Musashi: Bushido Code (34 page)

Kizaemon seemed extremely upset. He kept staring at the ominous light of the little lamp, as if counting the echoes of the unearthly noise.

Eventually there was one long, mournful wail. Kizaemon grunted and looked at Musashi.

"He's dead," said Musashi.

"Yes, he's been killed." No longer able to contain himself, Kizaemon stood up. "I can't understand it."

He started to leave, but Musashi stopped him, saying, "Wait. Is Jōtarō, the boy who came with me, still in the waiting room?"

They directed their inquiry to a young samurai in front of the Shin'indō, who after searching reported the boy was nowhere to be found.

A look of concern came over Musashi's face. Turning to Kizaemon, he said, "I think I know what happened. Would you mind my going with you?"

"Not at all."

About three hundred yards from the dōjō, a crowd had gathered, and several torches had been lit. Besides Murata, Debuchi and Kimura, there were a number of foot soldiers and guards, forming a black circle, all talking and shouting at once.

From the outer rim of the circle, Musashi peered into the open space in the middle. His heart sank. There, just as he had feared, was Jōtarō, covered with blood and looking like the devil's own child—wooden sword in hand, his teeth tightly clenched, his shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breathing.

By his side lay Tarō, teeth bared, legs outstretched. The dog's sightless eyes reflected the light of the torches; blood trickled from his mouth.

"It's his lordship's dog," someone said mournfully.

A samurai went toward Jōtarō and shouted, "You little bastard! What have you done? Are you the one who killed this dog?" The man brought his hand down in a furious slap, which Jōtarō just managed to dodge.

Squaring his shoulders, he shouted defiantly, "Yes, I did it!"

"You admit it?"

"I had a reason!"

"Ha!"

"I was taking revenge."

"What?" There was general astonishment at Jōtarō's answer; the whole crowd was angry. Tar() was the favorite pet of Lord Munenori of Tajima. Not only that; he was the pedigreed offspring of Raiko, a bitch belonging to and much loved by Lord Yorinori of Kishū. Lord Yorinori had personally given the pup to Munenori, who had himself reared it. The slaying of the animal would consequently be investigated thoroughly, and the fate of the two samurai who had been paid to take good care of the dog was now in jeopardy.

The man now facing Jōtarō was one of these two.

"Shut up!" he shouted, aiming his fist at Jōtarō's head. This time Jōtarō did not duck in time. The blow landed in the vicinity of his ear.

Jōtarō raised his hand to feel his wound. "What are you doing?" he screamed.

"You killed the master's dog. You don't mind if I beat you to death the same way, do you? Because that's exactly what I'm going to do."

"All I did was get even with him. Why punish me for that? A grown man should know that's not right!"

In Jōtarō's view, he had only protected his honor, and risked his life in doing so, for a visible wound was a great disgrace to a samurai. To defend his pride, there was no alternative to killing the dog: indeed, in all likelihood he had expected to be praised for his valiant conduct. He stood his ground, determined not to flinch.

"Shut your impudent mouth!" screamed the keeper. "I don't care if you are only a child. You're old enough to know the difference between a dog and a human being. The very idea—taking revenge on a dumb animal!"

He grabbed Jōtarō's collar, looked to the crowd for approval, and declared it his duty to punish the dog's murderer. The crowd silently nodded in agreement. The four men who had so recently been entertaining Musashi looked distressed but said nothing.

"Bark, boy! Bark like a dog!" the keeper shouted. He swung Jōtarō around and around by his collar and with a black look in his eye threw him to the ground. Seizing an oak staff, he raised it above his head ready to strike.

"You killed the dog, you little hoodlum. Now it's your turn! Stand up so I can kill you! Bark! Bite me!"

Teeth tightly clenched, Jōtarō propped himself up on one arm and struggled to his feet, wooden sword in hand. His features had not lost their spritelike quality, but the expression on his face was anything but childlike, and the howl that issued from his throat was eerily savage.

When an adult gets angry, he often regrets it later, but when a child's wrath is aroused, not even the mother who brought him into the world can placate him.

"Kill me!" he screamed. "Go on, kill me!"

