Musashi: Bushido Code (133 page)

Coming back from school, Iori got as far as the street. He stopped and turned pale.

Kojirō, seated atop a large basket, was saying to Sahei, "It's too hot out here. Hasn't our ship docked yet?"

Sahei looked up from the manifest in his hands and pointed toward the pier. "Your ship is the
Tatsumimaru.
It's right over there. As you can see, they haven't finished loading, so your places on board aren't ready yet. I'm sorry."

"I'd much prefer to wait on board. It should be a little cooler there."

"Yes, sir. I'll go and see how things are coming along." Too rushed to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he scurried out to the street, where he caught sight of Iori.

"What're you doing there, looking as though you'd swallowed a ramrod? Go and wait on the passengers. Barley tea, cold water, hot water—give them whatever they want."

Iori went to a shed at the entrance of the alley by the storehouse, where a kettle of water was kept boiling. But instead of going about his business, he stood glaring at Kojirō.

He was usually called Ganryū now, the rather scholarly-sounding name seeming more appropriate to his present age and status. He was heavier and more solid. His face had filled out; his once piercing eyes were serene and untroubled. He no longer made frequent use of his rapier tongue, which in the past had caused so much injury. Somehow the dignity of his sword had become a part of his personality.

One result was that he had gradually been accepted by his fellow samurai. They not only spoke highly of him but actually respected him.

Pouring sweat, Sahei returned from the ship, apologized again for the long wait and announced, "The seats amidship are still not ready, but those in the prow are." This meant the foot soldiers and younger samurai could go on board. They proceeded to gather up their belongings and left in a group. There remained only Kojirō and six or seven older men, all officials of some importance in the fief.

"Sado hasn't come yet, has he?" said Kojirō.

"No, but he should be here before long."

"We'll be getting the sun from the west soon," Sahei said to Kojirō. "It'll be cooler if you move inside."

"The flies are terrible," complained Kojirō. "And I'm thirsty. Could I have another cup of tea?"

"Right away, sir." Without getting up, Sahei shouted toward the hot-water shed. "Io, what are you doing? Bring some tea for our guests." He busily addressed himself to his manifest again, but realizing Iori had not answered, he started to repeat his order. Then he saw the boy approaching slowly with several cups of tea on a tray.

Iori offered tea to each of the samurai, bowing politely each time. Standing

before Kojirō with the last two cups, he said, "Please have some tea."

Kojirō absentmindedly extended his hand but abruptly withdrew it as his

eyes met Iori's. Startled, he exclaimed, "Why, it's—"

Breaking into a grin, Iori said, "The last time I had the bad luck to run into you was in Musashino."

"What's that?" rasped Kojirō, in a tone hardly appropriate to his present status.

He was about to say something else when Iori shouted, "Oh, you remember me?" and slung the tray at his face.

"Oh!" cried Kojirō, grabbing Iori by the wrist. Though the tray missed him, a bit of hot tea caught him in the left eye. The rest of the tea spilled onto his chest and lap. The tray crashed into a corner post.

"You little bastard!" shouted Kojirō. He threw Iori onto the dirt floor and planted one foot on top of him. "Manager," he called angrily. "This brat is one of your boys, isn't he? Come here and hold him down. Even if he is only a child, I won't stand for this."

Frightened out of his wits, Sahei rushed to do as he was told. But somehow Iori managed to draw his sword and take a swing at Kojirō's arm. Kojirō kicked him to the middle of the room and jumped back a pace.

Sahei turned and rushed back, screaming his lungs out. He reached Iori just as the boy jumped to his feet.

"You keep out of this!" Iori cried, then, looking Kojirō straight in the face, he spat out, "Serves you right!" and ran outside.

Kojirō picked up a carrying pole that happened to be handy and threw it at

the boy, scoring a perfect hit behind his knee. Iori landed flat on his face.

At Sahei's command, several men fell on Iori and hauled him back to the

hot-water shed, where a servant was wiping off Kojirō's kimono and
hakama.
"Please forgive this outrage," pleaded Sahei.

"We don't know how to apologize," said one of the assistants.

Without looking at them, Kojirō took a damp towel from the servant and wiped off his face.

Iori had been forced to the ground, his arms bent tightly behind him. "Let me go," he begged, his body writhing in pain. "I won't run away. I'm a samurai's son. I did it on purpose and I'll take my punishment like a man."

Kojirō finished straightening his clothing and smoothed his hair. "Let him go," he said quietly.

Not knowing what to make of the placid expression on the samurai's face, Sahei stammered, "Are ... are you sure it's all right?"

