Musashi: Bushido Code (50 page)

Then, with a distasteful expression on his face, he grumbled, "This may be some samurai's idea of a joke, but I don't like it."

"Oh? Can you think of anyone who would want to suggest that a man had been in the House of Virgins?"

"Yes, I can. As a matter of fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." "Does it concern me in some way?"

"Well, I don't want you to feel bad about it, but it's like this. There's a samurai who has taken me to task for putting you in the same dormitory with the shrine maidens. He says he's warning me for my own sake."

"Have I done something that reflects on you?"

"There's no reason to be upset. It's just that—well, you know how people talk. Now don't be angry, but after all, you're not exactly a maiden. You've been around men, and people say it tarnishes the shrine to have a woman who's not a virgin living together with the girls in the House of Virgins."

Although Arakida's tone was casual, angry tears flooded Otsū's eyes. It was true that she had traveled around a lot, that she was used to meeting people, that she had wandered through life with this old love clinging to her heart; maybe it was only natural for people to take her for a woman of the world. It was, nevertheless, a shattering experience to be accused of not being chaste, when in fact she was.

Arakida did not seem to attach much importance to the matter. It simply disturbed him that people were saying things, and since it was the end of the year "and all that," as he put it, he wondered if she would be so good as to discontinue the flute lessons and move out of the House of Virgins.

Otsū consented quickly, not as an admission of guilt, but because she had not planned to stay on and did not want to cause trouble, especially to Master Arakida. Notwithstanding her resentment at the falseness of the gossip, she promptly thanked him for his kindnesses during her stay and said that she would leave within the day.

"Oh, it's not all that urgent," he assured her, reaching out to his small bookcase and taking out some money, which he wrapped in paper.

Jōtarō, who had followed Otsū, chose this moment to put his head in from the veranda and whisper, "If you're going to leave, I'll go with you. I'm tired of sweeping their old garden anyway."

"Here's a little gift," said Arakida. "It's not much, but take it and use it for travel money." He held out the packet containing a few gold coins.

Otsū refused to touch it. With a shocked look on her face, she told him she deserved no pay for merely giving flute lessons to the girls; rather it was she who should be paying for her food and lodging.

"No," he replied. "I couldn't possibly take money from you, but there is something I'd like you to do for me in case you happen to be going to Kyoto. You can think of this money as payment for a favor."

"I'll be glad to do anything you ask, but your kindness is payment enough." Arakida turned to Jōtarō and said, "Why don't I give him the money? He can buy things for you along the way."

"Thank you," said Jōtarō, promptly extending his hand and accepting the packet. As an afterthought, he looked at Otsū and said, "It's all right, isn't it?"

Confronted with a fait accompli, she gave in and thanked Arakida.

"The favor I want to ask," he said, "is that you deliver a package from me to Lord Karasumaru Mitsuhiro, who lives at Horikawa in Kyoto." While speaking, he took two scrolls down from the set of staggered shelves on the wall. "Lord Karasumaru asked me two years ago to paint these. They're finally done. He plans to write in the commentary to go with the pictures and present the scrolls to the Emperor. That's why I don't want to entrust them to an ordinary messenger or courier. Will you take them to him and make sure they don't get wet or soiled on the way?"

This was a commission of unexpected importance, and Otsū hesitated at first. But it would hardly do to refuse and after a moment she agreed. Arakida then took out a box and some oiled paper, but before wrapping and sealing the scrolls, said, "Perhaps I should show them to you first." He sat down and began unrolling the paintings on the floor before them. He was obviously proud of his work and wanted to take a last look himself before parting with it.

Otsū gasped at the beauty of the scrolls, and Jōtarō's eyes widened as he bent over to examine them more closely. Since the commentary had not yet been written in, neither of them knew what story was depicted, but as Arakida unrolled scene after scene, they saw before them a picture of life at the ancient imperial court, fastidiously executed in magnificent colors with touches of powdered gold. The paintings were in the Tosa style, which was derived from classic Japanese art.

Though Jōtarō had never been taught anything about art, he was dazzled by what he saw. "Look at the fire there," he exclaimed. "It looks like it's really burning, doesn't it?"

"Don't touch the painting," admonished Otsū. "Just look."

While they gazed in admiration, a servant entered and said something in a very low voice to Arakida, who nodded and replied, "I see. I suppose it's all right. Just in case, though, you'd better have the man make out a receipt." With that, he gave the servant the pack and the two swords Otsū had brought to him.

