Musashi: Bushido Code (64 page)

As he pondered his love problems, he noticed a figure moving about under the tree, oblivious of his presence.

"Why, there's a man lying there," said the stranger. He stooped over for a closer look and exclaimed, "It's that rascal from the sake shop!"

It was the itinerant monk. Taking the pack off his back, he remarked, "He doesn't seem to be wounded. And his body's warm." He felt around and found the cord underneath Matahachi's obi, undid it, and tied Matahachi's hands behind his back. He then put his knees in the small of Matahachi's back and jerked his shoulders backward, putting considerable pressure on the solar plexus. Matahachi came to with a muffled groan. The monk carried him like a sack of potatoes to a tree and propped him up against the trunk.

"Stand up!" he said sharply, underscoring the point with a kick. "On your feet!"

Matahachi, who had been halfway to hell, began to regain his senses, but could not quite take in what was going on. Still in a stupor, he dragged himself into a standing position.

"That's fine," said the monk. "Just stay that way." He then tied Matahachi's legs and chest to the tree.

Matahachi opened his eyes slightly and uttered a cry of astonishment.

"Now, you phony," said his captor, "you led me quite a chase, but that's all over." Slowly he began working Matahachi over, slapping his forehead several times, sending his head thudding against the tree. "Where did you get the pillbox?" he demanded. "Tell me the truth. Now!"

Matahachi did not answer.

"So you think you can brazen it out, uh?" Infuriated, the monk clamped his thumb and forefinger on Matahachi's nose and shook his head back and forth.

Matahachi gasped, and since he seemed to be trying to speak, the monk let go of his nose.

"I'll talk," said Matahachi desperately. "I'll tell you everything." Tears streamed from his eyes. "What happened was, last summer . . ." he began, and then he told the whole story, ending with a plea for mercy. "I can't pay the money back right now, but I promise, if you don't kill me, I'll work hard and return it someday. I'll give you a written promise, signed and sealed."

Confessing was like letting the pus out of a festering wound. Now there was nothing more to hide, nothing more to fear. Or so he thought.

"Is that the absolute truth?" asked the monk.

"Yes." Matahachi bowed his head contritely.

After a few minutes of silent reflection, the monk drew his short sword and pointed it at Matahachi's face.

Quickly turning his head aside, Matahachi cried, "Are you going to kill me?"

"Yes, I think you'll have to die."

"I've told you everything in perfect honesty. I've returned the pillbox. I'll give you the certificate. One of these days I'll pay back the money. I swear I will! Why do you have to kill me?"

"I believe you, but my position is difficult. I live in Shimonida in Kōzuke, and I was a retainer of Kusanagi Tenki. He was the samurai who died at Fushimi Castle. Though I'm dressed as a monk, I'm actually a samurai. My name is Ichinomiya Gempachi."

Matahachi, trying to wriggle free and escape, did not really hear any of this. "I apologize," he said abjectly. "I know I did the wrong thing, but I didn't mean to steal anything. I was going to deliver everything to his family. Then, well, I ran short of money and, well, I knew I shouldn't, but I used his. I'll apologize all you want, but please don't kill me."

"I'd rather you didn't apologize," said Gempachi, who seemed to be going through an emotional struggle of his own. Shaking his head sadly, he continued, "I've been to Fushimi to investigate. Everything fits in with what you said. Still, I must take something in the way of consolation back to Tenki's family. I don't mean money. I need something to show that vengeance has been done. But there's no villain—no single person killed Tenki. So how can I take them the head of his murderer?"

"I ... I ... I didn't kill him. Don't make any mistake about that."

"I know you didn't. But his family and friends don't know he was mobbed and murdered by common laborers. That's not the sort of story that would do him honor, either. I'd hate to have to tell them the truth. So though I feel sorry for you, I think you'll have to be the culprit. It'd help if you'd consent to my killing you."

Straining at his ropes, Matahachi cried, "Let me loose! I don't want to die."

"That's quite natural, but look at it another way. You couldn't pay for the sake you drank. That means you don't have the ability to take care of yourself. Rather than starve or lead a shameful existence in this cruel world, wouldn't it be better to rest in peace in another? If it's money you're worried about, I have a little. I'd be glad to send it to your parents as a funeral gift. If you prefer, I could send it to your ancestral temple as a memorial donation. I assure you it would be delivered in good order."

"That's insane. I don't want money; I want to live! ... Help!"

"I've explained everything carefully. Whether you agree or not, I'm afraid you'll have to stand in as my master's slayer. Give up, my friend. Consider it an appointment with destiny." He gripped his sword and stepped back to give himself room to strike.

