Musashi: Bushido Code (73 page)

We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers.

We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand...

By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken

As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away

Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament,

Told even more in silence than they had told in sound...

A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water,

And out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote—

And before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke,

And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk.

"And so, you see, one simple lute can produce an infinite variety of tonalities. Since the days when I was an apprentice, this puzzled me. Finally, I broke a lute apart to see what was inside. Then I attempted to make one myself. After trying a number of things, I finally understood that the secret of the instrument is in its heart."

Breaking off, she went and got the lute from the next room. Once reseated, she held the instrument by the neck and stood it up in front of him.

"If you examine the heart inside, you can see why the tonal variations are possible." Taking a fine, keen knife in her lithe hand, she brought it down quickly and sharply on the pear-shaped back of the lute. Three or four deft strokes and the work was done, so quickly and decisively that Musashi half expected to see blood spurt from the instrument. He even felt a slight twinge of pain, as though the blade had nicked his own flesh. Placing the knife behind her, Yoshino held the lute up so he could see its structure.

Looking first at her face, then at the broken lute, he wondered whether she actually possessed the element of violence seemingly displayed in her handling of the weapon. The smarting pain from the screech of the cuts lingered.

"As you can see," she said, "the inside of the lute is almost completely hollow. All the variations come from this single crosspiece near the middle. This one piece of wood is the instrument's bones, its vital organs, its heart. If it were absolutely straight and rigid, the sound would be monotonous, but in fact it has been shaved into a curved shape. This alone would not create the lute's infinite variety. That comes from leaving the crosspiece a certain amount of leeway to vibrate at either end. To put it another way, the tonal richness comes from there being a certain freedom of movement a certain relaxation, at the ends of the core.

"It's the same with people. In life, we must have flexibility. Our spirits must be able to move freely. To be too stiff and rigid is to be brittle and lacking in responsiveness."

His eyes did not move from the lute, nor did his lips open.

"This much," she continued, "should be obvious to anybody, but isn't it characteristic of people to become rigid? With one stroke of the pick, I can make the four strings of the lute sound like a lance, like a sword, like the rending of a cloud, because of the fine balance between firmness and flexibility in the wooden core. Tonight, when I first saw you, I could detect no trace of flexibility—only stiff, unyielding rigidity. If the crosspiece were as taut and unbending as you are, one stroke of the pick would break a string, perhaps even the sounding board itself. It may have been presumptuous of me to say what I did, but I was worried about you. I wasn't joking or making fun of you. Do you understand that?"

A cock crowed in the distance. Sunlight, reflected by the snow, came through the slits in the rain shutters. Musashi sat and stared at the maimed body of the lute and the chips of wood on the floor. The crow of the cock escaped him. He did not notice the sunlight.

"Oh," said Yoshino, "it's daylight." She seemed sorry that the night had passed. She reached out her hand for more firewood before realizing there was none.

The sounds of morning—doors rattling open, the twitter of birds—infiltrated the room, but Yoshino made no move to open the rain shutters. Though the fire was cold, the blood coursed warmly in her veins.

The young girls who waited on her knew better than to open the door to her little house until they were summoned.

A Sickness of the Heart

Within two days, the snow had melted, and warm spring breezes were encouraging a myriad of fresh buds to swell to their fullest. The sun was strong and even cotton garments were uncomfortable.

A young Zen monk, mud spattered up the back of his kimono as high as the waist, stood before the entrance of Lord Karasumaru's residence. Getting no answer to his repeated calls for admission, he walked around to the servants' quarters and stood on tiptoe to peek through a window.

"What is it, priest?" asked Jōtarō.

The monk whirled around and his mouth fell open. He couldn't imagine what such a ragamuffin could be doing in the courtyard of Karasumaru Mitsuhiro's house. "If you're begging, you'll have to go around to the kitchen," said Jōtarō.

"I'm not here for alms," replied the monk. He took a letter box from his kimono. "I'm from the Nansōji in Izumi Province. This letter is for Takuan Sōhō, and I understand he's staying here. Are you one of the delivery boys?"

"Of course not. I'm a guest, like Takuan."

"Is that so? In that case, would you please tell Takuan I'm here?" "Wait here. I'll call him."

As he jumped into the entrance hall, Jōtarō tripped over the foot of a standing screen and the tangerines cradled in his kimono tumbled to the floor. Retrieving them rapidly, he sped off toward the inner rooms.

He came back a few minutes later to inform the monk that Takuan was out. "They say he's over at the Daitokuji."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"They said 'pretty soon.' "

"Is there someplace I could wait without inconveniencing anyone?"

Jōtarō bounded into the courtyard and led the monk straight to the barn. "You can wait here," he said. "You won't be in anybody's way."

The barn was littered with straw, cart wheels, cow manure and a variety of other things, but before the priest could say anything, Jōtarō was running across the garden toward a small house at the west end of the compound.

"Otsū!" he cried. "I've brought you some tangerines."

