Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [106]
“I’d like to meet the master.”
The priest said, “Come in,” and gestured to the right of the entrance, suggesting obliquely that Musashi should wash his feet first. There was a barrel overflowing with water supplied by a bamboo pipe and, pointing this way and that, about ten pairs of worn and dirty sandals.
Musashi followed the priest down a wide dark corridor and was shown into an anteroom. There he was told to wait. The smell of incense was in the air, and through the window he could see the broad leaves of a plantain tree. Aside from the offhand manner of the giant who’d let him in, nothing he saw indicated there was anything unusual about this particular temple.
When he reappeared, the priest handed him a registry and ink box, saying, “Write down your name, where you studied, and what style you use.” He spoke as though instructing a child.
The title on the registry was: “List of Persons Visiting This Temple to Study. Steward of the Hōzōin.” Musashi opened the book and glanced over the names, each listed under the date on which the samurai or student had called. Following the style of the last entry, he wrote down the required information, omitting the name of his teacher.
The priest, of course, was especially interested in that.
Musashi’s answer was essentially the one he’d given at the Yoshioka School. He had practiced the use of the truncheon under his father, “without working very hard at it.” Since making up his mind to study in earnest, he had taken as his teacher everything in the universe, as well as the examples set by his predecessors throughout the country. He ended up by saying, “I’m still in the process of learning.”
“Mm. You probably know this already, but since the time of our first master, the Hōzōin has been celebrated everywhere for its lance techniques. The fighting that goes on here is rough, and there are no exceptions. Before you go on, perhaps you’d better read what’s written at the beginning of the registry.”
Musashi picked up the book, opened it and read the stipulation, which he had skipped over before. It said: “Having come here for the purpose of study, I absolve the temple of all responsibility in the event that I suffer bodily injury or am killed.”
“I agree to that,” said Musashi with a slight grin—it amounted to no more than common sense for anyone committed to becoming a warrior.
“All right. This way.”
The dōjō was immense. The monks must have sacrificed a lecture hall or some other large temple building in favor of having it. Musashi had never before seen a hall with columns of such girth, and he also observed traces of paint, gold foil and Chinese-white primer on the frame of the transom—things not to be found in ordinary practice halls.
He was by no means the only visitor. More than ten student-warriors were seated in the waiting area, with a similar number of student-priests. In addition, there were quite a few samurai who seemed to be merely observers. All were tensely watching two lancers fighting a practice bout. No one even glanced Musashi’s way as he sat down in a corner.
According to a sign on the wall, if anyone wanted to fight with real lances, the challenge would be accepted, but the combatants now on the floor were using long oak practice poles. A strike could, nevertheless, be extremely painful, even fatal.
One of the fighters was eventually thrown in the air, and as he limped back to his seat in defeat, Musashi could see that his thigh had already swollen to the size of a tree trunk. Unable to sit down, he dropped awkwardly to one knee and extended the wounded leg out before him.
“Next!” came the summons from the man on the floor, a priest of singularly arrogant manner. The sleeves of his robe were tied up behind him, and his whole body—legs, arms, shoulders, even his forehead—seemed to consist of bulging muscles. The oak pole he held vertically was at least ten feet in length.
A man who seemed to be one of those who’d arrived that day spoke up. He fastened up his sleeves with a leather thong and strode into the practice area. The priest