Musashi: Bushido Code (79 page)

To Musashi's way of thinking, there was one way of life for ordinary people, another for the warrior. It was vitally important for him to live like a samurai and to die like one. There was no turning back from the path he had chosen. Even if he was hacked to pieces, the enemy could not obliterate the fact of his having responded fearlessly and honestly to the challenge.

He gave his attention to the routes available. The shortest, as well as the widest and easiest to travel, was the road Kojirō had taken. Another, not quite so direct, was a path leading along the Takano River, a tributary of the Kamo, to the Ohara highroad and then by way of the Shugakuin imperial villa to Ichijōji. The third route went east for a short distance, then north as far as the foothills of Uryū and finally across a path into the village.

The three roads met at the spreading pine; the difference in distance was insignificant. Yet from the viewpoint of a small force attacking a much larger one, the approach was all-important. The choice itself could decide victory or defeat.

Instead of weighing the problem at some length, after only a momentary pause he started running in a direction almost opposite from that of Ichijōji. First he crossed over the foot of Kagura Hill to a point behind the tomb of the Emperor Go-Ichijō. Then, passing through a thick bamboo grove, he came to a mountain stream flowing through a village in the northwest. Looming above him was the north shoulder of Mount Daimonji. Silently he began climbing.

Through the trees on his right he could see a garden wall, apparently belonging to the Ginkakuji. Almost directly beneath him, the jujube-shaped pond in the garden shone like a mirror. As he went farther up, the pond was lost in the trees, and the rippling Kamo River came into view. He felt as though he held the whole city in the palm of his hand.

He stopped for a moment to check his position. By proceeding horizontally across the sides of four hills, he could reach a point above and behind the spreading pine, where he could command a bird's-eye view of the enemy's position. Like Oda Nobunaga at the Battle of Okehazama, he had spurned the usual routes in favor of a difficult detour.

"Who goes there?"

Musashi froze and waited. Footsteps approached cautiously. Seeing a man dressed like a samurai in the service of a court noble, Musashi decided he was not a member of the Yoshioka forces.

The man's nose was smudged from the smoke of his torch; his kimono was damp and mud-spattered. He uttered a little cry of surprise.

Musashi stared at him suspiciously.

"Aren't you Miyamoto Musashi?" the man asked with a low bow, his eyes tinged with fright.

Musashi's eyes brightened in the light of the torch.

"Are you Miyamoto Musashi?" Terrified, the samurai seemed to wobble slightly on his feet. The fierceness in Musashi's eyes was something not often encountered in human beings.

"Who are you?" Musashi asked crisply.

"Er, I...I..."

"Stop stammering. Who are you?"

"I'm ... I'm from the house of Lord Karasumaru Mitsuhiro."

"I'm Miyamoto Musashi, but what's a retainer of Lord Karasumaru's doing up here in the middle of the night?"

"Then you are Musashi!" He sighed with relief. The next instant, he was running at breakneck speed down the mountain, his torch trailing light behind him. Musashi turned and continued on his way across the mountainside.

When the samurai reached the vicinity of the Ginkakuji, he shouted, "Kura, where are you?"

"We're here. Where are you?" It wasn't the voice of Kura, another retainer of Karasumaru, but that of Jōtarō.

"Jō-ta-rō! Is that you?"

"Y-e-e-s!"

"Come up here fast!"

"I can't. Otsū can't walk any farther."

The samurai swore under his breath, raised his voice even higher and shouted, "Come quick! I found Musashi! Mu-sa-shi! If you don't hurry, we'll lose him!"

Jōtarō and Otsū were about two hundred yards farther down the path; it took a while for their two long shadows, seemingly linked together, to hobble up to the samurai. He waved his torch to hurry them on, and in a matter of seconds could hear for himself Otsū's labored breathing. Her face looked whiter than the moon; the travel paraphernalia on her thin arms and legs seemed cruel and absurd. But when the light fell full upon her, her cheeks took on a ruddy hue.

"Is it true?" she panted.

