Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [367]
“Yes, but I don’t suppose you’d be interested,” he replied with a pout, hiding the letter behind his back.
“Oh, stop it, Jōtarō. Let me see it,” Otsū implored.
He resisted for a time, but at the first hint of tears thrust the envelope at her. “Ha!” he gloated. “You pretend you don’t want to see him, but you can’t wait to read his letter.”
As she crouched by the lamp, the paper trembling in her white fingers, the flame seemed to have a special gaiety, a portent almost of happiness and good fortune.
The ink sparkled like a rainbow, the tears on her eyelashes like jewels. Otsū, suddenly transported to a world she hadn’t dared hope existed, recalled the ecstatic passage in Po Chü-i’s poem where the departed spirit of Yang Kuei-fei rejoiced over a message of love from her bereaved emperor.
She read the short message, then again read it. “He must be waiting this very minute. I must hurry.” Though she thought she said the words aloud, she uttered not a sound.
Flying into action, she wrote thank-you notes to the owner of the cottage, to other priests at the Ginkakuji and to all those who had been kind to her during her stay. She had gathered her belongings together, tied on her sandals and was out in the garden before she noticed that Jōtarō was still sitting inside nursing his pique.
“Come on, Jō! Hurry up!”
“Going somewhere?”
“Are you still angry?”
“Who wouldn’t be? You never think of anybody but yourself. Is there something so secret about Musashi’s letter you can’t even show it to me?”
“I’m sorry,” she said apologetically. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t see it.”
“Forget it. I’m not interested now.”
“Don’t be so difficult. I want you to read it. It’s a wonderful letter, the first he’s ever sent me. And this is the first time he’s asked me to come and join him. I’ve never been so happy in my life. Stop pouting, and come with me to Seta. Please.”
On the road through Shiga Pass, Jōtarō maintained a grumpy silence, but eventually he plucked a leaf to use as a whistle and hummed a few popular ditties to relieve the nocturnal stillness.
Eventually, too, Otsū, prompted to make a peace offering, said, “There are some sweets left from the box Lord Karasumaru sent the day before yesterday.”
But dawn was breaking and clouds beyond the pass were turning pink before he became his normal self again.
“Are you all right, Otsū? Aren’t you tired?”
“A little. It’s been uphill all the way.”
“It’ll be easier from now on. Look, you can see the lake.”
“Yes; Lake Biwa. Where’s Seta?”
“Over that way. Musashi wouldn’t be there this early, would he?”
“I really don’t know. It’ll take us half the day to get there ourselves. Shall we take a rest?”
“Okay,” he replied, his good humor restored. “Let’s sit down under those two big trees over there.”
The smoke of early morning cooking fires rose in strands, like vapors ascending from a battlefield. Through the mist stretching from the lake to the town of Ishiyama, the streets of Otsu were becoming visible. As he approached, Musashi drew his hand across his brow and looked around, glad to be back among people.
Near the Miidera, as he started up the Bizōji slope, he had wondered idly which road Otsū would take. He had imagined earlier he might meet her on the way but later decided this was unlikely. The woman who had taken his letter to Kyoto had informed him that though Otsū was no longer at the Karasumaru residence, his letter would be delivered to her. Since she would have received it no sooner than late evening and would have had various things to do before leaving, it seemed probable that she would wait until morning before setting out.
Passing a temple with a fine stand of old cherry trees—no doubt famous, he thought, for their spring blossoms—he had noticed a stone monument standing on a mound. Though he had caught only a glimpse of the poem inscribed thereon, it came back to him a few hundred yards farther down the road. It was from the Taiheiki. Recalling that the poem was connected with