Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [293]
Musashi complied.
When he was dressed, Myōshū remarked cheerfully, “There, you look very handsome.”
As they were about to leave, Kōetsu went to the household Buddhist altar and lit a candle on it. Both he and his mother were devout members of the Nichiren sect.
At the front entrance, Myōshū had laid out two pairs of sandals with new thongs. While they were putting them on, she whispered with one of the servants, who was waiting to shut the front gate after them.
Kōetsu said good-bye to his mother, but she looked up at him quickly and said, “Wait just a minute.” Her face was creased in a worried frown.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“This man tells me three rough-looking samurai were just here and spoke very rudely. Do you suppose it’s anything important?”
Kōetsu looked questioningly at Musashi.
“There’s no reason to be afraid,” Musashi assured him. “They’re probably from the House of Yoshioka. They may attack me, but they don’t have anything against you.”
“One of the workmen said the same sort of thing happened a couple of days ago. Only one samurai, but he came through the gate without being asked and looked over the hedge by the teahouse path, toward the part of the house where you’re staying.”
“Then I’m sure it’s the Yoshioka men.”
“I think so too,” agreed Kōetsu. He turned to the trembling gateman. “What did they say?”
“The workmen had all left, and I was about to close the gate when these three samurai suddenly surrounded me. One of them—he looked mean—took a letter out of his kimono and ordered me to hand it to the guest staying here.”
“He didn’t say ‘Musashi’?”
“Well, later on he did say ‘Miyamoto Musashi.’ And he said Musashi’d been staying here for several days.”
“What did you say?”
“You said not to tell anyone about Musashi, so I shook my head and said there was no one here by that name. He got angry and called me a liar, but one of the others—a somewhat older man, with a smirk on his face—calmed him down and said they’d find a way to deliver the letter directly. I’m not sure what he meant, but it sounded like a threat. They went off toward the corner down there.”
“Kōetsu, you walk on a little ahead of me,” said Musashi. “I don’t want you to get hurt or become involved in any trouble because of me.”
Kōetsu replied with a laugh, “There’s no need to worry about me, particularly if you’re sure they’re Yoshioka men. I’m not the least bit afraid of them. Let’s go.”
After they were outside, Kōetsu put his head back through the small door in the gate and called, “Mother!”
“Did you forget something?” she asked.
“No, I was just thinking: if you’re worried about me, I could send a messenger to Shōyū and tell him I can’t come this evening.”
“Oh, no. I’m more afraid something might happen to Musashi. But I don’t think he’d come back if you tried to stop him. Go on, and have a good time!”
Kōetsu caught up with Musashi and as they ambled along the riverbank said, “Shōyū’s house is just down the road, at Ichijō Avenue and Horikawa Street. He’s probably getting ready now, so let’s stop in for him. It’s right on the way.”
It was still light, and the walk along the river was pleasant, all the more so because they were completely at leisure at an hour when everybody else was busy.
Musashi remarked, “I’ve heard Haiya Shōyū’s name, but I really don’t know anything about him.”
“I’d be surprised if you hadn’t heard of him. He’s a well-known expert at composing linked verse.”
“Ah! So he’s a poet.”
“He is, but of course he doesn’t make his living writing verse. He comes from an old Kyoto merchant family.”
“How did he get the name Haiya?”
“It’s the name of his business.”
“What does he sell?”
“His name means ‘ash salesman,’ and that’s what he sells—ashes.” “Ashes?”
“Yes, they’re used in dyeing cloth. It’s a big business. He sells to dyers’ guilds all over the country. At the beginning of the Ashikaga period, the ash trade was controlled by an agent of the shōgun, but later it was turned over to private wholesalers. There are three big wholesale houses in Kyoto,