Musashi: Bushido Code (7 page)

The house she lived in had been built by their father, Munisai, when he was in charge of military training for the Shimmen clan. As a reward for his excellent service, he'd been honored with the privilege of taking the Shimmen name. Overlooking the river, the house was surrounded by a high dirt wall set on a stone foundation and was much too large for the needs of an ordinary country samurai. Although once imposing, it had become run down. Wild irises were sprouting from the roof, and the wall of the dōjō where Munisai once taught martial arts was completely plastered with white swallow droppings.

Munisai had fallen from favor, lost his status, and died a poor man, not an uncommon occurrence in an age of turmoil. Soon after his death, his servants had left, but since they were all natives of Miyamoto, many still cropped in. When they did, they would leave fresh vegetables, clean the unused rooms, fill the water jars, sweep the path, and in countless other ways help keep the old house going. They would also have a pleasant chat with Munisai's daughter.

When Ogin, who was sewing in an inner room, heard the back door open, she naturally assumed it was one of these former servants. Lost in her work, she gave a jump when Otsū greeted her.

"Oh," she said. "It's you. You gave me a fright. I'm just finishing your obi now. You need it for the ceremony tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. Ogin, I want to thank you for going to so much trouble. I should have sewn it myself, but there was so much to do at the temple, I never would have had time."

"I'm glad to be of help. I have more time on my hands than is good for me. If I'm not busy, I start to brood."

Otsū, raising her head, caught sight of the household altar. On it, in a small dish, was a flickering candle. By its dim light, she saw two dark inscriptions, carefully brush-painted. They were pasted on boards, an offering of water and flowers before them:

The Departed Spirit of Shimmen Takezō, Aged 17.

The Departed Spirit of Hon'iden Matahachi, Same Age.

"Ogin," Otsū said with alarm. "Have you gotten word they were killed?" "Well, no . . . But what else can we think? I've accepted it. I'm sure they met their deaths at Sekigahara."

Otsū shook her head violently. "Don't say that! It'll bring bad luck! They aren't dead, they aren't! I know they'll show up one of these days."

Ogin looked at her sewing. "Do you dream about Matahachi?" she asked softly.

"Yes, all the time. Why?"

"That proves he's dead. I dream of nothing but my brother."

"Ogin, don't say that!" Rushing over to the altar, Otsū tore the inscriptions from their boards. "I'm getting rid of these things. They'll just invite the worst."

Tears streamed down her face as she blew out the candle. Not satisfied with that, she seized the flowers and the water bowl and rushed through the next room to the veranda, where she flung the flowers as far as she could and poured the water out over the edge. It landed right on the head of Takuan, who was squatting on the ground below.

"Aaii! That's cold!" he yelped, jumping up, frantically trying to dry his head with an end of the wrapping cloth. "What're you doing? I came here for a cup of tea, not a bath!"

Otsū laughed until fresh tears, tears of mirth, came. "I'm sorry, Takuan. I really am. I didn't see you."

By way of apology, she brought him the tea he'd been waiting for. When she went back inside, Ogin, who was staring fixedly toward the veranda, asked, "Who is that?"

"The itinerant monk who's staying at the temple. You know, the dirty one. You met him one day, with me, remember? He was lying in the sun on his stomach with his head in his hands, staring at the ground. When we asked him what he was doing, he said his lice were having a wrestling match. He said he'd trained them to entertain him."

"Oh, him!"

"Yes, him. His name's Takuan Sōhō."

"Kind of strange."

"That's putting it mildly."

"What's that thing he's wearing? It doesn't look like a priest's robe." "It isn't. It's a wrapping cloth."

"A wrapping cloth? He is eccentric. How old is he?"

"He says he's thirty-one, but sometimes I feel like his older sister, he's so silly. One of the priests told me that despite his appearance, he's an excellent monk."

"I suppose that's possible. You can't always judge people by their looks. Where's he from?"

"He was born in Tajima Province and started training for the priesthood when he was ten. Then he entered a temple of the Rinzai Zen sect about four years later. After he left, he became a follower of a scholar-priest from the Daitokuji and traveled with him to Kyoto and Nara. Later on he studied under Gudō of the Myōshinji, Laō of Sennan and a whole string of other famous holy men. He's spent an awful lot of time studying!"