Upon learning that their flute teacher was leaving, the girls in the House of Virgins were disconsolate. In the two months she had been with them, they had come to regard her as an elder sister, and their faces as they gathered about her were full of gloom.

"Is it true?"

"Are you really going away?"

"Won't you ever come back?"

From beyond the dormitory, Jōtarō shouted, "I'm ready. What's taking you so long?" He had doffed his white robe and was once again dressed in his usual short kimono, his wooden sword at his side. The cloth-wrapped box containing the scrolls was suspended diagonally across his back.

From the window, Otsū called back, "My, that was fast!"

"I'm always fast!" retorted Jōtarō. "Aren't you ready yet? Why does it take women so long to dress and pack?" He was sunning himself in the yard, yawning lazily. But being impatient by nature, he quickly grew bored. "Aren't you finished yet?" he called again.

"I'll be there in a minute," Otsū replied. She'd already finished packing, but the girls wouldn't let her go. Attempting to break away, Otsū said soothingly, "Don't be sad. I'll come to visit one of these days. Till then, take good care of yourselves." She had the uncomfortable feeling that this was not true, for in view of what had happened, it seemed unlikely that she would ever return.

Perhaps the girls suspected this; several were crying. Finally, someone suggested that they all see Otsū as far as the holy bridge across the Isuzu River. They thereupon crowded around her and escorted her out of the house. They didn't see Jōtarō immediately, so they cupped their hands around their mouths and called his name, but got no reply. Otsū, too used to his ways to be disturbed, said, "He probably got tired of waiting and went on ahead."

"What a disagreeable little boy!" exclaimed one of the girls.

Another suddenly looked up at Otsū and asked, "Is he your son?"

"My son? How on earth could you think that? I won't even be twenty-one till next year. Do I look old enough to have a child that big?"

"No, but somebody said he was yours."

Recalling her conversation with Arakida, Otsū blushed, then comforted herself with the thought that it made no real difference what people said, so long as Musashi had faith in her.

Just then, Jōtarō came running up to them. "Hey, what's going on?" he said with a pout. "First you keep me waiting for ages, now you start off without me!"

"But you weren't where you were supposed to be," Otsū pointed out.

"You could have looked for me, couldn't you? I saw a man over there on the Toba highroad who looked a little like my teacher. I ran over to see whether it was really him."

"Someone who looked like Musashi?"

"Yes, but it wasn't him. I went as far as that row of trees and got a good look at the man from behind, but it couldn't have been Musashi. Whoever it was had a limp."

It was always like this when Otsū and Jōtarō were traveling. Not a day passed without their experiencing a glimmer of hope, followed by disappointment. Everywhere they went, they saw someone who reminded them of Musashi—the man passing by the window, the samurai in the boat that had just left, the rōnin on horseback, the dimly seen passenger in a palanquin. Hopes soaring, they would rush to make sure, only to find themselves looking dejectedly at each other. It had happened dozens of times.

For this reason, Otsū was not as upset now as she might have been, though Jōtarō was crestfallen. Laughing the incident off, she said, "Too bad you were wrong, but don't get mad at me for going on ahead. I thought I'd find you at the bridge. You know, everybody says that if you start out on a journey in a bad mood, you'll stay angry all the way. Come now, let's make up."

Though seemingly satisfied, Jōtarō turned and cast a rude look at the girls trailing along behind. "What are they all doing here? Are they coming with us?"

"Of course not. They're just sorry to see me leave, so they're sweet enough to escort us to the bridge."

"Why, that's so very kind of them," said Jōtarō, mimicking Otsū's speech and throwing everyone into fits of laughter. Now that he had joined the group, the anguish of parting subsided, and the girls recovered their good spirits.

"Otsū," called one of them, "you're turning the wrong way; that's not the path to the bridge."

"I know," said Otsū quietly. She had turned toward the Tamagushi Gate to pay her respects to the inner shrine. Clapping her hands together once, she bowed her head toward the sanctum and remained in an attitude of silent prayer for a few moments.

"Oh, I see," murmured Jōtarō. "She doesn't think she should leave without saying good-bye to the goddess." He was content to watch from a distance, but the girls started poking him in the back and asking him why he did not follow Otsū's example. "Me?" asked the boy incredulously. "I don't want to bow before any old shrine."

