Musashi: Bushido Code (28 page)

She was a good-looking woman of about thirty, with fine smooth skin. When Musashi tried to satisfy his curiosity about why she was accepting roomers, she laughingly replied, "To tell the truth, I'm a widow—my husband was a Nō actor by the name of Kanze—and I'm afraid to be without a man in the house, what with all these ill-bred rōnin in the vicinity." She went on to explain that while the streets were full of drinking shops and prostitutes, many of the indigent samurai were not satisfied with these diversions. They would pump information from the local youths and attack houses where there were no men about. They spoke of this as "calling on the widows."

"In other words," said Musashi, "you take in people like me to act as your bodyguard, right?"

"Well," she said, smiling, "as I said, there are no men in the household. Please feel free to stay as long as you like."

"I understand perfectly. I hope you'll feel safe as long as I'm here. There's only one request I'd like to make. I'm expecting a visitor, so I wonder if you'd mind putting a marker with my name on it outside the gate."

The widow, not at all unhappy to let it be known that she had a man in the house, obligingly wrote "Miyamoto Musashi" on a strip of paper and pasted it on the gatepost.

Jōtarō did not show up that day, but on the next, Musashi received a visit from a group of three samurai. Pushing their way past the protesting maid, they came straight upstairs to his room. Musashi saw immediately that they were among those who had been present at the Hōzōin when he had killed Agon. Sitting down around him as though they'd known him all their lives, they started pouring on the flattery.

"I never saw anything like it in my life," said one. "I'm sure nothing of the kind ever happened at the Hōzōin before. Just think! An unknown visitor arrives and, just like that, downs one of the Seven Pillars. And not just anyone—the terrifying Agon himself. One grunt and he was spitting blood. You don't often see sights like that!"

Another went on in the same vein. "Everyone we know is talking about it. All the rōnin are asking each other just who this Miyamoto Musashi is. That was a bad day for the Hōzōin's reputation."

"Why, you must be the greatest swordsman in the country!"

"And so young, too!"

"No doubt about it. And you'll get even better with time."

"If you don't mind my asking, how does it happen that with your ability you're only a rōnin? It's a waste of your talents not to be in the service of a daimyō!"

They paused only long enough to slurp some tea and devour the tea cakes with gusto, spilling crumbs all over their laps and on the floor.

Musashi, embarrassed by the extravagance of their praise, shifted his eyes from right to left and back again. For a time, he listened with an impassive face, thinking that sooner or later their momentum would run down. When they showed no signs of changing the subject, he took the initiative by asking their names.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Yamazoe Dampachi. I used to be in the service of Lord Gamō," said the first.

The man next to him said, "I'm Otomo Banryū. I've mastered the Bokuden Style, and I have a lot of plans for the future."

"I'm Yasukawa Yasubei," said the third with a chuckle, "and I've never been anything but a rōnin, like my father before me."

Musashi wondered why they were taking up their time and his with their small talk. It became apparent that he would not find out unless he asked, so the next time there was a break in the conversation, he said, "Presumably you came because you had some business with me."

They feigned surprise at the very idea but soon admitted they had come on what they regarded as a very important mission. Moving quickly forward, Yasubei said, "As a matter of fact, we do have some business with you. You see, we're planning to put on a public 'entertainment' at the foot of Mount Kasuga, and we wanted to talk to you about it. Not a play or anything like that. What we have in mind is a series of matches that would teach the people about the martial arts, and at the same time give them something to lay bets on.

He went on to say that the stands were already being put up, and that the prospects looked excellent. They felt, however, that they needed another man, because with just the three of them, some really strong samurai might show up and beat them all, which would mean that their hard-earned money would go down the drain. They had decided that Musashi was just the right person for them. If he would join in with them, they would not only split the profits but pay for his food and lodging while the matches were in progress. That way he could easily earn some fast money for his future travels.

Musashi listened with some amusement to their blandishments, but by and by he grew tired and broke in. "If that's all you want, there's no point in discussing it. I'm not interested."

"But why?" asked Dampachi. "Why aren't you interested?"

Musashi's youthful temper erupted. "I'm not a gambler!" he stated indignantly. "And I eat with chopsticks, not with my sword!"

