Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [270]
Exactly what form his tenacious will to dominate took when Kojirō was in love with a woman, no one knew. But there could be no doubt that he would have his way. He himself, however, saw no connection whatever between his swordsmanship and his love-making. He couldn’t begin to understand why Akemi disliked him, when he loved her so much.
As he pondered his love problems, he noticed a figure moving about under the tree, oblivious of his presence.
“Why, there’s a man lying there,” said the stranger. He stooped over for a closer look and exclaimed, “It’s that rascal from the sake shop!”
It was the itinerant monk. Taking the pack off his back, he remarked, “He doesn’t seem to be wounded. And his body’s warm.” He felt around and found the cord underneath Matahachi’s obi, undid it, and tied Matahachi’s hands behind his back. He then put his knees in the small of Matahachi’s back and jerked his shoulders backward, putting considerable pressure on the solar plexus. Matahachi came to with a muffled groan. The monk carried him like a sack of potatoes to a tree and propped him up against the trunk.
“Stand up!” he said sharply, underscoring the point with a kick. “On your feet!”
Matahachi, who had been halfway to hell, began to regain his senses, but could not quite take in what was going on. Still in a stupor, he dragged himself into a standing position.
“That’s fine,” said the monk. “Just stay that way.” He then tied Matahachi’s legs and chest to the tree.
Matahachi opened his eyes slightly and uttered a cry of astonishment.
“Now, you phony,” said his captor, “you led me quite a chase, but that’s all over.” Slowly he began working Matahachi over, slapping his forehead several times, sending his head thudding against the tree. “Where did you get the pillbox?” he demanded. “Tell me the truth. Now!”
Matahachi did not answer.
“So you think you can brazen it out, uh?” Infuriated, the monk clamped his thumb and forefinger on Matahachi’s nose and shook his head back and forth.
Matahachi gasped, and since he seemed to be trying to speak, the monk let go of his nose.
“I’ll talk,” said Matahachi desperately. “I’ll tell you everything.” Tears streamed from his eyes. “What happened was, last summer …” he began, and then he told the whole story, ending with a plea for mercy. “I can’t pay the money back right now, but I promise, if you don’t kill me, I’ll work hard and return it someday. I’ll give you a written promise, signed and sealed.”
Confessing was like letting the pus out of a festering wound. Now there was nothing more to hide, nothing more to fear. Or so he thought.
“Is that the absolute truth?” asked the monk.
“Yes.” Matahachi bowed his head contritely.
After a few minutes of silent reflection, the monk drew his short sword and pointed it at Matahachi’s face.
Quickly turning his head aside, Matahachi cried, “Are you going to kill me?”
“Yes, I think you’ll have to die.”
“I’ve told you everything in perfect honesty. I’ve returned the pillbox. I’ll give you the certificate. One of these days I’ll pay back the money. I swear I will! Why do you have to kill me?”
“I believe you, but my position is difficult. I live in Shimonida in Kōzuke, and I was a retainer of Kusanagi Tenki. He was the samurai who died at Fushimi Castle. Though I’m dressed as a monk, I’m actually a samurai. My name is Ichinomiya Gempachi.”
Matahachi, trying to wriggle free and escape, did not really hear any of this. “I apologize,” he said abjectly. “I know I did the wrong thing, but I didn’t mean to steal anything. I was going to deliver everything to his family. Then, well, I ran short of money and, well, I knew I shouldn’t, but I used his. I’ll apologize all you want, but please don’t kill me.”
“I’d rather you didn’t apologize,” said Gempachi, who seemed to be going through an emotional struggle of his own. Shaking his head sadly, he continued, “I’ve been to Fushimi to investigate. Everything fits in with what you said. Still, I must take something in the way of consolation back to