"Die, then!" raged the keeper. He struck.

The blow would have killed the boy if it had connected, but it didn't. A sharp crack reverberated in the ears of the bystanders, and Jōtarō's wooden sword went flying through the air. Without thinking about it, he had parried the keeper's blow.

Weaponless, he closed his eyes and charged blindly at the enemy's midriff, latching on to the man's obi with his teeth. Holding on for dear life, he tore with his nails at the keeper's groin, while the keeper made futile swings with his staff.

Musashi had remained silent, arms folded and face expressionless, but then another oak staff appeared. A second man had dashed into the ring and was on the verge of attacking Jōtarō from behind. Musashi moved into action. His arms came down and in no time he forced his way through the solid wall of men into the arena.

"Coward!" he shouted at the second man.

An oak stick and two legs described an arc in the air, coming to rest in a clump about four yards away.

Musashi shouted, "And now for you, you little devil!" Gripping Jōtarō's obi with both hands, he lifted the boy above his head and held him there. Turning to the keeper, who was taking a fresh grip on his staff, he said, "I've been watching this from the start, and I think you're going about it the wrong way. This boy is my servant, and if you're going to question him, you ought to question me too."

In fiery tones, the keeper answered, "All right, we'll do that. We'll question the two of you!"

"Good! We'll take you on together. Now, here's the boy!"

He threw Jōtarō straight at the man. The crowd let out an appalled gasp and fell back. Was the man mad? Who ever heard of using one human being as a weapon against another human?

The keeper stared in disbelief as Jōtarō sailed through the air and rammed into his chest. The man fell straight back, as though a prop holding him up had suddenly been removed. It was difficult to tell whether he had struck his head against a rock, or whether his ribs had been broken. Hitting the ground with a howl, he began vomiting blood. Jōtarō bounced off the man's chest, did a somersault in the air, and rolled like a ball to a point twenty or thirty feet away.

"Did you see that?" a man shouted.

"Who is this crazy rōnin?"

The fracas no longer involved only the dog's keeper; the other samurai began abusing Musashi. Most of them were unaware that Musashi was an invited guest, and several suggested killing him then and there.

"Now," said Musashi, "everybody listen!"

They watched him closely as he took Jōtarō's wooden sword in his hand and faced them, a terrifying scowl on his face.

"The child's crime is his master's crime. We are both prepared to pay for it. But first let me tell you this: we have no intention of letting ourselves be killed like dogs. We are prepared to take you on."

Instead of acknowledging the crime and taking his punishment, he was challenging them! If at this point Musashi had apologized for Jōtarō and spoken in his defense, if he had made even the slightest effort to soothe the ruffled feelings of the Yagyū samurai, the whole incident might have passed by quietly. But Musashi's attitude precluded this. He seemed set on creating a still greater disturbance.

Shōda, Kimura, Debuchi and Murata all frowned, wondering anew what sort of freak they had invited to the castle. Deploring his lack of sense, they gradually edged around the crowd while keeping a watchful eye on him.

The crowd had been seething to begin with, and Musashi's challenge exacerbated their anger.

"Listen to him! He's an outlaw!"

"He's a spy! Tie him up!"

"No, cut him up!"

"Don't let him get away!"

For a moment it looked as though Musashi and Jōtarō, who was again by his side, would be swallowed up by a sea of swords, but then an authoritative voice cried, "Wait!"

It was Kizaemon, who together with Debuchi and Murata was trying to hold the crowd in check.

"This man seems to have planned all this," said Kizaemon. "If you let him entice you and you're wounded or killed, we shall have to answer to his lordship for it. The dog was important, but not as important as a human life. The four of us will assume all responsibility. Rest assured no harm will befall you because of anything we do. Now calm down and go home."

With some reluctance, the others dispersed, leaving the four men who had entertained Musashi in the Shin'indō. It was no longer a case of guest and hosts, but one of an outlaw facing his judges.

"Musashi," said Kizaemon, "I'm sorry to tell you your plot has failed. I suppose someone put you up to spying on Koyagyū Castle or just stirring up trouble, but I'm afraid it didn't work."

