Musashi: Bushido Code (74 page)

The Scent of Aloeswood

The lights in the windows of the houses of pleasure burned brightly, but it was still too early for many customers to be prowling the three main alleys of the district.

At the Ōgiya, one of the younger servants happened to glance toward the entrance. There was something strange about the eyes peeping through a slit in the curtain, below which a pair of feet in dirty straw sandals and the tip of a wooden sword were visible. The young man gave a little jump of surprise, but before he could open his mouth, Jōtarō had entered and stated his business.

"Miyamoto Musashi is in this house, isn't he? He's my teacher. Will you please tell him Jōtarō is here. You might ask him to come out."

The servant's look of surprise was replaced by a stern frown. "Who are you, you little beggar?" he growled. "There's nobody here by that name. What do you mean, sticking your dirty face in here just as business is about to begin? Out!" Clutching Jōtarō's collar, he gave him a hard shove.

Angry as a puffed-up blowfish, Jōtarō screamed, "Stop it! I came here to see my teacher."

"I don't care why you're here, you little pack rat. This Musashi's already caused a lot of trouble. He's not here."

"If he's not here, why can't you just say so? Take your hands off me!"

"You look sneaky. How do I know you're not a spy from the Yoshioka School?"

"That's got nothing to do with me. When did Musashi leave? Where did he go?"

"First you order me around; now you ask for information. You should learn to keep a civil tongue in your head. How should I know where he is?" "If you don't know, all right, but let go of my collar!"

"I'll let go, all right—like this!" He pinched Jōtarō's ear hard, swung him around and pitched him toward the gateway.

"Ouch!" screamed Jōtarō. Crouching, he drew his wooden sword and struck the servant in the mouth, breaking his front teeth.

"O-w-w!" The young man put one hand to his bloody mouth, and with the other, he knocked Jōtarō down.

"Help! Murder!" yelled Jōtarō.

He mustered his strength, as he had when he killed the dog at Koyagyū, and brought his sword down on the servant's skull. Blood spurted from the young man's nose, and with a sound no louder than an earthworm's sigh, he collapsed under a willow tree.

A prostitute on display behind a grille window on the opposite side of the street raised her head and shouted to the next window over: "Look! Can you see! That boy with the wooden sword just killed a man from the Ōgiya! He's getting away!"

In no time the street was filled with people running hither and thither, and the air echoed with bloodthirsty shouts.

"Which way did he go?"

"What did he look like?"

As suddenly as it had started, the hubbub died down, and by the time merrymakers began arriving, the incident had ceased to be a topic of conversation. Fights were common occurrences, and the denizens of the quarter settled or covered up the bloodier ones in short order, so as to avoid investigations by the police.

While the main alleys were lit up like daylight, there were byways and vacant lots where all was completely dark. Jōtarō found a hiding place, then changed it for another. Innocently enough, he thought he'd be able to get away, but in fact the whole quarter was surrounded by a ten-foot wall, made of charred logs sharpened to a point at the top. Having come up against this, he felt his way along it but could not find even a large crack, let alone a gate. As he turned back to avoid one of the alleys, he caught sight of a young girl. As their eyes met, she called softly and beckoned with a delicate white hand.

"Are you calling me?" he asked guardedly. He saw no evil intent in her thickly powdered face, so he went a little nearer. "What is it?"

"Aren't you the boy who came to the Ōgiya and asked for Miyamoto Musashi?" she asked gently.

"Yes."

"Your name's Jōtarō, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Come with me. I'll take you to Musashi."

"Where is he?" Jōtarō asked, growing suspicious again.

The girl stopped and explained that Yoshino Dayū, seriously concerned about the incident with the servant, had sent her to look for Jōtarō and take him to Musashi's place of hiding.

With a look of gratitude, he asked, "Are you Yoshino Dayū's servant?" "Yes. And you can relax now. If she stands up for you, no one in the quarter can touch you."

"Is my teacher really there?"

"If he wasn't, why would I be showing you the way?"

"What's he doing in a place like this?"

