Musashi: Bushido Code (87 page)

"Lightning!" cried Jōtarō. "The first this year. Hurry up, get inside, Otsū. You'll get soaked. Hurry,
Sensei.
Oh, the rain came at just the right time. It's perfect."

But if the shower was "perfect" for Jōtarō, it meant embarrassment for Musashi and Otsū, for going back inside together would make them feel like starry-eyed lovers. Musashi held back, and Otsū, blushing, stood at the edge of the porch, no better protected from the elements than the wisteria blossoms.

The man holding a piece of straw matting over his head as he ran through the blinding rain looked like a large self-propelled umbrella. Dashing under the eaves of a shrine gate, he smoothed his wet, rumpled hair and looked up questioningly at the swiftly moving clouds. "It's just like midsummer," he grumbled. No sound was audible above the pounding of the rain, but an abrupt flash of light sent his hands to his ears. Matahachi squatted fearfully near a statue of the god of thunder, which stood beside the gate.

As suddenly as it had begun, the rain ceased. The black clouds parted, the sunshine streamed through, and before long the street had returned to normal. Somewhere in the distance Matahachi could hear the plinking of shamisen. As he started to move on, a woman dressed like a geisha crossed the street and walked directly up to him.

"Your name's Matahachi, isn't it?" she said.

"It is," he answered suspiciously. "How did you know?"

"A friend of yours is at our shop now. He saw you from the window and told me to come get you."

Glancing around, he saw that there were several brothels in the neighborhood. Though he hesitated, the woman hurried him along toward her own. "If you have other business," she said, "you don't have to stay long."

When they entered, the girls virtually fell all over him, wiping off his feet, removing his wet kimono and insisting that he go to the parlor upstairs. When he asked who this friend was, they laughed and told him he would find out soon enough.

"Well," said Matahachi, "I've been out in the rain, so I'll stay until my clothes dry, but don't try to keep me here any longer than that. There's a man waiting for me at the bridge in Seta."

With much tittering, the women promised him he could leave in good time, meanwhile almost pushing him up the stairs.

At the threshold of the parlor, he was greeted by a man's voice. "Well, well, if it isn't my friend Inugami
Sensei!"

For a moment, Matahachi thought it was a case of mistaken identity, but when he looked into the room, the face seemed vaguely familiar.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Have you forgotten Sasaki Kojirō?"

"No," Matahachi replied quickly. "But why do you call me Inugami? My name's Hon'iden, Hon'iden Matahachi."

"I know, but I always remember you as you were that night on Gojō Avenue, making funny faces at a pack of stray curs. I think Inugami—god of the dogs—is a good name for you."

"Cut it out! That's nothing to joke about. I had a terrible time that night, thanks to you."

"I don't doubt it. In fact, I sent for you today because I want to do you a

good turn for a change. Come in, have a seat. Give the man some sake, girls." "I can't stay. I have to meet someone in Seta. I can't afford to get drunk

today."

"Who are you meeting?"

"A man by the name of Miyamoto. He's a childhood friend of mine, and—" "Miyamoto Musashi? Did you make an appointment with him when you were at the inn in the pass?"

"How did you know?"

"Oh, I've heard all about you, all about Musashi too. I met your mother—Osugi, is it?—at the main hall on Mount Hiei. She told me about all the troubles she's gone through."

"You talked to my mother?"

"Yes. She's a splendid woman. I admire her, and so do all the priests on Mount Hiei. I tried to give her some encouragement." Rinsing his cup in a bowl of water, he offered it to Matahachi and continued: "Here, let's drink together and wash away our old enmity. There's no reason to worry about Musashi if you've got Sasaki Kojirō on your side."

Matahachi refused the cup.

"Why don't you drink?"

"I can't. I have to go."

As Matahachi started to get up, Kojirō grabbed him tightly by the wrist, saying, "Sit down!"

"But Musashi's waiting."

"Don't be an ass! If you attack Musashi by yourself, he'll kill you instantly." "You've got it all wrong! He promised to help me. I'm going with him to Edo to make a new start in life."

"You mean you'd rely on a man like Musashi?"

