Musashi: Bushido Code (100 page)

Kojirō's voice was venomous. "I gather from your discussion that you still haven't learned, that you've decided to write a letter of challenge and have it delivered to me. Well, I've saved you the trouble. I'm here, ready to fight.

"Last night, before I'd even washed the blood off my hands, I came to the conclusion there'd be a sequel, so I followed you sniveling cowards home."

He paused to let this sink in, then continued in an ironic tone. "I was wondering how you decide on the time and place to challenge an enemy. Do you consult a horoscope to pick the most propitious day? Or do you consider it wiser not to draw your swords until there comes a dark night when your opponent is drunk and on his way home from the licensed quarter?"

He paused again, as though waiting for an answer.

"Have you nothing to say? Isn't there a single red-blooded man among you? If you're so eager to fight me, come on. One at a time, or all at once—it's all the same to me! I wouldn't run from the likes of you if you were in full armor and marching to the beat of drums!"

No sound came from the cowed men.

"What's the matter with you?" The pauses grew longer. "Have you decided not to challenge me? ... Isn't there even one among you with some backbone? "All right, it's time now to open your stupid ears and listen.

"I am Sasaki Kojirō. I learned the art of the sword indirectly from the great Toda Seigen after his death. I know the secrets of unsheathing invented by Katayama Hisayasu, and I have myself created the Ganryū Style. I'm not like those who deal in theory, who read books and listen to lectures on Sun-tzu or the
Six Secrets.
In spirit, in will, you and I have nothing in common.

"I don't know the details of your daily study, but I'm showing you now what the science of fighting is all about in real life. I'm not bragging. Think! When a man is set upon in the dark as I was last night, if he has the good fortune to win, what does he do? If he's an ordinary man, he goes as quickly as he can to a safe place. Once there, he thinks back over the incident and congratulates himself on having survived. Isn't that right? Isn't that what you would do?

"But did I do that? No! Not only did I cut down half of your men, I followed the stragglers home and waited here, right under your noses. I listened while you tried to make up your weak minds, and I took you completely by surprise. If I wanted to, I could attack now and smash you to bits. That's what it means to be a military man! That's the secret of military science!

"Some of you have said Sasaki Kojirō is just a swordsman, that he had no business coming to a military school and shooting off his mouth. How far do I have to go to convince you how wrong you are? Perhaps today I'll also prove to you that I'm not only the greatest swordsman in the country but also a master of tactics!

"Ha, ha! This is turning into quite a little lecture, isn't it? I'm afraid if I continue to pour out my fund of knowledge, poor Obata Kagenori may find himself out of a stipend. That wouldn't do, would it?

"Oh, I'm thirsty, Koroku! Jūrō! Get me some water!"

"Right away, sir!" they replied in unison from beside the shrine, where they had been watching in rapt admiration.

Having brought him a large earthen cup of water, Jūrō asked eagerly, "What are you going to do, sir?"

"Ask them!" Kojirō sneered. "Your answer's in those weasely, empty faces." "Did you ever see men look so stupid?" Koroku laughed.

"What a gutless bunch," said Jūrō. "Come on, sir, let's go. They're not going to stand up to you."

While the three of them swaggered through the shrine gate, Shinzō, concealed among the trees, muttered through clenched teeth, "I'll get you for this."

The students were despondent. Kojirō had outwitted and defeated them; then he'd gloated, leaving them frightened and humiliated.

The silence was broken by a student running up and asking in a bewildered tone, "Did we order coffins?" When no one replied, he said, "The coffin-maker's just arrived with five coffins. He's waiting."

Finally, one of the group answered dispiritedly, "The bodies have been sent for. They haven't arrived yet. I'm not sure, but I think we'll need one more coffin. Ask him to make it, and put the ones he brought in the storehouse."

That night a wake was held in the lecture hall. Though everything was done quietly, in the hope that Kagenori would not hear, he was able to guess more or less what had occurred. He refrained from asking questions, nor did Shinzō make any comment.

From that day, the stigma of defeat hung over the school. Only Shinzō, who had urged restraint and been accused of cowardice, kept alive the desire for revenge. His eyes harbored a glint that none of the others could fathom.

