Musashi: Bushido Code (96 page)

As his pace quickened, his spirit, back from its trip to the unknown, moved him to break into song.

Old metal Buddha, standing in the field,

Have you seen a girl of sixteen?

Don't you know a girl who's strayed?

When asked, you say "Clang."

When struck, you say "Bong."

A Cricket in the Grass

Jōtarō jogged along at a good pace, paying little attention to the road. Suddenly he halted and looked around, wondering if he'd lost his way. "I don't remember passing here before," he thought nervously.

Samurai houses fringed the remains of an old fortress. One section of the compound had been rebuilt to serve as the official residence of the recently appointed Ōkubo Nagayasu, but the rest of the area, rising like a natural mound, was covered with weeds and trees. The stone ramparts were crumbling, having been ravaged many years earlier by an invading army. The fortification looked primitive compared to the castle complexes of the last forty to fifty years. There was no moat, no bridge, nothing that could properly be described as a castle wall. It had probably belonged to one of the local gentry in the days before the great civil war daimyō incorporated their rural domains into larger feudal principalities.

On one side of the road were paddies and marshland; on the other, walls; and beyond, a cliff, atop which the fortress must once have stood.

As he tried to get his bearings, Jōtarō's eyes traveled along the cliff. Then he saw something move, stop, and move again. At first it looked like an animal, but soon the stealthily moving silhouette became the outline of a man. Jōtarō shivered but stood riveted to the spot.

The man lowered a rope with a hook attached to the top. After he had slid down the full length of the rope and found a foothold, he shook the hook loose and repeated the process. When he reached the bottom, he disappeared into a copse.

Jōtarō's curiosity was thoroughly aroused.

A few minutes later, he saw the man walking along the low rises separating the paddies and apparently heading straight for him. He nearly panicked, but relaxed when he could make out the bundle on the man's back. "What a waste of time! Nothing but a farmer stealing kindling." He thought the man must have been crazy to risk scaling the cliff for nothing more than some firewood. He was disappointed too; his mystery had become unbearably humdrum. But then came his second shock. As the man strolled up the road past the tree Jōtarō was hiding behind, the boy had to stifle a gasp. He was sure the dark figure was Daizō.

"It couldn't be," he told himself.

The man had a black cloth around his face and wore peasant's knickers, leggings and light straw sandals.

The mysterious figure turned off onto a path skirting a hill. No one with such sturdy shoulders and buoyant stride could be in his fifties, as Daizō was. Having convinced himself that he was mistaken, Jōtarō followed. He had to get back to the inn, and the man just might, unwittingly, help him find his way.

When the man came to a road marker, he set down his bundle, which appeared to be very heavy. As he leaned over to read the writing on the stone, something about him again struck Jōtarō as familiar.

While the man climbed the path up the hill, Jōtarō examined the marker, on which were carved the words "Pine Tree on Head-burying Mound—Above." This was where the local inhabitants buried the severed skulls of criminals and defeated warriors.

The branches of an immense pine were clearly visible against the night sky. By the time Jōtarō reached the top of the rise, the man had seated himself by the roots of the tree and was smoking a pipe.

Daizō! No question about it now. A peasant would never carry tobacco with him. Some had been successfully grown domestically, but on such a limited scale that it was still very expensive. Even in the relatively well-off Kansai district, it was considered a luxury. And up in Sendai, when Lord Date smoked, his scribe felt constrained to make an entry in his daily journal: "Morning, three smokes; afternoon, four smokes; bedtime, one smoke."

Financial considerations aside, most people who had a chance to try tobacco found it made them dizzy or even nauseated. Though appreciated for its flavor, it was generally regarded as a narcotic.

Jōtarō knew that smokers were few; he also knew that Daizō was one of them, for he had frequently seen him drawing on a handsomely made ceramic pipe. Not that this had ever before struck him as strange. Daizō was wealthy and a man of expensive tastes.

"What's he up to?" he thought impatiently. Accustomed now to the danger of the situation, he gradually crept closer.