"Yes. But"—the word sounded like a nail being driven into a board—"although I have no intention of becoming involved with a mere child, if you feel he should be punished, I can suggest a method. Pour a dipperful of boiling water over his head. It won't kill him."

"Boiling water!" Sahei recoiled at the suggestion.

"Yes. If you want to let him go, that's all right too."

Sahei and his men looked at each other uncertainly.

"We can't let something like that go unpunished."

"He's always up to no good."

"He's lucky he didn't get killed."

"Bring a rope."

When they started to tie him, Iori fought off their hands. "What are you doing?" he screamed. Sitting on the ground, he said, "I told you I wouldn't run away, didn't I? I'll take my punishment. I had a reason for doing what I did. A merchant might apologize. Not me. The son of a samurai is not going to cry over a little hot water."

"All right," said Sahei. "You asked for it." He rolled up his sleeve, filled a dipper with boiling water and walked slowly toward Iori.

"Shut your eyes, Iori. If you don't, you'll go blind." The voice came from across the street.

Not daring to look to see whose voice it was, Iori shut his eyes. He recalled a story Musashi had told him once in Musashino. It was about Kaisen, a Zen priest highly revered by the warriors of Kai Province. When Nobunaga and Ieyasu attacked Kaisen's temple and put it to the torch, the priest seated himself calmly in the upper floor of the gate and, while burning to death, uttered the words: "If your heart is obliterated through enlightenment, the fire is cool."

"It's only a little dipper of hot water," Iori told himself. "I mustn't think that way." He tried desperately to become a selfless void, free of delusion, without sorrows. Perhaps, if he had been younger, or much older ... but at his age, he was too much a part of the world he lived in.

When was it coming? For a giddy moment, he thought the sweat dripping from his forehead was boiling water. A minute seemed like a hundred years. "Why, it's Sado," said Kojirō.

Sahei and all the others turned and stared at the old samurai.

"What's going on here?" Sado asked, coming across the street with Nuinosuke at his side.

Kojirō laughed and said lightly, "You caught us at an odd moment. They're punishing the boy."

Sado looked intently at Iori. "Punishing him? Well, if he's done something bad, he should be punished. Go right ahead. I'll watch."

Sahei glanced out of the corner of his eye at Kojirō, who sized the situation up immediately and knew he was the one who would be held responsible for the severity of the punishment. "That's enough," he said.

Iori opened his eyes. He had a little trouble focusing them, but when he recognized Sado, he said happily, "I know you. You're the samurai who came to the Tokuganji in Hōtengahara."

"You remember me?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's happened to your teacher, Musashi?"

Iori sniffled and put his hands to his eyes.

Sado's knowing the boy came as a shock to Kojirō. Thinking about it for a moment, he decided it must have something to do with Sado's search for Musashi. But he certainly didn't want Musashi's name to come up in a conversation between himself and the senior retainer. He knew that one of these days he would have to fight Musashi, but it was no longer a strictly private matter.

In fact, a split had developed in both the main line and the branches of the House of Hosokawa, one faction thinking highly of Musashi, the other partial to the former rōnin who was now the clan's chief sword instructor. Some said the real reason the fight was inevitable was behind-the-scenes rivalry between Sado and Kakubei.

To Kojirō's relief, the boatswain of the
Tatsumimaru
arrived just then with word that the ship was ready.

Sado, remaining behind, said, "The ship doesn't leave till sundown, does it?"

"That's right," replied Sahei, who was pacing about the office worrying about the consequences of today's affair.

"I have time for a little rest, then?"

"Plenty of time. Please, have some tea."

Otsuru appeared at the inner door and beckoned to the manager. After listening to her for a couple of minutes, Sahei came back to Sado and said, "The office is not really the place to receive you. It's only a step through the garden to the house. Would you mind going there?"

"That's very kind," replied Sado. "To whom am I indebted? The lady of the house?"

"Yes. She said she'd like to thank you."

"What for?"

Sahei scratched his head. "I, eh, I imagine for seeing that Iori came to no harm. Since the master isn't here ..."

"Speaking of Iori, I'd like to talk to him. Would you call him?"

The garden was what Sado would have expected in the house of a rich Sakai merchant. Though bounded on one side by a storehouse, it was a world apart from the hot, noisy office. Rocks and plants were all freshly watered and there was a running brook.

Osei and Otsuru were kneeling in a small, elegant room facing the garden. There was a wool rug on top of the tatami and trays of cakes and tobacco. Sado noticed the spicy fragrance of mixed incense.

