Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [198]
The woman, who was about thirty and rather pretty, put down her mallet and went back into the living area. Musashi thought perhaps she would bring some tea, but instead she went to a mat where a small child was sleeping, picked him up and began to suckle him.
To Musashi she said, “I suppose you’re another one of those young samurai who come here to get bloodied up by my husband. If you are, you’re in luck. He’s off on a trip, so you don’t have to worry about getting killed.” She laughed merrily.
Musashi did not laugh with her; he was thoroughly annoyed. He had not come to this out-of-the-way village to be made fun of by a woman, all of whom, he mused, tended to overestimate their husbands’ status absurdly. This wife was worse than most; she seemed to think her spouse the greatest man on earth.
Not wanting to give offense, Musashi said, “I’m disappointed to learn that your husband’s away. Where did he go?”
“To the Arakida house.”
“Where’s that?”
“Ha, ha! You’ve come to Ise, and you don’t even know the Arakida family?” The baby at her breast began to fret, and the woman, forgetting about her guests, started to sing a lullaby in the local dialect.
Go to sleep, go to sleep.
Sleeping babies are sweet.
Babies who wake and cry are naughty,
And they make their mothers cry too.
Thinking he might at least learn something by taking a look at the blacksmith’s weapons, Musashi asked, “Are those the weapons your husband wields so well?”
The woman grunted, and when he asked to examine them, she nodded and grunted again.
He took one down from its hook. “So this is what they’re like,” he said, half to himself. “I’ve heard people are using them a good deal these days.” The weapon in his hand consisted of a metal bar about a foot and a half long (easily carried in one’s obi), with a ring at one end to which a long chain was attached. At the other end of the chain was a heavy metal ball, quite substantial enough to crack a person’s skull. In a deep groove on one side of the bar, Musashi could see the back of a blade. As he pulled at it with his fingernails, it snapped out sideways, like the blade of a sickle. With this, it would be a simple matter to cut off an opponent’s head.
“I suppose you hold it like this,” said Musashi, taking the sickle in his left hand and the chain in his right. Imagining an enemy in front of him, he assumed a stance and considered what movements would be necessary.
The woman, who had turned her eyes from the baby’s bed to watch, chided him. “Not that way! That’s terrible!” Stuffing her breast back in her kimono, she came over to where he was standing. “If you do that, anyone with a sword can cut you down with no trouble at all. Hold it this way.”
She snatched the weapon from his hands and showed him how to stand. It made him queasy to see a woman take a battle stance with such a brutal-looking weapon. He stared with open mouth. While nursing the baby, she had appeared distinctly bovine, but now, ready for combat, she looked handsome, dignified and, yes, beautiful. As Musashi watched, he saw that on the blade, which was blackish blue like the back of a mackerel, there was an inscription reading “Style of Shishido Yaegaki.”
She kept the stance only momentarily. “Well, anyway, it’s something like that,” she said, folding the blade back into the handle and hanging the weapon on its hook.
Musashi would have liked to see her handle the device again, but she obviously had no intention of doing so. After clearing up the fulling block, she clattered about near the sink, evidently washing pots or preparing to cook something.
“If this woman can take a stance as imposing as that,” thought Musashi, “her husband must really be something to see.” By this time he was nearly sick with the desire to meet Baiken and quietly asked the groom about the Arakidas. The groom, leaning against the wall and baking in the warmth of the fire, mumbled that they were the family charged with guarding Ise Shrine.