Having finished his pipe, the merchant got to his feet, removed his black kerchief and tucked it into his waist. Then slowly he walked around the pine. The next thing Jōtarō knew, he was holding a shovel in his hands. Where had that come from? Leaning on the shovel, Daizō looked around at the night scenery for a moment, apparently fixing the location in his mind.

Seemingly satisfied, Daizō rolled aside a large rock on the north side of the tree and began digging energetically, looking neither right nor left. Jōtarō watched the hole grow nearly deep enough for a man to stand in. Finally, Daizō stopped and wiped the sweat from his face with his kerchief. Jōtarō remained as still as a rock and totally baffled.

"This'll do," the merchant murmured softly, as he finished trampling down the soft dirt at the bottom of the hole. For an instant, Jōtarō had a peculiar impulse to call out and warn him not to bury himself, but he held back.

Jumping up to the surface, Daizō proceeded to drag the heavy bundle from the tree to the edge of the hole and undo the hempen cord around the top. At first Jōtarō thought the sack was made of cloth, but now he could see that it was a heavy leather cloak, of the sort generals wore over their armor. Inside was another sack, made of tenting or some similar fabric. When this was opened, the top of an incredible stack of gold came into view—semi-cylindrical ingots made by pouring the molten metal into half sections of bamboo, split lengthwise.

There was more to come. Loosening his obi, Daizō unburdened himself of several dozen large, newly minted gold pieces, which had been stuffed into his stomach wrapper, the back of his kimono and other parts of his clothing. Having placed these neatly on top of the ingots, he tied both containers securely and dropped the bundle into the pit, as he might have dumped the carcass of a dog. He then shoveled the dirt back in, stamped on it with his feet, and replaced the rock. He finished off by scattering dry grass and twigs around the rock.

Then he set about transforming himself back into the well-known Daizō of Narai, affluent dealer in herbs. The peasant's garb, wrapped around the shovel, went into a thicket not likely to be explored by passersby. He donned his traveling cloak and hung his money pouch around his neck in the manner of itinerant priests. As he slipped his feet into his zōri, he mumbled with satisfaction, "Quite a night's work."

When Daizō was out of hearing range, Jōtarō emerged from his hiding place and went to the rock. Though he scrutinized the spot carefully, he could discern no trace of what he had just witnessed. He stared at the ground as if at a magician's empty palm.

"I'd better get moving," he thought suddenly. "If I'm not there when he gets back to the inn, he'll be suspicious." Since the lights of the town were now visible beneath him, he had no trouble setting his course. Running like the wind, he somehow contrived to stay on back roads and keep well out of Daizō's path.

It was with an expression of perfect innocence that he climbed the stairs at the inn and entered their room. He was in luck; Sukeichi was slumped against the lacquered traveling case, alone and sound asleep. A thin trickle of saliva ran down his chin.

"Hey, Sukeichi, you'll catch cold there." Purposely Jōtarō shook him to wake him up.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" drawled Sukeichi, rubbing his eyes. "What were you doing out this late without telling the master?"

"Are you crazy? I've been back for hours. If you'd been awake, you'd have known that."

"Don't try to fool me. I know you went out with that woman from the Sumiya. If you're running around after a whore now, I hate to think what you'll be acting like when you grow up."

Just then, Daizō open the shoji. "I'm back," was all he said.

An early morning start was necessary in order to make Edo before nightfall. Jinnai had his troupe, Akemi restored to it, on the road well before sunrise. Daizō, Sukeichi and Jōtarō, however, took their time over breakfast and were not ready to leave until the sun was fairly high in the sky.

Daizō led the way, as usual, but Jōtarō trailed behind with Sukeichi, which was unusual.

Finally Daizō stopped, asking, "What's the matter with you this morning?" "Pardon?" Jōtarō did his best to appear nonchalant.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing at all. Why do you ask?"

"You look glum. Not like you."

"It's nothing, sir. I was just thinking. If I stay with you, I don't know whether I'll ever find my teacher or not. I'd like to go and look for him on my own, if it's all right with you."