"Maybe that's why there's something different about him."

Otsū continued her story. "He was made a resident priest at the Nansōji and was appointed abbot of the Daitokuji by imperial edict. I've never learned why from anyone, and he never talks about his past, but for some reason he ran away after only three days."

Ogin shook her head.

Otsū went on. "They say famous generals like Hosokawa and noblemen like Karasumaru have tried again and again to persuade him to settle down. They even offered to build him a temple and donate money for its upkeep, but he's just not interested. He says he prefers to wander about the countryside like a beggar, with only his lice for friends, I think he's probably a little crazy."

"Maybe from his viewpoint we're the ones who are strange."

"That's exactly what he says!"

"How long will he stay here?"

"There's no way of knowing. He has a habit of showing up one day and disappearing the next."

Standing up near the veranda, Takuan called, "I can hear everything you're saying!"

"Well, it's not as though we're saying anything bad," Otsū replied cheerfully.

"I don't care if you do, if you find it amusing, but you could at least give me some sweet cakes to go with my tea."

"That's what I mean," said Otsū. "He's like this all the time."

"What do you mean, I'm 'like this'?" Takuan had a gleam in his eye. "What about you? You sit there looking as though you wouldn't hurt a fly, acting much more cruel and heartless than I ever would."

"Oh, really? And how am I being cruel and heartless?"

"By leaving me out here helpless, with nothing but tea, while you sit around moaning about your lost lover—that's how!"

The bells were ringing at the Daishōji and the Shippōji. They had started in a measured beat just after dawn and still rang forth now and then long past noon. In the morning a constant procession flowed to the temples: girls in red obis, wives of tradesmen wearing more subdued tones, and here and there an old woman in a dark kimono leading her grandchildren by the hand. At the Shippōji, the small main hall was crowded with worshipers, but the young men among them seemed more interested in stealing a glimpse of Otsū than in taking part in the religious ceremony.

"She's here, all right," whispered one.

"Prettier than ever," added another.

Inside the hall stood a miniature temple. Its roof was thatched with lime leaves and its columns were entwined with wild flowers. Inside this "flower temple," as it was called, stood a two-foot-high black statue of the Buddha, pointing one hand to heaven and the other to earth. The image was placed in a shallow clay basin, and the worshipers, as they passed, poured sweet tea over its head with a bamboo ladle. Takuan stood by with an extra supply of the holy balm, filling bamboo tubes for the worshipers to take home with them for good luck. As he poured, he solicited offerings.

"This temple is poor, so leave as much as you can. Especially you rich folks—I know who you are; you're wearing those fine silks and embroidered obis. You have a lot of money. You must have a lot of troubles too. If you leave a hundredweight of cash for your tea, your worries will be a hundredweight lighter."

On the other side of the flower temple, Otsū was seated at a black-lacquered table. Her face glowed light pink, like the flowers all around her. Wearing her new obi and writing charms on pieces of five-colored paper, she wielded her brush deftly, occasionally dipping it in a gold-lacquered ink box to her right. She wrote:

Swiftly and keenly,

On this best of days,

The eighth of the fourth month,

Bring judgment to bear on those

Insects that devour the crops.

From time immemorial it had been thought in these parts that hanging this practical-minded poem on the wall could protect one from not only bugs, but disease and ill fortune as well. Otsū wrote the same verse scores of times—so often, in fact, that her wrist started to throb and her calligraphy began to reflect her fatigue.

Stopping to rest for a moment, she called out to Takuan: "Stop trying to rob these people. You're taking too much."

"I'm talking to those who already have too much. It's become a burden. It's the essence of charity to relieve them of it," he replied.

"By that reasoning, common burglars are all holy men."

Takuan was too busy collecting offerings to reply. "Here, here," he said to the jostling crowd. "Don't push, take your time, just get in line. You'll have your chance to lighten your purses soon enough."

"Hey, priest!" said a young man who'd been admonished for elbowing in. "You mean me?" Takuan said, pointing to his nose.

"Yeah. You keep telling us to wait our turn, but then you serve the women first."

"I like women as much as the next man."

"You must be one of those lecherous monks we're always hearing stories about."

