Musashi: Bushido Code (134 page)

Musashi had been surprised when Matahachi had broken down and wept. He hadn't suspected he was capable of such depth of feeling. And when he'd stood up to leave, Matahachi clutched his sleeve and begged for an answer. "Let me think about it," was all Musashi could say. Now he cursed himself for being a coward and lamented his inability to overcome his inertia.

Musashi thought sadly that those who have not suffered from this malady cannot know its agony. It was not a matter merely of being idle, which is often a pleasant state, but of wanting desperately to do something and not being able to. Musashi's mind and eyes seemed dull and empty. Having gone as far as he could in one direction, he found himself powerless either to retreat or to embark on a new path. It was like being imprisoned in a place with no exit. His frustration bred self-doubt, recrimination, tears.

Getting angry with himself, recalling all the things he had done wrong, did not help. It was because he was experiencing early symptoms of his ailment that he had parted with Iori and Gonnosuke and severed ties with his friends in Edo. But his intention to kick through the shell before it was well formed had failed. The shell was still there, enclosing his empty self like the abandoned skin of a cicada.

He walked on irresolutely. The wide expanse of the Yahagi River came into view, and the wind coming off the river felt cool on his face.

Suddenly, warned by a piercing whistle, he leapt to one side. The shot passed within five feet of him, and the report of a musket reverberated across the river. Counting two breaths between the bullet and the sound, Musashi concluded the gun had been fired from quite a distance. He jumped under the bridge and clung batlike to a post.

Several minutes passed before three men came running down Hachijō Hill like pine cones driven by the wind. Near the end of the bridge, they stopped and began searching for the body. Convinced he'd scored a hit, the musketeer threw away the fuse. He was dressed in darker clothes than the other two and masked, only his eyes visible.

The sky had lightened a little and brass ornaments on the gun butt gave off a soft glow.

Musashi couldn't imagine who in Okazaki wanted him dead. Not that there was any shortage of candidates. In the course of his battles, he had defeated many men who might still burn with the desire for revenge. He had killed many others whose families or friends might wish to pursue a vendetta.

Any person who followed the Way of the Sword was constantly in danger of being killed. If he survived one close call, chances were that by that very act he made new enemies or created a new peril. Danger was the grindstone on which the swordsman whetted his spirit. Enemies were teachers in disguise.

To be taught by danger to be alert even when asleep, to learn from enemies at all times, to use the sword as a means of letting people live; governing the realm, achieving enlightenment, sharing one's joys in life with others—they were all inherent in the Way of the Sword.

As Musashi crouched under the bridge, the cold reality of the situation stimulated him and his lassitude evaporated. Breathing very shallowly, noiselessly, he let his attackers approach. Failing to find the corpse, they searched the deserted road and the space under the end of the bridge.

Musashi's eyes widened. Though dressed in black, like bandits, the men carried samurai swords and were well shod. The only samurai in the district were those serving the House of Honda in Okazaki and the Owari House of Tokugawa in Nagoya. He was not aware of having enemies in either fief.

One man dived into the shadows and recovered the fuse, then lit it and waved it, leading Musashi to think there were more men across the bridge. He couldn't move, not now anyway. If he showed himself, he would invite more musket fire. Even if he gained the opposite bank, danger, perhaps greater danger, lay waiting. But he couldn't stay where he was much longer, either. Knowing he had not crossed the bridge, they would move in on him and possibly discover his hiding place.

His plan came to him like a flash of light. It was not reasoned out by the theories of the Art of War, which constituted the fiber of the trained warrior's intuition. To reason out a mode of attack was a dilatory process, often resulting in defeat in situations where speed was of the essence. The warrior's instinct was not to be confused with animal instinct. Like a visceral reaction, it came from a combination of wisdom and discipline. It was an ultimate reasoning that went beyond reason, the ability to make the right move in a split second without going through the actual process of thinking.

"There's no point in your trying to hide," he shouted. "If you're looking for me, I'm right here." The wind was fairly strong now; he wasn't sure whether his voice carried or not.

