Musashi: Bushido Code (120 page)

Tadaaki stood up. "I, too, must take my leave of the world." Suppressed sobs were audible. His final words were stern, yet full of affection. "Why mourn? Your day has come. It's up to you to see that this school advances into a new age with honor. Beginning now, be humble, work hard and try with all your might to cultivate your spirit."

Returning to the guest room, Tadaaki appeared quite unperturbed as he quietly took a seat and addressed Kojirō.

After apologizing for keeping him waiting, he said, "I've just expelled Hamada. I advised him to change his ways, to try to understand the real meaning of the samurai's discipline. I intend, of course, to release the old woman. Would you like to take her back with you, or should I arrange for her to go later?"

"I'm satisfied with what you've done. She can go with me." Kojirō moved as though to rise. The bout had completely drained him, and the subsequent wait had seemed very, very long.

"Don't go yet," said Tadaaki. "Now that it's all over, let's have a cup together and let bygones be bygones." Clapping his hands, he called, "Omitsu! Bring some sake."

"Thank you," said Kojirō. "It's kind of you to ask me." He smiled and said hypocritically, "I know now why Ono Tadaaki and the Ittō Style are so famous." He had no respect whatsoever for Tadaaki.

"If his natural talents are developed in the right way," thought Tadaaki, "the world will bow at his feet. But if he takes the wrong turn, there's another Zenki in the making."

"If you were my student—" The words were on the tip of Tadaaki's tongue. Instead of saying them, he laughed and replied modestly to Kojirō's flattery.

In the course of their conversation, Musashi's name came up and Kojirō learned he was under consideration to become one of the select group of men who gave lessons to the shōgun.

Kojirō merely said, "Oh?" But his expression betrayed his displeasure. Turning his eyes quickly toward the setting sun, he insisted it was time for him to go.

Not many days after that, Tadaaki vanished from Edo. He had the reputation of being a simple, straightforward warrior, the embodiment of honesty and selflessness, but a man who lacked Munenori's knack for politics. Not understanding why a man who could apparently accomplish anything he set his mind to would flee the world, people were consumed with curiosity and read all sorts of meanings into his disappearance.

As a result of his failure, Tadaaki, it was said, had lost his mind.

The Poignancy of Things

Musashi said it was the worst storm he'd ever seen.

Iori gazed wistfully at the sodden, tattered book pages scattered hither and yon, and thought sadly: "No more studying."

Two days of autumn—the two hundred tenth and two hundred twentieth days of the year—were especially dreaded by farmers. It was on these two days that typhoons were most likely to destroy the rice crop. Iori, more attuned to the dangers than his master, had taken the precaution of tying down the roof and weighting it with rocks. Nevertheless, during the night, the wind had ripped the roof off, and when it was light enough to inspect the damage, it was evident that the cabin was beyond any hope of repair.

With his experience at Hōtengahara in mind, Musashi set off shortly after dawn. Watching him go, Iori thought: "What good will it do him to look at the neighbors' paddies? Of course they're flooded. Doesn't his own house mean anything to him?"

He built a fire, using bits and pieces of the walls and floor, and roasted some chestnuts and dead birds for breakfast. The smoke stung his eyes.

Musashi came back a little after noon. About an hour later, a group of farmers wearing thick straw rain capes arrived to offer their thanks—for assistance to a sick person, for help in draining off the flood water, for a number of other services. As one old man admitted, "We always get into quarrels at times like these, what with everybody in a hurry to take care of his own problems first. But today we followed your advice and worked together."

They also brought gifts of food—sweets, pickles and, to Iori's delight, rice cakes. As he thought about it, Iori decided that that day he'd learned a lesson: if one forgot about oneself and worked for the group, food would naturally be forthcoming.

"We'll build you a new house," one farmer promised. "One that won't be blown down." For the present, he invited them to stay at his house, the oldest in the village. When they got there, the man's wife hung their clothes out to dry, and when they were ready to go to bed, they were shown to separate rooms.

Before he fell asleep, Iori became aware of a sound that stirred his interest. Turning over to face Musashi's room, he whispered through the shoji, "Do you hear that, sir?"

"Umm?"

