Musashi: Bushido Code (47 page)

Addressing the young man confidently, he said, "You're Sasaki Kojirō from Iwakuni. I can tell. It is true, as you surmise, that I am Yoshioka Seijūrō. However, I have no desire to fight you. If it's really necessary, we can have it out some other time. Right now I'd just like to find out how all this came about. Put your sword away."

When Seijūrō had called him Ganryū, the young man had apparently not heard; now, being addressed as Sasaki Kojirō startled him. "How did you know who I am?" he asked.

Seijūrō slapped his thigh. "I knew it! I was only guessing, but I was right!" Then he came forward and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a good deal about you."

"Who from?" asked Kojirō.

"From your senior, Itō Yagorō."

"Oh, are you a friend of his?"

"Yes. Until last fall, he had a hermitage on Kagura Hill in Shirakawa, and I often visited him there. He came to my house a number of times too."

Kojirō smiled. "Well, then, this is not exactly like meeting for the first time, is it?"

"No. Ittōsai mentioned you rather often. He said there was a man from Iwakuni named Sasaki who had learned the style of Toda Seigen and then studied under Kanemaki Jisai. He told me this Sasaki was the youngest man in Jisai's school but would one day be the only swordsman who could challenge Ittōsai."

"I still don't see how you knew so quickly."

"Well, you're young and you fit the description. Seeing you wield that long sword reminded me that you're also called Ganryū—'The Willow on the Riverbank.' I had a feeling it must be you, and I was right."

"That's amazing. It really is."

As Kojirō chuckled with delight, his eyes dropped to his bloody sword, which reminded him that there had been a fight and made him wonder how they would straighten everything out. As it happened, however, he and Seijūrō hit it off so well that an understanding was soon reached, and after a few minutes they were walking along the dike shoulder to shoulder, like old friends. Behind them were Ryōhei and the three dejected disciples. The little group headed toward Kyoto.

Kojirō was saying, "From the beginning, I couldn't see what the fight was all about. I had nothing against them."

Seijūrō's thoughts were on Gion Tōji's recent conduct. "I'm disgusted with Tōji," he said. "When I get back, I'll call him to account. Please don't think I have any grudge against you. I'm simply mortified to find that the men in my school aren't better disciplined."

"Well, you can see what sort of man I am," Kojirō replied. "I talk too big and I'm always ready to fight anybody. Your disciples weren't the only ones to blame. In fact, I think you should give them some credit for trying to defend your school's good name. It's unfortunate they're not much as fighters, but at least they tried. I feel a little sorry for them."

"I'm the one to blame," Seijūrō said simply. The expression on his face was one of genuine pain.

"Let's just forget the whole thing."

"Nothing would please me more."

The sight of the two making up came as a relief to the others. Who would have thought this handsome, overgrown boy was the great Sasaki Kojirō, whose praises Ittōsai had sung? ("The prodigy of Iwakuni" were his actual words.) No wonder Tōji, in his ignorance, had been tempted to do some teasing. And no wonder he had ended up looking ridiculous.

It made Ryōhei and the other three shiver to think how close they had come to being mowed down by the Drying Pole. Now that their eyes had been opened, the sight of Kojirō's broad shoulders and sturdy back made them wonder how they could have been so stupid as to underestimate him in the first place.

After a time, they came again to the landing. The corpses were already frozen, and the three were assigned to bury them, while Ryōhei went to find the horse. Kojirō went about whistling for his monkey, which suddenly appeared out of nowhere and jumped on his master's shoulder.

Seijūrō not only urged Kojirō to come along to the school on Shijō Avenue and stay awhile but even proffered his horse. Kojirō refused.

That wouldn't be right," he said, with unaccustomed deference. "I'm just a young rōnin, and you're the master of a great school, the son of a distinguished man, the leader of hundreds of followers." Taking hold of the bridle, he continued, "Please, you ride. I'll just hold on to this. It's easier to walk that way. If it's really all right for me to go with you, I'd like to accept your offer and stay with you in Kyoto for a time."

Seijūrō, with equal cordiality, said, "Well, then, I'll ride for now, and when your feet get tired, we can change places."

