Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [365]
He ended by saying, “I shudder to think that there are people who shout the praises of this rogue. The effect on public morals is terrifying to contemplate! And this is the reason I’ve spoken at some length. I have no connection with the House of Yoshioka, nor do I have any personal grudge against Musashi. I’ve spoken to you fairly and impartially, as a man devoted to the Way of the Sword and as one determined to follow righteously in that Way! I’ve told you the truth. Remember it!”
Falling silent, he eased his thirst with a cup of tea, then turned to his companions and remarked very quietly, “Ah, the sun’s already low in the sky. If you don’t start soon, it’ll be dark before you reach the Miidera.”
The samurai from the temple rose to take their leave.
“Take good care of yourself,” said one of them.
“We look forward to seeing you again when you return to Kyoto.”
The stonecutters saw their chance and, like prisoners freed by a tribunal, hastened back to the valley, which was now cloaked in purplish shadows and echoed with the singing of nightingales.
Kojirō watched them go, then called into the inn, “I’ll put the money for the tea here on the table. By the way, do you have any matchlock fuses?”
The old woman was squatting before the earthen oven, preparing the evening meal. “Fuses?” she said. “There’s a bunch hanging in the corner back there. Take as many as you want.”
He strode to the corner. As he was pulling two or three of them out of a sheaf, the rest fell on the bench below. Reaching to retrieve them, he couldn’t help noticing the two legs stretched out on the bench. His eyes traveled slowly from legs to body to face. The shock was like a solid blow to the solar plexus.
Musashi stared straight at him.
Kojirō sprang back a step.
“Well, well,” said Musashi, grinning broadly. Unhurriedly he stood up and went to Kojirō’s side, where he stood silently, an amused and knowing expression on his face.
Kojirō tried to smile back, but his facial muscles refused to obey. He realized instantly that Musashi must have overheard every word he’d said, and his embarrassment was all the more unbearable because he felt Musashi was laughing at him. It took him only a moment to recover his usual aplomb, but during that brief interval his confusion was unmistakable.
“Why, Musashi, I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said.
“Nice to see you again.”
“Yes, yes, indeed.” Regretting the words even as he spoke them, yet somehow unable to help himself, he went on: “I must say, you’ve really distinguished yourself since I last saw you. It’s hard to believe a mere human being could have fought the way you did. Let me congratulate you. You don’t even seem to be any the worse for it.”
The trace of a smile still on his lips, Musashi said, with exaggerated politeness, “Thank you for acting as witness that day. And thank you also for the critique you’ve just given of my performance. Not often are we allowed to see ourselves as others see us. I am much indebted to you for your comments. I assure you I won’t forget them.”
Despite the quiet tone and lack of rancor, the last statement sent a chill through Kojirō. He recognized it for what it was, a challenge that would have to be met at some future date.
These two men, both proud, both headstrong, both convinced of their own rectitude, were bound to clash head on, sooner or later. Musashi was content to wait, but when he said, “I won’t forget,” he was only speaking the simple truth. He already regarded his most recent victory as a milestone in his career as a swordsman, a high point in his struggle to perfect himself. Kojirō’s calumnies would not go unchallenged indefinitely.
Though Kojirō had embellished his speech to sway his listeners, he actually saw the event very much as he had described it,