Musashi: Bushido Code (60 page)

"Do you think I'm a coward? I'd never do anything like that. It looks to me as though we're fighting over nothing. There's been a mistake somewhere."

"All right. You go to Otsū and tell her I'm not angry at her anymore. There was a time when I was, but that's all over. Since Uncle Gon died, I've been wandering around all by myself, carrying his ashes at my side—a lonely old lady with no place to go. Explain to her that whatever my feelings about Musashi, I still look upon her as a daughter. I'm not asking her to come back and be Matahachi's bride. I only hope she'll take pity on me and listen to what I have to say."

"That's enough. Any more and I won't be able to remember it all." "All right, just tell her what I've said so far."

While the boy ran to Otsū and repeated Osugi's message, the old woman, pretending not to watch, sat down on a rock and gazed toward a shoal where a school of minnows were making patterns in the water. Would Otsū come, or would she not? Osugi stole a glance, faster than the lightning movements of the tiny fish.

Otsū's doubts were not easily dispelled, but eventually Jōtarō convinced her there was no danger. Timidly she began walking toward Osugi, who, reveling in her victory, smiled broadly.

"Otsū, my dear girl," she said in a motherly tone.

"Granny," replied Otsū, bowing to the ground at the old woman's feet. "Forgive me. Please, forgive me. I don't know what to say."

"There's no need for you to say anything. It's all Matahachi's fault. Apparently he still resents your change of heart, and at one time I'm afraid I thought ill of you too. But that's all water under the bridge."

"Then you'll pardon me for the way I acted?"

"Well, now," said Osugi, introducing a note of uncertainty, but at the same time squatting down beside Otsū.

Otsū picked at the sand with her fingers, scratching a small hole in the cold surface. Tepid water bubbled to the surface.

"As Matahachi's mother, I suppose I can say that you've been forgiven, but then there's Matahachi to consider. Won't you see him and talk to him again? Since he ran off with another woman of his own free will, I don't think he'd ask you to come back to him. In fact, I wouldn't permit him to do anything so selfish, but ... "

"Yes?"

"Well, won't you at least agree to seeing him? Then, with the two of you there side by side, I'll tell him exactly what's what. That way, I'll be able to fulfill my duty as a mother. I'll feel I've done everything I could."

"I see," replied Otsū. From the sand beside her, a baby crab crawled out and scurried behind a rock. Jōtarō latched on to it, went behind Osugi and dropped it on the top of her head.

Otsū said, "But I can't help feeling that after all this time it would be better for me not to see Matahachi."

"I'll be right there with you. Wouldn't you feel better if you saw him and made a clean break of it?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then do it. I say this for the sake of your own future."

"If I agree ... how are we to find Matahachi? Do you know where he is?" "I can, uh, I can find him very quickly. Very quickly. You see, I saw him quite recently in Osaka. He got into one of his willful moods and went off and left me in Sumiyoshi, but when he does things like that, he always regrets them later. It won't be long before he shows up in Kyoto looking for me."

Despite Otsū's uncomfortable feeling that Osugi wasn't telling the truth, she was swayed by the old woman's faith in her worthless son. What led to her final surrender, however, was the conviction that the course proposed by Osugi was right and proper. "How would it be," she asked, "if I went and helped you look for Matahachi?"

"Oh, would you?" cried Osugi, taking the girl's hand in her own. "Yes. Yes, I think I should."

"All right, come with me now to my inn. Ouch! What's this?" Standing up, she put her hand to the back of her collar and caught the crab. With a shiver, she exclaimed, "Now, how did that get there?" She held out her hand and shook it loose from her fingers.

Jōtarō, who was behind her, suppressed a snicker, but Osugi was not fooled. With flashing eyes, she turned and glared at him. "Some of your mischief, I suppose!"

"Not me. I didn't do it." He ran up the dike for safety and called, "Otsū, are you going with her to her inn?"

Before Otsū could answer for herself, Osugi said, "Yes, she's coming with me. I'm staying at an inn near the foot of Sannen Hill. I always stay there when I come to Kyoto. We won't be needing you. You go back to wherever you came from."

"All right, I'll be at the Karasumaru house. You come too, Otsū, when you've finished your business."

Otsū felt a twinge of anxiety. "Jō, wait!" She ran quickly up the dike, reluctant to let him go. Osugi, fearing the girl might change her mind and flee, was quick to follow, but for a few seconds Otsū and Jōtarō were alone.

