Musashi: Bushido Code (31 page)

Musashi was aware that most people would laugh outright at him for entertaining the idea. Yagyū, though not one of the more prominent daimyō, was the master of a castle, his son was at the shōgun's court, and the whole family was steeped in the traditions of the warrior class. In the new age now dawning, they were riding the crest of the times.

"This will be the true test," thought Musashi, who, even as he ate his rice, was preparing himself for the encounter.

The Peony

The old man's dignity had grown with the years, until now he resembled nothing so much as a majestic crane, while at the same time retaining the appearance and manner of the well-bred samurai. His teeth were sound, his eyes wonderfully sharp. "I'll live to be a hundred," he frequently assured everyone.

Sekishūsai firmly believed this himself. "The House of Yagyū has always been long-lived," he liked to point out. "The ones who died in their twenties and thirties were killed in battle; all the others lived well beyond sixty." Among the countless wars he himself had taken part in were several major ones, including the revolt of the Miyoshi and the battles marking the rise and fall of the Matsunaga and Oda families.

Even if Sekishūsai had not been born in such a family, his way of life, and especially his attitude after he reached old age, gave reason to believe he would live to reach a hundred. At the age of forty-seven, he had decided for personal reasons to give up warfare. Nothing since had altered this resolution. He had turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of the shōgun Ashikaga Yoshiaki, as well as to repeated requests from Nobunaga and Hideyoshi to join forces with them. Though he lived almost in the shadow of Kyoto and Osaka, he refused to become embroiled in the frequent battles of those centers of power and intrigue. He preferred to remain in Yagyū, like a bear in a cave, and tend his fifteen-thousand-bushel estate in such a way that it could be handed on to his descendants in good condition. Sekishūsai once remarked, "I've done well to hold on to this estate. In this uncertain age, when leaders rise today and fall tomorrow, it's almost incredible that this one small castle has managed to survive intact."

This was no exaggeration. If he had supported Yoshiaki, he would have fallen victim to Nobunaga, and if he had supported Nobunaga, he might well have run afoul of Hideyoshi. Had he accepted Hideyoshi's patronage, he would have been dispossessed by Ieyasu after the Battle of Sekigahara.

His perspicacity, which people admired, was one factor, but to survive in such turbulent times, Sekishūsai had to have an inner fortitude lacking in the ordinary samurai of his time; they were all too apt to side with a man one day and shamelessly desert him the next, to look after their own interests—with no thought to propriety or integrity—or even to slaughter their own kinsmen should they interfere with personal ambitions.

"I am unable to do things like that," Sekishūsai said simply. And he was telling the truth. However, he had not renounced the Art of War itself. In the alcove of his living room hung a poem he had written himself. It said:

I have no clever method

For doing well in life.

I rely only

On the Art of War.

It is my final refuge.

When he was invited by Ieyasu to visit Kyoto, Sekishūsai found it impossible not to accept and emerged from decades of serene seclusion to make his first visit to the shōgun's court. With him he took his fifth son, Munenori, who was twenty-four, and his grandson Hyōgo, then only sixteen. Ieyasu not only confirmed the venerable old warrior in his landholdings but asked him to become tutor in the martial arts to the House of Tokugawa. Sekishūsai, declining the honor on grounds of age, requested that Munenori be appointed in his stead, and this met with Ieyasu's approval.

The legacy Munenori carried with him to Edo encompassed more than a superb ability in martial arts, for his father had also passed on to him a knowledge of the higher plane of the Art of War that enables a leader to govern wisely.

In Sekishūsai's view, the Art of War was certainly a means of governing the people, but it was also a means of controlling the self. This he had learned from Lord Kōizumi, who, he was fond of saying, was the protective deity of the Yagyū household. The certificate Lord Kōizumi had given him to attest to his mastery of the Shinkage Style of swordsmanship was always kept on a shelf in Sekishūsai's room, along with a four-volume manual of military techniques presented him by his lordship. On anniversaries of Lord Kōizumi's death, Sekishūsai never neglected to place an offering of food before these treasured possessions.

