Musashi: Bushido Code (46 page)

"Fool! Beast!"

Seijūrō remained silent.

"You're a beast. I don't ... I don't want to look at you."

"Forgive me, Akemi, please!"

"Go away! Don't talk to me." Her hand waved nervously in the dark. Seijūrō swallowed sadly but continued to stare at her.

"What . .. what's the date?"

This time he did not answer.

"Isn't it New Year's yet? ... Between New Year's and the seventh ... Every day ... He said he'd be on the bridge.... The message from Musashi ... every day ... Gojō Avenue bridge ... It's so long till New Year's.... I must go back to Kyoto.... If I go to the bridge, he'll be there."

"Musashi?" said Seijūrō in wonderment.

The delirious girl was silent.

"This Musashi ... Miyamoto Musashi?"

Seijūrō peered into her face, but Akemi said no more. Her blue eyelids were closed; she was fast asleep.

Dried pine needles tapped against the shoji. A horse whinnied. A light appeared beyond the partition, and a maid's voice said, "The Young Master is in here."

Seijūrō hastily went into the adjoining room, carefully shutting the door behind him. "Who is it?" he asked. "I'm in here."

"Ueda Ryōhei," came the answer. Clad in full travel garb and covered with dust, Ryōhei came in and sat down.

While they exchanged greetings, Seijūrō wondered what could have brought him here. Since Ryōhei, like Tōji, was one of the senior students and was needed at home, Seijūrō would never have brought him on a spur-of-the-moment excursion.

"Why have you come? Has something happened in my absence?" asked Seijūrō.

"Yes, and I must ask you to return immediately."

"What is it?"

As Ryōhei put both hands into his kimono and felt around, Akemi's voice came from the next room. "I don't like you! ... Beast! ... Go away!" The clearly spoken words were filled with fear; anyone would have thought she was awake and in real danger.

Startled, Ryōhei asked, "Who's that?"

"Oh, that? Akemi took sick after she got here. She's feverish. Every once in a while she gets a little delirious."

"That's Akemi?"

"Yes, but never mind. I want to hear why you came."

From the stomach wrapper under his kimono, Ryōhei finally extracted a letter and presented it to Seijūrō. "It's this," he said without further explanation, then moved the lamp the maid had left over to Seijūrō's side.

"Hmm. It's from Miyamoto Musashi."

"Yes!" said Ryōhei with force.

"Have you opened it?"

"Yes. I talked it over with the others, and we decided it might be important, so we opened and read it."

Instead of seeing for himself what was in the letter, Seijūrō asked, somewhat hesitantly, "What does it say?" Though nobody had dared mention the subject to him, Musashi had remained in the back of Seijūrō's mind. Even so, he had nearly convinced himself he'd never run into the man again. The sudden arrival of the letter right after Akemi had spoken Musashi's name sent chills up and down his spine.

Ryōhei bit his lip angrily. "It's finally come. When he went away talking so big last spring, I was sure he'd never set foot in Kyoto again, but—can you imagine the conceit? Go on, look at it! It's a challenge, and he has the gall to address it to the entire House of Yoshioka, signing it with only his own name. He thinks he can take us all on himself!"

Musashi hadn't written any return address, nor was there any clue to his whereabouts in the letter. But he had not forgotten the promise he had written to Seijūrō and his disciples, and with this second letter the die was cast. He was declaring war on the House of Yoshioka; the battle would have to be fought, and it would be a fight to the finish—one in which samurai struggle to the death to preserve their honor and vindicate their skill with the sword. Musashi was laying his life on the line and challenging the Yoshioka School to do the same. When the time came, words and clever technical ploys would count for little.

That Seijūrō still did not grasp this fact was the greatest source of danger to him. He did not see that the day of reckoning was at hand, that this was no time to be idling away his days on empty pleasures.

When the letter had arrived in Kyoto, some of the stauncher disciples, disgusted with the Young Master's undisciplined way of life, had grumbled angrily over his absence at so crucial a moment. Riled by the insult from this lone rōnin, they lamented that Kempō was no longer alive. After much discussion, they had agreed to inform Seijūrō of the situation and make sure he returned to Kyoto immediately. Yet now that the letter had been delivered, Seijūrō merely put it on his knees and made no move to open it.

With obvious irritation, Ryōhei asked, "Don't you think you ought to read it?"

