Musashi: Bushido Code (29 page)

Evading her reach, Jōtarō put the mask on the top of his head and danced about the room, shouting defiantly, "What do you need it for? It's mine now; I'm going to keep it!"

Musashi, surprised and embarrassed by his ward's conduct, made an attempt to catch him, but Jōtarō stuffed the mask into his kimono and fled down the stairs, the widow giving chase. Although she was laughing, not angry at all, she clearly didn't intend to part with the mask.

Presently Jōtarō climbed slowly back up the stairs. Musashi, ready to scold him severely, was seated with his face toward the door. But as the boy entered, he cried, "Boo!" and held the mask out before him. Musashi was startled; his muscles tensed and his knees shifted inadvertently.

He wondered why Jōtarō's prank had such an effect on him, but as he stared at the mask in the dim light, he began to understand. The carver had put something diabolical into his creation. That crescent smile, curving up on the left side of the white face, was haunted, possessed of a devil.

"If we're going, let's go," said Jōtarō.

Musashi, without rising, said, "Why haven't you given the mask back yet? What do you want with a thing like that?"

"But she said I could keep it! She gave it to me."

"She did not! Go downstairs and give it back to her."

"But she gave it to me! When I offered to return it, she said that if I wanted it so badly, I could keep it. She just wanted to make sure I'd take good care of it, so I promised her I would."

"What am I going to do with you!" Musashi felt ashamed about accepting, first, the beautiful kimono and then this mask that the widow seemed to treasure. He would have liked to do something in return, but she was obviously not in need of money—certainly not the small amount he could have spared—and none of his meager possessions would make a suitable gift. He descended the stairs, apologizing for Jōtarō's rudeness and attempting to return the mask.

The widow, however, said, "No, the more I think of it, the more I think I'd be happier without it. And he does want it so badly.... Don't be too hard on him.

Suspecting the mask had some special significance for her, Musashi tried once more to return it, but by this time Jōtarō had his straw sandals on and was outside waiting by the gate, a smug look on his face. Musashi, eager to be off, gave in to her kindness and accepted the gift. The young widow said she was sorrier to see Musashi go than she was to lose the mask, and begged him several times to come back and stay there whenever he was in Nara.

Musashi was tying the thongs of his sandals when the dumpling-maker's wife came running up. "Oh," she said breathlessly, "I'm so glad you haven't left yet. You can't go now! Please, go back upstairs. Something terrible is going on!" The woman's voice trembled as though she thought some fearful ogre was about to attack her.

Musashi finished tying his sandals and calmly raised his head. "What is it? What's so terrible?"

"The priests at the Hōzōin have heard you're leaving today, and more than ten of them have taken their lances and are lying in wait for you in Hannya Plain."

"Oh?"

"Yes, and the abbot, Inshun, is with them. My husband knows one of the priests, and he asked him what was going on. The priest said the man who's been staying here for the last couple of days, the man named Miyamoto, was leaving Nara today, and the priests were going to waylay him on the road."

Her face twitching with fright, she assured Musashi that it would be suicide to leave Nara this morning and fervently urged him to lie low for another night. It would be safer, in her opinion, to try and sneak away the next day.

"I see," said Musashi without emotion. "You say they plan to meet me on Hannya Plain?"

"I'm not sure exactly where, but they went off in that direction. Some of the townspeople told me it wasn't only the priests. They said a whole lot of the rōnin, too, had got together, saying they'd catch you and turn you over to the Hōzōin. Did you say something bad about the temple, or insult them in some way?"

"No."

"Well, they say the priests are furious because you hired somebody to put up posters with verses on them making fun of the Hōzōin. They took this to mean you were gloating over having killed one of their men."

"I didn't do anything of the sort. There's been a mistake."

"Well, if it's a mistake, you shouldn't go out and get yourself killed over it!"

His brow beaded with sweat, Musashi looked thoughtfully up at the sky, recalling how angry the three rōnin had been when he turned down their business deal. Maybe he was indebted to them for all this. It would be just like them to put up offensive posters and then spread the word that he'd done it.

Abruptly he stood up. "I'm leaving," he said.

He strapped his traveling bag to his back, took his basket hat in hand, and turning to the two women, thanked them for their kindness. As he started toward the gate, the widow, now in tears, followed along, begging him not to go.

