Musashi: Bushido Code (83 page)

Musashi had finally taken off across the mountainside with the speed of a wild boar. In no time, five or six men were on his heels, trying desperately to get in a solid blow.

Musashi, with a vicious howl, suddenly wheeled, crouched and swung his sword sideways at shin level, stopping them in their tracks. One man brought his lance down from above, only to see it knocked into the air by a powerful counterblow. They shrank back. Musashi swung fiercely with the left sword, then the right, then the left again. Moving like a combination of fire and water, he had his enemies reeling and cowering, tottering and stumbling in his wake.

Then he was gone again. He had leapt from the open land across which the battle had been raging into a green field of barley below.

"Stop!"

"Come back and fight!"

Two men in hot pursuit jumped blindly after Musashi. A second later, there were two death screams, two lances flying through the air and coming to rest upright in the middle of the field. Musashi was slithering like a great ball of mud through the far end of the field. Already a hundred yards away, he was rapidly widening the gap.

"He's going toward the village."

"He's heading for the main road."

But in fact he had crawled rapidly and invisibly up the far edge of the field and was now hidden in the woods above. He watched his pursuers dividing up to continue their chase in several directions.

It was daylight, a sunny morning, much like any other.

An Offering for the Dead

When Oda Nobunaga finally lost patience with the priests' political machinations, he attacked the ancient Buddhist establishment on Mount Hiei, and in one horrendous night, all but a few of its three thousand temples and shrines had gone up in flames. Though four decades had passed and the main hall and a number of secondary temples had been rebuilt, the memory of that night hung like a shroud over the mountain. The establishment was now stripped of its temporal powers, and the priests devoted their time once again to religious duties.

Situated on the southernmost peak, commanding a view of the other temples and of Kyoto itself, was a small, secluded temple known as the Mudōji. It was rare for the stillness to be broken by any sound less peaceful than the rippling of a brook or the chirping of small birds.

From the inner recesses of the temple came a masculine voice reciting the words of Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy, as revealed in the Lotus Sutra. The monotone would rise gradually for a time, then, as if the chanter had suddenly remembered himself, sink abruptly.

Along the jet black floor of the corridor walked a white-robed acolyte, carrying at eye level a tray on which had been placed the meager, meatless meal customarily served in religious establishments. Entering the room from which the voice was coming, he placed the tray in one corner, knelt politely and said, "Good day, sir."

Leaning slightly forward, absorbed in his work, the guest did not hear the boy's greeting.

"Sir," said the acolyte, raising his voice slightly, "I've brought your lunch. I'll leave it here in the corner, if you wish."

"Oh, thank you," replied Musashi, straightening up. "That's very kind of you." He turned and bowed.

"Would you like to eat now?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll serve you your rice."

Musashi accepted the bowl of rice and began eating. The acolyte stared first at the block of wood by Musashi's side, then at the small knife behind him. Chips and slivers of fragrant white sandalwood lay scattered about.

"What are you carving?" he asked.

"It's to be a sacred image."

"The Buddha Amida?"

"No. Kannon. Unfortunately, I don't know anything about sculpture. I seem to be cutting my hands more than the wood." He held out a couple of well-nicked fingers as evidence, but the boy seemed more interested in the white bandage around his forearm.

"How are your wounds?" he asked.

"Thanks to the good treatment I've received here, they're about healed now. Please tell the head priest I am very grateful."

"If you're carving an image of Kannon, you should visit the main hall. There's a statue of Kannon by a very famous sculptor. If you'd like, I'll take you there. It's not far—only half a mile or so."

Delighted by the offer, Musashi finished his meal, and the two of them started for the main hall. Musashi had not been outdoors in the ten days since he'd arrived, covered with blood and using his sword as a cane. He'd barely begun to walk when he discovered his wounds were not so thoroughly healed as he had thought. His left knee ached, and the breeze, though light and cool, seemed to cut into the gash on his arm. But it was pleasant outside. Blossoms falling from the gently swaying cherry trees danced in the air like snowflakes. The sky showed signs of the azure hue of early summer. Musashi's muscles swelled as if they were buds about to burst open.

"Sir, you're studying the martial arts, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"Then why are you carving an image of Kannon?"