"What? Oh, this?" said Seijūrō vacantly. He unrolled the letter and read it. His fingers began to tremble beyond his control, an unsteadiness caused not by the strong language and tone of Musashi's challenge but by his own feeling of weakness and vulnerability. Akemi's harsh words of rejection had already destroyed his composure and upset his pride as a samurai. He had never before felt so powerless.

Musashi's message was simple and straightforward:

Have you been in good health since I last wrote? In accordance with my previous promise, I am writing to ask where, on what day and at what hour we will meet. I have no particular preference and am willing to hold our promised match at the time and place designated by you. I request that you post a sign by the bridge at Gojō Avenue giving me your reply sometime before the seventh day of the New Year.

I trust that you have been polishing your swordsmanship as usual. I myself feel that I have improved to a certain small extent.

Shimmen Miyamoto Musashi.

Seijūrō stuffed the letter into his kimono and stood up. "I'll return to Kyoto now," he said.

This was said less out of resolution than because his emotions were so tangled he couldn't bear to remain where he was a moment longer. He had to get away and put the whole dreadful day behind him as soon as possible.

With much commotion, the innkeeper was called and requested to take care of Akemi, a task he accepted only with reluctance, despite the money Seijūrō pressed on him.

"I'll use your horse," he said summarily to Ryōhei. Like a fleeing bandit, he jumped into the saddle and rode rapidly away through the dark rows of trees, leaving Ryōhei to follow along at a dead run.

The Drying Pole

"A guy with a monkey? Yes, he came by a while ago."

"Did you notice which way he went?"

"That way, toward Nōjin Bridge. Didn't cross it, though—looked like he went into the swordsmith's shop down there."

After conferring briefly, the Yoshioka students stormed off, leaving their informant gaping in wonder at what the fuss was all about.

Although it was just past closing time for the shops along the East Moat, the sword shop was still open. One of the men went in, consulted with the apprentice and emerged shouting, "Temma! He's headed toward Temma!" And away they raced.

The apprentice had said that just as he was about to hang the shutters for the night, a samurai with a long forelock had thrown a monkey down near the front door, seated himself on a stool and asked to see the master. Told he was out, the samurai had said that he wanted to have his sword sharpened, but that it was much too valuable to entrust to anyone but the master himself. He had also insisted on seeing samples of the swordsmith's work.

The apprentice had politely shown him some blades, but the samurai, after looking them over, showed nothing but disgust. "It seems all you handle here are ordinary weapons," he said dryly. "I don't think I'd better give you mine. It's much too good, the work of a Bizen master. It's called the Drying Pole. See? It's perfect." He had then held it up with obvious pride.

The apprentice, amused by the young man's boasting, mumbled that the only remarkable features of the sword seemed to be its length and its straightness. The samurai, apparently offended, abruptly stood up and asked directions to the Temma-Kyoto ferry landing.

"I'll have my sword taken care of in Kyoto," he snapped. "All the Osaka swordsmiths I've visited seem to deal only in junk for ordinary foot soldiers. Sorry to have bothered you." With a cold look in his eye, he had departed.

The apprentice's story infuriated them all the more, as fresh evidence of what they already considered to be the young man's excessive conceit. It was clear to them that cutting off Gion Tōji's topknot had made the braggart cockier than ever.

"That's our man for sure!"

"We've got him now. He's as good as caught."

The men continued their pursuit, not once stopping to rest, even when the sun began to set. Nearing the dock at Temma, someone exclaimed, "We've missed it," referring to the last boat of the day.

"That's impossible."

"What makes you think we've missed it?" another asked.

"Can't you see? Down there," said the first man, pointing to the wharf. "The teashops are piling up their stools. The boat must've already pulled out."

For a moment they all stood stock-still, the wind gone from their sails. Then, on making inquiries, they found that the samurai had indeed boarded the last boat. They also learned it had just left and wouldn't be docking at the next stop, Toyosaki, for some time. The boats going upstream toward Kyoto were slow; they would have plenty of time to catch it at Toyosaki without even hurrying.

Knowing this, they took their time over tea, rice cakes and some cheap sweets before setting off at a brisk pace up the road along the riverbank. Ahead the river looked like a silver snake winding away into the distance. The Nakatsu and Temma rivers joined to form the Yodo, and near this fork a light flickered midstream.

"It's the ship!" one man shouted.

The seven became animated and soon forgot the piercing cold. In the bare fields by the road, dry rushes covered with frost glittered like slender steel swords. The wind seemed laden with ice.

