Musashi: Bushido Code (78 page)

"Is there any way of doing that?"

"Certainly. In fact, I can think of several ways." Kojirō's voice was full of confidence. He bent forward and, with a look of friendliness not often observed on his proud face, whispered a few words in Genzaemon's ear. "How about that?" he asked out loud.

"Hmm. I see what you mean." The old man nodded several times, then turned to Jūrōzaemon and whispered the scheme to him.

A Meeting in the Moonlight

It was already past midnight when Musashi arrived at the small inn north of Kitano where he had first met Jōtarō. The astonished innkeeper welcomed him cordially and quickly prepared a place for him to sleep.

Musashi went out early in the morning and returned late in the evening, presenting the old man with a sack of Kurama sweet potatoes. He also showed him a bolt of bleached Nara cotton, purchased at a nearby shop, and asked if he could have it made up into an undershirt, a stomach wrapper and a loincloth.

The innkeeper obligingly took the cloth to a neighborhood seamstress and on his way back bought some sake. He made a stew with the sweet potatoes and chatted with Musashi over the stew and sake until midnight, when the seamstress came with the clothes. Musashi folded the clothing neatly and placed it beside his pillow before retiring.

The old man was awakened long before dawn by the sound of splashing water. Looking out, he saw that Musashi had bathed with cold well water and was standing in the moonlight wearing his new underwear and just putting on his old kimono.

Musashi, remarking that he was a little tired of Kyoto and had decided to go to Edo, promised that when he came to Kyoto again, in three or four years, he would stay at the inn.

The innkeeper having tied his obi in the back for him, Musashi set off at a fast pace. He took the narrow path through the fields to the Kitano highroad, carefully picking his way through the piles of ox dung. The old man watched sadly as the darkness swallowed him.

Musashi's mind was as clear as the sky above him. Physically refreshed, his body seemed to grow more buoyant with each step.

"There's no reason to walk so fast," he said out loud, slackening his pace. "I suppose this will be my last night in the realm of the living." This was neither exclamation nor lament, merely a statement coming unbidden to his lips. He had no sense as yet of actually staring death in the face.

He had spent the previous day meditating under a pine tree at the inner temple at Kurama, hoping to achieve that state of bliss in which body and soul no longer matter. Unsuccessful in his effort to rid himself of the idea of death, he was now ashamed of having wasted his time.

The night air was invigorating. The sake, just the right amount, a short but sound sleep, the bracing well water, new clothing—he did not feel like a man about to die. He recalled the night in the dead of winter when he had forced himself to the top of Eagle Mountain. Then, too, the stars had been dazzling, and the trees had been festooned with icicles. The icicles would now have given way to budding flowers.

His head full of stray thoughts, he found it impossible to concentrate on the vital problem facing him. What purpose, he wondered, would be served at this stage by pondering questions that a century of thinking would not solve—the meaning of death, the agony of dying, the life that would follow afterward?

The district he was in was inhabited by noblemen and their retainers. He heard the doleful sound of a flageolet, accompanied by the slow strains of a reed mouth organ. In his mind's eye he saw mourners seated around a coffin, waiting for the dawn. Had the dirge penetrated his ears before he actually became aware of it? Perhaps it had aroused a subconscious memory of the dancing virgins of Ise and his experience on Eagle Mountain. Doubt gnawed at his mind.

As he paused to give the matter some thought, he noticed that he had passed the Shōkokuji and was now only about a hundred yards from the silvery Kamo River. In the light reflected on a dirt wall, he caught sight of a still, dark figure. The man walked toward him, followed by a smaller shadow, a dog on a leash. Satisfied by the presence of the animal that the man was not one of his enemies, he relaxed and walked on by.

The other man took a few steps, turned and said, "Can I trouble you, sir?" "Me?"

"Yes, if it's all right." His cap and
hakama
were of the sort worn by artisans. "What is it?" asked Musashi.

"Forgive me a peculiar question, but did you notice a house all lit up along this street?"

"I wasn't paying much attention, but no, I don't think I did."

"I guess I'm on the wrong street again."

"What are you looking for?"