In addition to descriptions of the hidden-sword techniques of the Shinkage Style, the manual contained illustrative pictures, all by the hand of Lord Kōizumi himself. Even in his retirement, Sekishūsai took pleasure in rolling the scrolls out and looking through them. He was constantly surprised to rediscover how skillfully his teacher had wielded the brush. The pictures showed people fighting and fencing in every conceivable position and stance. When Sekishūsai looked at them, he felt that the swordsmen were about to descend from heaven to join him in his little mountain house.

Lord Kōizumi had first come to Koyagyū Castle when Sekishūsai was thirty-seven or thirty-eight and still brimming with military ambition. His lordship, together with two nephews, Hikida Bungorō and Suzuki Ihaku, was going around the country seeking experts in the martial arts, and one day he arrived at the Hōzōin. This was in the days when In'ei often called at Koyagyū Castle, and In'ei told Sekishūsai about the visitor. That was the beginning of their relationship.

Sekishūsai and Kōizumi held matches for three days in a row. In the first bout, Kōizumi announced where he would attack, then proceeded to take the match doing exactly as he had said.

The same thing happened the second day, and Sekishūsai, his pride injured, concentrated on figuring out a new approach for the third day.

Upon seeing his new stance, Kōizumi merely said, "That won't do. If you are going to do that, I will do this." Without further ado, he attacked and defeated Sekishūsai for the third time. From that day on, Sekishūsai gave up the egotistic approach to swordsmanship; as he later recalled, it was on that occasion that he first had a glimpse of the true Art of War.

At Sekishūsai's strong urging, Lord Kōizumi remained at Koyagyū for six months, during which time Sekishūsai studied with the single-minded devotion of a neophyte. When they finally parted, Lord Kōizumi said, "My way of swordsmanship is still imperfect. You are young, and you should try to carry it to perfection." He then gave Sekishūsai a Zen riddle: "What is sword fighting without a sword?"

For a number of years, Sekishūsai pondered this, considering it from every angle and finally arriving at an answer that satisfied him. When Lord Kōizumi came to visit again, Sekishūsai greeted him with clear, untroubled eyes and suggested that they have a match. His lordship scrutinized him for a moment, then said, "No, it would be useless. You have discovered the truth!"

He then presented Sekishūsai with the certificate and the four-volume manual, and in this fashion the Yagyū Style was born. This in turn gave birth to Sekishūsai's peaceful way of life in his old age.

That Sekishūsai lived in a mountain house was due to his no longer liking the imposing castle with all its elaborate trappings. Despite his almost Taoist love of seclusion, he was happy to have the company of the girl Shōda Kizaemon had brought to play the flute for him, for she was thoughtful, polite and never a nuisance. Not only did her playing please him immensely, but she added a welcome touch of youth and femininity to the household. Occasionally she would talk of leaving, but he would always tell her to stay a little longer.

Putting the finishing touches on the single peony he was arranging in an Iga vase, Sekishūsai asked Otsū, "What do you think? Is my flower arrangement alive?"

Standing just behind him, she said, "You must have studied flower arranging very hard."

"Not at all. I'm not a Kyoto nobleman, and I've never studied either flower arranging or the tea ceremony under a teacher."

"Well, it looks as though you had."

"I use the same method with flowers that I use with the sword."

Otsū looked surprised. "Can you really arrange flowers the way you use the sword?"

"Yes. You see, it's all a matter of spirit. I have no use for rules—twisting the flowers with your fingertips or choking them at the neck. The point is to have the proper spirit—to be able to make them seem alive, just as they were when they were picked. Look at that! My flower isn't dead."

Otsū felt that this austere old man had taught her many things she needed to know, and since it had all begun with a chance meeting on the highroad, she felt she had been very lucky. "I'll teach you the tea ceremony," he would say. Or: "Do you compose Japanese poems? If you do, teach me something about the courtly style. The Man'yōshū is all well and good, but living here in this secluded place, I'd rather hear simple poems about nature."

In return, she did little things for him that no one else thought of. He was delighted, for example, when she made him a little cloth cap like the tea masters wore. He kept it on his head much of the time now, treasuring it as though there were nothing finer anywhere. Her flute playing, too, pleased him immensely, and on moonlit nights, the hauntingly beautiful sound of her flute often reached as far as the castle itself.

