Musashi: Bushido Code (86 page)

He strode to the corner. As he was pulling two or three of them out of a sheaf, the rest fell on the bench below. Reaching to retrieve them, he couldn't help noticing the two legs stretched out on the bench. His eyes traveled slowly from legs to body to face. The shock was like a solid blow to the solar plexus.

Musashi stared straight at him.

Kojirō sprang back a step.

"Well, well," said Musashi, grinning broadly. Unhurriedly he stood up and went to Kojirō's side, where he stood silently, an amused and knowing expression on his face.

Kojirō tried to smile back, but his facial muscles refused to obey. He realized instantly that Musashi must have overheard every word he'd said, and his embarrassment was all the more unbearable because he felt Musashi was laughing at him. It took him only a moment to recover his usual aplomb, but during that brief interval his confusion was unmistakable.

"Why, Musashi, I didn't expect to find you here," he said.

"Nice to see you again."

"Yes, yes, indeed." Regretting the words even as he spoke them, yet somehow unable to help himself, he went on: "I must say, you've really distinguished yourself since I last saw you. It's hard to believe a mere human being could have fought the way you did. Let me congratulate you. You don't even seem to be any the worse for it."

The trace of a smile still on his lips, Musashi said, with exaggerated politeness, "Thank you for acting as witness that day. And thank you also for the critique you've just given of my performance. Not often are we allowed to see ourselves as others see us. I am much indebted to you for your comments. I assure you I won't forget them."

Despite the quiet tone and lack of rancor, the last statement sent a chill through Kojirō. He recognized it for what it was, a challenge that would have to be met at some future date.

These two men, both proud, both headstrong, both convinced of their own rectitude, were bound to clash head on, sooner or later. Musashi was content to wait, but when he said, "I won't forget," he was only speaking the simple truth. He already regarded his most recent victory as a milestone in his career as a swordsman, a high point in his struggle to perfect himself. Kojirō's calumnies would not go unchallenged indefinitely.

Though Kojirō had embellished his speech to sway his listeners, he actually saw the event very much as he had described it, and his honest opinion was not substantially different from what he had stated. Nor did he doubt for a moment the fundamental accuracy of his appraisal of Musashi.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Kojirō. "I wouldn't want you to forget. Nor will I."

Musashi was still smiling as he nodded his agreement.

Entwining Branches

"Otsū, I'm back," Jōtarō called as he swept through the rustic front gate.

Otsū sat just inside the veranda with her arms propped on a low writing table, staring at the sky as she had been since morning. Under the gable was a wooden plaque bearing an inscription in white characters: "Hermitage of the Mountain Moon." The little cottage belonging to a priestly official at the Ginkakuji had, at Lord Karasumaru's request, been lent to Otsū.

Jōtarō plopped down in a clump of blossoming violets and began splashing his feet in the brook to wash off the mud. The water, which flowed directly from the garden of the Ginkakuji, was purer than fresh snow. "Water's freezing," he observed with a frown, but the earth was warm and he was happy to be alive and in this beautiful spot. Swallows sang as if they, too, were pleased with the day.

He rose, wiped his feet on the grass and walked over to the veranda. "Don't you get bored?" he asked.

"No; I have many things to think about."

"Wouldn't you like to hear some good news?"

"What news?"

"It's about Musashi. I heard he's not so far from here."

"Where?"

"I’ve been wandering around for days asking if anyone knew where he was, and today I heard he's staying at the Mudōji on Mount Hiei."

"In that case, I suppose he's all right."

"Probably, but I think we should go there right away, before he goes off someplace. I'm hungry. Why don't you get ready while I have something to eat?"

"There are some rice dumplings wrapped in leaves. They're in that three-tiered box over there. Help yourself."

When Jōtarō finished the dumplings, Otsū hadn't moved from the table. "What's the matter?" he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

"I don't think we ought to go."

"Of all the stupid ... One minute you're dying to see Musashi, and the next you start pretending you don't want to."

"You don't understand. He knows how I feel. That night when we met on the mountain, I told him everything, said all there was to say. We thought we'd never see each other alive again."

"But you can see him again, so what are you waiting for?"

"I don't know what he's thinking, whether he's satisfied with his victory or just staying out of danger. When he left me I resigned myself to never being with him again in this life. I don't think I should go unless he sends for me."

"What if he doesn't do that for years?"

"I'll go on doing what I'm doing right now."

"Sit there and look at the sky?"

"You don't understand. But never mind."

"What don't I understand?"

"Musashi's feelings. I really feel I can trust him now. I used to love him heart and soul, but I don't think I believed in him completely. Now I do. Everything's different.

"We're closer than the branches of the same tree. Even if we're separated, even if we die, we'll still be together. So nothing can make me lonely anymore. Now I only pray he'll find the Way he's searching for."

