Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [200]
Staring at the mountain, he became for a time oblivious of his foot, but presently the pain reasserted its claim on his consciousness. Had he rammed his leg into the fire of the blacksmith’s forge, it couldn’t have hurt any more, he thought bitterly. Involuntarily he drew the big round thing out from under him and glared at it, unable to accept the fact that it was really a part of him.
In a loud voice he summoned the maid. When she did not appear promptly, he beat on the tatami with his fist. “Where is everybody?” he shouted. “I’m leaving! Bring the bill! Fix me some food—some fried rice—and get me three pairs of heavy straw sandals!”
Soon he was out on the street, limping through the old marketplace where the famous warrior Taira no Tadakiyo, the hero of the “Story of the Hōgen War,” was supposed to have been born. But now little about it suggested a birthplace of heroes; it was more like an open-air brothel, lined with tea stalls and teeming with women. More temptresses than trees stood along the lane, calling out to travelers and latching on to the sleeves of passing prospects, as they flirted, coaxed and teased. To get to the shrine, Musashi had to literally push his way through them, scowling and avoiding their impertinent stares. “What happened to your foot?”
“Shall I make it feel better?”
“Here, let me rub it for you!”
They pulled at his clothing, grabbed at his hands, grasped his wrists. “A good-looking man won’t get anywhere frowning like that!”
Musashi reddened and stumbled along blindly. Utterly without defense against this kind of attack, he apologized to some and made polite excuses to others, which only made the women titter. When one of them said he was as “cute as a baby panther,” the assault of the whitened hands intensified. Finally, he gave up all pretense of dignity and ran, not even stopping to retrieve his hat when it flew off. The giggling voices followed him through the trees outside the town.
It was impossible for Musashi to ignore women, and the frenzy their pawing hands aroused in him took long to subside. The mere memory of the scent of pungent white powder would set his pulse racing, and no amount of mental effort could calm it. It was a greater threat than an enemy standing with sword drawn before him; he simply did not know how to cope with it. Later, his body burning with sexual fire, he would toss and turn all night. Even innocent Otsū sometimes became the object of his lustful fantasies.
Today he had his foot to take his mind off the women, but running from them when he was barely able to walk, he might as well have been crossing a bed of molten metal. At every other step, a stab of anguish shot to his head from the sole of his foot. His lips reddened, his hands grew as sticky as honey, and his hair smelled acrid from sweat. Just lifting the injured foot took all the strength he could muster; at times he felt as if his body would suddenly fall apart. Not that he had any illusions. He knew when he left the inn that this would be torture and he intended to survive it. Somehow he managed to stay in control, cursing under his breath each time he dragged the wretched foot forward.
Crossing the Isuzu River and entering the precincts of the Inner Shrine brought a welcome change of atmosphere. He sensed a sacred presence, sensed it in the plants, in the trees, even in the voices of the birds. What it was, he could not say, but it was there.
He groaned and collapsed on the roots of a great cryptomeria, whimpering softly with pain and holding his foot in both hands. For a long time he sat there, motionless as a rock, his body aflame with fever even as his skin was bitten by the cold wind.
Why had he suddenly risen from his bed and fled the inn? Any normal person would have stayed there quietly until the foot healed. Was it not childish, even imbecilic, for an adult to allow impatience to overcome him?
But it was not impatience only that had moved him. It was a spiritual need, and a very deep one. For all the pain,