Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [23]
Munisai had fallen from favor, lost his status, and died a poor man, not an uncommon occurrence in an age of turmoil. Soon after his death, his servants had left, but since they were all natives of Miyamoto, many still cropped in. When they did, they would leave fresh vegetables, clean the unused rooms, fill the water jars, sweep the path, and in countless other ways help keep the old house going. They would also have a pleasant chat with Munisai’s daughter.
When Ogin, who was sewing in an inner room, heard the back door open, she naturally assumed it was one of these former servants. Lost in her work, she gave a jump when Otsū greeted her.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you. You gave me a fright. I’m just finishing your obi now. You need it for the ceremony tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. Ogin, I want to thank you for going to so much trouble. I should have sewn it myself, but there was so much to do at the temple, I never would have had time.”
“I’m glad to be of help. I have more time on my hands than is good for me. If I’m not busy, I start to brood.”
Otsū, raising her head, caught sight of the household altar. On it, in a small dish, was a flickering candle. By its dim light, she saw two dark inscriptions, carefully brush-painted. They were pasted on boards, an offering of water and flowers before them:
The Departed Spirit of Shimmen Takezō, Aged 17.
The Departed Spirit of Hon’iden Matahachi, Same Age.
“Ogin,” Otsū said with alarm. “Have you gotten word they were killed?” “Well, no … But what else can we think? I’ve accepted it. I’m sure they met their deaths at Sekigahara.”
Otsū shook her head violently. “Don’t say that! It’ll bring bad luck! They aren’t dead, they aren’t! I know they’ll show up one of these days.”
Ogin looked at her sewing. “Do you dream about Matahachi?” she asked softly.
“Yes, all the time. Why?”
“That proves he’s dead. I dream of nothing but my brother.”
“Ogin, don’t say that!” Rushing over to the altar, Otsū tore the inscriptions from their boards. “I’m getting rid of these things. They’ll just invite the worst.”
Tears streamed down her face as she blew out the candle. Not satisfied with that, she seized the flowers and the water bowl and rushed through the next room to the veranda, where she flung the flowers as far as she could and poured the water out over the edge. It landed right on the head of Takuan, who was squatting on the ground below.
“Aaii! That’s cold!” he yelped, jumping up, frantically trying to dry his head with an end of the wrapping cloth. “What’re you doing? I came here for a cup of tea, not a bath!”
Otsū laughed until fresh tears, tears of mirth, came. “I’m sorry, Takuan. I really am. I didn’t see you.”
By way of apology, she brought him the tea he’d been waiting for. When she went back inside, Ogin, who was staring fixedly toward the veranda, asked, “Who is that?”
“The itinerant monk who’s staying at the temple. You know, the dirty one. You met him one day, with me, remember? He was lying in the sun on his stomach with his head in his hands, staring at the ground. When we asked him what he was doing, he said his lice were having a wrestling match. He said he’d trained them to entertain him.”
“Oh, him!”
“Yes, him. His name’s Takuan Sōhō.”
“Kind of strange.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“What’s that thing he’s wearing? It doesn’t look like a priest’s robe.” “It isn’t. It’s a wrapping cloth.”
“A wrapping cloth? He is eccentric. How old is he?”
“He says he’s thirty-one, but sometimes I feel like his older sister, he’s so silly. One of the priests told me that despite his appearance, he’s an excellent monk.”
“I suppose that’s possible. You can