Musashi: Bushido Code (145 page)

Soon a second boat arrived with a messenger from Funashima, sent to hurry Musashi along.

Musashi opened his eyes at the sound of shoji opening. There was no need for Otsuru to announce her presence. When she told him about the boat from Funashima, he nodded and smiled affably. "I see," he said, and left the room.

Otsuru glanced at the floor where he had been sitting. The piece of paper was now heavily blotched with ink. At first the picture looked like an indistinct cloud, but she soon saw that it was a landscape of the "broken ink" variety. It was still wet.

"Please give that picture to your father," Musashi called above the sound of splashing water. "And the other one to Sasuke."

"Thank you. You really shouldn't have done it."

"I'm sorry I don't have anything better to offer, after all the trouble you've gone to, but I hope your father will accept it as a keepsake."

Otsuru replied thoughtfully, "Tonight, by all means, come back and sit by the fire with my father, as you did last night."

Hearing the rustling of clothes in the next room, Otsuru felt pleased. At last he was getting dressed. Then there was silence again, and the next thing she knew, he was talking to her father. The conversation was very brief, only a few succinct words. As she passed through the next room, she noticed he had neatly folded his old clothes and placed them in a box in the corner. An indescribable loneliness seized her. She bent over and nestled her face against the still warm kimono.

"Otsuru!" called her father. "What are you doing? He's leaving!"

"Yes, Father." She brushed her fingers over her cheeks and eyelids and ran to join him.

Musashi was already at the garden gate, which he had chosen to avoid being seen. Father, daughter and four or five others from the house and shop came as far as the gate. Otsuru was too overwrought to utter a word. When Musashi's eyes turned toward her, she bowed like the others.

"Farewell," said Musashi. He went through the low gate of woven grass, closed it behind him and said, "Take good care of yourselves." By the time they raised their heads, he was walking rapidly away.

They stared after him, but Musashi's head did not turn.

"I guess that's the way it's supposed to be with samurai," someone mumbled. "He leaves—just like that: no speech, no elaborate good-byes, nothing."

Otsuru disappeared immediately. A few seconds later, her father retreated into the house.

The Heike Pine stood in solitude about two hundred yards up the beach. Musashi walked toward it, his mind completely at rest. He had put all his thoughts into the black ink of the landscape painting. It had felt good to be painting, and he considered his effort a success.

Now for Funashima. He was setting forth calmly, as though this were any other journey. He had no way of knowing whether he would ever return, but he had stopped thinking about it. Years ago, when at the age of twenty-two he had approached the spreading pine at Ichijōji, he had been very keyed up, shadowed by a sense of impending tragedy. He had gripped his lonely sword with intense determination. Now he felt nothing.

It was not that the enemy today was less to be feared than the hundred men he had confronted then. Far from it. Kojirō, fighting alone, was a more formidable opponent than any army the Yoshioka School could have mounted against him. There was not the least doubt in Musashi's mind but that he was going into the fight of his life.

"Sensei!"

"Musashi!"

Musashi's mind did a turn at the sound of the voices and the sight of two people running toward him. For an instant he was dazed.

"Gonnosuke!" he exclaimed. "And Granny! How did you two get here?" Both, grimy from travel, knelt in the sand in front of him.

"We had to come," said Gonnosuke.

"We came to see you off," said Osugi. "And I came to apologize to you." "Apologize? To me?"

"Yes. For everything. I must ask you to forgive me."

He looked inquiringly at her face. The words sounded unreal. "Why do you say that, Granny? Has something happened?"

She stood with her hands clasped pleadingly. "What can I say? I've done so many evil things, I can't hope to apologize for all of them. It was all ... all a horrible mistake. I was blinded by my love for my son, but now I know the truth. Please forgive me."

He stared at her for a moment, then knelt and took her hand. He dared not raise his eyes, for fear there might be tears in them. Seeing the old woman so contrite made him feel guilty. But he felt gratitude too. Her hand trembled; even his was quivering slightly.

