but it also occurred to him that maybe it was all for the best. Indeed, when he considered his own part in Tanzaemon's loss of status, he concluded that perhaps he should be grateful for the opportunity to see to the boy's future. It seemed the right thing to do.

Jōtarō, now calm and reassured, suddenly remembered something and reached inside his kimono. "I almost forgot. I have something for you. Here it is." He pulled out a letter.

Eyeing it curiously, Musashi asked, "Where did you get that?"

"Remember last night I said there was a rōnin drinking at the shop, asking a lot of questions?"

"Yes."

"Well, when I went home, he was still there. He kept on asking about you. He's some drinker, too—drank a whole bottle of sake by himself! Then he wrote this letter and asked me to give it to you."

Musashi cocked his head to one side in puzzlement and broke the seal. Looking first at the bottom, he saw it was from Matahachi, who must have been drunk indeed. Even the characters looked tipsy. As Musashi read the scroll, he was seized with mixed feelings of nostalgia and sadness. Not only was the writing chaotic; the message itself was rambling and imprecise.

Since I left you at Mount Ibuki, I haven't forgotten the village. And I haven't forgotten my old friend. By accident I heard your name at the Yoshioka School. At the time, I got confused and couldn't decide whether to try to see you. Now I'm in a sake shop. I've had a lot to drink.

Thus far the meaning was clear enough, but from this point on the letter was difficult to follow.

Ever since I parted from you, I've been kept in a cage of lust, and idleness has eaten into my bones. For five years I've spent my days in a stupor, doing nothing. In the capital, you are now famous as a swordsman. I drink to you! Some people say Musashi is a coward, good only at running away. Some say you're an incomparable swordsman. I don't care which is true, I'm just happy that your sword has the people in the capital talking.

You're smart. You should be able to make your way with the sword. But as I look back, I wonder about me, the way I am now. I'm a fool! How can a stupid wretch like me face a wise friend like you without dying of shame?

But wait! Life is long, and it's too early to say what the future will bring. I don't want to see you now, but there will come a day when I will.

I pray for your health.

Then came a rapidly scrawled postscript informing him, at some length, that the Yoshioka School took a serious view of the recent incident, that they were looking everywhere for him, and that he should be careful about his movements. It ended: "You mustn't die now that you're just beginning to make a name for yourself. When I, too, have made something of myself, I want to see you and talk over old times. Take care of yourself, stay alive, so you can be an inspiration to me."

Matahachi had no doubt meant well, but there was something twisted about his attitude. Why must he praise Musashi so and in the next breath carry on so about his own failings? "Why," wondered Musashi, "couldn't he just write and say that it's been a long time, and why don't we get together and have a long talk?"

"Jo, did you ask this man for his address?"

"No."

"Did the people at the shop know him?"

"I don't think so."

"Did he come there often?"

"No, this was the first time."

Musashi was thinking that if he knew where Matahachi lived, he would go back to Kyoto right now to see him. He wanted to talk to his childhood comrade, try to bring him to his senses, reawaken in him the spirit he had once had. Since he still considered Matahachi to be his friend, he would have liked to pull him out of his present mood, with its apparently self-destructive tendencies. And of course, he would also have liked to have Matahachi explain to his mother what a mistake she was making.

The two walked on silently. They were on their way down the mountain at Daigo, and the Rokujizō crossing was visible below them.

Abruptly Musashi turned to the boy and said, "Jō, there's something I want you to do for me."

"What is it?"

"I want you to go on an errand."

"Where to?"

"Kyoto."

"That means turning around and going back where I just came from." "That's right. I want you to take a letter from me to the Yoshioka School on Shijō Avenue."

Jōtarō, crestfallen, kicked a rock with his toe.

"Don't you want to go?" asked Musashi, looking him in the face.

Jōtarō shook his head uncertainly. "I don't mind going, but aren't you just doing this to get rid of me?"

His suspicion made Musashi feel guilty, for wasn't he the one who had broken the child's faith in adults?

"No!" he said vigorously. "A samurai does not lie. Forgive me for what happened this morning. It was just a mistake."

"All right, I'll go."

Entering a teahouse at the crossroads known as Rokuamida, they ordered tea and ate lunch.

Musashi then wrote a letter, which he addressed to Yoshioka Seijūrō:

I am told that you and your disciples are searching for me. As it happens, I am now on the Yamato highroad, my intention being to travel around in the general area of Iga and Ise for about a year to continue my study of swordsmanship. I do not wish to change my plans at this time, but since I regret as much as you do that I was unable to meet you during my previous visit to your school, I should like to inform you that I shall certainly be back in the capital by the first or the second month of next year. Between now and then, I expect to improve my technique considerably. I trust that you yourself will not neglect your practice. It would be a great shame if Yoshioka Kempō's flourishing school were to suffer a second defeat like the one it sustained the last time I was there. In closing, I send my respectful wishes for your continued good health.