"Listen. You can just hear them—drums from the shrine dances. Strange, isn't it, having religious dances the night after a typhoon?"

The only reply was the sound of deep breathing.

The next morning, Iori got up early and asked the farmer about the drums. Coming back to Musashi's room, he said brightly, "Mitsumine Shrine in Chichibu isn't so far from here, is it?"

"I shouldn't think so."

"I wish you'd take me there. To pay my respects."

Puzzled, Musashi asked why the sudden interest and was told that the drummers had been musicians in a neighboring village, practicing for the Asagaya Sacred Dance, which their household had specialized in since the distant past. They went every month to perform at the Mitsumine Shrine Festival.

The beauty of music and the dance was known to Iori only through these Shinto dances. He was inordinately fond of them, and having heard that the Mitsumine dances were one of the three great types in this tradition, he had his heart set on seeing them.

"Won't you take me?" he pleaded. "It'll be five or six days, at least, before our house is ready."

Iori's fervency reminded Musashi of Jōtarō, who had often made a nuisance of himself—whining, pouting, purring—to get what he wanted. Iori, so grown up and self-sufficient for his age, rarely resorted to such tactics. Musashi wasn't thinking about it particularly, but an observer might have noticed the effects of his influence. One thing he had deliberately taught Iori was to make a strict distinction between himself and his teacher.

At first he replied noncommittally, but after a little thought, he said, "All right, I'll take you."

Iori jumped in the air, exclaiming, "The weather's good too." Within five minutes, he'd reported his good fortune to their host, requested box lunches and procured new straw sandals. Then he was in front of his teacher again, asking, "Shouldn't we get started?"

The farmer saw them off with the promise that their house would be finished by the time they returned.

They passed places where the typhoon had left ponds, small lakes almost, in its wake, but otherwise it was difficult to believe the heavens had unleashed their fury only two days earlier. Shrikes flew low in the clear blue sky.

The first night, they chose a cheap inn in the village of Tanashi and went to bed early. The next day, their road led them farther into the great Musashino Plain.

Their journey was interrupted for several hours at the Iruma River, which was swollen to three times its normal size. Only a short section of the dirt bridge stood, uselessly, in the middle of the stream.

While Musashi watched a group of farmers carrying new piling out from both sides to make a temporary crossing, Iori noticed some old arrowheads and remarked on them, adding, "There's tops of helmets too. There must have been a battle here." He amused himself along the riverbank, digging up arrowheads, rusted fragments of broken swords and miscellaneous pieces of old, unidentifiable metal.

Suddenly he snatched his hand away from a white object he'd been about to pick up.

"It's a human bone," he cried.

"Bring it over here," said Musashi.

Iori had no stomach for touching it again. "What are you going to do with it?"

"'Bury it where it won't be walked on."

"It's not just a couple of bones. There're lots of them."

"Good. It'll give us something to do. Bring all you can find." Turning his back to the river, he said, "You can bury them over there, where those gentians are blooming."

"I don't have a spade."

"You can use a broken sword."

When the hole was deep enough, Iori put the bones in it, then gathered up his collection of arrowheads and bits of metal and buried them with the bones. "Is that all right?" he asked.

"Put some rocks over it. Make it into a proper memorial."

"When was there a battle here?"

"Have you forgotten? You must have read about it. The
Taiheiki
tells about two fierce battles, in 1333 and 1352, in a place called Kotesashigahara. That's about where we are now. On one side was the Nitta family, supporting the Southern Court, and on the other a huge army led by Ashikaga Takauji."

"Oh, the battles of Kotesashigahara. I remember now."

At Musashi's urging, Iori continued. "The book tells us Prince Munenaga lived in the eastern region for a long time and studied the Way of the Samurai, but was astonished when the Emperor appointed him shōgun." "What was the poem he composed on that occasion?" Musashi asked. Iori glanced up at a bird soaring through the azure sky and recited:

"How could I have known

I'd ever be master of

The catalpa bow?

Had I not passed through

life

Without touching it?"

"And the poem in the chapter telling how he crossed into Musashi Province and fought at Kotesashigahara?"