Without a moment's hesitation, Daizō replied, "It isn't!"

Jōtarō had sidled up and started to take hold of the man's arm, but now he withdrew his hand and asked nervously, "Why not?"

"Let's rest here awhile," said Daizō, lowering himself onto the grassy plain for which the province of Musashi was famous. Once seated, he gestured to Sukeichi to go on ahead.

"But I have to find my teacher—as soon as possible," pleaded Jōtarō.

"I told you, you're not going off by yourself." Looking very stern, Daizō put his ceramic pipe to his lips and took a puff. "As of today, you're my son."

He sounded serious. Jōtarō swallowed hard, but then Daizō laughed, and the boy, assuming it was all a joke, said, "I couldn't do that. I don't want to be your son."

"What?"

"You're a merchant. I want to be a samurai."

"I'm sure you'll find that Daizō of Narai is no ordinary townsman, without honor or background. Become my adopted son, and I'll make a real samurai out of you."

Jōtarō realized with dismay that he meant what he was saying. "May I ask why you decided this so suddenly?" the boy asked.

In a trice, Daizō seized him and pinioned him to his side. Putting his mouth to the boy's ear, he whispered, "You saw me, didn't you, you little bastard?" "Saw you?"

"Yes; you were watching, weren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Watching what?"

"What I did last night."

Jōtarō tried his best to stay calm.

"Why did you do that?"

The boy's defenses were close to collapse.

"Why were you prying into my private affairs?"

"I'm sorry!" blurted Jōtarō. "I'm really sorry. I won't tell a soul."

"Keep your voice down! I'm not going to punish you, but in return, you're going to become my adopted son. If you refuse, you give me no choice but to kill you. Now, don't force me to do that. I think you're a fine boy, very likable."

For the first time in his life, Jōtarō began to feel real fear. "I'm sorry," he repeated fervently. "Don't kill me. I don't want to die!" Like a captured skylark, he wriggled timidly in Daizō's arms, afraid that if he really struggled, the hand of death would descend on him forthwith.

Although the boy felt his grip to be viselike, Daizō was not holding him tightly at all. In fact, when he pulled the boy onto his lap, his touch was almost tender. "Then you'll be my son, won't you?" His stubbly chin scratched Jōtarō's cheek.

Though he couldn't have identified it, what fettered Jōtarō was an adult, masculine scent. He was like an infant on Daizō's knee, unable to resist, unable even to speak.

"It's for you to decide. Will you let me adopt you, or will you die? Answer me, now!"

With a wail, the boy burst into tears. He rubbed his face with dirty fingers until muddy little puddles formed on both sides of his nose.

"Why cry? You're lucky to have such an opportunity. I guarantee you'll be a great samurai when I finish with you."

"But ..."

"What is it?"

"You're ... you're ..."

"Yes?"

"I can't say it."

"Out with it. Speak. A man should state his thoughts simply and clearly."

"You're ... well, your business is stealing." Had it not been for the hands resting lightly on him, Jōtarō would have been off like a gazelle. But Daizō's lap was a deep pit, the walls of which prevented him from moving.

"Ha, ha," chortled Daizō, giving him a playful slap on the back.
"Is
that all that's bothering you?"

"Y-y-yes."

The big man's shoulders shook with laughter. "I might be the sort of person who'd steal the whole country, but a common burglar or highwayman I am not. Look at Ieyasu or Hideyoshi or Nobunaga—they're all warriors who stole or tried to steal the whole nation, aren't they? Just stick with me, and one of these days you'll understand."

"Then you're not a thief?"

"I wouldn't bother with a business that's so unprofitable." Lifting the boy off his knee, he said, "Now stop blubbering, and let's be on our way. From this moment on, you're my son. I'll be a good father to you. Your end of the bargain is that you never breathe a word to anyone about what you think you saw last night. If you do, I'll wring your neck."

Jōtarō believed him.

