Musashi: Bushido Code (27 page)

"Yow-w-w!" His grotesque scream of triumph reverberated through the hall as he disengaged the lance and started to dance, rather than walk, back toward Musashi, steam rising from his muscle-bound body. Taking a stance some distance away, he glared at his latest challenger ferociously. Musashi had come forward with only his wooden sword and now stood quite still, looking a little surprised.

"Ready!" cried Agon.

A dry laugh was heard outside the window, and a voice said, "Agon, don't be a fool! Look, you stupid oaf, look! That's not a board you're about to take on."

Without relaxing his stance, Agon looked toward the window. "Who's there?" he bellowed.

The laughter continued, and then there came into view above the windowsill, as though it had been hung there by an antique dealer, a shiny pate and a pair of snow-white eyebrows.

"It won't do you any good, Agon. Not this time. Let the man wait until the day after tomorrow, when Inshun returns."

Musashi, who had also turned his head toward the window, saw that the face belonged to the old man he had seen on his way to the Hōzōin, but no sooner had he realized this than the head disappeared.

Agon heeded the old man's warning to the extent of relaxing his hold on his weapon, but the minute his eyes met Musashi's again, he swore in the direction of the now empty window—and ignored the advice he had received.

As Agon tightened his grip on his lance, Musashi asked, for the sake of form, "Are you ready now?"

This solicitude drove Agon wild. His muscles were like steel, and when he jumped, he did so with awesome lightness. His feet seemed to be on the floor and in the air at the same time, quivering like moonlight on ocean waves.

Musashi stood perfectly still, or so it seemed. There was nothing unusual about his stance; he held his sword straight out with both hands, but being slightly smaller than his opponent and not so conspicuously muscular, he looked almost casual. The greatest difference was in the eyes. Musashi's were as sharp as a bird's, their pupils a clear coral tinted with blood.

Agon shook his head, perhaps to shake off the streams of sweat pouring down from his forehead, perhaps to shake off the old man's warning words. Had they lingered on? Was he attempting to cast them out of his mind? Whatever the reason, he was extremely agitated. He repeatedly shifted his position, trying to draw out Musashi, but Musashi remained motionless.

Agon's lunge was accompanied by a piercing scream. In the split second that decided the encounter, Musashi parried and counterattacked.

"What happened?"

Agon's fellow priests hastily ran forward and crowded around him in a black circle. In the general confusion, some tripped over his practice lance and went sprawling.

A priest stood up, his hands and chest smeared with blood, shouting, "Medicine! Bring the medicine. Quick!"

"You won't need any medicine." It was the old man, who had come in the front entrance and quickly assessed the situation. His face turned sour. "If I'd thought medicine would save him, I wouldn't have tried to stop him in the first place. The idiot!"

No one paid any attention to Musashi. For lack of anything better to do, he walked to the front door and began putting his sandals on.

The old man followed him. "You!" he said.

Over his shoulder, Musashi replied, "Yes?"

"I'd like to have a few words with you. Come back inside."

He led Musashi to a room behind the practice hall—a simple, square cell, the only opening in the four walls being the door.

After they were seated, the old man said, "It would be more proper for the abbot to come and greet you, but he's on a trip and won't be back for two or three days. So I'll act on his behalf."

"This is very kind of you," said Musashi, bowing his head. "I'm grateful for the good training I received today, but I feel I should apologize for the unfortunate way it turned out—"

"Why? Things like that happen. You have to be ready to accept it before you start fighting. Don't let it worry you."

"How are Agon's injuries?"

"He was killed instantly," said the old man. The breath with which he spoke felt like a cold wind on Musashi's face.

"He's dead?" To himself, he said: "So, it's happened again." Another life cut short by his wooden sword. He closed his eyes and in his heart called on the name of the Buddha, as he had on similar occasions in the past.

"Young man!"

"Yes, sir."

"Is your name Miyamoto Musashi?"

"That's correct."

"Under whom did you study the martial arts?"

