Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [189]
Startled, Ryōhei asked, “Who’s that?”
“Oh, that? Akemi took sick after she got here. She’s feverish. Every once in a while she gets a little delirious.”
“That’s Akemi?”
“Yes, but never mind. I want to hear why you came.”
From the stomach wrapper under his kimono, Ryōhei finally extracted a letter and presented it to Seijūrō. “It’s this,” he said without further explanation, then moved the lamp the maid had left over to Seijūrō’s side.
“Hmm. It’s from Miyamoto Musashi.”
“Yes!” said Ryōhei with force.
“Have you opened it?”
“Yes. I talked it over with the others, and we decided it might be important, so we opened and read it.”
Instead of seeing for himself what was in the letter, Seijūrō asked, somewhat hesitantly, “What does it say?” Though nobody had dared mention the subject to him, Musashi had remained in the back of Seijūrō’s mind. Even so, he had nearly convinced himself he’d never run into the man again. The sudden arrival of the letter right after Akemi had spoken Musashi’s name sent chills up and down his spine.
Ryōhei bit his lip angrily. “It’s finally come. When he went away talking so big last spring, I was sure he’d never set foot in Kyoto again, but—can you imagine the conceit? Go on, look at it! It’s a challenge, and he has the gall to address it to the entire House of Yoshioka, signing it with only his own name. He thinks he can take us all on himself!”
Musashi hadn’t written any return address, nor was there any clue to his whereabouts in the letter. But he had not forgotten the promise he had written to Seijūrō and his disciples, and with this second letter the die was cast. He was declaring war on the House of Yoshioka; the battle would have to be fought, and it would be a fight to the finish—one in which samurai struggle to the death to preserve their honor and vindicate their skill with the sword. Musashi was laying his life on the line and challenging the Yoshioka School to do the same. When the time came, words and clever technical ploys would count for little.
That Seijūrō still did not grasp this fact was the greatest source of danger to him. He did not see that the day of reckoning was at hand, that this was no time to be idling away his days on empty pleasures.
When the letter had arrived in Kyoto, some of the stauncher disciples, disgusted with the Young Master’s undisciplined way of life, had grumbled angrily over his absence at so crucial a moment. Riled by the insult from this lone rōnin, they lamented that Kempō was no longer alive. After much discussion, they had agreed to inform Seijūrō of the situation and make sure he returned to Kyoto immediately. Yet now that the letter had been delivered, Seijūrō merely put it on his knees and made no move to open it.
With obvious irritation, Ryōhei asked, “Don’t you think you ought to read it?”
“What? Oh, this?” said Seijūrō vacantly. He unrolled the letter and read it. His fingers began to tremble beyond his control, an unsteadiness caused not by the strong language and tone of Musashi’s challenge but by his own feeling of weakness and vulnerability. Akemi’s harsh words of rejection had already destroyed his composure and upset his pride as a samurai. He had never before felt so powerless.
Musashi’s message was simple and straightforward:
Have you been in good health since I last wrote? In accordance with my previous promise, I am writing to ask where, on what day and at what hour we will meet. I have no particular preference and am willing to hold our promised match at the time and place designated by you. I request that you post a sign by the bridge at Gojō Avenue giving me your reply sometime before the seventh day of the New Year.
I trust that you have been polishing your swordsmanship as usual. I myself feel that I have improved to a certain small extent.
Shimmen Miyamoto Musashi.
Seijūrō stuffed the letter into his kimono and stood up.