Musashi: Bushido Code (85 page)

"Matahachi," he said solemnly. "Why, when you have a mother like yours, don't you try to do something to make her happy? Having no parents, I can't help feeling you're not as grateful as you ought to be. It's not that you don't show her enough respect. But somehow, even though you're blessed with the best thing a person can have, you seem to think no more of it than of so much dirt. If I had a mother like yours, I'd be much more eager to improve myself and do something really worthwhile simply because there'd be someone to share my happiness. Nobody rejoices over a person's accomplishments as much as his parents.

"Maybe it sounds like I'm just spouting moral platitudes. But from a vagabond like me, it's not that. I can't begin to tell you how lonely I feel when I come across a beautiful view, then suddenly realize there's no one to enjoy it with me."

Musashi paused to catch his breath and took hold of his friend's hand. "You yourself know what I'm saying is true. You know I'm speaking as an old friend, a man from the same village. Let's try to recapture the spirit we had when we went off to Sekigahara. There are no more wars now, but the struggle to survive in a peaceful world is no less difficult. You have to fight; you have to have a plan. If you'd give it a try, I'd do anything I could to help."

Matahachi's tears dropped onto their clutched hands. Despite the resemblance of Musashi's words to one of his mother's tiresome sermons, he was deeply moved by his friend's concern.

"You're right," he said, wiping away his tears. "Thanks. I'll do what you say. I'll become a new man, right now. I agree, I'm not the type to succeed as a swordsman. I'll go to Edo and find a teacher. Then I'll study hard. I swear I will."

"I'll keep my eyes open for a good teacher, as well as a good master you might work for. You could even work and study at the same time."

"It'll be like starting life over again. But there's something else that bothers me."

"Well? As I said, I'll do anything I can to help. That's the least I can do to make up for making your mother so angry."

"It's sort of embarrassing. You see, my companion is a woman.... Not just any woman. It's—oh, I can't say it."

"Come on, act like a man!"

"Don't get angry. It's somebody you know."

"Who?"

"Akemi."

Startled, Musashi thought: "Could he have picked anybody worse?" but he caught himself before saying it out loud.

True, Akemi was not as sexually depraved as her mother, not yet at least, but she was well on her way—a bird on the wing with a destructive torch in its mouth. Besides the incident with Seijūrō, Musashi strongly suspected there had been something going on between her and Kojirō. He wondered what perverse fate led Matahachi to women like Okō and her daughter.

Matahachi misinterpreted Musashi's silence as a sign of jealousy. "Are you angry? I told you honestly, because I didn't think I should hide it."

"You simpleton, it's you I'm worried about. Have you been cursed since birth, or do you go out of your way to find bad luck? I thought you'd learned your lesson from Okō."

In reply to Musashi's questions, Matahachi told him how he and Akemi happened to be together. "Maybe I'm being punished for deserting Mother," he concluded. "Akemi hurt her leg when she fell into the ravine, and it began to get worse, so—"

"Oh, here you are, sir!" said the old woman from the inn in the local dialect. Vague and senile, she put her arms behind her back and looked up at the sky, as though checking on the weather. "The sick woman isn't with you," she added, her flat inflection leaving it unclear as to whether she was asking or telling.

Flushing slightly, Matahachi said, "Akemi? Has something happened to her?"

"She's not in bed."

"Are you sure?"

"She was there a while ago, but she isn't now."

Though a sixth sense told Musashi what had happened, he merely said, "We'd better go see."

Akemi's bedding was still spread out on the floor, but otherwise the room was bare.

Matahachi cursed and made a futile circuit of the room. Face burning with rage, he said, "No obi, no money! Not so much as a comb or hairpin! She's crazy! What's wrong with her—deserting me like this!"

The old woman was standing in the doorway. "Terrible thing to do," she said, as if to herself. "That girl—maybe I shouldn't say it—but she wasn't sick. Putting on, she was, so she could stay in bed. I may be old, but I can see through things like that."

Matahachi ran out and stood staring down the white road curving along the ridge. The cow, lying under a peach tree whose blossoms had already darkened and fallen, broke the silence with a long, sleepy-sounding moo.

