Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [161]
“You … you … !” sputtered the priest, giving him another kick.
“What are you doing?” cried Matahachi. The veins popped out on his sleepy face as he jumped to his feet. “You can’t kick me like that!”
“Kicking’s not good enough for you! Who told you you could come in here and steal my rice and sake?”
“Oh, were they yours?”
“Of course they were!”
“Sorry.”
“You’re sorry? What good does that do me?”
“I apologize.”
“You’ll have to do more than that!”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Give them back!”
“Heh! They’re already inside me; they kept me alive for a night. Can’t get them back now!”
“I have to live too, don’t I? The most I ever get for going around and playing music at people’s gates is a few grains of rice or a couple of drops of sake. You imbecile! Do you expect me to stand silently by and let you steal my food? I want it back—give it back!” His tone as he made his irrational demand was imperious, and his voice sounded to Matahachi like that of a hungry devil straight from hell.
“Don’t be so stingy,” said Matahachi disparagingly. “What’s there to get so upset about—a little rice and less than half a jar of third-rate sake.”
“You ass, maybe you turn your nose up at leftover rice, but for me it’s a day’s food—a day’s life!” The priest grunted and grabbed Matahachi’s wrist. “I won’t let you get away with this!”
“Don’t be a fool!” countered Matahachi. Wresting his arm free and seizing the old man by his thin hair, he tried to throw him down with a quick yank. To his surprise, the starved-cat body didn’t budge. The priest got a firm grip on Matahachi’s neck and clung to it.
“You bastard!” barked Matahachi, reassessing his opponent’s fighting power.
He was too late. The priest, planting his feet solidly on the floor, sent Matahachi stumbling backward with a single push. It was a skillful move, utilizing Matahachi’s own strength, and Matahachi did not stop until he banged against the plastered wall on the far side of the adjacent room. The posts and lathing being rotten, a good part of the wall collapsed, showering him with dirt. Spitting out a mouthful, he jumped up, drew his sword and lunged at the old man.
The latter prepared to parry the attack with his shakuhachi, but he was already gasping for air.
“Now see what you’ve got yourself into!” yelled Matahachi as he swung. He missed but went on swinging relentlessly, giving the priest no chance to catch his breath. The old man’s face took on a ghostly look. He jumped back time and again, but there was no spring in his step; he appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Each time he dodged, he let out a plaintive cry, like the whimper of a dying man. Still, his constant shifting made it impossible for Matahachi to connect with his sword.
Eventually Matahachi was undone by his own carelessness. When the priest jumped into the garden, Matahachi followed blindly, but the moment his foot hit the rotted floor of the veranda, the boards cracked and gave way. He landed on his backside, one leg dangling through a hole.
The priest leaped to the attack. Grabbing the front of Matahachi’s kimono, he started beating him on the head, the temples, the body—anywhere his shakuhachi happened to fall—grunting loudly with each whack. With his leg caught, Matahachi was helpless. His head seemed ready to swell to the size of a barrel, but luck was with him, for at this point pieces of gold and silver began dropping from his kimono. Each new blow was followed by the happy tinkling of coins falling on the floor.
“What’s this?” gasped the priest, letting go of his victim. Matahachi hastily freed his leg and jumped clear, but the old man had already vented his anger. His aching fist