Musashi: Bushido Code (21 page)

They weren't in the adjoining room either. Beyond that was another gloomy little room, sunless and musty with the odor of bedclothes. Tōji opened the door and was greeted with an angry roar: "Who's there?"

Jumping back a step, Tōji peered into the dark cubbyhole; it was floored with old tattered mats and was as different from the pleasant front rooms as night is from day. Sprawled on the floor, a sword handle lying carelessly across his belly, was an unkempt samurai whose clothing and general appearance left no doubt that he was one of the rōnin often seen roaming the streets and byways with nothing to do. The soles of his dirty feet stared Tōji in the face. Making no effort to get up, he lay there in a stupor.

Tōji said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know there was a guest in here."

"I'm not a guest!" the man shouted toward the ceiling. He reeked of sake, and though Tōji had no idea who he was, he was sure he wanted nothing more to do with him.

"Sorry to bother you," he said quickly, and turned to leave.

"Hold on there!" the man said roughly, raising himself up slightly. "Close the door behind you!"

Startled by his rudeness, Tōji did as he was told and left.

Almost immediately Tōji was replaced by Okō. Dressed to kill, she was obviously trying to look the great lady. As though tut-tutting a child, she said to Matahachi, "Now what are you so angry about?"

Akemi, who was just behind her mother, asked, "Why don't you come with us?"

"Where?"

"To see the Okuni Kabuki."

Matahachi's mouth twisted with repugnance. "What husband would be seen in the company of a man who's chasing after his wife?" he asked bitterly.

Okō had the feeling that cold water had been thrown in her face. Her eyes lighting up with anger, she said, "What are you talking about? Are you implying that there's something going on between Tōji and me?"

"Who said anything was going on?"

"You just said as much."

Matahachi made no reply.

"And you're supposed to be a man!" Though she hurled the words at him contemptuously, Matahachi maintained his sullen silence. "You make me sick!" she snapped. "You're always getting jealous over nothing! Come, Akemi. Let's not waste our time on this madman."

Matahachi reached out and caught her skirt. "Who're you calling a madman? What do you mean, talking to your husband that way?"

Okō pulled free of him. "And why not?" she said viciously. "If you're a husband, why don't you act like one? Who do you think's keeping you in food, you worthless layabout!"

"Heh!"

"You've hardly earned anything since we left Omi Province. You've just been living off me, drinking your sake and loafing. What've you got to complain about?"

"I told you I'd go out and work! I told you I'd even haul stones for the castle wall. But that wasn't good enough for you. You say you can't eat this, you can't wear that, you can't live in a dirty little house—there's no end to what you can't put up with. So instead of letting me do honest labor, you start this rotten teahouse. Well, stop it, I tell you, stop it!" he shouted. He began to shake.

"Stop what?"

"Stop running this place."

"And if I did, what would we eat tomorrow?"

"I can make enough for us to live on, even hauling rocks. I could manage for the three of us."

"If you're so eager to carry rocks or saw wood, why don't you just go away? Go on, be a laborer, anything, but if you do, you can live by yourself! The trouble with you is that you were born a clod, and you'll always be a clod. You should have stayed in Mimasaka! Believe me, I'm not begging you to stay. Feel free to leave anytime you want!"

While Matahachi made an effort to hold back his angry tears, Okō and Akemi turned their backs on him. But even after they were out of sight, he stood staring at the doorway. When Okō had hidden him at her house near Mount Ibuki, he'd thought he was lucky to have found someone who would love and take care of him. Now, however, he felt that he might as well have been captured by the enemy. Which was better, after all? To be a prisoner, or to become the pet of a fickle widow and cease to be a real man? Was it worse to languish in prison than to suffer here in the dark, a constant object of a shrew's scorn? He had had great hopes for the future, and he had let this slut, with her powdered face and her lascivious sex, pull him down to her level.

"The bitch!" Matahachi trembled with anger. "The rotten bitch!"

Tears welled up from the bottom of his heart. Why, oh, why, hadn't he returned to Miyamoto? Why hadn't he gone back to Otsū? His mother was in Miyamoto. His sister too, and his sister's husband, and Uncle Gon. They'd all been so good to him.

The bell at the Shippōji would be ringing today, wouldn't it? Just as it rang every day. And the Aida River would be flowing along its course as usual, flowers would be blooming on the riverbank, and the birds would be heralding the arrival of spring.

"What a fool I am! What a crazy, stupid fool!" Matahachi pounded his head with his fists.

Outside, mother, daughter and the two overnight guests strolled along the street, chatting merrily.

