Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [109]
The old man laughed. “It was the other way around. When you were still fifty feet from me, I perceived what you call ‘something murderous’ in the air. I sensed it in the tip of my hoe—that’s how strongly your fighting spirit and ambition manifest themselves in every step you take. I knew I had to be prepared to defend myself.
“If it had been one of the local farmers passing by, I myself would have been no more than an old man tending vegetables. True, you sensed belligerence in me, but it was only a reflection of your own.”
So Musashi had been right in thinking, even before they first exchanged words, that here was no ordinary man. Now he keenly felt that the priest was the master, and he the pupil. His attitude toward the old man with the bent back became appropriately deferential.
“I thank you for the lesson you have given me. May I ask your name and your position in this temple?”
“Oh, I don’t belong to the Hōzōin. I’m the abbot of the Ōzōin. My name is Nikkan.”
“I see.”
“I’m an old friend of In’ei, and since he was studying the use of the lance, I decided to study along with him. Later, I had an afterthought or two. Now I never touch the weapon.”
“I guess that means that Inshun, the present abbot here, is your disciple.”
“Yes, it could be put that way. But priests shouldn’t have any use for weapons, and I consider it unfortunate that the Hōzōin has become famous for a martial art, rather than for its religious fervor. Still, there were people who felt that it would be a pity to let the Hōzōin Style die out, so I taught it to Inshun. And to no one else.”
“I wonder if you’d let me stay in your temple until Inshun returns.” “Do you propose to challenge him?”
“Well, as long as I’m here, I’d like to see how the foremost master uses his lance.”
Nikkan shook his head reproachfully. “It’s a waste of time. There’s nothing to be learned here.”
“Is that so?”
“You’ve already seen the Hōzōin lancemanship, just now, when you fought Agon. What more do you need to see? If you want to learn more, watch me. Look into my eyes.”
Nikkan drew up his shoulders, put his head slightly forward, and stared at Musashi. His eyes seemed about to jump from their sockets. As Musashi stared back, Nikkan’s pupils shone first with a coral flame, then gradually took on an azure profundity. The glow burned and numbed Musashi’s mind. He looked away. Nikkan’s crackling laugh was like the clatter of bone-dry boards.
He relaxed his stare only when a younger priest came in and whispered to him. “Bring it in,” he commanded.
Presently the young priest returned with a tray and a round wooden rice container, from which Nikkan scooped rice into a bowl. He gave it to Musashi.
“I recommend the tea gruel and pickles. It’s the practice of the Hōzōin to serve them to all those who come here to study, so don’t feel they’re going to any special trouble for you. They make their own pickles—called Hōzōin pickles, in fact—cucumbers stuffed with basil and red pepper. I think you’ll find they taste rather good.”
As Musashi picked up his chopsticks, he felt Nikkan’s keen eyes on him again. He could not tell at this point whether their piercing quality originated within the priest or was a response to something he himself emitted. As he bit into a pickle, the feeling swept over him that Takuan’s fist was about to smite him again, or perhaps the lance near the threshold was about to fly at him.
After he had finished a bowl of rice mixed with tea and two pickles, Nikkan asked, “Would you care for another helping?”
“No, thank you. I’ve had plenty.”
“What do you think of the pickles?”
“Very good, thank you.”
Even after he’d left, the sting of the red pepper on Musashi’s tongue was all he could recall of the pickles’ flavor. Nor was that the only sting he felt, for he came away convinced that somehow he’d suffered a defeat. “I lost,” he grumbled to himself, walking slowly through a grove of cryptomerias. “I’ve been outclassed!” In the dim light, fleeting shadows ran across his path, a small herd of deer, frightened by his footsteps.