Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [319]
“Are you calling me?” he asked guardedly. He saw no evil intent in her thickly powdered face, so he went a little nearer. “What is it?”
“Aren’t you the boy who came to the Ōgiya and asked for Miyamoto Musashi?” she asked gently.
“Yes.”
“Your name’s Jōtarō, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Come with me. I’ll take you to Musashi.”
“Where is he?” Jōtarō asked, growing suspicious again.
The girl stopped and explained that Yoshino Dayū, seriously concerned about the incident with the servant, had sent her to look for Jōtarō and take him to Musashi’s place of hiding.
With a look of gratitude, he asked, “Are you Yoshino Dayū’s servant?” “Yes. And you can relax now. If she stands up for you, no one in the quarter can touch you.”
“Is my teacher really there?”
“If he wasn’t, why would I be showing you the way?”
“What’s he doing in a place like this?”
“If you open the door of that little farmhouse right over there, you can see for yourself. Now I have to go back to my work.” She disappeared quietly beyond the shrubbery in the neighboring garden.
The farmhouse seemed too modest to be the end of his search, but he could not leave without making sure. To reach a side window, he rolled a rock from the garden over to the wall, perched on it and pressed his nose against the bamboo grille.
“He is there!” he said, keeping his voice down and concealing his presence with some difficulty. He yearned to reach out and touch his master. It had been so long!
Musashi was asleep by the hearth, his head resting on his arm. His attire was like nothing Jōtarō had ever seen him in before—a silk kimono with large figured designs, of the sort favored by the stylish young men about town. Spread out on the floor was a red woolen cloth; on it lay a painter’s brush, an ink box and several pieces of paper. On one sheet Musashi had practiced sketching an eggplant, on another, the head of a chicken.
Jōtarō was shaken. “How can he waste his time drawing pictures?” he thought angrily. “Doesn’t he know Otsū is sick?”
A heavy embroidered cloak half covered Musashi’s shoulders. It was unquestionably a woman’s garment, and the gaudy kimono—disgusting. Jōtarō sensed an aura of voluptuousness, in which there lurked evil. As had happened on New Year’s Day, a wave of bitter indignation at the corrupt ways of adults swept over him. “There’s something wrong with him,” he thought. “He’s not himself.”
As vexation slowly turned to mischievousness, he decided he knew what to do. “I’ll give him a good scare,” he thought. Very quietly, he started to lower himself from the rock.
“Jōtarō,” Musashi called. “Who brought you here?”
The boy caught himself and looked through the window again. Musashi was still lying down, but his eyes were half open and he was grinning.
Jōtarō sped around to the front of the house, ran in through the front door, and threw his arms around Musashi’s shoulders.
“Sensei!” he burbled happily.
“So you’ve come, have you?” Lying on his back, Musashi stretched out his arms and hugged the boy’s dirty head to his chest. “How did you know I was here? Did Takuan tell you? It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” Without loosening his embrace, Musashi sat up. Jōtarō, nestled against the warm chest he had almost forgotten, wiggled his head like a Pekingese.
Jōtarō moved his head to Musashi’s knee and lay still. “Otsū’s sick in bed. You can’t imagine how badly she wants to see you. She keeps saying she’d be all right if only you’d come. Just once, that’s all she wants.”
“Poor Otsū.”
“She saw you on the bridge on New Year’s Day, talking with that crazy girl. Otsū got angry and shut herself up in her shell, like a snail. I tried to drag her to the bridge, but she wouldn’t come.”
“I don’t blame her. I was upset with Akemi that day too.”
“You have