"It's just like spring."

"It ought to be. It's almost the third month."

"They say the shogun will come to the capital soon. If he does, you two ladies should take in a lot of money, eh?"

"Oh, no, I'm sure we won't."

"Why? Don't the samurai from Edo like to play?"

"They're much too uncouth—"

"Mother, isn't that the music for the Kabuki? I hear bells. And a flute too."

"Listen to the child! She's always like this. She thinks she's already at the theater!"

"But, Mother, I can hear it."

"Never mind that. Carry the Young Master's hat for him."

The footsteps and voices drifted into the Yomogi. Matahachi, with eyes still red with fury, stole a look out the window at the happy foursome. He found the sight so humiliating he once again plopped down on the tatami in the dark room, cursing himself.

"What are you doing here? Have you no pride left? How can you let things go on this way? Idiot!
Do
something!" The speech was addressed to himself, his anger at Okō eclipsed by his indignation at his own craven weakness.

"She said get out. Well, get out!" he argued. "There's no reason to sit here gnashing your teeth. You're only twenty-two. You're still young. Get out and do something on your own."

He felt he couldn't abide staying in the empty, silent house another minute, yet for some reason, he couldn't leave. His head ached with confusion. He realized that living the way he had been for the past few years, he had lost the ability to think clearly. How had he stood it? His woman was spending her evenings entertaining other men, selling them the charms she had once lavished on him. He couldn't sleep nights, and in the daytime he was too dispirited to go out. Brooding here in this dark room, there was nothing to do but drink.

And all, he thought, for that aging whore!

He was disgusted with himself. He knew that the only way out of his agony was to kick the whole ugly business sky high and return to the aspirations of his younger days. He must find the way he had lost.

And yet . . . and yet .. .

Some mysterious attraction bound him. What sort of evil spell was it that held him here? Was the woman a demon in disguise? She would curse him, tell him to go away, swear he was nothing but trouble to her, and then in the middle of the night she would melt like honey and say it had all been a joke, she really hadn't meant any of it. And even if she was nearly forty, there were those lips—those bright red lips that were as appealing as her daughter's.

This, however, was not the whole story. In the final analysis, Matahachi did not have the courage to let Okō and Akemi see him working as a day laborer. He had grown lazy and soft; the young man who dressed in silk and could distinguish Nada sake from the local brew by its taste was a far cry from the simple, rugged Matahachi who had been at Sekigahara. The worst aspect was that living this strange life with an older woman had robbed him of his youthfulness. In years he was still young, but in spirit he was dissolute and spiteful, lazy and resentful.

"But I'll do it!" he vowed. "I'll get out now!" Giving himself a final angry blow on the head, he jumped to his feet, shouting, "I'll get out of here this very day!"

As he listened to his own voice, it suddenly sank in that there was no one around to hold him back, nothing that actually bound him to this house. The only thing he really owned and could not leave behind was his sword, and this he quickly slipped into his obi. Biting his lips, he said determinedly, "After all, I am a man."

He could have marched out the front door waving his sword like a victorious general, but by force of habit he jumped into his dirty sandals and left by the kitchen door.

So far, so good. He was out of doors! But now what? His feet came to a halt. He stood motionless in the refreshing breeze of early spring. It was not the light dazzling his eyes that kept him from moving. The question was, where was he headed?

At that moment it seemed to Matahachi that the world was a vast, turbulent sea on which there was nothing to cling to. Aside from Kyoto, his experience encompassed only his village life and one battle. As he puzzled over his situation, a sudden thought sent him scurrying like a puppy back through the kitchen door.

"I need money," he said to himself. "I'll certainly have to have some money."

Going straight to Okō's room, he rummaged through her toilet boxes, her mirror stand, her chest of drawers, and everywhere else he could think of. He ransacked the place but found no money at all. Of course, he should have realized Okō wasn't the type of woman who would fail to take precautions against something like this.

Frustrated, Matahachi flopped down on the clothes that still lay on the floor. The scent of Okō lingered like a thick mist about her red silk under-robe, her Nishijin obi and her Momoyama-dyed kimono. By now, he reflected, she would be at the open-air theater by the river, watching the Kabuki dances with Tōji at her side. He formed an image of her white skin and that provoking, coquettish face.

"The evil slut!" he cried. Bitter and murderous thoughts arose from his very bowels.

Then, unexpectedly, he had a painful recollection of Otsū. As the days and months of their separation added up, he had grown at last to understand the purity and devotion of this girl who had promised to wait for him. He would gladly have bowed down and lifted his hands in supplication to her, if he'd thought she would ever forgive him. But he had broken with Otsū, abandoned her in such a way that it would be impossible to face her again.