"I've had no teacher in the ordinary sense. My father taught me how to use the truncheon when I was young. Since then, I've picked up a number of points from older samurai in various provinces. I've also spent some time traveling about the countryside, learning from the mountains and the rivers. I regard them, too, as teachers."

"You seem to have the right attitude. But you're so strong! Much too strong!"

Believing he was being praised, Musashi blushed and said, "Oh, no! I'm still immature. I'm always making blunders."

"That's not what I mean. Your strength is your problem. You must learn to control it, become weaker."

"What?" Musashi asked perplexedly.

"You will recall that a short while ago you passed through the vegetable garden where I was at work."

"Yes."

"When you saw me, you jumped away, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Why did you do that?"

"Well, somehow I imagined that you might use your hoe as a weapon and strike my legs with it. Then, too, though your attention seemed to be focused on the ground, my whole body felt transfixed by your eyes. I felt something murderous in that look, as though you were searching for my weak spot—so as to attack it."

The old man laughed. "It was the other way around. When you were still fifty feet from me, I perceived what you call 'something murderous' in the air. I sensed it in the tip of my hoe—that's how strongly your fighting spirit and ambition manifest themselves in every step you take. I knew I had to be prepared to defend myself.

"If it had been one of the local farmers passing by, I myself would have been no more than an old man tending vegetables. True, you sensed belligerence in me, but it was only a reflection of your own."

So Musashi had been right in thinking, even before they first exchanged words, that here was no ordinary man. Now he keenly felt that the priest was the master, and he the pupil. His attitude toward the old man with the bent back became appropriately deferential.

"I thank you for the lesson you have given me. May I ask your name and your position in this temple?"

"Oh, I don't belong to the Hōzōin. I'm the abbot of the Ōzōin. My name is Nikkan."

"I see."

"I'm an old friend of In'ei, and since he was studying the use of the lance, I decided to study along with him. Later, I had an afterthought or two. Now I never touch the weapon."

"I guess that means that Inshun, the present abbot here, is your disciple."

"Yes, it could be put that way. But priests shouldn't have any use for weapons, and I consider it unfortunate that the Hōzōin has become famous for a martial art, rather than for its religious fervor. Still, there were people who felt that it would be a pity to let the Hōzōin Style die out, so I taught it to Inshun. And to no one else."

"I wonder if you'd let me stay in your temple until Inshun returns." "Do you propose to challenge him?"

"Well, as long as I'm here, I'd like to see how the foremost master uses his lance."

Nikkan shook his head reproachfully. "It's a waste of time. There's nothing to be learned here."

"Is that so?"

"You've already seen the Hōzōin lancemanship, just now, when you fought Agon. What more do you need to see? If you want to learn more, watch me. Look into my eyes."

Nikkan drew up his shoulders, put his head slightly forward, and stared at Musashi. His eyes seemed about to jump from their sockets. As Musashi stared back, Nikkan's pupils shone first with a coral flame, then gradually took on an azure profundity. The glow burned and numbed Musashi's mind. He looked away. Nikkan's crackling laugh was like the clatter of bone-dry boards.

He relaxed his stare only when a younger priest came in and whispered to him. "Bring it in," he commanded.

Presently the young priest returned with a tray and a round wooden rice container, from which Nikkan scooped rice into a bowl. He gave it to Musashi.

"I recommend the tea gruel and pickles. It's the practice of the Hōzōin to serve them to all those who come here to study, so don't feel they're going to any special trouble for you. They make their own pickles—called Hōzōin pickles, in fact—cucumbers stuffed with basil and red pepper. I think you'll find they taste rather good."

As Musashi picked up his chopsticks, he felt Nikkan's keen eyes on him again. He could not tell at this point whether their piercing quality originated within the priest or was a response to something he himself emitted. As he bit into a pickle, the feeling swept over him that Takuan's fist was about to smite him again, or perhaps the lance near the threshold was about to fly at him.

After he had finished a bowl of rice mixed with tea and two pickles, Nikkan asked, "Would you care for another helping?"

