Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [265]
“Crook! You probably pull the same stunt all the time. If you can’t pay, we’ll hang you by the neck!”
Matahachi put his hand to his sword to scare them off.
“You think you can?” he snarled. “That should be fun. Just try it! Do you know who I am?”
“We know what you are—a filthy rōnin from the garbage heap, with less pride than a beggar and more gall than a thief!”
“You’re asking for it!” cried Matahachi, glaring and knitting his brow fiercely. “You’d sing a different tune if you knew my name.”
“Your name? What’s so special about it?”
“I am Sasaki Kojirō, fellow student of Itō Ittōsai, swordsman of the Chūjō Style. You must have heard of me!”
“Don’t make me laugh! Never mind the fancy names; just pay up.”
One man stretched out his hand to grab at Matahachi, who cried, “If the pillbox isn’t enough, I’ll give you a bit of my sword too!” Quickly drawing the weapon, he struck at the man’s hand, cutting it clean off.
The others, seeing that they had underestimated their adversary, reacted as if it were their blood that had been spilled. They sprinted off into the darkness.
A look of triumph on his face, Matahachi challenged them anyway. “Come back, you vermin! I’ll show you how Kojirō uses his sword when he’s serious. Come on, I’ll take your heads off for you.”
He looked up at the heavens and giggled, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness as he exulted over his success. Then abruptly his mood changed. His face wrapped in sadness, he seemed on the verge of tears. Ramming his sword clumsily back into its scabbard, he started walking unsteadily away.
The pillbox on the ground sparkled under the stars. Made of black sandalwood, with a shell inlay, it didn’t look very valuable, but a glint of the blue nacre gave it the subtle beauty of a tiny cluster of fireflies.
Coming out of the shack, the itinerant monk saw the pillbox and picked it up. He started to walk on but then went back and stood under the shop’s eaves. In the dim light from a crack in the wall, he examined the design and the cord carefully. “Hmm,” he thought. “This is definitely the master’s. He must have had it with him when he was killed at Fushimi Castle. Yes, here’s his name, Tenki, written on the bottom.”
The monk hurried off after Matahachi. “Sasaki!” he called. “Sasaki Kojirō!”
Matahachi heard the name, but in his befuddled condition, failed this time to connect it with himself. He stumbled on from Kujō Avenue up Horikawa Street.
The monk caught up with him and took hold of the end of his scabbard. “Wait, Kojirō,” he said. “Wait just a moment.”
“Eh?” Matahachi hiccupped. “Do you mean me?”
“You’re Sasaki Kojirō, aren’t you?” A severe light shone in the monk’s eyes. Matahachi became slightly more sober. “Yes, I’m Kojirō. What’s that got to do with you?”
“I want to ask you a question.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Just where did you get this pillbox?”
“Pillbox?” he asked vacantly.
“Yes. Where did you get it? That’s all I want to know. How did it come into your possession?” The monk spoke rather formally. He was still young, perhaps twenty-six or so, and did not appear to be one of the spiritless beggar monks who wandered from temple to temple living on charity. In one hand he had a round oak staff, more than six feet long.
“Who are you anyway?” demanded Matahachi, concern beginning to show on his face.
“That doesn’t matter. Why don’t you just tell me where this came from?” “It didn’t come from anywhere. It’s mine, always has been.”
“You’re lying! Tell me the truth.”
“I’ve told you the truth already.”
“You refuse to confess?”
“Confess to what?” asked Matahachi innocently.
“You’re not Kojirō!” Immediately the staff in the monk’s hand split the air.
Matahachi’s instincts pulled him backward, but he was still too groggy to react quickly. The staff connected, and with a shriek of pain, he staggered back fifteen or twenty feet before landing on his backside. On his feet again, he took off.
The monk gave chase and after a few paces hurled the oak staff. Matahachi heard it