Musashi did not answer immediately.

"Instead of carving, wouldn't it be better to spend your time practicing swordsmanship?"

The question pained Musashi more than his wounds. The acolyte was about the same age as Genjirō, and about the same size.

How many men had been killed or wounded on that fateful day? He could only guess. He had no clear memory even of how he had extricated himself from the fighting and found a place to hide. The only two things that stuck quite clearly in his mind, haunting him in his sleep, were Genjirō's terrified scream and the sight of his mutilated body.

He thought again, as he had several times in the past few days, of the resolution in his notebook: he would do nothing that he would later regret. If he took the view that what he had done was inherent in the Way of the Sword, a bramble lying on his chosen path, then he would have to assume that his future would be bleak and inhuman.

In the peaceful atmosphere of the temple, his mind had cleared. And once the memory of spilled blood and gore began to fade, he was overcome by grief for the boy he had slaughtered.

His mind coming back to the acolyte's question, he said, "Isn't it true that great priests, like Kōbō Daishi and Genshin, made lots of images of the Buddha and bodhisattvas? I understand quite a few statues here on Mount Hiei were carved by priests. What do you think of that?"

Cocking his head, the boy said uncertainly, "I'm not sure, but priests do make religious paintings and statues."

"Let me tell you why. It's because by painting a picture or carving an image of the Buddha, they draw closer to him. A swordsman can purify his spirit in the same way. We human beings all look up at the same moon, but there are many roads we may travel to reach the top of the peak nearest it. Sometimes, when we lose our way, we decide to try someone else's, but the ultimate aim is to find fulfillment in life."

Musashi paused, as though he might have more to say, but the acolyte ran ahead and pointed to a rock almost hidden in the grass. "Look," he said. "This inscription is by Jichin. He was a priest—a famous one."

Musashi read the words carved on the moss-covered stone:

The water of the Law

Will presently run shallow.

At the very end

A cold, bleak wind will blow on

The barren peaks of Hiei.

He was impressed by the writer's powers of prophecy. The wind on Mount Hiei had indeed been cold and bleak since Nobunaga's merciless raid. There were rumors that some of the clergy longed for the old days, for a powerful army, political influence and special privileges, and it was a fact that they never selected a new abbot without a lot of intrigue and ugly internal conflict. While the holy mountain was dedicated to the salvation of the sinful, it actually depended on the alms and donations of the sinful for its survival. Altogether not a very happy state of affairs, mused Musashi.

"Let's go," said the boy impatiently.

As they started to walk on, one of the priests from the Mudōji came running after them. "Seinen!" he called to the boy. "Where are you going?"

"To the main hall. He wants to see a statue of Kannon."

"Couldn't you take him some other time?"

"Forgive me for bringing the boy with me when he probably has work to do," said Musashi. "By all means take him back with you. I can go to the main hall anytime."

"I didn't come for him. I'd like you to come back with me, if you don't mind."

"Me?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to bother you, but ... "

"Has somebody come looking for me?" asked Musashi, not at all surprised. "Well, yes. I told them you weren't in, but they said they'd just seen you with Seinen. They insisted I come and get you."

On the way back to the Mudōji, Musashi asked the priest who his visitors were and learned that they were from the Sannōin, another of the subsidiary temples.

There were about ten of them, dressed in black robes and wearing brown headbands. Their angry faces might well have belonged to the dreaded warrior-priests of old, a haughty race of bullies in clerical robes who had had their wings clipped but apparently had rebuilt their nest. Those who had failed to profit from Nobunaga's lesson swaggered about with great swords at their sides, lording it over others, calling themselves scholars of the Buddhist Law but being in fact intellectual ruffians.

"There he is," said one.

"Him?" asked another contemptuously.

They stared with undisguised hostility.

A burly priest, motioning to Musashi's guides with his lance, said, "Thanks. You're not needed. Go inside the temple!" Then, very gruffly, "Are you Miyamoto Musashi?"

There was no courtesy in the words. Musashi replied curtly, without bowing.

