Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [160]
Undoing the oil paper around the longer object revealed a scroll, wound on a Chinese-quince roller, with a gold brocade end cloth. He immediately sensed that it contained some important secret and with great curiosity put the scroll down in front of him and slowly unrolled it. It said:
CERTIFICATE
On sacred oath I swear that I have transmitted to Sasaki Kojirō the following seven secret methods of the Chūjō Style of swordsmanship:
Overt—Lightning style, wheel style, rounded style, floating-boat style
Secret—The Diamond, The Edification, The Infinite
Issued in the village of Jōkyōji in the Usaka Demesne of Echizen Province on the _____ day of the _____ month.
Kanemaki Jisai, Disciple of Toda Seigen
On a piece of paper that seemed to have been attached later, there followed a poem:
The moon shining on
The waters not present
In an undug well
Yields forth a man
With neither shadow nor form.
Matahachi realized he was holding a diploma given to a disciple who had learned all his master had to teach, but the name Kanemaki Jisai meant nothing to him. He would have recognized the name of Itō Yagorō, who under the name Ittōsai had created a famous and highly admired style of swordsmanship. He did not know that Jisai was Itō’s teacher. Nor did he know that Jisai was a samurai of splendid character, who had mastered the true style of Toda Seigen and had retired to a remote village to pass his old age in obscurity, thereafter transmitting Seigen’s method to only a few select students.
Matahachi’s eyes went back to the first name. “This Sasaki Kojirō must have been the samurai who was killed at Fushimi today,” he thought. “He must have been quite a swordsman to be awarded a certificate in the Chūjō Style, whatever that is. Shame he had to die! But now I’m sure of it. It’s just as I suspected. He must’ve wanted me to deliver this to somebody, probably someone in his birthplace.”
Matahachi said a short prayer to the Buddha for Sasaki Kojirō, then vowed to himself that somehow he would carry out his new mission.
To ward off the chill, he rebuilt the fire, then lay down by the hearth and presently fell asleep.
From somewhere in the distance came the sound of the old priest’s shakuhachi. The mournful tune, seemingly searching for something, calling out to someone, went on and on, a poignant wave hovering over the rushes of the field.
Reunion in Osaka
The field lay under a gray mist, and the chill in the early morning air hinted that autumn was beginning in earnest. Squirrels were up and about, and in the doorless kitchen of the deserted house, fresh fox tracks crossed the earthen floor.
The beggar priest, having stumbled back before sunrise, had succumbed to fatigue on the pantry floor, still clutching his shakuhachi. His dirty kimono and cassock were wet with dew and spotty with grass stains picked up while he wandered like a lost soul through the night. As he opened his eyes and sat up, his nose crinkled, his nostrils and eyes opened wide, and he shook with a mighty sneeze. He made no effort to wipe off the snot trickling from his nose into his wispy mustache.
He sat there for a few minutes before recalling that he still had some sake left from the night before. Grumbling to himself, he made his way down a long hallway to the hearth room at the back of the house. By daylight, there were more rooms than there had seemed to be at night, but he found his way without difficulty. To his astonishment, the sake jar was not where he had left it.
Instead there was a stranger by the hearth, with his head on his arm and saliva seeping from his mouth, sound asleep. The whereabouts of the sake was all too clear.
The sake, of course,