Musashi: Bushido Code (99 page)

Behind the Sumiya stood the frame of the new building, roof partly finished, no walls.

"Hanagiri! Hanagiri!"

This was the name they had given Akemi, who was hiding between a stack of lumber and a small mountain of shavings. Several times the searchers had passed so close she had had to hold her breath.

"How disgusting!" she thought. For the first few minutes her wrath had been directed at Kojirō alone. By now it had expanded to embrace every member of the masculine sex—Kojirō, Seijūrō, the samurai at Hachiōji, the customers who manhandled her nightly at the Sumiya. All men were her enemies, all abominable.

Except one. The right one. The one who would be like Musashi. The one she had sought incessantly. Having given up on the real Musashi, she had now persuaded herself that it would be comforting to pretend to be in love with someone similar to him. Much to her chagrin, she found no one remotely like him.

"Ha-na-gi-ri!" It was Shōji Jinnai himself, first shouting from the back of the house, now drawing closer to her hiding place.

He was accompanied by Kojirō and the other two men. They had complained at tiresome length, making Jinnai repeat his apologies over and over, but finally they went off toward the street.

Akemi, seeing them go, breathed a sigh of relief and waited until Jinnai went back inside, then ran straight to the kitchen door.

"Why, Hanagiri, were you out there all the time?" the kitchen maid asked hysterically.

"Shh! Be quiet, and give me some sake."

"Sake? Now?"

"Yes, sake!" Since coming to Edo, the times when Akemi had sought solace in sake had become more and more frequent.

The frightened maid poured her a large cupful. Shutting her eyes, Akemi drained the vessel dry, her powdered face tilted back until it was almost parallel with the white bottom of the cup.

As she turned away from the door, the maid cried in alarm, "Where're you off to now?"

"Shut up. I'll just wash my feet, then go back inside."

Taking her at her word, the maid shut the door and returned to her work.

Akemi slipped her feet into the first pair of zōri she saw and walked somewhat unsteadily to the street. "How good to be out in the open!" was her first reaction, but this was followed very closely by revulsion. She spat in the general direction of the pleasure-seekers strolling along the brightly lit road and took to her heels.

Coming to a place where stars were reflected in a moat, she stopped to look. She heard running feet behind her. "Oh, oh! Lanterns this time. And they're from the Sumiya. Animals! Can't they eyen let a girl have a few minutes' peace? No. Find her! Put her back to making money! Turning flesh and blood into a little lumber for their new house—that's the only thing that'll satisfy them. Well, they won't get me back!"

The curled wood shavings hanging loosely in her hair bobbed up and down as she ran as fast as her legs would carry her into the darkness. She had no idea where she was going, and couldn't have cared less, so long as it was away, far away.

The Owl

When they finally forsook the teahouse, Kojirō was barely able to stand. "Shoulder ... shoulder," he gurgled, grabbing onto both Jūrō and Koroku for support.

The three lumbered uncertainly down the dark, deserted street. Jūrō said, "Sir, I told you we should spend the night."

"In that dive? Not on your life! I'd rather go back to the Sumiya." "I wouldn't, sir."

"Why not?"

"That girl, she ran away from you. If they find her, she could be forced to go to bed with you, but for what? You wouldn't enjoy it then."

"Umm. Maybe you're right."

"Do you want her?"

"Nah."

"But you can't quite get her out of your mind, can you?"

"I've never fallen in love in my life. I'm not the type. I've got more important things to do."

"What, sir?"

"Obvious, my boy. I'm going to be the best, most famous swordsman ever, and the quickest way to do that is to be the shōgun's teacher."

"But he already has the House of Yagyū to teach him. And I hear he recently hired Ono Jirōemon."

"Ono Jirōemon! Who gives a fart about him? The Yagyūs don't impress me much either. You watch me. One of these days . . ."

They had reached the stretch of road along which the new moat was being dug, and soft dirt was piled halfway up the willow trees.

"Watch out, sir; it's very slippery," said Jūrō as he and Koroku tried to help their teacher down from the pile of dirt.

"Hold it!" Kojirō shouted, abruptly shoving the two men away. He slid rapidly down the dirt pile. "Who's there?"

The man who had just lunged at Kojirō's back lost his balance and tumbled headfirst into the moat.

"Have you forgotten, Sasaki?"

"You killed four of our comrades!"

Kojirō jumped to the top of the dirt pile, from where he could see that there were at least ten men among the trees, partly hidden by rushes. Swords pointed at him, they slowly began closing in.

"So you're from the Obata School, are you?" he said in a contemptuous tone. The sudden action had sobered him completely. "Last time, you lost four men out of five. How many of you came tonight? How many want to die? Just give me the number, and I'll oblige. Cowards! Attack if you dare!" His hand went deftly over his shoulder to the hilt of the Drying Pole.

