Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [157]
Still, of all the young men who set out with high hopes, only one in a thousand actually ended up finding a position with an acceptable income. The rest had to be content with what satisfaction they could derive from the knowledge that theirs was a difficult and dangerous calling.
As Matahachi contemplated the samurai lying before him, the whole idea began to seem utterly stupid. Where could the path Musashi was following possibly lead? Matahachi’s desire to equal or surpass his boyhood friend hadn’t abated, but the sight of the bloodied warrior made the Way of the Sword seem vain and foolish.
Horror-stricken, he realized that the warrior was moving, and his train of thought stopped short. The man’s hand reached out like a turtle’s flipper and clawed at the ground. Feebly he lifted his torso, raised his head and pulled the rope taut.
Matahachi could hardly believe his eyes. As the man inched along the ground, he dragged behind him the four-hundred-pound rock securing his rope. One foot, two feet—it was a display of superhuman strength. No muscle man on any rock-hauling crew could have done it, though many boasted of the strength of ten or twenty men. The samurai lying on the threshold of death was possessed by some demonic force, which enabled him to far surpass the power of an ordinary mortal.
A gurgle came from the dying man’s throat. He was trying desperately to speak, but his tongue had turned black and dry, making it impossible for him to form the words. Breath came in cracked, hollow hisses; eyes popping from their sockets stared imploringly at Matahachi.
“Pl—lul—poo—loo—ees …”
Matahachi gradually understood he was saying “please.” Then a different sound, all but inarticulate, Matahachi made out to be “beg you.” But it was the man’s eyes that really spoke. Therein were the last of his tears and the certainty of death. His head fell back; his breathing ceased. As more ants started coming out of the grass to explore the dust-whitened hair, a few even entering a blood-caked nostril, Matahachi could see the skin under his kimono collar take on a blackish-blue cast.
What had the man wanted him to do? Matahachi felt haunted by the thought that he had incurred an obligation. The samurai had come upon him when he was sick and had had the kindness to give him medicine. Why had fate blinded Matahachi when he should have been warning the man of the inspector’s approach? Was this destined to have occurred?
Matahachi tentatively touched the cloth-wrapped bundle on the dead man’s obi. The contents would surely reveal who the man was and where he was from. Matahachi suspected that his dying wish had been to have some memento delivered to his family. He detached the bundle, as well as the pillbox, and stuffed them quickly inside his own kimono.
He debated whether to cut off a lock of hair for the man’s mother, but while staring into the fearsome face, he heard footsteps approaching. Peeking from behind a rock, he saw samurai coming for the corpse. If he were caught with the dead man’s possessions, he’d be in serious trouble. He crouched down low and made his way from shadow to shadow behind the rocks, sneaking away like a field rat.
Two hours later he arrived at the sweetshop where he was staying. The shopkeeper’s wife was by the side of the house, rinsing herself off from a washbasin. Hearing him moving about inside, she showed a portion of her white flesh from behind the side door and called, “Is that you, Matahachi?”
Answering with a loud grunt, he dashed into his own room and grabbed a kimono and his sword from a cabinet; he then knotted a rolled towel around his head and prepared to slip into his sandals again.
“Isn’t it dark in there?” called the woman.
“No, I can see well enough.”
“I’ll bring you a lamp.”
“No need to. I’m going out.”
“Aren’t you going to wash?”
“No. Later.”
He rushed out into the field and swiftly moved away from the shabby house. A few minutes later he looked back to see a group of samurai, no doubt from the