As they pressed in on Musashi, he was keenly aware that there was not one among them who was not an expert with the sword. He stood quite still, his hand on Jōtarō's shoulder. Surrounded, he couldn't have escaped even if he'd had wings.

"Musashi!" called Debuchi, working his sword a little way out of its scabbard. "You've failed. The proper thing for you to do is commit suicide. You may be a scoundrel, but you showed a great deal of bravery coming into this castle with only that child at your side. We had a friendly evening together; now we'll wait while you prepare yourself for hara-kiri. When you're ready, you can prove that you're a real samurai!"

That would have been the ideal solution; they had not consulted with Sekishūsai, and if Musashi died now, the whole affair could be buried along with his body.

Musashi had other ideas. "You think I should kill myself? That's absurd! I have no intention of dying, not for a long time." His shoulders shook with laughter.

"All right," said Debuchi. The tone was quiet, but the meaning was crystal clear. "We've tried to treat you decently, but you've done nothing but take advantage of us—"

Kimura broke in, saying, "There's no need for further talk!"

He went behind Musashi and pushed him. "Walk!" he commanded.

"Walk where?"

"To the cells."

Musashi nodded and started walking, but in the direction of his own choice, straight toward the castle keep.

"Where do you think you're going?" cried Kimura, jumping in front of Musashi and stretching his arms out to block him. "This isn't the way to the cells. They're in back of you. Turn around and get going!"

"No!" cried Musashi. He looked down at Jōtarō, who was still clinging to his side, and told him to go sit under a pine tree in the garden in front of the keep. The ground around the pine trees was covered with carefully raked white sand.

Jōtarō darted from under Musashi's sleeve and hid behind the tree, wondering all the while what Musashi intended to do next. The memory of his teacher's bravery at Hannya Plain came back to him, and his body swelled with excitement.

Kizaemon and Debuchi took positions on either side of Musashi and tried to pull him back by the arms. Musashi didn't budge.

"Let's go!"

"I'm not going."

"You intend to resist?"

"I do!"

Kimura lost patience and started to draw his sword, but his seniors, Kizaemon and Debuchi, ordered him to hold off.

"What's the matter with you? Where do you think you're going?" "I intend to see Yagyū Sekishūsai."

"You
what?"

Never had it crossed their minds that this insane youth could have even thought of anything so preposterous.

"And what would you do if you met him?" asked Kizaemon.

"I'm a young man, I'm studying the martial arts, and it is one of my goals in life to receive a lesson from the master of the Yagyū Style."

"If that's what you wanted, why didn't you just ask?"

"Isn't it true that Sekishūsai never sees anyone and never gives lessons to student warriors?"

"Yes."

"Then what else can I do but challenge him? I realize, of course, that even if I do, he'll probably refuse to come out of retirement, so I'm challenging this whole castle to a battle instead."

"A battle?" chorused the four.

His arms still held by Kizaemon and Debuchi, Musashi looked up at the sky. There was a flapping sound, as an eagle flew toward them from the blackness enveloping Mount Kasagi. Like a giant shroud, its silhouette hid the stars from view before it glided noisily down to the roof of the rice storehouse.

To the four retainers, the word "battle" sounded so melodramatic as to be laughable, but to Musashi it barely sufficed to express his concept of what was to come. He was not talking about a fencing match to be decided by technical skill only. He meant total war, where the combatants concentrate every ounce of their spirit and ability—and their fates are decided. A battle between two armies might be different in form, but in essence it was the same. It was simple: a battle between one man and one castle. His willpower was manifest in the firmness with which his heels were now implanted in the ground. It was this iron determination that made the word "battle" come naturally to his lips.

The four men scrutinized his face, wondering again if he had an iota of sanity left.

Kimura took up the challenge. Kicking his straw sandals into the air and tucking up his
hakama,
he said, "Fine! Nothing I like better than a battle! I can't offer you rolling drums or clanging gongs, but I can offer you a fight. Shōda, Debuchi, push him over here." Kimura had been the first to suggest that they should punish Musashi, but he had held himself back, trying to be patient. Now he had had his fill.