Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [323]
Several times negotiations had been started with the Ōgiya to search the premises, but these had come to naught. As far as the management was concerned, Musashi was not there. The Yoshiokas could not act on the rumor that Yoshino Dayū was protecting Musashi. She was too highly admired, both within the district and in the city itself, to be assailed without serious repercussions.
Obliged to fight a waiting war, the Yoshiokas had encircled the quarter at a distance. They didn’t rule out the possibility that Musashi might try to escape over the wall, but most expected him to leave by the gate, either in disguise or in a closed palanquin. The one contingency they were unprepared for was the one they were faced with now.
No one made a move to block Musashi’s path, nor did he pause to acknowledge them. He covered a hundred paces with bold strides before a samurai shouted, “Stop him!”
“After him!”
Eight or nine shouting men filled the street behind Musashi and began stalking him.
“Musashi, wait!” called an angry voice.
“What is it?” he replied immediately, startling all with the force of his voice.
He moved to the side of the road and backed up against the wall of a shanty. The shanty was part of a sawmill, and a couple of the mill hands slept there. One of them opened the door a crack, but after a quick glance slammed the door and bolted it.
Yelping and howling like a pack of stray dogs, the Yoshioka men gradually formed a black crescent around Musashi. He stared intently at them, gauging their strength, assessing their position, anticipating where a move might come from. The thirty men were quickly losing the use of their thirty minds. It was not difficult for Musashi to read the workings of this communal brain.
As he had anticipated, not one came forward alone to challenge him. They babbled and hurled insults, most of which sounded like the barely articulate name-calling of common tramps.
“Bastard!”
“Coward!”
“Amateur!”
They themselves were far from realizing that their bravado was merely vocal and revealed their weakness. Until the horde achieved a degree of cohesion, Musashi had the upper hand. He examined their faces, singled out the ones who might be dangerous, picked out the weak spots in the formation, and prepared himself for battle.
He took his time, and after slowly scrutinizing their faces, declared, “I am Musashi. Who called to me to wait?”
“We did. All of us!”
“I take it that you’re from the Yoshioka School.”
“That’s right.”
“What business do you have with me?”
“You know! Are you prepared?”
“Prepared?” Musashi’s lips twisted into a sardonic grin. The laugh that issued from his white teeth chilled their excitement. “A real warrior is prepared even in his sleep. Come forward when you wish! When you’re picking a meaningless fight, what sense is there in trying to talk like a human being or in observing the etiquette of the sword? But tell me one thing. Is your objective only to see me dead? Or do you want to fight like men?”
No answer.
“Are you here to settle a grudge or challenge me to a return bout?”
Had Musashi, by the slightest false movement of eye or body, given them an opening, their swords would have rushed at him like air into a vacuum, but he maintained perfect poise. No one moved. The entire group stood as still and silent as prayer beads.
Out of the confused silence came a loud shout: “You should know the answer without asking.”
Musashi, shooting a glance at the speaker, Miike Jūrōzaemon, judged from the man’s appearance that he was a samurai worthy to uphold Yoshioka Kempō’s reputation. He alone seemed willing to end the stalemate by striking the first blow. His feet edged forward in a sliding motion.
“You maimed our teacher Seijūrō and killed his brother Denshichirō. How can we hold up our heads if we let you live? Hundreds of us who are loyal to our master have vowed to remove the source of his humiliation and restore the