It took him a moment to pull himself together. "I believe you, Granny. I'm grateful to you for coming. Now I can face death without regrets, go into the bout with my spirit free and my heart untroubled."

"Then you'll forgive me?"

"Of course I will, if you'll forgive me for all the trouble I've caused you since I was a boy."

"Of course; but enough of me. There's another person who needs your help. Someone who's very, very sad." She turned, inviting him to look.

Under the Heike Pine, looking shyly at them, her face pale and dewy with anticipation, stood Otsū.

"Otsū!" he shouted. In a second, he was before her, not knowing himself how his feet had transported him there. Gonnosuke and Osugi stood where they were, wishing they could disappear into thin air and leave the shore to the couple alone.

"Otsū, you've come."

Words did not exist to bridge the chasm of years, to convey the world of feeling brimming inside him.

"You don't look well. Are you ill?" He mumbled the words, like an isolated line from a long poem.

"A little." Eyes lowered, she struggled to remain cool, to keep her wits about her. This moment—perhaps the last—must not be spoiled, nor wasted.

"Is it just a cold?" he asked. "Or something serious? What's wrong? Where have you been these past few months?"

"I went back to the Shippōji last fall."

"Back home?"

"Yes." She looked straight at him, her eyes becoming as limpid as the ocean depths, struggling to hold back the tears. "But there's no real home for an orphan like me. Only the home inside me."

"Don't talk like that. Why, even Osugi seems to have opened her heart to you. That makes me very happy. You must recover your health and learn to be happy. For me."

"I'm happy now."

"Are you? If that's true, I'm happy too.... Otsū . . ." He bent toward her. She stood stiffly, conscious of Osugi and Gonnosuke. Musashi, who had forgotten them, put his arm around her and brushed his cheek against hers.

"You're so thin ... so thin." He was acutely conscious of her fevered breathing. "Otsū, please forgive me. I may seem heartless, but I'm not, not where you're concerned."

"I ... I know that."

"Do you? Truly?"

"Yes, but I beg you, say one word for me. Just one word. Tell me that I'm your wife."

"It would spoil it if I told you what you know already."

"But ... but . . ." She was sobbing with her whole body, but with a burst of strength, she seized his hand and cried, "Say it. Say I'm your wife throughout this life."

He nodded, slowly, silently. Then one by one he pulled her delicate fingers from his arm and stood erect. "A samurai's wife must not weep and go to pieces when he goes off to war. Laugh for me, Otsū. Send me away with a smile. This may be your husband's last departure."

Both knew the time had come. For a brief moment, he looked at her and smiled. Then he said, "Until then."

"Yes. Until then." She wanted to return his smile but only managed to hold back the tears.

"Farewell." He turned and walked with firm strides toward the water's edge. A parting word rose to her throat but refused to be uttered. The tears welled up irrepressibly. She could no longer see him.

The strong, salty wind ruffled Musashi's sideburns. His kimono flapped briskly.

"Sasuke! Bring the boat a little closer."

Though he had been waiting for over two hours and knew Musashi was on the beach, Sasuke had carefully kept his eyes averted. Now he looked at Musashi and said, "Right away, sir."

With a few strong, rapid movements, he poled the boat in. When it touched shore, Musashi jumped lightly into the prow, and they moved out to sea. "Otsū! Stop!" The shout was Jōtarō's.

Otsū was running straight toward the water. He raced after her. Startled, Gonnosuke and Osugi joined in the chase.

"Otsū, stop! What are you doing?"

"Don't be foolish!"

Reaching her simultaneously, they threw their arms around her and held her back.

"No, no," she protested, shaking her head slowly. "You don't understand." "Wh-what are you trying to do?"

"Let me sit down, by myself." Her voice was calm.

They released her, and she walked with dignity to a spot a few yards away, where she knelt on the sand, seemingly exhausted. But she had found her strength. She straightened her collar, smoothed her hair, and bowed toward Musashi's little craft.

"Go without regrets," she said.

Osugi knelt and bowed. Then Gonnosuke. And Jōtarō. After coming all the way from Himeji, Jōtarō had missed his chance to speak to Musashi, despite his intense yearning to say a parting word. His disappointment was softened by the knowledge that he had given his share of Musashi's time to Otsū.

