Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [142]
The four men scrutinized his face, wondering again if he had an iota of sanity left.
Kimura took up the challenge. Kicking his straw sandals into the air and tucking up his hakama, he said, “Fine! Nothing I like better than a battle! I can’t offer you rolling drums or clanging gongs, but I can offer you a fight. Shōda, Debuchi, push him over here.” Kimura had been the first to suggest that they should punish Musashi, but he had held himself back, trying to be patient. Now he had had his fill.
“Go ahead!” he urged. “Leave him to me!”
At exactly the same time, Kizaemon and Debuchi shoved Musashi forward. He stumbled four or five paces toward Kimura. Kimura stepped back a pace, lifted his elbow above his face, and sucking in his breath, swiftly brought his sword down toward Musashi’s stumbling form. There was a curious gritty sound as the sword flashed through the air.
At the same time a shout was heard—not from Musashi but from Jōtarō, who had jumped out from his position behind the pine tree. The handful of sand he had thrown was the source of the strange noise.
Realizing that Kimura would be gauging the distance so as to strike effectively, Musashi had deliberately added speed to his stumbling steps and at the time of the strike was much closer to Kimura than the latter had anticipated. His sword touched nothing but air, and sand.
Both men quickly jumped back, separating themselves by three or four paces. There they stood, staring menacingly at one another in the tension-filled stillness.
“This is going to be something to watch,” said Kizaemon softly.
Debuchi and Murata, though not within the sphere of battle, both took up new positions and assumed defensive stances. From what they had seen so far, they had no illusions about Musashi’s competence as a fighter. His evasion and recovery had already convinced them he was a match for Kimura.
Kimura’s sword was positioned slightly lower than his chest. He stood motionless. Musashi, equally still, had his hand on the hilt of his sword, right shoulder forward and elbow high. His eyes were two white, polished stones in his shadowy face.
For a time, it was a battle of nerves, but before either man moved, the darkness around Kimura seemed to waver, to change indefinably. Soon it was obvious that he was breathing faster and with greater agitation than Musashi.
A low grunt, barely audible, issued from Debuchi. He knew now that what had started as a comparatively trivial matter was about to turn into a catastrophe. Kizaemon and Murata, he felt sure, understood this as well as he. It was not going to be easy to put an end to this.
The outcome of the fight between Musashi and Kimura was as good as decided, unless extraordinary steps were taken. Reluctant as the three other men were to do anything that suggested cowardice, they found themselves forced to act to prevent disaster. The best solution would be to rid themselves of this strange, unbalanced intruder as expeditiously as possible, without themselves suffering needless wounds. No exchange of words was needed. They communicated perfectly with their eyes.
Acting in unison, the three moved in on Musashi. At the same instant, Musashi’s sword, with the twang of a bowstring, pierced the air, and a thunderous shout filled the empty space. The battle cry came not from his mouth alone but from his whole body, the sudden peal of a temple bell resounding in all directions. From his opponents, arrayed to both sides of him, to front and back, came a hissing gurgle.
Musashi felt vibrantly alive. His blood seemed about to burst from every pore. But his head was as cool as ice. Was