Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [170]
“So that’s what a tiger looks like,” said one man.
“Big, isn’t it?” marveled another.
Matahachi stood a little to one side of the tiger skin, until suddenly he spotted an old man and woman, and his ears perked up in disbelief as he listened to their voices.
“Uncle Gon,” said the woman, “that tiger there is dead, isn’t it?”
The old samurai, stretching his hand over the bamboo railing and feeling the skin, replied gravely, “Of course it’s dead. This is only the hide.” “But that man outside was talking as though it was alive.”
“Well, maybe that’s what they mean by a fast talker,” he said with a little laugh.
Osugi didn’t take it so lightly. Pursing her lips, she protested, “Don’t be silly! If it’s not real, the sign outside should say so. If all I was going to see was a tiger’s skin, I’d just as soon see a picture. Let’s go and get our money back.”
“Don’t make a fuss, Granny. People will laugh at you.”
“That’s all right. I’m not too proud. If you don’t want to go, I’ll go myself.” As she started pushing her way back through the spectators, Matahachi ducked, but too late. Uncle Gon had already seen him.
“Hey, there, Matahachi! Is that you?” he shouted.
Osugi, whose eyes were none too good, stammered, “Wh-what’s that you said, Uncle Gon?”
“Didn’t you see? Matahachi was standing there, just behind you.” “Impossible!”
“He was there, but he ran away.”
“Where? Which way?”
The two scampered out the wooden gate into the crowd, already veiled in the hues of evening. Matahachi kept bumping into people but disentangled himself and ran on.
“Wait, son, wait!” cried Osugi.
Matahachi glanced behind him and saw his mother chasing him like a madwoman. Uncle Gon, too, was waving his hands frantically.
“Matahachi!” he cried. “Why are you running away? What’s wrong with you? Matahachi! Matahachi!”
Seeing she was not going to be able to catch him, Osugi stuck her wrinkled neck forward and, at the top of her lungs, screamed, “Stop, thief! Robber! Catch him!”
Immediately a throng of bystanders took up the chase, and those in the forefront soon fell upon Matahachi with bamboo poles.
“Keep him there!”
“The scoundrel!”
“Give him a good beating!”
The mob had Matahachi cornered, and some even spat on him. Arriving with Uncle Gon, Osugi quickly took in the scene and turned furiously on Matahachi’s attackers. Pushing them away, she seized the hilt of her short sword and bared her teeth.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “Why are you attacking this man?” “He’s a thief!”
“He is not! He’s my son.”
“Your son?”
“Yes, he’s my son, the son of a samurai, and you have no business beating him. You’re nothing but common townspeople. If you touch him again I’ll … I’ll take you all on!”
“Are you joking? Who shouted ‘thief’ a minute ago?”
“That was me, all right, I don’t deny it. I’m a devoted mother, and I thought if I cried ‘thief,’ my son would stop running. But who asked you stupid oafs to hit him? It’s outrageous!”
Startled by her volte-face, yet admiring her mettle, the crowd slowly dispersed. Osugi seized her wayward son by the collar and dragged him to the grounds of a nearby shrine.
After standing and looking on from the shrine gate for a few minutes, Uncle Gon came forward and said, “Granny, you don’t have to treat Matahachi like that. He’s not a child.” He tried to pull her hand away from Matahachi’s collar, but the old woman elbowed him roughly out of the way.
“You stay out of this! He’s my son, and I’ll punish him as I see fit, with no help from you. Just keep quiet and mind your own business! … Matahachi, you ungrateful … I’ll show you!”
It is said that the older people grow, the simpler and more direct they become, and watching Osugi, one could not help but agree. At a time when other mothers might have been weeping for joy, Osugi was seething with rage.
She forced Matahachi to the ground and beat his head against it.
“The