The Soul of the Deep

With the tide at its peak, the water coursed through the strait like a swollen torrent in a narrow ravine. The wind was to their rear, and the boat moved swiftly across the waves. Sasuke looked proud; he intended to be praised for his work with the scull today.

Musashi was seated in the middle of the boat, his knees spread wide. "Does it take long to get there?" he asked.

"Not very long with this tide, but we're late."

"Mm
.
"

"It's well after eight o'clock."

"Yes, it is, isn't it? What time do you think we'll get there?"

"It'll probably be ten or a little after."

"That's just right."

The sky Musashi looked at that day—the sky Ganryū looked at—was a deep azure. Snow covering the ridge of the Nagato Mountains looked like a white streamer fluttering across a cloudless sky. The houses of the city of Mojigasaki and the wrinkles and crevices of Mount Kazashi were clearly discernible. On the mountainsides, droves of people were straining their eyes toward the islands.

"Sasuke, may I have this?"

"What is it?"

"This broken oar in the bottom of the boat."

"I don't need it. Why do you want it?"

"It's about the right size," Musashi said cryptically. He held the slightly waterlogged oar out with one hand and squinted down it to see if it was straight. One edge of the blade was split off.

He placed the oar on his knee and, totally absorbed, began carving with his short sword. Sasuke cast backward glances toward Shimonoseki several times, but Musashi seemed oblivious of the people he had left behind. Was this the way a samurai approached a life-and-death battle? To a townsman like Sasuke, it seemed cold and heartless.

Musashi finished his carving and brushed the chips from his
hakama.
"Do you have something I could put around me?" he asked.

"Are you cold?"

"No, but the water's splashing in."

"There should be a quilted coat under the seat."

Musashi picked up the garment and threw it over his shoulders. Then he took some paper from his kimono and began rolling and twisting each sheet into a string. When he had accumulated more than twenty of these, he twisted them together end to end to make two cords, which he then braided to make a
tasuki,
the band used to tie sleeves back when fighting. Sasuke had heard that making
tasuki
from paper was a secret art, passed down from generation to generation, but Musashi made the process look easy. Sasuke watched with admiration the deftness of his fingers and the grace with which he slipped the
tasuki
over his arms.

"Is that Funashima?" asked Musashi, pointing.

"No. That's Hikojima, part of the Hahajima group. Funashima's a thousand yards or so to the northeast. It's easy to recognize because it's flat and looks like a long sandbar. There between Hikojima and Izaki is the Strait of Ondo. You've probably heard of it."

"To the west, then, that must be Dairinoura in Buzen Province." "That's right."

"I remember now. The inlets and islands around here were where Yoshitsune won the last battle against the Heike."

Sasuke was growing more nervous with each stroke of the scull. He had broken out in a cold sweat; his heart was palpitating. It seemed eerie to be talking about inconsequential matters. How could a man going into battle be so calm?

It would be a fight to the death; no question about that. Would he be taking a passenger back to the mainland later? Or a cruelly maimed corpse? There was no way of knowing. Musashi, thought Sasuke, was like a white cloud floating across the sky.

This was not a pose on Musashi's part, for in fact he was thinking of nothing at all. He was, if anything, a little bored.

He looked over the side of the boat at the swirling blue water. It was deep here, infinitely deep, and alive with what seemed to be eternal life. But water had no fixed, determined form. Was it not because man had a fixed, determined form that he cannot possess eternal life? Does not true life begin only when tangible form has been lost?

To Musashi's eyes, life and death seemed like so much froth. He felt goose pimples on his skin, not from the cold water but because his body felt a premonition. Though his mind had risen above life and death, body and mind were not in accord. When every pore of his body, as well as his mind, forgot, there would remain nothing inside his being but the water and the clouds.

They were passing Teshimachi Inlet on Hikojima. Unseen by them were some forty samurai standing watch on the shore. All were supporters of Ganryū, and most were in the service of the House of Hosokawa. In violation of Tadatoshi's orders, they had crossed over to Funashima two days earlier. In the event that Ganryū was beaten, they were ready to take revenge.

