Musashi: Bushido Code (81 page)

The Spreading Pine

The wind soughed in the bamboo. Though it was still too dark to take flight, birds were awake and chirping.

"Don't attack! It's me—Kojirō!" Having run like a demon for more than a mile, he was breathing heavily when he reached the spreading pine.

The faces of the men who emerged from their hiding places to encircle him were numb from waiting.

"Didn't you find him?" Genzaemon asked impatiently.

"I found him, all right," replied Kojirō with an inflection that turned every eye upon him. Looking around coolly, he said, "I found him and we walked together up the Takano River for a way, but then he—"

"He ran away!" exclaimed Miike Jūrōzaemon.

"No!" Kojirō said emphatically. "To judge from his calmness and from what he said, I don't think he did. At first it seemed that way, but on second thought I decided he was just trying to get rid of me. He's probably devised some strategy he wanted to conceal from me. Better keep your guard up!"

"Strategy? What kind of strategy?"

They jostled closer to avoid missing a word.

"I suspect he's enlisted several seconds. He was probably on his way to meet them so they could attack all at once."

"Uh," groaned Genzaemon. "That seems likely. It also means it won't be long before they arrive."

Jūrōzaemon separated himself from the group and ordered the men back to their stations. "If Musashi attacks while we're scattered like this," he warned, "we may lose the first skirmish. We don't know how many men he'll have with him, but it can't be very many. We'll stick to our original plan."

"He's right. Mustn't be caught off guard."

"It's easy to make a mistake when you're tired of waiting. Be careful!" "Get to your posts!"

Gradually they dispersed. The musketeer resettled himself in the upper branches of the pine tree.

Kojirō, noticing Genjirō standing stiffly with his back to the trunk, asked, "Sleepy?"

"No!" the boy replied pluckily.

Kojirō patted him on the head. "Your lips have turned blue! You must be cold. Since you're the representative of the House of Yoshioka, you have to be brave and strong. Be patient a little longer and you'll see some interesting things happen." Walking away, he added, "Now I have to find a good place for myself."

The moon had traveled with Musashi from the hollow between Shiga Hill and Uryū Hill, where he'd left Otsū. Now it sank behind the mountain, as a gradual upward movement of the clouds resting on the thirty-six peaks served notice that the world would soon be beginning its daily chores.

He quickened his pace. Directly below him, a temple roof came into view. "It's not far now," he thought. He looked up and reflected that in only a short time—a few breaths—his spirit would join the clouds in their skyward flight. To the universe, the death of one man could hardly have any more significance than that of a butterfly, but in the realm of mankind, a single death could affect everything, for better or worse. Musashi's only concern now was how to die a noble death.

The welcome sound of water struck his ears. Stopping and kneeling at the foot of a tall rock, he scooped some water from the brook and drank quickly. His tongue smarted from its freshness, an indication, he hoped, that his spirit was calm and collected and his courage had not deserted him.

Taking a moment to rest, he seemed to hear voices calling him. Otsū? Jōtarō? He knew it couldn't be Otsū; she was not the kind to lose control of herself and chase after him at a time like this. She knew him too well for that. Still, he couldn't rid himself of the notion that he was being beckoned. He looked back several times, hoping to see someone. The thought that he might be having delusions was unnerving.

But he couldn't afford to waste any more time. Being late would not only mean breaking his promise but put him at a considerable disadvantage. For a lone warrior attempting to take on an army of opponents, the ideal time, he surmised, was the brief interval after the moon had set but before the sky was completely light.

He recalled the old saying "It is easy to crush an enemy outside oneself but impossible to defeat an enemy within." He had vowed to expel Otsū from his thoughts, had even bluntly told her this as she had clung to his sleeve. Yet he seemed unable to shake her voice from his mind.

He cursed softly. "I'm acting like a woman. A man on a man's mission has no business thinking about frivolities like love!"

