Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [273]
“That should do it,” said Kojirō contentedly.
In the black forest, the wind was moaning like the tide. Kojirō left off thinking about his ambition for the future and returned to his immediate course of action. His eyes lit up as he bounded off through the trees like a leopard.
The Younger Brother
Since ancient times, people of the highest classes had been able to ride in palanquins, but it was only recently that a simplified type had become available to the common people. It was little more than a large, low-sided basket suspended from a horizontal carrying pole, and to avoid falling out, the passenger had to hold on tightly to straps in front and back. The bearers, chanting rhythmically to keep in step, had a tendency to treat their customers like so much cargo. Those who chose this form of conveyance were advised to adjust their breathing to the rhythm of the bearers, especially when they were running.
The palanquin moving rapidly toward the pine woods on Gojō Avenue was accompanied by seven or eight men. Both the bearers and the other men were panting as though they were about to spit up their hearts.
“We’re on Gojō Avenue.”
“Isn’t this Matsubara?”
“Not much farther.”
Though the lanterns they carried bore a crest used by courtesans in the licensed quarter in Osaka, the passenger was no lady of the night.
“Denshichirō!” called one of the attendants in front. “We’re almost at Shijō Avenue.”
Denshichirō did not hear; he was asleep, his head bobbing up and down like a paper tiger’s. Then the basket lurched, and a bearer put his hand out to keep his passenger from being spilled onto the ground.
Opening his large eyes, Denshichirō said, “I’m thirsty. Give me some sake!”
Thankful for a chance to rest, the bearers lowered the palanquin to the ground and began wiping the clammy sweat off their faces and hairy chests with hand towels.
“There’s not much sake left,” said an attendant, handing the bamboo tube to Denshichirō.
He emptied it in one draft, then complained, “It’s cold—sets my teeth on edge.” But it woke him up enough to observe, “It’s still dark. We must have made very good time.”
“As far as your brother is concerned, it must seem a long time. He’s so eager to see you that each minute is like a year.”
“I hope he’s still alive.”
“The doctor said he would be. He’s restless, though, and his wound hemorrhages. That could be dangerous.”
Denshichirō lifted the empty tube to his lips and turned it upside down. “Musashi!” he said disgustedly, throwing the tube away. “Let’s go!” he bellowed. “Hurry up!”
Denshichirō, a strong drinker, an even stronger fighter and a quick-tempered man, was almost the perfect antithesis of his brother. There were some who, even when Kempō was still alive, had had the audacity to assert that he was more capable than his father. The young man himself shared this view of his talents. During their father’s lifetime, the two brothers worked out together in the dōjō and somehow managed to get along, but as soon as Kempō died, Denshichirō stopped participating in the activities of the school and had gone so far as to tell Seijūrō to his face that he should retire and leave matters concerning swordsmanship to him.
Since his departure for Ise the previous year, it had been rumored that he was whiling away his time in Yamato Province. It was only after the disaster at the Rendaiji that men were sent in search of him. Denshichirō, despite his distaste for Seijūrō, readily consented to return.
In the impatient rush back to Kyoto, he had driven the bearers so hard that they had had to be changed three or four times. But he had found time to stop at each station on the highway to buy sake. Perhaps the alcohol was needed