"That's enough, you tadpole! Do you think I don't know why
you're
here! You didn't come to honor the Buddha, or to take home a charm. You came to get a good look at Otsū! Come on now, own up—isn't that so? You won't get anywhere with women, you know, if you act like a miser."

Otsū's face turned scarlet. "Takuan, stop it! Stop right now, or I'm really going to get mad!"

To rest her eyes, Otsū again looked up from her work and out over the crowd. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of a face and dropped her brush with a clatter. She jumped to her feet, almost toppling the table, but the face had already vanished, like a fish disappearing in the sea. Oblivious of all around her, she dashed to the temple porch, shouting, "Takezō! Takezō!"

The Dowager's Wrath

Matahachi's family, the Hon'iden, were the proud members of a group of rural gentry who belonged to the samurai class but who also worked the land. The real head of the family was his mother, an incorrigibly stubborn woman named Osugi. Though nearly sixty, she led her family and tenants out to the fields daily and worked as hard as any of them. At planting time she hoed the fields and after the harvest threshed the barley by trampling it. When dusk forced her to stop working, she always found something to sling on her bent back and haul back to the house. Often it was a load of mulberry leaves so big that her body, almost doubled over, was barely visible beneath it. In the evening, she could usually be found tending her silkworms.

On the afternoon of the flower festival, Osugi looked up from her work in the mulberry patch to see her runny-nosed grandson racing barefoot across the field.

"Where've you been, Heita?" she asked sharply. "At the temple?" "Uh-huh."

"Was Otsū there?"

"Yes," he answered excitedly, still out of breath. "And she had on a very pretty obi. She was helping with the festival."

"Did you bring back some sweet tea and a spell to keep the bugs away?" "Unh-unh."

The old woman's eyes, usually hidden amid folds and wrinkles, opened wide in irritation. "And why not?"

"Otsū told me not to worry about them. She said I should run right home and tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Takezō, from across the river. She said she saw him. At the festival." Osugi's voice dropped an octave. "Really? Did she really say that, Heita?" "Yes, Granny."

Her strong body seemed to go limp all at once, and her eyes blurred with tears. Slowly she turned, as though expecting to see her son standing behind her.

Seeing no one, she spun back around. "Heita," she said abruptly, "you take over and pick these mulberry leaves."

"Where're you going?"

"Home. If Takezō's back, Matahachi must be too."

"I'll come too."

"No you won't. Don't be a nuisance, Heita."

The old woman stalked off, leaving the little boy as forlorn as an orphan. The farmhouse, surrounded by old, gnarled oaks, was a large one. Osugi ran past it, heading straight for the barn, where her daughter and some tenant farmers were working. While still a fair distance away, she began calling to them somewhat hysterically.

"Has Matahachi come home? Is he here yet?"

Startled, they stared at her as though she'd lost her wits. Finally one of the men said "no," but the old woman seemed not to hear. It was as though in her overwrought state she refused to take no for an answer. When they continued their noncommittal gaze, she began calling them all dunces and explaining what she'd heard from Heita, how if Takezō was back, then Matahachi must be too. Then, reassuming her role as commander in chief, she sent them off in all directions to find him. She herself stayed behind in the house, and every time she sensed someone approaching, ran out to ask if they had found her son yet.

At sunset, still undaunted, she placed a candle before the memorial tablets of her husband's ancestors. She sat down, seemingly lost in prayer, as immobile as a statue. Since everyone was still out searching, there was no evening meal at the house, and when night fell and there was still no news, Osugi finally moved. As if in a trance, she walked slowly out of the house to the front gate. There she stood and waited, hidden in the darkness. A watery moon shone through the oak tree branches, and the mountains looming before and behind the house were veiled in a white mist. The sweetish scent of pear blossoms floated in the air.

Time, too, floated by unnoticed. Then a figure could be discerned approaching, making its way along the outer edge of the pear orchard. Recognizing the silhouette as Otsū's, Osugi called out and the girl ran forward, her wet sandals clomping heavily on the earth.

"Otsū! They told me you saw Takezō. Is that true?"

"Yes, I'm sure it was him. I spotted him in the crowd outside the temple." "You didn't see Matahachi?"