He spurred himself on, running as fast as he could. Then all at once he caught sight, below him, of a white ribbon rising from the foot of the mountain through the bamboo and trees and fields, one of the roads to Ichijōji. He was only about four hundred yards from the point where it met with the other two roads. Through the milky mist he could make out the branches of the great spreading pine.

He dropped to his knees, his body tense. Even the trees around him seemed transformed into potential enemies. As nimbly as a lizard, he left the path and made his way to a point directly above the pine tree. A gust of cold wind swept down from the mountaintop, pushing the mist in a great rolling wave over the pine trees and bamboo. The branches of the spreading pine quivered, as though to warn the world of impending disaster.

Straining his eyes, he could just discern the figures of ten men standing perfectly still around the pine tree, their lances poised. The presence of others elsewhere on the mountain he could feel, even though he couldn't see them. Musashi knew he had now entered the province of death. A feeling of awe brought goose pimples even to the backs of his hands, but his breathing was deep and steady. Down to the tips of his toes, he was keyed for action. As he crept slowly forward, his toes gripped the ground with the strength and sureness of fingers.

A stone embankment that might once have been part of a fortress was nearby. On an impulse, he made his way among the rocks to the eminence on which it had stood. There he found a stone
torii
looking straight down on the spreading pine. Behind it was the sacred precinct, protected by rows of tall evergreens, among which he could see a shrine building.

Though he had no idea which deity was honored here, he ran through the grove to the shrine gate and knelt before it. With death so near, he could not keep his heart from trembling at the thought of the sacred presence. The shrine was dark inside, save for a holy lamp, swaying in the wind, threatening to expire, then miraculously recapturing its full brightness. The plaque above the door read "Hachidai Shrine."

Musashi took comfort from the thought that he had a powerful ally, that if he charged down the mountain, the god of war would be behind him. The gods, he knew, always supported the side that was right. He recalled how the great Nobunaga, on his way to the Battle of Okehazama, had paused to pay his respects at the Atsuta Shrine. The discovery of this holy place seemed felicitous indeed.

Just inside the gate was a stone basin, where supplicants could cleanse themselves before praying. He rinsed out his mouth, then took a second mouthful and sprayed water on the hilt of his sword and the cords of his sandals. Thus purified, he hitched up his sleeves with a leather thong and tied on a cotton headband. Flexing his leg muscles as he walked, he went to the steps of the shrine and put his hand on the rope hanging from the gong above the entrance. In time-honored fashion, he was about to give the gong a rap and say a prayer to the deity.

Catching himself, he quickly withdrew his hand. "What am I doing?" he thought in horror. The rope, plaited with red and white cotton cord, seemed to be inviting him to take hold of it, sound the gong and make his supplication. He stared at it. "What was I going to request?" he asked himself. "What need have I of the help of the gods? Am I not already one with the universe? Haven't I always said I must be prepared to face death at any time? Haven't I trained myself to face death calmly and confidently?"

He was appalled. Without thinking, without remembering his years of training and self-discipline, he had been on the brink of begging for supernatural assistance. Something was wrong, for deep down he knew that the samurai's true ally was not the gods but death itself. Last night and earlier this morning, he had felt confident that he had come to terms with his fate. And yet, there he was within a hairbreadth of forgetting all he had ever learned, beseeching aid from the deity. Head drooped in shame, he stood there like a rock.

"What a fool I am! I thought I'd achieved purity and enlightenment, but there is still, within me, something that longs to go on living. Some delusion stirring up thoughts of Otsū or my sister. Some false hope leading me to clutch at any straw. A diabolical yearning, causing me to forget myself, tempting me to pray to the gods for help."

He was disgusted, exasperated, with his body, with his soul, with his failure to master the Way. The tears he had held back in Otsū's presence poured from his eyes.

"It was all unconscious. I had no intention of praying, hadn't even thought of what I was going to pray for. But if I'm doing things unconsciously, that makes it all the worse."

