Musashi: Bushido Code (33 page)

"Keep it up! Keep at it! Same as last time!" Kizaemon drove the students on.

The custom here was not to let a man quit until he was ready to drop. Beginners were driven especially hard, never praised and treated to no small amount of verbal abuse. Because of this, the average samurai knew that entering into the service of the House of Yagyū was not something to be taken lightly. Newcomers rarely lasted long, and the men now serving under Yagyū were the result of very careful sifting. Even the common foot soldiers and stablemen had made some progress in the study of swordsmanship.

Shōda Kizaemon was, needless to say, an accomplished swordsman, having mastered the Shinkage Style at an early age and, under the tutelage of Sekishūsai himself, gone on to learn the secrets of the Yagyū Style. To this he had added some personal techniques of his own, and he spoke proudly now of the "True Shōda Style."

The Yagyū horse trainer, Kimura Sukekurō, was also an adept, as was Murata Yozō, who, though employed as keeper of the storehouse, was said to have been a good match for Hyōgo. Debuchi Magobei, another relatively minor official, had studied swordsmanship from childhood and wielded a powerful weapon indeed. The Lord of Echizen had tried to persuade Debuchi to come into his service, and the Tokugawas of Kii had tried to lure Murata away, but both of them had chosen to stay in Yagyū, though the material benefits were fewer.

The House of Yagyū, now enjoying a peak in its fortunes, was turning out a seemingly unending stream of great swordsmen. By the same token, the Yagyū samurai were not recognized as swordsmen until they had proved their ability by surviving the merciless regimen.

"You there!" called Kizaemon to a guard passing by outside. He had been surprised by the sight of Jōtarō following along after the soldier.

"Hello!" shouted Jōtarō in his friendliest manner.

"What are you doing inside the castle?" asked Kizaemon sternly.

"The man at the gate brought me in," answered Jōtarō, truthfully enough. "He did, did he?" To the guard, he said, "Why did you bring this boy here?" "He said he wanted to see you."

"Do you mean to say you brought this child here on his word alone? .. . Boy.

"Yes, sir."

"This is no playground. Get along with you."

"But I didn't come to play. I brought a letter from my teacher."

"From your teacher? Didn't you say he was one of those wandering students?"

"Look at the letter, please."

"I don't need to."

"What's the matter? Can't you read?"

Kizaemon snorted.

"Well, if you can read, read it."

"You're a tricky brat. The reason I said I don't need to read it is that I already know what it says."

"Even so, wouldn't it be more polite to read it?"

"Student warriors swarm here like mosquitoes and maggots. If I took time to be polite to all of them, I wouldn't be able to do anything else. I feel sorry for you, however, so I'll tell you what the letter says. All right?

"It says that the writer would like to be allowed to see our magnificent dōjō, that he would like to bask, even for a minute, in the shadow of the greatest master in the land, and that for the sake of all those successors who will follow the Way of the Sword, he would be grateful to have a lesson bestowed upon him. I imagine that's about the long and short of it."

Jōtarō's eyes rounded. "Is that what the letter says?"

"Yes, so I don't need to read it, do I? Let it not be said, however, that the House of Yagyū coldheartedly turns away those who call upon it." He paused and continued, as though having rehearsed the speech: "Ask the guard there to explain everything to you. When student warriors come to this house, they enter through the main gate and proceed to the middle gate, to the right of which is a building called the Shin'indō. It is identified by a hanging wooden plaque. If they apply to the caretaker there, they are free to rest for a time, and there are facilities for them to stop over for a night or two. When they leave, they are given a small amount of money to help them along the way. Now, the thing for you to do is to take this letter to the caretaker at the Shin'indō—understand?"

"No!" said Jōtarō. He shook his head and raised his right shoulder slightly. "Listen, sir!"

"Well?"

"You shouldn't judge people by their appearance. I'm not the son of a beggar!"

"I do have to admit you have a certain knack with words."

"Why don't you just take a look at the letter? It may say something completely different from what you think. What would you do then? Would you let me cut off your head?"

"Hold on a minute!" Kizaemon laughed, and his face, with its red mouth behind his spiky beard, looked like the inside of a broken chestnut burr. "No, you can't cut my head off."