"What's that?" protested the three, insulted by his implication. "What do you mean by that?"

"Don't you understand, you fools? I am a samurai, and I intend to remain a samurai. Even if I starve in the process. Now clear out of here!"

One man's mouth twisted into a nasty snarl, and another, red with anger, shouted, "You'll regret this!"

They well knew that the three of them together were no match for Musashi, but to save face, they stamped out noisily, scowling and doing their best to give the impression they weren't through with him yet.

That night, as on other recent nights, there was a milky, slightly overcast moon. The young mistress of the house, free from worry as long as Musashi was in residence, was careful to provide him with delicious food and sake of good quality. He ate downstairs with the family and in the process drank himself into a mellow mood.

Returning to his room, he sprawled on the floor. His thoughts soon came to rest on Nikkan.

"It's humiliating," he said to himself.

The adversaries he had defeated, even the ones he had killed or half killed, always disappeared from his mind like so much froth, but he couldn't forget anyone who got the better of him in any way or, for that matter, anyone in whom he sensed an overpowering presence. Men like that dwelt in his mind like living spirits, and he thought constantly of how one day he might be able to overshadow them.

"Humiliating!" he repeated.

He clutched at his hair and pondered how he could get the better of Nikkan, how he could face that unearthly stare without flinching. For two days this question had gnawed at him. It wasn't that he wished Nikkan any harm, but he was sorely disappointed with himself.

"Is it that I'm no good?" he asked himself ruefully. Having learned swordsmanship on his own, and thus lacking an objective appraisal of his own strength, he couldn't help but doubt his own ability to ever achieve power such as the old priest exuded.

Nikkan had told him he was too strong, that he had to learn to become weaker. This was the point that sent his mind off on tangent after tangent, for he couldn't fathom the meaning. Wasn't strength a warrior's most important quality? Was that not what made one warrior superior to others? How could Nikkan speak of it as a flaw?

"Maybe," thought Musashi, "the old rascal was toying with me. Maybe he considered my youth and decided to talk in riddles just to confuse me and amuse himself. Then after I left, he had a good laugh. It's possible."

At times like this, Musashi wondered whether it had been wise to read all those books at Himeji Castle. Until then, he had never bothered much about figuring things out, but now, whenever something happened, he couldn't rest until he'd found an explanation satisfying to his intellect. Previously he'd acted on instinct; now he had to understand each small thing before he could accept it. And this applied not only to swordsmanship but to the way he viewed humanity and society.

It was true that the daredevil in him had been tamed. Yet Nikkan said he was "too strong." Musashi assumed that Nikkan was referring not to physical strength but to the savage fighting spirit with which he had been born. Could the priest really have perceived it, or was he guessing?

"The knowledge that comes from books is of no use to the warrior," he reassured himself. "If a man worries too much about what others think or do, he's apt to be slow to act. Why, if Nikkan himself closed his eyes for a moment and made one misstep, he'd crumble and fall to pieces!"

The sound of footsteps on the stairs intruded upon his musings. The maid appeared, and after her Jōtarō, his dark skin further blackened by the grime acquired on his journey, but his spritelike hair white with dust. Musashi, truly happy to have the diversion of his little friend, welcomed him with open arms.

The boy plopped down on the floor and stretched his dirty legs out straight. "Am I tired!" he sighed.

"Did you have trouble finding me?"

"Trouble! I almost gave up. I've been searching all over!"

"Didn't you ask at the Hōzōin?"

"Yes, but they said they didn't know anything about you."

"Oh, they did, did they?" Musashi's eyes narrowed. "And after I said specifically that you'd find me near Sarusawa Pond. Oh, well, I'm glad you made it."

"Here's the answer from the Yoshioka School." He handed Musashi the bamboo tube. "I couldn't find Hon'iden Matahachi, so I asked the people at his house to give him the message."

"Fine. Now run along and have a bath. They'll give you some dinner downstairs."

