Musashi: Bushido Code (19 page)

He saw he was just making things worse. "I'm sorry, I can't take you with me."

"Well, then, I'll just follow along. As long as I don't interfere with your training, what harm would it do? You won't even know I'm around." Musashi could find no answer.

"I won't bother you. I promise."

He remained silent.

"It's all right then, isn't it? Just wait here; I'll be back in a second. And I'll be furious if you try to sneak away." Otsū ran off toward the basket-weaving shop.

Musashi thought of ignoring everything and running too, in the opposite direction. Though the will was there, his feet wouldn't move.

Otsū looked back and called, "Remember, don't try to sneak off!" She smiled, showing her dimples, and Musashi inadvertently nodded. Satisfied by this gesture, she disappeared into the shop.

If he was going to escape, this was the time. His heart told him so, but his body was still shackled by Otsū's pretty dimples and pleading eyes. How sweet she was! It was certain no one in the world save his sister loved him so much. And it wasn't as though he disliked her.

He looked at the sky, he looked into the water, desperately gripped the railing, troubled and confused. Soon tiny bits of wood began floating from the bridge into the flowing stream.

Otsū reappeared on the bridge in new straw sandals, light yellow leggings and a large traveling hat tied under the chin with a crimson ribbon. She'd never looked more beautiful.

But Musashi was nowhere to be seen.

With a cry of shock, she burst into tears. Then her eyes fell upon the spot on the railing from which the chips of wood had fallen. There, carved with the point of a dagger, was the clearly inscribed message. "Forgive me. Forgive me."

Book II • WATER

The Yoshioka School

The life of today, which cannot know the morrow ...

In the Japan of the early seventeenth century, an awareness of the fleeting nature of life was as common among the masses as it was among the elite. The famous general Oda Nobunaga, who laid the foundations for Toyotomi Hideyoshi's unification of Japan, summed up this view in a short poem:

Man's fifty years

Are but a phantom dream

In his journey through

The eternal transmigrations.

Defeated in a skirmish with one of his own generals, who attacked him in a sudden fit of revenge, Nobunaga committed suicide in Kyoto at the age of forty-eight.

By 1605, some two decades later, the incessant warring among the daimyō was essentially over, and Tokugawa Ieyasu had ruled as shōgun for two years. The lanterns on the streets of Kyoto and Osaka glowed brightly, as they had in the best days of the Ashikaga shogunate, and the prevailing mood was lighthearted and festive.

But few were certain the peace would last. More than a hundred years of civil strife had so colored people's view of life that they could only regard the present tranquility as fragile and ephemeral. The capital was thriving, but the tension of not knowing how long this would last whetted the people's appetite for merrymaking.

Though still in control, Ieyasu had officially retired from the position of shōgun. While still strong enough to control the other daimyō and defend the family's claim to power, he had passed on his title to his third son, Hidetada. It was rumored that the new shōgun would visit Kyoto soon to pay his respects to the emperor, but it was common knowledge that his trip west meant more than a courtesy call. His greatest potential rival, Toyotomi Hideyori, was the son of Hideyoshi, Nobunaga's able successor. Hideyoshi had done his best to ensure that power remain with the Toyotomis until Hideyori was old enough to exercise it, but the victor at Sekigahara was Ieyasu.

Hideyori still resided at Osaka Castle, and although Ieyasu, rather than have him done away with, permitted him to enjoy a substantial annual income, he was aware that Osaka was a major threat as a possible rallying point of resistance. Many feudal lords knew this too, and hedging their bets, paid equal court to both Hideyori and the shōgun. It was often remarked that the former had enough castles and gold to hire every masterless samurai, or rōnin, in the country, if he wanted to.

Idle speculation on the country's political future formed the bulk of gossip in the Kyoto air.

"War's bound to break out sooner or later."

"It's just a matter of time."

"These street lanterns could be snuffed out tomorrow."

"Why worry about it? What happens happens."

"Let's enjoy ourselves while we can!"

The bustling nightlife and booming pleasure quarters were tangible evidence that much of the populace were doing just that.

Among those so inclined was a group of samurai now turning a corner into Shijō Avenue. Beside them ran a long wall of white plaster, leading to an impressive gate with an imposing roof. A wooden plaque, blackened with age, announced in barely legible writing: "Yoshioka Kempō of Kyoto. Military Instructor to the Ashikaga Shōguns."

