Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [116]
Hannya Plain
Jōtarō trudged along sadly behind his master, fearing each step was taking them closer to certain death. A little earlier, on the damp, shady road near the Tōdaiji, a dewdrop falling on his collar had almost made him cry out. The black crows he saw along the way gave him an eerie feeling.
Nara was far behind them. Through the rows of cryptomeria trees along the road, they could make out the gently sloping plain leading up to Hannya Hill; to their right were the rolling peaks of Mount Mikasa, above them the peaceful sky.
That he and Musashi were heading straight for the place where the Hōzōin lancers were waiting in ambush made absolutely no sense to him. There were plenty of places to hide, if one put one’s mind to it. Why couldn’t they go into one of the many temples along the way and bide their time? That would surely be more sensible.
He wondered if perhaps Musashi meant to apologize to the priests, even though he hadn’t wronged them in any way. Jōtarō resolved that if Musashi begged their forgiveness, he would too. This was no time to be arguing about the right and wrong of things.
“Jōtarō!”
The boy started at the sound of his name being called. His eyebrows shot up and his body became tense. Realizing his face was probably pale from fright and not wanting to appear childish, he turned his eyes bravely toward the sky. Musashi looked up at the sky too, and the boy felt more dispirited than ever.
When Musashi continued, it was in his usual cheerful tone. “Feels good, doesn’t it, Jō? It’s as though we were walking along on the songs of the nightingales.”
“What?” asked the boy, astonished.
“Nightingales, I said.”
“Oh, yeah, nightingales. There are some around here, aren’t there?”
Musashi could see from the paleness of the boy’s lips that he was dejected. He felt sorry for him. After all, in a matter of minutes he might be suddenly alone in a strange place.
“We’re getting near Hannya Hill, aren’t we?” said Musashi.
“That’s right.”
“Well, now what?”
Jōtarō didn’t reply. The singing of the nightingales fell coldly on his ears. He couldn’t shake off the foreboding that they might soon be parted forever. The eyes that had bristled with mirth when surprising Musashi with the mask were now worried and mournful.
“I think I’d better leave you here,” said Musashi. “If you come along, you may get hurt accidentally. There’s no reason to put yourself in harm’s way.”
Jōtarō broke down, tears streaming down his cheeks as if a dam had broken. The backs of his hands went up to his eyes and his shoulders quivered. His crying was punctuated by tiny spasms, as if he had the hiccups.
“What’s this? Aren’t you supposed to be learning the Way of the Samurai? If I break and run, you run in the same direction. If I get killed, go back to the sake shop in Kyoto. But for now, go to that little hill and watch from there. You’ll be able to keep an eye on everything that happens.”
Having wiped his tears away, Jōtarō grabbed Musashi’s sleeves and blurted out, “Let’s run away!”
“That’s no way for a samurai to talk! That’s what you want to be, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid! I don’t want to die!” With trembling hands, he kept trying to pull Musashi back by the sleeve. “Think about me,” he pleaded. “Please, let’s get away while we can!”
“When you talk like that, you make me want to run too. You’ve got no parents who’ll look after you, just like me when I was your age. But—” “Then come on. What are we waiting for?”
“No!” Musashi turned, and planting his feet wide apart, faced the child squarely. “I’m a samurai. You’re a samurai’s son. We’re not going to run away.”
Hearing the finality in Musashi’s tone, Jōtarō gave up and sat down, dirty tears rolling off his face as he rubbed his red and swollen eyes with his hands.
“Don’t worry!” said Musashi. “I have no intention of losing. I’m going to win! Everything will be all right then, don’t you think?”
Jōtarō took little comfort from this speech. He couldn’t believe a word of it. Knowing that the Hōzōin lancers numbered more than ten, he doubted whether