Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [131]
“The stem’s too long,” said Musashi. “Bring it here; I’ll cut it. Then when you stand it up, it’ll look natural.”
Kocha brought the flower over and held it up to him. Before she knew what had happened, she had dropped the flower and burst into tears. Small wonder, for in that split second Musashi had whipped out his short sword, uttered a vigorous cry, slashed through the stem between her hands, and resheathed his sword. To Kocha, the glint of steel and the sound of the sword snapping back into its scabbard seemed simultaneous.
Making no attempt to comfort the terrified girl, Musashi picked up the piece of stem he had cut off and began comparing one end of it with the other. He seemed completely absorbed. Finally, taking notice of her distraught state, he apologized and patted her on the head.
Once he had coaxed her out of her tears, he asked, “Do you know who cut this flower?”
“No. It was given to me.”
“By whom?”
“A person from the castle.”
“One of the samurai?”
“No, it was a young woman.”
“Mm. Then you think the flower came from the castle?”
“Yes, she said it did.”
“I’m sorry I scared you. If I buy you some cakes later, will you forgive me? In any case, the flower should be just right now. Try putting it in the vase.” “Will this do?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
Kocha had taken an instant liking to Musashi, but the flash of his sword had chilled her to the marrow. She left the room, unwilling to return until her duties made it absolutely unavoidable.
Musashi was far more fascinated by the eight-inch piece of stem than by the flower in the alcove. He was sure the first cut had not been made with either scissors or a knife. Since peony stems are lithe and supple, the cut could only have been made with a sword, and only a very determined stroke would have made so clean a slice. Whoever had done it was no ordinary person. Although he himself had just tried to duplicate the cut with his own sword, upon comparing both ends he was immediately aware that his own cut was by far the inferior one. It was like the difference between a Buddhist statue carved by an expert and one made by a craftsman of average skill.
He asked himself what it could mean. “If a samurai working the castle garden can make a cut like this, then the standards of the House of Yagyū must be even higher than I thought.”
His confidence suddenly deserted him. “I’m nowhere near ready yet.”
Gradually, however, he recovered from this feeling. “In any event, the Yagyū people are worthy opponents. If I should lose, I can fall at their feet and accept defeat with good grace. I’ve already decided I’m willing to face anything, even death.” Sitting and mustering up his courage, he felt himself grow warmer.
But how was he to go about it? Even if a student arrived at his doorstep with a proper introduction, it seemed unlikely Sekishūsai would agree to a match. The innkeeper had said as much. And with Munenori and Hyōgo both away, there was no one to challenge but Sekishūsai himself.
He again tried to devise a way of gaining admittance to the castle. His eyes returned to the flower in the alcove, and the image of someone the flower unconsciously reminded him of began to take form. Seeing Otsū’s face in his mind’s eye quieted his spirit and soothed his nerves.
Otsū herself was well on her way back to Koyagyū Castle when suddenly she heard a raucous shout behind her. She turned to see a child emerging from a clump of trees at the base of a cliff. He was clearly coming after her, and since children of the area were much too timid to accost a young woman such as herself, she brought her horse to a halt out of sheer curiosity.
Jōtarō was stark naked. His hair was wet, and his clothes were rolled up in a ball under his arm. Unabashed by his nudity, he said, “You’re the lady with the flute. Are you still staying here?” Having eyed the horse with distaste, he looked directly at Otsū.
“It’s you!” she exclaimed, before averting her eyes in embarrassment.