Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [350]
Musashi took a stance with his back against the tree trunk, whose girth could hardly be spanned by two men with outstretched arms. The tree made an ideal shield for his rear, but he seemed to consider it hazardous to stay there long. As his eye traveled down the top edge of his sword and fastened on his opponents, his brain reviewed the terrain, searched for a better position.
“Go to the spreading pine! The pine tree! The fighting’s there!” The shout came from the top of the rise from which Sasaki Kojirō had chosen to view the spectacle.
Then came a deafening report from the musket, and at last the samurai of the House of Yoshioka grasped what was going on. Swarming like bees, they left their hiding places and hurtled toward the crossroads.
Musashi slipped deftly sideways. The bullet lodged in the tree trunk, inches from his head. On guard, the seven men facing him edged around a couple of feet to compensate for his change in position.
Without warning, Musashi darted toward the man at the extreme left, his sword held at eye level. The man—Kobashi Kurando, one of the Yoshioka Ten—was taken completely by surprise. With a low cry of dismay, he whirled on one foot, but he was not quick enough to escape the blow to his side. Musashi, sword still extended, continued running straight ahead.
“Don’t let him get away!”
The other six rushed after him. But the attack had again thrown them into perilous disarray, all coordination lost. In a flash, Musashi spun around, striking laterally at the nearest man, Miike Jūrōzaemon. Experienced swordsman that he was, Jūrōzaemon had anticipated this and left some play in his legs, so that he was able to quickly move backward. The tip of Musashi’s sword barely grazed his chest.
Musashi’s use of his weapon differed from that of the ordinary swordsman of his time. By normal techniques, if the first blow did not connect, the force of the sword was spent in the air. It was necessary to bring the blade back before striking again. This was too slow for Musashi. Whenever he struck laterally, there was a return blow. A slice to the right was followed in essentially the same motion by a return strike to the left. His blade created two streaks of light, the pattern very much like two pine needles joined at one end.
The unexpected return stroke slashed upward through Jūrōzaemon’s face, turning his head into a large red tomato.
Not having studied under a teacher, Musashi found himself occasionally at a disadvantage, but there were also times when he had profited from this. One of his strengths was that he had never been pressed into the mold of any particular school. From the orthodox point of view, his style had no discernible form, no rules, no secret techniques. Created by his own imagination and his own needs, it was hard to define or categorize. To an extent, he could be challenged effectively using conventional styles, if his opponent was highly skilled. Jūrōzaemon had not anticipated Musashi’s tactic. Anyone adept at the Yoshioka Style, or for that matter at any of the other Kyoto styles, would probably have been taken unawares in similar fashion.
If, following through on his fatal blow to Jūrōzaemon, Musashi had charged the motley group that remained around the tree, he would certainly have slain several more of them in short order. Instead he ran toward the crossroads. But then, just as they thought he was about to flee, he suddenly turned and attacked again. By the time they had regrouped to defend themselves, he was gone again.
“Musashi!”
“Coward!”
“Fight like a man!”
“We’re not through with you yet!”
The usual imprecations filled the air, as furious eyes threatened to pop out of