Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [313]
The kettle over the fire began to whistle, a cheerful sound that calmed her. Quietly she poured some tea.
“It’ll be daylight soon. Have a cup of tea and warm yourself by the fire.” “Thank you,” said Musashi, without moving.
“It’s ready now,” she said again, and gave up trying. The last thing she wanted to do was make a nuisance of herself. Still, she was slightly offended at seeing the tea go to waste. After it was too cold to drink, she poured it into a small pail kept for that purpose. What is the use, she thought, of offering tea to a rustic like him, for whom the niceties of tea-drinking have no meaning?
Though his back was to her, she could see that his whole body was as taut as steel armor. Her eyes grew sympathetic.
“Musashi.”
“What?”
“Who are you on guard against?”
“No one. I’m just trying to keep myself from relaxing too much.” “Because of your enemies?”
“Of course.”
“In your present state, if you were suddenly attacked in force, you’d be killed immediately. I’m sure of it, and it makes me sad.”
He did not answer.
“A woman like myself knows nothing of the Art of War, but from watching you tonight, I have the terrible feeling I’ve seen a man who was about to be cut down. Somehow there’s the shadow of death about you. Is that really safe for a warrior who may at any minute have to face dozens of swords? Can such a man expect to win?”
The question sounded sympathetic, but it unsettled him. He whirled around, moved to the hearth and sat facing her.
“Are you saying I’m immature?”
“Did I make you angry?”
“Nothing a woman ever said would make me angry. But I am interested in knowing why you think I act like a man who’s about to be killed.”
He was painfully conscious of the web of swords and strategies and maledictions being woven around him by the Yoshioka partisans. He had anticipated an attempt at revenge, and in the courtyard of the Rengeōin, had considered going away to hide. But this would have been rude to Kōetsu and would have meant breaking his promise to Rin’ya. Far more decisive, however, was his desire not to be accused of running away because he was afraid.
After returning to the Ōgiya, he thought he had displayed an admirable degree of composure. Now Yoshino was laughing at his immaturity. This would not have upset him had she been bantering in the fashion of courtesans, but she seemed perfectly serious.
He professed not to be angry, but his eyes were as keen as sword tips. He stared straight into her white face. “Explain what you said.” When she did not answer immediately, he said, “Or maybe you were just joking.”
Her dimples, which had deserted her for a moment, reappeared. “How can you say that?” She laughed, shaking her head. “Do you think I’d joke about something so serious to a warrior?”
“Well, what did you mean? Tell me!”
“All right. Since you seem so eager to know, I’ll try to explain. Were you listening when I played the lute?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Perhaps it was foolish of me to ask. Tense as you are, your ears could hardly have taken in the fine, subtle tones of the music.”
“No, that’s not true. I was listening.”
“Did it occur to you to wonder how all those complicated combinations of soft and loud tones, weak and strong phrases, could be produced from only four strings?”
“I was listening to the story. What else was there to hear?”
“Many people do that, but I’d like to draw a comparison between the lute and a human being. Rather than go into the technique of playing, let me recite a poem by Po Chü-i in which he describes the sounds of the lute. I feel sure you know it.”
She wrinkled her brow slightly as she intoned the poem in a low voice, her style somewhere between singing and speaking.
The large strings hummed like rain,
The small strings whispered like a secret,
Hummed, whispered