Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [195]
Legend has it that after Bokuden’s death, Hikoshirō came to Kuwana and tried to trick Kitabatake into revealing the secret method to him. “My father,” he allegedly claimed, “long ago taught it to me, and I’m told he did the same with you. But lately I’ve been wondering whether what we were taught was, in fact, the same thing. Since the ultimate secrets of the Way are our mutual concern, I think we should compare what we’ve learned, don’t you?”
Though Kitabatake immediately realized Bokuden’s heir was up to no good, he quickly agreed to a demonstration, but what Hikoshirō then became privy to was only the outward form of the Supreme Swordsmanship, not its innermost secret. As a result, Kitabatake remained the sole master of the true Bokuden Style and to learn it students had to go to Kuwana. In the east, Hikoshirō passed on as genuine the spurious hollow shell of his father’s skill: its form without its heart.
Or such, in any case, was the story told to any traveler who happened to set foot in the Kuwana region. It was not a bad story, as such stories go, and being based on fact, it was both more plausible and less inconsequential than most of the myriad local folk tales people told to reaffirm the uniqueness of their beloved towns and provinces.
Musashi, descending Tarusaka Mountain on his way from the castle town of Kuwana, heard it from his groom. He nodded and said politely, “Really? How interesting.” It was the middle of the last month of the year, and though the Ise climate is relatively warm, the wind blowing up into the pass from Nako inlet was cold and biting.
He wore only a thin kimono, a cotton undergarment and a sleeveless cloak, clothing too light by any standard, and distinctly dirty as well. His face was not so much bronzed as blackened from exposure to the sun. Atop his weather-beaten head, his worn and frayed basket hat looked absurdly superfluous. Had he discarded it along the road, no one would have bothered to pick it up. His hair, which could not have been washed for many days, was tied in back, but still managed to resemble a bird’s nest. And whatever he had been doing for the past six months had left his skin looking like well-tanned leather. His eyes shone pearly white in their coal-dark setting.
The groom had been worrying ever since he took on this unkempt rider. He doubted he would ever receive his pay and was certain he would see no return fare from their destination deep in the mountains.
“Sir,” he said, somewhat timidly.
“Mm?”
“We’ll reach Yokkaichi a little before noon and Kameyama by evening, but it’ll be the middle of the night before we get to the village of Ujii.”
“Mm.”
“Is that all right?”
“Mm.” Musashi was more interested in the view of the inlet than in talking, and the groom, try though he did, could elicit no more response than a nod and a noncommittal “Mm.”
He tried again. “Ujii’s nothing but a little hamlet about eight miles into the mountains from the ridge of Mount Suzuka. How do you happen to be going to a place like that?”
“I’m going to see someone.”
“There’s nobody there but a few farmers and woodcutters.”
“In Kuwana I heard there’s a man there who’s very good with the chain-ball-sickle.”
“I guess that would be Shishido.”
“That’s the man. His name is Shishido something or other.”
“Shishido Baiken.”
“Yes.”
“He’s a blacksmith, makes scythes. I remember hearing how good he is with that weapon. Are you studying the martial arts?”
“Mm.”
“Well, in that case, instead of going to see Baiken, I’d suggest you go to Matsuzaka. Some of the best swordsmen in Ise Province are there.”
“Who, for instance?”
“Well, there’s Mikogami Tenzen, for one.”
Musashi nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard of him.” He said no more, leaving the impression that he was quite familiar with Mikogami’s exploits.
When they reached the little town of Yokkaichi, he limped painfully to a stall, ordered a box lunch and sat down to eat. One of his feet was bandaged around the instep, because of a festering wound