Musashi: Bushido Code (12 page)

"My bamboo flute?"

"Yes, let me play it for a while."

"No. Impossible. I never let anyone touch it."

"Why?" Takuan insisted.

"Never mind why!" she cried with a shake of her head.

"What harm would it do to let me use it? Flutes improve the more they're played. I won't hurt it."

"But . . . " Otsū clasped her right hand firmly on the flute in her obi.

She always carried it next to her body, and Takuan knew how much she treasured the instrument. He had never imagined, however, she would refuse to let him play it.

"I really won't break it, Otsū. I've handled dozens of flutes. Oh, come now, at least let me hold it."

"No."

"Whatever happens?"

"Whatever happens."

"You're stubborn!"

"Okay, I'm stubborn."

Takuan gave up. "Well, I'd just as soon listen to you play it. Will you play me just one little piece?"

"I don't want to do that either."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd start to cry, and I can't play the flute when I'm crying."

"Hmm," mused Takuan. While he felt pity for this obstinate tenacity, so characteristic of orphans, he was aware of a void deep within their stubborn hearts. They seemed to him doomed to yearn desperately for that which they could not have, for the parental love with which they were never blessed.

Otsū was constantly calling out to the parents she'd never known, and they to her, but she had no firsthand knowledge of parental love. The flute was the only thing her parents had left her, the only image of them she'd ever had. When, barely old enough to see the light of day, she'd been left like an abandoned kitten on the porch of the Shippōji, the flute had been tucked in her tiny obi. It was the one and only link that might in the future enable her to seek out people of her own blood. Not only was it the image, it was the voice of the mother and father she'd never seen.

"So she cries when she plays it!" thought Takuan. "No wonder she's so reluctant to let anyone handle it, or even to play it herself." He felt sorry for her.

On this third night, for the first time, a pearly moon shimmered in the sky, now and then dissolving behind misty clouds. The wild geese that always migrate to Japan in fall and go home in spring were apparently on their way back north; occasionally their quacking reached them from among the clouds.

Rousing himself from his reverie, Takuan said, "The fire's gone down, Otsū. Would you put some more wood on it? . . . Why, what's the matter? Is something wrong?"

Otsū didn't answer.

"Are you crying?"

Still she said nothing.

"I'm sorry I reminded you of the past. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's nothing," she whispered. "I shouldn't have been so stubborn. Please take the flute and play it." She brought the instrument out from her obi and offered it to him across the fire. It was in a wrapper of old, faded brocade; the cloth was worn, the cords tattered, but there still remained a certain antique elegance.

"May I look at it?" asked Takuan.

"Yes, please do. It doesn't matter anymore."

"But why don't you play it instead of me? I think I really would rather listen. I'll just sit here like this." He turned sideways and clasped his arms around his knees.

"All right. I'm not very good," she said modestly, "but I'll try."

She knelt in formal fashion on the grass, straightened her kimono collar and bowed to the flute laying before her. Takuan said no more. He seemed no longer to even be there; there was only the great lonely universe enveloped in night. The monk's shadowy form might well have been a rock that had rolled down from the hillside and settled on the plain.

Otsū, her white face turned slightly to one side, put the cherished heirloom to her lips. As she wetted the mouthpiece and prepared herself inwardly to play, she seemed a different Otsū altogether, an Otsū embodying the strength and dignity of art. Turning to Takuan, she once again, in proper fashion, disavowed any claim to skill. He nodded perfunctorily.

The liquid sound of the flute began. As the girl's thin fingers moved over the seven holes of the instrument, her knuckles looked like tiny gnomes absorbed in a slow dance. It was a low sound, like the gurgling of a brook. Takuan felt that he himself had turned into flowing water, splashing through a ravine, playing in the shallows. When the high notes sounded, he felt his spirit wafted into the sky to gambol with the clouds. The sound of earth and the reverberations of heaven mingled and were transformed into the wistful sighs of the breeze blowing through the pines, lamenting the impermanence of this world.