In early fall, Kagenori's illness worsened. Visible from his bedside was an owl perched on a limb of a large zelkova tree, staring, never moving, hooting at the moon in the daytime. Shinzō now heard in the owl's hoot the message that his master's end was near.

Then a letter arrived from Yogorō, saying he had heard about Kojirō and was on his way home. For the next few days, Shinzō wondered which would come first, the arrival of the son or the death of the father. In either case, the day for which he was waiting, the day of his release from his obligations, was at hand.

On the evening before Yogorō was expected, Shinzō left a farewell letter on his desk and took his leave of the Obata School. From the woods near the shrine, he faced Kagenori's sickroom and said softly, "Forgive me for leaving without your permission. Rest at ease, good master. Yogorō will be home tomorrow. I don't know if I can present Kojirō's head to you before you die, but I must try. If I should die trying, I shall await you in the land of the dead."

A Plate of Loaches

Musashi had been roaming the countryside, devoting himself to ascetic practices, punishing his body to perfect his soul. He was more resolved than ever to go it alone: if that meant being hungry, sleeping out in the open in cold and rain and walking about in filthy rags, then so be it. In his heart was a dream that would never be satisfied by taking a position in Lord Date's employ, even if his lordship were to offer him his entire three-million-bushel fief.

After the long trip up the Nakasendō, he had spent only a few nights in Edo before taking to the road again, this time north to Sendai. The money given him by Ishimoda Geki had been a burden on his conscience; from the moment he'd discovered it, he'd known he'd find no peace until it was returned.

Now, a year and a half later, he found himself on Hōtengahara, a plain in Shimōsa Province, east of Edo, little changed since the rebellious Taira no Masakado and his troops had rampaged through the area in the tenth century. The plain was a dismal place still, sparsely settled and growing nothing of value, only weeds, a few trees and some scrubby bamboo and rushes. The sun, low on the horizon, reddened the pools of stagnant water but left the grass and brush colorless and indistinct.

"What now?" Musashi mumbled, resting his weary legs at a crossroads. His body felt listless and still waterlogged from the cloudburst he'd been caught in a few days earlier at Tochigi Pass. The raw evening damp made him eager to find human habitation. For the past two nights he'd slept under the stars, but now he longed for the warmth of a hearth and some real food, even simple peasant fare such as millet boiled with rice.

A touch of saltiness in the breeze suggested that the sea was near. If he headed toward it, he reasoned, he just might find a house, perhaps even a fishing village or small port. If not, then he'd have to resign himself to yet another night in the autumn grasses, under the great autumn moon.

He realized with no small hint of irony that were he a more poetic type, he might savor these moments in a poignantly lonely landscape. As it was, he wanted only to escape it, to be with people, to have some decent food and get some rest. Yet the incessant buzzing of the insects seemed to be reciting a litany to his solitary wandering.

Musashi stopped on a dirt-covered bridge. A definite splashing noise seemed to rise above the peaceful rippling of the narrow river. An otter? In the fading daylight, he strained his eyes until he could just make out a figure kneeling in the hollow by the water's edge. He chuckled to note that the face of the young boy peering up at him was distinctly otter-like.

"What are you up to down there?" Musashi called in a friendly voice. "Loaches," was the laconic reply. The boy was shaking a wicker basket in the water to clean the mud and sand off his wriggling catch.

"Catch many?" Musashi inquired, loath to sever this newly found bond with another human.

"Aren't many around. It's already fall."

"How about letting me have some?"

"My loaches?"

"Yes, just a handful. I'll pay you for them."

"Sorry. These are for my father." Hugging the basket, he leapt nimbly up the bank and was off like a shot into the darkness.

"Speedy little devil, I must say." Musashi, alone once again, laughed. He was reminded of his own childhood and of Jōtarō. "I wonder what's become of him," he mused. Jōtarō had been fourteen when Musashi had last seen him. Soon he would be sixteen. "Poor boy. He accepted me as his teacher, loved me as his teacher, served me as his teacher, and what did I do for him? Nothing."