Seijūrō, faced with the certain prospect of having to fight Miyamoto Musashi at the beginning of the New Year, was reflecting that it was not a bad idea to have a swordsman like Sasaki Kojirō around.

Eagle Mountain

In the 1550s and 1560s, the most famous master swordsmen in eastern Japan were Tsukahara Bokuden and Lord Kōizumi of Ise, whose rivals in central Honshu were Yoshioka Kempō of Kyoto and Yagyū Muneyoshi of Yamato. In addition there was Lord Kitabatake Tomonori of Kuwana, a master of the martial arts and an outstanding governor. Long after his death, the people of Kuwana spoke of him with affection, since to them he symbolized the essence of good government and prosperity.

When Kitabatake studied under Bokuden, the latter passed on to him his Supreme Swordsmanship: his most secret of secret methods. Bokuden's son, Tsukahara Hikoshirō, inherited his father's name and estate but had not been bequeathed his secret treasure. It was for this reason that Bokuden's style spread not in the east, where Hikoshirō was active, but in the Kuwana region, where Kitabatake ruled.

Legend has it that after Bokuden's death, Hikoshirō came to Kuwana and tried to trick Kitabatake into revealing the secret method to him. "My father," he allegedly claimed, "long ago taught it to me, and I'm told he did the same with you. But lately I've been wondering whether what we were taught was, in fact, the same thing. Since the ultimate secrets of the Way are our mutual concern, I think we should compare what we've learned, don't you?"

Though Kitabatake immediately realized Bokuden's heir was up to no good, he quickly agreed to a demonstration, but what Hikoshirō then became privy to was only the outward form of the Supreme Swordsmanship, not its innermost secret. As a result, Kitabatake remained the sole master of the true Bokuden Style and to learn it students had to go to Kuwana. In the east, Hikoshirō passed on as genuine the spurious hollow shell of his father's skill: its form without its heart.

Or such, in any case, was the story told to any traveler who happened to set foot in the Kuwana region. It was not a bad story, as such stories go, and being based on fact, it was both more plausible and less inconsequential than most of the myriad local folk tales people told to reaffirm the uniqueness of their beloved towns and provinces.

Musashi, descending Tarusaka Mountain on his way from the castle town of Kuwana, heard it from his groom. He nodded and said politely, "Really? How interesting." It was the middle of the last month of the year, and though the Ise climate is relatively warm, the wind blowing up into the pass from Nako inlet was cold and biting.

He wore only a thin kimono, a cotton undergarment and a sleeveless cloak, clothing too light by any standard, and distinctly dirty as well. His face was not so much bronzed as blackened from exposure to the sun. Atop his weather-beaten head, his worn and frayed basket hat looked absurdly superfluous. Had he discarded it along the road, no one would have bothered to pick it up. His hair, which could not have been washed for many days, was tied in back, but still managed to resemble a bird's nest. And whatever he had been doing for the past six months had left his skin looking like well-tanned leather. His eyes shone pearly white in their coal-dark setting.

The groom had been worrying ever since he took on this unkempt rider. He doubted he would ever receive his pay and was certain he would see no return fare from their destination deep in the mountains.

"Sir," he said, somewhat timidly.

"Mm?"

"We'll reach Yokkaichi a little before noon and Kameyama by evening, but it'll be the middle of the night before we get to the village of Ujii."

"Mm."

"Is that all right?"

"Mm." Musashi was more interested in the view of the inlet than in talking, and the groom, try though he did, could elicit no more response than a nod and a noncommittal "Mm."

He tried again. "Ujii's nothing but a little hamlet about eight miles into the mountains from the ridge of Mount Suzuka. How do you happen to be going to a place like that?"

"I'm going to see someone."

"There's nobody there but a few farmers and woodcutters."

"In Kuwana I heard there's a man there who's very good with the chain-ball-sickle."

"I guess that would be Shishido."

"That's the man. His name is Shishido something or other."

"Shishido Baiken."

"Yes."

"He's a blacksmith, makes scythes. I remember hearing how good he is with that weapon. Are you studying the martial arts?"