Shimmen Miyamoto Musashi Masana

Though the letter was polite, it left little doubt as to Musashi's confidence in himself. Having amended the address to include not only Seijūrō but all the disciples in the school, he laid down his brush and gave the letter to Jōtarō.

"Can I just throw it in at the school and come back?" the boy asked.

"No. You must call at the front entrance and hand it personally to the servant there."

"I understand."

"There's something else I want you to do, but it may be a little difficult." "What is it?"

"I want you to see if you can find the man who gave you the letter. His name is Hon'iden Matahachi. He's an old friend of mine."

"That should be no trouble at all."

"You think not? Just how do you propose to do it?"

"Oh, I'll ask around at all the drinking shops."

Musashi laughed. "That's not a bad idea. I gather from Matahachi's letter, however, that he knows somebody at the Yoshioka School. I think it would be quicker to ask about him there."

"What do I do when I find him?"

"I want you to deliver a message. Tell him that from the first to the seventh day of the new year, I'll go every morning to the great bridge at Gojō Avenue and wait for him. Ask him to come on one of those days to meet me."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, but also tell him that I want very badly to see him."

"All right, I think I have it. Where will you be when I come back?"

"I'll tell you what. When I get to Nara, I'll arrange it so that you can find

out where I am by asking at the Hōzōin. That's the temple that's famous for its

lance technique."

"You'll really do that?"

"Ha, ha! You're still suspicious, aren't you? Don't worry. If I don't keep my promise this time, you can cut off my head."

Musashi was still laughing as he left the teahouse. Outside, he turned toward Nara, and Jōtarō set off in the opposite direction, toward Kyoto.

The crossroads was a jumble of people under basket hats, of swallows and of neighing horses. As the boy made his way through the throng, he looked back and saw Musashi standing where he had been, watching him. They smiled a distant farewell, and each went on his way.

A Spring Breeze

On the bank of the Takase River, Akemi was rinsing a strip of cloth and singing a song she had learned at the Okuni Kabuki. Each time she pulled at the flower-patterned cloth, it created an illusion of swirling cherry blossoms.

The breeze of love

Tugs at the sleeve of my kimono.

Oh, the sleeve weighs heavy!

Is the breeze of love heavy?

Jōtarō stood on top of the dike. His lively eyes surveyed the scene and he smiled amicably. "You sing well, Auntie," he called out.

"What's that?" asked Akemi. She looked up at the gnomelike child with his long wooden sword and his enormous basket hat. "Who are you?" she asked. "And what do you mean, calling me Auntie? I'm still young!"

"Okay—Sweet Young Girl. How's that?"

"Stop it," she said with a laugh. "You're much too little to be flirting. Why don't you blow your nose instead?"

"I only wanted to ask a question."

"Oh, my!" she cried in consternation. "There goes my cloth!"

"I'll get it for you."

Jōtarō chased down the riverbank after the cloth, then fished it out of the

water with his sword. At least, he reflected, it comes in handy in a situation like this one. Akemi thanked him and asked what he wanted to know. "Is there a teahouse around here called the Yomogi?"

"Why, yes, it's my house, right over there."

"Am I glad to hear that! I've spent a long time looking for it."

"Why? Where do you come from?"

"Over that way," he replied, pointing vaguely.

"And just where might that be?"

He hesitated. "I'm not really sure."

Akemi giggled. "Never mind. But why are you interested in our teahouse?" "I'm looking for a man named Hon'iden Matahachi. They told me at the Yoshioka School that if I went to the Yomogi, I'd find him."

"He's not there."

"You're lying!"

"Oh, no; it's true. He used to stay with us, but he went off some time ago." "Where to?"

"I don't know."

"But someone at your house must know!"

"No. My mother doesn't know either. He just ran away."

"Oh, no." The boy crouched down and stared worriedly into the river. "Now what am I supposed to do?" he sighed.

"Who sent you here?"

"My teacher."

"Who's your teacher?"

"His name is Miyamoto Musashi."

"Did you bring a letter?"

"No," said Jōtarō, shaking his head.

"A fine messenger you are! You don't know where you came from, and you don't have a letter with you."

"I have a message to deliver."

"What is it? He may never come back, but if he does, I'll tell him for you." "I don't think I should do that, do you?"

"Don't ask me. Make up your own mind."