"If you open the door of that little farmhouse right over there, you can see for yourself. Now I have to go back to my work." She disappeared quietly beyond the shrubbery in the neighboring garden.

The farmhouse seemed too modest to be the end of his search, but he could not leave without making sure. To reach a side window, he rolled a rock from the garden over to the wall, perched on it and pressed his nose against the bamboo grille.

"He is there!" he said, keeping his voice down and concealing his presence with some difficulty. He yearned to reach out and touch his master. It had been so long!

Musashi was asleep by the hearth, his head resting on his arm. His attire was like nothing Jōtarō had ever seen him in before—a silk kimono with large figured designs, of the sort favored by the stylish young men about town. Spread out on the floor was a red woolen cloth; on it lay a painter's brush, an ink box and several pieces of paper. On one sheet Musashi had practiced sketching an eggplant, on another, the head of a chicken.

Jōtarō was shaken. "How can he waste his time drawing pictures?" he thought angrily. "Doesn't he know Otsū is sick?"

A heavy embroidered cloak half covered Musashi's shoulders. It was unquestionably a woman's garment, and the gaudy kimono—disgusting. Jōtarō sensed an aura of voluptuousness, in which there lurked evil. As had happened on New Year's Day, a wave of bitter indignation at the corrupt ways of adults swept over him. "There's something wrong with him," he thought. "He's not himself."

As vexation slowly turned to mischievousness, he decided he knew what to do. "I'll give him a good scare," he thought. Very quietly, he started to lower himself from the rock.

"Jōtarō," Musashi called. "Who brought you here?"

The boy caught himself and looked through the window again. Musashi was still lying down, but his eyes were half open and he was grinning.

Jōtarō sped around to the front of the house, ran in through the front door, and threw his arms around Musashi's shoulders.

"Sensei!"
he burbled happily.

"So you've come, have you?" Lying on his back, Musashi stretched out his arms and hugged the boy's dirty head to his chest. "How did you know I was here? Did Takuan tell you? It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Without loosening his embrace, Musashi sat up. Jōtarō, nestled against the warm chest he had almost forgotten, wiggled his head like a Pekingese.

Jōtarō moved his head to Musashi's knee and lay still. "Otsū's sick in bed. You can't imagine how badly she wants to see you. She keeps saying she'd be all right if only you'd come. Just once, that's all she wants."

"Poor Otsū."

"She saw you on the bridge on New Year's Day, talking with that crazy girl. Otsū got angry and shut herself up in her shell, like a snail. I tried to drag her to the bridge, but she wouldn't come."

"I don't blame her. I was upset with Akemi that day too."

"You have to go see her. She's at Lord Karasumaru's house. Just go in and say, 'Look, Otsū, I'm here.' If you do that, she'll get well right away."

Jōtarō, eager to get his point across, said much more, but this was the substance of it. Musashi grunted occasionally, once or twice saying, "Is that so?" but for reasons the boy could not fathom, he did not come out and say in so many words that he would do what he was asked, despite the boy's begging and pleading. Jōtarō, for all his devotion to his teacher, began to feel a dislike for him, an itch to have a real fight with his teacher.

His belligerence boiled higher, to the point where it was held in check only by his respect. He lapsed into silence, his disapproval written large on his face, his eyes sullen and his lips twisted as though he had just drunk a cup of vinegar.

Musashi took up his drawing manual and brush and began adding strokes to one of his sketches. Jōtarō, glaring distastefully at the eggplant drawing, thought: "What makes him think he can paint pictures? He's awful!"

Presently Musashi lost interest and began washing out his brush. Jōtarō was about to make one more appeal, when they heard wooden sandals on the stepping-stones outside.

"Your wash is dry," said a girlish voice. The attendant who had been Jōtarō's guide entered with a kimono and a cloak, both neatly folded. Placing them in front of Musashi, she invited him to inspect them.

"Thank you," he said. "They look as good as new."

"Bloodstains don't come out easily. You have to scrub and scrub." "They seem to be gone now, thank you.... Where's Yoshino?"

"Oh, she's terribly busy, going from one guest to another. They don't give her a moment's rest."