The eight young samurai gave the impression of having practiced sword fighting all day without respite. Some bore wooden swords in addition to the two customary steel ones, and others were carrying lances. They looked tough, the kind of men who'd be the first to see bloodshed the moment a clash of arms erupted. Their faces were as hard as stone and their eyes threatening, as if always on the brink of exploding in a rage.

"Young Master, where are we headed tonight?" they clamored, surrounding their teacher.

"Anywhere but where we were last night," he replied gravely.

"Why? Those women were falling all over you! They barely looked at the rest of us."

"Maybe he's right,' another man put in. "Why don't we try someplace new, where no one knows the Young Master or any of the rest of us." Shouting and carrying on among themselves, they seemed totally consumed by the question of where to go drinking and whoring.

They moved on to a well-lit area along the banks of the Kamo River. For years the land had been vacant and weed-filled, a veritable symbol of wartime desolation, but with the coming of peace, its value had shot up. Scattered here and there were flimsy houses, red and pale yellow curtains hanging crookedly in their doorways, where prostitutes plied their trade. Girls from Tamba Province, white powder smeared carelessly on their faces, whistled to prospective customers; unfortunate women who had been purchased in droves plunked on their shamisens, a newly popular instrument, as they sang bawdy songs and laughed among themselves.

The Young Master's name was Yoshioka Seijūrō, and a tasteful dark brown kimono draped his tall frame. Not long after they'd entered the brothel district, he looked back and said to one of his group, "Tōji, buy me a basket hat."

"The kind that hides your face, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"You don't need one here, do you?" Gion Tōji replied.

"I wouldn't have asked for one if I didn't!" Seijūrō snapped impatiently. "I don't care to have people see the son of Yoshioka Kemp
^ō
walking about in a place like this."

Tōji laughed. "But it just attracts attention. All the women around here know that if you hide your face under a hat, you must be from a good family and probably a rich one. Of course, there are other reasons why they won't leave you alone, but that's one of them."

Tōji was, as usual, both teasing and flattering his master. He turned and ordered one of the men to get the hat and stood waiting for him to thread his way through the lanterns and merrymakers. The errand accomplished, Seijūrō donned the hat and began to feel more relaxed.

"In that hat," commented Tōji, "you look more than ever like the fashionable man about town." Turning to the others, he continued his flattery indirectly. "See, the women are all leaning out their doors to get a good look at him."

Tōji's sycophancy aside, Seijūrō did cut a fine figure. With two highly polished scabbards hanging from his side, he exuded the dignity and class one would expect from the son of a well-to-do family. No straw hat could stop the women from calling out to him as he walked.

"Hey there, handsome! Why hide your face under that silly hat?" "Come on, over here! I want to see what's under there."

"Come on, don't be shy. Give us a peek."

Seijūrō reacted to these teasing come-ons by trying to look even taller and more dignified. It had only been a short time since Tōji had first persuaded him to set foot in the district, and it still embarrassed him to be seen there. Born the eldest son of the famous swordsman Yoshioka Kemp& he had never lacked money, but he had remained until recently unacquainted with the seamier side of life. The attention he was getting made his pulse race. He still felt enough shame to hide, though as a rich man's spoiled son he'd always been something of a show-off. The flattery of his entourage, no less than the flirting of the women, bolstered his ego like sweet poison.

"Why, it's the master from Shijō Avenue!" one of the women exclaimed. "Why are you hiding your face? You're not fooling anybody."

"How does that woman know who I am?" Seijūrō growled at Tōji, pretending to be offended.

"That's easy," the woman said before Tōji could open his mouth. "Everybody knows that the people at the Yoshioka School like to wear that dark brown color. It is called 'Yoshioka dye,' you know, and it's very popular around here."

"That's true, but as you say, a lot of people wear it."

"Yes, but they don't have the three-circle crest on their kimonos."

Seijūrō looked down at his sleeve. "I must be more careful," he said as a hand from behind the lattice reached out and latched onto the garment.

"My, my," said Tōji. "He hid his face but not his crest. He must have wanted to be recognized. I don't think we can really avoid going in here now."

"Do whatever you want," said Seijūrō, looking uncomfortable, "but make her let go of my sleeve."

"Let go, woman," Tōji roared. "He says we're coming in!"

The students crowded in under the shop curtain. The room they entered was so tastelessly decorated with vulgar pictures and messily arranged flowers that it was difficult for Seijūrō to feel at ease. The others, however, took no notice of the shabbiness of their surroundings.

"Bring on the sake!" Tōji demanded, also ordering assorted tidbits.

