Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [302]
Behind Denshichirō was open ground, snow and wind. He felt sure Musashi would not bring anyone with him, but he could not afford to ignore the wide space to his rear. He made a motion as though brushing something off his kimono and said urgently to Hyōsuke, “Get away from here!” Hyōsuke moved to the back edge of the courtyard.
“Are you ready?” Musashi’s question was calm but trenchant, falling like so much ice water on his opponent’s feverish excitement.
Denshichirō now got his first good look at Musashi. “So this is the bastard!” he thought. His hatred was total; he resented the maiming of his brother, he was vexed at being compared with Musashi by the common people, and he had an ingrained contempt for what he regarded as a country upstart posing as a samurai.
“Who are you to ask, ‘Are you ready’? It’s well past the hour of nine!” “Did I say I’d be here exactly at nine?”
“Don’t make excuses! I’ve been waiting a long time. As you can see, I’m fully prepared. Now come down from there!” He did not underestimate his opponent to the extent of daring to attack from his present position. “In a minute,” answered Musashi with a slight laugh.
There was a difference between Musashi’s idea of preparation and his opponent’s. Denshichirō, though physically prepared, had only begun to pull himself together spiritually, whereas Musashi had started fighting long before he presented himself to his enemy. For him, the battle was now entering its second and central phase. At the Gion Shrine, he had seen the footprints in the snow, and at that moment his fighting instinct had been aroused. Knowing that the shadow of the man following him was no longer there, he had boldly entered the front gate of the Rengeōin and made a quick approach to the kitchen. Having wakened the priest, he struck up a conversation, subtly questioning the man as to what had been going on earlier in the evening. Disregarding the fact that he was a little late, he had had some tea and warmed himself. Then when he made his appearance, it was abrupt and from the relative safety of the veranda. He had seized the initiative.
His second opportunity came in the form of Denshichirō’s attempt to draw him out. One way of fighting would be to accept this; the other would be to ignore it and create an opening of his own. Caution was in order; in a case like this, victory is like the moon reflected on a lake. If one jumps for it impulsively, one can drown.
Denshichirō’s exasperation knew no bounds. “Not only are you late,” he shouted; “you aren’t ready. And I haven’t got a decent footing here.”
Musashi, still perfectly calm, replied, “I’m coming. Just a minute.”
Denshichirō did not have to be told that anger could result in defeat, but in the face of this deliberate effort to annoy him, he was unable to control his emotions. The lessons he had learned in strategy deserted him.
“Come down!” he screamed. “Here, into the courtyard! Let’s stop the tricks and fight bravely! I am Yoshioka Denshichirō! And I have nothing but spit for makeshift tactics or cowardly attacks. If you’re frightened before the match begins, you’re not qualified to confront me. Get down from there!”
Musashi grinned. “Yoshioka Denshichirō, eh? What do I have to fear from you? I cut you in half in the spring of last year, so if I do it again tonight, it’s only repeating what I’ve done before.”
“What are you talking about? Where? When?”
“At Koyagyū in Yamato.”
“Yamato?”
“In the bath at the Wataya Inn, to be exact.”
“Were you there?”
“I was. We were both naked, of course, but with my eyes I calculated whether I could cut you down or not. And with my eyes I slew you then and there, in rather splendid fashion, if I may say so myself. You probably didn’t notice, because