"Matahachi," said Musashi, "why stand there moping? Let's pray she finds a place where she can settle down and lead a peaceful life, and let it go at that."

A single yellow butterfly was tossed high in the swirling breeze before plummeting over the edge of a cliff.

"Your promise made me very happy," said Musashi. "Now, isn't it time to do something about it, really try and make something of yourself?"

"Yes, I. have to, don't I?" mumbled Matahachi without enthusiasm, biting his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

Musashi swung him around, diverting his eyes from the deserted road. "Look here," he said cheerfully. "Your path has opened up of its own accord. Wherever Akemi's headed, it isn't right for you. Go now, before it's too late. Take the path that comes out between Sakamoto and Ōtsu. You should catch up with your mother before the day is out. Once you've found her, don't ever lose sight of her again."

To emphasize the point, he brought Matahachi's sandals and leggings, then went into the inn and came back with his other belongings.

"Do you have any money?" he asked. "I don't have much myself, but you can have part of it. If you think Edo's the place for you, I'll go there with you. Tonight I'll be at the Kara Bridge in Seta. After you find your mother, look for me there. I'm counting on you to bring her."

After Matahachi left, Musashi settled down to wait for twilight and the reply to his letter. Stretching out on the bench in the back of the tea room, he closed his eyes and was soon dreaming. Of two butterflies, drifting in the air, frolicking among intertwining branches. One of the butterflies he recognized ...Otsū.

When he awoke, the slanting rays of the sun had reached the back wall of the tea room. He heard a man say, "However you look at it, it was a shoddy performance."

"You mean the Yoshiokas?"

"That's right."

"People had too much regard for the school, because of Kempō's reputation. Looks like in any field only the first generation counts for much. The next generation gets lackluster, and by the third, everything falls apart. You don't often see the head of the fourth generation buried by the side of the founder."

"Well, I intend to be buried right next to my great-grandfather."

"You're nothing but a stonecutter anyway. I'm talking about famous people. If you think I'm wrong, just look what happened to Hideyoshi's heir."

The stonecutters worked in a quarry in the valley and around three o'clock every afternoon came up to the inn for a cup of tea. Earlier, one of them, who lived near Ichijōji, had claimed that he saw the battle from beginning to end. Having already told his story dozens of times, he could now deliver it with stirring eloquence, embroidering skillfully on facts and mimicking Musashi's movements.

While the stonecutters were listening raptly to this recital, four other men had arrived and taken seats out front: Sasaki Kojirō and three samurai from Mount Hiei. Their scowling faces made the workmen uneasy, so they'd picked up their teacups and retreated inside. But as the saga gathered steam, they began laughing and commenting, repeating Musashi's name frequently and with obvious admiration.

When Kojirō reached the limit of his forbearance, he called loudly, "You, there!"

"Yes, sir," they chorused, automatically bowing their heads.

"What's going on here? You!" He pointed his steel-ribbed fan at the man. "Talking as if you knew so much. Come out here! The rest of you too! I'm not going to hurt you."

As they shuffled outdoors again, he continued: "I've been listening to you sing the praises of Miyamoto Musashi, and I've had enough. You're talking nonsense!"

There were questioning looks and murmurs of puzzlement.

"Why do you consider Musashi a great swordsman? You—you say you saw the fight the other day, but let me assure you, I, Sasaki Kojirō, also saw it. As the official witness, I observed every detail. Later, I went to Mount Hiei and lectured to the student priests on what I'd seen. Moreover, at the invitation of some eminent scholars, I visited several subsidiary temples and gave more lectures.

"Now, unlike me, you men know nothing about swordsmanship." Condescension was creeping into Kojirō's voice. "You see only who won and who lost, then you join the herd and praise Miyamoto Musashi as though he were the greatest swordsman who ever lived.

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't bother to refute the prattle of ignoramuses, but I feel it's necessary now, because your erroneous opinions are harmful to society at large. Moreover, I wish to expose your fallacies for the benefit of these distinguished scholars who accompany me today. Clean out your ears and listen carefully! I'll tell you what actually happened at the spreading pine and what kind of man Musashi is."