As he listened raptly, his eyes closed, Takuan could not help but recall the legend of Prince Hiromasa, who, while strolling on a moonlit night at Suzaku Gate in Kyoto and playing his flute as he walked, heard another flute harmonizing with his. The prince searched out the player and found him in the upper story of the gate. Having exchanged flutes, the two played music together throughout the night. Only later did the prince discover that his companion had been a devil in human form.

"Even a devil," thought Takuan, "is moved by music. How much more deeply must a human being, subject to the five passions, be affected by the sound of the flute in the hands of this beautiful girl!" He wanted to weep but shed no tears. His face sank deeper between his knees, which he unconsciously hugged more tightly.

As the light from the fire gradually faded, Otsū's cheeks turned a deeper red. She was so absorbed in her music that it was difficult to distinguish her from the instrument she was playing.

Was she calling to her mother and father? Were these sounds ascending into the sky really asking, "Where are you?" And was there not mingled with this plea the bitter resentment of a maiden who'd been deserted and betrayed by a faithless man?

She seemed intoxicated by the music, overwhelmed by her own emotions. Her breathing began to show signs of fatigue; tiny beads of sweat appeared around the edges of her hair. Tears flowed down her face. Though the melody was broken by stifled sobs, it seemed to go on and on forever.

And then suddenly there was a movement in the grass. It was no more than fifteen or twenty feet from the fire and sounded like a creeping animal. Takuan's head shot up. Looking straight at the black object, he quietly raised his hand and waved a greeting.

"You over there! It must be chilly in the dew. Come over here by the fire and warm yourself. Come and talk with us, please."

Startled, Otsū stopped playing and said, "Takuan, are you talking to yourself again?"

"Didn't you notice?" he asked, pointing. "Takezō has been over there for some time, listening to you play the flute."

She turned to look, and then, with a shriek, threw her flute at the black form. It was indeed Takezō. He jumped like a startled deer and started to flee.

Takuan, as astonished as Takezō by Otsū's scream, felt as though the net he was so carefully hauling in had broken and the fish escaped. Jumping to his feet, he called out at the top of his lungs, "Takezō! Stop!"

There was overpowering strength in his voice, a commanding force that could not easily be ignored. The fugitive stopped as though nailed to the ground and looked back, a little stupefied. He stared at Takuan with suspicious eyes.

The monk said no more. Slowly crossing his arms on his chest, he stared back at Takezō as steadily as Takezō was staring at him. The two seemed even to be breathing in unison.

Gradually there appeared at the corners of Takuan's eyes the wrinkles that mark the beginning of a friendly smile. Unfolding his arms, he beckoned to Takezō and said, "Now, come here."

At the sound of the words, Takezō blinked; a strange expression came over his dark face.

"Come on over here," Takuan urged, "and we can all talk to each other." There followed a puzzled silence.

"There's lots to eat and we even have some sake. We're not your enemies, you know. Come over by the fire. Let's talk."

More silence.

"Takezō, aren't you making a big mistake? There's a world outside where there are fires and food and drink and even human sympathy. You persist in driving yourself about in your own private hell. You're taking a pretty warped view of the world, you know.

"But I'll stop trying to argue with you. In your condition, you could hardly have much of an ear for reason. Just come over here by the fire. Otsū, warm up the potato stew you made a while ago. I'm hungry too."

Otsū put the pot on the fire, and Takuan placed a jar of sake near the flames to heat it. This peaceful scene allayed Takezō's fears, and he inched nearer. When he was almost on top of them, he stopped and stood still, apparently held back by some inner embarrassment.

Takuan rolled a rock up near the fire and patted Takezō on the back. "You sit here," he said.

Abruptly, Takezō sat down. Otsū, for her part, couldn't even look her ex-fiancé’s friend in the face. She felt as though she were in the presence of an unchained beast.