"No, thank you. I've had plenty."

"What do you think of the pickles?"

"Very good, thank you."

Even after he'd left, the sting of the red pepper on Musashi's tongue was all he could recall of the pickles' flavor. Nor was that the only sting he felt, for he came away convinced that somehow he'd suffered a defeat. "I lost," he grumbled to himself, walking slowly through a grove of cryptomerias. "I've been outclassed!" In the dim light, fleeting shadows ran across his path, a small herd of deer, frightened by his footsteps.

"When it was only a matter of physical strength, I won, but I left there feeling defeated. Why? Did I win outwardly only to lose inwardly?"

Suddenly remembering Jōtarō, he retraced his steps to the Hōzōin, where the lights were still burning. When he announced himself, the priest standing watch at the door poked his head out and said casually, "What is it? Did you forget something?"

"Yes. Tomorrow, or the next day, I expect someone to come here looking for me. When he does, will you tell him I'll be staying in the neighborhood of Sarusawa Pond? He should ask for me at the inns there."

"All right."

Since the reply was so casual, Musashi felt constrained to add, "It'll be a boy. His name is Jōtarō. He's very young, so please be sure you make the message clear to him."

Once again striding down the path he had taken earlier, Musashi muttered to himself, "That proves I lost. I even forgot to leave a message for Jōtarō. I was beaten by the old abbot!" Musashi's dejection persisted. Although he had won against Agon, the only thing that stuck in his mind was the immaturity he had felt in Nikkan's presence. How could he ever become a great swordsman, the greatest of them all? This was the question that obsessed him night and day, and today's encounter had left him utterly depressed.

During the past twenty years or so, the area between Sarusawa Pond and the lower reaches of the Sai River had been built up steadily, and there was a jumble of new houses, inns and shops. Only recently, Okubo Nagayasu had come to govern the city for the Tokugawas and had set up his administrative offices nearby. In the middle of the town was the establishment of a Chinese who was said to be a descendant of Lin Ho-ching; he had done so well with his stuffed dumplings that an expansion of his shop in the direction of the pond was under way.

Musashi stopped amid the lights of the busiest district and wondered where he should stay. There were plenty of inns, but he had to be careful about his expenses; at the same time, he wanted to choose a place not too far off the beaten track, so Jōtarō could find him easily.

He had just eaten at the temple, but when he caught a whiff of the stuffed dumplings, he felt hungry again. Entering the shop, he sat down and ordered a whole plateful. When they arrived, Musashi noted that the name Lin was burned into the bottom of the dumplings. Unlike the hot pickles at the Hōzōin, the dumplings had a flavor he could savor with pleasure.

The young girl who poured his tea asked politely, "Where are you planning to stay tonight?"

Musashi, unfamiliar with the district, welcomed the opportunity to explain his situation and ask her advice. She told him one of the proprietor's relatives had a private boardinghouse where he would be welcome, and without waiting for his answer, trotted off. She returned with a youngish woman, whose shaved eyebrows indicated she was married—presumably the proprietor's wife.

The boardinghouse was on a quiet alley not far from the restaurant, apparently an ordinary residence that sometimes took in guests. The eyebrowless mistress of the shop, who had shown him the way, tapped lightly on the door, then turned to Musashi and said quietly, "It's my elder sister's house, so don't worry about tipping or anything."

The maid came out of the house and the two of them exchanged whispers for a moment or two. Apparently satisfied, she led Musashi to the second floor.

The room and its furnishings were too good for an ordinary inn, making Musashi feel a bit ill at ease. He wondered why a house as well-off as this one would take in boarders and asked the maid about it, but she just smiled and said nothing. Having already eaten, he had his bath and went to bed, but the question was still on his mind when he went off to sleep.

Next morning, he said to the maid, "Someone is supposed to come looking for me. Will it be all right if I stay over for a day or two until he arrives?" "By all means," she replied, without even asking the lady of the house, who soon came herself to pay her respects.