Musashi: Bushido Code (62 page)

So Kōetsu knew about the fight! But maybe that was not so strange; the Rendaiji wasn't far away, only the next field over. A more interesting question was why he had said nothing about it so far. Was it simply that he regarded such matters as belonging to a world different from his own? Musashi took a second look at mother and son, then sat down again.

"If you insist," he said.

"We haven't much to offer, but we enjoy having you with us," said Kōetsu. He put the cover on his ink box and placed it on his sketches to keep them from blowing away. In his hands, the lid glittered like fireflies. It seemed to be sheathed in thick gold, with silver and mother-of-pearl inlay.

Musashi leaned forward to inspect it. Now that it was resting on the carpet, it no longer gleamed so brightly. He could see that there was nothing at all gaudy about it; its beauty was that of the gold-leaf and color paintings in Momoyama castles, reduced many times in size. There was also a hint of something very ancient about it, a dull patina suggestive of faded glories. Musashi stared intently. There was something comforting about the box.

"I made that myself," said Kōetsu modestly. "Do you like it?"

"Oh, can you make lacquerware too?"

Kōetsu merely smiled. As he looked at this youth, who seemed to admire the artifice of man more than the beauty of nature, he was thinking with amusement: "After all, he is from the country."

Musashi, unaware of Kōetsu's lofty attitude, said with great sincerity, "It's really beautiful." He couldn't take his eyes off the ink box.

"I said I made it myself, but actually the poem on it is the work of Konoe Nobutada, so I should say we made it together."

"Is that the Konoe family the imperial regents come from?"

"Yes. Nobutada's the son of the former regent."

"My aunt's husband has served the Konoe family for many years." "What's his name?"

"Matsuo Kaname."

"Oh, I know Kaname well. I see him whenever I go to the Konoe house, and he sometimes comes to visit us."

"Is that so?"

"Mother, it's a small world, isn't it? His aunt is the wife of Matsuo Kaname." "You don't say!" exclaimed Myōshū.

She moved away from the fire and placed the vessels for tea before them. There could be no doubt that she was perfectly at home with the tea ceremony. Her movements were elegant yet natural, her delicate hands graceful. Even at seventy, she seemed to be the epitome of feminine grace and beauty.

Musashi, uncomfortably out of his depth, sat politely on his haunches, in what he hoped was the same fashion as Kōetsu. The tea cake was a plain bun known as Yodo
manjū,
but it rested prettily on a green leaf of a variety not found in the surrounding field. Musashi knew there were set rules of etiquette for serving the tea, just as there were for using the sword, and as he watched Myōshū, he admired her mastery of them. Judging her in terms of swordsmanship, he thought to himself, "She's perfect! She doesn't leave herself open anywhere." As she whisked the tea, he sensed in her the same unearthly proficiency that one might observe in a master swordsman poised to strike. "It's the Way," he thought, "the essence of art. One has to have it to be perfect at anything."

He turned his attention to the tea bowl in front of him. This was the first time he had been served in this fashion, and he had not the slightest notion of what to do next. The tea bowl surprised him, for it resembled something that might have been made by a child playing in the mud. Yet seen against the color of this bowl, the deep green of the foam on the tea was more serene and ethereal than the sky.

He looked helplessly at Kōetsu, who had already eaten his tea cake and was holding his tea bowl lovingly in both hands, as one might fondle a warm object on a cold night. He drank down the tea in two or three sips.

"Sir," began Musashi hesitantly, "I'm just an ignorant country boy, and I don't know the first thing about the tea ceremony. I'm not even certain how to drink the tea."

Myōshū chided him gently. "Hush, my dear, it doesn't make any difference. There shouldn't be anything sophisticated or esoteric about drinking tea. If you're a country boy, then drink it the way you would in the country."

"It is really all right?"

"Of course. Manners are not a matter of rules. They come from the heart. It's the same with swordsmanship, isn't it?"

"When you put it that way, yes."

"If you become self-conscious about the proper way to drink, you won't enjoy the tea. When you use a sword, you can't let your body become too tense. That would break the harmony between the sword and your spirit. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, ma'am." Musashi unconsciously bowed his head and waited for the old nun to continue the lesson.

She laughed, a little tinkling laugh. "Listen to me! Talking about swordsmanship, when I know nothing at all about it."