Takuan, lifting the lid of the pot, said, "It seems to be ready." He stuck the tips of his chopsticks into a potato, drew it out, and popped it into his mouth. Chewing heartily, he proclaimed, "Very nice and tender. Won't you have some, Takezō?"

Takezō nodded and for the first time grinned, showing a set of perfect white teeth. Otsū filled a bowl and gave it to him, whereupon he began alternately to blow on the hot stew and slurp it up in big mouthfuls. His hands trembled and his teeth clattered against the edge of the bowl. Pitifully hungry as he was, the trembling was uncontrollable. Frighteningly so.

"Good, isn't it?" asked the monk, putting down his chopsticks. "How about some sake?"

"I don't want any sake."

"Don't you like it?"

"I don't want any now." After all that time in the mountains, he was afraid it might make him sick.

Presently he said, politely enough, "Thank you for the food. I'm warmed up now."

"Have you had enough?"

"Plenty, thank you." As he handed his bowl back to Otsū, he asked, "Why did you come up here? I saw your fire last night too."

The question startled Otsū and she had no answer ready, but Takuan came to the rescue by saying forthrightly, "To tell the truth, we came here to capture you."

Takezō showed no particular surprise, though he seemed hesitant to take what Takuan had said at face value. He hung his head in silence, then looked from one to the other of them.

Takuan saw that the time had come to act. Turning to face Takezō directly, he said, "How about it? If you're going to be captured anyway, wouldn't it be better to be tied up with the bonds of the Buddha's Law? The daimyō's regulations are law, and the Buddha's Law is law, but of the two, the bonds of the Buddha are the more gentle and humane."

"No, no!" said Takezō, shaking his head angrily.

Takuan continued mildly. "Just listen for a minute. I understand that you are determined to hold out to the death, but in the long run, can you really win?"

"What do you mean, can I win?"

"I mean, can you successfully hold out against the people who hate you, against the laws of the- province and against your own worst enemy, yourself?"

"Oh, I know I've already lost," groaned Takezō. His face was sadly contorted and his eyes brimmed with tears. "I'll be cut down in the end, but before I am I'll kill the old Hon'iden woman and the soldiers from Himeji and all the other people I hate! I'll kill as many as I can!"

"What will you do about your sister?"

"Huh?"

"Ogin. What are you going to do about her? She's locked up in the stockade at Hinagura, you know!"

Despite his earlier resolve to rescue her, Takezō could not answer.

"Don't you think you should start considering the well-being of that good woman? She's done so much for you. And what about your duty to carry on the name of your father, Shimmen Munisai? Have you forgotten that it goes back through the Hirata family to the famous Akamatsu clan of Harima?"

Takezō covered his face with his blackened, now nearly clawed hands, his sharp shoulders piercing upward as they shook in his haggard, trembling body. He broke into bitter sobs. "I . . . I . . . don't know. What . . . what difference does it make now?"

At that, Takuan suddenly clenched his fist and let go with a solid punch to Takezō's jaw.

"Fool!" the monk's voice thundered.

Taken by surprise, Takezō reeled from the blow and before he could recover took another punch on the other side.

"You irresponsible oaf! You stupid ingrate! Since your father and mother and ancestors are not here to punish you, I'll do it for them. Take that!" The monk struck him again, this time knocking him all the way to the ground. "Does it hurt yet?" he asked belligerently.

"Yes, it hurts," the fugitive whined.

"Good. If it hurts, you may still have a little human blood coursing through your veins. Otsū, hand me that rope, please. . . . Well, what are you waiting for? Bring me the rope! Takezō already knows I'm going to tie him up. He's prepared for it. It's not the rope of authority, it's the rope of compassion. There's no reason for you to either fear or pity him. Quick, girl, the rope!"

Takezō lay still on his stomach, making no effort to move. Takuan easily straddled his back. If Takezō had wanted to resist, he could have kicked Takuan in the air like a little paper ball. They both knew that. Yet he lay passively, arms and legs outstretched, as though he'd finally surrendered to some invisible law of nature.