Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [118]
From the distance there was a cry of alarm, and two men appeared at the top of the hillock. One of the men screamed, and both spun round and took to their heels, their arms flailing the air wildly.
The sword that Musashi was pointing toward the earth glittered in the sunlight; fresh blood dripped from its tip. He marched directly on toward the hillock, and although the spring breeze blew softly against his skin, Musashi felt his muscles tauten as he ascended. From the top, he looked down at the fire burning below.
“He’s come!” shouted one of the men who had fled to join the others. There were about thirty men. Musashi picked out Dampachi’s cohorts, Yasukawa Yasubei and Otomo Banryū.
“He’s come!” parroted another.
They’d been lolling in the sun. Now they all jumped to their feet. Half were priests, the other half nondescript rōnin. When Musashi came into view, a wordless but nonetheless savage stir went through the group. They saw the bloodstained sword and suddenly realized that the battle had already begun. Instead of challenging Musashi, they had been sitting around the fire and had let him challenge them!
Yasukawa and Otomo were talking as fast as they could, explaining with broad rapid gestures how Yamazoe had been cut down. The rōnin scowled with fury, the Hōzōin priests eyed Musashi menacingly while grouping themselves for battle.
All of the priests carried lances. Black sleeves tucked up, they were ready for action, apparently set upon avenging the death of Agon and restoring the temple’s honor. They looked grotesque, like so many demons from hell.
The rōnin formed a semicircle, so they could watch the show and at the same time keep Musashi from escaping.
This precaution, however, proved unnecessary, for Musashi showed no sign of either running or backing down. In fact, he was walking steadily and directly toward them. Slowly, pace by pace, he advanced, looking as if he might pounce at any moment.
For a moment, there was an ominous silence, as both sides contemplated approaching death. Musashi’s face went deadly white and through his eyes stared the eyes of the god of vengeance, glittering with venom. He was selecting his prey.
Neither the rōnin nor the priests were as tense as Musashi. Their numbers gave them confidence, and their optimism was unshakable. Still, no one wanted to be the first attacked.
A priest at the end of the column of lancers gave a signal, and without breaking formation, they rushed around to Musashi’s right.
“Musashi! I am Inshun,” shouted the same priest. “I’m told that you came while I was away and killed Agon. That you later publicly insulted the honor of the Hōzōin. That you mocked us by having posters put up all over town. Is this true?”
“No!” shouted Musashi. “If you’re a priest, you should know better than to trust only what you see and hear. You should consider things with your mind and spirit.”
It was like pouring oil on the flames. Ignoring their leader, the priests began to shout, saying talk was cheap, it was time to fight.
They were enthusiastically seconded by the rōnin, who had grouped themselves in close formation at Musashi’s left. Screaming, cursing and waving their swords in the air, they egged the priests on to action.
Musashi, convinced that the rōnin were all mouth and no fight, suddenly turned to them and shouted, “All right! Which one of you wants to come forward?”
All but two or three fell back a pace, each sure that Musashi’s evil eye was upon him. The two or three brave ones stood ready, swords outstretched, issuing a challenge.
In the wink of an eye, Musashi was on one of them like a fighting cock. There was a sound like the popping of a cork, and the ground turned red. Then came a chilling noise—not a battle cry, not a curse, but a truly bloodcurdling howl.
Musashi’s sword screeched back and forth through the air, a reverberation