"A house where there's just been a death."

"I didn't see the house, but I heard a mouth organ and a flageolet about a hundred yards back."

"That must be the place. The Shinto priest probably arrived before me and began the wake."

"Are you attending the wake?"

"Not exactly. I'm a coffin-maker from Toribe Hill. I was asked to go to the Matsuo house, so I went to Yoshida Hill. They don't live there anymore." "The Matsuo family on Yoshida Hill?"

"Yes; I didn't know they'd moved. I went a long way for nothing. Thank you.

"Wait," said Musashi. "Would that be Matsuo Kaname, who's in the service of Lord Konoe?"

"That's right. He fell sick only about ten days before he died."

Musashi turned and walked on; the coffin-maker hurried off in the opposite direction.

"So my uncle's dead," thought Musashi matter-of-factly. He recalled how his uncle had scraped and saved to accumulate a small sum of money. He thought of the rice cakes he had received from his aunt and devoured on the bank of the freezing river on New Year's morning. He wondered vacantly how his aunt would get along now that she was all alone.

He stood on the bank of the Upper Kamo and regarded the looming dark panorama of the thirty-six hills of Higashiyama. Each peak seemed to stare back at him with enmity. Then he ran down to a pontoon bridge. From the northern part of the city, it was necessary to cross here to reach the road to Mount Hiei and the pass leading to Omi Province.

He was halfway across when he heard a voice, loud but indistinct. He stopped and listened. The rapidly flowing water gurgled cheerfully, while a cold wind swept through the valley. He couldn't locate the source of the cry and after a few more steps paused again at the sound of the voice. Still unable to tell where it came from, he hurried on to the other bank. As he left the bridge, he spied a man with upraised arms running toward him from the north. The figure seemed familiar.

It was—Sasaki Kojirō, the ubiquitous fixer.

As he approached, he greeted Musashi in an all too friendly way. After a glance across the bridge, he asked, "Are you alone?"

"Yes, of course."

"I hope you will pardon me for the other night," said Kojirō. "Thank you for putting up with my interference."

"I think it is I who should thank you," replied Musashi with equal politeness.

"Are you on your way to the bout?"

"Yes."

"All alone?" Kojirō asked again.

"Yes, of course."

"Hmm. I wonder, Musashi, if you've misunderstood the sign we put up at Yanagimachi."

"I don't think so."

"You're fully aware of the conditions? This isn't to be a simple man-to-man fight as it was in the case of Seijūrō and Denshichirō."

"I know that."

"Though the battle will be fought in the name of Genjirō, he'll be aided by members of the Yoshioka School. Do you understand that 'members of the Yoshioka School' could be ten men, or a hundred, even a thousand?"

"Yes; why do you ask?"

"Some of the weaker men have run away from the school, but the stronger and more courageous have all gone up to the spreading pine. Right now they're stationed all over the hillside, waiting for you."

"Have you been to take a look?"

"Urn. I decided I'd better come back and warn you. Knowing you'd cross the pontoon bridge, I waited here. I consider this my duty, since I wrote the sign." "That's very thoughtful of you."

"Well, that's the situation. Are you really intending to go alone, or do you have supporters going by another route?"

"I will have one companion."

"Is that so? Where is he now?"

"Right here!" Musashi, his laughing teeth shining in the moonlight, pointed to his shadow.

Kojirō bristled. "This is no laughing matter."

"I didn't mean it as a joke."

"Oh? It sounded as though you were making fun of my advice."

Musashi, assuming an attitude even graver than Kojirō's, countered, "Do you think the great saint Shinran was joking when he said that any believer has the strength of two, because the Buddha Amida walks with him?" Kojirō did not answer.

"From all appearances, it seems the Yoshiokas have the upper hand. They're out in force. I'm alone. Without a doubt, you're assuming I'll be beaten. But I beg you not to worry on my behalf. Supposing I knew they had ten men and took ten men with me. What would happen? They'd throw in twenty men, rather than ten. If I took twenty, they'd increase the number to thirty or forty, and the battle would create an even greater public disturbance. Many people would be killed or injured. The result would be a serious infringement against the principles of government, with no compensating advancement for the cause of swordsmanship. In other words, there'd be much to lose and little to gain by my calling in assistance."