Lord Karasumaru's doctor had told Otsū there was nothing to worry about. She believed him, though she herself could tell how thin she was just by putting her hand to her face. Her fever persisted and her appetite had not returned, but this morning she had murmured to Jōtarō that she would like a tangerine.

Leaving his post at her bedside, he went first to the kitchen, only to learn there were no tangerines in the house. Finding none at the greengrocers or other food shops, he went to the open marketplace in Kyōgoku. A wide variety of goods was available there—silk thread, cotton goods, lamp oil, furs and so on—but no tangerines. After he left the market, his hopes were raised a couple of times by the sight of orange-colored fruit beyond the walls of private gardens—bitter oranges and quinces, as it turned out.

Having covered nearly half of the city, he met with success only by turning thief. The offering in front of the Shinto shrine consisted of small piles of potatoes, carrots and tangerines. He stuffed the fruit into his kimono and glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Fearful that the outraged god would materialize at any minute, he prayed all the way back to the Karasumaru house: "Please don't punish me. I'm not going to eat them myself."

He lined the tangerines up in a row, offered Otsū one and peeled it for her. She turned away, refusing to touch it.

"What's the matter?"

When he leaned forward to look at her face, she buried her head deeper in the pillow. "Nothing's the matter," she sobbed.

"You've started crying again, haven't you?" said Jōtarō, clicking his tongue. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize; just eat one of these."

"Later."

"Well, eat the one I've peeled, at least. Please."

"Jō, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I can't eat anything just now." "It's because you cry so much. Why are you so sad?"

"I'm crying because I'm happy—that you're so good to me."

"I don't like to see you like this. It makes me want to cry too."

"I'll stop, I promise. Now will you forgive me?"

"Only if you eat the tangerine. If you don't eat something, you'll die." "Later. You eat this one."

"Oh, I can't." He swallowed hard, imagining the wrathful eyes of the god. "Oh, all right, we'll each have one."

She turned over and began removing the stringy white fibers from the pulp with her delicate fingers.

"Where's Takuan?" she asked absently.

"They told me he's at the Daitokuji."

"Is it true he saw Musashi the night before last?"

"You heard about that?"

"Yes. I wonder if he told Musashi I'm here."

"I suppose so."

"Takuan said he'd invite Musashi to come here one of these days. Did he say anything to you about that?"

"No."

"I wonder if he's forgotten."

"Shall I ask him?"

"Please do," she replied, smiling for the first time. "But don't ask him in front of me."

"Why not?"

"Takuan's awful. He keeps saying I'm suffering from 'Musashi sickness."' "If Musashi came, you'd be up and about in no time, wouldn't you?" "Even you have to say things like that!" But she seemed genuinely happy. "Is Jōtarō there?" called one of Mitsuhiro's samurai.

"Here I am."

"Takuan wants to see you. Come with me."

"Go and see what he wants," urged Otsū. "And don't forget what we were talking about. Ask him, won't you?" A tinge of pink crept into her pale cheeks as she pulled the cover halfway up over her face.

Takuan was in the sitting room talking with Lord Mitsuhiro. Jōtarō flung open the sliding door and said, "Did you want me?"

"Yes. Come in here."

Mitsuhiro watched the boy with an indulgent smile, ignoring his lack of manners.

As Jōtarō sat down, he said to Takuan, "A priest just like you came here a while ago. He said he was from the Nansōji. Shall I go get him?"

"Never mind. I know about that already. He was complaining about what a

wicked little boy you are."

"Me?"

"Do you think it's proper to put a guest in the barn and leave him there?" "He said he wanted to wait someplace where he wouldn't be in anyone's way .

Mitsuhiro laughed until his knees shook. Recovering his composure almost immediately, he asked Takuan, "Are you going directly to Tajima, without returning to Izumi?"

The priest nodded. "The letter was rather disturbing, so I think I should. I don't have to make any preparations. I'll leave today."

"You're going away?" asked Jōtarō.

"Yes; I must return home as quickly as possible."

"Why?"

"I've just heard that my mother's condition is very serious."

"You
have a mother?" The boy couldn't believe his ears.

"Of course."

"When are you coming back?"

"That depends on my mother's health."

"What ... what am I going to do without you here?" grumbled Jōtarō. "Does that mean we won't see you anymore?"

"Of course not. We'll meet again soon. I've arranged for you two to stay on here, and I'm counting on you to look after Otsū. Try to make her stop brooding and get well. What she needs more than medicine is greater fortitude."

"I'm not strong enough to give her that. She won't get well until she sees Musashi."

"She's a difficult patient, I'll grant you. I don't envy you a traveling companion like her."

"Takuan, where was it you met Musashi?"

"Well ... " Takuan looked at Lord Mitsuhiro and laughed sheepishly. "When's he coming here? You said you'd bring him, and that's the only thing Otsū has thought about since."

"Musashi?" Mitsuhiro said casually. "Isn't he the rōnin who was with us at the Ōgiya?"

