Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [159]
Matahachi had crept into the next room. He listened but was repelled by what he saw. The priest’s cheeks were sunken, his shoulders had a pointed, stray-dog air, and his hair was sheenless. Matahachi crouched in silence; in the flickering firelight the man’s form summoned up visions of demons of the night.
“Oh, what am I to do?” moaned the priest, lifting his sunken eyes to the ceiling. His kimono was plain and dingy, but he also wore a black cassock, indicating he was a follower of the Chinese Zen master P’u-hua. The reed matting on which he sat, and which he rolled up and carried with him wherever he went, was probably his only household possession—his bed, his curtain, and in bad weather, his roof.
“Talking won’t bring back what I’ve lost,” he said, “Why wasn’t I more careful! I thought I understood life. I understood nothing, let my status go to my head! I behaved shamelessly toward a woman. No wonder the gods deserted me. What could be more humiliating?”
The priest lowered his head as though apologizing to someone, then lowered it still farther. “I don’t care about myself. The life I have now is good enough for me. It’s only right I should do penance and have to survive without outside help.
“But what have I done to Jōtarō? He’ll suffer more for my misconduct than I. If I were still in Lord Ikeda’s service, he’d now be the only son of a samurai with an income of five thousand bushels, but because of my stupidity, he’s nothing. What’s worse, one day, when he’s grown, he’ll learn the truth.”
For a time he sat with his hands covering his face, then suddenly stood up. “I must stop this—feeling sorry for myself again. The moon’s out; I’ll go walk in the field—rid myself of these old grievances and ghosts.”
The priest picked up his shakuhachi and shuffled listlessly out of the house. Matahachi thought he saw a hint of a stringy mustache under the emaciated nose. “What a strange person!” he thought. “He’s not really old, but he’s so unsteady on his feet.” Suspecting the man might be a little insane, he felt a tinge of pity for him.
Fanned by the evening breeze, the flames from the broken kindling were beginning to scorch the floor. Entering the empty room, Matahachi found a pitcher of water and poured some on the fire, reflecting as he did so on the priest’s carelessness.
It wouldn’t matter much if this old deserted house burned to the ground, but what if instead it were an ancient temple of tsuka or Kamakura period? Matahachi felt a rare spasm of indignation. “It’s because of people like him that the ancient temples in Nara and on Mount Kōya are destroyed so often,” he thought. “These crazy vagabond priests have no property, no family of their own. They don’t give a thought to how dangerous fire is. They’ll light one in the main hall of an old monastery, right next to the murals, just to warm their own carcasses, which are of no use to anyone.
“Now, there’s something interesting,” he mumbled, turning his eyes toward the alcove. It wasn’t the graceful design of the room nor the remains of a valuable vase that had attracted his attention, but a blackened metal pot, beside which stood a sake jar with a chipped mouth. In the pot was some rice gruel, and when he shook the jar, it made a cheerful gurgling sound. He smiled broadly, grateful for his good fortune and oblivious, as any hungry man might be, to the property rights of others.
He promptly drained off the sake in a couple of long swallows, emptied the rice pot and congratulated himself on the fullness of his belly.
Nodding sleepily beside the hearth, he became conscious of the rainlike buzz of insects coming from the dark field outside—not Only from the field but from the walls, the ceiling and the rotting tatami mats.
Just before drifting off to sleep, he remembered the bundle he had taken from the dying warrior. He roused himself and untied it. The cloth was a soiled piece of crepe dyed with a dark red sappanwood dye. It contained a washed and bleached undergarment, together with the usual articles travelers carry. Unfolding