Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [251]
Before Otsū could answer for herself, Osugi said, “Yes, she’s coming with me. I’m staying at an inn near the foot of Sannen Hill. I always stay there when I come to Kyoto. We won’t be needing you. You go back to wherever you came from.”
“All right, I’ll be at the Karasumaru house. You come too, Otsū, when you’ve finished your business.”
Otsū felt a twinge of anxiety. “Jō, wait!” She ran quickly up the dike, reluctant to let him go. Osugi, fearing the girl might change her mind and flee, was quick to follow, but for a few seconds Otsū and Jōtarō were alone.
“I think I ought to go with her,” said Otsū. “But I’ll come to Lord Karasumaru’s whenever I have a chance. Explain everything to them, and get them to let you stay until I’ve finished what I have to do.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll wait as long as necessary.”
“Look for Musashi while you’re waiting, won’t you?”
“There you go again! When you finally find him, you hide. And now you’re sorry. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“It was very foolish of me.”
Osugi arrived and inserted herself between the two. The trio started walking back to the bridge, Osugi’s needlelike glance darting frequently toward Otsū, whom she dared not trust. Although Otsū had not the slightest inkling of the perilous fate that lay before her, she nevertheless had the feeling of being trapped.
When they arrived back at the bridge, the sun was high above the willows and the pines and the streets well filled with the New Year’s throng. A sizable group had congregated before the sign posted on the bridge.
“Musashi? Who’s that?”
“Do you know any great swordsman by that name?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Must be quite a fighter if he’s taking on the Yoshiokas. That should be something to see.”
Otsū came to a halt and stared. Osugi and Jōtarō, too, stopped and looked, listening to the softly reverberating whisper. Like the ripples caused by minnows in the shoal, the name Musashi spread through the crowd.
Book IV • WIND
The Withered Field
The swordsmen from the Yoshioka School assembled in a barren field overlooking the Nagasaka entrance to the Tamba highroad. Beyond the trees edging the field, the glistening of the snow in the mountains northwest of Kyoto struck the eye like lightning.
One of the men suggested making a fire, pointing out that their sheathed swords seemed to act like conduits, transmitting the cold directly to their bodies. It was the very beginning of spring, the ninth day of the new year. A frigid wind blew down from Mount Kinugasa and even the birds sounded forlorn.
“Burns nice, doesn’t it?”
“Um. Better be careful. Don’t want to start a brush fire.”
The crackling fire warmed their hands and faces, but before long, Ueda Ryōhei, waving smoke from his eyes, grumbled, “It’s too hot!” Glaring at a man who was about to throw more leaves on the fire, he said, “That’s enough! Stop!”
An hour passed uneventfully.
“It must be past six o’clock already.”
To a man, without giving it a thought, they lifted their eves toward the sun. “Closer to seven.”
“The Young Master should be here by now.”
“Oh, he’ll show up any minute.”
Faces tense, they anxiously watched the road from town; not a few were swallowing nervously.
“What could have happened to him?”
A cow lowed, breaking the silence. The field had once been used as pasture for the Emperor’s cows, and there were still untended cows in the vicinity. The sun rose higher, bringing with it warmth and the odor of manure and dried grass.
“Don’t you suppose Musashi’s already at the field by the Rendaiji?”
“He may be.”
“Somebody go and take a look. It’s only about six hundred yards.”
No one was eager to do this; they lapsed into silence again, their faces smoldering in the shadows cast by the smoke.
“There’s no misunderstanding about the arrangements, is there?”
“No. Ueda got it directly from the Young Master last night. There couldn’t be any mistake.”
Ryōhei confirmed this. “That’s right. I wouldn’t be surprised if Musashi’s there already, but maybe the