Musashi: Bushido Code (109 page)

She draws water, builds the fire,

Pounds the grain, makes the flour.

At night when she returns,

Before she reaches the house,

She hears the baby's crying

And is filled with love.

Her chest heaves, her heart cries out,

The milk flows forth, she cannot bear it.

She runs to the house.

The baby, seeing its mother approach from afar,

Works its brain, shakes its head,

And wails for her.

She bends her body,

Takes the child's two hands,

Places her lips upon its lips.

There is no greater love than this.

When the child is two,

He leaves the mother's breast.

But without his father, he would not know that fire can burn.

Without his mother, he would not know that a knife can cut off fingers.

When he is three, he is weaned and learns to eat.

Without his father, he would not know that poison can kill.

Without his mother, he would not know that medicine cures.

When the parents go to other houses

And are presented with marvelous delicacies,

They do not eat but put the food in their pockets

And take it home for the child, to make him rejoice...."'

"You blubbering again?"

"I can't help it. I just remembered something."

"Cut it out. You'll have me doing it too."

Sentimentality with regard to parents was strictly taboo among these denizens of society's outer edge, for to express filial affection was to invite charges of weakness, effeminacy or worse. But it would have done Osugi's aging heart good to see them now. The sutra reading, possibly because of the simplicity of the language, had reached the core of their being.

"Is that all? Isn't there any more?"

"There's lots more."

"Well?"

"Wait a minute, will you?" Jūrō stood up, blew his nose loudly and sat down to intone the rest.

"'The child grows.

The father brings cloth to clothe him.

The mother combs his locks.

The parents give every beautiful thing they possess to him,

Keeping for themselves only that which is old and worn.

The child takes a bride

And brings this stranger into the house.

The parents become more distant.

The new husband and wife are intimate with each other.

They stay in their own room, talking happily with each other."'

"That's the way it works, all right," broke in a voice.

"'The parents grow old.

Their spirits weaken, their strength diminishes.

They have only the child to depend on,

Only his wife to do things for them.

But the child no longer comes to them,

Neither at night nor in the daytime.

Their room is cold.

There is no more pleasant talk.

They are like lonely guests at an inn.

A crisis arises, and they call their child.

Nine times in ten, he comes not,

Nor does he serve them.

He grows angry and reviles them,

Saying it would be better to die

Than to linger on unwanted in this world.

The parents listen, and their hearts are filled with rage.

Weeping, they say, "When you were young,

Without us, you would not have been born,

Without us, you could not have grown.

Ah! How we—""'

Jūrō broke off abruptly and threw the text aside. "I ... I can't. Somebody else read it."

But there was no one to take his place. Lying on their backs, sprawled out on their bellies, sitting with their legs crossed and their heads drooping between their knees, they were as tearful as lost children.

Into the middle of this unlikely scene walked Sasaki Kojirō.

Spring Shower in Red

"Isn't Yajibei here?" Kojirō asked loudly.

The gamblers were so absorbed in their play, and the weepers in their memories of childhood, that no one replied.

Going over to Jūrō, who was lying on his back with his arms over his eyes, Kojirō said, "May I ask what's going on?"

"Oh, I didn't know it was you, sir." There was a hasty wiping of eyes and blowing of noses as Jūrō and the others pulled themselves to their feet and bowed sheepishly to their sword instructor.

"Are you crying?" he asked.

"Unh, yes. I mean, no."

"You're an odd one."

While the others drifted off, Jūrō began telling about his chance encounter with Musashi, happy to have a subject that might distract Kojirō's attention from the state of the young men's room. "Since the boss is away," he said, "we didn't know what to do, so Osugi decided to go and talk to you."

Kojirō's eyes flared brightly. "Musashi's putting up at an inn in Bakurōchō?"

"He was, but now he's staying at Zushino Kōsuke's house."

"That's an interesting coincidence."

"Is it?"

"It just happens I sent my Drying Pole to Zushino to work on. As a matter of fact, it should be ready now. I came this way today to pick it up."

"You've been there already?"

"Not yet. I thought I'd drop in here for a few minutes first."

"That's lucky. If you'd showed up suddenly, Musashi might have attacked you."

"I'm not afraid of him. But how can I confer with the old lady when she's not here?"

"I don't imagine she's reached Isarago yet. I'll send a good runner to bring her back."

At the council of war held that evening, Kojirō expressed the opinion that there was no reason to wait for Yajibei's return. He himself would serve as Osugi's second, so that she might, at long last, take her proper revenge. Jūrō and Koroku asked to go along too, more for the honor than to help. Though aware of Musashi's reputation as a fighter, they never imagined he might be a match for their brilliant instructor.

Nothing could be done tonight, however. For all her enthusiasm, Osugi was dead tired and complained of a backache. They decided they would carry out their plan the following night.

