Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [149]
Recently Takuan had stopped for a time at the Nansōji in Izumi Province and from there had sent a letter to inquire after the health of Sekishūsai and Munenori. He had received a long reply from Sekishūsai, saying in part:
I have been very fortunate lately. Munenori has taken a post with the Tokugawas, in Edo, and my grandson, who left the service of Lord Katō of Higo and went out to study on his own, is making progress. I myself have in my service a beautiful young girl who not only plays the flute well but talks with me, and together we have tea, arrange flowers and compose poems. She is the delight of my old age, a flower blooming in what might otherwise be a cold, withered old hut. Since she says that she comes from Mimasaka, which is near your birthplace, and was brought up in a temple called the Shippōji, I imagine that you and she have much in common. It is unusually pleasant to drink one’s evening sake to the accompaniment of a flute well played, and since you are so close to here, I hope you will come and enjoy this treat with me.
It would have been difficult for Takuan to refuse the invitation under any circumstances, but the certainty that the girl described in the letter was Otsū made him all the more eager to accept.
As the three of them walked toward Sekishūsai’s house, Takuan asked Otsū many questions, which she answered without reservation. She told him what she’d been doing since last seeing him in Himeji, what had happened that morning, and how she felt about Musashi.
Nodding patiently, he heard out her tearful story. When she was finished, he said, “I guess women are able to choose ways of life that would not be possible for men. You want me, I take it, to advise you on the path that you should follow in the future.”
“Oh, no.”
“Well…”
“I’ve already decided what I’m going to do.”
Takuan scrutinized her closely. She had stopped walking and was looking at the ground. She seemed to be in the depths of despair, yet there was a certain strength in the tone of her voice that forced Takuan to a reappraisal.
“If I’d had any doubts, if I’d thought I’d give up,” she said, “I’d never have left the Shippōji. I’m still determined to meet Musashi. The only question in my mind is whether this will cause him trouble, whether my continuing to live will bring him unhappiness. If it does, I’ll have to do something about it!”
“Just what does that mean?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Be careful, Otsū!”
“Of what?”
“Under this bright, cheerful sun, the god of death is tugging at you.” “I … I don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t suppose you would, but that’s because the god of death is lending you strength. You’d be a fool to die, Otsū, particularly over nothing more than a one-sided love affair.” Takuan laughed.
Otsū was getting angry again. She might as well have been talking to thin air, she thought, for Takuan had never been in love. It was impossible for anyone who’d never been in love to understand how she felt. For her to try to explain her feelings to him was like him trying to explain Zen Buddhism to an imbecile. But just as there was truth in Zen, whether an imbecile could understand it or not, there were people who would die for love, whether Takuan could understand it or not. To a woman at least, love was a far more serious matter than the troublesome riddles of a Zen priest. When one was swayed by a love that meant life or death, what difference did it make what the clapping of one hand sounded like? Biting her lips, Otsū vowed to say no more.
Takuan became serious. “You should have been born a man, Otsū. A man with the kind of willpower