Musashi: Bushido Code (111 page)

The Deserted Prophet

The forest around the Hirakawa Tenjin Shrine was alive with the hum of cicadas. An owl hooted as Musashi walked from the gate to the entrance hall of the Obata house.

"Good day!" he called, but his greeting echoed back as though from an empty cavern.

After a time, he heard footsteps. The young samurai who emerged wearing his two swords was clearly no mere underling assigned to answer the door.

Without bothering to kneel, he said, "May I ask your name?" Though no more than twenty-four or -five, he gave the impression of being someone to be reckoned with.

"My name is Miyamoto Musashi. Am I correct in thinking this is Obata Kagenori's academy of military science?"

"That's right," came the reply, in clipped tones. From the samurai's manner, it was evident he expected Musashi to explain how he was traveling around to perfect his knowledge of the martial arts, and so on.

"One of the students from your school has been wounded in a fight," said Musashi. "He's now being cared for by the sword polisher Zushino Kōsuke, whom I believe you know. I came at Kōsuke's request."

"It must be Shinzō!" There were fleeting signs of severe shock, but the youth recovered immediately. "Forgive me. I'm Kagenori's only son, Yogorō. Thank you for taking the trouble to come and tell us. Is Shinzō's life in danger?"

"He seemed better this morning, but it's still too early for him to be moved. I think it'd be wise to let him stay at Kōsuke's house for the time being."

"I hope you'll convey our thanks to Kōsuke."

"I'd be happy to."

"To tell the truth, since my father is bedridden, Shinzō was lecturing in his stead, until last fall when he suddenly left. As you can see, there's almost nobody here now. I regret we're not able to receive you properly."

"Of course; but tell me, is there a feud going on between your school and Sasaki Kojirō?"

"Yes. I was away when it started, so I don't know all the details, but apparently Kojirō insulted my father, which of course incited the students. They took it upon themselves to punish Kojirō, but he killed several of them. As I understand it, Shinzō left because he finally came to the conclusion that he himself should take revenge."

"I see. It's beginning to make sense. I'd like to give you a bit of advice. Don't fight Kojirō. He can't be beaten by ordinary sword techniques, and he's even less vulnerable to clever strategy. As a fighter, as a speaker, as a strategist, he's without rival, even among the greatest masters alive today."

This assessment brought a burst of angry fire to Yogorō's eyes. Observing this, Musashi felt it prudent to repeat his warning. "Let the proud have their day," he added. "It's senseless to risk disaster over a trivial grievance. Don't entertain the idea that Shinzō's defeat makes it necessary for you to settle the score. If you do, you'll simply follow in his footsteps. That would be foolish, very foolish."

After Musashi was out of sight, Yogorō leaned against the wall with his arms folded. Softly, in a faintly tremulous voice, he muttered, "To think it's come to this. Even Shinzō has failed!" Gazing vacantly at the ceiling, he thought of the letter Shinzō had left for him, in which he'd said that his purpose in leaving was to kill Kojirō and that if he did not succeed, Yogorō would probably never see him alive again.

That Shinzō was not dead did not make his defeat any less humiliating. With the school forced to suspend operations, the public in general had concluded that Kojirō was right: the Obata Academy was a school for cowards, or at best for theoreticians devoid of practical ability. This had led to the desertion of some of the students. Others, apprehensive over Kagenori's illness or the apparent decline of the Kōshū Style, had switched to the rival Naganuma Style. Only two or three were still in residence.

Yogorō decided not to tell his father about Shinzō. It seemed that the only course open to him was to nurse the old man as best he could, although the doctor's opinion was that recovery was out of the question.

"Yogorō, where are you?"

It was a source of constant amazement to Yogorō that although Kagenori was at death's door, when an impulse moved him to summon his son, his voice became that of a perfectly healthy man.

"Coming." He ran to the sickroom, fell to his knees and said, "You called?"

