Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [197]
At times like this, the world, which he had once thought so full of stupid people, seemed frighteningly large. But then life, Musashi would tell himself, is not a matter of logic. The sword is not logic. What was important was not talk or speculation but action. There may be other people much greater than he right now, but he, too, could be great!
When self-doubt threatened to overwhelm him, it was Musashi’s habit to make straight for the mountains, in whose seclusion he could live to himself. His style of life there was evident from his appearance on returning to civilization—his cheeks hollow as a deer’s, his body covered with scratches and bruises, his hair dry and stiff from long hours under a cold waterfall. He would be so dirty from sleeping on the ground that the whiteness of his teeth seemed unearthly, but these were mere superficialities. Inside he would be burning with a confidence verging on arrogance and bursting with eagerness to take on a worthy adversary. And it was this search for a test of mettle that always brought him down from the mountains.
He was on the road now because he wondered whether the chain-ball-sickle expert of Kuwana might do. In the ten days left before his appointment in Kyoto, he had time to go and find out whether Shishido Baiken was that rare entity a real man, or just another of the multitude of rice-eating worms who inhabit the earth.
It was late at night before he reached his destination deep in the mountains. After thanking the groom, he told him he was free to leave, but the groom said that since it was so late he would prefer to accompany Musashi to the house he was looking for and spend the night under the eaves. The next morning he could go down from Suzuka Pass and, if he was lucky, pick up a return fare on the way. Anyhow, it was too cold and dark to try making his way back before sunup.
Musashi sympathized with him. They were in a valley enclosed on three sides, and any way the groom went, he’d have to climb the mountains knee-deep in snow. “In that case,” said Musashi, “come with me.”
“To Shishido Baiken’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, sir. Let’s see if we can find it.”
Since Baiken ran a smithy, any of the local farmers would have been able to direct them to his place, but at this hour of the night, the whole village was in bed. The only sign of life was the steady thud of a mallet beating on a fulling block. Walking through the frigid air toward the sound, they eventually spied a light.
It turned out to be the blacksmith’s house. In front was a pile of old metal and the underside of the eaves was smoke-stained. At Musashi’s command, the groom pushed open the door and went in. There was a fire in the forge, and a woman with her back to the flames was pounding cloth.
“Good evening, ma’am! Oh! You’ve got a fire. That’s wonderful!” The groom made straight for the forge.
The woman jumped at the sudden intrusion and dropped her work. “Who in the world are you?” she asked.
“Just a moment, I’ll explain,” he said, warming his hands. “I’ve brought a man from a long way off who wants to meet your husband. We just got here. I’m a groom from Kuwana.”
“Well, of all …” The woman looked sourly in Musashi’s direction. The frown on her face made it evident that she had seen more than enough shugyōsha and had learned how to handle them. With a touch of arrogance, she said to him, as though to a child, “Shut the door! The baby will catch cold with all that freezing air blowing in.”
Musashi bowed and complied. Then, taking a seat on a tree stump beside the forge, he surveyed his surroundings, from the blackened foundry area to the three-room living space. On a board nailed to one section of the wall hung about ten chain-ball-sickle weapons. He assumed that was what they were, since if the truth be told, he’d never laid eyes on the device. As a matter of fact, another reason for his having made the journey here was that he thought a student