Obata Nichijō, before taking the tonsure, had been one of the most celebrated warriors in Kai, a province famous for its heroic samurai. After the defeat of the House of Takeda by Tokugawa Ieyasu, the Obata family had lived in obscurity until Kagenori distinguished himself at the Battle of Sekigahara. He had subsequently been summoned into service by Ieyasu himself and had gained fame as a teacher of military science. He had, however, refused the shogunate's offer of a choice plot of land in central Edo with the plea that a country warrior like himself would feel out of place there. He preferred a wooded lot adjoining Hirakawa Tenjin Shrine, where he had established his school in an ancient thatched farmhouse to which had been added a new lecture hall and a rather imposing entrance.

Now advanced in years and suffering from a neural disorder, Kagenori had been confined to his sickroom in recent months, appearing only rarely in the lecture hall. The woods were full of owls, and he had taken to signing his name as "Old Man Owl." Sometimes he'd smile weakly and say, "I'm an owl, like the others."

Not infrequently, the pain from the waist up was agonizing. Tonight had been one of those times.

"Feel a little better? Would you like some water?" The speaker was Hōjō Shinzō, son of Hōjō Ujikatsu, the celebrated military strategist.

"I'm much more comfortable now," said Kagenori. "Why don't you go to bed? It'll soon be light." The invalid's hair was white, his frame as skinny and angular as an aged plum tree.

"Don't worry about me. I get plenty of sleep during the day."

"You can't have much time left for sleeping when you spend your days taking over my lectures. You're the only one who can do that."

"Sleeping too much isn't good discipline."

Noticing that the lamp was about to go out, Shinzō stopped rubbing the old man's back and went to fetch some oil. When he returned, Kagenori, still lying on his stomach, had raised his bony face from the pillow. The light was reflected eerily in his eyes.

"What is it, sir?"

"Don't you hear it? It sounds like splashing water."

"It seems to be coming from the well."

"Who would it be at this hour? Do you suppose some of the men have been out drinking again?"

"That's probably it, but I'll take a look anyhow."

"Give them a good scolding while you're at it."

"Yes, sir. You'd better go to sleep. You must be tired."

When Kagenori's pain had subsided and he had dropped off to sleep, Shinzō carefully tucked the covers up around his shoulders and went to the back door. Two students were leaning over the well bucket, washing blood off their faces and hands.

He ran toward them with a scowl on his face. "You went, didn't you?" he said curtly. "After I pleaded with you not to!" The exasperation in his voice faded when he saw a third man lying in the shadow of the well. From the way he was groaning, it sounded as if he might die from his wounds at any moment.

Like little boys begging for help from an older brother, both men, their faces oddly twisted, sobbed uncontrollably.

"Fools!" Shinzō had to restrain himself from giving them a thrashing. "How many times did I warn you you were no match for him? Why didn't you listen?"

"After he dragged our master's name through the mud? After he killed four of our men? You keep saying we're not being reasonable. Aren't you the one who's lost his reason? Controlling your temper, holding yourself back, bearing insults in silence! Is that what you call reasonable? That's not the Way of the Samurai."

"Isn't it? If confronting Sasaki Kojirō was the thing to do, I'd have challenged him myself. He went out of his way to insult our teacher and commit other outrages against us, but that's no excuse for losing our sense of proportion. I'm not afraid to die, but Kojirō is not worth risking my life or anybody else's over."

"That's not the way most people see it. They think we're afraid of him. Afraid to stand up for our honor. Kojirō's been maligning Kagenori all over Edo."

"If he wants to run off at the mouth, let him. Do you think anybody who knows Kagenori is going to believe he lost an argument to that conceited novice?"

"Do as you please, Shinzō. The rest of us are not going to sit by and do nothing."

"Just exactly what do you have in mind?"

"Only one thing. Kill him!"

"You think you can? I told you not to go to the Sensōji. You wouldn't listen. Four men died. You've just returned after being defeated by him again. Isn't that piling shame on dishonor? It's not Kojirō who's destroying Kagenori's reputation, it's you. I have one question. Did you kill him?"

There was no answer.

"Of course not. I'll bet anything he doesn't have a scratch on him. The trouble with you is you don't have enough sense to avoid meeting him on his own terms. You don't understand his strength. True, he's young, he's of low character, he's coarse, he's arrogant. But he's an outstanding swordsman. How he learned his skill, I don't know, but there's no denying he has it. You underestimate him. That's your first mistake."

One man pressed in on Shinzō as though ready to attack him physically. "You're saying that whatever the bastard does, there's nothing we can do about it."

Shinzō nodded defiantly. "Exactly. There's nothing we can do. We're not

swordsmen; we're students of military science. If you think my attitude is

cowardly, then I'll just have to put up with being called a coward." The wounded man at their feet moaned. "Water ... water ... please." His two comrades knelt and propped him into a sitting position.