The Pioneers

On the day near the end of the fifth month when Osugi arrived in Edo, the air was steamingly sultry, the way it was only when the rainy season failed to bring rain. In the nearly two months since she had left Kyoto, she had traveled at a leisurely pace, taking time to pamper her aches and pains or to visit shrines and temples.

Her first impression of the shōgun's capital was distasteful. "Why build houses in a swamp like this?" she remarked disdainfully. "The weeds and rushes haven't even been cleared away yet."

Because of the unseasonable drought, a pall of dust hung over the Takanawa highroad, with its newly planted trees and recently erected milestones. The stretch from Shioiri to Nihombashi was crowded with oxcarts loaded with rocks or lumber. All along the way, new houses were going up at a furious clip.

"Of all the—!" gasped Osugi, looking up angrily at a half-finished house. A gob of wet clay from a plasterer's trowel had accidentally landed on her kimono.

The workmen exploded with laughter.

"How dare you throw mud on people and then stand there laughing? You should be on your knees, apologizing!"

Back in Miyamoto, a few sharp words from her would have had her tenants or any of the other villagers cowering. These laborers, among the thousands of newcomers from all over the country, barely looked up from their work.

"What's the old hag babbling about?" a worker asked.

Osugi, incensed, shouted, "Who said that? Why, you . . ."

The more she sputtered, the harder they laughed. Spectators began to gather, asking each other why the old woman wasn't acting her age and taking the matter in stride.

Storming into the house, Osugi seized the end of the plank the plasterers were standing on and yanked it off its supports. Men and buckets full of wet clay clattered to the floor.

"You old bitch!"

Jumping to their feet, they surrounded her threateningly.

Osugi did not flinch. "Come outside!" she commanded grimly as she placed her hand on her short sword.

The workmen had second thoughts. The way she looked and carried on, she had to be from a samurai family; they might get into trouble if they weren't careful. Their manner softened noticeably.

Observing the change, Osugi declared grandly, "Henceforward, I'll not countenance rudeness from the likes of you." With a look of satisfaction on her face, she went out and started up the road again, leaving the spectators to gape at her stubborn, straight back.

She was hardly on her way again before an apprentice, his muddy feet grotesquely covered with shavings and sawdust, ran up behind her, carrying a bucket of mucky clay.

Shouting, "How do you like this, you old witch?" he slung the contents of his pail at her back.

"O-w-w-w!" The howl did credit to Osugi's lungs, but before she could turn around, the apprentice had vanished. When she realized the extent of the damage, she scowled bitterly and tears of sheer vexation filled her eyes.

The merriment was general.

"What're you nincompoops laughing at?" raged Osugi, baring her teeth. "What's so funny about an old woman being splattered with grime? Is this the way you welcome elderly people to Edo? You're not even human! Just remember, you'll all be old one day."

This outburst attracted even more onlookers.

"Edo, indeed!" she snorted. "To hear people talk, you'd think it was the greatest city in the whole country. And what is it? A place full of dirt and filth, where everybody's pulling down hills and filling in swamps and digging ditches and piling up sand from the seaside. Not only that, it's full of riffraff, like you'd never find in Kyoto or anywhere in the west." Having got that off her chest, she turned her back on the sniggering crowd and went rapidly on her way.

To be sure, the city's newness was its most remarkable feature. The wood and plaster of the houses was all bright and fresh, many building sites were only partially filled in, and ox and horse dung assailed the eyes and nostrils.

Not so long ago, this road had been a mere footpath through the rice paddies between the villages of Hibiya and Chiyoda. Had Osugi gone a little to the west, nearer Edo Castle, she would have found an older and more sedate district, where daimyō and vassals of the shōgun had begun building residences soon after Tokugawa Ieyasu occupied Edo in 1590.

As it was, absolutely nothing appealed to her. She felt ancient. Everyone she saw—shopkeepers, officials on horseback, samurai striding by in basket hats—all were young, as were laborers, craftsmen, vendors, soldiers, even generals.