The question was answered by another shot. Musashi, of course, was no longer there. While the bullet was still in the air, he jumped nine feet nearer the end of the bridge.

He rushed into their midst. They separated slightly, facing him from three directions but totally lacking in coordination. He struck downward at the man in the middle with his long sword, simultaneously slicing laterally with his short sword at the man on his left. The third man fled across the bridge, running, stumbling and bouncing off the railing.

Musashi followed at a walk, keeping to one side and stopping from time to time to listen. When nothing more happened, he went home and to bed.

The next morning two samurai appeared at his house. Finding the entranceway full of children's sandals, they went around to the side.

"Are you Muka
Sensei?"
asked one. "We're from the House of Honda." Musashi looked up from his writing and said, "Yes, I'm Muka."

"Is your real name Miyamoto Musashi? If it is, don't try to conceal it." "I'm Musashi."

"I believe you're acquainted with Watari Shima."

"I don't think I know him."

"He says he's been at two or three haiku parties when you were present." "Now that you mention it, I do remember him. We met at the house of a mutual friend."

"He was wondering if you wouldn't come and spend an evening with him."

"If he's looking for someone to compose haiku with, he has the wrong man. Though it's true I've been invited to a few such parties, I'm a simple man with little experience in such matters."

"I think what he has in mind is discussing the martial arts with you."

Musashi's pupils were staring worriedly at the two samurai. For a few moments, Musashi gazed at them too, then said, "In that case, I shall be delighted to call on him. When?"

"Could you come this evening?"

"Fine."

"He'll send a palanquin for you."

"That's very kind of him. I'll be waiting."

After they'd gone, he turned back to his pupils. "Come, now," he said. "You mustn't let yourselves be distracted. Get back to work. Look at me. I'm practicing too. You have to learn to concentrate so completely that you don't even hear people talking or cicadas singing. If you're lazy when you're young, you'll turn out like me and have to practice after you're grown." He laughed and looked around at the ink-smeared faces and hands.

By twilight, he had donned a
hakama
and was ready to go. Just as he was reassuring the brush seller's wife, who looked ready to cry, that he would be safe, the palanquin arrived—not the simple basket type seen around town but a lacquered sedan chair, which was accompanied by two samurai and three attendants.

Neighbors, dazzled by the sight, crowded around and whispered. Children called their friends and chattered excitedly.

"Only great people ride in palanquins like that."

"Our teacher must be somebody."

"Where's he going?"

"Will he ever come back?"

The samurai closed the door of the palanquin, cleared the people out of the way, and they set off.

While not knowing what to expect, Musashi suspected there was a connection between the invitation and the incident at Yahagi Bridge. Perhaps Shima was going to take him to task for killing two Honda samurai. Then again, maybe Shima was the person behind the spying and the surprise attack and was now ready to confront Musashi openly. Not believing any good could come from tonight's meeting, Musashi resigned himself to facing a difficult situation. Speculation wouldn't get him very far. The Art of War demanded that he find out where he stood and act accordingly.

The palanquin rocked gently, like a boat at sea. Hearing the wind soughing through the pines, he thought they must be in the forest near the north castle wall. He did not look like a man bracing himself for an unpredictable onslaught. Eyes half shut, he appeared to be dozing.

After the castle gate grated open, the pace of the bearers was slower, the samurai's tones more subdued. They passed flickering lanterns and came to the castle buildings. When Musashi alighted, servants ushered him silently but politely to an open pavilion. Since the blinds were rolled up on all four sides, the breeze wafted through in pleasant waves. The lamps dimmed and flared riotously. It did not seem like the sweltering summer night it was.

"I am Watari Shima," said his host. He was a typical Mikawa samurai—sturdy, virile, alert but not ostensibly so, betraying no signs of weakness.

"I am Miyamoto Musashi." The equally simple reply was accompanied by a bow.