The next afternoon, Osugi bathed under cold water, blackened her teeth and dyed her hair. At twilight, she made her preparations for battle, first donning a white underrobe she had bought to be buried in and had carried around with her for years. She had had it stamped for good luck at every shrine and temple she visited—Sumiyoshi Shrine in Osaka, Oyama Hachiman Shrine and Kiyomizudera in Kyoto, the Kannon Temple in Asakusa, and dozens of less prominent religious establishments in various parts of the country. The sacred imprints made the robe resemble a tie-dyed kimono; Osugi felt safer than she would have in a suit of mail.

She carefully tucked a letter to Matahachi into the sash under her obi, together with a copy of the
Sutra on the Great Love of Parents.
There was also a second letter, which she always carried in a small money pouch; this said: "Though I am old, it has become my lot to wander about the country in an effort to realize one great hope. There is no way of knowing but that I may be slain by my sworn enemy or die of illness by the wayside. Should this be my fate, I ask the officials and people of goodwill to use the money in this purse to send my body home. Sugi, widow of Hon'iden, Yoshino Village, Mimasaka Province."

With her sword in place, her shins wrapped in white leggings, fingerless gloves on her hands and a blind-stitched obi snugly holding her sleeveless kimono in place, her preparations were nearly complete. Placing a bowl of water on her writing table, she knelt before it and said, "I'm going now." She then closed her eyes and sat motionless, addressing her thoughts to Uncle Gon.

Jūrō opened the shoji a crack and peeked in. "Are you ready?" he asked. "It's about time we were leaving. Kojirō's waiting."

"I'm ready."

Joining the others, she went to the place of honor they had left open for her before the alcove. The Acolyte took a cup from the table, put it in Osugi's hand and carefully poured her a cupful of sake. Then he did the same for Kojirō and Jūrō. When each of the four had drunk, they extinguished the lamp and set forth.

Quite a few of the Hangawara men clamored to be taken along, but Kojirō refused, since a large group would not only attract attention but encumber them in a fight.

As they were going out the gate, one young man called to them to wait. He then struck sparks from a flint to wish them luck. Outside, under a sky murky with rain clouds, nightingales were singing.

As they made their way through the dark, silent streets, dogs started barking, set off, perhaps, by some instinctive sense that these four human beings were on a sinister mission.

"What's that?" Koroku asked, staring back along a narrow lane. "Did you see something?"

"Somebody's following us."

"Probably one of the fellows from the house," said Kojirō. "They were all so eager to come with us."

"They'd rather brawl than eat."

They turned a corner, and Kojirō stopped under the eaves of a house, saying, "Kōsuke's shop's around here, isn't it?" Their voices dropped to whispers. "Down the street, there, on the other side."

"What do we do now?" asked Koroku.

"Proceed according to plan. The three of you hide in the shadows. I'll go to the shop."

"What if Musashi tries to sneak out the back door?"

"Don't worry. He's no more likely to run away from me than I am from him. If he ran away, he'd be finished as a swordsman."

"Maybe we should position ourselves on opposite sides of the house anyway—just in case."

"All right. Now, as we agreed, I'll bring Musashi outside and walk along with him. When we get near Osugi, I'll draw my sword and take him by surprise. That's the time for her to come out and strike."

Osugi was beside herself with gratitude. "Thank you, Kojirō. You're so good to me. You must be an incarnation of the great Hachiman." She clasped her hands and bowed, as if before the god of war himself.

In his heart, Kojirō was thoroughly convinced that he was doing the right thing. Indeed, it is doubtful that ordinary mortals could imagine the vastness of his self-righteousness at the moment he stepped up to Kōsuke's door.

At the beginning, when Musashi and Kojirō had been very young, full of spirit and eager to demonstrate their superiority, there had existed no deep-seated cause for enmity between them. There had been rivalry, to be sure, but only the friction that normally arose between two strong and almost equally matched fighters. What had subsequently rankled with Kojirō was seeing Musashi gradually gaining fame as a swordsman. Musashi, for his part, respected Kojirō's extraordinary skill, if not his character, and always treated him with a certain amount of caution. As the years passed, however, they found themselves at odds over various matters—the House of Yoshioka, the fate of Akemi, the affair of the Hon'iden dowager. Conciliation was by now out of the question.

And now that Kojirō had taken it upon himself to become Osugi's protector, the trend of events bore the unmistakable seal of fate.

"Kōsuke!" Kojirō rapped lightly on the door. "Are you awake?" Light seeped through a crack, but there was no other sign of life inside.

After a few moments, a voice asked, "Who's there?"

"Iwama Kakubei gave you my sword to work on. I've come for it." "The great long one—is that the one?"

"Open up and let me in."

"Just a moment."

The door slid open, and the two men eyed each other. Blocking the way, Kōsuke said curtly, "The sword's not ready yet."