"Well, then, look at the letter."

"Come in here."

"Why?" Jōtarō had a sinking feeling he'd gone too far.

"I admire your determination not to let your master's message go undelivered. I'll read it."

"And why shouldn't you? You're the highest-ranking official in the House of Yagyū, aren't you?"

"You wield your tongue superbly. Let's hope you can do the same with your sword when you grow up." He broke the seal of the letter and silently read Musashi's message. As he read, his face became serious. When he was finished, he asked, "Did you bring anything along with this letter?"

"Oh, I forgot! I was to give you this too." Jōtarō quickly pulled the peony stem from his kimono.

Silently, Kizaemon examined both ends of the stem, looking somewhat puzzled. He could not completely understand the meaning of Musashi's letter.

It explained how the inn's maid had brought him a flower, which she said had come from the castle, and that upon examining the stem, he had discovered that the cut had been made by "no ordinary person." The message continued: "After putting the flower in a vase, I sensed some special spirit about it, and I feel that I simply have to find out who made that cut. The question may seem trivial, but if you would not mind telling me which member of your household did it, I would appreciate your sending a reply by the boy who delivers my letter."

That was all—no mention of the writer's being a student, no request for a bout.

"What an odd thing to write," thought Kizaemon. He looked at the peony stem again, again examining both ends closely, but without being able to discern whether one end differed from the other.

"Murata!" he called. "Come look at this. Can you see any difference between the cuts at the ends of this stem? Does one cut, perhaps, seem to be keener?"

Murata Yozō looked at the stem this way and that, but had to confess that he saw no difference between the two cuts.

"Let's show it to Kimura."

They went to the office at the back of the building and put the problem to their colleague, who was as mystified as they were. Debuchi, who happened to be in the office at the time, said, "This is one of the flowers the old lord himself cut the day before yesterday. Shōda, weren't you with him at the time?"

"No, I saw him arranging a flower, but I didn't see him cut it."

"Well, this is one of the two he cut. He put one in the vase in his room and had Otsū take the other one to Yoshioka Denshichirō with a letter."

"Yes, I remember that," said Kizaemon, as he started to read Musashi's letter again. Suddenly, he looked up with startled eyes. "This is signed 'Shimmen Musashi,"' he said. "Do you suppose this Musashi is the Miyamoto Musashi who helped the Hōzōin priests kill all that riffraff at Hannya Plain? It must be!"

Debuchi and Murata passed the letter back and forth, rereading it. "The handwriting has character," said Debuchi.

"Yes," mumbled Murata. "He seems to be an unusual person."

"If what the letter says is true," Kizaemon said, "and he really could tell that this stem had been cut by an expert, then he must know something we don't. The old master cut it himself, and apparently that's plain to someone whose eyes really see."

Debuchi said, "Mm. I'd like to meet him.... We could check on this and also get him to tell us what happened at Hannya Plain." But rather than commit himself on his own, he asked Kimura's opinion. Kimura pointed out that since they weren't receiving any
shugyōsha,
they couldn't have him as a guest at the practice hall, but there was no reason why they couldn't invite him for a meal and some sake at the Shin'indō. The irises were already in bloom there, he noted, and the wild azaleas were about to blossom. They could have a little party and talk about swordsmanship and things like that. Musashi would in all likelihood be glad to come, and the old lord certainly wouldn't object if he heard about it.

Kizaemon slapped his knee and said, "That's a splendid suggestion."

"It'll be a party for us too," Murata added. "Let's send him an answer right away."

As he sat down to write the reply, Kizaemon said, "The boy's outside. Have him come in."

A few minutes earlier, Jōtarō had been yawning and grumbling, "How can they be so slow," when a big black dog caught his scent and came over to sniff at him. Thinking he had found a new friend, Jōtarō spoke to the dog and pulled him forward by the ears.

"Let's wrestle," he suggested, then hugged the dog and threw him over. The dog went along with this, so Jōtarō caught him in his hands and threw him two or three more times.

Then, holding the dog's jaws together, he said, "Now, bark!"

This made the dog angry. Breaking away, he caught the skirt of Jōtarō's kimono with his teeth and tugged tenaciously.

Now it was Jōtarō's turn to get mad. "Who do you think I am? You can't do that!" he shouted.