The boy hesitated, biting his lip, then began, in phrasing largely of his own making:

"Why, then, should I cling

To a life that is fulfilled

When nobly given

For the sake of our great

lord,

For the sake of the people?"

"And the meaning?"

"I understand that."

"Are you sure?"

"Anyone who can't understand without having it explained to him isn't really Japanese, even if he is a samurai. Isn't that true?"

"Yes. But tell me, Iori, if that's the case, why are you behaving as though handling those bones made your hands dirty?"

"Would it make you feel good to handle the bones of dead people?"

"The men who died here were soldiers. They'd fought and perished for the sentiments expressed in Prince Munenaga's poem. The number of samurai like that is uncountable; their bones, buried in the earth, are the foundation on which this country is built. Were it not for them, we'd still have neither peace nor the prospect of prosperity.

"Wars, like the typhoon we had, pass. The land as a whole is unchanged, but we must never forget the debt we owe to the white bones under the ground."

Iori nodded at almost every word. "I understand now. Shall I make an offering of flowers and bow before the bones I buried?"

Musashi laughed. "Bowing's not really necessary, if you keep the memory alive in your heart."

"But ..." Not quite satisfied, the boy picked some flowers and placed them before the pile of stones. He was about to clasp his hands together in obeisance when another troubling thought came to him. "Sir, it's all well and good if these bones really belonged to samurai who were loyal to the Emperor. But what if they're the remains of Ashikaga Takauji's men? I wouldn't want to pay respect to them."

Iori stared at him, waiting for his answer. Musashi fixed his eyes on the thin sliver of daylight moon. But no satisfactory reply came to mind.

At length, he said, "In Buddhism there is salvation even for those guilty of the ten evils and the five deadly sins. The heart itself is enlightenment. The Buddha forgives the wicked if only they'll open their eyes to his wisdom."

"Does that mean loyal warriors and evil rebels are the same after they die?"

"No!" Musashi said emphatically. "A samurai holds his name to be sacred. If he sullies it, there's no redress throughout all generations."

"Then why does the Buddha treat bad people and loyal servants alike?"

"Because people are all fundamentally the same. There are those who are so blinded by self-interest and desire that they become rebels or brigands. The Buddha is willing to overlook this. He urges all to accept enlightenment, to open their eyes to true wisdom. This is the message of a thousand scriptures. Of course, when one dies, all becomes void."

"I see," said Iori, without really seeing. He pondered the matter for a few minutes and then asked, "But that's not true of samurai, is it? Not everything becomes void when a samurai dies."

"Why do you say that?"

"His name lives on, doesn't it?"

"That's true."

"If it's a bad name, it stays bad. If it's a good name, it stays good, even when the samurai is reduced to bones. Isn't that the way it is?"

"Yes, but it isn't really quite so simple," said Musashi, wondering if he could successfully guide his pupil's curiosity. "In the case of a samurai, there is such a thing as an appreciation of the poignancy of things. A warrior lacking this sensitivity is like a shrub in a desert. To be a strong fighter and nothing more is to be like a typhoon. It's the same with swordsmen who think of nothing but swords, swords, swords. A real samurai, a genuine swordsman, has a compassionate heart. He understands the poignancy of life."

Silently, Iori rearranged the flowers and clasped his hands.

Two Drumsticks

Halfway up the mountain, antlike human figures, climbing in continual procession, were swallowed up by a thick ring of clouds. Emerging near the summit, where Mitsumine Shrine was situated, they were greeted by a cloudless sky.

The mountain's three peaks, Kumotori, Shiraiwa and Myōhōgatake, straddled four eastern provinces. Within the Shinto complex there were Buddhist temples, pagodas, various other buildings and gates. Outside was a flourishing little town, with teahouses and souvenir shops, the offices of the high priests and the houses of some seventy farmers whose produce was reserved for the shrine's use.

"Listen! They've started playing the big drums," Iori said excitedly, gobbling down his rice and red beans. Musashi sat opposite, enjoying his repast at a leisurely pace.

Iori threw down his chopsticks. "The music's started," he said. "Let's go and watch."

"I had enough last night. You go alone."

"But they only did two dances last night. Don't you want to see the others?" "Not if it means hurrying."