The front of one house, where plasterers were still at work, bore a shop sign, behind which sat a heavily powdered woman, brushing her eyebrows as she awaited customers. In other half-finished buildings, people were selling sake, setting up displays of dry goods, laying in supplies of dried fish. One man was hanging out a sign advertising medicine.

"If I weren't looking for someone," Osugi mumbled sourly, "I wouldn't stay in this garbage dump a single night."

Coming to a hill of excavated dirt blocking the road, she halted. At the foot of a bridge crossing the as yet waterless moat stood a shanty. Its walls consisted of reed matting held in place by strips of bamboo, but a banner proclaimed that this was a public bath. Osugi handed over a copper coin and went in to wash her kimono. After cleaning it as well as she could, she borrowed a drying pole and hung the garment up by the side of the shanty. Clothed in her underwear, with a light bathrobe draped over her back, she squatted in the shadow of the bathhouse and gazed absently at the road.

Across the street, half a dozen men stood in a circle, haggling in voices loud enough for Osugi to hear what they were saying.

"How many square feet is it? I wouldn't mind considering it if the price is right."

"There's two thirds of an acre. The price is what I mentioned before. I can't come down from that."

"It's too much. You must know that yourself."

"Not at all. It costs a lot of money to fill in land. And don't forget, there's no more available around here."

"Oh, there must be. They're filling in everywhere."

"Already sold. People are snatching it up as it is, swamp and all. You won't find three hundred square feet for sale. Of course, if you're willing to go way over toward the Sumida River, you might be able to get something cheaper."

"Do you guarantee there's two thirds of an acre?"

"You don't have to take my word for it. Get a rope and measure it off yourself."

Osugi was astounded; the figure quoted for a hundred square feet would have been sufficient for tens of acres of good rice land. But essentially the same conversation was taking place all over the city, for many a merchant speculated in land. Osugi was also mystified. "Why would anybody want land here? It's no good for rice, and you can't call this place a city."

By and by the deal across the street was sealed with a ritual hand clapping intended to bring good luck to all concerned.

As she idly watched the departing shadows, Osugi became conscious of a hand on the back of her obi. "Thief!" she shrieked as she made a grab for the pickpocket's wrist. But her coin purse had already been removed, and the thief was already in the street.

"Thief!" Osugi screamed again. Flying after the man, she managed to throw her arms around his waist. "Help! Thief!"

The pickpocket struggled, striking her several times in the face without being able to break her grip. "Let go of me, you cow!" he shouted, kicking her in the ribs. With a loud grunt, Osugi fell down, but she had her short sword out and slashed at the man's ankle.

"Ow!" Blood pouring from the wound, he limped a few steps, then flopped down on the ground.

Startled by the commotion, the land dealers turned around, and one of them exclaimed, "Hey, isn't that that good-for-nothing from Kōshū?" The speaker was Hangawara Yajibei, master of a large gang of construction workers.

"Looks like him," agreed one of his henchmen. "What's that in his hand? Looks like a purse."

"It does, doesn't it? And somebody just yelled thief. Look! There's an old woman sprawled out on the ground. Go see what's the matter with her. I'll take care of him."

The pickpocket was on his feet and running again, but Yajibei caught up with him and slapped him to the ground as he might have swatted a grasshopper.

Returning to his boss, the henchman reported, "Just as we thought. He stole the old lady's purse."

"I have it here. How is she?"

"Not hurt bad. She fainted, but came to screaming bloody murder." "She's still sitting there. Can't she stand up?"

"I guess not. He kicked her in the ribs."

"You son of a bitch!" Still glaring at the pickpocket, Yajibei issued a command to his underling. "Ushi, put up a stake."

The words set the thief to trembling as though the point of a knife were being pressed against his throat. "Not that," he pleaded, groveling in the dirt at Yajibei's feet. "Let me off just this once. I promise I won't do it again."

Yajibei shook his head. "No. You'll get what you deserve."

Ushi, who had been named after the zodiac sign under which he was born, a not uncommon practice among farmers, returned with two workmen from the nearby bridge site.

"Over there," he said, pointing toward the middle of a vacant lot.