"All for the sake of that woman," he thought ruefully. Now that it was too late, everything was clear to him; he should never have let Okō know that Otsū existed. When Okō had first heard of the girl, she had smiled a little smile and pretended not to mind in the slightest, but in fact, she was consumed with jealousy. Afterward, whenever they quarreled, she would raise the subject and insist that he write a letter breaking his engagement. And when he finally gave in and did so, she had brazenly enclosed a note in her own obviously feminine hand, and callously had the missive delivered by an impersonal runner.

"What must Otsū think of me?" groaned Matahachi sorrowfully. The image of her innocent girlish face came to his mind—a face full of reproach. Once again he saw the mountains and the river in Mimasaka. He wanted to call out to his mother, to his relatives. They had been so good. Even the soil now seemed to have been warm and comforting.

"I can never go home again!" he thought. "I threw all of it away for ... for ..." Enraged afresh, he dumped Okō's clothes out of the clothes chests and ripped them apart, strewing strips and pieces all over the house.

Slowly he became aware of someone calling from the front door.

"Pardon me," said the voice. "I'm from the Yoshioka School. Are the Young Master and Tōji here?"

"How should I know?" replied Matahachi gruffly.

"They must be here! I know it's rude to disturb them when they've gone off to have some fun, but something terribly important has happened. It involves the good name of the Yoshioka family."

"Go away! Don't bother me!"

"Please, can't you at least give them a message? Tell them that a swordsman named Miyamoto Musashi has appeared at the school, and that, well, none of our people can get the better of him. He's waiting for the Young Master to return—refuses to budge until he's had a chance to face him. Please tell them to hurry home!"

"Miyamoto? Miyamoto?"

The Wheel of Fortune

It was a day of unforgettable shame for the Yoshioka School. Never before had this prestigious center of the martial arts suffered such total humiliation.

Ardent disciples sat around in abject despair, long faces and whitened knuckles mirroring their distress and frustration. One large group was in the wood-floored anteroom, smaller groups in the side rooms. It was already twilight, when ordinarily they would have been heading home, or out to drink. No one made a move to leave. The funereal silence was broken only by the occasional clatter of the front gate.

"Is that him?"

"Is the Young Master back?"

"No, not yet." This from a man who had spent half the afternoon leaning disconsolately against a column at the entranceway.

Each time this happened, the men sank deeper into their morass of gloom. Tongues clicked in dismay and eyes shone with pathetic tears.

The doctor, coming out of a back room, said to the man at the entranceway, "I understand Seijūrō isn't here. Don't you know where he is?"

"No. Men are out looking for him. He'll probably be back soon." The doctor harrumphed and departed.

In front of the school, the candle on the altar of the Hachiman Shrine was surrounded by a sinister corona.

No one would have denied that the founder and first master, Yoshioka Kemp& was a far greater man than Seijūrō or his younger brother. Kempō had started life as a mere tradesman, a dyer of cloth, but in the course of endlessly repeating the rhythms and movements of paste-resist dyeing, he had conceived of a new way of handling the short sword. After learning the use of the halberd from one of the most skillful of the warrior-priests at Kurama and then studying the Kyō hachi style of swordsmanship, he had then created a style completely his own. His short-sword technique had subsequently been adopted by the Ashikaga shōguns, who summoned him to be an official tutor. Kempō had been a great master, a man whose wisdom was equal to his skill.

Although his sons, Seijūrō and Denshichirō, had received training as rigorous as their father's, they had fallen heir to his considerable wealth and fame, and that, in the opinion of some, was the cause of their weakness. Seijūrō was customarily addressed as "Young Master," but he had not really attained the level of skill that would attract a large following. Students came to the school because under Kempō the Yoshioka style of fighting had become so famous that just gaining entrance meant being recognized by society as a skilled warrior.

After the fall of the Ashikaga shogunate three decades earlier, the House of Yoshioka had ceased to receive an official allowance, but during the lifetime of the frugal Kemp& it had gradually accumulated a great deal of wealth. In addition, it had this large establishment on Shijō Avenue, with more students than any other school in Kyoto, which was by far the largest city in the country. But in truth, the school's position at the top level in the world of swordsmanship was a matter of appearances only.

The world outside these great white walls had changed more than most of the people inside realized. For years they had boasted, loafed, and played around, and time had, as it will, passed them by. Today their eyes had been opened by their disgraceful loss to an unknown country swordsman.