"I'll drink my tea now," said Musashi with renewed confidence. His legs were tired from sitting in formal style, so he crossed them in front of him in a more comfortable position. Swiftly, he emptied the tea bowl and set it down again. The tea was very bitter. Not even for the sake of politeness could he force himself to say it was good.

"Will you have another cup?"

"No, thank you, that's quite enough."

What did these people find good about this bitter liquid? Why did they talk on so seriously about the "simply purity" of its flavor and all that sort of thing? Though understanding eluded him, he found it impossible to regard his host with anything but admiration. After all, he reflected, there must be more to tea than he himself had detected; otherwise it could not have become the focal point for a whole philosophy of aesthetics and life. Nor would great men like Hideyoshi and Ieyasu have displayed such interest in it.

Yagyū Sekishūsai, he recalled, was devoting his old age to the Way of Tea, and Takuan also had spoken of its virtues. Looking down at the tea bowl and the cloth beneath it, he suddenly envisioned the white peony from Sekishūsai's garden and felt again the thrill it had given him. Now, inexplicably, the tea bowl struck him in the same forceful way. He wondered for a moment if he had gasped out loud.

He reached out, picked up the bowl lovingly and placed it on his knee. His eyes shone as he examined it; he felt an excitement he had never experienced before. As he studied the bottom of the vessel and the traces of the potter's spatula, he realized that the lines had the same keenness as Sekishūsai's slicing of the peony stem. This unpretentious bowl, too, had been made by a genius. It revealed the touch of the spirit, the mysterious insight.

He could hardly breathe. Why, he knew not, but he sensed the strength of the master craftsman. It came to him silently but unmistakably, for he was far more sensitive to the latent force that resided here than most people would have been. He rubbed the bowl, unwilling to lose physical contact with it.

"Kōetsu," he said, "I don't know any more about the utensils than I know about tea, but I would guess that this vessel was made by a very skillful potter."

"Why do you say that?" The artist's words were as gentle as his face, with its sympathetic eyes and well-formed mouth. The corners of his eyes turned down a bit, giving him an air of gravity, but there were teasing wrinkles around the edges.

"I don't know how to explain it, but I feel it."

"Exactly what do you feel? Tell me."

Musashi thought for a moment and said, "Well, I can't express it very clearly, but there's something superhuman about this sharp cut in the clay...."

"Hmm." Kōetsu had the attitude of the true artist. He did not suppose for a moment that other people knew much about his own art, and was reasonably certain Musashi was no exception. His lips tightened. "What about the cut, Musashi?"

"It's extremely clean."

"Is that all?"

"No, no ... it's more complicated than that. There's something big and daring about the man who made this."

"Anything else?"

"The potter himself was as sharp as a sword from Sagami. Yet he enveloped the whole thing in beauty. This tea bowl looks very simple, but there's a certain haughtiness about it, something regal and arrogant, as though he didn't regard other people as being quite human."

"Mm."

"As a person, the man who made this would be difficult to fathom, I think. But whoever he is, I'd bet he's famous. Won't you tell me who it was?" Kōetsu's heavy lips broke into a laugh. "His name is Kōetsu. But this is just something I made for fun."

Musashi, not knowing he had been undergoing a test, was genuinely surprised and impressed to hear that Kōetsu was able to make his own ceramics. What affected him more than the man's artistic versatility, however, was the human profundity concealed within this ostensibly plain tea bowl. It disturbed him a little to recognize the depth of Kōetsu's spiritual resources. Accustomed to measuring men in terms of their swordsmanship, he suddenly decided that his yardstick was too short. The thought humbled him; here was yet another man before whom he must admit defeat. For all his splendid victory of the morning, he was now no more than a bashful youth.

"You like ceramics too, don't you?" Kōetsu said. "You seem to have a good eye for pottery."

"I doubt whether that's true," Musashi replied modestly. "I was only saying what came into my head. Please forgive me if I said something foolish."

"Well, of course, you couldn't be expected to know a great deal about the subject, because to make a single good tea bowl involves a lifetime of experience. But you do have a feeling for aesthetics, a rather firm instinctive grasp. I suppose studying swordsmanship has developed your eye to a slight extent." There seemed to be something close to admiration in Kōetsu's remark, but as an older man, he could not bring himself to praise the boy. Not only would it not be dignified, it might also go to his head.

Presently, the servant returned with more wild greens, and Myōshū prepared the gruel. As she took it up on small plates, which also appeared to have been made by Kōetsu, a jar of fragrant sake was heated, and the picnic feast began.