"You shouldn't say that. You'll be punished for that someday."

"I'd feel silly bowing like that."

"What's silly about showing your respect to the Sun Goddess? She's not like one of those minor deities they worship in the cities."

"I know that."

"Well, then, why don't you pay your respects?"

"Because I don't want to!"

"Contrary, aren't you!"

"Shut up, you crazy females! All of you!"

"Oh, my!" chorused the girls, dismayed at his rudeness.

"What a monster!" exclaimed one.

By this time Otsū had finished her obeisance and was coming back toward them. "What happened?" she asked. "You look upset."

One of the girls blurted, "He called us crazy females, just because we tried to get him to bow before the goddess."

"Now, Jōtarō, you know that's not nice," Otsū admonished. "You really ought to say a prayer."

"What for?"

"Didn't you say yourself that when you thought Musashi was about to be killed by the priests from the Hōzōin, you raised your hands and prayed as loudly as you could? Why can't you pray here too?"

"But ... well, they're all looking."

"All right, we'll turn around so we can't see you."

They all turned their backs to the boy, but Otsū stole a look behind her. He was running dutifully toward the Tamagushi Gate. When he reached it, he faced the shrine and, in very boyish fashion, made a deep, lightning-quick bow.

The Pinwheel

Musashi sat on the narrow veranda of a little seafood shop facing the sea. The shop's specialty was sea snails, served boiling in their shells. Two women divers, baskets of freshly caught turban shells on their arms, and a boatman stood near the veranda. While the boatman urged him to take a ride around the offshore islands, the two women were trying to convince him he needed some sea snails to take with him, wherever he was headed.

Musashi was busily engaged in removing the pus-soiled bandage from his foot. Having suffered intensely from his injury, he could hardly believe that both the fever and the swelling were finally gone. The foot was again normal size, and though the skin was white and shriveled, it was only slightly painful.

Waving the boatman and divers away, he lowered his tender foot onto the sand and walked to the shore to wash it. Returning to the veranda, he waited for the shopgirl he'd sent to buy new leather socks and sandals. When she came back, he put them on and took a few cautious steps. He still had a slight limp, but nothing like before.

The old man cooking snails looked up. "The ferryman's calling you. Weren't you planning to cross over to Ōminato?"

"Yes. I think there's a regular boat from there to Tsu."

"There is, and there are also boats for Yokkaichi and Kuwana."

"How many days to the end of the year?"

The old man laughed. "I envy you," he said. "It's plain you don't have any year-end debts to pay. Today's the twenty-fourth."

"Is that all? I thought it was later."

"How nice to be young!"

As he trotted to the ferry landing, Musashi felt an urge to keep running, farther and farther, faster and faster. The change from invalid to healthy man had lifted his spirits, but what made him far happier was the spiritual experience he'd had that morning.

The ferry was already full, but he managed to make room for himself. Directly across the bay, at Ōminato, he changed to a bigger boat, bound for Owari. The sails filled and the boat glided over the glasslike surface of the Bay of Ise. Musashi stood huddled with the other passengers and gazed quietly across the water to his left—at the old market, Yamada and the Matsuzaka highroad. If he went to Matsuzaka, he might have a chance to meet the prodigious swordsman Mikogami Tenzen, but no, it was too soon for that. He disembarked at Tsu as planned.

No sooner was he off the boat than he noticed a man walking ahead of him with a short bar at his waist. Wrapped around the bar was a chain, and at the end of the chain was a ball. The man also wore a short field sword in a leather sheath. He looked to be forty-two or forty-three; his face, as dark as Musashi's, was pockmarked, and his reddish hair was pulled back in a knot.

He might have been taken for a freebooter were it not for the young boy following him. Soot blackened both cheeks, and he carried a sledgehammer; he was obviously a blacksmith's apprentice.

"Wait for me, master!"

"Get a move on!"

"I left the hammer on the boat."

"Leaving behind the tools you make your living with, huh?"

"I went back and got it."

"And I suppose that makes you proud of yourself. The next time you forget anything, I'll crack your skull open for you!"

"Master . . ." the boy pleaded.

"Quiet!"

"Can't we spend the night at Tsu?"

"There's still plenty of daylight. We can make it home by nightfall."

"I'd like to stop somewhere anyway. As long as we're on a trip, we might as well enjoy it."