"It's been very pleasant here, but if I stay longer, I'll be a burden on people. I plan to slip away as soon as the sun comes up. Would you tell Yoshino that and convey my deepest thanks to her?"

Jōtarō relaxed. Musashi must certainly be planning to see Otsū. This was the way his master should be, a good upright man. He broke into a happy smile.

As soon as the girl left, Musashi laid the clothes before Jōtarō and said, "You came at just the right time. These must be returned to the woman who lent them to me. I want you to take them to the house of Hon'ami Kōetsu—it's in the north part of the city—and bring back my own kimono. Will you be a good boy and do this for me?"

"Certainly," said Jōtarō with a look of approval. "I'll go now."

He wrapped the garments in a piece of cloth, along with a letter from Musashi to Kōetsu, and swung the parcel onto his back.

The attendant arrived just then with dinner and threw up her hands in horror.

"What are you doing?" she gasped. When Musashi explained, she cried, "Oh, you can't let him go!" and told him what Jōtarō had done. Fortunately, Jōtarō's aim had not been perfect, so the servant had survived. She assured Musashi that since this was only one fight among many, the matter had ended there, Yoshino having personally warned the owner and the younger people in the establishment to keep quiet. She also pointed out that by unwittingly proclaiming himself to be Miyamoto Musashi's student, Jōtarō had lent credence to the rumor that Musashi was still at the Ōgiya.

"I see," said Musashi simply. He looked inquisitively at Jōtarō, who scratched his head, retreated to a corner and made himself as small as possible.

The girl went on: "I don't need to tell you what would happen if he tried to leave. There are still a lot of Yoshioka men around waiting for you to show your face. It's very difficult for Yoshino and the proprietor, because Kōetsu begged us to take good care of you. The Ōgiya can't possibly let you walk straight into their clutches. Yoshino's resolved to protect you.

"Those samurai are so persistent. They've kept constant watch and sent men around several times accusing us of hiding you. We've gotten rid of them, but they're still not convinced. I don't understand it, really. They act as if they were on a major campaign. Beyond the gate to the quarter, there are three or four ranks of them, and lookouts everywhere, and they're armed to the teeth.

"Yoshino thinks you should stay here another four or five days, or at least until they tire of waiting."

Musashi thanked her for her kindness and concern, but added cryptically, "I'm not without a plan of my own."

He readily agreed to have a servant sent to Kōetsu's house in Jōtarō's stead. The servant returned in less than an hour with a note from Kōetsu: "When we have another chance, let us meet again. Life, though it may seem long, is in truth all too short. I beg you to take the best possible care of yourself. My regards from afar." Though few in number, the words seemed warm and very much in character.

"Your clothing is in this package," said the servant. "Kōetsu's mother asked me particularly to convey her best wishes." He bowed and left.

Musashi looked at the cotton kimono, old, ragged, so often exposed to dew and rain, spotted with sweat stains. It would feel better on his skin than the fine silks lent him by the Ōgiya; surely this was the outfit for a man engaged in the serious study of swordsmanship. Musashi neither needed nor wanted anything better.

He expected it to be smelly after being folded up for a few days, but as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, he found it to be quite fresh. It had been washed; the creases stood out neatly. Thinking Myōshū had washed it herself, he wished he, too, had a mother and thought of the long, solitary life ahead of him, with no relatives except his sister, living in mountains to which he himself could not return. He looked down at the fire for a time.

"Let's go," he said. He tightened his obi and slid his beloved sword between it and his ribs. As he did so, the loneliness fell away as quickly as it had come. This sword, he reflected, would have to be his mother, his father, his brothers and sisters. That was what he had vowed to himself years earlier, and that was the way it would have to be.

Jōtarō was already outside, gazing up at the stars, thinking that no matter how late they arrived at Lord Karasumaru's house, Otsū would be awake.

"My, won't she be surprised," he said to himself. "She'll be so happy she'll probably start crying again."

"Jōtarō," said Musashi, "did you come in through the wooden gate in back?"

"I don't know if it's in back. It's that one over there."