Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [162]
Matahachi, hands on his throbbing head, shouted, “See, you old fool? There was no reason to get excited over a little bit of rice and sake. I’ve got money to throw away! Take it if you want it! But in return you’re going to get back the beating you gave me. Stick out your silly head, and I’ll pay you with interest for your rice and booze!”
Instead of responding to this abuse, the priest put his face to the floor and began weeping. Matahachi’s wrath abated somewhat, but he said venomously, “Look at you! The minute you see money, you fall apart.”
“How shameful of me!” wailed the priest. “Why am I such a fool?” Like the strength with which he had so lately fought, his self-reproach was more violent than that of an ordinary man. “What an ass I am!” he continued. “Haven’t I come to my senses yet? Not even at my age? Not even after being cast out of society and sinking as low as a man can sink?”
He turned toward the black column beside him and started beating his head against it, all the time moaning to himself. “Why do I play this shakuhachi? Isn’t it to expel through its five openings my delusions, my stupidity, my lust, my selfishness, my evil passions? How could I possibly have allowed myself to get into a life-and-death struggle over a bit of food and drink? And with a man young enough to be my son?”
Matahachi had never seen anyone like this. The old man would weep for a moment, then ram his head against the column again. He seemed intent on beating his forehead until it split in two. More numerous by far were his inflictions on himself than the blows he had dealt Matahachi. Presently, blood began to flow from his brow.
Matahachi felt obliged to prevent him from torturing himself further. “Look now,” he said. “Stop that. You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“Leave me alone,” pleaded the priest.
“But what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“There must be something. Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m disgusted with myself. I’d like to beat this evil body of mine to death and feed it to the crows, but I don’t want to die a stupid fool. I’d like to be as strong and upright as the next person before I discard this flesh. Losing my self-control makes me furious. I guess you could call it sickness after all.”
Feeling sorry for him, Matahachi picked up the fallen money and tried to press some of it into his hand. “It was partly my fault,” he said apologetically. “I’ll give you this, and then maybe you’ll forgive me.”
“I don’t want it!” cried the priest, quickly withdrawing his hand. “I don’t need money. I tell you, I don’t need it!” Though he had previously exploded in anger over a bit of rice gruel, he now looked at the money with loathing. Shaking his head vigorously, he backed away, still on his knees.
“You’re an odd one,” said Matahachi.
“Not really.”
“Well, you certainly act strange.”
“Don’t let it worry you.”
“You sound like you come from the western provinces. Your accent, I mean.
“I guess I would. I was born in Himeji.”
“Is that so? I’m from that area too—Mimasaka.”
“Mimasaka?” repeated the priest, fixing his eye on Matahachi. “Just where in Mimasaka?”
“The village of Yoshino. Miyamoto, to be exact.”
The old man seemed to relax. Sitting down on the porch, he spoke quietly. “Miyamoto? That’s a name that brings back memories. I was once on guard duty at the stockade in Hinagura. I know that area fairly well.”
“Does that mean you used to be a samurai in the Himeji fief?”
“Yes. I suppose I don’t look it now, but I used to be something of a warrior. My name is Aoki Tan—”
He broke off, then just as abruptly went on: “That’s not true. I just made it up. Forget I said anything at all.” He stood up, saying, “I’m going into town, play my shakuhachi and get some rice.” With that, he turned and walked rapidly toward the field of miscanthus.
After he was gone, Matahachi started wondering whether it had been right of him to offer the old priest money from the dead samurai’s pouch. Soon he