Racked by doubt, he felt foolish and inadequate. Had he ever had the ability to become a warrior in the first place? If he had achieved the state of calm he had aspired to, there should have been no need, not even a subconscious need, for prayers or supplications. In one shattering moment, only minutes before the battle, he had discovered in his heart the true seeds of defeat. It was impossible now to regard his approaching death as the culmination of a samurai's life!

In the next breath a surge of gratitude swept over him. The presence and magnanimity of the deity enveloped him. The battle had not yet begun; the real test still lay before him. He had been warned in time. By recognizing his failure, he had overcome it. Doubt vanished; the deity had guided him to this place to teach him this.

While believing sincerely in the gods, he did not consider it the Way of the Samurai to seek their aid. The Way was an ultimate truth transcending gods and Buddhas. Stepping back a pace, he folded his hands and, rather than ask for protection, thanked the gods for their timely help.

After a quick bow, he hurried out of the shrine compound and down the narrow, steep path, the sort of path which a heavy downpour would quickly convert into a rushing stream. Pebbles and brittle clumps of dirt tumbled down at his heels, breaking the silence. When the spreading pine came into view again, he leaped off the path and crouched in the bushes. Not a drop of dew had yet fallen from the leaves, and his knees and chest were soon drenched. The pine tree was no more than forty or fifty paces below him. He could see the man with the musket in its branches.

His anger flashed. "Cowards!" he said, almost out loud. "All this against one man."

In a way he felt a little sorry for an enemy who had to go to such extremes. Still, he had expected something like this and was, insofar as possible, prepared for it. Since they would naturally assume that he was not alone, prudence would dictate that they have at least one flying weapon, and probably more. If they were also using short bows, the archers were probably hidden behind rocks or on lower ground.

Musashi had one great advantage: both the man in the tree and the men underneath it had their backs to him. Stooping so low that the hilt of his sword rose above his head, he crept, almost crawled, forward. Then he covered about twenty paces at a dead run.

The musketeer twisted his head around, spotted him and shouted, "There he is!"

Musashi ran on another ten paces, knowing that the man would have to reverse his position to aim and fire.

"Where?" cried the men nearest the tree.

"Behind you!" came the throat-splitting reply.

The musketeer had his weapon trained on Musashi's head. While sparks from the fuse showered down, Musashi's right elbow described an arc in the air. The rock he hurled hit the fuse squarely with terrific force. The musketeer's scream mingled with the sound of cracking branches as he plunged to the ground.

In an instant Musashi's name was on every man's lips. Not one of them had taken the trouble to think the situation through, to imagine that he might devise a means of attacking the central corps first. Their confusion was all but total. In their rush to reorient themselves, the ten men bumped into each other, got their weapons tangled, tripped each other with their lances and otherwise displayed a perfect picture of disorder, all the while screaming at each other not to let Musashi escape.

Just as they sorted themselves out and began to form a semicircle, they were challenged: "I am Miyamoto Musashi, the son of Shimmen Munisai of Mimasaka Province. I have come in accordance with our agreement made the day before yesterday at Yanagimachi.

"Genjirō, are you there? I beg you not to be careless like Seijūrō and Denshichirō before you. I understand that, because of your youth, you have several score men to support you. I, Musashi, have come alone. Your men may attack individually or in a group, as they wish.

"Now, fight!"

Another total surprise: no one expected Musashi to deliver a formal challenge. Even those who would desperately have liked to reply in kind lacked the necessary composure.

"Musashi, you're late!" cried a hoarse voice.

Many took encouragement from Musashi's declaration that he was alone, but Genzaemon and Jūrōzaemon, believing it was a trick, started looking around for phantom seconds.

A loud twang off to one side was followed a split second later by the glint of Musashi's sword flashing through the air. The arrow aimed at his face broke, half falling behind his shoulder, the other half near the tip of his lowered sword.

Or rather where his sword had just been, for Musashi was already on the move. His hair bristling like a lion's mane, he was bounding toward the shadowy form behind the spreading pine.

Genjirō hugged the trunk, screaming, "Help! I'm scared!"