Another priest, appearing from behind the first, declaimed, as though reading from a text, "I shall convey to you the decision handed down by the tribunal of the Enryakuji. It is this: 'Mount Hiei is a pure and sacred precinct, which must not be used as a haven by those who harbor enmities and grudges. Nor can it be offered as a refuge to base men who have engaged in dishonorable conflicts. The Mudōji has been instructed to send you away from the mountain immediately. If you disobey, you shall be strictly punished in accordance with the laws of the monastery."'

"I shall do as the monastery directs," Musashi replied in a mild tone. "But since it is well past midday and I've made no preparations, I should like to ask that you permit me to stay until tomorrow morning. Also, I'd like to inquire whether this decision came from the civil authorities or from the clergy itself. The Mudōji reported my arrival. I was told there was no objection to my staying. I don't understand why this has changed so suddenly."

"If you really want to know," the first priest replied, "I'll tell you. At first we were glad to extend our hospitality because you fought alone against a large number of men. Later, however, we received bad reports concerning you, which forced us to reconsider. We decided we could no longer afford to provide refuge for you."

"Bad reports?" Musashi thought resentfully. He might have expected that. It required no stretch of the imagination to guess that the Yoshioka School would be vilifying him all over Kyoto. But he saw no point in trying to defend himself. "Very well," he said coldly. "I shall leave tomorrow morning, without fail."

As he entered the temple gate, the priests started to malign him. "Look at him, the evil wretch!"

"He's a monster!"

"Monster? Simple-minded is what he is!"

Turning and glaring at the men, Musashi asked sharply, "What did you say?"

"Oh, you heard, did you?" asked a priest defiantly.

"Yes. And there's one thing I would like you to know. I'll comply with the wishes of the priesthood, but I'm not going to put up with abuse from the likes of you. Are you looking for a fight?"

"As servants of the Buddha, we do not pick fights," came the sanctimonious reply. "I opened my mouth, and the words came out naturally."

"It must be the voice of heaven," said another priest.

The next instant they were all around Musashi, cursing, taunting, even spitting at him. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to restrain himself. Despite the power the warrior-priests had lost, these latter-day embodiments had lost none of their arrogance.

"Look at him!" sneered one of the priests. "From what the villagers said, I thought he was a self-respecting samurai. Now I
see
he's only a brainless oaf! He doesn't get angry; he doesn't even know how to speak on his own behalf."

The longer Musashi remained silent, the more viciously the tongues wagged. Finally, his face reddening slightly, he said, "Didn't you say something about the voice of heaven speaking through a man?"

"Yes; what of it?"

"Are you suggesting heaven has spoken out against me?"

"You've heard our decision. Don't you understand yet?"

"No."

"I guess you wouldn't. Having no more sense than you do, you deserve to

be pitied. But I daresay in the next life you'll come to your senses!"

When Musashi said nothing, the priest continued, "You'd better be careful

after you leave the mountain. Your reputation is nothing to be proud of." "What does it matter what people say?"

"Listen to him! He still thinks he's right."

"What I did was right! I did nothing base or cowardly in my fight with the Yoshiokas."

"You're talking nonsense!"

"Did I do anything to be ashamed of? Name one thing!"

"You have the gall to say that?"

"I'm warning you. I'll overlook other things, but I won't permit anyone to belittle my sword!"

"Very well,
see
if you can answer one question. We know you put up a brave fight against overwhelming odds. We admire your brute strength. We praise your courage in holding out against so many men. But why did you murder a boy only thirteen years old? How could you be so inhuman as to slaughter a mere child?"

Musashi's face turned pale; his body suddenly felt weak.

The priest went on. "After he lost his arm, Seijūrō became a priest. Denshichirō you killed outright. Genjirō was the only person left to succeed them. By murdering him, you put an end to the House of Yoshioka. Even if it was done in the name of the Way of the Samurai, it was cruel, dastardly. You're not good enough to be described as a monster or a demon. Do you consider yourself human? Do you imagine you should be ranked as a samurai? Do you even belong in this great land of the cherry blossoms?

"No! And this is why the priesthood is expelling you. Whatever the circumstances, slaying the child is unforgivable. A real samurai would commit no crime like that. The stronger a samurai is, the gentler and more considerate he is to the weak. A samurai understands and practices compassion.