The tea ceremony food was too light and delicate for Musashi's taste. His constitution craved more body and stronger flavor. Yet he made a dutiful attempt to savor the thin aroma of the leafy mixture, for he acknowledged that there was much he could learn from Kōetsu and his charming mother.

As the time passed, he began to look nervously about the field. Eventually, he turned to his host and said, "It's been very pleasant, but I should go now. I'd like to stay, but I'm afraid my opponent's men might come and cause trouble. I don't want to involve you in anything like that. I hope I'll have the opportunity to see you again."

Myōshū, rising to see him off, said, "If you're ever in the vicinity of Hon'ami Lane, don't fail to stop in to see us."

"Yes, please come and visit us. We can have a nice long talk," Kōetsu added.

Despite Musashi's fears, there was no sign of the Yoshioka students. Having taken his leave, he paused to look back at his two new friends on their rug. Yes, theirs was a world apart from his. His own long, narrow road would never lead him to Kōetsu's sphere of peaceful pleasures. He walked silently toward the edge of the field, his head bowed in thought.

Too Many Kojirōs

In the little drinking shop on the city's outskirts, the smell of burning wood and boiling food filled the air. It was only a shack—floorless, with a plank for a table and a few stools scattered about. Outside, the last glow of sunset made it seem that some distant building was on fire, and crows circling the Tōji pagoda looked like black ashes rising from the flames.

Three or four shopkeepers and an itinerant monk sat at the makeshift table, while in a corner several workmen gambled for drinks. The top they spun was a copper coin with a stick stuck through the hole in the middle.

"Yoshioka Seijūrō's really got himself in a mess this time!" said one of the shopkeepers. "And I, for one, couldn't be happier! A toast!"

"I'll drink to that," said another man.

"More sake!" another called to the proprietor.

The shopkeepers drank at a steady, fast pace. Gradually, only a faint light outlined the shop's curtain, and one of them bellowed, "I can't see whether I'm raising my cup to my nose or my mouth, it's so dark in here. How about some light!"

"Hold on a minute. I'm taking care of it," the proprietor said wearily. Flames were soon shooting from the open earthenware oven. The darker it grew outside, the redder were the rays from the fire.

"I get mad every time I think of it," said the first man. "The money those people owed me for fish and charcoal! It came to quite a bit, I can tell you. Just look at the size of the school! I swore I'd get it at year end, so what happened when I got down there? Those Yoshioka bullies were blocking the entrance, blustering and threatening everybody. The nerve, throwing every bill collector out, honest shopkeepers who'd been giving them credit for years!"

"No use crying about it now. What's done is done. Besides, after that fight at the Rendaiji, they're the ones with reason to cry, not us."

"Oh, I'm not mad anymore. They got what was coming to them." "Imagine, Seijūrō going down with hardly a fight!"

"Did you see it?"

"No, but I heard about it from someone who did. Musashi knocked him down with a single blow. And with a wooden sword, too. Crippled for life, he is.

"What'll become of the school?"

"It doesn't look good. The students are out for Musashi's blood. If they don't kill him, they'll lose face completely. The Yoshioka name will have to come down. And Musashi's so strong, everyone figures the only person who might be able to beat him is Denshichirō, the younger brother. They're looking all over for him."

"I didn't know there was a younger brother."

"Hardly anyone did, but he's the better swordsman, according to what I heard. He's the black sheep of the family. Never shows his face at the school unless he needs money. Spends all his time eating and drinking on his name. Sponges off people who respected his father."

"They make quite a pair. How did an outstanding man like Yoshioka Kempō wind up with two sons like that?"

"It just goes to show that blood isn't everything!"

A rōnin was slumped in a stupor next to the oven. He'd been there for quite a while and the proprietor had left him alone, but now he roused him. "Sir, please move back a little," he said as he put more kindling on the fire. "The fire might burn your kimono."

Matahachi's sake-reddened eyes opened slowly. "Mm, mm. I know, 1 know. Just leave me alone."

This sake shop wasn't the only place where Matahachi had heard about the bout at the Rendaiji. It was on everyone's tongue, and the more famous Musashi became, the more wretched his wayward friend felt.

"Hey, bring me another," he called. "You don't have to heat it; just pour it in my cup."

"Are you all right, sir? Your face is awful pale."

"What's that to you! It's my face, isn't it?"