He drew his wooden sword and held it menacingly over his head. The dog, taking him seriously, started barking loudly to attract the attention of the guards. With a curse, Jōtarō brought his sword down on the dog's head. It sounded as though he had hit a rock. The dog hurled himself against the boy's back, and catching hold of his obi, brought him to the ground. Before he could get to his feet, the dog was at him again, while Jōtarō frantically tried to protect his face with his hands.

He tried to escape, but the dog was right on his heels, the echoes of his barking reverberating through the mountains. Blood began to ooze between the fingers covering his face, and soon his own anguished howls drowned out those of the dog.

Jōtarō’s Revenge

On his return to the inn, Jōtarō sat down before Musashi and with a smug look reported that he had carried out his mission. Several scratches crisscrossed the boy's face, and his nose looked like a ripe strawberry. No doubt he was in some pain, but since he offered no explanation, Musashi asked no questions.

"Here's their reply," said Jōtarō, handing Musashi the letter from Shōda Kizaemon and adding a few words about his meeting with the samurai, but saying nothing about the dog. As he spoke, his wounds started to bleed again.

"Will that be all?" he asked.

"Yes, that's all. Thanks."

As Musashi opened Kizaemon's letter, Jōtarō put his hands to his face and hurriedly left the room. Kocha caught up with him and examined his scratches with worried eyes.

"How did that happen?" she asked.

"A dog jumped on me."

"Whose dog was it?"

"One of the dogs at the castle."

"Oh, was it that big black Kishū hound? He's vicious. I'm sure, strong as you are, you wouldn't be able to handle him. Why, he's bitten prowlers to death!"

Although they were not on the best of terms, Kocha led him to the stream out back and made him wash his face. Then she went and fetched some ointment, which she applied to his face. For once, Jōtarō behaved like a gentleman. When she had finished her ministrations, he bowed and thanked her over and over again.

"Stop bobbing your head up and down. You're a man, after all, and it looks ridiculous."

"But I appreciate what you've done."

"Even if we do fight a lot, I still like you," she confessed.

"I like you too."

"Really?"

The parts of Jōtarō's face that showed between the patches of ointment turned crimson, and Kocha's cheeks burst into subdued flame. There was no one around. The sun shone through the pink peach blossoms.

"Your master will probably be going away soon, won't he?" she asked with a trace of disappointment.

"We'll be here for a while yet," he replied reassuringly.

"I wish you could stay for a year or two."

The two went into the shed where the fodder for the horses was kept and lay down on their backs in the hay. Their hands touched, sending a warm tingle through Jōtarō. Quite without warning, he pulled Kocha's hand toward him and bit her finger.

"Ouch!"

"Did that hurt? I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Do it again."

"You don't mind?"

"No, no, go on and bite! Bite harder!"

He did just that, tugging at her fingers like a puppy. Hay was falling over their heads, and soon they were hugging each other, just for the sake of hugging, when Kocha's father came looking for her. Appalled at what he saw, his face took on the stern expression of a Confucian sage.

"You idiots, what are you up to? Both of you, still only children!" He dragged them out by the scruff of the neck and gave Kocha a couple of smart whacks on the behind.

The rest of that day, Musashi said very little to anyone. He sat with his arms folded and thought.

Once, in the middle of the night, Jōtarō woke up and, raising his head a little, stole a look at his master. Musashi was lying in bed with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling with intense concentration.

The next day, too, Musashi kept to himself. Jōtarō was frightened; his master might have heard about his playing with Kocha in the shed. Nothing was said, however. Late in the afternoon, Musashi sent the boy to ask for their bill and was making preparations to depart when the clerk brought it. Asked if he would need dinner, he said no.

Kocha, standing idly in a corner, asked, "Won't you be coming back to sleep here tonight?"

"No. Thank you, Kocha, for taking such good care of us. I'm sure we've been a lot of trouble for you. Good-bye."

"Take good care of yourself," said Kocha. She was holding her hands over her face, hiding her tears.

At the gate, the manager of the inn and the other maids lined up to see them off. Their setting off just before sunset seemed very odd.