Seeing his master's wooden bowl was still half full, Iori said in a calmer tone, "Thousands of people have arrived since yesterday. It'd be a shame if it rained."

"Oh?"

When Musashi finally said, "Shall we go now?" Iori bounded for the front door like a dog unleashed, borrowed some straw sandals, and set them in place on the doorstep for his master.

In front of the Kannon'in, the subtemple where they were staying, and on both sides of the shrine's main gate, great bonfires blazed. Every house had a lighted torch in front of it, and the whole area, several thousand feet above sea level, was as bright as day. Overhead, in a sky the color of a deep lake, the River of Heaven glittered like magic smoke, while in the street swarms of men and women, oblivious of the chill in the mountain air, surged toward the stage where the sacred dances were performed. Flutes and great drums echoed on the mountain breeze. The stage itself was empty, except for the gently fluttering banners that would soon serve as a backdrop.

Jostled by the mob, Iori got separated from Musashi but quickly pushed his way through the crowd until he spied him standing near a building, staring up at a list of donors. Iori called his name, ran up to him, tugged at his sleeve, but Musashi's attention was riveted on one plaque, larger than the others. It stood out from all the rest because of the size of the contribution made by "Daizō of Narai, Shibaura Village, Province of Musashi."

The booming of the drums built to a crescendo.

"They've started the dance," squealed Iori, his heart flying to the sacred dance pavilion.
"Sensei,
what are you looking at?"

Musashi, stirred from his reverie, said, "Oh, nothing special.... I just remembered something I have to do. You go watch the dances. I'll be along later."

Musashi sought out the office of the Shinto priests, where he was greeted by an old man.

"I'd like to inquire about a donor," said Musashi.

"Sorry, we don't have anything to do with that here. You'll have to go to the residence of the chief Buddhist priest. I'll show you where it is."

Though Mitsumine Shrine was Shinto, general supervision of the whole establishment was in the hands of a Buddhist prelate. The plaque over the gate read: "Office of the High Priest in Charge," in suitably large characters.

At the entrance hall, the old man talked at some length with the priest on duty. When they were finished, the priest invited Musashi inside and very politely led him to an inner room. Tea was served, along with a tray of splendid cakes. Next came a second tray, followed shortly by a handsome young acolyte bearing sake. Presently no less a personage than a provisional bishop appeared.

"Welcome to our mountain," he said. "I fear we have only simple country fare to offer you. I trust you'll forgive us. Please make yourself comfortable."

Musashi was at a loss to understand the solicitous treatment. Without touching the sake, he said, "I came to make an inquiry about one of your donors."

"What?" The benign countenance of the priest, a rotund man of about fifty, underwent a subtle alteration. "An inquiry?" he asked suspiciously.

In rapid succession, Musashi asked when Daizō had come to the temple, whether he came there often, whether he ever brought anyone with him, and if so, what sort of person.

With every question the priest's displeasure grew, until finally he said, "Then you're not here to make a contribution but merely to ask questions about someone who did?" His face was a study in exasperation.

"The old man must have misunderstood me. I never intended to make a donation. I only wanted to ask about Daizō."

"You could have made that perfectly clear at the entrance," the priest said haughtily. "From all I can see, you're a rōnin. I don't know who you are or where you come from. You must understand that I can't give out information about our donors to just anyone."

"I assure you nothing will happen."

"Well, you'll have to see the priest in charge of such matters." Looking as though he felt he'd been robbed, he dismissed Musashi.

The register of contributors turned out to be no more helpful, for it recorded only that Daizō had been there several times. Musashi thanked the priest and left.

Near the dance pavilion, he looked around for Iori without seeing him. If he'd looked up, he would have. The boy was almost directly over his head, having climbed a tree to get a better view.

Watching the scene unfolding on the stage, Musashi was transported back to his childhood, to the night festivals at the Sanumo Shrine in Miyamoto. He saw phantom images of the crowds, of Otsū's white face in their midst. Of Matahachi, always chewing food, of Uncle Gon, walking about importantly. Vaguely he sensed the face of his mother, worried about his being out so late, coming to look for him.