He leaned against the wall again and folded his arms.

"I'll show them one of these days." he thought. "Swordsmanship's not the only road to success. Whether you get there by being rich, or having a title, or becoming a gangster, so long as you get to the top you're all right. Musashi and I are both twenty-three. Not many of these fellows who make names for themselves at that age end up amounting to much. By the time they're thirty, they're old and tottering—'aging child prodigies.' "

Word of the duel at the Rendaiji had spread to Osaka, bringing Matahachi immediately to Kyoto. Though he had no clear purpose in mind, Musashi's triumph weighed so heavily on his spirit that he had to see for himself what the situation was. "He's riding high now," thought Matahachi antagonistically, "but he's due for a fall. There are plenty of good men at the Yoshioka School—the Ten Swordsmen, Denshichirō, lots of others...." He could hardly wait for the day Musashi would receive his comeuppance. In the meantime, his own luck was bound to change.

"Oh, I'm thirsty!" he said aloud. By sliding his back up the wall, he managed to stand. All eyes watched as he bent over a water barrel in the corner, almost dunking his head, and drank several giant gulps from a dipper. Flinging the dipper aside, he pushed back the shop curtain and staggered out.

The proprietor soon recovered from his gaping surprise and ran after the wobbly figure. "Sir, you haven't paid yet!" he called.

"What's that?" Matahachi was barely articulate.

"I think you've forgotten something, sir."

"I didn't forget anything."

"I mean the money for your sake. Ha, ha!"

"Is that so?"

"Sorry to bother you."

"I don't have any money."

"No money?"

"Yeah, I don't have any at all. I did until a few days ago, but—"

"You mean you were sitting there drinking— Why, you . .. you ..."

"Shut up!" After fishing around in his kimono, Matahachi came up with the dead samurai's pillbox, which he flung at the man. "Stop kicking up such a fuss! I'm a samurai with two swords. You see that, don't you? I haven't sunk low enough to sneak away without paying. That thing's worth more than the sake I had. You can keep the change!"

The pillbox struck the man squarely in the face. He squealed with pain and covered his eyes with his hands. The other customers, who had stuck their heads through slits in the shop curtain, shouted in indignation. Like many a drunk, they were indignant at seeing another of their kind welsh on his bill.

"The bastard!"

"Rotten cheat!"

"Let's teach him a lesson!"

They ran out and surrounded Matahachi.

"Bastard! Pay up! You're not going to get away with this."

"Crook! You probably pull the same stunt all the time. If you can't pay, we'll hang you by the neck!"

Matahachi put his hand to his sword to scare them off.

"You think you can?" he snarled. "That should be fun. Just try it! Do you know who I am?"

"We know
what
you are—a filthy rōnin from the garbage heap, with less pride than a beggar and more gall than a thief!"

"You're asking for it!" cried Matahachi, glaring and knitting his brow fiercely. "You'd sing a different tune if you knew my name."

"Your name? What's so special about it?"

"I am Sasaki Kojirō, fellow student of Itō Ittōsai, swordsman of the Chūjō Style. You must have heard of me!"

"Don't make me laugh! Never mind the fancy names; just pay up."

One man stretched out his hand to grab at Matahachi, who cried, "If the pillbox isn't enough, I'll give you a bit of my sword too!" Quickly drawing the weapon, he struck at the man's hand, cutting it clean off.

The others, seeing that they had underestimated their adversary, reacted as if it were their blood that had been spilled. They sprinted off into the darkness.

A look of triumph on his face, Matahachi challenged them anyway. "Come back, you vermin! I'll show you how Kojirō uses his sword when he's serious. Come on, I'll take your heads off for you."

He looked up at the heavens and giggled, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness as he exulted over his success. Then abruptly his mood changed. His face wrapped in sadness, he seemed on the verge of tears. Ramming his sword clumsily back into its scabbard, he started walking unsteadily away.

The pillbox on the ground sparkled under the stars. Made of black sandalwood, with a shell inlay, it didn't look very valuable, but a glint of the blue nacre gave it the subtle beauty of a tiny cluster of fireflies.

Coming out of the shack, the itinerant monk saw the pillbox and picked it up. He started to walk on but then went back and stood under the shop's eaves. In the dim light from a crack in the wall, he examined the design and the cord carefully. "Hmm," he thought. "This is definitely the master's. He must have had it with him when he was killed at Fushimi Castle. Yes, here's his name, Tenki, written on the bottom."