A little before noon, one of the servants came to the dōjō and reported that a man who called himself Musashi was at the door, requesting admittance. Asked what sort of a fellow he was, the servant replied that he was a rōnin, that he hailed from Miyamoto in Mimasaka, was twenty-one or twenty-two years old, about six feet tall, and seemed rather dull. His hair, uncombed for at least a year, was carelessly tied up behind in a reddish mop, and his clothing was too filthy to tell whether it was black or brown, plain or figured. The servant, while admitting that he might be mistaken, thought he detected an odor about the man. He did have on his back one of the webbed leather sacks people called warriors' study bags, and this did probably mean he was a
shugyōsha,
one of those samurai, so numerous these days, who wandered about devoting their every waking hour to the study of swordsmanship. Nevertheless, the servant's overall impression was that this Musashi was distinctly out of place at the Yoshioka School.

If the man had simply been asking for a meal, there would have been no problem. But when the group heard that the rustic intruder had come to the great gate to challenge the famous Yoshioka Seijūrō to a bout, they burst into uproarious laughter. Some argued for turning him away without further ado, while others said they should first find out what style he employed and the name of his teacher.

The servant, as amused as anyone else, left and came back to report that the visitor had, as a boy, learned the use of the truncheon from his father and had later on picked up what he could from warriors passing through the village. He left home when he was seventeen and "for reasons of his own" spent his eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth years immersed in scholarly studies. All the previous year he had been alone in the mountains, with the trees and the mountain spirits as his only teachers. Consequently, he couldn't lay claim to any particular style or teacher. But in the future he hoped to learn the teachings of Kiichi Hōgen, master the essence of the Kyōhachi Style, and emulate the great Yoshioka Kempō by creating a style of his own, which he had already decided to call the Miyamoto Style. Despite his many flaws, this was the goal toward which he proposed to work with all his heart and soul.

It was an honest and unaffected answer, the servant conceded, but the man had a country accent and stammered at almost every word. The servant obligingly provided his listeners with an imitation, again throwing them into gales of laughter.

The man must be out of his senses. To proclaim that his goal was to create a style of his own was sheer madness. By way of enlightening the lout, the students sent the servant out again, this time to ask whether the visitor had appointed anyone to take his corpse away after the bout.

To this Musashi replied, "If by any chance I should be killed, it makes no difference whether you discard my body on Toribe Mountain or throw it into the Kamo River with the garbage. Either way, I promise not to hold it against you."

His way of answering this time, said the servant, was very clear, with nothing of the clumsiness of his earlier replies.

After a moment's hesitation, someone said, "Let him in!"

That was how it started, with the disciples thinking they would cut the newcomer up a bit, then throw him out. In the very first bout, however, it was the school's champion who came away the loser. His arm was broken clean through. Only a bit of skin kept his wrist attached to his forearm.

One by one others accepted the stranger's challenge, and one by one they went down in ignominious defeat. Several were wounded seriously, and Musashi's wooden sword dripped with blood. After about the third loss, the disciples' mood turned murderous; if it took every last one of them, they would not let this barbaric madman get away alive, taking the honor of the Yoshioka School with him.

Musashi himself ended the bloodshed. Since his challenge had been accepted, he had no qualms about the casualties, but he announced, "There's no point in continuing until Seijūrō returns," and refused to fight anymore. There being no alternative, he was shown, at his own request, to a room where he could wait. Only then did one man come to his senses and call for the doctor.

It was soon after the doctor left that voices screaming out the names of two of the wounded brought a dozen men to the back room. They clustered around the two samurai in stunned disbelief, their faces ashen and their breathing uneven. Both were dead.

Footsteps hurried through the dōjō and into the death room. The students made way for Seijūrō and Tōji. Both were as pale as though they'd just emerged from an icy waterfall.

"What's going on here?" demanded Tōji. "What's the meaning of all this?" His tone was surly, as usual.

A samurai kneeling grim-faced by the pillow of one of his dead companions fixed accusing eyes on Tōji and said, "You should explain what's going on. You're the one who takes the Young Master out carousing. Well, this time you've gone too far!"

"Watch your tongue, or I'll cut it out!"

"When Master Kempō was alive, a day never passed when he wasn't in the dōjō!"

"What of it? The Young Master wanted a little cheering up, so we went to the Kabuki. What do you mean, talking that way in front of him? Just who do you think you are?"

"Does he have to stay out all night to see the Kabuki? Master Kempō must be turning in his grave."

"That's enough!" cried Tōji, lunging toward the man.