"Don't talk nonsense!"

The street into the town was lined with souvenir shops and infested with inn touts, just as in other port towns. The apprentice again lost sight of his master and searched the crowd worriedly until the man emerged from a toy shop with a small, colorful pinwheel.

"Iwa!" he called to the boy.

"Yes, sir."

"Carry this. And be careful it doesn't get broken! Stick it in your collar." "Souvenir for the baby?"

"Mm," grunted the man. After being away on a job for a few days, he was looking forward to seeing the child's grin of delight when he handed it over.

It almost seemed that the pair were leading Musashi. Every time he planned to turn, they turned ahead of him. It occurred to Musashi that this blacksmith was probably Shishido Baiken, but he could not be sure, so he improvised a simple strategy to make certain. Feigning not to notice them, he went ahead for a time, then dropped back again, eavesdropping all the while. They went through the castle town and then toward the mountain road to Suzuka, presumably the route Baiken would take to his house. Putting this together with snatches of overheard conversation, Musashi concluded that this was indeed Baiken.

He had intended to go straight to Kyoto, but this chance meeting proved too tempting. He approached and said in a friendly manner, "Going back to Umehata?"

The man's reply was curt. "Yes, I'm going to Umehata. Why?"

"I was wondering if you might be Shishido Baiken."

"I am. And who are you?"

"My name is Miyamoto Musashi. I'm a student warrior. Not long ago I went to your house in Ujii and met your wife. It looks to me as though fate brought us together here."

"Is that so?" Baiken said. With a look of sudden comprehension on his face, he asked, "Are you the man who was staying at the inn in Yamada, the one who wanted to have a bout with me?"

"How did you hear about that?"

"You sent someone to the Arakida house to find me, didn't you?" "Yes."

"I was doing some work for Arakida, but I didn't stay at the house. I borrowed a work place in the village. It was a job nobody could do but me."

"I see. I hear you're an expert with the chain-ball-sickle."

"Ha, ha! But you said you met my wife?"

"Yes. She demonstrated one of the Yaegaki stances for me."

"Well, that should be enough for you. There's no reason to be following along after me. Oh, of course I could show you a great deal more than she did, but the minute you saw it, you'd be on your way to a different world."

Musashi's impression of the wife had been that she was pretty overbearing, but here was real arrogance. He was fairly sure from what he had seen already that he could take the measure of this man, but he cautioned himself not to be hasty. Takuan had taught him life's first lesson, namely that there are a lot of people in the world who may very well be one's betters. The lesson had been reinforced by his experiences at the Hōzōin and at Koyagyū Castle. Before letting his pride and confidence betray him into underestimating an adversary, he wanted to size him up from every possible angle. While laying his groundwork, he would remain sociable, even if at times this might strike his opponent as being cowardly or subservient.

In reply to Baiken's contemptuous remark, he said, with an air of respect befitting his youth, "I see. I did indeed learn a good deal from your wife, but since I've had the good fortune to meet you, I'd be grateful if you'd tell me more about the weapon you use."

"If all you want to do is talk, fine. Are you planning to stay overnight at the inn by the barrier?"

"That's what I had in mind, unless you'd be kind enough to put me up for another night."

"You're welcome to stay, if you're willing to sleep in the smithy with Iwa. But I don't run an inn and we don't have extra bedding."

At sunset they reached the foot of Mount Suzuka; the little village, under red clouds, looked as placid as a lake. Iwa ran on ahead to announce their arrival, and when they got to the house, Baiken's wife was waiting under the eaves, holding the baby and the pinwheel.

"Look, look, look!" she cooed. "Daddy's been away, Daddy's come back. See, there he is."

In a twinkling, Daddy ceased to be the epitome of arrogance and broke into a fatherly smile. "Here, boy, here's Daddy," he babbled, holding up his hand and making his fingers dance.

Husband and wife disappeared inside and sat down, talking only about the baby and household matters, paying no attention to Musashi.

Finally, when dinner was ready, Baiken remembered his guest. "Oh, yes, give that fellow something to eat," he told his wife.

Musashi was sitting in the dirt-floored smithy, warming himself by the forge. He hadn't even removed his sandals.

"He was just here the other day. He spent the night," the woman replied sullenly. She put some sake to warm in the hearth in front of her husband. "Young man," Baiken called. "Do you drink sake?"

