Musashi: Bushido Code (59 page)

"Yes. Who is he?"

"Oh, he's ... well ... he's ... I don't know him very well."

"But you do know him, don't you?"

"Uh, yes."

"Carrying that great long sword and dressed to attract attention—he must think he's quite a swordsman! How do you happen to know him?"

"A few days ago," Akemi said quickly, "I was bitten by a dog, and the bleeding wouldn't stop, so I went to a doctor in the place where he happened to be staying. He's been looking after me the past few days."

"In other words, you're living in the same house with him?"

"Yes, well, I'm living there, but it doesn't mean anything. There's nothing between us." She spoke with more force now.

"In that case, I suppose you don't know much about him. Do you know his name?"

"His name is Sasaki Kojirō. He's also called Ganryū."

"Ganryū?" He had heard that name before. Though not exceptionally famous, it was known among the warriors in a number of provinces. He was younger than Musashi had imagined him to be; he took another look at him.

An odd thing happened then. A pair of dimples appeared in Kojirō's cheeks.

Musashi smiled back. Yet this silent communication was not full of peaceful light and friendship, like the smile exchanged between the Buddha and his disciple Ananda as they rubbed flowers between their fingers. In Kojirō's smile were both a challenging jeer and an element of irony.

Musashi's smile not only accepted Kojirō's challenge but conveyed a fierce will to fight.

Caught between these two strong-willed men, Akemi was about to start pouring out her feelings again, but before it came to that, Musashi said, "Now, Akemi, I think it'd be best for you to go back with that man to your lodgings. I'll come to see you soon. Don't worry."

"You'll really come?"

"Why, yes, of course."

"The name of the inn, it's the Zuzuya, in front of the Rokujō Avenue monastery."

"I see."

The casual manner of his reply was not enough for Akemi. She grabbed his hand from the railing and squeezed it passionately in the shadow of her sleeve. "You'll really come, won't you? Promise?"

Musashi's reply was drowned by a burst of belly-splitting laughter.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh ..." Kojirō turned his back and walked away as best he could in view of his uncontrollable mirth.

Looking on acidly from one end of the bridge, Jōtarō thought: "Nothing could possibly be that funny!" He himself was disgusted with the world, and particularly with his wayward teacher and with Otsū.

"Where could she have got to?" he asked again as he started tramping angrily toward town. He had taken only a few steps when he spied Otsū's white face between the wheels of an oxcart standing at the next corner over. "There she is!" he shouted, then bumped into the ox's nose in his hurry to reach her.

Today, for a change, Otsū had applied a little rouge to her lips. Her makeup was somewhat amateurish, but there was a pleasant scent about her, and her kimono was a lovely spring outfit with a white and green pattern embroidered on a deep pink background. Jōtarō hugged her from behind, not caring whether he mussed her hair or smeared the white powder on her neck.

"Why are you hiding here? I’ve been waiting for hours. Come with me, quick!"

She made no reply.

"Come on, right now!" he pleaded, shaking her by the shoulders. "Musashi's here too. Look, you can see him from here. I'm mad at him myself, but let's go anyway. If we don't hurry, he'll be gone!" When he took her wrist and tried to pull her to her feet, he noticed her arm was damp. "Otsū! Are you crying?"

"Jō, hide behind the wagon like me. Please!"

"Why?"

"Never mind why!"

"Well, of all—" Jōtarō made no attempt to conceal his wrath. "That's what I hate about women. They do crazy things! You keep saying you want to see Musashi and go weeping all over the place looking for him. Now that he's right in front of you, you decide to hide. You even want me to hide with you! Isn't that funny? Ha— Oh, I can't even laugh."

The words stung like a whip. Lifting her swollen red eyes, she said, "Please don't talk that way. I beg you. Don't you be mean to me too!"

"Why accuse me of being mean? What have I done?"

"Just be quiet, please. And stoop down here with me."

"I can't. There's ox manure on the ground. You know, they say if you cry on New Year's Day, even the crows will laugh at you."

"Oh, I don't care. I'm just—"

"Well, then, I'll laugh at you! Laugh like that samurai a few minutes ago. My first laugh of the New Year. Would that suit you?"