The monk hurried off after Matahachi. "Sasaki!" he called. "Sasaki Kojirō!"

Matahachi heard the name, but in his befuddled condition, failed this time to connect it with himself. He stumbled on from Kujō Avenue up Horikawa Street.

The monk caught up with him and took hold of the end of his scabbard. "Wait, Kojirō," he said. "Wait just a moment."

"Eh?" Matahachi hiccupped. "Do you mean me?"

"You're Sasaki Kojirō, aren't you?" A severe light shone in the monk's eyes. Matahachi became slightly more sober. "Yes, I'm Kojirō. What's that got to do with you?"

"I want to ask you a question."

"Well, what is it?"

"Just where did you get this pillbox?"

"Pillbox?" he asked vacantly.

"Yes. Where did you get it? That's all I want to know. How did it come into your possession?" The monk spoke rather formally. He was still young, perhaps twenty-six or so, and did not appear to be one of the spiritless beggar monks who wandered from temple to temple living on charity. In one hand he had a round oak staff, more than six feet long.

"Who are you anyway?" demanded Matahachi, concern beginning to show on his face.

"That doesn't matter. Why don't you just tell me where this came from?" "It didn't come from anywhere. It's mine, always has been."

"You're lying! Tell me the truth."

"I've told you the truth already."

"You refuse to confess?"

"Confess to what?" asked Matahachi innocently.

"You're not Kojirō!" Immediately the staff in the monk's hand split the air.

Matahachi's instincts pulled him backward, but he was still too groggy to react quickly. The staff connected, and with a shriek of pain, he staggered back fifteen or twenty feet before landing on his backside. On his feet again, he took off.

The monk gave chase and after a few paces hurled the oak staff. Matahachi heard it coming and lowered his head. The flying missile sailed past his ear. Terrified, he doubled his speed.

When the monk reached the fallen weapon, he seized it, and taking careful aim, threw it again, but again Matahachi ducked.

Running at full speed for more than a mile, Matahachi passed Rokujō Avenue and approached Gojō, finally decided he'd lost his pursuer and stopped. Rapping his chest, he panted, "That staff—terrible weapon! A man has to be careful these days."

Cold sober and burning with thirst, he began searching for a well. He found one at the far end of a narrow alley. He pulled up the bucket and guzzled his fill, then put the bucket on the ground and splashed water on his sweaty face.

"Who can that have been?" he wondered. "And what did he want?" But as soon as he began to feel normal again, dejection set in. Before his eyes he saw the agonized chinless face of the corpse at Fushimi.

That he had used up the dead man's money hurt his conscience, and not for the first time he thought about atoning for his misdeeds. "When I have money," he vowed, "the first thing I'm going to do is pay back what I borrowed. Maybe after I'm successful, I'll put up a memorial stone to him.

"The certificate is all that's left. Maybe I should get rid of it. If the wrong person found out I have it, it might lead to complications." He reached inside his kimono and touched the scroll, which he always kept tucked in the stomach wrapper under his obi, though this was rather uncomfortable.

Even if he couldn't convert it into a vast amount of money, it might lead to some opening, to that magic first rung on the ladder of success. The unfortunate experience with Akakabe Yasoma hadn't cured him of dreaming.

The certificate had already come in handy, for he had found that by showing it at small, nameless dōjōs or to innocent townspeople with an urge to learn swordsmanship, he could not only command their respect but receive a free meal and a place to sleep, without so much as asking. This was the way he had survived during the past six months.

"No reason to throw it away. What's wrong with me? I seem to be getting more and more timid. Maybe that's what keeps me from getting ahead in the world. From now on, I'm not going to be like that! I'll be big and bold, like Musashi. I'll show them!"

He looked around at the shanties surrounding the well. The people living here struck him as enviable. Their houses sagged under the weight of the mud and weeds on their roofs, but at least they had shelter. Somewhat abjectly, he peeped in on some of the families. In one dwelling, he saw a husband and wife facing each other over the single pot that held their meager dinner. Near them were a son and daughter, together with their grandmother, doing some piecework.

Despite the paucity of worldly goods, there existed a spirit of family unity, a treasure that even great men like Hideyoshi and Ieyasu lacked. Matahachi reflected that the more poverty-stricken people were, the stronger their mutual affection grew. Even the poor could know the joy of being human.