After the food arrived, Ueda Ryōhei, who was Tōji's match with a sword, cried, "Bring on the women!" The order was given in exactly the same surly tone Tōji had used to order their food and drink.

"Hey, old Ueda says bring the women!" the others chorused, mimicking Ryōhei's voice.

"I don't like being called old," Ryōhei said, scowling. "It's true I've been at the school longer than any of you, but you won't find a gray hair on my head."

"You probably dye it."

"Whoever said that come forward and drink a cup as punishment!" "Too much trouble. Throw it here!"

The sake cup sailed through the air.

"Here's the repayment!" And another cup flew through the air. "Hey, somebody dance!"

Seijūrō called out, "You dance, Ryōhei! Dance, and show us how young you are!"

"I am prepared, sir. Watch!" Going to the corner of the veranda, he tied a maid's red apron around the back of his head, stuck a plum blossom in the knot and seized a broom.

"Why, look! He's going to do the Dance of the Hida Maiden! Let's hear the song too, Tōji"

He invited them all to join in, and they began rapping rhythmically on the dishes with their chopsticks, while one man clanged the fire tongs against the edge of the brazier.

Across the bamboo fence, the bamboo fence, the bamboo fence,

I caught sight of a long-sleeved kimono,

A long-sleeved kimono in the snow. . . .

Drowned in applause after the first verse, Tōji bowed out, and the women took up where he had left off, accompanying themselves on shamisen.

The girl I saw yesterday

Is not here today.

The girl I see today,

She'll not be here tomorrow.

I know not what the morrow will bring,

I want to love her today.

In one corner, a student held up a huge bowl of sake to a comrade and said, "Say, why don't you down this in one gulp?"

"No, thanks."

"No, thanks? You call yourself a samurai, and you can't even put this away?" "Sure I can. But if I do, you have to too!"

"Fair enough!"

The contest began, with them gulping like horses at the trough and dribbling sake out of the corners of their mouths. An hour or so later a couple of them started vomiting, while others were reduced to immobility and blankly staring bloodshot eyes.

One, whose customary bluster became more strident the more he drank, declaimed, "Does anyone in this country besides the Young Master truly understand the techniques of the Kyōhachi Style? If there
is—hic—I
want to meet him. . . . Oops!"

Another stalwart, seated near Seijūrō, laughed and stammered through his hiccups. "He's piling on the flattery because the Young Master's here. There are other schools of martial arts besides the ones here in Kyoto, and the Yoshioka School's not necessarily the greatest anymore. In Kyoto alone, there's the school of Toda Seigen in Kurotani, and there's Ogasawara Genshinsai in Kitano. And let's not forget Hō Ittōsai in Shirakawa, even though he doesn't take students."

"And what's so wonderful about them?"

"I mean, we shouldn't get the idea we're the only swordsmen in the world." "You simple-minded bastard!" shouted a man whose pride had been offended. "Come forward!"

"Like this?" retorted the critic, standing up.

"You're a member of this school, and you're belittling Yoshioka Kempō's style?"

"I'm not belittling it! It's just that things aren't what they used to be in the old days when the master taught the shōguns and was considered the greatest of swordsmen. There are far more people practicing the Way of the Sword these days, not only in Kyoto but in Edo, Hitachi, Echizen, the home provinces, the western provinces, Kyushu—all over the country. Just because Yoshioka Kempō was famous doesn't mean the Young Master and all of us are the greatest swordsmen alive. It's just not true, so why kid ourselves?"

"Coward! You pretend to be a samurai, but you're afraid of other schools!"

"Who's afraid of them? I just think we should guard ourselves against becoming complacent."

"And who are you to be giving warnings?" With this the offended student punched the other in the chest, knocking him down.

"You want to fight?" growled the fallen man.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

The seniors, Gion Tōji and Ueda Ryōhei, intervened. "Stop it, you two!" Jumping to their feet, they pulled the two men apart and tried to smooth their ruffled feathers.

"Quiet down now!"

"We all understand how you feel."

A few more cups of sake were poured into the combatants, and presently things were back to normal. The firebrand was once again eulogizing himself and the others, while the critic, his arm draped around Ryōhei, pleaded his case tearfully. "I only spoke up for the sake of the school," he sobbed. "If people keep spouting flattery, Yoshioka Kempō's reputation will eventually be ruined. Ruined, I tell you!"

Seijūrō alone remained relatively sober. Noticing this, Tōji said, "You're not enjoying the party, are you?"