Sitting down at the edge of the room, he said, "I won't come in. My feet are dirty."

While serving him tea, Osei apologized for her employees and thanked him for saving Iori.

Sado said, "I had occasion some time ago to meet that boy. I'm happy to have found him again. How does it happen he's staying in your house?"

After hearing her explanation, Sado told her about his long search for Musashi. They chatted amiably for a while, then Sado said, "I was watching Iori from across the street for several minutes. I admired his ability to remain calm. He conducted himself very well. As a matter of fact, I think it's a mistake to raise a boy with that much spirit in a merchant's establishment. I wonder if you wouldn't consent to turning him over to me. In Kokura, he could be brought up as a samurai."

Osei agreed readily, saying, "It would be the best thing that could possibly happen to him."

Otsuru got up to go look for Iori, but just then he emerged from behind a tree, where he had overheard the whole conversation.

"Do you object to going with me?" asked Sado.

Bursting with happiness, Iori begged to be taken to Kokura.

While Sado drank his tea, Otsuru got Iori ready for the trip: kimono,
hakama,
leggings, basket hat—all new. It was the first time he had ever worn a
hakama.

That evening, as the
Tatsumimaru
spread its black wings and sailed forth under clouds turned golden by the setting sun, Iori looked back at a sea of faces—Otsuru's, her mother's, Sahei's, those of a large group of well-wishers, the face of the city of Sakai.

With a broad smile on his face, he took off his basket hat and waved at them.

The Writing Teacher

The sign at the entrance to a narrow alley in the fishmongers' district of Okazaki read: "Enlightenment for the Young. Lessons in Reading and Writing," and bore the name Muka, who was from all appearances one of the many impoverished but honest rōnin making a living by sharing his warrior-class education with the children of commoners.

The curiously amateurish calligraphy brought a smile to the lips of passersby, but Muka said he wasn't ashamed of it. Whenever it was mentioned, he always replied in the same way: "I'm still a child at heart. I'm practicing along with the children."

The alley ended in a bamboo grove, beyond which was the riding ground of the House of Honda. In fair weather it was always covered by a cloud of dust, since the cavalrymen often practiced from dawn to dusk. The military lineage they were so proud of was that of the famous Mikawa warriors, the tradition that had produced the Tokugawas.

Muka stirred from his midday nap, went to the well and drew water. His solid-gray unlined kimono and gray hood might well have been the dress of a man of forty, but he was in fact not yet thirty. After washing his face, he walked into the grove, where he cut down a thick bamboo with a single sword stroke.

After washing the bamboo at the well, he went back inside. Blinds hanging on one side kept out the dust from the riding ground, but since this was the direction from which light came, the one room seemed smaller and darker than it actually was. A board lay flat in one corner; above it hung an anonymous portrait of a Zen priest. Muka set the piece of bamboo on the board and tossed a bindweed flower into the hollow center.

"Not bad," he thought, as he backed away to examine his work.

Sitting down in front of his table, he took his brush and began practicing, using as models a manual on squarish, formal characters by Ch'u Sui-liang and a rubbing of the priest Kōbō Daishi's calligraphy. He had evidently been progressing steadily during the year he had lived there, for the characters he wrote now were far superior to the ones on the sign.

"May I trouble you?" asked the woman from next door, the wife of a man who sold writing brushes.

"Come in, please," said Muka.

"I only have a minute. I was just wondering.... A few minutes ago I heard a loud noise. It sounded like something breaking. Did you hear it?"

Muka laughed. "That was only me, cutting down a piece of bamboo."

"Oh. I was worried. I thought something might have happened to you. My husband says the samurai prowling around here are out to kill you."

"It wouldn't matter if they did. I'm not worth three coppers anyway."

"You shouldn't be so easygoing. Lots of people get killed for things they don't even remember doing. Think how sad all the girls would be if some harm came to you."

She went on her way, not asking, as she often did, "Why don't you take a wife? It isn't that you don't like women, is it?" Muka never gave a clear answer, though he'd brought it on himself by carelessly revealing enough to suggest that he would make a fine catch. His neighbors knew he was a rōnin from Mimasaka, who liked to study and had lived for a time in Kyoto and in and around Edo. He professed to want to settle down in Okazaki and run a good school. Since his youth, diligence and honesty were apparent, it wasn't surprising that a number of girls had shown an interest in marriage, as well as several parents with eligible daughters.