As the distance between themselves and the floating light narrowed, they were able to see the boat quite clearly. Soon one of the men, without thinking, shouted, "Hey, there. Slow down!"

"Why?" came a response from on board.

Annoyed at having attention drawn to themselves, his companions chided the loudmouth. The boat was stopping at the next landing anyway; it was sheer stupidity to give advance warning. Now that they had, however, everyone agreed that the best thing to do would be to make their demand for the passenger then and there.

"There's only one of him, and if we don't challenge him outright, he may get suspicious, jump overboard and escape."

Keeping pace with the boat, they again called out to those on board. An authoritative voice, undoubtedly the captain's, demanded to know what they wanted.

"Bring the boat to the bank!"

"What! Are you crazy?" came the reply, accompanied by raucous laughter. "Land here!"

"Not on your life."

"Then we'll be waiting for you at the next landing. We have some business with a young man you've got on board. Wears a forelock and has a monkey. Tell him if he has any sense of honor, he'll show himself. And if you let him get away, we'll drag every one of you ashore."

"Captain, don't answer them!" pleaded a passenger.

"Whatever they say, just ignore it," counseled another. "Let's go on to Moriguchi. There are guards there."

Most of the passengers were huddled in fear and talking in subdued tones. The one who had spoken so jauntily to the samurai on shore a few minutes earlier now stood mute. For him as well as the others, safety lay in keeping some distance between the boat and the riverbank.

The seven men, sleeves hitched up and hands on their swords, stayed with the boat. Once they stopped and listened, apparently expecting an answer to their challenge, but heard none.

"Are you deaf?" one of them shouted. "We told you to tell that young braggart to come to the rail!"

"Do you mean me?" bellowed a voice from the boat.

"He's there, all right, and brazen as ever!"

While the men pointed their fingers and squinted toward the boat, the murmuring of the passengers grew frenzied. To them it looked as though the men on the shore might at any moment leap onto the deck.

The young man with the long sword stood firmly poised on the gunwale, his teeth shining like white pearls in the reflected moonlight. "There's no one else on board with a monkey, so I suppose it's me you're looking for. Who are you, freebooters down on your luck? A troupe of hungry actors?"

"You still don't know who you're talking to, do you, Monkey Man? Watch your tongue when you address men from the House of Yoshioka!"

As the shouting match intensified, the boat neared the dike at Kema, which had both mooring posts and a shed. The seven ran forward to seal off the landing, but no sooner reached it than the boat stopped mid-river and began turning around in circles.

The Yoshioka men grew livid.

"What do you think you're doing?"'

"You can't stay out there forever!"

"Come in or we'll come out after you."

The threats continued unabated till the prow of the boat began to move toward the bank. A voice roared through the cold air: "Shut up, you fools! We're coming in! Better get ready to defend yourselves."

Despite the other passengers' pleas, the young man had seized the boatman's pole and was bringing the ferry in. The seven samurai immediately assembled around where the prow would touch shore and watched the figure poling the boat grow larger as he neared them. But then suddenly the boat's speed picked up, and he was upon them before they knew it. As the hull scraped bottom, they fell back, and a dark, round object came sailing across the reeds and locked itself around one man's neck. Before realizing it was only the monkey, they had all instinctively drawn their swords and sliced through the empty air around them. To disguise their embarrassment, they shouted impatient orders at one another.

Hoping to stay out of the fray, the passengers huddled in a corner of the boat. The mayhem among the seven on the bank was encouraging, if somewhat puzzling, but no one yet dared to speak. Then, in an instant, all heads turned with a gasp as the boat's self-appointed pilot rammed his pole into the riverbed and vaulted, more lightly than the monkey, over the rushes to shore.

This caused even greater confusion, and without pausing to regroup, the Yoshioka men scampered toward their enemy in single file. This couldn't have put him in a better position to defend himself.

The first man had already advanced too far to turn back when he realized the stupidity of his move. At that moment every martial skill he'd ever learned deserted him. It was all he could do to bare his teeth and wave his sword erratically in front of him.

The handsome young man, aware of his psychological advantage, seemed to grow in stature. His right hand was behind him, on his sword hilt, and his elbow protruded above his shoulder.

"So you're from the Yoshioka School, are you? That's good. I feel as if I know you already. One of your men was kind enough to allow me to remove his topknot. Apparently that wasn't enough for you. Have you all come for a haircut? If you have, I'm sure I can oblige you. I'm having this blade sharpened soon anyway, so I don't mind putting it to good use."

