Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [339]
“I’m Miyamoto Musashi, but what’s a retainer of Lord Karasumaru’s doing up here in the middle of the night?”
“Then you are Musashi!” He sighed with relief. The next instant, he was running at breakneck speed down the mountain, his torch trailing light behind him. Musashi turned and continued on his way across the mountainside.
When the samurai reached the vicinity of the Ginkakuji, he shouted, “Kura, where are you?”
“We’re here. Where are you?” It wasn’t the voice of Kura, another retainer of Karasumaru, but that of Jōtarō.
“Jō-ta-rō! Is that you?”
“Y-e-e-s!”
“Come up here fast!”
“I can’t. Otsū can’t walk any farther.”
The samurai swore under his breath, raised his voice even higher and shouted, “Come quick! I found Musashi! Mu-sa-shi! If you don’t hurry, we’ll lose him!”
Jōtarō and Otsū were about two hundred yards farther down the path; it took a while for their two long shadows, seemingly linked together, to hobble up to the samurai. He waved his torch to hurry them on, and in a matter of seconds could hear for himself Otsū’s labored breathing. Her face looked whiter than the moon; the travel paraphernalia on her thin arms and legs seemed cruel and absurd. But when the light fell full upon her, her cheeks took on a ruddy hue.
“Is it true?” she panted.
“Yes, I just saw him.” Then, in a more urgent tone: “If you hurry, you should be able to catch him. But if you waste time—”
“Which way?” asked Jōtarō, exasperated at being caught between an agitated man and an ailing woman.
Otsū’s physical condition had by no means improved, but once Jōtarō had divulged the news of Musashi’s impending battle, there was no way of keeping her in bed, even if that might prolong her life. Disregarding all entreaties, she had tied up her hair, laced on her straw sandals and all but staggered out of Lord Karasumaru’s gate. Once the impossibility of stopping her had become apparent, Lord Karasumaru did all he could to help. He took charge of the operation himself, and while she was limping slowly toward the Ginkakuji, sent his men to scour the various approaches to Ichijōji Village. The men walked until their feet ached and had been on the verge of giving up when the quarry was found.
The samurai pointed, and Otsū started resolutely up the hill.
Jōtarō, fearing she might collapse, asked at every other step, “Are you all right? Can you make it?”
She did not reply. Truth to tell, she did not even hear him. Her emaciated body was responsive only to the need to reach Musashi. Though her mouth was parched, cold sweat poured from her ashen forehead.
“This must be the way,” said Jōtarō, hoping to encourage her. “This road goes to Mount Hiei. It’s all flat from now on. No more climbing. Do you want to rest for a moment?”
Silently she shook her head, clinging firmly to the stick they were carrying between them, struggling for breath as though all life’s difficulties were compressed into this one journey.
When they’d managed to cover nearly a mile, Jōtarō shouted, “Musashi! Sensei!” and went on shouting.
His strong voice bolstered Otsū’s courage, but before long her strength was gone. “Jō-Jōtarō,” she whispered weakly. She let go of the stick and sank into the grass by the road. Face to the ground, she clasped her delicate fingers over her mouth. Her shoulders jerked convulsively.
“Otsū! It’s blood! You’re spitting up blood! Oh, Otsū!” On the brink of tears, he clasped his arms around her waist and held her up. She shook her head slowly from side to side. Not knowing what else to do, Jōtarō patted her gently on the back. “What do you want?” he asked.
She was beyond replying.
“I know! Water! Is that it?”
She nodded feebly.
“Wait here. I’ll get some.”
He stood up and looked around, listened for a moment and went to a nearby ravine, where he heard water running. With little difficulty, he found a spring bubbling forth from the rocks. As he started to scoop up some water with his hands, he hesitated, eyes fixed on the tiny crabs at the bottom of the pristine pool. The