Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [16]
“Just as I suspected all along,” said Temma, getting clumsily to his feet. “You see it, men. Evidence! She’s broken the rules, no question about it. Take her outside and give her her punishment!”
The men converged on the hearth room, but abruptly came to a halt. Okō stood statuesquely in the doorway, as though daring them to lay a hand on her. Temma, who’d stepped down into the kitchen, called back impatiently, “What are you waiting for? Bring her out here!”
Nothing happened. Okō continued to stare the men down, and they remained as if paralyzed. Temma decided to take over. Clicking his tongue, he made for Okō, but he, too, stopped short in front of the doorway. Standing behind Okō, not visible from the kitchen, were two fierce-looking young men. Takezō was holding the wooden sword low, poised to fracture the shins of the first comer and anyone else stupid enough to follow. On the other side was Matahachi, holding a sword high in the air, ready to bring it down on the first neck that ventured through the doorway. Akemi was nowhere to be seen.
“So that’s how it is,” groaned Temma, suddenly remembering the scene on the mountainside. “I saw that one walking the other day with Akemi—the one with the stick. Who’s the other one?”
Neither Matahachi nor Takezō said a word, making it clear that they intended to answer with their weapons. The tension mounted.
“There aren’t supposed to be any men in this house,” roared Temma. “You two … You must be from Sekigahara! You better watch your step—I’m warning you.”
Neither of them moved a muscle.
“There isn’t anybody in these parts who doesn’t know the name of Tsujikaze Temma! I’ll show you what we do to stragglers!”
Silence. Temma waved his men out of the way. One of them backed straight into the hearth, in the middle of the floor. He let out a yelp and fell in, sending a shower of sparks from the burning kindling up to the ceiling; in seconds, the room filled completely with smoke.
“Aarrgghh!”
As Temma lunged into the room, Matahachi brought down his sword with both hands, but the older man was too fast for him and the blow glanced off the tip of Temma’s scabbard. Okō had taken refuge in the nearest corner while Takezō waited, his black-oak sword horizontally poised. He aimed at Temma’s legs and swung with all his strength. The staff whizzed through the darkness, but there was no thud of impact. Somehow this bull of a man had jumped up just in time and on the way down threw himself at Takezō with the force of a boulder.
Takezō felt as though he were tangling with a bear. This was the strongest man he had ever fought. Temma grabbed him by the throat and landed two or three blows that made him think his skull would crack. Then Takezō got his second wind and sent Temma flying through the air. He landed against the wall, rocking the house and everything in it. As Takezō raised the wooden sword to come down on Temma’s head, the freebooter rolled over, jumped to his feet, and fled, with Takezō close on his tail.
Takezō was determined to not let Temma escape. That would be dangerous. His mind was made up; when he caught him, he was not going to do a halfway job of killing him. He would make absolutely certain that not a breath of life was left.
That was Takezō’s nature; he was a creature of extremes. Even when he was a small child, there had been something primitive in his blood, something harking back to the fierce warriors of ancient Japan, something as wild as it was pure. It knew neither the light of civilization nor the tempering of knowledge. Nor did it know moderation. It was a natural trait, and the one that had always prevented his father from liking the boy. Munisai had tried, in the fashion typical of the military class, to curb his son’s ferocity by punishing him severely and often, but the effect of such discipline had been to make the boy wilder, like a wild boar whose true ferocity emerges when it is deprived of food. The more the villagers despised the young roughneck,