As others moved in and tried to separate and calm down the two, a voice heavy with pain rose slightly above the sound of the scuffle. "If the Young Master's back, it's time to stop squabbling. It's up to him to retrieve the honor of the school. That rōnin can't leave here alive."

Several of the wounded screamed and pounded on the floor. Their agitation was an eloquent rebuke to those who had not faced Musashi's sword.

To the samurai of this age, the most important thing in the world was honor. As a class, they virtually competed with each other to see who would be the first to die for it. The government had until recently been too busy with its wars to work out an adequate administrative system for a country at peace, and even Kyoto was governed only by a set of loose, makeshift regulations. Still, the emphasis of the warrior class on personal honor was respected by farmers and townsmen alike, and it played a role in preserving peace. A general consensus regarding what constituted honorable behavior, and what did not, made it possible for the people to govern themselves even with inadequate laws.

The men of the Yoshioka School, though uncultured, were by no means shameless degenerates. When after the initial shock of defeat they returned to their normal selves, the first thing they thought of was honor. The honor of their school, the honor of the master, their own personal honor.

Putting aside individual animosities, a large group gathered around Seijūrō to discuss what was to be done. Unfortunately, on this of all days, Seijūrō felt bereft of fighting spirit. At the moment when he should have been at his best, he was hung over, weak and exhausted.

"Where is the man?" he asked, as he hitched up his kimono sleeves with a leather thong.

"He's in the small room next to the reception room," said one student, pointing across the garden.

"Call him!" Seijūrō commanded. His mouth was dry from tension. He sat down in the master's place, a small raised platform, and prepared himself to receive Musashi's greeting. Choosing one of the wooden swords proffered by his disciples, he held it upright beside him.

Three or four men acknowledged the command and started to leave, but Tōji and Ryōhei told them to wait.

There ensued a good deal of whispering, just out of Seijūrō's earshot. The muted consultations centered around Tōji and other of the school's senior disciples. Before long family members and a few retainers joined in, and there were so many heads present that the gathering split into groups. Though heated, the controversy was settled in a relatively short time.

The majority, not only concerned about the school's fate but uncomfortably aware of Seijūrō's shortcomings as a fighter, concluded that it would be unwise to let him face Musashi man to man, then and there. With two dead and several wounded, if Seijūrō were to lose, the crisis facing the school would become extraordinarily grave. It was too great a risk to take.

The unspoken opinion of most of the men was that if Denshichirō were present, there would be little cause for alarm. In general, it was thought that he would have been better suited than Seijūrō to carry on his father's work, but being the second son and having no serious responsibilities, he was an exceedingly easygoing type. That morning he had left the house with friends to go to Ise and hadn't even bothered to say when he'd return.

Tōji approached Seijūrō and said, "We've reached a conclusion."

As Seijūrō listened to the whispered report, his face grew more and more indignant, until finally he gasped with barely controlled fury, "Trick him?"

Tōji tried to silence him with his eyes, but Seijūrō was not to be silenced. "I can't agree to anything like that! It's cowardly. What if word got out that the Yoshioka School was so afraid of an unknown warrior that it hid and ambushed him?"

"Calm down," Tōji pleaded, but Sequa continued to protest. Drowning him out, Tōji said loudly, "Leave it to us. We'll take care of it."

But Seijūrō would have none of it. "Do you think that I, Yoshioka Seijūrō, would lose to this Musashi, or whatever his name is?"

"Oh, no, it's not that at all," lied Tōji. "It's just that we don't see how you would gain any honor by defeating him. You're of much too high a status to take on a brazen vagabond like that. Anyway, there's no reason why anybody outside this house should know anything about it, is there? Only one thing is important—not to let him get away alive."

Even while they argued, the number of men in the hall shrank by more than half. As quietly as cats, they were disappearing into the garden, toward the back door and into the inner rooms, fading almost imperceptibly into the darkness.

"Young Master, we can't put it off any longer," Tōji said firmly, and blew out the lamp. He loosened his sword in its scabbard and raised his kimono sleeves.

Seijūrō remained seated. Though to some extent relieved at not having to fight the stranger, he was by no means happy. The implication, as he saw it, was that his disciples had a low opinion of his ability. He thought back on how he had neglected practice since his father's death, and the thought made him despondent.

The house grew as cold and quiet as the bottom of a well. Unable to sit still, Seijūrō got up and stood by the window. Through the paper-covered doors of the room given Musashi, he could see the softly flickering light of the lamp. That was the only light anywhere.

Quite a number of other eyes were peering in the same direction. The attackers, their swords on the ground in front of them, held their breath and listened intently for any sound that might tell them what Musashi was up to.