Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [108]
Musashi stood perfectly still, or so it seemed. There was nothing unusual about his stance; he held his sword straight out with both hands, but being slightly smaller than his opponent and not so conspicuously muscular, he looked almost casual. The greatest difference was in the eyes. Musashi’s were as sharp as a bird’s, their pupils a clear coral tinted with blood.
Agon shook his head, perhaps to shake off the streams of sweat pouring down from his forehead, perhaps to shake off the old man’s warning words. Had they lingered on? Was he attempting to cast them out of his mind? Whatever the reason, he was extremely agitated. He repeatedly shifted his position, trying to draw out Musashi, but Musashi remained motionless.
Agon’s lunge was accompanied by a piercing scream. In the split second that decided the encounter, Musashi parried and counterattacked.
“What happened?”
Agon’s fellow priests hastily ran forward and crowded around him in a black circle. In the general confusion, some tripped over his practice lance and went sprawling.
A priest stood up, his hands and chest smeared with blood, shouting, “Medicine! Bring the medicine. Quick!”
“You won’t need any medicine.” It was the old man, who had come in the front entrance and quickly assessed the situation. His face turned sour. “If I’d thought medicine would save him, I wouldn’t have tried to stop him in the first place. The idiot!”
No one paid any attention to Musashi. For lack of anything better to do, he walked to the front door and began putting his sandals on.
The old man followed him. “You!” he said.
Over his shoulder, Musashi replied, “Yes?”
“I’d like to have a few words with you. Come back inside.”
He led Musashi to a room behind the practice hall—a simple, square cell, the only opening in the four walls being the door.
After they were seated, the old man said, “It would be more proper for the abbot to come and greet you, but he’s on a trip and won’t be back for two or three days. So I’ll act on his behalf.”
“This is very kind of you,” said Musashi, bowing his head. “I’m grateful for the good training I received today, but I feel I should apologize for the unfortunate way it turned out—”
“Why? Things like that happen. You have to be ready to accept it before you start fighting. Don’t let it worry you.”
“How are Agon’s injuries?”
“He was killed instantly,” said the old man. The breath with which he spoke felt like a cold wind on Musashi’s face.
“He’s dead?” To himself, he said: “So, it’s happened again.” Another life cut short by his wooden sword. He closed his eyes and in his heart called on the name of the Buddha, as he had on similar occasions in the past.
“Young man!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is your name Miyamoto Musashi?”
“That’s correct.”
“Under whom did you study the martial arts?”
“I’ve had no teacher in the ordinary sense. My father taught me how to use the truncheon when I was young. Since then, I’ve picked up a number of points from older samurai in various provinces. I’ve also spent some time traveling about the countryside, learning from the mountains and the rivers. I regard them, too, as teachers.”
“You seem to have the right attitude. But you’re so strong! Much too strong!”
Believing he was being praised, Musashi blushed and said, “Oh, no! I’m still immature. I’m always making blunders.”
“That’s not what I mean. Your strength is your problem. You must learn to control it, become weaker.”
“What?” Musashi asked perplexedly.
“You will recall that a short while ago you passed through the vegetable garden where I was at work.”
“Yes.”
“When you saw me, you jumped away, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Well, somehow I imagined that you might use your hoe as a weapon and strike my legs with it. Then, too, though your attention seemed to be focused on the ground, my whole body felt transfixed by your eyes. I felt something murderous in that look, as though you were searching for my weak spot—so as to attack