"Maybe I should, then. He said he wanted to see Matahachi very much. He said to tell Matahachi that he'd wait on the great bridge at Gojō Avenue every morning from the first day to the seventh day of the new year. Matahachi should meet him there on one of those days."

Akemi broke into uncontrollable laughter. "I never heard of such a thing! You mean he's sending a message
now
telling Matahachi to meet him next year? Your teacher must be as strange as you are! Ha, ha!"

A scowl came over Jōtarō's face, and his shoulders tensed with anger. "What's so funny?"

Akemi finally managed to stop laughing. "Now you're angry, aren't you?" "Of course I am. I just asked you politely to do me a favor, and you start laughing like a lunatic."

"I'm sorry, I really am. I won't laugh anymore. And if Matahachi comes back, I'll give him your message."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes, I swear." Biting her lips to avoid smiling, Akemi asked, "What was his name again? The man who sent you with the message."

"Your memory's not too good, is it? His name is Miyamoto Musashi." "How do you write Musashi?"

Picking up a bamboo stick, Jōtarō scratched the two characters in the sand. "Why, those are the characters for Takezō!" exclaimed Akemi.

"His name isn't Takezō. It's Musashi."

"Yes, but they can also be read Takezō."

"Stubborn, aren't you?" snapped Jōtarō, tossing the bamboo stick into the river.

Akemi stared fixedly at the characters in the sand, lost in thought. Finally she lifted her gaze from the ground to Jōtarō, reexamined him from head to toe, and in a soft voice asked, "I wonder if Musashi is from the Yoshino area in Mimasaka."

"Yes. I'm from Harima; he's from the village of Miyamoto in the neighboring province of Mimasaka."

"Is he tall and manly? And does he leave the top of his head unshaved?" "Yes. How did you know?"

"I remember him telling me once that when he was a child he had a carbuncle on the top of his head. If he shaved it the way samurai usually do, you would see an ugly scar."

"Told you? When?"

"Oh, it's been five years now."

"Have you known my teacher that long?"

Akemi did not answer. The memory of those days evoked stirrings in her heart that made even speaking difficult. Convinced from the little the boy had said that Musashi was Takezō, she was gripped by a yearning to see him again. She had seen her mother's way of doing things, and she had watched Matahachi go from bad to worse. From the first, she had preferred Takezō and had since grown more and more confident in the rightness of his choice. She was glad to be still single. Takezō—he was so different from Matahachi.

Many were the times she had resolved to never let herself wind up with the likes of the men who always drank at the teahouse. She scorned them, holding on firmly to the image of Takezō. Deep within her heart, she nourished the dream of finding him again; he, only he, was the lover in her mind when she sang love songs to herself.

His mission fulfilled, Jōtarō said, "Well, I'd better be going now. If you find Matahachi, be sure to tell him what I told you." He hurried off, trotting along the narrow top of the dike.

The oxcart was loaded with a mountain of sacks, containing rice perhaps, or lentil beans, or some other local product. On top of the pile, a plaque proclaimed that this was a contribution being sent by faithful Buddhists to the great Kōfukuji in Nara. Even Jōtarō knew of this temple, for its name was virtually synonymous with Nara.

Jōtarō's face lit up with childish joy. Chasing after the vehicle, he climbed up on back. If he faced backward, there was just enough room to sit down. As an added luxury, he had the sacks to lean against.

On either side of the road, the rolling hills were covered with neat rows of tea bushes. The cherry trees had begun to bloom, and farmers were plowing their barley—praying, no doubt, that this year it would once again be safe from the trampling feet of soldiers and horses. Women knelt by the streams washing their vegetables. The Yamato highroad was at peace.

"What luck!" thought Jōtarō, as he settled back and relaxed. Comfortable on his perch, he was tempted to go to sleep but thought better of it. Fearing they might reach Nara before he awoke, he was thankful every time the wheels struck a rock and the wagon shook, since it helped him keep his eyes open. Nothing could have given him more pleasure than to be not only moving along like this but actually heading toward his destination.

Outside one village, Jōtarō lazily reached out and plucked a leaf from a camellia tree. Putting it to his tongue, he began to whistle a tune.

The wagon driver looked back, but could see nothing. Since the whistling went on and on, he looked over his left shoulder, then his right shoulder, several more times. Finally he stopped the wagon and walked around to the back. The sight of Jōtarō threw him into a rage, and the blow from his fist was so sharp the boy cried out in pain.

"What're you doing up there?" he snarled.

"It's all right, isn't it?"

"It is not all right!"

"Why not? You're not pulling it yourself!"

"You impudent little bastard!" shouted the driver, tossing Jōtarō onto the ground like a ball. He bounced and rolled against the foot of a tree. Starting off with a rumble, the wheels of the wagon seemed to be laughing at him.