This small corner of society had a certain fascination for Muka. The brush seller and his wife treated him kindly, the wife teaching him how to cook and sometimes doing his washing and sewing. All in all, he enjoyed living in the neighborhood. Everybody knew everybody else, and all sought out new ways to make their lives interesting. There was always something going on, if not a festival or street dances or a religious celebration, then a funeral or a sick person to be cared for.

That evening he passed the brush seller's house as he and his wife were having dinner. With a click of her tongue, the wife said, "Where does he go? He teaches the children in the morning, takes a nap or studies in the afternoon, then in the evening he's gone. He's just like a bat."

Her husband chuckled. "What's wrong with that? He's single. You ought not to begrudge him his nightly excursions."

In the streets of Okazaki, the sounds of a bamboo flute mingled with the buzzing of captive insects in wooden cages, the rhythmical wail of blind street singers, the cries of vendors of melons and sushi. There was nothing here of the frantic bustle that characterized Edo. Lanterns flickered; people strolled about in summer kimono. In the lingering heat of a summer day, everything seemed relaxed and in its place.

As Muka passed, the girls whispered.

"There he goes again."

"Hmph—paying no attention to anybody, as usual."

Some of the young women bowed to him, then turned to their friends and speculated on his destination.

Muka walked straight on, past the side streets where he might have purchased the favors of the Okazaki harlots, regarded by many to be one of the chief local attractions along the Tōkaidō highroad. At the western edge of town he stopped and stretched, letting the heat out of his sleeves. Ahead of him were the rushing waters of the Yahagi River and the 208-span Yahagi Bridge, the longest on the Tōkaidō. He walked toward the thin figure waiting for him at the first post.

"Musashi?"

Musashi smiled at Matahachi, who was wearing his priest's robe. "Has the master returned?" he asked.

"No."

They walked across the bridge shoulder to shoulder. On a pine-covered hill on the opposite bank stood an old Zen temple. Since the hill was known as Hachijō, the temple had come to be called Hachijōji. They climbed up the dark slope in front of the gate.

"How are things?" asked Musashi. "Practicing Zen must be difficult."

"It is," replied Matahachi, bowing his bluish shaved head dejectedly. "I've often thought of running away. If I have to go through mental torture to become a decent human being, I might as well put my head in a noose and forget about it."

"Don't let it discourage you. You're still only at the beginning. Your real training won't come until after you've appealed to the master and persuaded him to take you as a disciple."

"It's not always impossible. I've learned to discipline myself a little. And whenever I feel low, I think of you. If you can overcome your difficulties, I should be able to overcome mine."

"That's the way it should be. There's nothing I can do that you can't do too."

"Remembering Takuan helps. If it hadn't been for him, I'd have been executed."

"If you can bear up under hardship, you can experience a pleasure greater than the pain," Musashi said solemnly. "Day and night, hour by hour, people are buffeted by waves of pain and pleasure, one after the other. If they try to experience only pleasure, they cease to be truly alive. Then the pleasure evaporates."

"I'm beginning to understand."

"Think of a simple yawn. The yawn of a person who's been working hard is different from the yawn of a lazy man. Lots of people die without knowing the pleasure yawning can bring."

"Umm. I hear talk like that at the temple."

"I hope the day soon comes when I turn you over to the master. I want to ask him for guidance too. I need to know more about the Way."

"When do you suppose he'll come back?"

"It's hard to say. Zen masters sometimes float around the country like a cloud for two or three years at a time. Now that you're here, you should resolve to wait four or five years for him, if it comes to that."

"You, too?"

"Yes. Living in that back alley, among poor and honest people, is good training—part of my education. It's not time wasted."

After leaving Edo, Musashi had passed through Atsugi. Then, driven by doubts about his future, he had disappeared into the Tanzawa Mountains, to emerge two months later more worried and haggard than ever. Solving one problem only led him to another. At times he was so tortured his sword seemed like a weapon turned against him.

Among the possibilities he had considered was choosing the easy way. If he could bring himself to live in a comfortable, ordinary way with Otsū, life would be simple. Almost any fief would be willing to pay him enough to live on, perhaps five hundred to a thousand bushels. But when he put it to himself in the form of a question, the answer was always no. An easy existence imposed restrictions; he could not submit to them.

At other times he felt as lost in base, craven illusions as the hungry demons in hell; then, for a time, his mind would clear, and he would bask in the pleasure of his proud isolation. In his heart there was a continual struggle between light and dark. Night and day, he wavered between exuberance and melancholy. He'd think of his swordsmanship and be dissatisfied. Thinking of how long the Way was, how far he was from maturity, a sickness came over his heart. Other days, the mountain life cheered him and his thoughts strayed to Otsū.