"If I stay over another night," he pointed out, "there's bound to be trouble at your house. I certainly wouldn't want that to happen, after you've been so good to us."

"I don't care," she insisted. "You'd be safer here."

"No, I'll go now. Jō! Say thank you to the lady."

Dutifully, the boy bowed and did as he was told. He, too, appeared to be in low spirits, but not because he was sorry to leave. When it came right down to it, Jōtarō did not really know Musashi. In Kyoto, he had heard that his master was a weakling and a coward, and the thought that the notorious lancers of the Hōzōin were set to attack him was very depressing. His youthful heart was filled with gloom and foreboding.

Hannya Plain

Jōtarō trudged along sadly behind his master, fearing each step was taking them closer to certain death. A little earlier, on the damp, shady road near the Tōdaiji, a dewdrop falling on his collar had almost made him cry out. The black crows he saw along the way gave him an eerie feeling.

Nara was far behind them. Through the rows of cryptomeria trees along the road, they could make out the gently sloping plain leading up to Hannya Hill; to their right were the rolling peaks of Mount Mikasa, above them the peaceful sky.

That he and Musashi were heading straight for the place where the Hōzōin lancers were waiting in ambush made absolutely no sense to him. There were plenty of places to hide, if one put one's mind to it. Why couldn't they go into one of the many temples along the way and bide their time? That would surely be more sensible.

He wondered if perhaps Musashi meant to apologize to the priests, even though he hadn't wronged them in any way. Jōtarō resolved that if Musashi begged their forgiveness, he would too. This was no time to be arguing about the right and wrong of things.

"Jōtarō!"

The boy started at the sound of his name being called. His eyebrows shot up and his body became tense. Realizing his face was probably pale from fright and not wanting to appear childish, he turned his eyes bravely toward the sky. Musashi looked up at the sky too, and the boy felt more dispirited than ever.

When Musashi continued, it was in his usual cheerful tone. "Feels good, doesn't it, Jō? It's as though we were walking along on the songs of the nightingales."

"What?" asked the boy, astonished.

"Nightingales, I said."

"Oh, yeah, nightingales. There are some around here, aren't there?"

Musashi could see from the paleness of the boy's lips that he was dejected. He felt sorry for him. After all, in a matter of minutes he might be suddenly alone in a strange place.

"We're getting near Hannya Hill, aren't we?" said Musashi.

"That's right."

"Well, now what?"

Jōtarō didn't reply. The singing of the nightingales fell coldly on his ears. He couldn't shake off the foreboding that they might soon be parted forever. The eyes that had bristled with mirth when surprising Musashi with the mask were now worried and mournful.

"I think I'd better leave you here," said Musashi. "If you come along, you may get hurt accidentally. There's no reason to put yourself in harm's way."

Jōtarō broke down, tears streaming down his cheeks as if a dam had broken. The backs of his hands went up to his eyes and his shoulders quivered. His crying was punctuated by tiny spasms, as if he had the hiccups.

"What's this? Aren't you supposed to be learning the Way of the Samurai? If I break and run, you run in the same direction. If I get killed, go back to the sake shop in Kyoto. But for now, go to that little hill and watch from there. You'll be able to keep an eye on everything that happens."

Having wiped his tears away, Jōtarō grabbed Musashi's sleeves and blurted out, "Let's run away!"

"That's no way for a samurai to talk! That's what you want to be, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid! I don't want to die!" With trembling hands, he kept trying to pull Musashi back by the sleeve. "Think about me," he pleaded. "Please, let's get away while we can!"

"When you talk like that, you make me want to run too. You've got no parents who'll look after you, just like me when I was your age. But—" "Then come on. What are we waiting for?"

"No!" Musashi turned, and planting his feet wide apart, faced the child squarely. "I'm a samurai. You're a samurai's son. We're not going to run away."

Hearing the finality in Musashi's tone, Jōtarō gave up and sat down, dirty tears rolling off his face as he rubbed his red and swollen eyes with his hands.

"Don't worry!" said Musashi. "I have no intention of losing. I'm going to win! Everything will be all right then, don't you think?"

Jōtarō took little comfort from this speech. He couldn't believe a word of it. Knowing that the Hōzōin lancers numbered more than ten, he doubted whether Musashi, considering his reputation for weakness, could beat them one at a time, let alone all together.