"No. I rushed out to ask Takezō about him, but when I called out, Takezō jumped like a scared rabbit. I caught his eye for a second and then he was gone. He's always been strange, but I can't imagine why he ran away like that."

"Ran away?" asked Osugi with a puzzled air. She began to muse, and the longer she did so, the more a terrible suspicion took shape in her mind. It was becoming clear to her that the Shimmen boy, that ruffian Takezō she so hated for luring her precious Matahachi off to war, was once more up to no good.

At length she said ominously, "That wretch! He's probably left poor Matahachi to die somewhere, then sneaked back home safe and sound. Coward, that's what he is!" Osugi began to shake in fury and her voice rose to a shriek. "He can't hide from me!"

Otsū remained composed. "Oh, I don't think he'd do anything like that. Even if he did have to leave Matahachi behind, surely he'd bring us word or at least some keepsake from him." Otsū sounded shocked by the old woman's hasty accusation.

Osugi, however, was by now convinced of Takezō's perfidy. She shook her head decisively and went on. "Oh, no he wouldn't! Not that young demon! He hasn't got that much heart. Matahachi should never have taken up with him."

"Granny . . ." Otsū said soothingly.

"What?" snapped Osugi, not soothed in the least.

"I think that if we go over to Ogin's house, we just might find Takezō there."

The old woman relaxed a bit. "You might be right. She is his sister, and there really isn't anyone else in this village who'd take him in."

"Then let's go and see, just the two of us."

Osugi balked. "I don't see why I should do that. She knew her brother had dragged my son off to war, but she never once came to apologize or to pay her respects. And now that he's back, she hasn't even come to tell me. I don't see why I should go to her. It's demeaning. I'll wait here for her."

"But this isn't an ordinary situation," replied Otsū. "Besides, the main thing at this point is to see Takezō as soon as we can. We've got to find out what happened. Oh, please, Granny, come. You won't have to do anything. I'll take care of all the formalities if you like."

Grudgingly, Osugi allowed herself to be persuaded. She was, of course, as eager as Otsū to find out what was going on, but she'd die before begging for anything from a Shimmen.

The house was about a mile away. Like the Hon'iden family, the Shimmen were country gentry, and both houses were descended from the Akamatsu clan many generations back. Situated across the river from one another, they had always tacitly recognized each other's right to exist, but that was the extent of their intimacy.

When they arrived at the front gate, they found it shut, and the trees were so thick that no light could be seen from the house. Otsū started to walk around to the back entrance, but Osugi stopped mulishly in her tracks.

"I don't think it's right for the head of the Hon'iden family to enter the Shimmen residence by the back door. It's degrading."

Seeing she wasn't going to budge, Otsū proceeded to the rear entrance alone. Presently a light appeared just inside the gate. Ogin herself had come out to greet the older woman, who, suddenly transformed from a crone plowing the fields into a great lady, addressed her hostess in lofty tones.

"Forgive me for disturbing you at this late hour, but my business simply could not wait. How good of you to come and let me in!" Sweeping past Ogin and on into the house, she went immediately, as though she were an envoy from the gods, to the most honored spot in the room, in front of the alcove. Sitting proudly, her figure framed by both a hanging scroll and a flower arrangement, she deigned to accept Ogin's sincerest words of welcome.

The amenities concluded, Osugi went straight to the point. Her false smile disappeared as she glared at the young woman before her. "I have been told that young demon of this house has crawled back home. Please fetch him." Although Osugi's tongue was notorious for its sharpness, this undisguised maliciousness came as something of a shock to the gentle Ogin.

"Whom do you mean by 'that young demon'?" asked Ogin, with palpable restraint.

Chameleon-like, Osugi changed her tactics. "A slip of the tongue, I assure you," she said with a laugh. "That's what the people in the village call him; I suppose I picked it up from them. The 'young demon' is Takezō. He is hiding here, isn't he?"

"Why, no," replied Ogin with genuine astonishment. Embarrassed to hear her brother referred to in this way, she bit her lip.

Otsū, taking pity on her, explained that she had spotted Takezō at the festival. Then, in an attempt to smooth over ruffled feelings, she added, "Strange, isn't it, that he didn't come straight here?"

"Well, he didn't," said Ogin. "This is the first I've heard anything about it. But if he is back, as you say, I'm sure he'll be knocking at the door any minute."

