Musashi: Bushido Code (26 page)

Kizaemon laughed and said, "So that's why you spoke up in their defense. You're loyal enough. . . . You did say you were on your way to the Hōzōin, didn't you? Is that where your teacher is?"

"I don't know for sure, but he said if I went there, they'd tell me where he is."

"What style does he use?"

"I don't know."

"You're his disciple, and you don't know his style?"

"Sir," the groom put in, "swordsmanship is a fad these days; everybody and his brother's going around studying it. You can meet five or ten wandering on this road alone any day of the week. It's all because there are so many more rōnin around to give lessons than there used to be."

"I suppose that's part of it."

"They're attracted to it because they hear somewhere that if a fellow's good with a sword, the daimyō will fall all over each other trying to hire him for four or five thousand bushels a year."

"A quick way to get rich, uh?"

"Exactly. When you think about it, it's frightening. Why, even this boy here has a wooden sword. He probably thinks he just has to learn how to hit people with it to become a real man. We get a lot like that, and the sad part is, in the end, most of them will go hungry."

Jōtarō's anger rose in a flash. "What's that? I dare you to say that again!" "Listen to him! He looks like a flea carrying a toothpick, but he already fancies himself a great warrior."

Kizaemon laughed. "Now, Jōtarō, don't get mad, or you'll lose your bamboo tube again."

"No I won't! Don't worry about me!"

They walked on, Jōtarō sulking silently, the others looking at the sun as it slowly set. Presently they arrived at the Kizu River ferry landing.

"This is where we leave you, my boy. It'll be dark soon, so you'd better hurry. And don't waste time along the way."

"Otsū?" said Jōtarō, thinking she would come with him.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," she said. "I've decided to go along with this gentleman to the castle at Koyagyū." Jōtarō looked crushed. "Take good care of yourself," Otsū said, smiling.

"I should've known I'd wind up alone again." He picked up a stone and sent it skimming across the water.

"Oh, we'll see each other again one of these days. Your home seems to be the road, and I do a bit of traveling myself."

Jōtarō didn't seem to want to move. "Just who are you looking for?" he asked. "What sort of person?"

Without answering, Otsū waved farewell.

Jōtarō ran along the bank and jumped into the very middle of the small ferryboat. When the boat, red in the evening sun, was halfway across the river, he looked back. He could just make out Otsū's horse and Kizaemon on the
Kasagi Temple road. They were in the valley, beyond the point where the river suddenly grows narrower, slowly being swallowed up by the early shadows of the mountain.

The Hōzōin

Students of the martial arts invariably knew of the Hōzōin. For a man who claimed to be a serious student to refer to it as just another temple was sufficient reason for him to be regarded as an impostor. It was well known among the local populace too, though, oddly enough, few were familiar with the much more important Shōsōin Repository and its priceless collection of ancient art objects.

The temple was located on Abura Hill in a large, dense forest of cryptomeria trees. It was just the kind of place goblins might inhabit. Here, too, were reminders of the glories of the Nara period—the ruins of a temple, the Ganrin'in, and of the huge public bathhouse built by the Empress Kōmyō for the poor—but today all that was left was a scattering of foundation stones peeking out through the moss and weeds.

Musashi had no difficulty getting directions to Abura Hill, but once there he stood looking all around in bewilderment, for there were quite a few other temples nestled in the forest. The cryptomerias had weathered the winter and been bathed in the early spring rains, and their leaves were now at their darkest. Above them one could make out in the approaching twilight the soft feminine curves of Mount Kasuga. The distant mountains still lay in bright sunlight.

Although none of the temples looked like the right one, Musashi went from gate to gate inspecting the plaques on which their names were inscribed. His mind was so preoccupied with the Hōzōin that when he saw the plaque of the Ōzōin, he at first misread it, since only the first character, that for Ō
,
was different. Although he immediately realized his mistake, he took a look inside anyway. The Ōzōin appeared to belong to the Nichiren sect; as far as he knew, the Hōzōin was a Zen temple having no connection with Nichiren.

As he stood there, a young monk returning to the Ōzōin passed by him, staring suspiciously.

Musashi removed his hat and said, "Could I trouble you for some information?"

"What would you like to know?"

"This temple is called the Ōzōin?"

"Yes. That's what it says on the plaque."

"I was told that the Hōzōin is on Abura Hill. Isn't it?"

"It's just in back of this temple. Are you going there for a fencing bout?" "Yes."

"Then let me give you some advice. Forget it."

"Why?"

"It's dangerous. I can understand someone born crippled going there to get his legs straightened out, but I see no reason why anyone with good straight limbs should go there and be maimed."