"I think I ought to go with her," said Otsū. "But I'll come to Lord Karasumaru's whenever I have a chance. Explain everything to them, and get them to let you stay until I've finished what I have to do."

"Don't worry. I'll wait as long as necessary."

"Look for Musashi while you're waiting, won't you?"

"There you go again! When you finally find him, you hide. And now you're sorry. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"It was very foolish of me."

Osugi arrived and inserted herself between the two. The trio started walking back to the bridge, Osugi's needlelike glance darting frequently toward Otsū, whom she dared not trust. Although Otsū had not the slightest inkling of the perilous fate that lay before her, she nevertheless had the feeling of being trapped.

When they arrived back at the bridge, the sun was high above the willows and the pines and the streets well filled with the New Year's throng. A sizable group had congregated before the sign posted on the bridge.

"Musashi? Who's that?"

"Do you know any great swordsman by that name?"

"Never heard of him."

"Must be quite a fighter if he's taking on the Yoshiokas. That should be something to see."

Otsū came to a halt and stared. Osugi and Jōtarō, too, stopped and looked, listening to the softly reverberating whisper. Like the ripples caused by minnows in the shoal, the name
Musashi
spread through the crowd.

Book IV • WIND

The Withered Field

The swordsmen from the Yoshioka School assembled in a barren field overlooking the Nagasaka entrance to the Tamba highroad. Beyond the trees edging the field, the glistening of the snow in the mountains northwest of Kyoto struck the eye like lightning.

One of the men suggested making a fire, pointing out that their sheathed swords seemed to act like conduits, transmitting the cold directly to their bodies. It was the very beginning of spring, the ninth day of the new year. A frigid wind blew down from Mount Kinugasa and even the birds sounded forlorn.

"Burns nice, doesn't it?"

"Um. Better be careful. Don't want to start a brush fire."

The crackling fire warmed their hands and faces, but before long, Ueda Ryōhei, waving smoke from his eyes, grumbled, "It's too hot!" Glaring at a man who was about to throw more leaves on
the fire,
he said, "That's enough! Stop!"

An hour passed uneventfully.

"It must be past six o'clock already."

To a man, without giving it a thought, they lifted their eves toward the sun. "Closer to seven."

"The Young Master should be here by now."

"Oh, he'll show up any minute."

Faces tense, they anxiously watched the road from town; not a few were swallowing nervously.

"What could have happened to him?"

A cow lowed, breaking the silence. The field had once been used as pasture for the Emperor's cows, and there were still untended cows in the vicinity. The sun rose higher, bringing with it warmth and the odor of manure and dried grass.

"Don't you suppose Musashi's already at the field by the Rendaiji?"

"He may be."

"Somebody go and take a look. It's only about six hundred yards."

No one was eager to do this; they lapsed into silence again, their faces smoldering in the shadows cast by the smoke.

"There's no misunderstanding about the arrangements, is there?"

"No. Ueda got it directly from the Young Master last night. There couldn't be any mistake."

Ryōhei confirmed this. "That's right. I wouldn't be surprised if Musashi's there already, but maybe the Young Master's deliberately coming late to make Musashi nervous. Let's wait. If we make a false move and give people the impression we're going to the aid of the Young Master, it'll disgrace the school. We can't do anything until he arrives. What's Musashi anyway? Just a rōnin. He can't be that good."

The students who had seen Musashi in action at the Yoshioka dōjō the previous year knew otherwise, but even to them it was unthinkable that Seijūrō would lose. The consensus was that though their master was bound to win, accidents do happen. Moreover, since the fight had been publicly announced, there would be a lot of spectators, whose presence, they felt, would not only add to the prestige of the school but enhance the personal reputation of their teacher.

Despite Seijūrō's specific instructions that they were under no circumstances to assist him, forty of them had gathered here to await his arrival, give him a rousing send-off, and be on hand—just in case. Besides Ueda, five of the other Ten Swordsmen of the House of Yoshioka were present.

It was now past seven, and as the spirit of calm enjoined upon them by Ryōhei gave way to boredom, they mumbled discontentedly.

Spectators on their way to the bout were asking if there had been some mistake.

"Where's Musashi?"

"Where's the other one—Seijūrō?"

"Who are all those samurai?"

"Probably here to second one side or the other."

