Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [147]
Quickly perceiving her new vitality and how beautiful it made her, Musashi yearned to take her somewhere where they could be alone and tell her everything—how he longed for her, how he needed her physically. He wanted to reveal that hidden in his heart of steel was a weakness; he wanted to retract the words he had carved on Hanada Bridge. If no one were to know, he could show her how tender he could be. He would tell her he felt the same love for her that she felt for him. He could hug her, rub his cheek against hers, cry the tears he wanted to cry. He was strong enough now to admit to himself that these feelings were real.
Things Otsū had said to him in the past came back to him and he saw how cruel and ugly it was for him to reject the simple, straightforward love she had offered.
He was miserable, yet there was something in him that couldn’t surrender to these feelings, something that told him it was wrong. He was two different men, one longing to call out to Otsū, the other telling him he was a fool. He couldn’t be sure which was his real self. Staring from behind the tree, lost in indecision, he seemed to see two paths ahead, one of light and another of darkness.
Otsū, unaware of his presence, walked a few paces out from the gate. Looking back, she saw Jōtarō stooping to pick something up.
“Jōtarō, what on earth are you doing? Hurry up!”
“Wait!” he cried excitedly. “Look at this!”
“It’s nothing but a dirty old rag! What do you want that for?”
“It belongs to Musashi.”
“To Musashi?” she exclaimed, running back to him.
“Yes, it’s his,” replied Jōtarō as he held the hand towel up by the corners for her to see. “I remember it. It came from the widow’s house where we stayed in Nara. See, here: there’s a maple leaf design dyed on it and a character reading ‘Lin.’ That’s the name of the owner of the dumpling restaurant there.”
“Do you think Musashi was right here?” Otsū cried, looking frantically around.
Jōtarō drew himself up almost to the girl’s height and at the top of his voice yelled, “Sensei!”
In the grove there was a rustling sound. With a gasp, Otsū spun around and darted toward the trees, the boy chasing after her.
“Where are you going?” he called.
“Musashi just ran away!”
“Which way?”
“That way.”
“I don’t see him.”
“Over there in the trees!”
She had caught a glimpse of Musashi’s figure, but the momentary joy she experienced was immediately replaced by apprehension, for he was rapidly increasing the distance between them. She ran after him with all the strength her legs possessed. Jōtarō ran along with her, not really believing she’d seen Musashi.
“You’re wrong!” he shouted. “It must be somebody else. Why would Musashi run away?”
“Just look!”
“Where?”
“There!” She took a deep breath, and straining her voice to the utmost, screamed, “Mu—sa—shi!” But no more had the frantic cry come from her lips than she stumbled and fell. As Jōtarō helped her up, she cried, “Why don’t you call him too? Call him! Call him!”
Instead of doing as she said, he froze in shock and stared at her face. He had seen that face before, with its bloodshot eyes, its needlelike eyebrows, its waxen nose and jaw. It was the face of the mask! The madwoman’s mask the widow in Nara had given him. Otsū’s face lacked the curiously curved mouth, but otherwise the likeness was the same. He quickly withdrew his hands and recoiled in fright.
Otsū continued her scolding. “We can’t give up! He’ll never come back if we let him get away now! Call him! Get him to come back!”
Something inside Jōtarō resisted, but the look on Otsū’s face told him it was useless to try to reason with her. They started running again, and he, too, began to shout for all he was worth.
Beyond the woods was a low hill, along the bottom of which ran the back road from Tsukigase to Iga. “It is