"Gempachi, wait!" called Kojirō.

Gempachi looked up and shouted, "Who's there?"

"Sasaki Kojirō."

Gempachi repeated the name slowly, suspiciously. Was another fake Kojirō about to descend on him from the sky? Still, the voice was too human to belong to a ghost. He jumped well away from the tree and raised his sword straight up in the air.

"This is absurd," he said, laughing. "It looks like everybody's calling himself Sasaki Kojirō these days. There's another one down here, looking very sad. Ah! I'm beginning to understand. You're one of this man's friends, aren't you?"

"No, I'm Kojirō. Look, Gempachi, you're ready to cut me in two the minute I come down from here, aren't you?"

"Yes. Bring on all the phony Kojirōs you like. I'll take care of every one of them."

"That's fair enough. If you cut me down, you'll know I was a fake, but if you wake up dead, you can be sure I was the real Kojirō. I'm coming down now, and I warn you, if you don't slice me in midair, the Drying Pole will split you like a piece of bamboo."

"Wait. I seem to remember your voice, and if your sword is the famous Drying Pole, you must be Kojirō."

"You believe me now?"

"Yes, but what are you doing up there?"

"We'll talk about that later."

Kojirō passed over Gempachi's upturned face and landed behind him in a flurry of pine needles. The transformation amazed Gempachi. The Kojirō he remembered seeing at Jisai's school had been a dark-skinned, gawky boy; his only job had been drawing water, and in accordance with Jisai's love of simplicity, he had never worn any but the plainest of clothing.

Kojirō seated himself at the foot of the tree and motioned to Gempachi to do likewise. Gempachi then related how Tenki had been mistaken for an Osaka spy and stoned to death and how the certificate had come into Matahachi's hands. Though Kojirō was vastly amused to learn how he had acquired a namesake, he said that there was nothing to be gained by killing a man so lacking in strength as to impersonate him. There were other ways of punishing Matahachi. If Gempachi was worried about Tenki's family or reputation, Kojirō himself would go to Kōzuke and see to it that Gempachi's master was recognized as a brave and honorable warrior. There was no need to make Matahachi the scapegoat.

"Don't you agree, Gempachi?" concluded Kojirō.

"If you put it that way, I guess so."

"All right, that's that. I have to leave now, but I think you should go back to Kōzuke."

"I will. I'll go directly."

"To tell the truth, I'm rather in a hurry. I'm trying to find a girl who left me rather suddenly."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Not that I know of."

"What about the certificate?"

"Oh, that."

Gempachi reached under Matahachi's kimono and took out the scroll. Matahachi felt light and unencumbered. Now that it seemed that his life would be spared, he was glad to be rid of the document.

"Hmm," said Gempachi. "Come to think of it, maybe this incident tonight was arranged by the spirits of Jisai and Tenki so that I could recover the certificate and give it to you."

"I don't want it," said Kojirō.

"Why?" asked Gempachi incredulously.

"I don't need it."

"I don't understand."

"I don't have any use for a piece of paper like that."

"What a thing to say! Don't you feel any gratitude toward your teacher? It took Jisai years to decide whether to give you the certificate. He didn't make up his mind until he was on his deathbed. He charged Tenki with delivering it to you, and look what happened to Tenki. You should be ashamed."

"What Jisai did was his business. I have ambitions of my own."

"That's no way to talk."

"Don't misunderstand me."

"You'd insult the man who taught you?"

"Of course not, but not only was I born with greater talents than Jisai; I intend to go farther than he did. Being an unknown swordsman somewhere off in the sticks is no aim of mine."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Every word of it." Kojirō had no compunction about revealing his ambitions, outrageous though they were by ordinary standards. "I'm grateful to Jisai, but being saddled with a certificate from a little-known country school would do me more harm than good. Itō Ittōsai accepted his, but he didn't carry on the Chūjō Style. He created a new style. I intend to do the same. My interest is the Ganryū Style, not the Chūjō Style. One of these days, the name Ganryū will be very famous. So you see, the document means nothing to me. Take it back to Kōzuke and ask the temple there to preserve it along with its records of births and deaths." There was not a trace of modesty or humility in Kojirō's speech.

Gempachi stared at him resentfully.

"Please give my regards to the Kusanagi family," Kojirō said politely. "One of these days I'll go east and visit them, of that you can be sure." He ended these words of dismissal with a broad smile.

