Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [138]
“When you sense something you sense it,” he said. “There’s really no way to explain it. If you want me to demonstrate what I mean, you’ll have to unsheathe your sword and face me in a match. There’s no other way.”
The smoke from the lamp rose as black as squid ink in the still night air. The croaking frog was heard again.
Kizaemon and Debuchi, the two eldest, looked at each other and laughed. Though he had spoken quietly, the statement about testing him had undeniably been a challenge, and they recognized it as such.
Letting it pass without comment, they talked about swords, then about Zen, events in other provinces, the Battle of Sekigahara. Kizaemon, Debuchi and Kimura had all taken part in the bloody conflict, and to Musashi, who had been on the opposing side, their stories had the ring of bitter truth. The hosts appeared to be enjoying the conversation immensely, and Musashi found it fascinating just to listen.
He was nonetheless conscious of the swift passage of time, knowing in his heart that if he did not meet Sekishūsai tonight, he would never meet him.
Kizaemon announced it was time for the barley mixed with rice, the customary last course, to be served, and the sake was removed.
“How can I see him?” thought Musashi. It became increasingly clear that he might be forced to employ some underhanded scheme. Should he goad one of his hosts into losing his temper? Difficult, when he was not angry himself, so he purposefully disagreed several times with what was being said and spoke in a rude and brash manner. Shōda and Debuchi chose to laugh at this. None of these four was about to be provoked into doing anything rash.
Desperation set in. Musashi could not bear the idea of leaving without accomplishing his objective. For his crown, he wanted a brilliant star of victory, and for the record, he wanted it known that Musashi had been here, had gone, had left his mark on the House of Yagyū. With his own sword, he wanted to bring Sekishūsai, this great patriarch of the martial arts, this “ancient dragon” as he was called, to his knees.
Had they seen through him completely? He was considering this possibility when matters took an unexpected turn.
“Did you hear that?” asked Kimura.
Murata went out on the veranda, then, reentering the room, said, “Tarō’s barking—not his usual bark, though. I think something must be wrong.”
Tarō was the dog Jōtarō had had a run-in with. There was no denying that the barking, which seemed to come from the second encirclement of the castle, was frightening. It sounded too loud and terrible to be coming from a single dog.
Debuchi said, “I think I’d better have a look. Forgive me, Musashi, for spoiling the party, but it may be important. Please go on without me.”
Shortly after he left, Murata and Kimura excused themselves, politely begging Musashi’s forgiveness.
The barking grew more urgent; the dog was apparently trying to give warning of some danger. When one of the castle’s dogs acted this way, it was almost a sure sign something untoward was going on. The peace the country was enjoying was not so secure that a daimyō could afford to relax his vigilance against neighboring fiefs. There were still unscrupulous warriors who might stoop to anything to satisfy their own ambition, and spies roamed the land searching out complacent and vulnerable targets.
Kizaemon seemed extremely upset. He kept staring at the ominous light of the little lamp, as if counting the echoes of the unearthly noise.
Eventually there was one long, mournful wail. Kizaemon grunted and looked at Musashi.
“He’s dead,” said Musashi.
“Yes, he’s been killed.” No longer able to contain himself, Kizaemon stood up. “I can’t understand it.”
He started to leave, but Musashi stopped him, saying, “Wait. Is Jōtarō, the boy who came with me, still in the waiting room?”
They directed their inquiry to a young samurai in front of the Shin’indō, who after searching reported the boy was nowhere to be found.
A look of concern came over Musashi’s face. Turning to Kizaemon, he said,