Musashi, for his part, was beginning to lose patience. He liked Jōtarō, felt sorry for him, but this was no time to be thinking about children. The lancers were there for one purpose: to kill him. He had to be prepared to face them. Jōtarō was becoming a nuisance.

His voice took on a sharp edge. "Stop your blubbering! You'll never be a samurai, carrying on this way. Why don't you just go on back to the sake shop?" Firmly and not too gently, he pushed the boy from him.

Jōtarō, stung to the core, suddenly stopped crying and stood straight, a surprised look on his face. He watched his master stride off toward Hannya Hill. He wanted to call out after him, but resisted the urge. Instead he forced himself to remain silent for several minutes. Then he squatted under a nearby tree, buried his face in his hands, and gritted his teeth.

Musashi did not look back, but Jōtarō's sobs echoed in his ears. He felt he could see the hapless, frightened little boy through the back of his head and regretted having brought him along. It was more than enough just to take care of himself; still immature, with only his sword to rely on and no idea of what the morrow might bring—what need had he of a companion?

The trees thinned out. He found himself on an open plain, actually the slightly rising skirt of the mountains in the distance. On the road branching off toward Mount Mikasa, a man raised his hand in greeting.

"Hey, Musashi! Where are you going?"

Musashi recognized the man coming toward him; it was Yamazoe Dampachi. Though Musashi sensed immediately that Dampachi's objective was to lead him into a trap, he nevertheless greeted him heartily.

Dampachi said, "Glad I ran into you. I want you to know how sorry I am about that business the other day." His tone was too polite, and as he spoke, he was obviously examining Musashi's face with great care. "I hope you'll forget about it. It was all a mistake."

Dampachi himself was none too sure what to make of Musashi. He had been very impressed by what he had seen at the Hōzōin. Indeed, just thinking about it sent chills up his spine. Be that as it may, Musashi was still only a provincial rōnin, who couldn't be more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, and Dampachi was far from ready to admit to himself that anyone of that age and status could be his better.

"Where are you going?" he asked again.

"I'm planning to go through Iga over to the Ise highroad. And you?" "Oh, I have some things to do in Tsukigase."

"That's not far from Yagyū Valley, is it?"

"No, not far."

"That's where Lord Yagyū's castle is, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's near the temple called Kasagidera. You must go there sometime. The old lord, Muneyoshi, lives in retirement, like a tea master, and his son, Munenori, is in Edo, but you should still stop in and see what it's like."

"I don't really think Lord Yagyū would give a lesson to a wanderer like me."

"He might. Of course, it'd help if you had an introduction. As it happens, I know an armorer in Tsukigase who does work for the Yagyūs. If you'd like, I could ask if he'd be willing to introduce you."

The plain stretched out broadly for several miles, the skyline broken occasionally by a lone cryptomeria or Chinese black pine. There were gentle rises here and there, however, and the road rose and fell too. Near the bottom of Hannya Hill, Musashi spotted the brown smoke of a fire rising beyond a low hillock.

"What's that?" he asked.

"What's what?"

"That smoke over there."

"What's so strange about smoke?" Dampachi had been sticking close to Musashi's left side, and as he stared into the latter's face, his own hardened perceptibly.

Musashi pointed. "That smoke over there: there's something suspicious about it," he said. "Doesn't it look that way to you?"

"Suspicious? In what way?"

"Suspicious—you know, like the look on your face right now," Musashi said sharply, abruptly sweeping his finger toward Dampachi.

A sharp whistling sound broke the stillness on the plain. Dampachi gasped as Musashi struck. His attention diverted by Musashi's finger, Dampachi never realized that Musashi had drawn his sword. His body rose, flew forward, and landed face down. Dampachi would not rise again.

From the distance there was a cry of alarm, and two men appeared at the top of the hillock. One of the men screamed, and both spun round and took to their heels, their arms flailing the air wildly.

The sword that Musashi was pointing toward the earth glittered in the sunlight; fresh blood dripped from its tip. He marched directly on toward the hillock, and although the spring breeze blew softly against his skin, Musashi felt his muscles tauten as he ascended. From the top, he looked down at the fire burning below.

"He's come!" shouted one of the men who had fled to join the others. There were about thirty men. Musashi picked out Dampachi's cohorts, Yasukawa Yasubei and Otomo Banryū.