This morning, when Nagaoka Sado, Iwama Kakubei and the men assigned to stand guard arrived on Funashima, they discovered this band of samurai, upbraided them severely and ordered them to go to Hikojima. But since most of the officials were in sympathy with them, they went unpunished. Once they were off Funashima, it was not the officials' responsibility what they did.

"Are you sure it's Musashi?" one of them was saying.

"It has to be."

"Is he alone?"

"He seems to be. He's got a cloak or something around his shoulders." "He probably has on light armor and wants to hide it."

"Let's go."

Tensely eager for battle, they piled into their boats and lay in readiness. All were armed with swords, but in the bottom of each boat lay a long lance.

"Musashi's coming!"

The cry was heard around Funashima only moments later.

The sound of the waves, the voices of the pines and the rustling of the bamboo grass blended softly. Since early morning the little island had had a desolate air, despite the presence of the officials. A white cloud rising from the direction of Nagato grazed past the sun, darkening the tree and bamboo leaves. The cloud passed, and brightness returned.

It was a very small island. At the north end was a low hill, covered with pine trees. To the south the ground was level at a height about half that of the hill until the island dropped off into the shoals.

A canopy had been hung between some trees at a considerable distance from the shore. The officials and their attendants waited quietly and inconspicuously, not wishing to give Musashi the impression that they were trying to add to the dignity of the local champion.

Now, two hours past the appointed time, they were beginning to show their anxiety and resentment. Twice they had sent fast boats out to hurry Musashi on.

The lookout from the reef ran up to the officials and said, "It's him! No doubt about it."

"Has he really come?" asked Kakubei, rising involuntarily, and by doing so committing a serious breach of etiquette. As an official witness, he was expected to remain coolly reserved. His excitement was only natural, however, and was shared by others in his party, who also stood up.

Realizing his gaffe, Kakubei brought himself under control and motioned to the others to sit down again. It was essential that they not allow their personal preference for Ganryū to color their actions or their decision. Kakubei glanced toward Ganryū's waiting area. Tatsunosuke had hung a curtain with a gentian crest from several wild peach trees. Next to the curtain was a new wooden bucket with a bamboo-handled ladle. Ganryū, impatient after his long wait, had asked for a drink of water and was now resting in the shade of the curtain.

Nagaoka Sado's position was beyond Ganryū's and slightly higher. He was surrounded by guards and attendants, Iori at his side. When the lookout arrived with his news, the boy's face—even his lips—turned pale. Sado was seated in formal fashion, straight and motionless. His helmet shifted slightly to his right, as though he were looking at the sleeve of his kimono. In a low voice, he called Iori's name.

"Yes, sir." Iori bowed to the ground before looking up under Sado's helmet. Unable to control his excitement, he was trembling from head to feet.

"Iori," said Sado, looking straight into the boy's eyes. "Watch everything that happens. Don't miss a single thing. Keep in mind that Musashi has laid his life on the line to teach you what you are about to see."

Iori nodded. His eyes sparkled like flames as he fixed his gaze on the reef. The white spray of the waves breaking against it dazzled his eyes. It was about two hundred yards away, so it would be impossible for him to see the small movements and the breathing of the fighters. But it was not the technical aspects Sado wanted him to watch. It was the dramatic moment when a samurai enters a life-and-death struggle. This was what would live on in his mind and influence him throughout his life.

The waves of grass rose and fell. Greenish insects darted hither and thither. A small, delicate butterfly moved from one blade of grass to another, then was seen no more.

"He's nearly here," gasped Iori.

Musashi's boat approached the reef slowly. It was almost exactly ten o'clock.

Ganryū stood up and walked unhurriedly down the hillock behind the waiting stations. He bowed to the officials on his right and left and walked quietly through the grass to the shore.

The approach to the island was an inlet of sorts, where waves became wavelets, then mere ripples. Musashi could see the bottom through the clear blue water.

