Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [252]
The students who had seen Musashi in action at the Yoshioka dōjō the previous year knew otherwise, but even to them it was unthinkable that Seijūrō would lose. The consensus was that though their master was bound to win, accidents do happen. Moreover, since the fight had been publicly announced, there would be a lot of spectators, whose presence, they felt, would not only add to the prestige of the school but enhance the personal reputation of their teacher.
Despite Seijūrō’s specific instructions that they were under no circumstances to assist him, forty of them had gathered here to await his arrival, give him a rousing send-off, and be on hand—just in case. Besides Ueda, five of the other Ten Swordsmen of the House of Yoshioka were present.
It was now past seven, and as the spirit of calm enjoined upon them by Ryōhei gave way to boredom, they mumbled discontentedly.
Spectators on their way to the bout were asking if there had been some mistake.
“Where’s Musashi?”
“Where’s the other one—Seijūrō?”
“Who are all those samurai?”
“Probably here to second one side or the other.”
“Strange way to have a duel! The seconds are here, the principals aren’t.”
Though the crowd grew bigger and the buzz of voices louder, the onlookers were too prudent to approach the Yoshioka students, who, for their part, took no notice of the heads peering through the withered miscanthus or looking down from tree branches.
Jōtarō padded around in the midst of the mob, leaving a trail of little puffs of dust. Carrying his larger-than-life wooden sword and wearing sandals too big for him, he was going from woman to woman, checking one face after another. “Not here, not here,” he murmured. “What could have happened to Otsū? She knows about the fight today.” She had to be here, he thought. Musashi might be in danger. What could possibly keep her away?
But his search was fruitless, though he trudged about until he was dead tired. “It’s so strange,” he thought. “I haven’t seen her since New Year’s Day. I wonder if she’s sick…. That old hag she went away with talked nice, but maybe it was a trick. Maybe she’s done something awful to Otsū.”
This worried him terribly, far more than the outcome of today’s bout. He had no misgivings about that. Of the hundreds of people in the crowd, there was hardly one who did not expect Seijūrō to win. Only Jōtarō was sustained by unshakable faith in Musashi. Before his eyes was a vision of his teacher facing the lances of the Hōzōin priests at Hannya Plain.
Finally, he stopped in the middle of the field. “There’s something else strange,” he mused. “Why are all these people here? According to the sign, the fight is to take place in the field by the Rendaiji.” He seemed to be the only person puzzled by this.
Out of the milling crowd came a surly voice. “You there, boy! Look here!” Jōtarō recognized the man; he was the one who had been watching Musashi and Akemi whispering on the bridge on New Year’s morning.
“What do you want, mister?” asked Jōtarō.
Sasaki Kojirō came up to him, but before speaking, slowly eyed him from head to toe. “Didn’t I see you on Gojō Avenue recently?”
“Oh, so you remember.”
“You were with a young woman.”
“Yes. That was Otsū.”
“Is that her name? Tell me, does she have some connection with Musashi?” “I should say so.”
“Is she his cousin?”
“Unh-unh.”
“Sister?”
“Unh-unh.”
“Well?”
“She likes him.”
“Are they lovers?”
“I don’t know. I’m only his pupil.” Jōtarō nodded his head proudly.
“So that’s why you’re here. Look, the crowd’s getting restless. You must know where Musashi is. Has he left his inn?”
“Why ask me? I haven’t seen him for a long time.”
Several men pushed their way through the crowd and approached Kojirō. He turned a hawklike