Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [357]
“That’s not for me,” he said decisively.
He went through the gate and entered his room. Seated by the lamp, he took up his half-finished work and began carving rapidly. It was vitally important to finish the statue. Whether the craftsmanship was expert or not, he wanted desperately to leave something here to comfort the spirit of the departed Genjirō.
The lamp dimmed; he trimmed the wick. In the dead stillness of evening, the sound of tiny chips falling on the tatami was audible. His concentration was total, his whole being focused with perfect intensity on the point of contact with the wood. Once he had set himself a task, it was his nature to lose himself in it until it was completed, unmindful of boredom or fatigue.
The tones of the sutra rose and fell.
After each trimming of the wick, he resumed his work with an air of devotion and reverence, like the ancient sculptors who were said to have bowed three times to the Buddha before picking up their chisels to carve an image. His own statue of Kannon would be like a prayer for Genjirō’s happiness in the next life and, in a sense, a humble apology to his own soul.
Finally, he mumbled, “I guess this will do.” As he straightened up and examined the statue, the bell in the eastern pagoda sounded the second watch of the night, which began at ten o’clock. “It’s getting late,” he thought, and left immediately to pay his respects to the head priest and ask him to take custody of the statue. The image was roughly carved, but he had put his soul into it, weeping tears of repentance as he prayed for the dead boy’s spirit.
No sooner was he out of the room than Seinen came in to sweep the floor. When the room was again tidy, he laid out Musashi’s pallet and, broom over shoulder, sauntered back to the kitchen. Unknown to Musashi, while he was still carving, a catlike figure had crept into the Mudōji, through doors that were never locked, and onto the veranda. After Seinen was out of sight, the shoji onto the veranda slid silently open and just as silently shut.
Musashi returned with his going-away presents, a basket hat and a pair of straw sandals. Placing them beside his pillow, he extinguished the lamp and crawled into bed. The outer doors were open and a breeze blew softly through the corridors. There was just enough moonlight to give the white paper of the shoji a dull gray hue. Tree shadows swayed gently, like waves on a calm, open sea.
He snored softly, breathing more slowly as he sank deeper into sleep. Silently, the edge of a small screen in the corner shifted forward, and a dark figure crawled stealthily out on hands and knees. The snoring halted, and the black form quickly spread itself flat on the floor. Then, as the breathing steadied, the intruder advanced inch by inch, patiently, cautiously, coordinating his movements with the rhythmical breathing.
All at once, the shadow rose like a cloud of black floss and descended on Musashi, crying, “Now I’ll teach you!” A short sword swept toward Musashi’s neck. But the weapon clattered to one side as the black form flew back through the air and landed with a crash against the shoji. The invader emitted one loud wail before tumbling, along with the shoji, into the darkness outside.
At the instant Musashi made his throw, it crossed his mind that the person in his hands was as light as a kitten. Though the face had been swathed in cloth, he thought he had caught a glimpse se of white hair. Without pausing to analyze these impressions, he grabbed his sword and ran out onto the veranda.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Since you’ve gone to the trouble of coming here, give me a chance to greet you properly!” Leaping