Musashi took the letter from its container and read it. It said that Seijūrō looked forward to a "second bout"; if Musashi didn't show up as promised the following year, it would be assumed that he'd lost his nerve. Should that happen, Seijūrō would make sure that Musashi became the laughingstock of Kyoto. This braggadocio was set down in clumsy handwriting, presumably by someone other than Seijūrō.

As Musashi tore the letter to bits and burned it, the charred pieces fluttered up into the air like so many black butterflies.

Seijūrō had spoken of a "bout," but it was clear that it was going to be more than that. It would be a battle to the death. Next year, as a result of this insulting note, which one of the combatants would end up in ashes?

Musashi took it for granted that a warrior must be content to live from day to day, never knowing each morning if he'd live to see nightfall. Nevertheless, the thought that he might really die in the coming year worried him somewhat. There were so many things he still wanted to do. For one thing, there was his burning desire to become a great swordsman. But that wasn't all. So far, he reflected, he hadn't done any of the things people ordinarily do in the course of a lifetime.

At this stage of his life, he was still vain enough to think he'd like to have retainers—a lot of them—leading his horses and carrying his falcons, just like Bokuden and Lord Kōizumi of Ise. He would like, too, to have a proper house, with a good wife and loyal servants. He wanted to be a good master and to enjoy the warmth and comfort of home life. And of course, before he settled down, he had a secret longing to have a passionate love affair. During all these years of thinking solely about the Way of the Samurai he had, not unnaturally, remained chaste. Still, he was struck by some of the women he saw on the streets of Kyoto and Nara, and it was not their aesthetic qualities alone that pleased him; they aroused him physically.

His thoughts turned to Otsū. Though she was now a creature of the distant past, he felt closely bound to her. How many times, when he was lonely or melancholy, had the vague recollection of her alone cheered him up.

Presently he came out of his reverie. Jōtarō had rejoined him, bathed, satiated and proud to have carried out his mission successfully. Sitting with his short legs crossed and his hands between his knees, he didn't take long to succumb to fatigue. He was soon snoozing blissfully, his mouth open. Musashi put him to bed.

When morning came, the boy was up with the sparrows. Musashi also arose early, since he intended to resume his travels.

As he was dressing, the widow appeared and said in a regretful tone, "You seem in a hurry to leave." In her arms she was carrying some clothing, which she offered him. "I've sewn these things together for you as a parting gift—a kimono with a short cloak. I'm not sure you'll like them, but I hope you'll wear them."

Musashi looked at her in astonishment. The garments were much too expensive for him to accept after having stayed there only two days. He tried to refuse, but the widow insisted. "No, you must take them. They aren't anything very special anyway. I have a lot of old kimono and Nō costumes left by my husband. I have no use for them. I thought it would be nice for you to have some. I do hope you won't refuse. Now that I've altered them to fit you, if you don't take them, they'll just go to waste."

She went behind Musashi and held up the kimono for him to slip his arms into. As he put it on, he realized that the silk was of very good quality and felt more embarrassed than ever. The sleeveless cloak was particularly fine; it must have been imported from China. The hem was gold brocade, the lining silk crepe, and the leather fastening straps had been dyed purple.

"It looks perfect on you!" exclaimed the widow.

Jōtarō, looking on enviously, suddenly said to her, "What're you going to give me?"

The widow laughed. "You should be happy for the chance to accompany your fine master."

"Aw," grumbled Jōtarō, "who wants an old kimono anyway?"

"Is there anything you do want?"

Running to the wall in the anteroom and taking a Nō mask down from its hook, the boy said, "Yes, this!" He'd coveted it since first spying it the night before, and now he rubbed it tenderly against his cheek.

Musashi was surprised at the boy's good taste. He himself had found it admirably executed. There was no way of knowing who had made it, but it was certainly two or three centuries old and had evidently been used in actual Nō performances. The face, carved with exquisite care, was that of a female demon, but whereas the usual mask of this type was grotesquely painted with blue spots, this was the face of a beautiful and elegant young girl. It was peculiar only in that one side of her mouth curved sharply upward in the eeriest fashion imaginable. Obviously not a fictitious face conjured up by the artist, it was the portrait of a real, living madwoman, beautiful yet bewitched. "That you cannot have," said the widow firmly, trying to take the mask away from the boy.