Shima returned the bow, said, "Make yourself comfortable," and proceeded to the point without further formalities. "I'm told you killed two of our samurai last night. Is that true?"

"Yes, it is." Musashi stared at Shima's eyes.

"I owe you an apology," said Shima gravely. "I heard about the incident today when the deaths were reported. There was an investigation, of course. Though I've known your name for a long time, I did not know until now that you were living in Okazaki.

"As for the attack, I was told you were fired on by a group of our men, one of whom is a disciple of Miyake Gumbei, a martial expert of the Tōgun Style."

Musashi, sensing no subterfuge, accepted Shima's words at face value, and the story unfolded gradually. Gumbei's disciple was one of several Honda samurai who had studied at the Yoshioka School. The firebrands among them got together and decided to kill the man who had put an end to the glory of the Yoshioka School.

Musashi knew Yoshioka Kempō's name was still revered throughout the country. In western Japan, particularly, it would have been difficult to find a fief in which there were no samurai who had not studied under him. Musashi told Shima he understood their hatred of him but regarded it as a personal grudge rather than a legitimate reason for revenge in accordance with the Art of War.

Shima apparently agreed. "I called the survivors in and reprimanded them. I hope you'll forgive us and forget the matter. Gumbei, too, was very displeased. If you don't mind, I'd like to introduce him to you. He would like to offer his apologies."

"That's not necessary. What happened was a common occurrence for any man committed to the martial arts."

"Even so—"

"Well, let's dispense with the apologies. But if he'd like to talk about the Way, I'd be delighted to meet him. The name is familiar."

A man was sent for Gumbei, and when the introductions were over, the talk turned to swords and swordsmanship.

Musashi said, "I'd like to hear about the Tōgun Style. Did you create it?"

"No," replied Gumbei. "I learned it from my teacher, Kawasaki Kaginosuke, from Echizen Province. According to the manual he gave me, he developed it while living as a hermit on Mount Hakuun in Kōzuke. He seems to have learned many of his techniques from a Tendai monk named Tōgumbo.... But tell me about yourself. I've heard your name mentioned a number of times. I had the impression you were older. And since you're here, I wonder if you'd favor me with a lesson." The tone was friendly. Nevertheless, this was an invitation to battle.

"Some other time," Musashi replied lightly. "I should be going now. I don't really know the way home."

"When you go," said Shima, "I'll send someone with you."

"When I heard two men had been cut down," Gumbei went on, "I went over to take a look. I found I couldn't reconcile the positions of the bodies with the wounds, so I questioned the man who escaped. His impression was that you were using two swords at once. Could that be true?"

With a smile, Musashi said he had never done so consciously. He regarded what he was doing as fighting with one body and one sword.

"You shouldn't be so modest," said Gumbei. "Tell us about it. How do you practice? What do the weights have to be for you to use two swords freely?"

Seeing he wasn't going to be able to leave before he gave some sort of explanation, he directed his eyes around the room. They came to rest on two muskets in the alcove and he asked to borrow them. Shima consented, and Musashi went to the middle of the room holding the two weapons by the barrels, one in each hand.

Musashi raised one knee and said, "Two swords are as one sword. One sword is as two swords. One's arms are separate; they both belong to the same body. In all things, the ultimate reasoning is not dual but single. All styles and all factions are alike in this respect. I will show you."

The words came out spontaneously and when they stopped, he raised his arm and said, "By your leave." Then he began twirling the muskets. They spun around like reels, creating a small whirlwind. The other men blanched.

Musashi stopped and drew his elbows to his sides. He walked over to the alcove and put the muskets back. With a slight laugh, he said, "Perhaps that will help you to understand." Offering no further explanation, he bowed to his host and took his leave. Astounded, Shima forgot all about sending someone with him.

Outside the gate, Musashi turned for a final look, relieved to be out of Watari Shima's grasp. He still did not know the man's real intentions, but one thing was clear. Not only was his identity known; he had become involved in an incident. The wisest thing would be to leave Okazaki this very night.