To Gempachi, this final display of courtesy smacked of patronization. He thought seriously of taking Kojirō to task for his ungrateful and disrespectful attitude toward Jisai, but a moment's consideration told him it would be a waste of time. Walking over to his pack, he put the certificate in it, said a curt good-bye and took his leave.

After he was gone, Kojirō had a good laugh. "My, he was angry, wasn't he? Ha, ha, ha, ha!" Then he turned to Matahachi. "Now, what have you got to say for yourself, you worthless fake?"

Matahachi, of course, had nothing to say.

"Answer me! You admit that you tried to impersonate me, don't you?" "Yes."

"I know you're called Matahachi, but what's your full name?"

"Hon'iden Matahachi."

"Are you a rōnin?"

"Yes."

"Take a lesson from me, you spineless ass. You saw me return that certificate, didn't you? If a man doesn't have enough pride to do a thing like that, he'll never be able to do anything on his own. But look at you! You use another man's name, steal his certificate, go about living on his reputation. Could anything be more despicable? Maybe your experience tonight will teach you a lesson: a house cat may put on a tiger's skin, but it's still a house cat."

"I'll be very careful in the future."

"I'm going to refrain from killing you, but I think I'll leave you here to get free by yourself, if you can manage." On a sudden impulse, Kojirō slipped the dagger from his scabbard and began scraping off the bark above Matahachi's head. The chips tumbled down onto Matahachi's neck. "I need something to write with," grumbled Kojirō.

"There's a kit with a brush and ink stone in my obi," said Matahachi obligingly.

"Good! I'll just borrow them for a moment."

Kojirō inked the brush and wrote on the patch of tree trunk from which he had shaved the bark. Then he backed off and admired his handiwork. "This man," it said, "is an impostor who, using my name, has gone about the countryside committing dishonorable deeds. I have caught him, and I leave him here to be ridiculed by one and all. My name and my sword name, which belong to me and to no other man, are Sasaki Kojirō, Ganryū."

"That should do it," said Kojirō contentedly.

In the black forest, the wind was moaning like the tide. Kojirō left off thinking about his ambition for the future and returned to his immediate course of action. His eyes lit up as he bounded off through the trees like a leopard.

The Younger Brother

Since ancient times, people of the highest classes had been able to ride in palanquins, but it was only recently that a simplified type had become available to the common people. It was little more than a large, low-sided basket suspended from a horizontal carrying pole, and to avoid falling out, the passenger had to hold on tightly to straps in front and back. The bearers, chanting rhythmically to keep in step, had a tendency to treat their customers like so much cargo. Those who chose this form of conveyance were advised to adjust their breathing to the rhythm of the bearers, especially when they were running.

The palanquin moving rapidly toward the pine woods on Gojō Avenue was accompanied by seven or eight men. Both the bearers and the other men were panting as though they were about to spit up their hearts.

"We're on Gojō Avenue."

"Isn't this Matsubara?"

"Not much farther."

Though the lanterns they carried bore a crest used by courtesans in the licensed quarter in Osaka, the passenger was no lady of the night.

"Denshichirō!" called one of the attendants in front. "We're almost at Shijō Avenue."

Denshichirō did not hear; he was asleep, his head bobbing up and down like a paper tiger's. Then the basket lurched, and a bearer put his hand out to keep his passenger from being spilled onto the ground.

Opening his large eyes, Denshichirō said, "I'm thirsty. Give me some sake!"

Thankful for a chance to rest, the bearers lowered the palanquin to the ground and began wiping the clammy sweat off their faces and hairy chests with hand towels.

"There's not much sake left," said an attendant, handing the bamboo tube to Denshichirō.

He emptied it in one draft, then complained, "It's cold—sets my teeth on edge." But it woke him up enough to observe, "It's still dark. We must have made very good time."

"As far as your brother is concerned, it must seem a long time. He's so eager to see you that each minute is like a year."

"I hope he's still alive."

"The doctor said he would be. He's restless, though, and his wound hemorrhages. That could be dangerous."

Denshichirō lifted the empty tube to his lips and turned it upside down. "Musashi!" he said disgustedly, throwing the tube away. "Let's go!" he bellowed. "Hurry up!"

Denshichirō, a strong drinker, an even stronger fighter and a quick-tempered man, was almost the perfect antithesis of his brother. There were some who, even when Kempō was still alive, had had the audacity to assert that he was more capable than his father. The young man himself shared this view of his talents. During their father's lifetime, the two brothers worked out together in the dōjō and somehow managed to get along, but as soon as Kempō died, Denshichirō stopped participating in the activities of the school and had gone so far as to tell Seijūrō to his face that he should retire and leave matters concerning swordsmanship to him.