Obedient noises issued from the captive audience.

"In the first place," declaimed Kojirō, "let us consider what Musashi really has in mind—his ulterior purpose. To judge from the way he provoked this last bout, I can only conclude that he was trying desperately to sell his name, to make a reputation for himself. To do this, he singled out the House of Yoshioka, the most famous school of swordsmanship in Kyoto, and cleverly picked a fight. By falling victim to this ruse, the House of Yoshioka became Musashi's stepping-stone to fame and success.

"What he did was dishonest. It was already common knowledge that the days of Yoshioka Kempō were over, that the Yoshioka School had fallen into decline. It was like a withered tree, or an invalid close to death. All Musashi had to do was give a push to an empty hulk. Anyone could have done the same, but no one did. Why? Because those of us who understand
The Art of War
already knew the school was powerless. Second, because we did not wish to sully the honored name of Kempō. Yet Musashi chose to provoke an incident, to place challenging signs on the streets of Kyoto, to spread rumors and finally to make a great spectacle of doing what any reasonably skillful swordsman could have done.

"I couldn't begin to enumerate all the cheap, cowardly tricks he resorted to. Consider, for example, that he contrived to be late both for his bout with Yoshioka Seijūrō and for his encounter with Denshichirō. Instead of meeting his enemies head on at the spreading pine, he came by a roundabout way and employed all sorts of base stratagems.

"It's been pointed out that he was only one man fighting against many. That's true, but it's only part of his devilish scheme for promoting his name. He knew full well that because he was outnumbered, the public would sympathize with him. And when it comes to the actual fighting, I can tell you—I observed it personally—it was little more than child's play. Musashi managed to survive for a time with his clever tricks, then, when the chance to flee presented itself, he ran. Oh, I have to admit that to a certain extent he displayed a kind of brute strength. But that doesn't make him an expert swordsman. No, not at all. Musashi's greatest claim to fame is his ability to run fast. At making a rapid getaway, he is without equal."

The words were now streaming from Kojirō's mouth like water over a dam.

"Ordinary people think it's difficult for a lone swordsman to fight against a great number of opponents, but ten men are not necessarily ten times stronger than one man. To the expert, numbers are not always important." Kojirō then gave a professional critique of the battle. It was easy to belittle Musashi's feat, for despite his valor, any knowledgeable observer could have picked out flaws in his performance. When he got around to mentioning Genjirō, Kojirō was scathing. He said the boy's murder was an atrocity, a violation of the ethics of swordsmanship, that could not be condoned from any point of view.

"And let me tell you about Musashi's background," he cried indignantly. He then revealed that within the past few days he'd met Osugi herself on Mount Hiei and had heard the whole, long story of Musashi's duplicity. Sparing no details, he recounted the wrongs suffered by this "sweet old woman."

He ended by saying, "I shudder to think that there are people who shout the praises of this rogue. The effect on public morals is terrifying to contemplate! And this is the reason I've spoken at some length. I have no connection with the House of Yoshioka, nor do I have any personal grudge against Musashi. I've spoken to you fairly and impartially, as a man devoted to the Way of the Sword and as one determined to follow righteously in that Way! I've told you the truth. Remember it!"

Falling silent, he eased his thirst with a cup of tea, then turned to his companions and remarked very quietly, "Ah, the sun's already low in the sky. If you don't start soon, it'll be dark before you reach the Miidera."

The samurai from the temple rose to take their leave.

"Take good care of yourself," said one of them.

"We look forward to seeing you again when you return to Kyoto."

The stonecutters saw their chance and, like prisoners freed by a tribunal, hastened back to the valley, which was now cloaked in purplish shadows and echoed with the singing of nightingales.

Kojirō watched them go, then called into the inn, "I'll put the money for the tea here on the table. By the way, do you have any matchlock fuses?"

The old woman was squatting before the earthen oven, preparing the evening meal. "Fuses?" she said. "There's a bunch hanging in the corner back there. Take as many as you want."