Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [353]
But their warnings made no impression. Musashi would not have noticed if the earth had split asunder or the heavens cast down crackling bolts of lightning. The uproar reached a crescendo, shaking the thirty-six peaks like an earthquake. It issued simultaneously from the spectators and the jostling throng of Yoshioka samurai.
Musashi had finally taken off across the mountainside with the speed of a wild boar. In no time, five or six men were on his heels, trying desperately to get in a solid blow.
Musashi, with a vicious howl, suddenly wheeled, crouched and swung his sword sideways at shin level, stopping them in their tracks. One man brought his lance down from above, only to see it knocked into the air by a powerful counterblow. They shrank back. Musashi swung fiercely with the left sword, then the right, then the left again. Moving like a combination of fire and water, he had his enemies reeling and cowering, tottering and stumbling in his wake.
Then he was gone again. He had leapt from the open land across which the battle had been raging into a green field of barley below.
“Stop!”
“Come back and fight!”
Two men in hot pursuit jumped blindly after Musashi. A second later, there were two death screams, two lances flying through the air and coming to rest upright in the middle of the field. Musashi was slithering like a great ball of mud through the far end of the field. Already a hundred yards away, he was rapidly widening the gap.
“He’s going toward the village.”
“He’s heading for the main road.”
But in fact he had crawled rapidly and invisibly up the far edge of the field and was now hidden in the woods above. He watched his pursuers dividing up to continue their chase in several directions.
It was daylight, a sunny morning, much like any other.
An Offering for the Dead
When Oda Nobunaga finally lost patience with the priests’ political machinations, he attacked the ancient Buddhist establishment on Mount Hiei, and in one horrendous night, all but a few of its three thousand temples and shrines had gone up in flames. Though four decades had passed and the main hall and a number of secondary temples had been rebuilt, the memory of that night hung like a shroud over the mountain. The establishment was now stripped of its temporal powers, and the priests devoted their time once again to religious duties.
Situated on the southernmost peak, commanding a view of the other temples and of Kyoto itself, was a small, secluded temple known as the Mudōji. It was rare for the stillness to be broken by any sound less peaceful than the rippling of a brook or the chirping of small birds.
From the inner recesses of the temple came a masculine voice reciting the words of Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy, as revealed in the Lotus Sutra. The monotone would rise gradually for a time, then, as if the chanter had suddenly remembered himself, sink abruptly.
Along the jet black floor of the corridor walked a white-robed acolyte, carrying at eye level a tray on which had been placed the meager, meatless meal customarily served in religious establishments. Entering the room from which the voice was coming, he placed the tray in one corner, knelt politely and said, “Good day, sir.”
Leaning slightly forward, absorbed in his work, the guest did not hear the boy’s greeting.
“Sir,” said the acolyte, raising his voice slightly, “I’ve brought your lunch. I’ll leave it here in the corner, if you wish.”
“Oh, thank you,” replied Musashi, straightening up. “That’s very kind of you.” He turned and bowed.
“Would you like to eat now?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll serve you your rice.”
Musashi accepted the bowl of rice and began eating. The acolyte stared first at the block of wood by Musashi’s side, then at the small knife behind him. Chips and slivers of fragrant white sandalwood lay scattered about.
“What are you carving?” he asked.
“It’s to be a sacred image.”
“The Buddha Amida?”
“No. Kannon. Unfortunately, I don’t know anything about sculpture. I seem to be cutting my hands more than the