After walking a bit, Musashi looked around for Jōtarō. Not seeing him, he turned back toward the inn, where the boy was under the storehouse, saying farewell to Kocha. When they saw Musashi approaching, they drew hastily away from each other.

"Good-bye," said Kocha.

"Bye," called Jōtarō, as he ran to Musashi's side. Though fearful of Musashi's eyes, the boy could not resist stealing backward glances until the inn was out of sight.

Lights began to appear in the valley. Musashi, saying nothing and not once looking back, strode on ahead. Jōtarō followed along glumly.

After a time, Musashi asked, "Aren't we there yet?"

"Where?"

"At the main gate of Koyagyū Castle."

"Are we going to the castle?"

"Yes."

"Will we stay there tonight?"

"I have no idea. That depends on how things turn out."

"There it is. That's the gate."

Musashi stopped and stood before the gate, feet together. Above the moss-grown ramparts, the huge trees made a soughing sound. A single light streamed from a square window.

Musashi called out, and a guard appeared. Giving him the letter from Shōda Kizaemon, he said, "My name is Musashi, and I've come on Shōda's invitation. Would you please tell him that I'm here?"

The guard had been expecting him. "They're waiting for you," he said, motioning for Musashi to follow him.

In addition to its other functions, the Shin'indō was the place where the young people in the castle studied Confucianism. It also served as the fief's library. The rooms along the passageway to the rear of the building were all lined with bookshelves, and though the fame of the House of Yagyū stemmed from its military prowess, Musashi could see it also placed great emphasis on scholarship. Everything about the castle seemed to be steeped in history.

And everything seemed to be well run, to judge from the neatness of the road from the gate to the Shin'indō, the courteous demeanor of the guard, and the austere, peaceful lighting visible in the vicinity of the keep.

Sometimes, upon entering a house for the first time, a visitor has the feeling he's already familiar with the place and its inhabitants. Musashi had that impression now, as he sat down on the wooden floor of the large room to which the guard brought him. After offering him a hard round cushion of woven straw, which he accepted with thanks, the guard left him alone. On the way, Jōtarō had been dropped off at the attendants' waiting room.

The guard returned a few minutes later and told Musashi that his host would arrive soon.

Musashi slid the round cushion over to a corner and leaned back against a post. From the light of the low lamp shining into the garden, he saw trellises of blossoming wisteria vines, both white and lavender. The sweetish scent of wisteria was in the air. He was startled by the croak of a frog, the first he had heard that year.

Water gurgled somewhere in the garden; the stream apparently ran under the building, for after he was settled, he noticed the sound of flowing water beneath him. Indeed, before long it seemed to him that the sound of water was coming from the walls, the ceiling, even the lamp. He felt cool and relaxed. Yet simmering deep inside him there was an unsuppressible sense of disquiet. It was his insatiable fighting spirit, coursing through his veins even in this quiet atmosphere. From his cushion by the post, he looked questioningly at his surroundings.

"Who is Yagyū?" he thought defiantly. "He's a swordsman, and I'm a swordsman. In this respect we are equal. But tonight I will advance a step farther and put Yagyū behind me."

"Sorry to have kept you waiting."

Shōda Kizaemon entered the room with Kimura, Debuchi and Murata. "Welcome to Koyagyū," Kizaemon said warmly.

After the other three men had introduced themselves, servants brought in trays of sake and snacks. The sake was a thick, rather syrupy, local brew, served in large old-style sake bowls with high stems.

"Here in the country," said Kizaemon, "we aren't able to offer you much, but please feel at home."

The others too, with great cordiality, invited him to make himself comfortable, not to stand on ceremony.

With a little urging, Musashi accepted some sake, though he was not particularly fond of it. It was not so much that he disliked it as that he was still too young to appreciate its subtlety. The sake this evening was palatable enough but had little immediate effect on him.

"Looks as though you know how to drink," said Kimura Sukekurō, offering to refill his cup. "By the way, I hear the peony you asked about the other day was cut by the lord of this castle himself."

Musashi slapped his knee. "I thought so!" he exclaimed. "It was splendid!" Kimura moved closer. "What I'd like to know is just how you could tell that

the cut in that soft, thin stem had been made by a master swordsman. We, all

of us, were deeply impressed by your ability to discern that."

Uncertain as to where the conversation was leading, Musashi said, to gain time, "You were? Really?"