As the declaration ended, the Drying Pole split first the air and then the cringing body of the nearest swordsman.

Seeing their comrade slain so easily paralyzed their brains; one by one they backed into one another in retreat, like so many colliding balls. Taking advantage of their obvious disorganization, the attacker swung his sword sideways at the next man, delivering a blow so solid it sent him tumbling with a shriek into the rushes.

The young man glared at the remaining five, who had in the meantime arranged themselves around him like flower petals. Reassuring each other that their present tactic was foolproof, they regained their confidence to the point of taunting the young man again. But this time their words had a tremulous, hollow ring.

Finally, with a loud battle cry, one of the men sprang forward and swung. He was sure he had made a cut. In fact, his sword point fell short of its target by two full feet and finished its arc by clanging loudly against a rock. The man fell forward, leaving himself wide open.

Rather than slay such easy prey, the young man leaped sideways and swung at the next man over. While the death scream still rang through the air, the other three took to their heels.

The young man, looking murderous, stood holding his sword with both hands. "Cowards!" he shouted. "Come back and fight! Is this the Yoshioka Style you boast of? To challenge a person and then run away? No wonder the House of Yoshioka's become a laughingstock."

To any self-respecting samurai, such insults were worse than being spat on, but the young man's former pursuers were too busy running to care.

Just then, from the vicinity of the dike, the sound of a horse's bells rang out. The river and the frost in the fields reflected enough light for the young man to make out a form on horseback and another running along behind. Though frosty breath steamed from their nostrils, they seemed oblivious of the cold as they sped along. The three fleeing samurai nearly collided with the horse as his rider brutally reined him up short.

Recognizing the three, Seijūrō scowled furiously. "What are you doing here?" he barked. "Where are you running to?"

"It's ... it's the Young Master!" one of them stammered.

Ueda Ryōhei, appearing from behind the horse, lit into them. "What's the meaning of this? You're supposed to be escorting the Young Master, you pack of fools! I suppose you were too busy getting yourselves into another drunken brawl."

The three, rattled but righteously indignant, spilled out the story of how, far from being in a drunken fight, they had been defending the honor of the Yoshioka School and its master and how they had come to grief at the hands of a young but demonic samurai.

"Look!" cried one of them. "He's coming this way."

Terrified eyes watched the approaching enemy.

"Quiet down!" Ryōhei ordered in a disgusted voice. "You talk too much. Fine ones you are to protect the honor of the school. We'll never be able to live down that performance. Stand aside! I'll take care of him myself." He took a challenging stance and waited.

The young man rushed toward them. "Stand and fight!" he was shouting. "Is running away the Yoshioka version of the Art of War? I personally don't want to kill you, but my Drying Pole's still thirsty. The least you can do, cowards that you are, is leave your heads behind." He was running along the dike with enormous, confident strides and seemed likely to leap right over the head of Ryōhei, who spat on his hands and regripped his sword with resolution.

At the moment the young man flew by, Ryōhei uttered a piercing cry, raised his sword over the young man's gold-colored coat, brought it down fiercely, and missed.

Halting instantly, the young man turned around, crying, "What's this? A new one?"

As Ryōhei stumbled forward with the momentum of his swing, the young man swiped viciously at him. In all his life, Ryōhei had never seen such a powerful stroke, and although he managed to dodge it just in time, he plunged headfirst into the paddy field below. Luckily for him, the dike was fairly low and the field frozen over, but he lost his weapon as well as his confidence when he fell.

When he clambered back up, the young man was moving with the strength and speed of an enraged tiger, scattering the three disciples with a flash of his sword and making for Seijūrō.

Seijūrō hadn't yet felt any fear. He had thought it would be all over before he himself became involved. But now danger was rushing directly at him, in the form of a rapacious sword.

Moved by a sudden inspiration, Seijūrō cried, "Ganryū! Wait!" He disengaged one foot from its stirrup, put it on the saddle, and stood straight up. As the horse sprang forward over the young man's head, Seijūrō flew backward through the air and landed on his feet about three paces away.

"What a feat!" cried the young man in genuine admiration as he moved in on Seijūrō. "Even if you are my enemy, that was really magnificent! You must be Seijūrō himself. On guard!"

The blade of the long sword became the embodiment of the young man's fighting spirit. It loomed ever closer to Seijūrō, but Seijūrō, for all his failings, was Kempō's son, and he was able to face the danger calmly.