Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [360]
Musashi chuckled and came out from behind his rock. “I suppose you live around here,” he said amicably. “Your husband, he’s a farmer, woodcutter, something like that?”
The woman cowered, but answered, “Oh, no. I’m from the inn at the top of 1 the pass.”
“So much the better. If I gave you some money, would you run an errand for me?”
“I’d be glad to, but you see, there’s this sick person at the inn.”
“I could take the milk back for you and wait for you there. How would that be? If you go now, you should be back before dark.”
“In that case, I guess I could go, but—”
“Nothing to worry about! I’m not the villain the old woman said I am. I was only trying to help her. If she can get about on her own, there’s no reason for me to worry about her. Now I’ll just write a note. I want you to take it to the house of Lord Karasumaru Mitsuhiro. That’s in the north part of the city.”
With the brush from his writing kit, he quickly scribbled the words he had been longing to write to Otsū during his recuperation at the Mudōji. Having entrusted his letter to the woman, he mounted the cow and lumbered off, repeating the words he had written and speculating on how Otsū would feel when she read them. “And I thought I’d never see her again,” he mumbled, suddenly coming to life.
“Considering how weak she was,” he mused, “she may be sick in bed again. But when she receives my letter, she’ll get up and come as fast as she can. Jōtarō too.”
He allowed the cow to proceed at her own pace, stopping from time to time to let her nibble grass. His letter to Otsū was simple, but he was rather pleased with it: “At Hanada Bridge, it was you who waited. This time, let it be me. I’ve gone on ahead. I’ll wait for you in Ōtsu, at Kara Bridge in the village of Seta. When we’re together again, we’ll talk of many things.” He had tried to give the matter-of-fact message a poetic cast. He recited it again to himself, pondering the “many things” they had to discuss.
When he reached the inn, he got off the cow and, holding the jar of milk in both hands, called, “Anybody here?”
As was usual in roadside establishments of this sort, there was an open area under the front eaves for travelers who stopped to have tea or a light meal. Inside was a tea room, a section of which formed the kitchen. Rooms for guests were in the rear. An old woman was putting wood into an earthen oven, on top of which was a wooden steamer.
As he took a seat on a bench out front, she came and poured him a cup of lukewarm tea. He then explained himself and handed her the jar.
“What’s this?” she asked, eyeing him dubiously.
Thinking that perhaps she was deaf, he slowly repeated what he had said.
“Milk, you say? Milk? What for?” Still puzzled, she turned toward the interior and called, “Sir, can you come out here a minute? I don’t know what this is all about.”
“What?” A man ambled around the corner of the inn and asked, “What’s the trouble, ma’am?”
She thrust the jar into his hands, but he neither looked at it nor heard what she was saying. His eyes were glued on Musashi, his face a study in disbelief. Musashi, equally astounded, cried, “Matahachi!”
“Takezō!”
The two rushed at each other, stopping just before they collided. When Musashi held out his arms, Matahachi did the same thing, letting go of the jar. “How many years?”
“Not since Sekigahara.”
“That makes it … “
“Five years. It must be. I’m twenty-two now.”
As they hugged each other, the sweet odor of the milk from the broken jar enveloped them, evoking the time when they had both been babes in arms.
“You’ve become very famous, Takezō. But I guess I shouldn’t be calling you Takezō. I’ll call you Musashi, like everyone else. I’ve heard many stories about your success at the spreading pine—and about some things you did before that too.”
“Don’t embarrass me. I’m still an amateur. But the world’s full of people who don’t seem to be as good as I am. Say, are you staying here?”
“Yes, I’ve been here about ten days. I left Kyoto with the idea of going to