"Oh, I know, a lot of people say he's no good. But that's because my mother's gone around slandering him. But she's wrong, has been all along. Now that I've talked to him, I'm more sure of that than ever. He's my friend, and I'm going to learn from him so that I can make something of myself too. Even if it is a little late in the day."

Roaring with laughter, Kojirō slapped the tatami with his hand. "How could you be so innocent? Your mother told me you were unusually naive, but to be taken in by—"

"That's not true! Musashi's—"

"Just be quiet! Listen. In the first place, how could you think of betraying your own mother by siding with her enemy? It's inhuman. Even I, a total stranger, was so moved by that valiant old lady that I swore to give her all the support I can."

"I don't care what you think. I'm going to meet Musashi, and don't try to stop me. You, girl, bring my kimono! It should be dry by now."

Raising his drunken eyes, Kojirō commanded, "Don't touch it until I tell you to. Now look, Matahachi, if you plan to go with Musashi, you should at least talk to your mother first."

"I'm going on to Edo with Musashi. If I make something of myself there, the whole problem will solve itself."

"That sounds like something Musashi would say. In fact, I'd bet he put the words in your mouth. Anyway, wait till tomorrow, and I'll go with you to look for your mother. You have to listen to her opinion before you do anything. In the meantime, let's enjoy ourselves. Like it or not, you're going to stay here and drink with me."

This being a brothel, and Kojirō the paying guest, the women all came to his support. Matahachi's kimono was not forthcoming, and after a few drinks, he stopped asking for it.

Sober, Matahachi was no match for Kojirō. Inebriated, he could be something of a menace. By the time day faded into night, he was demonstrating to one and all how much he could drink, demanding more, saying everything he should not say, airing all his resentments—in short, being a complete nuisance. It was dawn before he passed out and noon before he came to again.

The sun seemed all the brighter for the rain the previous afternoon. With Musashi's words echoing in his head, Matahachi longed to throw up every drop he had drunk. Fortunately, Kojirō was still asleep in another room. Matahachi slipped downstairs, made the women give him his kimono, and set off at a run for Seta.

The muddy red water under the bridge was liberally sprinkled with Ishiyamadera's fallen cherry blossoms. The storm had broken the wisteria vines and strewn yellow kerria flowers everywhere.

After a lengthy search, Matahachi asked at the tea shop and was told that the man with the cow had waited until the shop closed for the night, then had gone to an inn. He had returned in the morning, but not finding his friend, had left a note tied to a willow branch.

The note, which looked like a large white moth, said, "Sorry I couldn't wait longer. Catch up with me on the way. I'll be looking for you."

Matahachi made good time along the Nakasendō, the highroad leading through Kiso to Edo, but he had still not caught up with Musashi when he reached Kusatsu. After passing through Hikone and Toriimoto, he began to suspect he had missed him on the way, and when he reached Suribachi Pass, he waited half a day, keeping his eyes on the road the whole time.

It wasn't until he reached the road for Mino that Kojirō's words came back to him.

"Was I taken in after all?" he asked himself. "Did Musashi really have no intention of going with me?"

After much doubling back and investigation of side roads, he finally caught sight of Musashi just outside the town of Nakatsugawa. At first he was elated, but when he got close enough to see that the person on the cow was Otsū, jealousy took instant and complete control of him.

"What a fool I've been," he growled, "from the day that bastard talked me into going to Sekigahara until this very minute! Well, he can't walk all over me this way forever. I'll get even with him somehow—and soon!"

The Male and Female Waterfalls

"Whew, it's hot!" Jōtarō exclaimed. "I've never sweated like this on a mountain road before. Where are we?"

"Near Magome Pass," said Musashi. "They say it's the most difficult section of the highroad."

"Well, I don't know about that, but I've had enough of this. I'll be glad to get to Edo. Lots of people there—right, Otsū?"

"There are, but I'm in no hurry to get there. I'd rather pass the time traveling on a lonely road like this."

"That's because you're riding. You'd feel different if you were walking. Look! There's a waterfall over there."

"Let's take a rest," said Musashi.

The three of them made their way along a narrow path. All around, the ground was covered with wild flowers, still damp with morning dew. Coming to a deserted hut on a cliff overlooking the falls, they stopped. Jōtarō helped Otsū off the cow, then tied the animal to a tree.

