Musashi: Bushido Code (144 page)

"My name's Akemi."

Nuinosuke nodded and ran off.

They watched him for a few moments, exchanged glances and hurried on to the hill. From there, they could see Funashima jutting up among a number of other islands, the mountains of Nagato in the distance beyond. They spread some reed matting on the ground and sat down. The waves rumbled below them, and a pine needle or two floated down. Akemi took the baby from her back and began nursing it. Matahachi, his hands on his knees, stared fixedly out over the water.

The Marriage

Nuinosuke went first to Magobeinojō's house, showed him the letter and explained the circumstances. He left immediately, not even taking time for a cup of tea, and made quick stops at the other five houses.

Up the beach from the shore commissioner's office, he positioned himself behind a tree and watched the bustle that had been going on since early morning. Several teams of samurai had already left for Funashima—the ground cleaners, the witnesses, the guards—each group in a separate boat. On the beach another small boat stood ready for Kojirō. Tadatoshi had had it built especially for this occasion, of new timber, with new water brooms and new hemp-palm ropes.

The people seeing Kojirō off numbered about a hundred. Nuinosuke recognized some as friends of the swordsman; many others he did not know. Kojirō finished his tea and came out of the commissioner's office, accompanied by the officials. Having entrusted his favorite pony to friends, he walked across the sand toward the boat. Tatsunosuke followed close behind. The crowd silently arranged itself into two rows and made way for their champion. Seeing the way Kojirō was dressed made many imagine that they themselves were about to go into battle.

He had on a narrow-sleeved silk kimono, solid white with a raised figured pattern; over this, a sleeveless cloak of brilliant red. His purple leather
hakama
was of the type that is gathered just below the knees and is tight, like leggings, on the calf. His straw sandals appeared to have been dampened slightly to keep them from slipping. Besides the short sword he always carried, he had the Drying Pole, which he had not used since becoming an official in the House of Hosokawa. His white, full-cheeked face was a study in calm above the flaming red of his cloak. There was something grand, something almost beautiful, about Kojirō today.

Nuinosuke could see that Kojirō's smile was quiet and confident. Flashing his grin in all directions, he looked happy and perfectly at ease.

Kojirō stepped into the boat. Tatsunosuke got in after him. There were two crewmen, one in the prow and the other manning the scull. Amayumi perched on Tatsunosuke's fist.

Once clear of the shore, the sculler moved his arms with great languid strokes, and the little vessel glided gently forward.

Startled by the cries of the well-wishers, the falcon flapped its wings.

The crowd broke up into small groups and slowly dispersed, marveling over Kojirō's calm demeanor and praying that he would win this fight of all fights.

"I must get back," thought Nuinosuke, remembering his responsibility to see that Sado departed on time. As he turned away, he caught sight of a girl. Omitsu's body was pressed tightly against the trunk of a tree, and she was crying.

Feeling it indecent to stare, Nuinosuke averted his eyes and slipped away noiselessly. Out in the street again, he took a parting look at Kojirō's boat, then at Omitsu. "Everyone has a public and private life," he thought. "Behind all that fanfare, a woman stands weeping her heart out."

On the boat, Kojirō asked Tatsunosuke for the falcon and held out his left arm. Tatsunosuke transferred Amayumi to his fist and respectfully moved away.

The tide was flowing swiftly. The day was perfect—clear sky, crystal water—but the waves were rather high. Each time water splashed over the gunwale, the falcon, in a fighting mood, ruffled its feathers.

When they were about halfway to the island, Kojirō removed the band from its leg and threw the bird into the air, saying, "Go back to the castle."

As though hunting as usual, Amayumi attacked a fleeing seabird, sending down a flurry of white feathers. But when its master did not call it back, it swooped down low over the islands, then soared into the sky and disappeared.

After releasing the falcon, Kojirō began stripping himself of the Buddhist and Shinto good-luck charms and writings showered on him by his supporters, casting them overboard, one by one—even the cotton underrobe with the embroidered Sanskrit charm given him by his aunt.

"Now," he said softly, "I can relax." Faced with a life-or-death situation, he did not want to be bothered with memories or personalities. Being reminded of all those people who were praying for his victory was a burden. Their good wishes, no matter how sincere, were now more of a hindrance than a help. What mattered now was himself, his naked self.