"Where should I land?" asked Sasuke, who had tempered his stroke and was scanning the shore with his eyes.

"Go straight in." Musashi threw off the quilted coat.

The bow advanced at a very restrained pace. Sasuke could not bring himself to stroke with vigor; his arms moved only slightly, exerting little force. The sound of bulbuls was in the air.

"Sasuke."

"Yes, sir."

"It's shallow enough here. There's no need to get too close. You don't want to damage your boat. Besides, it's about time for the tide to turn."

Silently, Sasuke fixed his eyes on a tall, thin pine tree, standing alone. Underneath it, the wind was playing with a brilliant red cloak.

Sasuke started to point but realized that Musashi had already seen his opponent. Keeping his eyes on Ganryū, Musashi took a russet hand towel from his obi, folded it in four lengthwise, and tied it around his windblown hair. Then he shifted his short sword to the front of his obi. Taking off his long sword, he laid it in the bottom of the boat and covered it with a reed mat. In his right hand, he held the wooden sword he had made from the broken oar.

"This is far enough," he said to Sasuke.

Ahead of them was nearly two hundred feet of water. Sasuke took a couple of long strokes with the scull. The boat lurched forward and grounded on a shoal, the keel shuddering as it rose.

At that moment, Musashi, his
hakama
hitched high on both sides, jumped lightly into the sea, landing so lightly he made barely a splash. He strode rapidly toward the waterline, his wooden sword cutting through the spray.

Five steps. Ten steps. Sasuke, abandoning his scull, watched in wonderment, unconscious of where he was, what he was doing.

As Ganryū streaked away from the pine like a red streamer, his polished scabbard caught the glint of the sun.

Sasuke was reminded of a silver fox tail. "Hurry!" The word flashed through his mind, but Ganryū was already at the water's edge. Sasuke, sure that Musashi was done for, couldn't bear to watch. He fell face down in the boat, chilled and trembling, hiding his face as if he were the one who might at any moment be split in two.

"Musashi!"

Ganryū planted his feet resolutely in the sand, unwilling to give up an inch. Musashi stopped and stood still, exposed to the water and the wind. A hint of a grin appeared on his face.

"Kojirō," he said quietly. There was an unearthly fierceness in his eyes, a force pulling so irresistibly it threatened to draw Kojirō inexorably into peril and destruction. The waves washed his wooden sword.

Ganryū's were the eyes that shot fire. A bloodthirsty flame burned in his pupils, like rainbows of fierce intensity, seeking to terrify and debilitate. "Musashi!"

No answer.

"Musashi!"

The sea rumbled ominously in the distance; the tide lapped and murmured at the two men's feet.

"You're late again, aren't you? Is that your strategy? As far as I'm concerned, it's a cowardly ploy. It's two hours past the appointed time. I was here at eight, just as I promised. I've been waiting."

Musashi did not reply.

"You did this at Ichijōji, and before that at the Rengeōin. Your method seems to be to throw your opponent off by deliberately making him wait. That trick will get you nowhere with Ganryū. Now prepare your spirit and come forward bravely, so future generations won't laugh at you. Come ahead and fight, Musashi!" The end of his scabbard rose high behind him as he drew the great Drying Pole. With his left hand, he slid the scabbard off and threw it into the water.

Waiting just long enough for a wave to strike the reef and retreat, Musashi suddenly said in a quiet voice, "You've lost, Kojirō."

"What?" Ganryū was shaken to the core.

"The fight's been fought. I say you've been defeated."

"What are you talking about?"

"If you were going to win, you wouldn't throw your scabbard away. You've cast away your future, your life."

"Words! Nonsense!"

"Too bad, Kojirō. Ready to fall? Do you want to get it over with fast?" "Come ... come forward, you bastard!"

"H-o-o-o!" Musashi's cry and the sound of the water rose to a crescendo together.

Stepping into the water, the Drying Pole positioned high above his head, Ganryū faced Musashi squarely. A line of white foam streaked across the surface as Musashi ran up on shore to Ganryū's left. Ganryū pursued.