Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [120]
The lances they carried were all different, with a wide variety of blades—the usual pointed, cone-shaped ones, others flat, cross-shaped or hooked—each priest using the type he favored most. Today they had a chance to see how the techniques they honed in practice worked in real battle.
As they fanned out, Musashi, expecting a trick attack, jumped back and stood on guard. Weary and a little dazed from the earlier bout, he gripped his sword handle tightly. It was sticky with gore, and a mixture of blood and sweat clouded his vision, but he was determined to die magnificently, if die he must.
To his amazement, the attack never came. Instead of making the anticipated lunges in his direction, the priests fell like mad dogs on their erstwhile allies, chasing down the rōnin who had fled and slashing at them mercilessly as they screamed in protest. The unsuspecting rōnin, futilely trying to direct the lancers toward Musashi, were slit, skewered, stabbed in the mouth, sliced in two, and otherwise slaughtered until not one of them was left alive. The massacre was as thorough as it was bloodthirsty.
Musashi could not believe his eyes. Why had the priests attacked their supporters? And why so viciously? He himself had only moments earlier been fighting like a wild animal; now he could hardly bear to watch the ferocity with which these men of the cloth slew the rōnin. Having been transformed for a time into a mindless beast, he was now restored to his normal state by the sight of others similarly transformed. The experience was sobering.
Then he became aware of a tugging at his arms and legs. Looking down, he found Jōtarō weeping tears of relief. For the first time, he relaxed.
As the battle ended, the abbot approached him, and in a polite, dignified manner, said, “You are Miyamoto, I assume. It is an honor to meet you.” He was tall and of light complexion. Musashi was somewhat overcome by his appearance, as well as by his poise. With a certain amount of confusion, he wiped his sword clean and sheathed it, but for the moment words failed him.
“Let me introduce myself,” continued the priest. “I am Inshun, abbot of the Hōzōin.”
“So you are the master of the lance,” said Musashi.
“I’m sorry I was away when you visited us recently. I’m also embarrassed that my disciple Agon put up such a poor fight.”
Sorry about Agon’s performance? Musashi felt that perhaps his ears needed cleaning. He remained silent for a moment, for before he could decide on a suitable way to respond to Inshun’s courteous tone, he had to straighten out the confusion in his mind. He still couldn’t figure out why the priests had turned on the rōnin—could imagine no possible explanation. He was even somewhat puzzled to find himself still alive.
“Come,” said the abbot, “and wash off some of that blood. You need a rest.” Inshun led him toward the fire, Jōtarō tagging along close behind.
The priests had torn a large cotton cloth into strips and were wiping their lances. Gradually they gathered by the fire, sitting down with Inshun and Musashi as though nothing unusual had occurred. They began chatting among themselves.
“Look, up there,” said one, pointing upward.
“Ah, the crows have caught the whiff of blood. Cawing over the dead bodies, they are.”
“Why don’t they dig in?”
“They will, as soon as we leave. They’ll be scrambling to get at the feast.”
The grisly banter went on in this leisurely vein. Musashi got the impression that he wasn’t going to find out anything unless he asked. He looked at In-shun and said, “You know, I thought you and your men had come here to attack me, and I’d made up my mind to take along as many of you as I could to the land of the dead. I can’t understand why you’re treating me this way.”
Inshun laughed. “Well, we don’t necessarily regard you as an ally, but our real purpose today was to do a little housecleaning.”
“You call what’s been going on housecleaning?”
“That