The monk was well built and somehow different from the ordinary Nichiren monk. According to him, the number of would-be warriors had reached the point where even the Hōzōin had come to regard them as a nuisance. The temple was, after all, a holy sanctuary for the light of the Buddha's Law, as its name indicated. Its real concern was religion. The martial arts were only a sideline, so to speak.

Kakuzenbō In'ei, the former abbot, had often called on Yagyū Muneyoshi. Through his association with Muneyoshi and with Lord Kōizumi of Ise, Muneyoshi's friend, he had developed an interest in the martial arts and eventually taken up swordsmanship as a pastime. From that he had gone on to devise new ways of using the lance, and this, as Musashi already knew, was the origin of the highly regarded Hōzōin Style.

In'ei was now eighty-four years old and completely senile. He saw almost no one. Even when he did receive a caller, he was unable to carry on a conversation; he could only sit and make unintelligible movements with his toothless mouth. He didn't seem to comprehend anything said to him. As for the lance, he had forgotten about it completely.

"And so you see," concluded the monk after explaining all this, "it wouldn't do you much good to go there. You probably couldn't meet the master, and even if you did, you wouldn't learn anything." His brusque manner made it clear that he was eager to be rid of Musashi.

Though aware he was being made light of, Musashi persisted. "I've heard about In'ei, and I know what you've said about him is true. But I've also heard that a priest named Inshun has taken over as his successor. They say he's still studying but already knows all the secrets of the Hōzōin Style. According to what I've heard, although he already has many students, he never refuses to give guidance to anyone who calls on him."

"Oh, Inshun," said the monk disdainfully. "There's nothing in those rumors. Inshun is actually a student of the abbot of the Ōzōin. After In'ei began to show his age, our abbot felt it would be a shame for the reputation of the Hōzōin to go to waste, so he taught Inshun the secrets of lance fighting—what he himself had learned from In'ei—and then saw to it that Inshun became abbot."

"I see," said Musashi.

"But you still want to go over there?"

"Well, I've come all this distance. . . . "

"Yes, of course."

"You said it's behind here. Is it better to go around to the left or to the right?"

"You don't have to go around. It's much quicker just to walk straight through our temple. You can't miss it."

Thanking him, Musashi walked past the temple kitchen to the back of the compound, which with its woodshed, a storehouse for bean paste and a vegetable garden of an acre or so, very much resembled the area around the house of a well-to-do farmer. Beyond the garden he saw the Hōzōin.

Walking on the soft ground between rows of rape, radishes and scallions, he noticed, off to one side, an old man hoeing vegetables. Hunched over his hoe, he was looking intently at the blade. All Musashi could see of his face was a pair of snow-white eyebrows, and save for the clank of the hoe against the rocks, it was perfectly quiet.

Musashi assumed that the old man must be a monk from the Ōzōin. He started to speak, but the man was so absorbed in his work that it seemed rude to disturb him.

As he walked silently by, however, he suddenly became aware that the old man was staring out of the corner of his eye at Musashi's feet. Although the other man neither moved nor spoke, Musashi felt a terrifying force attack him—a force like lightning splitting the clouds. This was no daydream. He actually felt the mysterious power pierce his body and, terrified, he leaped into the air. He felt hot all over, as if he'd just narrowly avoided a death blow from a sword or lance.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the hunched back was still turned toward him, the hoe continuing its unbroken rhythm. "What on earth was that all about?" he wondered, dumbfounded by the power he'd been hit with.

He found himself in front of the Hōzōin, his curiosity unabated. While waiting for a servant to appear, he thought: "Inshun should still be a young man. The young monk said In'ei was senile and had forgotten all about the lance, but I wonder. . . ." The incident in the garden lingered in the back of his mind.

He called out loudly two more times, but the only reply was an echo from the surrounding trees. Noticing a large gong beside the entrance, he struck it. Almost immediately an answering call came from deep inside the temple.

A priest came to the door. He was big and brawny; had he been one of the warrior-priests of Mount Hiei, he might well have been the commander of a battalion. Accustomed as he was to receiving visits from people like Musashi day in and day out, he gave him a brief glance and said, "You're a
shugyōsha?"

"Yes."

"What are you here for?"

"I'd like to meet the master."

The priest said, "Come in," and gestured to the right of the entrance, suggesting obliquely that Musashi should wash his feet first. There was a barrel overflowing with water supplied by a bamboo pipe and, pointing this way and that, about ten pairs of worn and dirty sandals.

Musashi followed the priest down a wide dark corridor and was shown into an anteroom. There he was told to wait. The smell of incense was in the air, and through the window he could see the broad leaves of a plantain tree. Aside from the offhand manner of the giant who'd let him in, nothing he saw indicated there was anything unusual about this particular temple.