As he often did when he was tired of lying flat on his back, Kagenori had propped himself up by the window, using his pillow as an armrest. "Who was the samurai who just went out the gate?" he asked.

"Huh," said Yogorō, somewhat flustered. "Oh, him. Nobody in particular. He was just a messenger."

"Messenger from where?"

"Well, it seems Shinzō has had an accident. The samurai came to tell us. He gave his name as Miyamoto Musashi."

"Mm. He wasn't born in Edo, was he?"

"No. I've heard he's from Mimasaka. He's a rōnin. Did you think you recognized him?"

"No," Kagenori replied with a vigorous shake of his thin gray beard. "I don't recall ever having seen or heard of him. But there's something about him.... I've met a lot of people during my lifetime, you know, on the battlefield as well as in ordinary life. Some were very good people, people I valued greatly. But the ones I could consider to be genuine samurai, in every sense of the term, were very few. This man—Musashi, did you say?—appealed to me. I'd like to meet him, talk to him a little. Go bring him back."

"Yes, sir," Yogorō answered obediently, but before getting to his feet, he continued in a slightly puzzled tone: "What was it you noticed about him? You only saw him from a distance."

"You wouldn't understand. When you do, you'll be old and withered like me.

"But there must have been something."

"I admired his alertness. He wasn't taking any chances, even on a sick old man like me. When he came through the gate, he paused and looked around—at the layout of the house, at the windows, whether they were open or closed, at the path to the garden—everything. He took it all in at a single glance. There was nothing unnatural about it. Anyone would have assumed he was simply halting for a moment as a sign of deference. I was amazed."

"Then you believe he's a samurai of real merit?"

"Perhaps. I'm sure he'd be a fascinating man to talk to. Call him back."

"Aren't you afraid it'll be bad for you?" Kagenori had become quite excited, and Yogorō was reminded of the doctor's warning that his father shouldn't talk for any length of time.

"Don't worry your head about my health. I've been waiting for years to meet a man like that. I didn't study military science all this time to teach it to children. I grant that my theories of military science are called the Kōshū Style, but they're not simply an extension of the formulas used by the famous Kōshū warriors. My ideas differ from those of Takeda Shingen, or Uesugi Kenshin, or Oda Nobunaga, or the other generals who were fighting for control of the country. The purpose of military science has changed since then. My theory is directed toward the achievement of peace and stability. You know some of these things, but the question is, whom can I entrust my ideas to?"

Yogorō was silent.

"My son, while there are many things I want to pass on to you, you're still immature, too immature to recognize the remarkable qualities of the man you just met."

Yogorō dropped his eyes but endured the criticism in silence.

"If even I, inclined as I am to look favorably on everything you do, see you as immature, then there's no doubt in my mind. You're not yet the person who can carry on my work, so I must find the right man and entrust your future to him. I've been waiting for the right person to come along. Remember, when the cherry blossom falls, it must rely on the wind to spread its pollen."

"You mustn't fall, Father. You must try to live."

The old man glared and raised his head. "Talk like that proves you're still a child! Now go quickly and find the samurai!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Don't push him. Just tell him roughly what I've told you, and bring him back with you."

"Right away, Father."

Yogorō departed on the run. Once outside, he first tried the direction he'd seen Musashi take. Then he looked all over the shrine grounds, even went out to the main street running through Kōjimachi, but to no avail.

He was not unduly disturbed, for he was not as thoroughly convinced as his father of Musashi's superiority, nor was he grateful for Musashi's warning. The talk about Kojirō's unusual ability, about the folly of "risking disaster over a trivial grievance" had stuck in his craw. It was as though Musashi's visit had been for the express purpose of singing Kojirō's praises.

Even while listening submissively to his father, he had been thinking to himself: "I'm not as young and immature as you say." And the truth was that just then, he really couldn't have cared less what Musashi thought.

