Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [290]
“It’s no use,” murmured Takuan. “To judge from that performance, they wouldn’t listen to anything I have to say. If only the world could be rid of silly misunderstandings, how much less people would suffer.”
But right now, he had to find Otsū. She had discovered some means of escaping. His spirits rose a little, but he could not really relax until he was sure she was safe. He decided to continue his search despite the darkness.
The innkeeper had gone up the hill a while earlier. He came back down, accompanied by seven or eight men with lanterns. The night watchmen at the temple, having agreed to help with the burial, brought shovels and spades. Presently Takuan heard the unpleasant sound of grave digging.
About the time the hole was deep enough, someone cried, “Look, over here, another body. This one’s a pretty young girl.” The man was about ten yards from the grave, on the edge of a marsh.
“Is she dead?”
“No, just unconscious.”
The Urbane Craftsman
Until his dying day, Musashi’s father had never stopped reminding him of his ancestry. “I may be only a country samurai,” he’d say, “but never forget, the Akamatsu clan was once famous and powerful. It should be a source of strength and pride to you.”
Since he was in Kyoto, Musashi decided to visit a temple called the Rakanji, near which the Akamatsus had once had a house. The clan had long since fallen, but it was just possible he might find at the temple some record of his ancestors. Even if he didn’t, he could burn some incense in their memory.
Arriving at the Rakan Bridge over the Lower Kogawa, he thought that he must be near the temple, for it was said to be located a little east of where the Upper Kogawa became the Lower Kogawa. His inquiries in the neighborhood, however, drew a complete blank. No one had ever heard of it.
Returning to the bridge, he stood and gazed at the clear, shallow water flowing beneath it. Though it wasn’t so many years since Munisai’s death, it appeared that the temple had been either moved or destroyed, leaving neither trace nor memory.
He watched idly as a whitish eddy formed and disappeared, formed and disappeared again. Noticing mud dripping from a grassy spot on the left bank, he concluded that it came from a sword polisher’s shop.
“Musashi!”
He looked around and saw the old nun Myōshū returning from an errand.
“How good of you to come,” she exclaimed, thinking he was there to pay a call. “Kōetsu’s at home today. He’ll be glad to see you.” She led him through the gate of a nearby house and sent a servant to fetch her son.
After warmly welcoming his guest, Kōetsu said, “At the moment, I’m busy with an important polishing job, but later we can have a nice long chat.”
It pleased Musashi to see that both mother and son were as friendly and natural as they had been the first time he met them. He spent the afternoon and evening chatting with them, and when they urged him to spend the night, he accepted. The next day, while Kōetsu showed him the workshop and explained the technique of sword polishing, he begged Musashi to stay on as long as he wished.
The house, with its deceptively modest gate, stood on a corner southeast of the remains of the Jissōin. In the neighborhood were several houses belonging to Kōetsu’s cousins and nephews, or to other men engaged in the same profession; all the Hon’amis lived and worked here, after the fashion of the large provincial clans of the past.
The Hon’amis were descended from a fairly distinguished military family, and had been retainers to the Ashikaga shōguns. In the present social hierarchy, the family belonged to the artisan class, but insofar as wealth and prestige were concerned, Kōetsu might have been taken for a member of the samurai class. He hobnobbed with high court nobles and had on occasion been invited by Tokugawa Ieyasu to Fushimi Castle.
The Hon’amis’ position was not unique; most of the wealthy artisans and merchants of the day—Suminokura Soan, Chaya Shirōjirō and Haiya Shōyū, among