Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [113]
“The knowledge that comes from books is of no use to the warrior,” he reassured himself. “If a man worries too much about what others think or do, he’s apt to be slow to act. Why, if Nikkan himself closed his eyes for a moment and made one misstep, he’d crumble and fall to pieces!”
The sound of footsteps on the stairs intruded upon his musings. The maid appeared, and after her Jōtarō, his dark skin further blackened by the grime acquired on his journey, but his spritelike hair white with dust. Musashi, truly happy to have the diversion of his little friend, welcomed him with open arms.
The boy plopped down on the floor and stretched his dirty legs out straight. “Am I tired!” he sighed.
“Did you have trouble finding me?”
“Trouble! I almost gave up. I’ve been searching all over!”
“Didn’t you ask at the Hōzōin?”
“Yes, but they said they didn’t know anything about you.”
“Oh, they did, did they?” Musashi’s eyes narrowed. “And after I said specifically that you’d find me near Sarusawa Pond. Oh, well, I’m glad you made it.”
“Here’s the answer from the Yoshioka School.” He handed Musashi the bamboo tube. “I couldn’t find Hon’iden Matahachi, so I asked the people at his house to give him the message.”
“Fine. Now run along and have a bath. They’ll give you some dinner downstairs.”
Musashi took the letter from its container and read it. It said that Seijūrō looked forward to a “second bout”; if Musashi didn’t show up as promised the following year, it would be assumed that he’d lost his nerve. Should that happen, Seijūrō would make sure that Musashi became the laughingstock of Kyoto. This braggadocio was set down in clumsy handwriting, presumably by someone other than Seijūrō.
As Musashi tore the letter to bits and burned it, the charred pieces fluttered up into the air like so many black butterflies.
Seijūrō had spoken of a “bout,” but it was clear that it was going to be more than that. It would be a battle to the death. Next year, as a result of this insulting note, which one of the combatants would end up in ashes?
Musashi took it for granted that a warrior must be content to live from day to day, never knowing each morning if he’d live to see nightfall. Nevertheless, the thought that he might really die in the coming year worried him somewhat. There were so many things he still wanted to do. For one thing, there was his burning desire to become a great swordsman. But that wasn’t all. So far, he reflected, he hadn’t done any of the things people ordinarily do in the course of a lifetime.
At this stage of his life, he was still vain enough to think he’d like to have retainers—a lot of them—leading his horses and carrying his falcons, just like Bokuden and Lord Kōizumi of Ise. He would like, too, to have a proper house, with a good wife and loyal servants. He wanted to be a good master and to enjoy the warmth and comfort of home life. And of course, before he settled down, he had a secret longing to have a passionate love affair. During all these years of thinking solely about the Way of the Samurai he had, not unnaturally, remained chaste. Still, he was struck by some of the women he saw on the streets of Kyoto and Nara, and it was not their aesthetic qualities alone that pleased him; they aroused him physically.
His thoughts turned to Otsū. Though she was now a creature of the distant past, he felt closely bound to her. How many times, when he was lonely or melancholy, had the vague recollection of her alone cheered him up.
Presently he came out of his reverie. Jōtarō had rejoined him, bathed, satiated and proud to have carried out his mission successfully. Sitting with his short legs crossed and his hands between his knees, he didn’t take long to succumb to fatigue. He was soon snoozing blissfully, his mouth open. Musashi put him to bed.
When morning came, the boy was up with the sparrows. Musashi also arose early, since he intended to resume his travels.
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