Seeing they were about to give him some water, Shinzō cried in alarm,

"Stop! If he drinks water, it'll kill him!"

As they hesitated, the man put his mouth to the bucket. One swallow and his head collapsed into it, bringing the night's death toll to five.

While the owls hooted at the morning moon, Shinzō silently returned to the sickroom. Kagenori was still asleep, breathing deeply. Reassured, Shinzō went to his own cubicle.

Works on military science lay open on his desk, books he had begun reading but had had no time to finish. Though well born, as a child he had done his share of splitting firewood, carrying water and studying long hours by candlelight. His father, a great samurai, did not believe that young men of his class should be pampered. Shinzō had entered the Obata School with the ultimate aim of strengthening military skills in his family's fief, and though one of the younger students, he ranked highest in his teacher's estimation.

These days, caring for his ailing master kept him awake most of the night. He sat now with his arms folded and heaved a deep sigh. Who would look after Kagenori if he were not there? All the other students living at the school were of an uncouth type typically attracted to military matters. The men who came to the school only for classes were even worse. They blustered about, voicing opinions on the masculine subjects that samurai habitually discussed; none of them really understood the spirit of the lonely man of reason who was their teacher. The finer points of military science went over their heads. Far more comprehensible was any kind of slur, either real or fancied, against their pride or their ability as samurai. Insulted, they became mindless instruments of vengeance.

Shinzō had been away on a trip when Kojirō arrived at the school. Since Kojirō had claimed that he wanted to ask some questions about military textbooks, his interest seemed genuine and he had been introduced to the master. But then, without asking a single question, he began arguing with Kagenori presumptuously and arrogantly, which suggested that his real purpose was to humiliate the old man. When some students finally got him into another room and demanded an explanation, he reacted with a flood of invective and an offer to fight any of them at any time.

Kojirō had then spread allegations that Obata's military studies were superficial, that they were no more than a rehash of the Kusunoki Style or the ancient Chinese military text known as the
Six Secrets,
and that they were spurious and unreliable. When his malicious pronouncements got back to the ears of the students, they vowed to make him pay with his life.

Shinzō's opposition—the problem was trivial, their master ought not to be disturbed by matters of this sort, Kojirō was not a serious student of military science—had proved futile, though he had also pointed out that before any decisive step was taken, Kagenori's son Yogorō, who was away on a long journey, should be consulted.

"Can't they see how much useless trouble they're causing?" lamented Shinzō. The fading light of the lamp dimly illuminated his troubled face. Still racking his brain for a solution, he laid his arms across the open books and dozed off.

He awoke to the murmur of indistinct voices.

Going first to the lecture hall and finding it empty, he slipped on a pair of zōri and went outside. In a bamboo grove that was part of the sacred cornpound of the Hirakawa Tenjin Shrine, he saw what he had expected: a large group of students holding an emotion-charged council of war. The two wounded men, their faces ashen, their arms suspended in white slings, stood side by side, describing the night's disaster.

One man asked indignantly, "Are you saying ten of you went and half were killed by this one man?"

"I'm afraid so. We couldn't even get close to him."

"Murata and Ayabe were supposed to be our best swordsmen."

"They were the first to go. Yosobei managed by sheer guts to get back here, but he made the mistake of drinking some water before we could stop him."

A grim silence descended over the group. As students of military science, they were concerned with problems of logistics, strategy, communications, intelligence and so on, not with the techniques of hand-to-hand combat. Most of them believed, as they had been taught, that swordsmanship was a matter for ordinary soldiers, not generals. Yet their samurai pride stood in the way of their accepting the logical corollary, which was that they were helpless against an expert swordsman like Sasaki Kojirō.

"What can we do?" asked a mournful voice. For a time the only answer was the hooting of the owls.

Then one student said brightly, "I have a cousin in the House of Yagyū. Maybe through him we could get them to help us."

"Don't be stupid!" shouted several others.

"We can't ask for outside help. It'd only bring more shame on our teacher. It'd be an admission of weakness."

"Well, what can we do?"

"The only way is to confront Kojirō again. But if we do it on a dark road again, it'll only do more damage to the school's reputation. If we die in open battle, we die. At least we won't be thought of as cowards."

"Should we send him a formal challenge?"

"Yes, and we have to keep at it, no matter how many times we lose." "I think you're right, but Shinzō isn't going to like this."

"He doesn't have to know about it, nor does our master. Remember that, all of you. We can borrow brush and ink from the priest."

They started quietly for the priest's house. Before they had gone ten paces, the man in the lead gasped and stepped back. The others instantly came to a dead halt, their eyes riveted on the back veranda of the timeworn shrine building. There, against a backdrop formed by the shadow of a plum tree laden with green fruit, stood Kojirō, one foot propped on the railing and a malevolent grin on his face. To a man, the students turned pale; some had trouble breathing.