Since his departure for Ise the previous year, it had been rumored that he was whiling away his time in Yamato Province. It was only after the disaster at the Rendaiji that men were sent in search of him. Denshichirō, despite his distaste for Seijūrō, readily consented to return.

In the impatient rush back to Kyoto, he had driven the bearers so hard that they had had to be changed three or four times. But he had found time to stop at each station on the highway to buy sake. Perhaps the alcohol was needed to quiet his nerves, for he was definitely in a state of extreme agitation.

As they were about to get under way again, barking dogs in the dark woods attracted their attention.

"What do you suppose is going on?"

"Nothing but a pack of dogs."

The city was full of stray dogs, great numbers of them coming in from the outlying districts, now that there were no longer any battles to furnish them with a supply of human meat.

Denshichirō shouted angrily to stop dawdling, but one of the students said, "Wait; there's something funny about what's going on over there."

"Go see what it is," said Denshichirō, who then proceeded to take the lead himself.

After Kojirō left, the dogs had come back. The three or four circles of canines around Matahachi and his tree were raising a tremendous racket. If dogs were capable of the higher sentiments, it might be imagined that they were taking revenge for the death of one of their flock. It is far more likely, however, that they were merely tormenting a victim they sensed to be in an impossible position, all of them being as hungry as wolves—their bellies concave, backbones sharp as knives, and teeth so keen they might have been filed.

Matahachi was far more afraid of them than he had been of Kojirō and Gempachi. Unable to use his arms and legs, he had for weapons only his face and his voice.

After first having naively tried to reason with the animals, he switched tactics. He howled like a wild beast. The dogs grew timid and backed off a little. But then his nose started running, and the effect was immediately spoiled.

Next he had opened his mouth and eyes as wide as he could and glared—somehow managing not to blink. He'd wrinkled his face and stuck his tongue out far enough to touch the tip of his nose, only to become quickly exhausted. Ransacking his brain, he had resorted again to pretending that he himself was just one of their number but had nothing against the rest of them. He barked, even imagined that he had a tail to wag.

The howling grew louder, the dogs closest to him baring their teeth in his face and licking his feet.

Hoping to soothe them with music, he began singing a famous passage from
Tales of the Heike,
imitating the bards who went about reciting this story to the accompaniment of the lute.

Then the cloistered Emperor decided

In the spring of the second year

To see the country villa of Kenreimon'in,

In the mountains near Ohara.

But throughout the second and third months

The wind was violent, the cold lingered on,

Nor did the white snows on the mountain peaks melt.

Eyes closed, face strained in a painful grimace, Matahachi sang almost loudly enough to deafen himself.

He was still singing when the arrival of Denshichirō and his companions sent the dogs scurrying.

Matahachi, beyond any pretense of dignity, cried, "Help! Save me!"

"I've seen that guy at the Yomogi," said one of the samurai.

"Yeah, that's Okō's husband."

"Husband? She's not supposed to have a husband."

"That's the story she told Tōji."

Denshichirō, taking pity on Matahachi, ordered them to stop gossiping and set him free.

In response to their questions, Matahachi made up a story in which his sterling qualities figured prominently and his weaknesses not at all. Taking advantage of the fact that he was talking to Yoshioka partisans, he brought up Musashi's name. They had been childhood friends, he revealed, until Musashi had abducted his fiancée and covered his family with unspeakable shame. His valiant mother had vowed not to return home; both his mother and himself were bent on finding Musashi and destroying him. As for being Okō's husband, this was far from the truth. His long stay at the Yomogi Teahouse was not because of any personal connection with the proprietress, and the proof of this was in her having fallen in love with Gion Tōji.

Then he explained why he was tied to a tree. He had been set upon by a band of robbers, who had stolen his money. He had put up no resistance, of course; he had to be careful not to be injured because of his obligation to his mother.

Hoping they were taking it all in, Matahachi said, "Thank you. I feel that perhaps there is some fate that links us together. We regard one man as our common enemy, an enemy we cannot live under the same sky with. Tonight you came along at just the right moment. I am eternally grateful.

"I would judge, sir, from your appearance that you are Denshichirō. I feel certain you plan to meet Musashi. Which one of us will kill him first I cannot say, but I hope I shall have the opportunity of seeing you again."

He did not want to give them a chance to ask questions, so he hurried on. "Osugi, my mother, is on a pilgrimage to Kiyomizudera to pray for success in our battle against Musashi. I'm on my way to meet her now. I shall certainly call soon at the house on Shijō Avenue to pay my respects. In the meantime, let me apologize for holding you up when you are in such a hurry."