"Yes. Laugh! Laugh hard!"

"I can't," he said, wiping his nose. "I'll bet I know what's wrong. You're jealous because Musashi was talking to that woman."

"It's . .. it's not that! It's not that at all!"

"Yes it is! I know it is. It made me mad too. But isn't that all the more reason for you to go and talk to him? You don't understand anything, do you?"

Otsū showed no signs of rising, but he tugged so hard at her wrist that she was forced to. "Stop!" she cried. "That hurts! Don't be so spiteful. You say I don't understand anything, but you don't have the slightest idea how I feel."

"I know exactly how you feel. You're jealous!"

"That's not the only thing."

"Quiet. Let's go!"

She emerged from behind the wagon, but not voluntarily. The boy pulled; her feet scraped the ground. Still tugging, Jōtarō craned his neck and looked toward the bridge.

"Look!" he said. "Akemi's not there anymore."

"Akemi? Who's Akemi?"

"The girl Musashi was talking to.... Oh, oh! Musashi's walking away. If you don't come right now, he'll be gone." Jōtarō let go of Otsū and started toward the bridge.

"Wait!" cried Otsū, sweeping the bridge with her eyes to make sure Akemi wasn't lurking about somewhere. Assured that her riyal was really gone, she appeared immensely relieved and her eyebrows unfurrowed. But back she went, behind the oxcart, to dry her puffy eyes with her sleeve, smooth her hair and straighten her kimono.

"Hurry, Otsū!" Jōtarō called impatiently. "Musashi seems to have gone down to the riverbank. This is no time to primp!"

"Where?"

"Down to the riverbank. I don't know why, but that's where he went." The two of them ran together to the end of the bridge, and Jōtarō, with

perfunctory apologies, made a way for them through the crowd to the railing. Musashi was standing by the boat where Osugi was still squirming around,

trying to free her bonds.

"I'm sorry, Granny," he said, "but it seems Matahachi's not coming after all. I hope to see him in the near future and try to drum some courage into him. In the meantime, you yourself should try to find him and take him home to live with you, like a good son. That'd be a far better way to express your gratitude to your ancestors than by trying to cut off my head."

He put his hand under the rush mats and with a small knife cut the rope.

"You talk too much, Musashi! I don't need any advice from you. Just make up your stupid mind what you're going to do. Are you going to kill me or be killed?"

Bright blue veins stood out all over her face as she struggled out from under the mats, but by the time she stood up, Musashi was crossing the river, jumping like a wagtail across the rocks and shoals. In no time he reached the opposite side and climbed to the top of the dike.

Jōtarō caught sight of him and cried, "See, Otsū! There he is!" The boy went straight down the dike, and she did the same.

To Jōtarō's nimble legs, rivers and mountains meant nothing, but Otsū, because of her fine kimono, came to a dead halt at the river's edge. Musashi was now out of sight, but there she stood, screaming his name at the top of her lungs.

"Otsū!" came a reply from an unexpected quarter. Osugi was not a hundred feet away.

When Otsū saw who it was, she uttered a cry, covered her face with her hands for a moment and ran.

The old woman lost no time in giving chase, white hair flying in the wind. "Otsū!" she screamed, in a voice that might have parted the waters of the Kamo. "Wait! I want to talk to you."

An explanation for Otsū's presence was already taking shape in the old woman's suspicious mind. She felt sure Musashi had tied her up because he had a rendezvous with the girl today and had not wanted her to see this. Then, she reasoned, something Otsū said had annoyed him, and he had abandoned her. That, no doubt, was why she was wailing for him to come back.

"That girl is incorrigible!" she said, hating Otsū even more than she hated Musashi. In her mind, Otsū was rightfully her daughter-in-law, never mind whether the nuptials had actually taken place or not. The promise had been made, and if his fiancée had come to hate her son, she must also hate Osugi herself.

"Wait!" she shrieked again, opening her mouth almost from ear to ear.

The force of the scream startled Jōtarō, who was right beside her. He

grabbed hold of her and shouted, "What are you trying to do, you old witch?" "Get out of my way!" cried Osugi, shoving him aside.

