Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [216]
He stood there for a moment, thinking. To all intents and purposes, he had won his bout with Baiken. It had been a clear-cut victory. Still, this man lying here was the brother of Tsujikaze Temma and had tried to murder him to comfort the spirit of his dead brother—an admirable sentiment for a mere freebooter.
Should Musashi kill him? If he left him alive, he would go on looking for an opportunity to take his revenge, and the safe course was doubtless to do away with him here and now. But there remained the question of whether he was worth killing.
Musashi pondered for a time, before hitting on what seemed exactly the right solution. Going to the wall by Baiken’s feet, he took down one of the blacksmith’s own weapons. While he eased the blade from its groove, he examined the sleeping face. Then, wrapping a piece of damp paper around the blade, he carefully laid it across Baiken’s neck; he stepped back and admired his handiwork.
The pinwheel was sleeping too. If it were not for the paper wrapping, thought Musashi, the wheel might wake in the morning and turn wildly at the sight of its master’s head fallen from the pillow.
When Musashi had killed Tsujikaze Temma, he had had a reason, and anyway, he had still been burning with the fever of battle. But he had nothing to gain from taking the blacksmith’s life. And who could tell? If he did kill him, the infant owner of the pinwheel might spend his life seeking to avenge his father’s murder.
It was a night on which Musashi had thought time and again of his own father and mother. He felt a little envious as he stood here by this sleeping family, sensing the faint sweet scent of mother’s milk about him. He even felt a little reluctant to take his leave.
In his heart, he spoke to them: “I’m sorry to have troubled you. Sleep well.” He quietly opened the outer door and went out.
The Flying Horse
Otsū and Jōtarō arrived at the barrier late at night, stopped over at an inn and resumed their journey before the morning mist cleared. From Mount Fudesute, they walked to Yonkenjaya, where they first felt the warmth of the rising sun on their backs.
“How beautiful!” exclaimed Otsū, pausing to look at the great golden orb. She seemed full of hope and cheer. It was one of those wonderful moments when all living things, even plants and animals, must feel satisfaction and pride in their existence here on earth.
Jōtarō said with obvious pleasure, “We’re the very first people on the road. Not a soul ahead of us.”
“You sound boastful. What difference does it make?”
“It makes a lot of difference to me.”
“Do you think it’ll make the road shorter?”
“Oh, it’s not that. It’s just feels good to be first, even on the road. You have to admit it’s better than following along behind palanquins or horses.” “That’s true.”
“When no one else is on the road I’m on, I have the feeling it belongs to me.”
“In that case, why don’t you pretend you’re a great samurai on horseback, surveying your vast estates. I’ll be your attendant.” She picked up a bamboo stick, and waving it ceremoniously, called out in singsong fashion, “Bow down, all! Bow down for his lordship!”
A man looked out inquiringly from under the eaves of a teahouse. Caught playing like a child, she blushed and walked rapidly on.
“You can’t do that,” Jōtarō protested. “You mustn’t run away from your master. If you do, I’ll have to put you to death!”
“I don’t want to play anymore.”
“You’re the one who was playing, not me.”
“Yes, but you started it. Oh, my! The man at the teahouse is still staring at us. He must think we’re silly.”
“Let’s go back there.”
“What for?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Already?”
“Couldn’t we eat half of the rice balls we brought for lunch now?”
“Be patient. We haven’t covered two miles yet. If I let you, you’d eat five meals a day.”
“Maybe. But you don’t see me riding in palanquins or hiring horses, the way you do.”
“That was only last