They were about the same age. Even if Musashi's talent was exceptional, there were limits to what he could know and what he could do. In the past, Yogorō had gone away for a year, two years, even three, to lead the life of the ascetic
shugyōsha.
He had lived and studied for a while at the school of another military expert, and he had studied Zen under a strict master. Yet his father, after merely catching a glimpse of the man, had not only formed what Yogorō suspected was an exaggerated opinion of the unknown rōnin's worth but had gone so far as to suggest that Yogorō take Musashi as a model.

"May as well go back," he thought sadly. "I suppose there's no way to convince a parent that his son is no longer a child." He longed desperately for the day when Kagenori would look at him and suddenly see that he was both a grown man and a brave samurai. It pained him to think that his father might die before that day arrived.

"Hey, Yogorō! It is Yogorō, isn't it?"

Yogorō turned on his heel and saw that the voice belonged to Nakatogawa Handayū, a samurai from the House of Hosokawa. They had not seen each other recently, but there had been a time when Handayū had attended Kagenori's lectures regularly.

"How's our revered teacher's health? Official duties keep me so busy I haven't had time to call."

"He's about the same, thanks."

"Say, I hear Hōjō Shinzō attacked Sasaki Kojirō and was beaten." "You've heard that already?"

"Yes; they were talking about it at Lord Hosokawa's this morning." "It only happened last night."

"Kojirō's a guest of Iwama Kakubei. Kakubei must have passed the word around. Even Lord Tadatoshi knew about it."

Yogorō was too young to listen with detachment, yet he was loath to reveal his anger by some involuntary twitch. Taking leave of Handayū as quickly as possible, he hurried home.

His mind was made up.

The Talk of the Town

Kōsuke's wife was in the kitchen making gruel for Shinzō when Iori came in. "The plums are turning yellow," he said.

"If they're almost ripe, that means the cicadas will be singing soon," she answered absently.

"Don't you pickle the plums?"

"No. There aren't many of us here, and pickling all those plums would take several pounds of salt."

"The salt wouldn't go to waste, but the plums will if you don't pickle them. And if there was a war or a flood, they'd come in handy, wouldn't they? Since you're busy taking care of the wounded man, I'll be happy to pickle them for you."

"My, what a funny child you are, worrying about floods and such. You think like an old man."

Iori was already getting an empty wooden bucket out of the closet. With this in hand, he sauntered out into the garden and looked up at the plum tree. Alas, though sufficiently grown up to worry about the future, he was still young enough to be easily distracted by the sight of a buzzing cicada. Sneaking closer, he captured it and held it in his cupped hands, making it screech like a terrified hag.

Peeking between his thumbs, Iori experienced a strange sensation. Insects were supposed to be bloodless, he thought, but the cicada felt warm. Perhaps even cicadas when faced with the peril of death gave off body heat. Suddenly he was seized by a mixture of fear and pity. Spreading his palms, he tossed the cicada into the air and watched it fly off toward the street.

The plum tree, which was quite large, was the home of a sizable community—fat caterpillars with surprisingly beautiful fur, ladybirds, tiny blue frogs clinging to the undersides of leaves, small sleeping butterflies, dancing gadflies. Gazing in fascination at this little corner of the animal kingdom, he thought it would be inhuman to throw these ladies and gentlemen into consternation by shaking a branch. Carefully, he reached out, picked a plum and bit into it. Then he shook the nearest branch gently and was surprised when the fruit did not fall off. Reaching out, he picked a few plums and dropped them into the bucket below.

"Son of a bitch!" shouted Iori, abruptly firing three or four plums into the narrow lane next to the house. The clothes-drying pole between the house and the fence fell to the ground with a clatter, and footsteps hastily retreated from the lane into the street.

Kōsuke's face appeared at the bamboo grille of his workroom window. "What was that noise?" he asked, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Jumping down from the tree, Iori cried, "Another strange man was hiding in the shadows, squatting right there in the lane. I threw some plums at him, and he ran away."

The sword polisher came outside, wiping his hands on a towel. "What sort of man?"

"A thug."

"One of Hangawara's men?"

