Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [193]
“Look!” cried one of them. “He’s coming this way.”
Terrified eyes watched the approaching enemy.
“Quiet down!” Ryōhei ordered in a disgusted voice. “You talk too much. Fine ones you are to protect the honor of the school. We’ll never be able to live down that performance. Stand aside! I’ll take care of him myself.” He took a challenging stance and waited.
The young man rushed toward them. “Stand and fight!” he was shouting. “Is running away the Yoshioka version of the Art of War? I personally don’t want to kill you, but my Drying Pole’s still thirsty. The least you can do, cowards that you are, is leave your heads behind.” He was running along the dike with enormous, confident strides and seemed likely to leap right over the head of Ryōhei, who spat on his hands and regripped his sword with resolution.
At the moment the young man flew by, Ryōhei uttered a piercing cry, raised his sword over the young man’s gold-colored coat, brought it down fiercely, and missed.
Halting instantly, the young man turned around, crying, “What’s this? A new one?”
As Ryōhei stumbled forward with the momentum of his swing, the young man swiped viciously at him. In all his life, Ryōhei had never seen such a powerful stroke, and although he managed to dodge it just in time, he plunged headfirst into the paddy field below. Luckily for him, the dike was fairly low and the field frozen over, but he lost his weapon as well as his confidence when he fell.
When he clambered back up, the young man was moving with the strength and speed of an enraged tiger, scattering the three disciples with a flash of his sword and making for Seijūrō.
Seijūrō hadn’t yet felt any fear. He had thought it would be all over before he himself became involved. But now danger was rushing directly at him, in the form of a rapacious sword.
Moved by a sudden inspiration, Seijūrō cried, “Ganryū! Wait!” He disengaged one foot from its stirrup, put it on the saddle, and stood straight up. As the horse sprang forward over the young man’s head, Seijūrō flew backward through the air and landed on his feet about three paces away.
“What a feat!” cried the young man in genuine admiration as he moved in on Seijūrō. “Even if you are my enemy, that was really magnificent! You must be Seijūrō himself. On guard!”
The blade of the long sword became the embodiment of the young man’s fighting spirit. It loomed ever closer to Seijūrō, but Seijūrō, for all his failings, was Kempō’s son, and he was able to face the danger calmly.
Addressing the young man confidently, he said, “You’re Sasaki Kojirō from Iwakuni. I can tell. It is true, as you surmise, that I am Yoshioka Seijūrō. However, I have no desire to fight you. If it’s really necessary, we can have it out some other time. Right now I’d just like to find out how all this came about. Put your sword away.”
When Seijūrō had called him Ganryū, the young man had apparently not heard; now, being addressed as Sasaki Kojirō startled him. “How did you know who I am?” he asked.
Seijūrō slapped his thigh. “I knew it! I was only guessing, but I was right!” Then he came forward and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a good deal about you.”
“Who from?” asked Kojirō.
“From your senior, Itō Yagorō.”
“Oh, are you a friend of his?”
“Yes. Until last fall, he had a hermitage on Kagura Hill in Shirakawa, and I often visited him there. He came to my house a number of times too.”
Kojirō smiled. “Well, then, this is not exactly like meeting for the first time, is it?”
“No. Ittōsai mentioned you rather often. He said there was a man from Iwakuni named Sasaki who had learned the style of Toda Seigen and then studied under Kanemaki Jisai. He told me this Sasaki was the youngest man in Jisai’s school but would one day be the only swordsman who could challenge Ittōsai.”
“I still don’t see how you knew so quickly.”
“Well, you’re young and you fit the description. Seeing you wield that long sword reminded me that you’re also called Ganryū—’The Willow on the Riverbank.’ I had a feeling it must be