"Look, Musashi," said Otsū. She was pointing at a sign that read: "Meoto no Taki." The reason for the name, "Male and Female Waterfalls," was easy to understand, for rocks split the falls into two sections, the larger one looking very virile, the other one small and gentle.

The roiling basin and rapids below the falls fired Jōtarō with renewed energy. Half jumping, half dancing down the steep bank, he called up excitedly, "There're fish down here!"

A few minutes later, he cried, "I can catch them! I threw a rock and one rolled over dead."

Not long after that, his voice, barely audible above the roar of the falls, echoed back from still another direction.

In the shadow of the little hut, Musashi and Otsū sat among countless tiny rainbows made by the sun shining on the wet grass.

"Where has that boy gone, do you suppose?" she asked, adding, "He's really impossible to manage."

"Do you think so? I was worse than that at his age. Matahachi, though, was just the opposite, really very well behaved. I wonder where he is. He worries me far more than Jōtarō."

"I'm glad he's not here. I'd have to hide if he was."

"Why? I think he'd understand if we explained."

"I doubt it. He and his mother aren't like other people."

"Otsū, are you sure you won't change your mind?"

"About what?"

"I mean, mightn't you decide you really want to marry Matahachi?"

Her face twitched with shock. "Absolutely not!" she replied indignantly. Her eyelids turned orchid pink, and she covered her face with her hands, but the slight trembling of her white collar almost seemed to cry out, "I'm yours, no one else's!"

Regretting his words, Musashi turned his eyes toward her. For several days now he had watched the play of light on her body—at night, the flickering glow of a lamp; in the daytime, the warm rays of the sun. Seeing her skin glisten with perspiration, he'd thought of the lotus blossom. Separated from her pallet by only a flimsy screen, he'd inhaled the faint scent of her black tresses. Now the roar of the water became one with the throbbing of his blood, and he felt himself being swallowed up by a powerful impulse.

Abruptly he stood up and moved to a sunny spot where the winter grass was still high, then sat down heavily and heaved a sigh.

Otsū came and knelt at his side, put her arms around his knees and twisted her neck to look up into his silent, frightened face.

"What is it?" she asked. "Did something I said make you angry? Forgive me. I'm sorry."

The more tense he became—and the harsher the look in his eyes—the more closely she clung to him. Then all at once she threw her arms around him. Her fragrance, the warmth of her body, overwhelmed him.

"Otsū!" he cried impetuously as he seized her in his brawny arms and threw her backward onto the grass.

The roughness of the embrace took her breath away. She struggled free and crouched beside him.

"You mustn't! You mustn't do that!" she shrieked hoarsely. "How could you? You, of all people—" She broke off, sobbing.

His burning passion suddenly chilled by the pain and horror in her eyes, Musashi came to himself with a jolt. "Why?" he cried. "Why?" Overcome by shame and anger, he himself was on the verge of tears.

Then she was gone, leaving behind only a sachet, which had broken loose from her kimono. Staring blankly at it, Musashi groaned, then turned his face to the ground and let the tears of pain and frustration flow into the withered grass.

He felt she'd made a fool of him—deceived, defeated, tortured and shamed him. Hadn't her words—her lips, her eyes, her hair, her body—been calling out to him? Hadn't she labored to light a fire in his heart, then when the flames burst forth, fled in terror?

By some perverse logic, it seemed that all his efforts to become a superior person had been defeated, all his struggles and privations had been rendered utterly meaningless. His face buried in the grass, he told himself he'd done nothing wrong, but his conscience wasn't satisfied.

What a girl's virginity, vouchsafed to her for only a short period of her life, meant to her—how precious and sweet it was—was a question that never entered his mind.

But as he breathed in the smell of the earth, he gradually regained his self-control. When he eventually dragged himself to his feet, the raging fire was gone from his eyes and his face was devoid of passion. Trampling the sachet underfoot, he stood looking intently at the ground, listening, it seemed, to the voice of the mountains. His heavy black eyebrows were knit together just as they had been when he threw himself into battle under the spreading pine.

The sun went behind a cloud, and the sharp screech of a bird split the air. The wind changed, subtly altering the sound of the falling water.