While Sekishūsai and Otsū were discussing the flower arrangement, Kizaemon came quietly to the entrance of the mountain house and called to Otsū. She came out and invited him in, but he hesitated.

"Would you let his lordship know I've just come back from my errand?" he asked.

Otsū laughed. "That's backwards, isn't it?"

"Why?"

Y•

"You're the chief retainer here. I'm only an outsider, called in to play the flute. You're much closer to him than I. Shouldn't you go to him directly, rather than through me?"

"I suppose you're right, but here in his lordship's little house, you're special. Anyway, please give him the message." Kizaemon, too, was pleased by the way things had turned out. He had found in Otsū a person whom his master liked very much.

Otsū returned almost immediately to say that Sekishūsai wanted Kizaemon to come in. Kizaemon found the old man in the tea room, wearing the cloth cap Otsū had made.

"Are you back already?" asked Sekishūsai.

"Yes. I called on them and gave them the letter and the fruit, just as you instructed."

"Have they gone?"

"No. No sooner had I arrived back here than a messenger came from the inn with a letter. It said that since they'd come to Yagyū, they didn't want to leave without seeing the dōjō. If possible, they'd like to come tomorrow. They also said they'd like to meet you and pay their respects."

"Impudent boors! Why must they be such a nuisance?" Sekishūsai looked extremely annoyed. "Did you explain that Munenori is in Edo, Hyōgo in Kumamoto, and that there's no one else around?"

"I did."

"I despise people like that. Even after I send a messenger to tell them I can't see them, they try to push their way in."

"I don't know what—"

"It would appear that Yoshioka's sons are as shiftless as they're said to be." "The one at the Wataya is Denshichirō. He didn't impress me."

"I'd be surprised if he did. His father was a man of considerable character. When I went to Kyoto with Lord Kōizumi, we saw him two or three times and drank some sake together. It appears that the house has gone downhill since then. The young man seems to think that being Kempō's son gives him the right not to be refused entry here, and so he's pressing his challenge. But from our viewpoint, it makes no sense to accept the challenge and then send him away beaten."

"This Denshichirō seems to have a good deal of self-confidence. If he wants so badly to come, perhaps I myself should take him on."

"No, don't even consider it. These sons of famous people usually have a high opinion of themselves; moreover, they're prone to try and twist things to their own advantage. If you were to beat him, you can depend on it that he'd try to destroy our reputation in Kyoto. As far as I'm concerned, it makes no difference, but I don't want to burden Munenori or Hyōgo with something like that."

"What shall we do, then?"

"The best thing would be to appease him in some way, make him feel he's being treated the way a son from a great house should be treated. Maybe it was a mistake to send a man to see him." Shifting his gaze to Otsū, he continued: "I think a woman would be better. Otsū is probably just the right person."

"All right," she said. "Do you want me to go now?"

"No, there's no hurry. Tomorrow morning will do."

Sekishūsai quickly wrote a simple letter, of the sort a tea master might compose, and handed it to Otsū, with a peony like the one he had put in the vase. "Give these to him, and tell him that you've come in my stead because I have a cold. Let's see what his answer is."

The next morning, Otsū draped a long veil over her head. Although veils were already out of style in Kyoto, even among the higher classes, the upper-and middle-class women in the provinces still prized them.

At the stable, which was in the outer grounds of the castle, she asked to borrow a horse.

The keeper of the stables, who was busy cleaning up, asked, "Oh, are you going somewhere?"

"Yes, I have to go to the Wataya on an errand for his lordship."

"Shall I go with you?"

"There's no need for that."

"Will you be all right?"

"Of course. I like horses. The ones I used to ride in Mimasaka were wild, or nearly so."

As she rode off, the reddish-brown veil floated in the wind behind her. She rode well, holding the letter and the slightly weary peony in one hand and deftly handling the horse with the other. Farmers and workers in the field waved to her, for in the short time she had been here, she had already become fairly well known among the local people, whose relations with Sekishūsai were much friendlier than were usual between lord and peasants. The farmers here all knew that a beautiful young woman had come to play the flute for their lord, and their admiration and respect for him were extended to Otsū.