"I see." Kojirō brushed past Kōsuke and seated himself on the step leading up to the shop. "When will it be ready?"

"Well, let's see...." Kōsuke rubbed his chin, pulling the corners of his eyes down and making his long face seem even longer.

Kojirō had the feeling he was being made fun of. "Don't you think it's taking an awful long time?"

"I told Kakubei very clearly I couldn't promise when I'd finish." "I can't do without it much longer."

"In that case, take it back."

"What's this?" Kojirō was taken aback. Artisans didn't talk that way to samurai. But instead of trying to ascertain what might be behind the man's attitude, he jumped to the conclusion that his visit had been anticipated. Thinking it best to act quickly, he said, "By the way, I heard Miyamoto Musashi, from Mimasaka, is staying here with you."

"Where did you hear that?" Kōsuke said, looking anxious. "As it happens, he is staying with us."

"Would you mind calling him? I haven't seen him for a long time, since we were both in Kyoto."

"What's your name?"

"Sasaki Kojirō. He'll know who I am."

"I'll tell him you're here, but I don't know whether he can see you or not." "just a moment."

"Yes?"

"Perhaps I'd better explain. I happened to hear at Lord Hosokawa's house that a man of Musashi's description was living here. I came with the idea of inviting Musashi out to drink a little and talk a little."

"I see." Kōsuke turned and went toward the back of the house.

Kojirō mulled over what to do if Musashi smelled a rat and refused to see him. Two or three stratagems came to mind, but before he had come to a decision, he was startled by a horrendous howling scream.

He jumped like a man who had been savagely kicked. He had miscalculated. His strategy had been seen through—not only seen through but turned against him. Musashi must have sneaked out the back door, gone around to the front and attacked. But who had screamed? Osugi? Jūrō? Koroku?

"If that's the way it is . . ." thought Kojirō grimly, as he ran out into the street. Muscles taut, blood racing, in an instant he was ready for anything. "I have to fight him sooner or later anyway," he thought. He had known this since that day at the pass on Mount Hiei. The time had come! If Osugi had already been struck down, Kojirō swore that Musashi's blood would become an offering for the eternal peace of her soul.

He had covered about ten paces when he heard his name called from the side of the road. The painfully forced voice seemed to clutch at his running footsteps.

"Koroku, is that you?"

"I-I-I've b-been h-h-hit."

"Jūrō! Where's Jūrō?"

"H-him too."

"Where is he?" Before the answer came, Kojirō spotted Jūrō's blood-soaked form about thirty feet away. His entire body bristling with vigilance for his own safety, he thundered, "Koroku! Which way did Musashi go?"

"No ... not ... Musashi." Koroku, unable to lift his head, rolled it from side to side.

"What are you saying? Are you telling me it wasn't Musashi who attacked you?"

"Not ... not ... Musa—"

"Who was it?"

It was a question Koroku would never answer.

His thoughts in a turmoil, Kojirō ran to Jūrō and pulled him up by the red, sticky collar of his kimono. "Jūrō, tell me. Who did it? Which way did he go?"

But Jūrō, instead of answering, used his last tearful breath to say, "Mother ... sorry ... shouldn't have ..."

"What are you talking about?" snorted Kojirō, letting go of the bloody garment.

"Kojirō! Kojirō, is that you?"

Running in the direction of Osugi's voice, he saw the old woman lying helpless in a ditch, straw and vegetable peelings clinging to her face and hair. "Get me out of here," she pleaded.

"What are you doing in that filthy water?"

Kojirō, sounding more angry than sympathetic, yanked her unceremoniously out onto the road, where she collapsed like a rag.

"Where did the man go?" she asked, taking the words out of his mouth. "What man? Who attacked you?"

"I don't know exactly what happened, but I'm sure it was the man who was following us."

"Did he attack suddenly?"

"Yes! Out of nowhere, like a gust of wind. There was no time to speak. He jumped out of the shadows and got Jūrō first. By the time Koroku drew his sword, he was wounded too."

"Which way did he go?"

"He shoved me aside, so I didn't even see him, but the footsteps went that way." She pointed toward the river.

Running across a vacant lot where the horse market was held, Kojirō came to the dike at Yanagihara and stopped to look around. Some distance away, he could see piles of lumber, lights and people.

When he got closer, he saw they were palanquin bearers. "My two companions have been struck down in a side street near here," he said. "I want you to pick them up and take them to the house of Hangawara Yajibei in the carpenters' district. You'll find an old woman with them. Take her too."

"Were they attacked by robbers?"

"Are there robbers around here?"

"Packs of them. Even we have to be careful."

"Whoever it was must have come running out from that corner over there. Didn't you see anyone?"

"Just now, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I'm leaving," said the bearer. He and the others picked up three palanquins and prepared to depart.

"What about the fare?" asked one.