After the workmen had driven a heavy post into the ground, one of them asked, "This good enough?"

"That's fine," said Yajibei. "Now tie him to it, and nail a board above his head."

When this had been done, Yajibei borrowed a carpenter's ink pot and brush and wrote on the board: "This man is a thief. Until recently, he worked for me, but he has committed a crime for which he must be punished. He is to be tied here, exposed to rain and sun, for seven days and seven nights. By order of Yajibei of Bakurōchō."

"Thanks," he said, returning the ink pot. "Now, if it's not too much trouble, give him a bite to eat every once in a while. Just enough to keep him from starving. Anything left over from your lunch will do."

The two workmen, along with others who had congregated in the meantime, signified their assent. Some of the laborers promised that they would see to it that the thief got his share of ridicule. It wasn't just samurai who feared public exposure of their misdeeds or weaknesses. Even for ordinary townspeople in these times, to be laughed at was the worst of all punishments.

Punishing criminals without reference to law was a firmly established practice. In the days when the warriors were too busy with warfare to maintain order, townsmen had, for the sake of their own safety, taken it upon themselves to deal with miscreants. Though Edo now had an official magistrate and a system was developing whereby leading citizens in each district functioned as government representatives, the summary administration of justice still occurred. With conditions still being a bit chaotic, the authorities saw little reason to interfere.

"Ushi," said Yajibei, "take the old lady her purse. Too bad this had to happen to somebody her age. She seems to be all alone. What happened to her kimono?"

"She says she washed it and hung it up to dry."

"Go get it for her, then bring her along. We might as well take her home with us. There's little point in punishing the thief if we're going to leave her here for some other ruffian to prey on."

Moments later, Yajibei strode away. Ushi was close behind, the kimono over his arm and Osugi on his back.

They soon reached Nihombashi, the "Bridge of Japan" from which all distances along the roads leading out of Edo were now measured. Stone parapets supported the wooden arch, and since the bridge had been constructed only about a year before, the railings still preserved a feeling of newness. Boats from Kamakura and Odawara were moored along one riverbank. On the other was the city's fish market.

"Oh, my side hurts," Osugi said with a loud groan.

The fishmongers looked up to see what was going on.

Being gaped at was not to Yajibei's liking. Glancing back at Osugi, he said, "We'll be there soon. Try to hold on. Your life's not in danger."

Osugi laid her head on Ushi's back and became as quiet as a baby.

In the downtown area, tradesmen and artisans had formed their own neighborhoods. There was a blacksmiths' district, one for lance-makers, others for dyers, tatami weavers, and so on. Yajibei's house stood out prominently from those of the other carpenters because the front half of the roof was covered with tiles; all the other houses had board roofs. Until a fire a couple of years before, nearly all the roofs had been made of thatch. As it happened, Yajibei had acquired what passed for his surname from his roof, Hangawara meaning "half tiled."

He had come to Edo as a rōnin, but being both clever and warmhearted, he had proved to be a skillful manager of men. Before long he set himself up as a contractor employing a sizable crew of carpenters, roofers and unskilled workers. From building projects carried out for various daimyō, he acquired enough capital to branch out into the real estate business as well. Too affluent now to have to work with his own hands, he played the role of local boss. Among Edo's numerous self-appointed bosses, Yajibei was one of the best known and most highly respected.

The townspeople looked up to the bosses as well as to the warriors, but of the two, the bosses were the more highly admired, because they usually stood up for the common people. Although those of Edo had a style and spirit of their own, the bosses were not unique to the new capital. Their history went back to the troubled latter days of the Ashikaga shogunate, when gangs of thugs roamed the countryside like prides of lions, pillaging at will and submitting to no restraints.

According to a writer of that era, they wore little more than vermilion loincloths and wide stomach wrappers. Their long swords were very long—nearly four feet—and even their short swords were more than two feet in length. Many used other weapons, of a cruder type, such as battle-axes and "iron rakes." They let their hair grow wild, using thick strips of rope for headbands, and leather leggings often covered their calves.