Osugi, sitting formally on the floor cushion, legs tucked neatly beneath her, folded her hands in her lap and with the expression of an outraged mother-in-law, launched into a tirade.

"What is all this? Do you expect me to believe you haven't heard from him yet? Don't you understand that I'm the mother whose son your young ne'er-do-well dragged off to war? Don't you know that Matahachi is the heir and the most important member of the Hon'iden family? It was your brother who talked my boy into going off to get himself killed. If my son is dead, it's your brother who killed him, and if he thinks he can just sneak back alone and get away with it . . ."

The old woman stopped just long enough to catch her breath, then her eyes glared in fury once more. "And what about you? Since he's obviously had the indecency to sneak back by himself, why haven't you, his older sister, sent him immediately to me? I'm disgusted with both of you, treating an old woman with such disrespect. Who do you think I am?"

Gulping down another breath, she ranted on. "If your Takezō is back, then bring my Matahachi back to me. If you can't do that, the least you can do is set that young demon down right here and make him explain to my satisfaction what happened to my precious boy and where he is—right now!"

"How can I do that? He isn't here."

"That's a black lie!" she shrieked. "You must know where he is!"

"But I tell you I don't!" Ogin protested. Her voice quivered and her eyes

filled with tears. She bent over, wishing with all her might her father were

still alive.

Suddenly, from the door opening onto the veranda, came a cracking noise, followed by the sound of running feet.

Osugi's eyes flashed, and Otsū started to stand up, but the next sound was a hair-raising scream—as close to an animal's howl as the human voice is capable of producing.

A man shouted, "Catch him!"

Then came the sound of more feet, several more, running around the house, accompanied by the snapping of twigs and the rustling of bamboo.

"It's Takezō!" cried Osugi. Jumping to her feet, she glared at the kneeling Ogin and spat out her words. "I knew he was here," she said ferociously. "It was as clear to me as the nose on your face. I don't know why you've tried to hide him from me, but bear in mind, I'll never forget this."

She rushed to the door and slid it open with a bang. What she saw outside turned her already pale face even whiter. A young man wearing shin plates was lying face up on the ground, obviously dead but with fresh blood still streaming from his eyes and nose. Judging from the appearance of his shattered skull, someone had killed him with a single blow of a wooden sword.

"There's . . . there's a dead . . . a dead man out there!" she stammered.

Otsū brought the light to the veranda and stood beside Osugi, who was staring terror-stricken at the corpse. It was neither Takezō's nor Matahachi's, but that of a samurai neither of them recognized.

Osugi murmured, "Who could've done this?" Turning swiftly to Otsū, she said, "Let's go home before we get mixed up in something."

Otsū couldn't bring herself to leave. The old woman had said a lot of vicious things. It would be unfair to Ogin to leave before putting salve on the wounds. If Ogin had been lying, Otsū felt she must doubtless have had good reason. Feeling she should stay behind to comfort Ogin, she told Osugi she would be along later.

"Do as you please," snapped Osugi, as she made her departure.

Ogin graciously offered her a lantern, but Osugi was proudly defiant in her refusal. "I'll have you know that the head of the Hon'iden family is not so senile that she needs a light to walk by." She tucked up her kimono hems, left the house and walked resolutely into the thickening mist.

Not far from the house, a man called her to a halt. He had his sword drawn, and his arms and legs were protected by armor. He was obviously a professional samurai of a type not ordinarily encountered in the village.

"Didn't you just come from the Shimmen house?" he asked.

"Yes, but—"

"Are you a member of the Shimmen household?"

"Certainly not!" Osugi snapped, waving her hand in protest. "I am the head of the samurai house across the river."

"Does that mean you are the mother of Hon'iden Matahachi, who went with Shimmen Takezō to the Battle of Sekigahara?"

"Well, yes, but my son didn't go because he wanted to. He was tricked into going by that young demon."

"Demon?"

"That . . . Takezō!"

"I gather this Takezō is not too well thought of in the village."

"Well thought of? That's a laugh. You never saw such a hoodlum! You can't

imagine the trouble we've had at my house since my son took up with him." "Your son seems to have died at Sekigahara. I'm—"