"I don't know. Why do those men come snooping around here?" "They're looking for a chance to get back at Shinzō."

Iori looked toward the back room, where the injured man was just finishing his gruel. His wound had healed to the extent that the bandage was no longer necessary.

"Kōsuke," called Shinzō.

The craftsman walked to the edge of the veranda and asked, "How are you feeling?"

Pushing his tray aside, Shinzō reseated himself more formally. "I want to apologize for causing you so much trouble."

"Don't mention it. I'm sorry I've been too busy to do more for you."

"I notice that besides worrying about me, you're being annoyed by those

Hangawara hoodlums. The longer I stay, the more danger there is that they'll

come to regard you as an enemy too. I think I should be leaving." "Don't give it a thought."

"I'm much better now, as you can see. I'm ready to go home."

"Today?"

"Yes."

"Don't be in such a hurry. At least wait until Musashi comes back."

"I'd rather not, but please thank him for me. He's been very kind to me too. I can walk all right now."

"You don't seem to understand. Hangawara's men are watching this house day and night. They'll pounce on you the minute you step outside. I can't possibly let you leave alone."

"I had a good reason for killing Jūrō and Koroku. Kojirō started all this, not me. But if they want to attack me, let them attack."

Shinzō was on his feet and ready to go. Sensing there was no way of holding him back, Kōsuke and his wife went to the front of the shop to see him off.

Musashi appeared at the door just then, his sunburned forehead moist with sweat. "Going out?" he asked. "Going home? ... Well, I'm glad to see you feel well enough, but it'd be dangerous to go alone. I'll go with you."

Shinzō tried to refuse, but Musashi insisted. Minutes later, they set off together.

"It must be difficult to walk after being in bed so long."

"Somehow the ground seems higher than it really is."

"It's a long way to Hirakawa Tenjin. Why don't we hire a palanquin for you?"

"I suppose I ought to have mentioned it before. I'm not going back to the school."

"Oh? Where then?"

Casting his eyes downward, Shinzō answered, "It's rather humiliating, but I think I'll go to my father's house for a while. It's in Ushigome."

Musashi stopped a palanquin and virtually forced Shinzō into it. Despite the insistence of the bearers, Musashi refused one for himself—to the disappointment of the Hangawara men watching from around the next corner.

"Look, he put Shinzō into a palanquin."

"I saw him glance this way."

"It's too early to do anything yet."

After the palanquin turned right by the outer moat, they hitched up their skirts, pulled back their sleeves, and followed along behind, their glittering eyes seemingly ready to pop out and shoot toward Musashi's back.

Musashi and Shinzō had reached the neighborhood of Ushigafuchi when a small rock glanced off the palanquin pole. At the same time, the gang started shouting and moved in to surround its prey.

"Wait!" called one of them.

"Just stay where you are, you bastard!"

The bearers, terrified, dropped the palanquin and fled. Shinzō crawled out of the palanquin, hand on sword. Pulling himself to his feet, he assumed a stance and cried, "Is it me you're telling to wait?"

Musashi jumped in front of him and shouted, "State your business!"

The hoodlums inched closer, cautiously, as though feeling their way through shallow water.

"You know what we want!" spat one of them. "Turn over that yellowbelly you're protecting. And don't try anything funny, or you'll be dead too."

Encouraged by this bravado, they seethed with bloodthirsty fury, but none advanced to strike with his sword. The fire in Musashi's eyes was sufficient to hold them at bay. They howled and cursed, from a safe distance.

Musashi and Shinzō glared at them in silence. Moments passed before Musashi took them unawares by shouting, "If Hangawara Yajibei is among you, let him come forward."

"The boss isn't here. But if you have anything to say, speak to me, Nembutsu Tazaemon, and I'll do you the favor of listening." The elderly man who stepped forward wore a white hemp kimono and had Buddhist prayer beads hung around his neck.

"What do you have against Hōjō Shinzō?"