Otsū, her heart fluttering like a frightened sparrow's, observed his agony from behind a birch tree. Realizing how deeply she had hurt him, she now longed to have him at her side again, but as much as she wanted to run to him and beg forgiveness, her body would not obey. For the first time, she realized that the lover she had given her heart to was not the vision of masculine virtues she had imagined. Discovering the naked beast, the flesh and blood and passions, clouded her eyes with sadness and fear.

She had started to run away, but after twenty paces, her love caught and held her. Now, a little calmer, she began to imagine that Musashi's lust was different from that of other men. More than anything else in the world, she wanted to apologize and assure him she harbored no resentment for what he'd done.

"He's still angry," she thought fearfully, suddenly realizing he was no longer before her eyes. "Oh, what'll I do?"

Nervously, she went back to the little hut, but there was only a cold white mist and the thundering of the water, which seemed to shake the trees and stir up vibrations all around her.

"Otsū! Something awful's happened! Musashi's thrown himself into the water!" Jōtarō's frantic cry came from a promontory overlooking the basin, just a second before he grabbed a wisteria vine and began descending, swinging from branch to branch like a monkey.

Though she hadn't caught the actual words, Otsū heard the urgency in his voice. She raised her head in alarm and began clambering down the steep path, slipping on the moss, then clinging to rocks to steady herself.

The figure just visible through the spray and mist resembled a large rock but was actually Musashi's naked body. Hands clasped in front of him, head bowed, he was dwarfed by the fifty-foot flood cascading down on him.

Halfway down, Otsū stopped and stared in horror. Across the river, Jōtarō stood similarly transfixed.

"Sensei!"
he cried.

"Musashi!"

Their shouts never reached Musashi's ears. It was as though a thousand silver dragons were nipping at his head and shoulders, the eyes of a thousand water demons exploding around him. Treacherous eddies tugged at his legs, ready to pull him to his death. One false rhythm in breathing, one faltering heartbeat, and his heels would lose their tenuous hold on the algae-covered bottom, his body would be swept up in a violent current from which there was no return. His lungs and heart seemed to be collapsing under the incalculable weight—the total mass of the Magome mountains—falling on him.

His desire for Otsū died a slow death, for it was closely akin to the hot-blooded temperament without which he would never have gone to Sekigahara or accomplished any of his extraordinary feats. But the real danger lay in the fact that at a certain point, all his years of training became powerless against it and he sank again to the level of a wild, mindless beast. And against an enemy like this, formless and hidden, the sword was utterly useless. Bewildered, perplexed, conscious of the devastating defeat he'd suffered, he prayed that the raging waters might bring him back to his quest for discipline.

"Sensei! Sensei!"
Jōtarō's shouts had become a tearful wailing. "You mustn't die! Please don't die!" He, too, had clasped his hands in front of his chest, and his face was contorted, as if he, too, were bearing the weight of the water, the sting, the pain, the cold.

Glancing across the river, Jōtarō suddenly felt himself go limp.

He couldn't make any sense out of what Musashi was doing; apparently he was determined to stay under the torrent until he died, but now Otsū—Where was she? He was sure she'd leaped to her death in the river below.

Then, above the sound of the water, he heard Musashi's voice. The words weren't clear. He thought it might be a sutra, but then ... maybe they were angry oaths of self-recrimination.

The voice was full of strength and life. Musashi's broad shoulders and muscular body exuded youth and vigor, as if his soul had been cleansed and was now ready to begin life afresh.

Jōtarō began to feel that whatever had been wrong had passed. As the light of the evening sun made a rainbow above the falls, he called, "Otsū!" and dared to hope that she had left the cliffside simply because she thought Musashi was in no real danger. "If she's confident he's all right," he thought, "there's nothing for me to worry about. She knows him better than I do, right down to the bottom of his heart."

Jōtarō skipped lightly down to the river, found a narrow place, crossed it and climbed up the other side. Approaching silently, he saw that Otsū was inside the hut, huddled on the floor with Musashi's kimono and swords clutched to her bosom.

Jōtarō sensed that her tears, which she made no effort to hide, were somehow not ordinary tears. And without really understanding what had happened, he felt it was of grave concern to Otsū. After a couple of minutes, he slipped quietly back to where the cow lay in the whitish grass and sprawled out beside her.

"At this rate, we'll never get to Edo," he said.