"Mm."

"Well, in that case, instead of going to see Baiken, I'd suggest you go to Matsuzaka. Some of the best swordsmen in Ise Province are there."

"Who, for instance?"

"Well, there's Mikogami Tenzen, for one."

Musashi nodded. "Yes, I've heard of him." He said no more, leaving the impression that he was quite familiar with Mikogami's exploits.

When they reached the little town of Yokkaichi, he limped painfully to a stall, ordered a box lunch and sat down to eat. One of his feet was bandaged around the instep, because of a festering wound on the sole, which explained why he had chosen to rent a horse rather than walk. Despite his usual habit of taking good care of his body, a few days earlier in the crowded port town of Narumi, he had stepped on a board with a nail in it. His red and swollen foot looked like a pickled persimmon, and since the day before, he had had a fever.

To his way of thinking, he had had a battle with a nail, and the nail had won. As a student of the martial arts, he was humiliated at having let himself be taken unawares. "Is there no way to resist an enemy of this sort?" he asked himself several times. "The nail was pointed upward and plainly visible. I stepped on it because I was half asleep—no, blind, because my spirit is not yet active throughout my whole body. What's more, I let the nail penetrate deep, proof my reflexes are slow. If I'd been in perfect control, I would have noticed the nail as soon as the bottom of my sandal touched it."

His trouble, he concluded, was immaturity. His body and his sword were still not one; though his arms grew stronger every day, his spirit and the rest of his body were not in tune. It felt to him, in his self-critical frame of mind, like a crippling deformity.

Still, he did not feel he'd entirely wasted the past six months. After fleeing from Yagyū, he had gone first to Iga, then up the Omi highroad, then through the provinces of Mino and Owari. At every town, in every mountain ravine, he had sought to master the true Way of the Sword. At times he felt he had brushed up against it, but its secret remained elusive, something not to be found lurking in either town or ravine.

He couldn't remember how many warriors he had clashed with; there had been dozens of them, all well-trained, superior swordsmen. It was not hard to find able swordsmen. What was hard to find was a real man. While the world was full of people, all too full, finding a genuine human being was not easy. In his travels, Musashi had come to believe this very deeply, to the point of pain, and it discouraged him. But then his mind always turned to Takuan, for there, without doubt, was an authentic, unique individual.

"I guess I'm lucky," thought Musashi. "At least I've had the good fortune to know one genuine man. I must make sure the experience of having known him bears fruit."

Whenever Musashi thought of Takuan, a certain physical pain spread from his wrists throughout his body. It was a strange feeling, a physiological memory of the time when he had been bound fast to the cryptomeria branch. "Just wait!" vowed Musashi. "One of these days, I'll tie Takuan up in that tree, and I'll sit on the ground and preach the true way of life to him!" It was not that he resented Takuan or had any desire for revenge. He simply wanted to show that the state of being one could attain through the Way of the Sword was higher than anyone could reach by practicing Zen. It made Musashi smile to think he might someday turn the tables on the eccentric monk.

It could happen, of course, that things would not go exactly as planned, but supposing he did make great progress, and supposing he was eventually in a position to tie Takuan up in the tree and lecture him; what would Takuan be able to say then? Surely he would cry out for joy and proclaim, "It's magnificent! I'm happy now."

But no, Takuan would never be that direct. Being Takuan, he would laugh and say, "Stupid! You're improving, but you're still stupid!"

The actual words wouldn't really matter. The point was that Musashi felt, in a curious way, that hitting Takuan over the head with his personal superiority was something he owed to the monk, a kind of debt. The fantasy was innocent enough; Musashi had set out upon a Way of his own and was discovering day by day how infinitely long and difficult the path to true humanity is. When the practical side of his nature reminded him of how much farther along that path Takuan was than he, the fantasy vanished.

It unsettled him even more to consider how immature and inept he was compared to Sekishūsai. Thinking of the old Yagyū master both maddened and saddened him, making him keenly aware of his own incompetence to speak of the Way, the Art of War or anything else with any confidence.