"Yes, I just saw him." Then, in a more urgent tone: "If you hurry, you should be able to catch him. But if you waste time—"

"Which way?" asked Jōtarō, exasperated at being caught between an agitated man and an ailing woman.

Otsū's physical condition had by no means improved, but once Jōtarō had divulged the news of Musashi's impending battle, there was no way of keeping her in bed, even if that might prolong her life. Disregarding all entreaties, she had tied up her hair, laced on her straw sandals and all but staggered out of Lord Karasumaru's gate. Once the impossibility of stopping her had become apparent, Lord Karasumaru did all he could to help. He took charge of the operation himself, and while she was limping slowly toward the Ginkakuji, sent his men to scour the various approaches to Ichijōji Village. The men walked until their feet ached and had been on the verge of giving up when the quarry was found.

The samurai pointed, and Otsū started resolutely up the hill.

Jōtarō, fearing she might collapse, asked at every other step, "Are you all right? Can you make it?"

She did not reply. Truth to tell, she did not even hear him. Her emaciated body was responsive only to the need to reach Musashi. Though her mouth was parched, cold sweat poured from her ashen forehead.

"This must be the way," said Jōtarō, hoping to encourage her. "This road goes to Mount Hiei. It's all flat from now on. No more climbing. Do you want to rest for a moment?"

Silently she shook her head, clinging firmly to the stick they were carrying between them, struggling for breath as though all life's difficulties were compressed into this one journey.

When they'd managed to cover nearly a mile, Jōtarō shouted, "Musashi!
Sensei!"
and went on shouting.

His strong voice bolstered Otsū's courage, but before long her strength was gone. "Jō-Jōtarō," she whispered weakly. She let go of the stick and sank into the grass by the road. Face to the ground, she clasped her delicate fingers over her mouth. Her shoulders jerked convulsively.

"Otsū! It's blood! You're spitting up blood! Oh, Otsū!" On the brink of tears, he clasped his arms around her waist and held her up. She shook her head slowly from side to side. Not knowing what else to do, Jōtarō patted her gently on the back. "What do you want?" he asked.

She was beyond replying.

"I know! Water! Is that it?"

She nodded feebly.

"Wait here. I'll get some."

He stood up and looked around, listened for a moment and went to a nearby ravine, where he heard water running. With little difficulty, he found a spring bubbling forth from the rocks. As he started to scoop up some water with his hands, he hesitated, eyes fixed on the tiny crabs at the bottom of the pristine pool. The moon wasn't shining directly on the water, but the reflection of the sky was more beautiful than the silver-white clouds themselves. Deciding to take a sip himself before carrying out his task, he moved a few feet to one side and bent down on his hands and knees, craning his neck like a duck.

Then he gasped—apparition?—and his body bristled like a chestnut in its burr. Reflected in the small pool was a striped pattern, half a dozen trees on the other side. Right beside them was the image of Musashi.

Jōtarō thought his imagination was playing tricks on him, that the reflection would soon dissolve. When it failed to go away, he raised his eyes very slowly.

"You're here!" he cried. "You're really here!" The peaceful reflection of the sky turned to mud as he splashed across to the other side, wetting his kimono to the shoulders.

"You're here!" He threw his arms around Musashi's legs.

"Quiet," said Musashi softly. "It's dangerous here. Come back later." "No! I've found you. I'm staying with you."

"Quiet. I heard your voice. I've been waiting here. Now take Otsū some water."

"It's muddy now."

"There's another brook over there. See? Here, take this with you." He held out a bamboo tube.

Jōtarō raised his face and said, "No! You take it to her."

They stood like that for a few seconds, then Musashi nodded and went to the other brook. Having filled the tube, he carried it to Otsū's side. He put his arm around her gently and held the tube to her mouth.

Jōtarō stood beside them. "Look, Otsū! It's Musashi. Don't you understand? Musashi!"

As Otsū sipped the cool water, her breath came a little more easily, though she remained limp in Musashi's arm. Her eyes seemed to be focused on something very far away.

"Don't you see, Otsū? Not me, Musashi! It's Musashi's arm around you, not mine."