"Strange way to have a duel! The seconds are here, the principals aren't."

Though the crowd grew bigger and the buzz of voices louder, the onlookers were too prudent to approach the Yoshioka students, who, for their part, took no notice of the heads peering through the withered miscanthus or looking down from tree branches.

Jōtarō padded around in the midst of the mob, leaving a trail of little puffs of dust. Carrying his larger-than-life wooden sword and wearing sandals too big for him, he was going from woman to woman, checking one face after another. "Not here, not here," he murmured. "What could have happened to Otsū? She knows about the fight today." She had to be here, he thought. Musashi might be in danger. What could possibly keep her away?

But his search was fruitless, though he trudged about until he was dead tired. "It's so strange," he thought. "I haven't seen her since New Year's Day. I wonder if she's sick.... That old hag she went away with talked nice, but maybe it was a trick. Maybe she's done something awful to Otsū."

This worried him terribly, far more than the outcome of today's bout. He had no misgivings about that. Of the hundreds of people in the crowd, there was hardly one who did not expect Seijūrō to win. Only Jōtarō was sustained by unshakable faith in Musashi. Before his eyes was a vision of his teacher facing the lances of the Hōzōin priests at Hannya Plain.

Finally, he stopped in the middle of the field. "There's something else strange," he mused. "Why are all these people here? According to the sign, the fight is to take place in the field by the Rendaiji." He seemed to be the only person puzzled by this.

Out of the milling crowd came a surly voice. "You there, boy! Look here!" Jōtarō recognized the man; he was the one who had been watching Musashi and Akemi whispering on the bridge on New Year's morning.

"What do you want, mister?" asked Jōtarō.

Sasaki Kojirō came up to him, but before speaking, slowly eyed him from head to toe. "Didn't I see you on Gojō Avenue recently?"

"Oh, so you remember."

"You were with a young woman."

"Yes. That was Otsū."

"Is that her name? Tell me, does she have some connection with Musashi?" "I should say so."

"Is she his cousin?"

"Unh-unh."

"Sister?"

"Unh-unh."

"Well?"

"She likes him."

"Are they lovers?"

"I don't know. I'm only his pupil." Jōtarō nodded his head proudly.

"So that's why you're here. Look, the crowd's getting restless. You must know where Musashi is. Has he left his inn?"

"Why ask me? I haven't seen him for a long time."

Several men pushed their way through the crowd and approached Kojirō. He turned a hawklike eye on them.

"Ah, so there you are, Sasaki!"

"Why, it's Ryōhei."

"Where've you been all this time?" Ryōhei demanded, grabbing Kojirō's hand as though taking him prisoner. "You haven't been to the dōjō for more than ten days. The Young Master wanted to get in some practice with you."

"So what if I stayed away? I'm here today."

Placing themselves discreetly around Kojirō, Ryōhei and his comrades led him off to their fire.

The whisper went around among those who had seen Kojirō's long sword and his flashy outfit. "That's Musashi, for sure!"

"Is that him?"

"It must be."

"Pretty loud clothing he's got on. He doesn't look weak, though."

"That's not Musashi!" Jōtarō cried disdainfully. "Musashi's not like that at all! You'd never catch him dressed up like a Kabuki actor!"

Presently even those who could not hear the boy's protest realized their mistake and went back to wondering what was going on.

Kojirō was standing with the Yoshioka students, regarding them with obvious contempt. They listened to him in silence, but their faces were sullen.

"It was a blessing in disguise for the House of Yoshioka that neither Seijūrō nor Musashi arrived on time," said Kojirō. "What you'd better do is split up into groups, head Seijūrō off and take him home quickly before he gets hurt."

This cowardly proposal enraged them, but he went further. "What I'm advising would do Seijūrō more good than any assistance he could possibly get from you." Then, rather grandly: "Heaven sent me here as a messenger for the sake of the House of Yoshioka. I shall give you my prediction: if they fight, Seijūrō will lose. I'm sorry to have to say this, but Musashi will certainly defeat him, maybe kill him."

Miike Jūrōzaemon thrust his chest against the younger man's and shouted, "That's an insult." His right elbow between his own face and Kojirō's, he was prepared to draw and strike.

Kojirō looked down and grinned, "I take it you don't like what I said." "Ugh!"

"In that case, I'm sorry," said Kojirō blithely. "I won't attempt to be of further assistance."

"Nobody asked for your help in the first place."

