Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [115]
The widow, however, said, “No, the more I think of it, the more I think I’d be happier without it. And he does want it so badly…. Don’t be too hard on him.
Suspecting the mask had some special significance for her, Musashi tried once more to return it, but by this time Jōtarō had his straw sandals on and was outside waiting by the gate, a smug look on his face. Musashi, eager to be off, gave in to her kindness and accepted the gift. The young widow said she was sorrier to see Musashi go than she was to lose the mask, and begged him several times to come back and stay there whenever he was in Nara.
Musashi was tying the thongs of his sandals when the dumpling-maker’s wife came running up. “Oh,” she said breathlessly, “I’m so glad you haven’t left yet. You can’t go now! Please, go back upstairs. Something terrible is going on!” The woman’s voice trembled as though she thought some fearful ogre was about to attack her.
Musashi finished tying his sandals and calmly raised his head. “What is it? What’s so terrible?”
“The priests at the Hōzōin have heard you’re leaving today, and more than ten of them have taken their lances and are lying in wait for you in Hannya Plain.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and the abbot, Inshun, is with them. My husband knows one of the priests, and he asked him what was going on. The priest said the man who’s been staying here for the last couple of days, the man named Miyamoto, was leaving Nara today, and the priests were going to waylay him on the road.”
Her face twitching with fright, she assured Musashi that it would be suicide to leave Nara this morning and fervently urged him to lie low for another night. It would be safer, in her opinion, to try and sneak away the next day.
“I see,” said Musashi without emotion. “You say they plan to meet me on Hannya Plain?”
“I’m not sure exactly where, but they went off in that direction. Some of the townspeople told me it wasn’t only the priests. They said a whole lot of the rōnin, too, had got together, saying they’d catch you and turn you over to the Hōzōin. Did you say something bad about the temple, or insult them in some way?”
“No.”
“Well, they say the priests are furious because you hired somebody to put up posters with verses on them making fun of the Hōzōin. They took this to mean you were gloating over having killed one of their men.”
“I didn’t do anything of the sort. There’s been a mistake.”
“Well, if it’s a mistake, you shouldn’t go out and get yourself killed over it!”
His brow beaded with sweat, Musashi looked thoughtfully up at the sky, recalling how angry the three rōnin had been when he turned down their business deal. Maybe he was indebted to them for all this. It would be just like them to put up offensive posters and then spread the word that he’d done it.
Abruptly he stood up. “I’m leaving,” he said.
He strapped his traveling bag to his back, took his basket hat in hand, and turning to the two women, thanked them for their kindness. As he started toward the gate, the widow, now in tears, followed along, begging him not to go.
“If I stay over another night,” he pointed out, “there’s bound to be trouble at your house. I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen, after you’ve been so good to us.”
“I don’t care,” she insisted. “You’d be safer here.”
“No, I’ll go now. Jō! Say thank you to the lady.”
Dutifully, the boy bowed and did as he was told. He, too, appeared to be in low spirits, but not because he was sorry to leave. When it came right down to it, Jōtarō did not really know Musashi. In Kyoto, he had heard that his master was a weakling and a coward, and the thought that the notorious lancers of the Hōzōin were set to attack him was very depressing. His youthful heart was filled with gloom and