"True as that may be, it's not in accordance with
The Art of War
to enter into a battle you know you're going to lose."

"There are times when it's necessary."

"No! Not according to
The Art of War.
Abandoning yourself to rash action is quite a different matter."

"Whether or not my method is in accordance with
The Art of War,
I know what's necessary for me."

"You're breaking all the rules."

Musashi laughed.

"If you insist on going against the rules," argued Kojirō, "why don't you at

least choose a line of action that will give you a chance to go on living?" "The path I'm following is, for me, the way toward a fuller life." "You'll be lucky if it doesn't lead you straight to hell!"

"This river, you know, may be the three-pronged river of hell; this road, the mile-long road to perdition; the hill I'll soon climb, the mountain of needles on which the damned are impaled. Nevertheless, this is the only path toward true life."

"The way you talk, you may already be possessed by the god of death." "Think what you like. There are people who die by remaining alive and others who gain life by dying."

"You poor devil!" said Kojirō, half in derision.

"Tell me, Kojirō—if I follow this road, where will it take me?"

"To Hananoki Village and then to the spreading pine at Ichijōji, where you've chosen to die."

"How far is it?"

"Only about two miles. You have plenty of time."

"Thank you. I'll see you later," said Musashi breezily, as he turned and started down a side road.

"That's not the way!"

Musashi nodded.

"That's the wrong way, I tell you."

"I know."

He went on down the slope. Beyond the trees on either side of the road were tiered rice paddies, off in the distance a few thatched farmhouses. Kojirō watched Musashi stop, look up at the moon and stand still for a time.

Kojirō broke into laughter as it dawned on him that Musashi was urinating. He himself looked up at the moon, thinking that before it had set, a lot of men would be dead or dying.

Musashi didn't come back. Kojirō sat down on the root of a tree and contemplated the coming fight with a sentiment approaching glee. "To judge from Musashi's calmness, he's already resigned to dying. Still, he'll put up a tremendous struggle. The more of them he cuts down, the more fun it'll be to watch. Ah, but the Yoshiokas have flying weapons. If he's hit by one of them, the show will be over right then. That would spoil everything. I think I'd better tell him about them."

There was now a little mist and a predawn chill in the air.

Standing up, Kojirō called, "Musashi, what's taking you so long?"

A sense that something was off key sent a pang of anxiety through him. He walked rapidly down the slope and called again. The only sound was the turning of a waterwheel.

"The silly bastard!"

Racing back to the main road, he looked around in all directions, seeing only the temple roofs and forests of Shirakawa, rising on the slopes of Higashiyama, and the moon. Jumping to the conclusion that Musashi had run away, he rebuked himself for not seeing through his calmness and took off at a flying pace for Ichijōji.

Grinning, Musashi emerged from behind a tree and stood where Kojirō had been standing. He was glad to be rid of him. He had no use for a man who took pleasure in watching other people die, who watched impassively while other men staked their lives on causes that were important to them. Kojirō was no innocent spectator, motivated only by the desire to learn. He was a deceitful, scheming interloper, always out to ingratiate himself with both sides, always presenting himself as the splendid chap who wants to help everybody.

Perhaps Kojirō had thought that if he told Musashi how strong the enemy was, Musashi would get down on his hands and knees and ask him to serve as his second. And, conceivably, if Musashi's first objective had been to preserve his own life, he would have welcomed assistance. But even before meeting Kojirō, he had picked up enough information to know he might have to face a hundred men.

It wasn't that he had forgotten the lesson Takuan had taught him: the truly brave man is one who loves life, cherishing it as a treasure that once forfeited can never be recovered. He well knew that to live was more than merely to survive. The problem was how to imbue his life with meaning, how to ensure that his life would cast a bright ray of light into the future, even if it became necessary to give up that life for a cause. If he succeeded in doing this, the length of his life—twenty years or seventy—made little difference. A lifetime was only an insignificant interval in the endless flow of time.