"He's come!" parroted another.

They'd been lolling in the sun. Now they all jumped to their feet. Half were priests, the other half nondescript rōnin. When Musashi came into view, a wordless but nonetheless savage stir went through the group. They saw the bloodstained sword and suddenly realized that the battle had already begun. Instead of challenging Musashi, they had been sitting around the fire and had let him challenge them!

Yasukawa and Otomo were talking as fast as they could, explaining with broad rapid gestures how Yamazoe had been cut down. The rōnin scowled with fury, the Hōzōin priests eyed Musashi menacingly while grouping themselves for battle.

All of the priests carried lances. Black sleeves tucked up, they were ready for action, apparently set upon avenging the death of Agon and restoring the temple's honor. They looked grotesque, like so many demons from hell.

The rōnin formed a semicircle, so they could watch the show and at the same time keep Musashi from escaping.

This precaution, however, proved unnecessary, for Musashi showed no sign of either running or backing down. In fact, he was walking steadily and directly toward them. Slowly, pace by pace, he advanced, looking as if he might pounce at any moment.

For a moment, there was an ominous silence, as both sides contemplated approaching death. Musashi's face went deadly white and through his eyes stared the eyes of the god of vengeance, glittering with venom. He was selecting his prey.

Neither the rōnin nor the priests were as tense as Musashi. Their numbers gave them confidence, and their optimism was unshakable. Still, no one wanted to be the first attacked.

A priest at the end of the column of lancers gave a signal, and without breaking formation, they rushed around to Musashi's right.

"Musashi! I am Inshun," shouted the same priest. "I'm told that you came while I was away and killed Agon. That you later publicly insulted the honor of the Hōzōin. That you mocked us by having posters put up all over town. Is this true?"

"No!" shouted Musashi. "If you're a priest, you should know better than to trust only what you see and hear. You should consider things with your mind and spirit."

It was like pouring oil on the flames. Ignoring their leader, the priests began to shout, saying talk was cheap, it was time to fight.

They were enthusiastically seconded by the rōnin, who had grouped themselves in close formation at Musashi's left. Screaming, cursing and waving their swords in the air, they egged the priests on to action.

Musashi, convinced that the rōnin were all mouth and no fight, suddenly turned to them and shouted, "All right! Which one of you wants to come forward?"

All but two or three fell back a pace, each sure that Musashi's evil eye was upon him. The two or three brave ones stood ready, swords outstretched, issuing a challenge.

In the wink of an eye, Musashi was on one of them like a fighting cock. There was a sound like the popping of a cork, and the ground turned red. Then came a chilling noise—not a battle cry, not a curse, but a truly bloodcurdling howl.

Musashi's sword screeched back and forth through the air, a reverberation in his own body telling him when he connected with human bone. Blood and brains spattered from his blade; fingers and arms flew through the air.

The rōnin had come to watch the carnage, not to participate in it, but their weakness had led Musashi to attack them first. At the very beginning, they held together fairly well, because they thought the priests would soon come to their rescue. But the priests stood silent and motionless as Musashi quickly slaughtered five or six rōnin, throwing the others into confusion. Before long they were slashing wildly in all directions, as often as not injuring one other.

For most of the time, Musashi wasn't really conscious of what he was doing. He was in a sort of trance, a murderous dream in which body and soul were concentrated in his three-foot sword. Unconsciously, his whole life experience—the knowledge his father had beaten into him, what he had learned at Sekigahara, the theories he had heard at the various schools of swordsmanship, the lessons taught him by the mountains and the trees—everything came into play in the rapid movements of his body. He became a disembodied whirlwind mowing down the herd of rōnin, who by their stunned bewilderment left themselves wide open to his sword.

For the short duration of the battle, one of the priests counted the number of times he inhaled and exhaled. It was all over before he had taken his twentieth breath.

Musashi was drenched with the blood of his victims. The few remaining rōnin were also covered with gore. The earth, the grass, even the air was bloody. One of their number let out a scream, and the surviving rōnin scattered in all directions.

While all this was going on, Jōtarō was absorbed in prayer. His hands folded before him and his eyes lifted skyward, he implored, "Oh, God in heaven, come to his aid! My master, down there on the plain, is hopelessly outnumbered. He's weak, but he isn't a bad man. Please help him!"