The salty breeze caressed his silent face. His eyes were fixed on the green pines of Funashima.

In Shimonoseki, Tarōzaemon walked past a row of beach sheds and entered his shop. "Sasuke," he called. "Hasn't anybody seen Sasuke?" Sasuke was among the youngest of his many employees, but also one of the brightest. Treasured as a household servant, he also helped out in the shop from time to time.

"Good morning," said Tarōzaemon's manager, emerging from his station in the accounting office. "Sasuke was here just a few minutes ago." Turning to a young assistant, he said, "Go find Sasuke. Hurry."

The manager started to bring Tarōzaemon up to date on business matters, but the merchant cut him off, shaking his head as though a mosquito were after him. "What I want to know is whether anybody's been here looking for Musashi."

"As a matter of fact, there was someone here already this morning."

"The messenger from Nagaoka Sado? I know about him. Anybody else?"

The manager rubbed his chin. "Well, I didn't see him myself, but I'm told that a dirty-looking man with sharp eyes came last night. He was carrying a long oak staff and asked to see 'Musashi
Sensei.'
They had a hard time getting rid of him."

"Somebody blabbed. And after I told them how important it was to keep quiet about Musashi's being here."

"I know. I told them too, in no uncertain terms. But you can't do anything with the young ones. Having Musashi here makes them feel important." "How did you get rid of the man?"

"Sōbei told him he was mistaken, Musashi's never been here. He finally left, whether he believed it or not. Sōbei noticed there were two or three people waiting outside for him, one a woman."

Sasuke came running up from the pier. "Do you want me, sir?"

"Yes. I wanted to make sure you're ready. It's very important, you know." "I realize that, sir. I've been up since before sunrise. I washed in cold water

and put on a new white cotton loincloth."

"Good. The boat's all ready, the way I told you last night?"

"Well, there wasn't much to do. I picked out the fastest and cleanest of the boats, sprinkled salt around to purify it and swabbed it down inside and out. I'm ready to leave whenever Musashi is."

"Where's the boat?"

"On the shore with the other boats."

After thinking a moment, Tarōzaemon said, "We'd better move it. Too many people will notice when Musashi leaves. He doesn't want that. Take it up by the big pine, the one called the Heike Pine. Hardly anyone goes by there."

"Yes, sir."

The shop, usually quite busy, was nearly deserted. Nervously upset, Tarōzaemon went out into the street. Here and in Moji, on the opposite shore, people were taking the day off—men who appeared to be samurai from neighboring fiefs, rōnin, Confucian scholars, blacksmiths, armorers, lacquer-makers, priests, townsmen of all descriptions, some farmers from the surrounding countryside. Scented women in veils and broad traveling hats. Fishermen's wives with children on their backs or clinging to their hands. They were all moving in the same general direction, trying vainly to get closer to the island, through there was no vantage point from which anything smaller than a tree could be seen.

"I see what Musashi means," thought Tarōzaemon. To be set upon by this mob of sightseers, to whom the fight was merely a spectacle, would be unendurable.

Returning to his house, he found the whole place fastidiously clean. In the room open to the beach, wave patterns flickered on the ceiling.

"Where have you been, Father? I've been looking for you." Otsuru came in with tea.

"Nowhere in particular." He lifted his teacup and gazed pensively into it.

Otsuru had come to spend some time with her beloved father. By chance, traveling from Sakai on the same vessel with Musashi, she had discovered they both had ties with Iori. When Musashi came to pay his respects to Tarōzaemon and thank him for taking care of the boy, the merchant had insisted Musashi stay at his house and had instructed Otsuru to look after him.

The night before, while Musashi talked to his host, Otsuru sat in the next room sewing the new loincloth and stomach wrapper he'd said he wanted on the day of the bout. She had already prepared a new black kimono, from which at a moment's notice she could remove the basting used to keep the sleeves and skirt properly folded until time for use.

It crossed Tarōzaemon's mind that Otsuru just might be falling in love with Musashi. There was a worried look on her face; something serious was on her mind.