And off he went, leaving his listeners to wonder how much truth there was in what he had said.

"Who on earth is that buffoon anyway?" snorted Denshichirō, clicking his tongue over the time they had wasted.

As the doctor had said, the first few days would be the worst. This was the fourth day, and since the night before, Seijūrō felt a little better.

Slowly he opened his eyes, wondering whether it was day or night. The paper-covered lamp by his pillow was nearly out. From the next room came the sound of snoring; the men watching over him had dropped off to sleep.

"I must still be alive," he thought. "Alive and in complete disgrace!" He pulled the quilt over his face with quivering fingers. "How can I face anyone after this?" He swallowed hard to stifle his tears. "It's all over," he moaned. "The end of me and the end of the House of Yoshioka."

A cock crowed and the lamp went out with a sputter. As the pale light of dawn crept into the room, he was taken back to that morning at the Rendaiji. The look in Musashi's eyes! The memory made him shiver. He had to admit he'd been no match for that man. Why hadn't he thrown down his wooden sword, accepted defeat and made an attempt to save the family's reputation?

"I had too high an opinion of myself," he moaned. "Besides being the son of Yoshioka Kempō, what have I ever done to distinguish myself?"

Even he had come to realize that sooner or later, time would have caught up with the House of Yoshioka if he had stayed in charge. With everything else changing, it could not continue to prosper.

"My bout with Musashi only hastened the collapse. Why couldn't I have died there? Why do I have to live?"

He knitted his brows. His armless shoulder throbbed with pain.

Only seconds after the banging on the front gate, a man came to wake up the samurai in the room next to Seijūrō's.

"Denshichirō?" exclaimed a startled voice.

"Yes; he just arrived."

Two men rushed out to meet him, another ran to Seijūrō's side. "Young Master! Good news! Denshichirō's back."

The rain shutters were opened, charcoal put in the brazier, and a cushion spread on the floor. After a moment, Denshichirō's voice came from beyond the shoji. "Is my brother in here?"

Seijūrō thought nostalgically: "It's been a long time." Though he had asked to see Denshichirō, he dreaded being seen in his present state even by his brother—no, especially by his brother. As Denshichirō entered, Seijūrō looked up wanly and tried, unsuccessfully, to smile.

Denshichirō spoke with gusto. "See?" He laughed. "When you're in trouble, your good-for-nothing brother comes back to help you. I dropped everything and came as fast as I could. We stopped in Osaka for provisions, then traveled all night. I'm here now, so you can stop worrying. Whatever happens, I won't let a soul lay a finger on the school... .

"What's this?" he said gruffly, turning to a servant who had brought tea. "I don't need any tea! Go and get some sake ready." Then he shouted for someone to close the outside doors. "Are you all crazy? Can't you see my brother's cold?"

Sitting down, he leaned over the brazier and stared silently at the sick man's face. "Just what kind of stance did you take in the fight?" he asked. "Why did you lose? Maybe this Miyamoto Musashi's making a name for himself, but he's no more than a rank beginner, is he? How could you let yourself be taken off guard by a nobody like him?"

From the doorway, one of the students called Denshichirō's name. "Well, what is it?"

"The sake is ready."

"Bring it in!"

"I've set a place in the other room. You'll be wanting a bath first, won't you?"

"I don't want a bath! Bring the sake in here."

"Right by the Young Master's bedside?"

"Why not? I haven't seen him for a few months, and I want to talk to him. We haven't always been on the best of terms, but there's nothing like a brother when you need one. I'll drink it here with him."

He poured himself a cupful, then another and another. "Ah, this is good. If you were well, I'd pour some for you too."

Seijūrō put up with this for a few minutes, then raised his eyes and said, "Would you mind not drinking here?"

"Uh?"

"It brings back a lot of unpleasant memories."

"Oh?"

"I'm thinking of our father. He wouldn't be pleased at the way you and I have always indulged ourselves. And what good has it ever done either one of us?"

"What's the matter with you?"

"Maybe you don't see it yet, but lying here, I've had time to regret my wasted life."

Denshichirō laughed. "Speak for yourself! You've always been a nervous, sensitive type. That's why you've never become a real swordsman. If you want the truth, I think it was a mistake for you to take Musashi on. But then it doesn't make much difference whether it's Musashi or somebody else. Fighting's just not in your blood. You should let this defeat be a lesson to you and forget about swordsmanship. As I told you a long time ago, you should retire. You could still preside over the House of Yoshioka, and if there's anyone so intent on challenging you that you can't get out of it, I'll fight in your stead.