Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [257]
The monkey turned its head and looked at her. Chattering derisively, it bared its white teeth in a broad grin.
Akemi wanted to scold it, but couldn’t. She felt she and the monkey were bound together by the same fate. She recalled how pitiful Seijūrō had looked, and despite herself, her heart went out to him. She despised men like Seijūrō and Kojirō, and yet she was drawn to them like a moth to a red-hot flame.
A Man of Parts
Musashi left the field thinking, “I won.” He told himself: “I defeated Yoshioka Seijūrō, brought down the citadel of the Kyoto Style!”
But he knew his heart was not in it. His eyes were downcast, and his feet seemed to sink into the dead leaves. A small bird on the wing, rising, exposing its underside, reminded him of a fish.
Looking back, he could see the slender pines on the mound where he had fought Seijūrō. “I only struck once,” he thought. “Maybe it didn’t kill him.” He examined his wooden sword to assure himself there was no blood on it.
This morning, on his way to the appointed place, he had been expecting to find Seijūrō accompanied by a host of students, who might very well resort to some underhanded maneuver. He had squarely faced the possibility that he himself might be killed, and to avoid looking unkempt at the end had carefully brushed his teeth with salt and washed his hair.
Seijūrō fell far short of Musashi’s preconception. He had asked himself if this could really be the son of Yoshioka Kempō. He could not perceive in the urbane and obviously well-bred Seijūrō the leading master of the Kyoto Style. He was too slender, too subdued, too gentlemanly, to be a great swordsman.
When the greetings were exchanged, Musashi thought uncomfortably: “I should never have gotten into this fight.”
His regrets were sincere, because his aim was always to take on opponents who were better than he. One good look was sufficient; there had been no need to train for a year just to have this bout. Seijūrō’s eyes betrayed a lack of self-confidence. The necessary fire was absent, not only from his face but from his whole body.
“Why did he come here this morning,” wondered Musashi, “if he has no more faith in himself than this?” But Musashi was aware of his opponent’s predicament and sympathized. Seijūrō was in no position to call the fight off, even if he wanted to. The disciples he’d inherited from his father looked up to him as their mentor and guide; he had no choice but to go through the motions. As the two men stood poised for battle, Musashi cast about for an excuse to call the whole thing off, but the opportunity did not present itself.
Now that it was all over, Musashi thought: “It’s too bad! I wish I hadn’t had to do it.” And in his heart he prayed, for Seijūrō’s sake, that the wound would heal quickly.
But the day’s work was done, and it was not the mark of a mature warrior to stand around moping over the past.
As he quickened his pace, the startled face of an elderly woman appeared above a patch of grass. She’d been scratching about on the ground, apparently looking for something, and the sound of his footsteps brought a gasp to her lips. Dressed in a light, plain kimono, she would have been almost indistinguishable from the grass, except for the purple cord holding her cloak in place. Though her clothing was that of a layman, the kerchief hiding her round head was that of a nun. She was small of build and genteel in appearance.
Musashi was as astonished as the woman. Another three or four steps and he might have trampled on her.
“What are you looking for?” he asked genially. He glimpsed a string of coral prayer beads on her arm, just inside her sleeve, and a basket of tender wild plants in one hand. Her fingers and the beads trembled slightly.
To put her at her ease, Musashi said easily, “I’m surprised to see the greens up so early. I guess it’s really getting to be spring. Hmm, I see you have some nice parsley there, and some rape and cottonweed. Did you pick them all yourself?”
The old nun dropped the