Jōtarō exploded. "You're lying!" he shouted. "Can't women even tell the truth? If you want to act that way, all right, but don't ever mention to me again how much you long to see Musashi. Cry your eyes out! It's all the same to me." He'd put a lot of effort into finding out where Musashi had gone from Ichijōji—and now this! He ignored Otsū and didn't say a word the rest of the day.

Just after dusk, a reddish torchlight crossed the garden, and one of Lord Karasurnaru's samurai knocked on the door. He handed a letter to Jōtarō, saying, "It's from Musashi to Otsū. His lordship said Otsū should take good care of herself." He turned and left.

"It's Musashi's handwriting, all right," thought Jōtarō. "He must be alive." Then, with a trace of indignation: "It's addressed to Otsū, not to me, I see."

Emerging from the rear of the cottage, Otsū said, "That samurai brought a letter from Musashi, didn't he?"

"Yes, but I don't suppose you'd be interested," he replied with a pout, hiding the letter behind his back.

"Oh, stop it, Jōtarō. Let me see it," Otsū implored.

He resisted for a time, but at the first hint of tears thrust the envelope at her. "Ha!" he gloated. "You pretend you don't want to see him, but you can't wait to read his letter."

As she crouched by the lamp, the paper trembling in her white fingers, the flame seemed to have a special gaiety, a portent almost of happiness and good fortune.

The ink sparkled like a rainbow, the tears on her eyelashes like jewels. Otsū, suddenly transported to a world she hadn't dared hope existed, recalled the ecstatic passage in Po Chü-i's poem where the departed spirit of Yang Kuei-fei rejoiced over a message of love from her bereaved emperor.

She read the short message, then again read it. "He must be waiting this very minute. I must hurry." Though she thought she said the words aloud, she uttered not a sound.

Flying into action, she wrote thank-you notes to the owner of the cottage, to other priests at the Ginkakuji and to all those who had been kind to her during her stay. She had gathered her belongings together, tied on her sandals and was out in the garden before she noticed that Jōtarō was still sitting inside nursing his pique.

"Come on, Jō! Hurry up!"

"Going somewhere?"

"Are you still angry?"

"Who wouldn't be? You never think of anybody but yourself. Is there something so secret about Musashi's letter you can't even show it to me?"

"I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "There's no reason you shouldn't see it."

"Forget it. I'm not interested now."

"Don't be so difficult. I want you to read it. It's a wonderful letter, the first he's ever sent me. And this is the first time he's asked me to come and join him. I've never been so happy in my life. Stop pouting, and come with me to Seta. Please."

On the road through Shiga Pass, Jōtarō maintained a grumpy silence, but eventually he plucked a leaf to use as a whistle and hummed a few popular ditties to relieve the nocturnal stillness.

Eventually, too, Otsū, prompted to make a peace offering, said, "There are some sweets left from the box Lord Karasumaru sent the day before yesterday."

But dawn was breaking and clouds beyond the pass were turning pink before he became his normal self again.

"Are you all right, Otsū? Aren't you tired?"

"A little. It's been uphill all the way."

"It'll be easier from now on. Look, you can see the lake."

"Yes; Lake Biwa. Where's Seta?"

"Over that way. Musashi wouldn't be there this early, would he?"

"I really don't know. It'll take us half the day to get there ourselves. Shall we take a rest?"

"Okay," he replied, his good humor restored. "Let's sit down under those two big trees over there."

The smoke of early morning cooking fires rose in strands, like vapors ascending from a battlefield. Through the mist stretching from the lake to the town of Ishiyama, the streets of Otsu were becoming visible. As he approached, Musashi drew his hand across his brow and looked around, glad to be back among people.

Near the Miidera, as he started up the Bizōji slope, he had wondered idly which road Otsū would take. He had imagined earlier he might meet her on the way but later decided this was unlikely. The woman who had taken his letter to Kyoto had informed him that though Otsū was no longer at the Karasumaru residence, his letter would be delivered to her. Since she would have received it no sooner than late evening and would have had various things to do before leaving, it seemed probable that she would wait until morning before setting out.

Passing a temple with a fine stand of old cherry trees—no doubt famous, he thought, for their spring blossoms—he had noticed a stone monument standing on a mound. Though he had caught only a glimpse of the poem inscribed thereon, it came back to him a few hundred yards farther down the road. It was from the
Taiheiki.
Recalling that the poem was connected with a tale he had once memorized, he began reciting it slowly to himself.

" 'A venerable priest from the temple of Shiga—leaning on a six-foot staff and so old that his white eyebrows grew together in a frosty peak on his forehead—was contemplating the beauty of Kannon in the waters of the lake when he chanced to catch sight of an imperial concubine from Kyōgoku. She was on her way back from Shiga, where there was a great field of flowers, and when he saw her, he was overcome with passion. The virtue that he had so arduously accumulated over the years deserted him. He was engulfed in the burning house of desire and ...'