The musicians, clad in unusual costumes intended to simulate the elegance of the imperial guards of old, took their places on the stage. In the light of the fire, their tawdry finery, glittering with patches of gold brocade, was suggestive of the mythical robes of the age of the gods. The beating of the slightly slack drumheads reverberated through the forest of cryptomeria, then the flutes and well-seasoned boards, clapped rhythmically with small blocks, sounded the prelude. The master of the dance came forward, wearing the mask of an ancient man. This unearthly face, from whose cheeks and chin much of the lacquer had peeled, moved slowly as he sang the words of
Kamiasobi,
the dance of the gods.

On sacred Mount Mimuro

With its godly fence,

Before the great deity,

The leaves of the sakaki tree

Grow in profuse abundance,

Grow in profuse abundance.

The tempo of the drums picked up and other instruments joined in. Soon song and dance melded in a lively, syncopated rhythm.

Whence came this spear?

It is the spear of the sacred dwelling

Of the Princess Toyooka who is in Heaven—

The spear of the sacred dwelling.

Musashi knew some of the songs. As a child, he had sung them and donned a mask and taken part in the dancing at Sanumo Shrine.

The sword that protects the people,

The people of all lands.

Let's hang it festively before the deity,

Hang it festively before the deity.

The revelation struck like lightning. Musashi had been watching the hands of one of the drummers, wielding two short, club-shaped drumsticks. He sucked in his breath and fairly shouted, "That's it! Two swords!"

Startled by the voice, Iori took his eyes away from the stage just long enough to look down and say, "Oh, there you are."

Musashi didn't even glance up. He stared straight ahead, not in dreamy rapture like the others but with a look of almost frightening penetration.

"Two swords," he repeated. "It's the same principle. Two drumsticks, but only one sound." He folded his arms more tightly and scrutinized the drummer's every movement.

From one point of view, it was simplicity itself. People were born with two hands; why not use both of them? As it was, swordsmen fought with only one sword, and often one hand. This made sense, so long as everybody followed the same practice. But if one combatant were to employ two swords at once, what chance would an opponent using only one have of winning?

Against the Yoshioka School at Ichijōji, Musashi had discovered his long sword in his right hand, his short sword in his left. He had grasped both weapons instinctively, unconsciously, each arm involved to the utmost in protecting him. In a life-and-death struggle, he had reacted in an unorthodox fashion, Now, all of a sudden, the rationale seemed natural, if not inevitable.

If two armies were facing each other in battle, it would be unthinkable under the rules of the Art of War for either to make use of one flank while allowing the other to stand idle. Was there not a principle here that the lone swordsman could not afford to ignore? Ever since Ichijōji, it had seemed to Musashi that to use both hands and both swords was the normal, human way. Only custom, followed unquestioningly over the centuries, had made it seem abnormal. He felt he had arrived at an undeniable truth: custom had made the unnatural appear natural, and vice versa.

While custom was bred by daily experience, being on the boundary between life and death was something that occurred only a few times during a lifetime. Yet the ultimate aim of the Way of the Sword was to be able to stand on the brink of death at any time: facing death squarely, unflinchingly, should be as familiar as all other daily experiences. And the process had to be a conscious one, though movement should be as free as if it were purely reflexive.

The two-sword style had to be of this nature—conscious but at the same time as automatic as a reflex, completely free of the restrictions inherent in conscious action. Musashi had been trying for some time to unite in a valid principle what he knew instinctively with what he had learned by intellectual means. Now he was close to formulating it in words, and it would make him famous throughout the country for generations to come.

Two drumsticks, one sound. The drummer was conscious of left and right, right and left, but at the same time unconscious of them. Here, before his eyes, was the Buddhist sphere of free interpenetration. Musashi felt enlightened, fulfilled.

The five sacred dances, having begun with the song of the master of the dance, continued with performances by the dancers. There was the broad, sweeping Dance of Iwato, then the Dance of Ara Mikoto no Hoko. The melodies of the flutes quickened; bells rang in lively rhythm.

Musashi looked up at Iori and said, "Aren't you ready to leave?"

"Not yet," came the absentminded reply. Iori's spirit had become part of the dance; he felt himself to be one of the performers.

"Come back before it gets too late. Tomorrow we're going to climb the peak to the inner shrine."