Absorbed in his memories, he forgot his fatigue. He stopped and stood still. The moon had risen, bright and full. It was on nights like this that Otsū liked to play the flute. In the insects' voices he heard the sound of laughter, Otsū’s and Jōtarō's together.

Turning his head to one side, he spotted a light. He turned the rest of his body in the same direction and made straight for it.

Lespedeza grew all around the isolated shack, almost as high as the lopsided roof. The walls were covered with calabash vines, the blossoms looking from a distance like enormous dewdrops. As he drew nearer, he was startled by the great angry snort of an unsaddled horse tied up beside the hovel.

"Who's there?"

Musashi recognized the voice coming from the shack as that of the boy with the loaches. Smiling, he called, "How about putting me up for the night? I'll leave first thing in the morning."

The boy came to the door and looked Musashi over carefully. After a moment, he said, "All right. Come in."

The house was as rickety as any Musashi had ever seen. Moonlight poured through cracks in the walls and roof. After removing his cloak, he couldn't find even a peg to hang it on. Wind from below made the floor drafty, despite the reed mat covering it.

The boy knelt before his guest in formal fashion and said, "Back there at the river you said you wanted some loaches, didn't you? Do you like loaches?"

In these surroundings, the boy's formality so surprised Musashi that he merely stared.

"What are you looking at?"

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

Musashi was impressed by his face. It was as dirty as a lotus root just pulled out of the ground, and his hair looked and smelled like a bird's nest. Yet there was character in his expression. His cheeks were chubby, and his eyes, shining like beads through the encircling grime, were magnificent.

"I have a little millet and rice," said the boy hospitably. "And now that I've given some to my father, you can have the rest of the loaches, if you want them."

"Thanks."

"I suppose you'd like some tea too."

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble."

"Wait here." He pushed open a screechy door and went into the next room.

Musashi heard him breaking firewood, then fanning the flame in an earthen hibachi. Before long, the smoke filling the shack drove a host of insects outdoors.

The boy came back with a tray, which he placed on the floor in front of Musashi. Falling to immediately, Musashi devoured the salty broiled loaches, the millet and rice and the sweetish black bean paste in record time.

"That was good," he said gratefully.

"Was it really?" The boy seemed to take pleasure in another person's happiness.

A well-behaved lad, thought Musashi. "I'd like to express my thanks to the head of the house. Has he gone to bed?"

"No; he's right in front of you." The boy pointed at his own nose. "Are you here all alone?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I see." There was an awkward pause. "And what do you do for a living?" Musashi asked.

"I rent out the horse and go along as a groom. We used to farm a little too. ... Oh, we've run out of lamp oil. You must be ready for bed anyway, aren't you?"

Musashi agreed that he was and lay down on a worn straw pallet spread next to the wall. The hum of the insects was soothing. He fell asleep, but perhaps because of his physical exhaustion, he broke into a sweat. Then he dreamed he heard rain falling.

The sound in his dream made him sit up with a start. No mistake about it. What he heard now was a knife or sword being honed. As he reached reflexively for his sword, the boy called in to him, "Can't you sleep?"

How had he known that? Amazed, Musashi said, "What are you doing sharpening a blade at this hour?" The question was uttered so tensely that it sounded more like the counterblow of a sword than an inquiry.

The boy broke into laughter. "Did I scare you? You look too strong and brave to be frightened so easily."

Musashi was silent. He wondered if he had come upon an all-seeing demon in the guise of a peasant boy.

When the scraping of the blade on the whetstone began again, Musashi went to the door. Through a crack, he could see that the other room was a kitchen with a small sleeping space at one end. The boy was kneeling in the moonlight next to the window with a large jug of water at his side. The sword he was sharpening was of a type farmers used.

"What do you intend to do with that?" asked Musashi.

The boy glanced toward the door but continued with his work. After a few more minutes, he wiped the blade, which was about a foot and a half long, and held it up to inspect it. It glistened brightly in the moonlight.

"Look," he said, "do you think I can cut a man in half with this?"

Depends on whether you know how."