"I don't dislike it."

"Have a cup."

"Thanks." Moving to the threshold of the hearth room, Musashi accepted a cup of the local brew and put it to his lips. It tasted sour. After downing it, he offered the cup to Baiken, saying, "Let me pour you a cup."

"Never mind, I have one." He looked at Musashi for an instant, then asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"Where do you come from?"

"Mimasaka."

Baiken's eyes, which had wandered off in another direction, swung back to Musashi, reexamining him from head to toe.

"Let's see, you mentioned it a while ago. Your name—what's your name?" "Miyamoto Musashi."

"How do you write Musashi?"

"It's written the same way as Takezō."

The wife came in and put soup, pickles, chopsticks and a bowl of rice on the straw mat before Musashi. "Eat!" she said unceremoniously.

"Thanks," replied Musashi.

Baiken waited a couple of breaths, then said, as though to himself, "It's hot

now—the sake." Pouring Musashi another cup, he asked in an offhand manner, "Does that mean you were called Takezō when you were younger?" "Yes."

"Were you still called that when you were seventeen or so?"

"Yes."

"When you were about that age, you weren't by any chance at the Battle of Sekigahara with another boy about your age, were you?"

It was Musashi's turn to be surprised. "How did you know?" he said slowly. "Oh, I know a lot of things. I was at Sekigahara too."

Hearing this, Musashi felt better disposed toward the man; Baiken, too, seemed suddenly more friendly.

"I thought I'd seen you somewhere," said the blacksmith. "I guess we must have met on the battlefield."

"Were you in the Ukita camp too?"

"I was living in Yasugawa then, and I went to the war with a group of samurai from there. We were in the front lines, we were."

"Is that so? I guess we probably saw each other then."

"Whatever happened to your friend?"

"I haven't seen him since."

"Since the battle?"

"Not exactly. We stayed for a time at a house in Ibuki, waiting for my

wounds to heal. We, uh, parted there. That was the last I saw of him."

Baiken let his wife know they were out of sake. She was already in bed with

the baby. "There isn't any more," she answered.

"I want some more. Now!"

"Why do you have to drink so much tonight, of all nights?"

"We're having an interesting little talk here. Need some more sake." "But there isn't any."

"Iwa!" he called through the flimsy board wall in a corner of the smithy. "What is it, sir?" said the boy. He pushed open the door and showed his face, stooping because the lintel was so low.

"Go over to Onosaku's house and borrow a bottle of sake."

Musashi had had enough to drink. "If you don't mind, I'll go ahead and eat," he said, picking up his chopsticks.

"No, no, wait," said Baiken, quickly grabbing Musashi's wrist. "It's not time to eat. Now that I've sent for some sake, have a little more."

"If you were getting it for me, you shouldn't have. I don't think I can drink another drop."

"Aw, come now," Baiken insisted. "You said you wanted to hear more about the chain-ball-sickle. I'll tell you everything I know, but let's have a few drinks while we're talking."

When Iwa returned with the sake, Baiken poured some into a heating jar, put it on the fire, and talked at great length about the chain-ball-sickle and ways to use it to advantage in actual combat. The best thing about it, he told Musashi, was that, unlike a sword, it gave the enemy no time to defend himself. Also, before attacking the enemy directly, it was possible to snatch his weapon away from him with the chain. A skillful throw of the chain, a sharp yank, and the enemy had no more sword.

Still seated, Baiken demonstrated a stance. "You see, you hold the sickle in your left hand and the ball in your right. If the enemy comes at you, you take him on with the blade, then hurl the ball at his face. That's one way."

Changing positions, he went on, "Now, in this case, when there's some space between you and the enemy, you take his weapon away with the chain. It doesn't make any difference what kind of weapon it is—sword, lance, wooden staff, or whatever."

Baiken went on and on, telling Musashi about ways of throwing the ball, about the ten or more oral traditions concerning the weapon, about how the chain was like a snake, about how it was possible by cleverly alternating the movements of the chain and the sickle to create optical illusions and cause the enemy's defense to work to his own detriment, about all the secret ways of using the weapon.

Musashi was fascinated. When he heard talk like this, he listened with his whole body, eager to absorb every detail.

The chain. The sickle. Two hands .. .

As he listened, the seeds of other thoughts formed in his mind. "The sword can be used with one hand, but a man has two hands...."