Takuan said to Jōtarō, "I haven't forgotten what I told Otsū. On my way back from the Daitokuji, I stopped in at Kōetsu's house to see if Musashi was there. Kōetsu hasn't seen him and thinks he must still be at the Ōgiya. He said his mother was so worried she wrote a letter to Yoshino Dayū asking her to send Musashi home right away."

"Oh?" exclaimed Lord Mitsuhiro, raising his eyebrows half in surprise and half in envy. "So he's still with Yoshino?"

"It would appear that Musashi's only a man, like any other. Even if they seem to be different when they're young, they always turn out to be the same."

"Yoshino's a strange woman. What does she see in that uncouth swordsman?"

"I don't pretend to understand her. Nor do I understand Otsū. What it comes down to is, I don't understand women in general. As far as I'm concerned, they all seem a little sick. As for Musashi, I suppose it's about time he reached the springtime of life. His real training starts now, and let's hope that he gets it through his head that women are more dangerous than swords. Still, other people can't solve his problems for him, and I see nothing for me to do but leave him alone."

A little uncomfortable about having said so much in front of Jōtarō, he hastened to offer his thanks and bid farewell to his host, requesting him a second time to allow Otsū and Jōtarō to stay a little longer.

The old saying that journeys should be commenced in the morning meant nothing to Takuan. He was ready to depart, and depart he did, though the sun was well into the west and twilight already descending.

Jōtarō ran along beside him, pulling at his sleeve. "Please, please, come back and say a word to Otsū. She's been crying again, and I can't do anything to cheer her up."

"Did you two talk about Musashi?"

"She told me to ask you when he's coming. If he doesn't come, I'm afraid she might die."

"You don't have to worry about her dying. Just leave her alone." "Takuan, who's Yoshino Dayū?"

"Why do you want to know that?"

"You said Musashi was with her. Didn't you?"

"Urn. I have no intention of going back and trying to heal Otsū's illness, but I want you to tell her something for me."

"What is it?"

"Tell her to eat properly."

"I've told her that a hundred times."

"You have? Well, that's the best thing she could possibly be told. But if she won't listen, you may as well give her the whole truth."

"What's that?"

"Musashi is infatuated with a courtesan named Yoshino, and he hasn't left the brothel for two nights and two days. She's a fool to go on loving a man like that!"

"That's not true!" protested Jōtarō. "He's my
sensei!
He's a samurai! He's not like that. If I told Otsū that, she might commit suicide. You're the one who's a fool, Takuan. A great big old fool!"

"Ha, ha, ha!"

"You have no business saying bad things about Musashi or saying Otsū is foolish."

"You're a good boy, Jōtarō," said the priest, patting him on the head.

Jōtarō ducked from under his hand. "I've had enough of you, Takuan. I'll never ask for your help again. I'll find Musashi myself. I'll bring him back to Otsū!"

"Do you know where the place is?"

"No, but I'll find it."

"Be sassy if you like, but it's not going to be easy for you to find Yoshino's place. Shall I tell you how?"

"Don't bother."

"Jōtarō, I'm no enemy of Otsū's, nor do I have anything against Musashi. Far from it! I've been praying for years that both of them would be able to make good lives for themselves."

"Then why are you always saying such mean things?"

"Does it seem that way to you? Maybe you're right. But just at the moment, both of them are sick people. If Musashi is left alone, his illness will go away, but Otsū needs help. Being a priest, I've tried to help her. We're supposed to be able to cure sicknesses of the heart, just as doctors cure illnesses of the body. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to do anything for her, so I'm giving up. If she can't realize that her love is one-sided, advising her to eat properly is the best I can do."

"Don't worry about it. Otsū is not going to ask a big phony like you for help."

"If you don't believe me, go to the Ōgiya in Yanagimachi and see for yourself what Musashi is up to. Then go back and tell Otsū what you saw. She'll be heartbroken for a while, but it just might open her eyes."

Jōtarō put his fingers in his ears. "Shut up, you acorn-headed old fraud!"

"You're the one who came chasing after me, or have you forgotten?"

As Takuan walked off and left him, Jōtarō stood in the middle of the street, repeating a very disrespectful chant with which street urchins were wont to taunt beggar priests. But the moment Takuan was out of sight, he choked up, burst into tears and wept hopelessly. When he finally pulled himself together, he wiped his eyes and, like a lost puppy suddenly remembering the way home, began his search for the Ōgiya.

The first person he saw was a woman. Head covered by a veil, she appeared to be an ordinary housewife. Jōtarō ran up to her and asked, "How do you get to Yanagimachi?"

"That's the licensed quarter, isn't it?"

"What's a licensed quarter?"

"Goodness!"

"Well, tell me, what do they do there?"

"Why, you—!" She glared at him indignantly for a moment before hastening on.

Undaunted, Jōtarō went steadfastly on his way, asking one person after another where the Ōgiya was.