Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [141]
“Musashi,” said Kizaemon, “I’m sorry to tell you your plot has failed. I suppose someone put you up to spying on Koyagyū Castle or just stirring up trouble, but I’m afraid it didn’t work.”
As they pressed in on Musashi, he was keenly aware that there was not one among them who was not an expert with the sword. He stood quite still, his hand on Jōtarō’s shoulder. Surrounded, he couldn’t have escaped even if he’d had wings.
“Musashi!” called Debuchi, working his sword a little way out of its scabbard. “You’ve failed. The proper thing for you to do is commit suicide. You may be a scoundrel, but you showed a great deal of bravery coming into this castle with only that child at your side. We had a friendly evening together; now we’ll wait while you prepare yourself for hara-kiri. When you’re ready, you can prove that you’re a real samurai!”
That would have been the ideal solution; they had not consulted with Sekishūsai, and if Musashi died now, the whole affair could be buried along with his body.
Musashi had other ideas. “You think I should kill myself? That’s absurd! I have no intention of dying, not for a long time.” His shoulders shook with laughter.
“All right,” said Debuchi. The tone was quiet, but the meaning was crystal clear. “We’ve tried to treat you decently, but you’ve done nothing but take advantage of us—”
Kimura broke in, saying, “There’s no need for further talk!”
He went behind Musashi and pushed him. “Walk!” he commanded.
“Walk where?”
“To the cells.”
Musashi nodded and started walking, but in the direction of his own choice, straight toward the castle keep.
“Where do you think you’re going?” cried Kimura, jumping in front of Musashi and stretching his arms out to block him. “This isn’t the way to the cells. They’re in back of you. Turn around and get going!”
“No!” cried Musashi. He looked down at Jōtarō, who was still clinging to his side, and told him to go sit under a pine tree in the garden in front of the keep. The ground around the pine trees was covered with carefully raked white sand.
Jōtarō darted from under Musashi’s sleeve and hid behind the tree, wondering all the while what Musashi intended to do next. The memory of his teacher’s bravery at Hannya Plain came back to him, and his body swelled with excitement.
Kizaemon and Debuchi took positions on either side of Musashi and tried to pull him back by the arms. Musashi didn’t budge.
“Let’s go!”
“I’m not going.”
“You intend to resist?”
“I do!”
Kimura lost patience and started to draw his sword, but his seniors, Kizaemon and Debuchi, ordered him to hold off.
“What’s the matter with you? Where do you think you’re going?” “I intend to see Yagyū Sekishūsai.”
“You what?”
Never had it crossed their minds that this insane youth could have even thought of anything so preposterous.
“And what would you do if you met him?” asked Kizaemon.
“I’m a young man, I’m studying the martial arts, and it is one of my goals in life to receive a lesson from the master of the Yagyū Style.”
“If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you just ask?”
“Isn’t it true that Sekishūsai never sees anyone and never gives lessons to student warriors?”
“Yes.”
“Then what else can I do but challenge him? I realize, of course, that even if I do, he’ll probably refuse to come out of retirement, so I’m challenging this whole castle to a battle instead.”
“A battle?” chorused the four.
His arms still held by Kizaemon and Debuchi, Musashi looked up at the sky. There was a flapping sound, as an eagle flew toward them from the blackness enveloping Mount Kasagi. Like a giant shroud, its silhouette hid the stars from view before it glided noisily down to the roof of the rice storehouse.
To the four retainers, the word “battle” sounded so melodramatic as to be laughable, but to Musashi it barely sufficed to express his concept of what was to come. He was not talking about a fencing match to be decided by technical skill