"Now, how did that go? I seem to have forgotten some of it. Ah!

" ' • • • and he returned to his hut made of sticks and prayed before the image of the Buddha, but a vision of the woman persisted. Though he called on the Buddha's name, his own voice sounded like the breath of delusion. In the clouds above the mountains at twilight, he seemed to see the combs in her hair. This made him sad. When he raised his eyes to the lonely moon, her face smiled back at him. He was perplexed and ashamed.

"'Fearing that such thoughts would prevent him from going to paradise when he died, he resolved to meet the damsel and reveal his feelings to her. In this way, he hoped to die a peaceful death.

"'So he went to the Imperial Palace and, planting his staff firmly in the ground, stood waiting in the kickball court for an entire day and night—' " "Pardon me, sir! You, on the cow!"

The man seemed to be a day laborer of the sort found in the wholesale district. Coming around in front of the cow, he patted her nose and looked over her head at the rider.

"You must have come from the Mudōji," he said.

"I did, as a matter of fact. How did you know?"

"I lent this cow to a merchant. I guess he must have left her there. I rent her out, so I'll have to ask you to pay me for the use of her."

"I'll be happy to pay. But tell me, how far would you let me take her?"

"So long as you pay, you can take her anywhere. All you have to do is turn her over to a wholesaler in the town nearest where you're going. Then somebody else'll rent her. Sooner or later she'll get back here."

"How much would it cost me if I took her to Edo?"

"I'll have to check that at the stable. It's right on your way anyhow. If you decide to rent her, you just have to leave your name at the office."

The wholesale district was near the ford at Uchidegahama. Since many travelers passed through there, Musashi thought it was just the place to freshen up and buy some things he needed.

After the arrangements for the cow had been made, he had a leisurely breakfast and set out for Seta, savoring the prospect of seeing Otsū again. He no longer had any misgivings about her. Until their meeting on the mountain, she had always elicited a certain fear in him, but this time it was different: her purity, intelligence and devotion on that moonlit night had made his confidence in her deeper than love.

Not only did he trust her; he knew she trusted him. He had vowed that once they were together again, he would refuse her nothing—provided, of course, it did not jeopardize his way of life as a swordsman. What had worried him before was the dread that if he allowed himself to love her, his sword would be blunted. Like the old priest in the story, he might lose the Way. That she was well disciplined was now evident; she would never become a hindrance or a fetter holding him back. His only problem now was to make sure that he himself did not drown in the deep pool of love.

"When we get to Edo," he thought, "I'll see she gets the type of training and education a woman needs. While she studies, I'll take Jōtarō with me, and together we'll find a still higher plane of discipline. Then one day, when the time comes . . ." Light reflected from the lake bathed his face in a gently flickering glow.

The two sections of Kara Bridge, one ninety-six column spans and the other twenty-three column spans, were linked by a small island. On the island was an ancient willow tree, a landmark for travelers. The bridge itself was often called Willow Bridge.

"He's coming!" cried Jōtarō, dashing out of the tea shop onto the shorter section of the bridge, where he stood beckoning to Musashi with one hand and pointing to the tea shop with the other. "There he is, Otsū! See? Riding a cow." He broke into a little dance. Soon Otsū was standing beside him, she waving her hand, he waving his basket hat. A broad grin lit Musashi's face as he drew near.

He tied the cow to a willow tree, and the three of them entered the tea shop. Though Otsū had called wildly to Musashi while he was still on the far side of the bridge, now that he was beside her, words failed her. Beaming happily, she left the talking to Jōtarō.

"Your wound's healed," said the boy, almost rhapsodically. "When I saw you on the cow, I thought maybe it was because you couldn't walk. But we still managed to get here first, didn't we? As soon as Otsū got your letter, she was ready to leave."

Musashi smiled, nodded, murmured "oh"s and "ah"s, but Jōtarō's talk about Otsū and her love in front of strangers made him uncomfortable. At his insistence, they moved to a little porch in back, which was shaded by a wisteria trellis. Otsū remained too diffident to speak, and Musashi grew taciturn. But Jōtarō paid no heed; his rapid chatter mingled with the buzzing of bees and the whir of gadflies.

He was interrupted by the proprietor's voice, saying, "You'd better come inside. A storm's brewing. Look how dark the sky's getting above Ishiyamadera." He bustled about, putting away straw blinds and placing wooden rain shutters around the sides of the porch. The river had turned gray; gusts of wind set the lavender wisteria blossoms into wild motion. All at once, a flash of light streaked through the sky, and the rain came pouring down in great torrents.