"Yes, no mistake about it!" said Kizaemon, Debuchi and Murata almost simultaneously.

"We ourselves couldn't see anything special about it," said Kizaemon. "We arrived at the conclusion that it must take a genius to recognize another genius. We think it would be of great help in our future studies if you'd explain it to us."

Musashi, taking another sip of sake, said, "Oh, it wasn't anything in particular—just a lucky guess."

"Come now, don't be modest."

"I'm not being modest. It was a feeling I got—from the look of the cut." "Just what sort of feeling was it?"

As they would with any stranger, these four senior disciples of the House of Yagyū were trying to analyze Musashi as a human being and at the same time test him. They had already taken note of his physique, admiring his carriage and the expression in his eyes. But the way he held his sake cup and his chopsticks betrayed his country upbringing and made them inclined to be patronizing. After only three or four cups of sake, Musashi's face turned copper red. Embarrassed, he touched his hand to his forehead and cheeks two or three times. The boyishness of the gesture made them laugh.

"This feeling of yours," repeated Kizaemon. "Can't you tell us more about it? You know, this building, the Shin'indō, was built expressly for Lord Kōizumi of Ise to stay in during his visits. It's an important building in the history of swordsmanship. It's a fitting place for us to hear a lecture from you tonight."

Realizing that protesting their flattery was not going to get him off the hook, Musashi decided to take the plunge.

"When you sense something you sense it," he said. "There's really no way to explain it. If you want me to demonstrate what I mean, you'll have to unsheathe your sword and face me in a match. There's no other way."

The smoke from the lamp rose as black as squid ink in the still night air. The croaking frog was heard again.

Kizaemon and Debuchi, the two eldest, looked at each other and laughed. Though he had spoken quietly, the statement about testing him had undeniably been a challenge, and they recognized it as such.

Letting it pass without comment, they talked about swords, then about Zen, events in other provinces, the Battle of Sekigahara. Kizaemon, Debuchi and Kimura had all taken part in the bloody conflict, and to Musashi, who had been on the opposing side, their stories had the ring of bitter truth. The hosts appeared to be enjoying the conversation immensely, and Musashi found it fascinating just to listen.

He was nonetheless conscious of the swift passage of time, knowing in his heart that if he did not meet Sekishūsai tonight, he would never meet him.

Kizaemon announced it was time for the barley mixed with rice, the customary last course, to be served, and the sake was removed.

"How can I see him?" thought Musashi. It became increasingly clear that he might be forced to employ some underhanded scheme. Should he goad one of his hosts into losing his temper? Difficult, when he was not angry himself, so he purposefully disagreed several times with what was being said and spoke in a rude and brash manner. Shōda and Debuchi chose to laugh at this. None of these four was about to be provoked into doing anything rash.

Desperation set in. Musashi could not bear the idea of leaving without accomplishing his objective. For his crown, he wanted a brilliant star of victory, and for the record, he wanted it known that Musashi had been here, had gone, had left his mark on the House of Yagyū. With his own sword, he wanted to bring Sekishūsai, this great patriarch of the martial arts, this "ancient dragon" as he was called, to his knees.

Had they seen through him completely? He was considering this possibility when matters took an unexpected turn.

"Did you hear that?" asked Kimura.

Murata went out on the veranda, then, reentering the room, said, "Tarō's barking—not his usual bark, though. I think something must be wrong."

Tarō was the dog Jōtarō had had a run-in with. There was no denying that the barking, which seemed to come from the second encirclement of the castle, was frightening. It sounded too loud and terrible to be coming from a single dog.

Debuchi said, "I think I'd better have a look. Forgive me, Musashi, for spoiling the party, but it may be important. Please go on without me."

Shortly after he left, Murata and Kimura excused themselves, politely begging Musashi's forgiveness.

The barking grew more urgent; the dog was apparently trying to give warning of some danger. When one of the castle's dogs acted this way, it was almost a sure sign something untoward was going on. The peace the country was enjoying was not so secure that a daimyō could afford to relax his vigilance against neighboring fiefs. There were still unscrupulous warriors who might stoop to anything to satisfy their own ambition, and spies roamed the land searching out complacent and vulnerable targets.