Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [242]
On the third swing, preoccupied with his eye, he merely bent his body slightly from the waist. The sword cut through his sleeve and scratched his forearm.
A piece of his sleeve fell off, giving Osugi the chance to see blood on the white lining. “I’ve wounded him!” she screamed in ecstasy, waving her sword wildly. She was as proud as if she had felled a great tree in one stroke, and the fact that Musashi wasn’t fighting back in no way dimmed her elation. She went on shouting the name of the Kannon of Kiyomizudera, calling the deity down to earth.
In a noisy frenzy, she ran around him, attacking him from front and back. Musashi did no more than shift his body to avoid the blows.
His eye bothered him, and there was the scratch on his forearm. Although he had seen the blow coming, he had not moved quickly enough to avoid it. Never before had anyone gotten the jump on him or wounded him even slightly, and since he had not taken Osugi’s attack seriously, the question of who would win, who lose, had never crossed his mind.
But was it not true that by not taking her seriously, he had let himself be wounded? According to The Art of War, no matter how slight the wound, he had quite clearly been beaten. The old woman’s faith and the point of her sword had exposed for all to see his lack of maturity.
“I was wrong,” he thought. Seeing the folly of inaction, he jumped away from the attacking sword and slapped Osugi heavily on the back, sending her sprawling and her sword flying out of her hand.
With his left hand Musashi picked up the sword, and with his right, lifted Osugi into the crook of his arm.
“Let me down!” she screamed, beating the air with her hands. “Are there no gods? No bodhisattvas? I’ve already wounded him once! What am I going to do? Musashi! Don’t shame me like this! Cut off my head! Kill me now!”
While Musashi, tight-lipped, strode along the path with the struggling woman under his arm, she continued her hoarse protest. “It’s the fortunes of war! It’s destiny! If this is the will of the gods, I’ll not be a coward! … When Matahachi hears Uncle Gon died and I was killed trying to take revenge, he’ll rise up in anger and avenge us both; it’ll be good medicine for him. Musashi, kill me! Kill me now! … Where are you going? Are you trying to add disgrace to my death? Stop! Cut off my head now!”
Musashi paid no attention, but when he arrived at the bridge, he began to wonder what he was going to do with her.
An inspiration came. Going down to the river, he found a boat tied to one of the bridge piers. Gently, he lowered her into it. “Now, you just be patient and stay here for a while. Matahachi will be here soon.”
“What are you doing?” she cried, trying to push aside his hands and the reed mats in the bottom of the boat at the same time. “Why should Matahachi’s coming here make any difference? What makes you think he’s coming? I know what you’re up to. You’re not satisfied with just killing me; you want to humiliate me too!”
“Think what you like. It won’t be long before you learn the truth.” “Kill me!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“What’s so funny? You should have no trouble cutting through this old neck with one swift stroke!”
For lack of a better way of keeping her put, he tied her to the raised keel of the boat. He then slid her sword back into its scabbard and laid it down neatly by her side.
As he started to leave, she taunted him, saying, “Musashi! I don’t think you understand the Way of the Samurai! Come back here, and I’ll teach you.” “Later.”
He started up the dike, but she was making such a racket, he had to go back and pile several reed mats over her.
A huge red sun sprang up in flames above Higashiyama. Musashi watched fascinated as it climbed, feeling its rays pierce the