Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [212]
“How do you write Musashi?”
“It’s written the same way as Takezō.”
The wife came in and put soup, pickles, chopsticks and a bowl of rice on the straw mat before Musashi. “Eat!” she said unceremoniously.
“Thanks,” replied Musashi.
Baiken waited a couple of breaths, then said, as though to himself, “It’s hot
now—the sake.” Pouring Musashi another cup, he asked in an offhand manner, “Does that mean you were called Takezō when you were younger?” “Yes.”
“Were you still called that when you were seventeen or so?”
“Yes.”
“When you were about that age, you weren’t by any chance at the Battle of Sekigahara with another boy about your age, were you?”
It was Musashi’s turn to be surprised. “How did you know?” he said slowly. “Oh, I know a lot of things. I was at Sekigahara too.”
Hearing this, Musashi felt better disposed toward the man; Baiken, too, seemed suddenly more friendly.
“I thought I’d seen you somewhere,” said the blacksmith. “I guess we must have met on the battlefield.”
“Were you in the Ukita camp too?”
“I was living in Yasugawa then, and I went to the war with a group of samurai from there. We were in the front lines, we were.”
“Is that so? I guess we probably saw each other then.”
“Whatever happened to your friend?”
“I haven’t seen him since.”
“Since the battle?”
“Not exactly. We stayed for a time at a house in Ibuki, waiting for my
wounds to heal. We, uh, parted there. That was the last I saw of him.”
Baiken let his wife know they were out of sake. She was already in bed with
the baby. “There isn’t any more,” she answered.
“I want some more. Now!”
“Why do you have to drink so much tonight, of all nights?”
“We’re having an interesting little talk here. Need some more sake.” “But there isn’t any.”
“Iwa!” he called through the flimsy board wall in a corner of the smithy. “What is it, sir?” said the boy. He pushed open the door and showed his face, stooping because the lintel was so low.
“Go over to Onosaku’s house and borrow a bottle of sake.”
Musashi had had enough to drink. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead and eat,” he said, picking up his chopsticks.
“No, no, wait,” said Baiken, quickly grabbing Musashi’s wrist. “It’s not time to eat. Now that I’ve sent for some sake, have a little more.”
“If you were getting it for me, you shouldn’t have. I don’t think I can drink another drop.”
“Aw, come now,” Baiken insisted. “You said you wanted to hear more about the chain-ball-sickle. I’ll tell you everything I know, but let’s have a few drinks while we’re talking.”
When Iwa returned with the sake, Baiken poured some into a heating jar, put it on the fire, and talked at great length about the chain-ball-sickle and ways to use it to advantage in actual combat. The best thing about it, he told Musashi, was that, unlike a sword, it gave the enemy no time to defend himself. Also, before attacking the enemy directly, it was possible to snatch his weapon away from him with the chain. A skillful throw of the chain, a sharp yank, and the enemy had no more sword.
Still seated, Baiken demonstrated a stance. “You see, you hold the sickle in your left hand and the ball in your right. If the enemy comes at you, you take him on with the blade, then hurl the ball at his face. That’s one way.”
Changing positions, he went on, “Now, in this case, when there’s some space between you and the enemy, you take his weapon away with the chain. It doesn’t make any difference what kind of weapon it is—sword, lance, wooden staff, or whatever.”
Baiken went on and on, telling Musashi about ways of throwing the ball, about the ten or more oral traditions concerning the weapon, about how the chain was like a snake, about how it was possible by cleverly alternating the movements of the chain and the sickle to create optical illusions and cause the enemy’s defense to work to his own detriment, about all the secret ways of using the weapon.
Musashi was fascinated. When he heard talk like this, he listened with his whole body, eager to absorb every detail.