"Otsuru, where Musashi? Have you given him his breakfast?"

"Oh, yes. Long ago. After that, he shut the door to his room."

"Getting ready, I suppose."

"No, not yet."

"What's he doing?"

"He seems to be painting a picture."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. We were talking about painting, and I asked him if he'd paint a picture for me. I guess I shouldn't have done that."

"He said he'd finish it before he left. He's painting one for Sasuke too."

"Sasuke?" Tarōzaemon echoed incredulously. He was growing more and more nervous. "Doesn't he know it's getting late? You should see all the people milling about the streets."

"From the look on Musashi's face, you'd think he'd forgotten the bout." "Well, it's no time to be painting. Go tell him that. Be polite, but let him know that can wait till later."

"Why me? I couldn't ... "

"And why not?" His suspicion that she was in love was confirmed. Father and daughter communicated silently but perfectly. Grumbling good-naturedly, "Silly child. Why are you crying?" he got up and went toward Musashi's room.

Musashi was kneeling silently, as though in meditation, his brush, ink box and brush pot beside him. He had already finished one painting—a heron beneath a willow tree. The paper before him now was still blank. He was considering what to draw. Or more exactly, quietly trying to put himself into the right frame of mind, for that was necessary before he could visualize the picture or know the technique he would employ.

He saw the white paper as the great universe of nonexistence. A single stroke would give rise to existence within it. He could evoke rain or wind at will, but whatever he drew, his heart would remain in the painting forever. If his heart was tainted, the picture would be tainted; if his heart was listless, so would the picture be. If he attempted to make a show of his craftsmanship, it could not be concealed. Men's bodies fade away, but ink lives on. The image of his heart would continue to breathe after he himself was gone.

He realized that his thoughts were holding him back. He was on the brink of entering the world of nonexistence, of letting his heart speak for itself, independent of his ego, free from the personal touch of his hand. He tried to be empty, waiting for that sublime state in which his heart could speak in unison with the universe, selfless and unhampered.

The sounds from the street did not reach his room. Today's bout seemed completely apart from himself. He was conscious merely of the tremulous movements of the bamboo in the inner garden.

"May I intrude?" The shoji behind him opened noiselessly, and Tarōzaemon peered in. It seemed wrong, almost evil, to barge in, but he braced himself and said, "I'm sorry to distract you when you seem to be enjoying your work so."

"Ah, please come in."

"It's nearly time to leave."

"I know."

"Everything's ready. All the things you'll need are in the next room." "That's very kind of you."

"Please don't worry about the paintings. You can finish them when you come back from Funashima."

"Oh, it's nothing. I feel very fresh this morning. It's a good time to paint." "But you have to think of the time."

"Yes, I know."

"Whenever you want to make your preparations, just call. We're waiting to help you."

"Thank you very much." Tarōzaemon started to leave, but Musashi said, "What time is high tide?"

"At this season, the tide's lowest between six and eight in the morning. It should be on the rise again about now."

"Thank you," Musashi said absently, again addressing his attention to the white paper.

Tarōzaemon quietly closed the shoji and went back to the parlor. He intended to sit down and wait quietly, but before long his nerves got the better of him. He rose and strode out to the veranda, from where he could see the current running through the strait. The water was already advancing on the beach.

"Father."

"What is it?"

"It's time for him to leave. I put his sandals out at the garden entrance." "He's not ready yet."

"Still painting?"

"Yes."

"I thought you were going to make him stop and get ready."

"He knows what time it is."

A small boat pulled up on the beach nearby, and Tarōzaemon heard his name called. It was Nuinosuke, asking, "Has Musashi left yet?" When Tarōzaemon said no, Nuinosuke said rapidly, "Please tell him to get ready and start as quickly as possible. Kojirō's already left, and so has Lord Hosokawa. My master's leaving from Kokura right now."

"I'll do my best."

"Please! Maybe I sound like an old woman, but we want to be sure he's not late. It'd be a shame to bring dishonor on himself at this point." He rowed away hurriedly, leaving the shipping broker and his daughter to fret by themselves on the veranda. They counted the seconds, glancing from time to time toward the little room in the back, from which came not the slightest sound.