Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [255]
The horror of his pain caused the men carrying the improvised stretcher to avert their eyes. This was the man they respected as their teacher; it seemed indecent to look at him in this condition.
Pausing, they called back to Ueda and Jūrōzaemon. “He’s in terrible pain, asking us to cut off his arm. Wouldn’t it be easier on him if we did?”
“Don’t talk like fools,” roared Ryōhei. “Of course it’s painful, but he won’t die from that. If we cut his arm off and can’t stop the bleeding, it’ll be the end of him. What we’ve got to do is get him home and see how badly he’s injured. If the arm has to come off, we can do it after proper steps have been taken to keep him from bleeding to death. A couple of you go on ahead and bring the doctor to the school.”
There were still a lot of people about, standing silently behind the pine trees along the road. Annoyed, Ryōhei scowled blackly and turned to the men behind him. “Chase those people away,” he ordered. “The Young Master’s not a spectacle to be stared at.”
Most of the samurai, grateful for a chance to work off their pent-up anger, took off on the run, making vicious gestures at the onlookers. The latter scattered like locusts.
“Tamihachi, come here!” called Ryōhei angrily, as if blaming the young attendant for what had happened.
The youth, who had been walking tearfully beside the stretcher, shrank in terror. “Wh-what is it?” he stammered.
“Were you with the Young Master when he left the house?”
“Y-y-yes.”
“Where did he make his preparations?”
“Here, after we reached the field.”
“He must have known where we were waiting. Why didn’t he go there first?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was Musashi already there?”
“He was standing on the knoll where … where … “
“Was he alone?”
“Yes.”
“How did it go? Did you just stand there and watch?”
“The Young Master looked straight at me and said … he said if by any chance he should lose, I was to pick up his body and take it to the other field. He said you and the others had been there since dawn, but I wasn’t under any circumstances to let anyone know anything until the bout was over. He said there were times when a student of the Art of War had no choice but to risk defeat, and he didn’t want to win by dishonorable, cowardly means. After that, he went forward to meet Musashi.” Tamihachi spoke rapidly, relieved to get the story told.
“Then what?”
“I could see Musashi’s face. He seemed to be smiling slightly. The two of them exchanged some sort of greeting. Then … then there was a scream. It carried from one end of the field to the other. I saw the Young Master’s wooden sword fly into the air, and then … only Musashi was standing. He had on an orange headband, but his hair was on end.”
The road had been cleared of the curious. The men carrying the shutter were dejected and subdued but kept scrupulously in step so as to avoid causing further pain to the injured man.
“What’s that?”
They halted, and one of the men in front raised his free hand to his neck. Another looked up at the sky. Dead pine needles were fluttering down on Seijūrō. Perched on a limb above them was Kojirō’s monkey, staring vacantly and making obscene gestures.
“Ouch!” cried one of the men as a pine cone struck his upturned face. Cursing, he whipped his stiletto from his scabbard and sent it flying with a flash of light at the monkey, but missed his target.
At the sound of his master’s whistle, the monkey somersaulted and bounced lightly onto his shoulder. Kojirō was standing in the shadows, Akemi at his side. While the Yoshioka men directed resentful eyes at him, Kojirō stared fixedly at the body on the rain shutter. His supercilious smile had deserted his face, which now bore a look of reverence. He grimaced at Seijūrō’s agonized moans. With his recent lecture still fresh in mind, the samurai could only assume that he had come to have the last laugh.
Ryōhei urged the stretcher bearers on, saying, “It’s only a monkey,