Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [137]
Musashi slid the round cushion over to a corner and leaned back against a post. From the light of the low lamp shining into the garden, he saw trellises of blossoming wisteria vines, both white and lavender. The sweetish scent of wisteria was in the air. He was startled by the croak of a frog, the first he had heard that year.
Water gurgled somewhere in the garden; the stream apparently ran under the building, for after he was settled, he noticed the sound of flowing water beneath him. Indeed, before long it seemed to him that the sound of water was coming from the walls, the ceiling, even the lamp. He felt cool and relaxed. Yet simmering deep inside him there was an unsuppressible sense of disquiet. It was his insatiable fighting spirit, coursing through his veins even in this quiet atmosphere. From his cushion by the post, he looked questioningly at his surroundings.
“Who is Yagyū?” he thought defiantly. “He’s a swordsman, and I’m a swordsman. In this respect we are equal. But tonight I will advance a step farther and put Yagyū behind me.”
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Shōda Kizaemon entered the room with Kimura, Debuchi and Murata. “Welcome to Koyagyū,” Kizaemon said warmly.
After the other three men had introduced themselves, servants brought in trays of sake and snacks. The sake was a thick, rather syrupy, local brew, served in large old-style sake bowls with high stems.
“Here in the country,” said Kizaemon, “we aren’t able to offer you much, but please feel at home.”
The others too, with great cordiality, invited him to make himself comfortable, not to stand on ceremony.
With a little urging, Musashi accepted some sake, though he was not particularly fond of it. It was not so much that he disliked it as that he was still too young to appreciate its subtlety. The sake this evening was palatable enough but had little immediate effect on him.
“Looks as though you know how to drink,” said Kimura Sukekurō, offering to refill his cup. “By the way, I hear the peony you asked about the other day was cut by the lord of this castle himself.”
Musashi slapped his knee. “I thought so!” he exclaimed. “It was splendid!” Kimura moved closer. “What I’d like to know is just how you could tell that
the cut in that soft, thin stem had been made by a master swordsman. We, all
of us, were deeply impressed by your ability to discern that.”
Uncertain as to where the conversation was leading, Musashi said, to gain time, “You were? Really?”
“Yes, no mistake about it!” said Kizaemon, Debuchi and Murata almost simultaneously.
“We ourselves couldn’t see anything special about it,” said Kizaemon. “We arrived at the conclusion that it must take a genius to recognize another genius. We think it would be of great help in our future studies if you’d explain it to us.”
Musashi, taking another sip of sake, said, “Oh, it wasn’t anything in particular—just a lucky guess.”
“Come now, don’t be modest.”
“I’m not being modest. It was a feeling I got—from the look of the cut.” “Just what sort of feeling was it?”
As they would with any stranger, these four senior disciples of the House of Yagyū were trying to analyze Musashi as a human being and at the same time test him. They had already taken note of his physique, admiring his carriage and the expression in his eyes. But the way he held his sake cup and his chopsticks betrayed his country upbringing and made them inclined to be patronizing. After only three or four cups of sake, Musashi’s face turned copper red. Embarrassed, he touched his hand to his forehead and cheeks two or three times. The boyishness of the gesture made them laugh.
“This feeling of yours,” repeated Kizaemon. “Can’t you tell us more about it? You know, this building, the Shin’indō, was built expressly for Lord Kōizumi of Ise to stay in during his visits. It’s an important building in the history of swordsmanship. It’s a fitting place for us to hear a lecture from you tonight.”
Realizing that protesting their flattery was not going to get him off the