When he reappeared, the priest handed him a registry and ink box, saying, "Write down your name, where you studied, and what style you use." He spoke as though instructing a child.

The title on the registry was: "List of Persons Visiting This Temple to Study. Steward of the Hōzōin." Musashi opened the book and glanced over the names, each listed under the date on which the samurai or student had called. Following the style of the last entry, he wrote down the required information, omitting the name of his teacher.

The priest, of course, was especially interested in that.

Musashi's answer was essentially the one he'd given at the Yoshioka School. He had practiced the use of the truncheon under his father, "without working very hard at it." Since making up his mind to study in earnest, he had taken as his teacher everything in the universe, as well as the examples set by his predecessors throughout the country. He ended up by saying, "I'm still in the process of learning."

"Mm. You probably know this already, but since the time of our first master, the Hōzōin has been celebrated everywhere for its lance techniques. The fighting that goes on here is rough, and there are no exceptions. Before you go on, perhaps you'd better read what's written at the beginning of the registry."

Musashi picked up the book, opened it and read the stipulation, which he had skipped over before. It said: "Having come here for the purpose of study, I absolve the temple of all responsibility in the event that I suffer bodily injury or am killed."

"I agree to that," said Musashi with a slight grin—it amounted to no more than common sense for anyone committed to becoming a warrior.

"All right. This way."

The dōjō was immense. The monks must have sacrificed a lecture hall or some other large temple building in favor of having it. Musashi had never before seen a hall with columns of such girth, and he also observed traces of paint, gold foil and Chinese-white primer on the frame of the transom—things not to be found in ordinary practice halls.

He was by no means the only visitor. More than ten student-warriors were seated in the waiting area, with a similar number of student-priests. In addition, there were quite a few samurai who seemed to be merely observers. All were tensely watching two lancers fighting a practice bout. No one even glanced Musashi's way as he sat down in a corner.

According to a sign on the wall, if anyone wanted to fight with real lances, the challenge would be accepted, but the combatants now on the floor were using long oak practice poles. A strike could, nevertheless, be extremely painful, even fatal.

One of the fighters was eventually thrown in the air, and as he limped back to his seat in defeat, Musashi could see that his thigh had already swollen to the size of a tree trunk. Unable to sit down, he dropped awkwardly to one knee and extended the wounded leg out before him.

"Next!" came the summons from the man on the floor, a priest of singularly arrogant manner. The sleeves of his robe were tied up behind him, and his whole body—legs, arms, shoulders, even his forehead—seemed to consist of bulging muscles. The oak pole he held vertically was at least ten feet in length.

A man who seemed to be one of those who'd arrived that day spoke up. He fastened up his sleeves with a leather thong and strode into the practice area. The priest stood motionless as the challenger went to the wall, chose a halberd, and came to face him. They bowed, as was customary, but no sooner had they done this than the priest let out a howl like that of a wild hound, simultaneously bringing his pole down forcefully on the challenger's skull.

"Next," he called, reverting to his original position.

That was all: the challenger was finished. While he did not appear to be dead yet, the simple act of lifting his head from the floor was more than he could manage. A couple of the student-priests went out and dragged him back by the sleeves and waist of his kimono. On the floor behind him stretched a thread of saliva mixed with blood.

"Next!" shouted the priest again, as surly as ever.

At first Musashi thought he was the second-generation master Inshun, but the men sitting around him said no, he was Agon, one of the senior disciples who were known as the "Seven Pillars of the Hōzōin." Inshun himself, they said, never had to engage in a bout, because challengers were always put down by one of these.

"Is there no one else?" bellowed Agon, now holding his practice lance horizontally.

The brawny steward was comparing his registry with the faces of the waiting men. He pointed at one.

"No, not today.... I'll come again some other time."

"How about you?"

"No. I don't feel quite up to it today."

One by one they backed out, until Musashi saw the finger pointing at him. "How about you?"

"If you please."

" 'If you please'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'd like to fight."

All eyes focused on Musashi as he rose. The haughty Agon had retired from the floor and was talking and laughing animatedly with a group of priests, but when it appeared that another challenger had been found, a bored look came over his face, and he said lazily, "Somebody take over for me."

"Go ahead," they urged. "There's only one more."

Giving in, Agon walked nonchalantly back to the center of the floor. He took a fresh grip on the shiny black wooden pole, with which he seemed totally familiar. In quick order, he assumed an attacking stance, turned his back on Musashi, and charged off in the other direction.

"Yah-h-h-h!" Screaming like an enraged roc, he hurtled toward the back wall and thrust his lance viciously into a section used for practice purposes. The boards had been recently replaced, but despite the resilience of the new wood, Agon's bladeless lance plowed straight through.