At times like this, the world, which he had once thought so full of stupid people, seemed frighteningly large. But then life, Musashi would tell himself, is not a matter of logic. The sword is not logic. What was important was not talk or speculation but action. There may be other people much greater than he right now, but he, too, could be great!

When self-doubt threatened to overwhelm him, it was Musashi's habit to make straight for the mountains, in whose seclusion he could live to himself. His style of life there was evident from his appearance on returning to civilization—his cheeks hollow as a deer's, his body covered with scratches and bruises, his hair dry and stiff from long hours under a cold waterfall. He would be so dirty from sleeping on the ground that the whiteness of his teeth seemed unearthly, but these were mere superficialities. Inside he would be burning with a confidence verging on arrogance and bursting with eagerness to take on a worthy adversary. And it was this search for a test of mettle that always brought him down from the mountains.

He was on the road now because he wondered whether the chain-ball-sickle expert of Kuwana might do. In the ten days left before his appointment in Kyoto, he had time to go and find out whether Shishido Baiken was that rare entity a real man, or just another of the multitude of rice-eating worms who inhabit the earth.

It was late at night before he reached his destination deep in the mountains. After thanking the groom, he told him he was free to leave, but the groom said that since it was so late he would prefer to accompany Musashi to the house he was looking for and spend the night under the eaves. The next morning he could go down from Suzuka Pass and, if he was lucky, pick up a return fare on the way. Anyhow, it was too cold and dark to try making his way back before sunup.

Musashi sympathized with him. They were in a valley enclosed on three sides, and any way the groom went, he'd have to climb the mountains knee-deep in snow. "In that case," said Musashi, "come with me."

"To Shishido Baiken's house?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, sir. Let's see if we can find it."

Since Baiken ran a smithy, any of the local farmers would have been able to direct them to his place, but at this hour of the night, the whole village was in bed. The only sign of life was the steady thud of a mallet beating on a fulling block. Walking through the frigid air toward the sound, they eventually spied a light.

It turned out to be the blacksmith's house. In front was a pile of old metal and the underside of the eaves was smoke-stained. At Musashi's command, the groom pushed open the door and went in. There was a fire in the forge, and a woman with her back to the flames was pounding cloth.

"Good evening, ma'am! Oh! You've got a fire. That's wonderful!" The groom made straight for the forge.

The woman jumped at the sudden intrusion and dropped her work. "Who in the world are you?" she asked.

"Just a moment, I'll explain," he said, warming his hands. "I've brought a man from a long way off who wants to meet your husband. We just got here. I'm a groom from Kuwana."

"Well, of all . . ." The woman looked sourly in Musashi's direction. The frown on her face made it evident that she had seen more than enough
shugyōsha
and had learned how to handle them. With a touch of arrogance, she said to him, as though to a child, "Shut the door! The baby will catch cold with all that freezing air blowing in."

Musashi bowed and complied. Then, taking a seat on a tree stump beside the forge, he surveyed his surroundings, from the blackened foundry area to the three-room living space. On a board nailed to one section of the wall hung about ten chain-ball-sickle weapons. He assumed that was what they were, since if the truth be told, he'd never laid eyes on the device. As a matter of fact, another reason for his having made the journey here was that he thought a student like himself should become acquainted with every type of weapon. His eyes sparkled with curiosity.

The woman, who was about thirty and rather pretty, put down her mallet and went back into the living area. Musashi thought perhaps she would bring some tea, but instead she went to a mat where a small child was sleeping, picked him up and began to suckle him.

To Musashi she said, "I suppose you're another one of those young samurai
who come here to get bloodied up by my husband. If you are, you're in luck. He's off on a trip, so you don't have to worry about getting killed." She laughed merrily.

Musashi did not laugh with her; he was thoroughly annoyed. He had not come to this out-of-the-way village to be made fun of by a woman, all of whom, he mused, tended to overestimate their husbands' status absurdly. This wife was worse than most; she seemed to think her spouse the greatest man on earth.

Not wanting to give offense, Musashi said, "I'm disappointed to learn that your husband's away. Where did he go?"

"To the Arakida house."