Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [321]
“Yoshino thinks you should stay here another four or five days, or at least until they tire of waiting.”
Musashi thanked her for her kindness and concern, but added cryptically, “I’m not without a plan of my own.”
He readily agreed to have a servant sent to Kōetsu’s house in Jōtarō’s stead. The servant returned in less than an hour with a note from Kōetsu: “When we have another chance, let us meet again. Life, though it may seem long, is in truth all too short. I beg you to take the best possible care of yourself. My regards from afar.” Though few in number, the words seemed warm and very much in character.
“Your clothing is in this package,” said the servant. “Kōetsu’s mother asked me particularly to convey her best wishes.” He bowed and left.
Musashi looked at the cotton kimono, old, ragged, so often exposed to dew and rain, spotted with sweat stains. It would feel better on his skin than the fine silks lent him by the Ōgiya; surely this was the outfit for a man engaged in the serious study of swordsmanship. Musashi neither needed nor wanted anything better.
He expected it to be smelly after being folded up for a few days, but as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, he found it to be quite fresh. It had been washed; the creases stood out neatly. Thinking Myōshū had washed it herself, he wished he, too, had a mother and thought of the long, solitary life ahead of him, with no relatives except his sister, living in mountains to which he himself could not return. He looked down at the fire for a time.
“Let’s go,” he said. He tightened his obi and slid his beloved sword between it and his ribs. As he did so, the loneliness fell away as quickly as it had come. This sword, he reflected, would have to be his mother, his father, his brothers and sisters. That was what he had vowed to himself years earlier, and that was the way it would have to be.
Jōtarō was already outside, gazing up at the stars, thinking that no matter how late they arrived at Lord Karasumaru’s house, Otsū would be awake.
“My, won’t she be surprised,” he said to himself. “She’ll be so happy she’ll probably start crying again.”
“Jōtarō,” said Musashi, “did you come in through the wooden gate in back?”
“I don’t know if it’s in back. It’s that one over there.”
“Go there and wait for me.”
“Aren’t we going together?”
“Yes, but first I want to say good-bye to Yoshino. I won’t be long.”
“All right; I’ll be by the gate.” He felt a twinge of anxiety at having Musashi leave him even for a few moments, but on this particular night, he would have done anything his teacher asked him to do.
The Ōgiya had been a haven, pleasant but only temporary. Musashi reflected that being shut off from the outside world had done him good, for until now his body and mind had been like ice, a thick, frigid mass insensitive to the beauty of the moon, heedless of the flowers, unresponsive to the sun. He had no doubts about the rectitude of the ascetic life he led, but now he could see how his self-denial might make him narrow, small-minded and stubborn. Takuan had told him years ago that his strength was no different from that of a wild beast; Nikkan had warned him about being too strong. After his fight with Denshichirō, body and soul had been too tense and strained. These past two days, he had let himself go and allowed his spirit to expand. He had drunk a little, dozed when he felt like it, read, dabbled at painting, yawned and stretched at will. Taking a rest had been of immense value, and he had decided that it was important, and would continue to be important, for him occasionally to have two or three days of completely carefree leisure.
Standing in the garden watching the lights and shadows in the front parlors, he thought: “I must say just one word of thanks to Yoshino Dayū for all she’s done.” But he changed his mind. He could easily hear the plinking of shamisen and the raucous singing of the buyers. He saw no way to sneak in to see her. Better to thank her in his heart and hope she would understand. Having bowed toward