Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [30]
“Bastards! Beasts!” he growled. In the absence of the real target of his fury, he swung his black-oak sword screeching through the air, slicing a thick branch off a large tree. The white sap that poured from the wound reminded him of a nursing mother’s milk. He stood and stared. With no mother to turn to, there was only loneliness. Instead of offering him comfort, even the running streams and rolling hills of his own home seemed to mock him.
“Why are all the villagers against me?” he wondered. “The minute they see me, they report me to the guards on the mountain. The way they run when they catch sight of me, you’d think I was a madman.”
He’d been hiding in the Sanumo mountains for four days. Now, through the veil of the midday mist, he could make out the house of his father, the house where his sister lived alone. Nestled in the foothills just below him was the Shippōji, the temple’s roof jutting out from the trees. He knew he could approach neither place. When he’d dared go near the temple on the Buddha’s birthday, crowded though it was, he’d risked his life. When he heard his name called, he had no choice but to flee. Aside from wanting to save his own neck, he knew that being discovered there would mean trouble for Otsū.
That night, when he’d gone stealthily to his sister’s house, Matahachi’s mother—as luck would have it—had been there. For a while he’d just stood outside, trying to come up with an explanation of Matahachi’s whereabouts, but as he was watching his sister through a crack in the door, the soldiers had spotted him. Again he had to flee without having the chance to speak to anyone. Since then, it appeared from his refuge in the mountains that the Tokugawa samurai were keeping a very sharp eye out for him. They patrolled every road he might take, while at the same time the villagers had banded together to form search parties and were scouring the mountains.
He wondered what Otsū must think of him and began to suspect that even she had turned against him. Since it appeared that everyone in his own village regarded him as an enemy, he was stymied.
He thought: “It’d be too hard to tell Otsū the real reason her fiancé didn’t come back. Maybe I should tell the old woman instead… . That’s it! If I explain everything to her, she can break it gently to Otsū. Then there won’t be any reason for me to hang around here.”
His mind made up, Takezō resumed walking, but he knew that it would not do to go near the village before dark. With a large rock he broke another into small pieces and hurled one of them at a bird in flight. After it fell to earth, he barely paused to pluck its feathers before sinking his half-starved teeth into the warm, raw flesh. As he was devouring the bird, he started walking again but suddenly heard a stifled cry. Whoever had caught sight of him was scrambling away frantically through the woods. Angered at the idea of being hated and feared—persecuted—for no reason, he shouted, “Wait!” and began running like a panther after the fleeing form.
The man was no match for Takezō and was easily overtaken. It turned out to be one of the villagers who came to the mountains to make charcoal, and Takezō knew him by sight. Grabbing his collar, he dragged him back to a small clearing.
“Why are you running away? Don’t you know me? I’m one of you, Shimmen Takezō of Miyamoto. I’m not going to eat you alive. You know, it’s very rude to run away from people without even saying hello!”
“Y-y-y-y-yes, sir!”
“Sit down!”
Takezō released his grip on the man’s arm, but the pitiful creature started to flee, forcing Takezō to kick his behind and make as if to strike him with his wooden sword. The man cringed on the ground like a simpering dog, his hands over his head.
“Don’t kill me!” he screamed pathetically.
“Just answer my questions, all right?”
“I’ll tell you anything—just don’t kill me! I have a wife and family.” “Nobody’s going to kill you. I suppose the hills are crawling with soldiers, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Are they keeping close watch on the Shippōji?”
“Yes.