Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [338]
Perhaps Kojirō had thought that if he told Musashi how strong the enemy was, Musashi would get down on his hands and knees and ask him to serve as his second. And, conceivably, if Musashi’s first objective had been to preserve his own life, he would have welcomed assistance. But even before meeting Kojirō, he had picked up enough information to know he might have to face a hundred men.
It wasn’t that he had forgotten the lesson Takuan had taught him: the truly brave man is one who loves life, cherishing it as a treasure that once forfeited can never be recovered. He well knew that to live was more than merely to survive. The problem was how to imbue his life with meaning, how to ensure that his life would cast a bright ray of light into the future, even if it became necessary to give up that life for a cause. If he succeeded in doing this, the length of his life—twenty years or seventy—made little difference. A lifetime was only an insignificant interval in the endless flow of time.
To Musashi’s way of thinking, there was one way of life for ordinary people, another for the warrior. It was vitally important for him to live like a samurai and to die like one. There was no turning back from the path he had chosen. Even if he was hacked to pieces, the enemy could not obliterate the fact of his having responded fearlessly and honestly to the challenge.
He gave his attention to the routes available. The shortest, as well as the widest and easiest to travel, was the road Kojirō had taken. Another, not quite so direct, was a path leading along the Takano River, a tributary of the Kamo, to the Ohara highroad and then by way of the Shugakuin imperial villa to Ichijōji. The third route went east for a short distance, then north as far as the foothills of Uryū and finally across a path into the village.
The three roads met at the spreading pine; the difference in distance was insignificant. Yet from the viewpoint of a small force attacking a much larger one, the approach was all-important. The choice itself could decide victory or defeat.
Instead of weighing the problem at some length, after only a momentary pause he started running in a direction almost opposite from that of Ichijōji. First he crossed over the foot of Kagura Hill to a point behind the tomb of the Emperor Go-Ichijō. Then, passing through a thick bamboo grove, he came to a mountain stream flowing through a village in the northwest. Looming above him was the north shoulder of Mount Daimonji. Silently he began climbing.
Through the trees on his right he could see a garden wall, apparently belonging to the Ginkakuji. Almost directly beneath him, the jujube-shaped pond in the garden shone like a mirror. As he went farther up, the pond was lost in the trees, and the rippling Kamo River came into view. He felt as though he held the whole city in the palm of his hand.
He stopped for a moment to check his position. By proceeding horizontally across the sides of four hills, he could reach a point above and behind the spreading pine, where he could command a bird’s-eye view of the enemy’s position. Like Oda Nobunaga at the Battle of Okehazama, he had spurned the usual routes in favor of a difficult detour.
“Who goes there?”
Musashi froze and waited. Footsteps approached cautiously. Seeing a man dressed like a samurai in the service of a court noble, Musashi decided he was not a member of the Yoshioka forces.
The man’s nose was smudged from the smoke of his torch; his kimono was damp and mud-spattered. He uttered a little cry of surprise.
Musashi stared at him suspiciously.
“Aren’t you Miyamoto Musashi?” the man asked with a low bow, his eyes tinged with fright.
Musashi’s eyes brightened in the light of the torch.
“Are you Miyamoto Musashi?” Terrified, the samurai seemed to wobble slightly on his feet. The fierceness in Musashi’s eyes was something not often encountered in human beings.
“Who are you?” Musashi asked crisply.
“Er, I…I…”
“Stop stammering. Who are you?”
“I’m … I’m from