Coming down from the mountains, he'd gone to the Yugyōji in Fujisawa for a few days, then on to Kamakura. It was here that he'd met Matahachi. Determined not to return to a life of indolence, Matahachi was in Kamakura because of the many Zen temples there, but he was suffering from an even deeper sense of malaise than Musashi.

Musashi reassured him, "It's not too late. If you learn self-discipline, you can make a fresh start. It's fatal to tell yourself that it's all over, that you're no good."

He felt constrained to add, "To tell the truth, I myself have run up against a wall. There are times when I wonder if I have any future. I feel completely empty. It's like being confined in a shell. I hate myself. I tell myself I'm no good. But by chastising myself and forcing myself to go on, I manage to kick through the shell. Then a new path opens up before me.

"Believe me, it's a real struggle this time. I'm floundering around inside the shell, unable to do a thing. I came down from the mountains because I remembered a person who I think can help me."

The person was the priest Gudō.

Matahachi said, "He's the one who helped you when you were first seeking the Way, isn't he? Couldn't you introduce me and ask him to accept me as his disciple?"

At first, Musashi was skeptical about Matahachi's sincerity, but after hearing of the trouble he'd been in in Edo, he decided that he really meant it. The two of them made inquiries about Gudō at a number of Zen temples, but learned little. Musashi knew the priest was no longer at the Myōshinji in Kyoto. He had left several years earlier and traveled for some time in the east and northeast. He also knew he was a most erratic man, who might be in Kyoto giving lectures on Zen to the Emperor one day and out wandering the countryside the next. Gudō had been known to stop several times at the Hachijōji in Okazaki, and one priest suggested that might be the best place to wait for him.

Musashi and Matahachi sat in the little shed where Matahachi slept. Musashi often visited him here and they talked late into the night. Matahachi wasn't allowed to sleep in the dormitory, which, like the other buildings of the Hachijōji, was a rustic, thatched-roof affair, since he had not yet been officially accepted as a priest.

"Oh, these mosquitoes!" said Matahachi, waving away smoke from the insect repellent, then rubbing his irritated eyes. "Let's go outside."

They walked to the main hall and sat down on the porch. The grounds were deserted and there was a cool breeze.

"Reminds me of the Shippōji," said Matahachi, his voice barely audible. "It does, doesn't it," said Musashi.

They fell silent. They always did at times like this, thoughts of home invariably bringing back memories of Otsū or Osugi or events neither of them wanted to talk about for fear of upsetting their present relationship.

But after a few moments, Matahachi said, "The hill the Shippōji was on was higher, wasn't it? There isn't any ancient cryptomeria here, though." He paused, stared for a time at Musashi's profile, then said diffidently, "There's a request I've been wanting to make, but . . ."

"What is it?"

"Otsū—" Matahachi began, but immediately choked up. When he thought he could manage it, he went on: "I wonder what Otsū’s doing right now, and what will happen to her. I think of her often these days, apologizing in my heart for what I did. I'm ashamed to admit it, but in Edo I made her live with me. Nothing happened, though. She refused to let me touch her. I guess after I went to Sekigahara, Otsū must have been like a fallen blossom. Now she's a flower blooming on a different tree, in different soil." His face showed his earnestness and his voice was grave.

"Takezō—no ... Musashi: I beg you, marry Otsū. You're the only person who can save her. I've never been able to bring myself to say that, but now that I've decided to become a disciple of Gudō, I'm resigned to the fact that Otsū is not mine. Even so I worry about her. Won't you look for her and give her the happiness she longs for?"

It was about three o'clock in the morning when Musashi started down the dark mountain path. His arms were folded, his head was bowed; Matahachi's words rang in his ears. Anguish seemed to tug at his legs. He wondered how many nights of torment Matahachi must have spent mustering up the courage to speak. Yet it seemed to Musashi that his own dilemma was uglier and more painful.

Matahachi, he thought, was hoping to flee from the flames of the past to the cool salvation of enlightenment—trying, like a baby being born, to find in the twofold mysterious pain of sadness and ecstasy a life worth living.

Musashi had not been able to say, "I can't do that," much less, "I don't want to marry Otsū. She's your fiancée. Repent, purify your heart and win her back." In the end, he had said nothing, for anything he might have said would have been a lie.

Matahachi had pleaded fervently, "Unless I'm sure Otsū will be cared for, it'll do me no good to become a disciple. You're the one who urged me to train and discipline myself. If you're my friend, save Otsū. That's the only way to save me."