J nottarō picked himself up and began to search carefully around on the ground. He'd just noticed he no longer had the bamboo tube containing the reply from the Yoshioka School to Musashi. He had hung it from his neck with a cord, but now it was gone.

As the totally distraught boy gradually widened the area of his search, a young woman in traveling clothes, who had stopped to watch him, asked, "Did you lose something?"

He glanced at her face, which was partially hidden by a broad-brimmed hat, nodded and resumed his search.

"Was it money?"

Jōtarō, thoroughly absorbed, paid little attention to the question, but managed a negative grunt.

"Well, was it a bamboo tube about a foot long with a cord attached?" Jōtarō jumped up. "Yes! How did you know?"

"So it was you the drivers near the Mampukuji were yelling at for teasing their horse!"

"Ah-h-h . . . well . . . "

"When you got scared and ran, the cord must've broken. The tube fell on the road, and the samurai who'd been talking to the drivers picked it up. Why don't you go back and ask him about it?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course."

"Thanks."

Just as he started to run off, the young woman called after him. "Wait! There's no need to go back. I can see the samurai coming this way. The one in the field
hakarna."
She pointed toward the man.

Jōtarō stopped and waited, eyes wide.

The samurai was an impressive man of about forty. Everything about him was a little bigger than life—his height, his jet-black beard, his broad shoulders, his massive chest. He wore leather socks and straw sandals, and when he walked, his firm footsteps seemed to compact the earth. Jōtarō, certain at a glance that this was a great warrior in the service of one of the more prominent daimyō, felt too frightened to address him.

Fortunately, the samurai spoke first, summoning the boy. "Weren't you the imp who dropped this bamboo tube in front of the Mampukuji?" he asked. "Oh, that's it! You found it!"

"Don't you know how to say thank you?"

"I'm sorry. Thank you, sir."

"I daresay there's an important letter inside. When your master sends you on a mission, you shouldn't be stopping along the way to tease horses, hitching rides on wagons, or loafing by the wayside."

"Yes, sir. Did you look inside, sir?"

"It's only natural when you've found something to examine it and return it to its owner, but I did not break the seal on the letter. Now that you have it back, you should check and see that it's in good order."

Jōtarō took the cap from the tube and peered inside. Satisfied that the letter was still there, he hung the tube from his neck and swore not to lose it a second time.

The young woman looked as pleased as Jōtarō. "It was very kind of you, sir," she said to the samurai, in an attempt to make up for Jōtarō's inability to express himself properly.

The bearded samurai started walking along with the two of them. "Is the boy with you?" he asked her.

"Oh, no. I've never seen him before."

The samurai laughed. "I thought you made a rather strange pair. He's a funny-looking little devil, isn't he—'Lodgings' written on his hat and all?"

"Perhaps it's his youthful innocence that's so appealing. I like him too." Turning to Jōtarō, she asked, "Where are you going?"

Walking along between them, Jōtarō was once again in high spirits. "Me? I'm going to Nara, to the Hōzōin." A long, narrow object wrapped in gold brocade and nestled in the girl's obi caught his eye. Staring at it, he said, "I see you have a letter tube too. Be careful you don't lose it."

"Letter tube? What do you mean?"

"There, in your obi."

She laughed. "This isn't a letter tube, silly! It's a flute."

"A flute?" Eyes burning with curiosity, Jōtarō unabashedly moved his head close to her waist to inspect the object. Suddenly, a strange feeling came over him. He pulled back and seemed to be examining the girl.

Even children have a sense of feminine beauty, or at least they understand instinctively whether a woman is pure or not. Jōtarō was impressed with the girl's loveliness and respected it. It seemed to him an unimaginable stroke of good luck that he should be walking along with one so pretty. His heart throbbed and he felt giddy.

"I see. A flute . . . Do you play the flute, Auntie?" he asked. Then, obviously remembering Akemi's reaction to the word, he abruptly changed his question. "What's your name?"

The girl laughed and cast an amused glance over the boy's head at the samurai. The bearlike warrior joined in the laughter, displaying a row of strong white teeth behind his beard.

"You're a fine one, you are! When you ask someone's name, it's only good manners to state your own first."

"My name's Jōtarō."

This brought forth more laughter.

"That's not fair!" cried Jōtarō. "You made me tell my name, but I still don't know yours. What's your name, sir?"

"My name's Shōda," said the samurai.

"That must be your family name. What's your other name?"

"I'll have to ask you to let me off on that one."

Undaunted, Jōtarō turned to the girl and said, "Now it's your turn. We told you our names. It wouldn't be polite for you not to tell us yours."