Squaring his shoulders, Tazaemon replied, "He slaughtered two of our men."

"According to Shinzō, your two louts helped Kojirō kill a number of Obata's students."

"That was one thing. This is another. If we don't settle our score with Shinzō, we'll be laughed off the streets."

"That may be the way things are done in the world you live in," Musashi said in a conciliatory tone. "But it's different in the world of the samurai. Among warriors, you can't fault a man for seeking and taking his proper revenge. A samurai may take revenge for the sake of justice or to defend his honor, but not to satisfy a personal grudge. It's not manly. And what you're trying to do right now isn't manly."

"Not manly? You're accusing us of being unmanly?"

"If Kojirō came forward and challenged us in his own name, that'd be all right. But we can't get involved in a squabble raised by Kojirō's minions."

"There you go, preaching self-righteously, just like any other samurai. Say what you please. We still have to protect our name."

"If samurai and outlaws fight over whose rules are to prevail, the streets will be filled with blood. The only place to settle this is at the magistrate's office. How about it, Nembutsu?"

"Horse manure. If it was something the magistrate could settle, we wouldn't be here to begin with."

"Listen, how old are you?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"I'd say you look old enough to know you shouldn't be leading a group of young men to a meaningless death."

"Ah, keep your smart talk to yourself. I'm not too old for a fight!" Tazaemon drew his sword, and the hoodlums moved forward, jostling and shouting.

Musashi dodged Tazaemon's thrust and grabbed him by the back of his gray head. Covering the ten paces or so to the moat in great strides, he summarily dumped him over the edge. Then, as the mob closed in, he dashed back, picked Shinzō up by the waist and made off with him.

He ran across a field, toward the middle reaches of a hill. Below them a stream flowed into the moat and a bluish marsh was visible at the bottom of the slope. Halfway up, Musashi stopped and stood Shinzō on his feet. "Now," he said, "let's run." Shinzō hesitated, but Musashi prodded him into motion.

The hoodlums, having recovered from their shock, were giving chase.

"Catch him!"

"No pride!"

"That's
a samurai?"

"He can't throw Tazaemon in the moat and get away with it!"

Ignoring the taunts and slurs, Musashi said to Shinzō, "Don't even consider getting involved with them. Run! It's the only thing to do in a case like this." With a grin, he added, "It's not so easy to make good time on this terrain, is it?" They were passing through what would someday be known as Ushigafuchi and Kudan Hill, but now the area was heavily wooded.

By the time they lost their pursuers, Shinzō's face was deathly pale. "Worn out?" Musashi asked solicitously.

"It's ... it's not so bad."

"I suppose you don't like the idea of letting them insult us like that without fighting back."

"Well..."

"Ha, ha! Think about it quietly and calmly, and you'll see why. There're times when it makes you feel better to run away. There's a stream over there. Rinse your mouth out, and then I'll take you to your father's house."

In a few minutes, the forest around the Akagi Myōjin Shrine came into view. Lord Hōjō's house was just below.

"I hope you'll come in and meet my father," Shinzō said when they came to the earthen wall surrounding the house.

"Some other time. Get plenty of rest and take care of yourself." With that, he was off.

After this incident, Musashi's name was heard quite frequently in the streets of Edo, far more frequently than he would have wished. People were calling him "a fake," "the coward to end all cowards," and saying, "shameless ... a disgrace to the samurai class. If a fraud like that defeated the Yoshiokas in Kyoto, they must have been hopelessly weak. He must have challenged them knowing they couldn't protect themselves. And then he probably ran away before he was in any real danger. All that phony wants to do is sell his name to people who don't know swordsmanship." Before long, it was impossible to find anyone who would put in a good word for him.

The crowning insult was signs posted all over Edo: "Here's a word to Miyamoto Musashi, who turned tail and ran. The Hon'iden dowager is eager for revenge. We, too, would like to see your face instead of your back for a change. If you are a samurai, come out and fight. The Hangawara Association."