Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [363]
Matahachi ran out and stood staring down the white road curving along the ridge. The cow, lying under a peach tree whose blossoms had already darkened and fallen, broke the silence with a long, sleepy-sounding moo.
“Matahachi,” said Musashi, “why stand there moping? Let’s pray she finds a place where she can settle down and lead a peaceful life, and let it go at that.”
A single yellow butterfly was tossed high in the swirling breeze before plummeting over the edge of a cliff.
“Your promise made me very happy,” said Musashi. “Now, isn’t it time to do something about it, really try and make something of yourself?”
“Yes, I. have to, don’t I?” mumbled Matahachi without enthusiasm, biting his lower lip to keep it from trembling.
Musashi swung him around, diverting his eyes from the deserted road. “Look here,” he said cheerfully. “Your path has opened up of its own accord. Wherever Akemi’s headed, it isn’t right for you. Go now, before it’s too late. Take the path that comes out between Sakamoto and Ōtsu. You should catch up with your mother before the day is out. Once you’ve found her, don’t ever lose sight of her again.”
To emphasize the point, he brought Matahachi’s sandals and leggings, then went into the inn and came back with his other belongings.
“Do you have any money?” he asked. “I don’t have much myself, but you can have part of it. If you think Edo’s the place for you, I’ll go there with you. Tonight I’ll be at the Kara Bridge in Seta. After you find your mother, look for me there. I’m counting on you to bring her.”
After Matahachi left, Musashi settled down to wait for twilight and the reply to his letter. Stretching out on the bench in the back of the tea room, he closed his eyes and was soon dreaming. Of two butterflies, drifting in the air, frolicking among intertwining branches. One of the butterflies he recognized …Otsū.
When he awoke, the slanting rays of the sun had reached the back wall of the tea room. He heard a man say, “However you look at it, it was a shoddy performance.”
“You mean the Yoshiokas?”
“That’s right.”
“People had too much regard for the school, because of Kempō’s reputation. Looks like in any field only the first generation counts for much. The next generation gets lackluster, and by the third, everything falls apart. You don’t often see the head of the fourth generation buried by the side of the founder.”
“Well, I intend to be buried right next to my great-grandfather.”
“You’re nothing but a stonecutter anyway. I’m talking about famous people. If you think I’m wrong, just look what happened to Hideyoshi’s heir.”
The stonecutters worked in a quarry in the valley and around three o’clock every afternoon came up to the inn for a cup of tea. Earlier, one of them, who lived near Ichijōji, had claimed that he saw the battle from beginning to end. Having already told his story dozens of times, he could now deliver it with stirring eloquence, embroidering skillfully on facts and mimicking Musashi’s movements.
While the stonecutters were listening raptly to this recital, four other men had arrived and taken seats out front: Sasaki Kojirō and three samurai from Mount Hiei. Their scowling faces made the workmen uneasy, so they’d picked up their teacups and retreated inside. But as the saga gathered steam, they began laughing and commenting, repeating Musashi’s name frequently and with obvious admiration.
When Kojirō reached the limit of his forbearance, he called loudly, “You, there!”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused, automatically bowing their heads.
“What’s going on here? You!” He pointed his steel-ribbed fan at the man. “Talking as if you knew so much. Come out here! The rest of you too! I’m not going to hurt you.”
As they shuffled outdoors again, he continued: “I’ve been listening to you sing the praises of Miyamoto Musashi, and I’ve had enough. You’re talking nonsense!”
There were questioning looks and murmurs of