Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [337]
“True as that may be, it’s not in accordance with The Art of War to enter into a battle you know you’re going to lose.”
“There are times when it’s necessary.”
“No! Not according to The Art of War. Abandoning yourself to rash action is quite a different matter.”
“Whether or not my method is in accordance with The Art of War, I know what’s necessary for me.”
“You’re breaking all the rules.”
Musashi laughed.
“If you insist on going against the rules,” argued Kojirō, “why don’t you at
least choose a line of action that will give you a chance to go on living?” “The path I’m following is, for me, the way toward a fuller life.” “You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t lead you straight to hell!”
“This river, you know, may be the three-pronged river of hell; this road, the mile-long road to perdition; the hill I’ll soon climb, the mountain of needles on which the damned are impaled. Nevertheless, this is the only path toward true life.”
“The way you talk, you may already be possessed by the god of death.” “Think what you like. There are people who die by remaining alive and others who gain life by dying.”
“You poor devil!” said Kojirō, half in derision.
“Tell me, Kojirō—if I follow this road, where will it take me?”
“To Hananoki Village and then to the spreading pine at Ichijōji, where you’ve chosen to die.”
“How far is it?”
“Only about two miles. You have plenty of time.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you later,” said Musashi breezily, as he turned and started down a side road.
“That’s not the way!”
Musashi nodded.
“That’s the wrong way, I tell you.”
“I know.”
He went on down the slope. Beyond the trees on either side of the road were tiered rice paddies, off in the distance a few thatched farmhouses. Kojirō watched Musashi stop, look up at the moon and stand still for a time.
Kojirō broke into laughter as it dawned on him that Musashi was urinating. He himself looked up at the moon, thinking that before it had set, a lot of men would be dead or dying.
Musashi didn’t come back. Kojirō sat down on the root of a tree and contemplated the coming fight with a sentiment approaching glee. “To judge from Musashi’s calmness, he’s already resigned to dying. Still, he’ll put up a tremendous struggle. The more of them he cuts down, the more fun it’ll be to watch. Ah, but the Yoshiokas have flying weapons. If he’s hit by one of them, the show will be over right then. That would spoil everything. I think I’d better tell him about them.”
There was now a little mist and a predawn chill in the air.
Standing up, Kojirō called, “Musashi, what’s taking you so long?”
A sense that something was off key sent a pang of anxiety through him. He walked rapidly down the slope and called again. The only sound was the turning of a waterwheel.
“The silly bastard!”
Racing back to the main road, he looked around in all directions, seeing only the temple roofs and forests of Shirakawa, rising on the slopes of Higashiyama, and the moon. Jumping to the conclusion that Musashi had run away, he rebuked himself for not seeing through his calmness and took off at a flying pace for Ichijōji.
Grinning, Musashi emerged from behind a tree and stood where Kojirō had been standing. He was glad to be rid of him. He had no use for a man who took pleasure in watching other people die, who watched impassively while other men staked their lives on causes that were important to them. Kojirō was no innocent spectator, motivated only by the desire to learn. He was a deceitful, scheming interloper, always out to ingratiate himself with both sides, always