"That's not quite right. If you had no need of my support, why did you insist that I come from Kema to your house? Why were you trying so hard to keep me happy? You, Seijūrō, all of you!"

"We were simply being polite to a guest. You think a lot of yourself, don't you?"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha! Let's stop all this, before it ends up with my having to fight all of you. But I warn you, if you don't heed my prophecy, you'll regret it! I've compared the two men with my own eyes, and I say the chances Seijūrō will lose are overwhelming. Musashi was at the Gojō Avenue bridge on New Year's morning. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew there was danger. To me, that sign you put up looks more like an announcement of mourning for the House of Yoshioka. It's very sad, but it seems to be the way of the world that people never realize when they're finished."

"That's enough! Why come here if your only purpose is to talk like that?"

Kojirō's tone became snide. "It also seems to be typical of people on the way down that they won't accept an act of kindness in the spirit in which it's offered. Go on! Think what you like! You won't even have to wait the day out. You'll know in an hour or less how wrong you are."

"Yech!" Jūrōzaemon spat at Kojirō. Forty men moved a step forward, their anger radiating darkly over the field.

Kojirō reacted with self-assurance. Jumping quickly to one side, he demonstrated by his stance that if they were looking for a fight, he was ready. The goodwill he had professed earlier now seemed a sham. An observer might well have asked if he wasn't using mob psychology to create an opportunity for himself to steal the show from Musashi and Seijūrō.

A stir of excitement spread through those close enough to see. This was not the fight they had come to watch, but it promised to be a good one.

Into the midst of this murder-charged atmosphere ran a young girl. Speeding along behind her like a rolling ball was a small monkey. She rushed in between Kojirō and the Yoshioka swordsmen and screamed, "Kojirō! Where's Musashi! Isn't he here?"

Kojirō turned on her angrily. "What is this?" he demanded.

"Akemi!" said one of the samurai. "What's she doing here?"

"Why did you come?" Kojirō snapped. "Didn't I tell you not to?" "I'm not your private property! Why can't I be here?"

"Shut up! And get out of here! Go on back to the Zuzuya," shouted Kojirō, pushing her away gently.

Akemi, panting heavily, shook her head adamantly. "Don't order me around! I stayed with you, but I don't belong to you. I—" She choked and began to sob noisily. "How can you tell me what to do after what you did to me? After tying me up and leaving me on the second floor of the inn? After bullying and torturing me when I said I was worried about Musashi?"

Kojirō opened his mouth, ready to speak, but Akemi didn't give him the chance. "One of the neighbors heard me scream and came and untied me. I'm here to see Musashi!"

"Are you out of your mind? Can't you see the people around you? Shut up!"

"I won't! I don't care who hears. You said Musashi would be killed today—if Seijūrō couldn't handle him, you'd act as his second and kill Musashi yourself. Maybe I'm crazy, but Musashi's the only man in my heart! I must see him. Where is he?"

Kojirō clicked his tongue but was speechless before her vitriolic attack.

To the Yoshioka men, Akemi seemed too distraught to be believed. But maybe there was some truth in what she said. And if there was, Kojirō had used kindness as a lure, then tortured her for his own pleasure.

Embarrassed, Kojirō glared at her with unconcealed hate.

Suddenly their attention was diverted by one of Seijūrō's attendants, a youth by the name of Tamihachi. He was running like a wild man, waving his arms and shouting. "Help! It's the Young Master! He's met Musashi. He's injured! Oh, it's awful! A-w-w-ful!"

"What're you babbling about?"

"The Young Master? Musashi?"

"Where? When?"

"Tamihachi, are you telling the truth?"

Shrill questions poured from faces suddenly drained of blood.

Tamihachi went on screaming inarticulately. Neither answering their questions nor pausing to catch his breath, he ran stumbling back to the Tamba highroad. Half believing, half doubting, not really knowing what to think, Ueda, Jūrōzaemon and the others chased after him like wild beasts charging across a burning plain.

Running north about five hundred yards, they came to a barren field stretching out beyond the trees to the right, quietly basking in the spring sunlight, on the surface serene and undisturbed. Thrushes and shrikes, chirping as though nothing had happened, hastily took to the air as Tamihachi scrambled wildly through the grass. He climbed up a knoll that looked like an ancient burial mound and fell to his knees. Clutching at the earth, he moaned and screamed, "Young Master!"