Burning tears gathered in her vacant eyes until they looked like glass. Two streams sparkled down her cheeks. She nodded.

Jōtarō was beside himself with joy. "You're happy now, aren't you? This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Then, to Musashi: "She's been saying, over and over, that whatever happened, she had to see you. She wouldn't listen to anybody! Please tell her, if she keeps on acting like this, she'll die. She won't pay any attention to me. Maybe she'll do what you tell her."

"It was all my fault," said Musashi. "I'll apologize and tell her to take better care of herself. Jōtarō . . ."

"Yes?"

"Would you leave us alone, just for a little while?"

"Why? Why can't I stay here?"

"Don't be that way, Jōtarō," Otsū said pleadingly. "Just for a few minutes. Please."

"Oh, all right." He couldn't refuse Otsū, even if he didn't understand. "I'll be up the hill. Call me when you're through."

Otsū's natural shyness was magnified by her illness, and she could not decide what to say.

Musashi, embarrassed, turned his face away from her. With her back to him, she stared at the ground. He gazed up at the sky.

He feared instinctively that no words existed to tell her what was in his heart. All that had happened since the night she had freed him from the cryptomeria tree passed through his mind, and he recognized the purity of the love that had kept her searching for him these five long years.

Who was stronger, who had suffered more? Otsū, her life difficult and complex, burning with a love she could not conceal? Or he himself, hiding his feelings behind a stony face, burying the embers of his passion under a layer of cold ashes? Musashi had thought before, and thought now, that his way was the more painful. Yet there was strength and valor in Otsū's constancy. The burden she had borne was too heavy for most men to bear alone.

"Only a short time to go," thought Musashi.

The moon was low in the sky, the light whiter now. Dawn was not far away. Soon both the moon and he himself would fade behind the mountain of death. He must, in the short time remaining, tell Otsū the truth. He owed her that much, for her devotion and her faithfulness. But the words would not come. The harder he tried to speak, the more tongue-tied he became. He watched the sky helplessly, as though inspiration might descend from it.

Otsū stared at the ground and wept. Within her heart was a flaming love, a love so strong that it had driven everything else out. Principles, religion, concern for her own welfare, pride—all paled beside this one consuming passion. In some way, she believed, this love simply had to overcome Musashi's resistance. Somehow, through her tears, a way must be found for them to live together, apart from the world of ordinary people. But now that she was with him, she was helpless. She could not bring herself to describe the pain of being away from him, the misery of traveling through life alone, the agony she suffered over his lack of feeling. If only she had a mother to whom she could pour out all her sorrows .. .

The long silence was broken by the honking of a flock of geese. Attuned to the approach of dawn, they rose above the trees and flew off over the mountaintops.

"The geese are flying north," said Musashi, conscious of the irrelevance. "Musashi . . ."

Their eyes met in a shared memory of the years in the village, when the geese had passed high above each spring and fall.

Everything had been so simple then. She had been friendly with Matahachi. Musashi she had disliked because of his roughness, but she had never been afraid to talk back to him when he said insulting things to her. Each now thought of the mountain where the Shippōji stood and the banks of the Yoshino River below. And both knew they were squandering precious moments—moments that would never return.

"Jōtarō said you were ill. Is it very bad?"

"It's nothing serious."

"Are you feeling better now?"

"Yes, but it's of no importance. Are you really expecting to be killed today?" "I'm afraid so."

"If you die, I can't go on living. Perhaps that's why it's so easy to forget about my sickness now."

A certain light came into her eyes, and it made him feel the weakness of his own determination as compared to hers. To acquire even a degree of self-control, he had had to ponder the question of life and death for many years, discipline himself at every turn of the road, force himself to undergo the rigors of a samurai's training. With no training or conscious self-discipline, this woman was able to say without the slightest hesitation that she, too, was prepared to die if he did. Her face expressed perfect serenity, her eyes telling him she was neither lying nor speaking impulsively. She seemed almost happy over the prospect of following him in death. He wondered, with a tinge of shame, how women could be so strong.