"Oh, I'm sure I do."

"Do you have someone particular in mind?"

"My father."

"Your
father?"
Musashi pushed open the door. "I hope that's not your idea of a joke."

"I'm not joking."

"You can't mean you intend to kill your father. Even the rats and wasps in this forsaken wilderness have better sense than to kill their parents."

"But if I don't cut him in two, I can't carry him."

"Carry him where?"

"I have to take him to the burial ground."

"You mean he's dead?"

"Yes."

Musashi looked again at the far wall. It had not occurred to him that the bulky shape he had seen there might be a body. Now he saw that it was indeed the corpse of an old man, laid out straight, with a pillow under its head and a kimono draped over it. By its side was a bowl of rice, a cup of water and a helping of broiled loaches on a wooden plate.

Recalling how he had unwittingly asked the boy to share the loaches intended as an offering to the dead man's spirit, Musashi felt a twinge of embarrassment. At the same time, he admired the boy for having the coolness to conceive of cutting the body into pieces so as to be able to carry it. His eyes riveted on the boy's face, for a few moments he said nothing.

"When did he die?"

"This morning."

"How far away is the graveyard?"

"It's up in the hills."

"Couldn't you have got somebody to take him there for you?"

"I don't have any money."

"Let me give you some."

The boy shook his head. "No. My father didn't like to accept gifts. He didn't like to go to the temple either. I can manage, thank you."

From the boy's spirit and courage, his stoic yet practical manner, Musashi suspected that his father had not been born an ordinary peasant. There had to be something to explain the son's remarkable self-sufficiency.

In deference to the dead man's wishes, Musashi kept his money and instead offered to contribute the strength needed to transport the body in one piece. The boy agreed, and together they loaded the corpse on the horse. When the road got steep, they took it off the horse, and Musashi carried it on his back. The graveyard turned out to be a small clearing under a chestnut tree, where a solitary round stone served as a marker.

After the burial, the boy placed some flowers on the grave and said, "My grandfather, grandmother and mother are buried here too." He folded his hands in prayer. Musashi joined him in silent supplication for the family's repose.

"The gravestone doesn't seem to be very old," he remarked. "When did your family settle here?"

"During my grandfather's time."

"Where were they before that?"

"My grandfather was a samurai in the Mogami clan, but after his lord's defeat, he burned our genealogy and everything else. There was nothing left."

"I don't see his name carved on the stone. There's not even a family crest or a date."

"When he died, he ordered that nothing appear on the stone. He was very strict. One time some men came from the Gamō fief, another time from the Date fief, and offered him a position, but he refused. He said a samurai shouldn't serve more than one master. That was the way he was about the stone too. Since he'd become a farmer, he said putting his name on it would reflect shame on his dead lord."

"Do you know your grandfather's name?"

"Yes. It was Misawa Iori. My father, since he was only a farmer, dropped the surname and just called himself San'emon."

"And your name?"

"Sannosuke."

"Do you have any relatives?"

"An older sister, but she went away a long time ago. I don't know where she is."

"No one else?"

"No."

"How do you plan to make your living now?"

"Same as before, I guess." But then he added hurriedly, "Look, you're a
shugyōsha,
aren't you? You must travel around just about everywhere. Take me with you. You can ride my horse and I'll be your groom."

As Musashi turned the boy's request over in his mind, he gazed out upon the land below them. Since it was fertile enough to support a plethora of weeds, he could not understand why it was not cultivated. It was certainly not because the people hereabouts were well off; he had seen evidence of poverty everywhere.

Civilization, Musashi was thinking, does not flourish until men have learned to exercise control over the forces of nature. He wondered why the people here in the center of the Kanto Plain were so powerless, why they allowed themselves to be oppressed by nature. As the sun rose, Musashi caught glimpses of small animals and birds reveling in the riches that man had not yet learned to harvest. Or so it seemed.

He was soon reminded that Sannosuke, despite his courage and independence, was still a child. By the time the sunlight made the dewy foliage glisten and they were ready to start back, the boy was no longer sad, seemed in fact to have put all thoughts of his father completely out of mind.