Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [202]
But unless he could triumph throughout this life and leave an indelible mark on the world around him, he could not regard himself as a master of the Art of War.
His body shook as he shouted, “I will win, I will!” Limping on toward the upper reaches of the Isuzu, he cried out again for all the trees in the sacred forest to hear: “I will win!” He passed a silent, frozen waterfall and, like a primitive man, crawled over the boulders and pushed his way through thick groves in deep ravines, where few had ever gone before.
His face was as red as a demon’s. Clinging to rocks and vines, he could with the utmost effort advance only one step at a time.
Beyond a point called Ichinose there was a gorge five or six hundred yards long, so full of crags and rapids that even the trout could not make their way through it. At the farther end rose an almost sheer precipice. It was said that only monkeys and goblins could climb it. Musashi merely looked at the cliff and said matter-of-factly, “This is it. This is the way to Eagle Mountain.”
Elated, he saw no impassable barrier here. Seizing hold of strong vines, he started up the rock face, half climbing, half swinging, seemingly lifted by some upside-down gravity.
Having reached the cliff top, he exploded with a cry of triumph. From here he could make out the white flow of the river and the silver strand along the shore of Futamigaura. Ahead of him, through a sparse grove veiled in nocturnal mist, he saw before his eyes the foot of Eagle Mountain.
The mountain was Sekishūsai. As it had laughed while he’d lain in bed, the peak continued to mock him now. His unyielding spirit felt literally assaulted by Sekishūsai’s superiority. It was oppressing him, holding him back.
Gradually his objective took form: to climb to the top and unleash his rancor, to trample roughshod on the head of Sekishūsai, to show him Musashi could and would win.
He advanced against the opposition of weeds, trees, ice—all enemies trying desperately to keep him back. Every step, every breath, was a challenge. His recently chilled blood boiled, and his body steamed as the sweat from his pores met the frosty air. Musashi hugged the red surface of the peak, groping for footholds. Each time he felt for a footing he had to struggle, and small rocks would go crashing down to the grove below. One hundred feet, two hundred, three hundred—he was in the clouds. When they parted, he appeared from below to be hanging weightless in the sky. The mountain peak stared coldly down at him.
Now, nearing the top, he hung on for dear life. One false move and he would come flying down in a cascade of rocks and boulders. He puffed and grunted, gasping for air with his very pores. So intense was the strain, his heart seemed about to rise up and explode from his mouth. He could climb but a few feet, then rest, climb a few feet more, then rest again.
The whole world lay beneath him: the great forest enclosing the shrine, the white strip that must be the river, Mount Asama, Mount Mae, the fishing village at Toba, the great open sea. “Almost there,” he thought. “Just a little more!”
“Just a little more.” How easy to say, but how difficult to achieve! For “just a little more” is what distinguishes the victorious sword from the vanquished.
The odor of sweat in his nostrils, he felt giddily that he was nestled in his mother’s breast. The rough surface of the mountain began to feel like her skin, and he experienced an urge to go to sleep. But just then a piece of rock under his big toe broke off and brought him to his senses. He groped for another foothold.
“This is it! I’m almost there!” Hands and feet knotted with pain, he clawed again at the mountain. If his body or willpower weakened, he told himself, then as a swordsman he would surely one day be