Jōtarō did not know who she was, or why Otsū had fled at the sight of her, but he sensed that she meant danger. As the son of Aoki Tanzaemon and the sole student of Miyamoto Musashi, he refused to be pushed aside by an old hag's scrawny elbow.

"You can't do that to me!" He caught up with her and leapt squarely on her back.

She quickly shook him off, and taking his neck in the crook of her left arm, dealt him several sharp slaps. "You little devil! This'll teach you to butt in!"

While Jōtarō struggled to free himself, Otsū ran on, her mind in turmoil. She was young, and like most young people, full of hope, not in the habit of bemoaning her unhappy lot. She savored the delights of each new day as though they were flowers in a sunny garden. Sorrows and disappointments were facts of life, but they did not get her down for long. Likewise, she could not conceive of pleasure as completely divorced from pain.

But today she had been jolted out of her optimism, not once but twice. Why, she wondered, had she ever come here this morning?

Neither tears nor anger could nullify the shock. After thinking fleetingly of suicide, she had condemned all men as wicked liars. She had been by turns furious and miserable, hating the world, hating herself, too overcome to find release in tears or to think clearly about anything. Her blood boiled with jealousy, and the insecurity it caused made her scold herself for her many shortcomings, including her lack of poise at the moment. She told herself repeatedly to keep cool and gradually repressed her impulses beneath the veneer of dignity that women were supposed to maintain.

The entire time that strange girl was at Musashi's side, Otsū had not been able to move. When Akemi left, however, forbearance was no longer possible and Otsū felt irresistibly compelled to face Musashi and pour out how she felt. Although she had no idea where to begin, she resolved to open her heart and tell him everything.

But life is full of tiny accidents. One small misstep—a minute miscalculation made in the heat of the moment—can, in many instances, alter the shape of things to come for months or years. It was by letting Musashi out of her sight for a second that Otsū exposed herself to Osugi, On this glorious New Year's morning, Otsū's garden of delights was overrun by snakes.

It was a nightmare come true. In many a frenzied dream, she had encountered Osugi's leering face, and here was the stark reality bearing down on her.

Completely winded after running several hundred yards, she halted and looked back. For a moment, her breath stopped altogether. Osugi, about a hundred yards away, was hitting Jōtarō and swinging him around, this way and that.

He fought back, kicking the ground, kicking the air, landing an occasional blow on his captor.

Otsū saw that it would be only a matter of moments before he succeeded in drawing his wooden sword. And when he did, it was a dead certainty the old woman would not only unsheath her short sword but show no compunction about using it. At a time like this, Osugi was not one to show mercy. Jōtarō might well be killed.

Otsū was in a terrible predicament: Jōtarō had to be rescued, but she dared not approach Osugi.

Jōtarō did succeed in getting his wooden sword free of his obi but not in extracting his head from Osugi's viselike grip. All his kicking and flailing were working against him, because they increased the old woman's self-confidence.

"Brat!" she cried snidely. "What're you trying to do, imitate a frog?" The way her front teeth jutted out made her look harelipped, but her expression was one of hideous triumph. Step by scraping step, she pressed on toward Otsū.

As she glared at the terrified girl, her natural cunning asserted itself. In a flash it came to her that she was going about this the wrong way. If the opponent had been Musashi, trickery would not work, but the enemy before her was Otsū—tender, innocent Otsū—who could probably be made to believe anything, provided it was put to her gently and with an air of sincerity. First tie her up with words, thought Osugi, then roast her for dinner.

"Otsū!" she called in an earnestly poignant tone. "Why are you running away? What makes you flee the minute you lay eyes on me? You did the same thing at the Mikazuki Teahouse. I can't understand it. You must be imagining things. I haven't the slightest intention of doing you any harm."

An expression of doubt crept over Otsū's face, but Jōtarō, still captive, asked, "Is that true, Granny? Do you mean it?"

"Why, of course. Otsū doesn't understand how I really feel. She seems to be afraid of me."

"If you mean that, let go of me, and I'll go get her."

"Not so fast. If I let you go, how do I know you won't hit me with that sword of yours and run away?"