Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [372]
“I’m glad he’s not here. I’d have to hide if he was.”
“Why? I think he’d understand if we explained.”
“I doubt it. He and his mother aren’t like other people.”
“Otsū, are you sure you won’t change your mind?”
“About what?”
“I mean, mightn’t you decide you really want to marry Matahachi?”
Her face twitched with shock. “Absolutely not!” she replied indignantly. Her eyelids turned orchid pink, and she covered her face with her hands, but the slight trembling of her white collar almost seemed to cry out, “I’m yours, no one else’s!”
Regretting his words, Musashi turned his eyes toward her. For several days now he had watched the play of light on her body—at night, the flickering glow of a lamp; in the daytime, the warm rays of the sun. Seeing her skin glisten with perspiration, he’d thought of the lotus blossom. Separated from her pallet by only a flimsy screen, he’d inhaled the faint scent of her black tresses. Now the roar of the water became one with the throbbing of his blood, and he felt himself being swallowed up by a powerful impulse.
Abruptly he stood up and moved to a sunny spot where the winter grass was still high, then sat down heavily and heaved a sigh.
Otsū came and knelt at his side, put her arms around his knees and twisted her neck to look up into his silent, frightened face.
“What is it?” she asked. “Did something I said make you angry? Forgive me. I’m sorry.”
The more tense he became—and the harsher the look in his eyes—the more closely she clung to him. Then all at once she threw her arms around him. Her fragrance, the warmth of her body, overwhelmed him.
“Otsū!” he cried impetuously as he seized her in his brawny arms and threw her backward onto the grass.
The roughness of the embrace took her breath away. She struggled free and crouched beside him.
“You mustn’t! You mustn’t do that!” she shrieked hoarsely. “How could you? You, of all people—” She broke off, sobbing.
His burning passion suddenly chilled by the pain and horror in her eyes, Musashi came to himself with a jolt. “Why?” he cried. “Why?” Overcome by shame and anger, he himself was on the verge of tears.
Then she was gone, leaving behind only a sachet, which had broken loose from her kimono. Staring blankly at it, Musashi groaned, then turned his face to the ground and let the tears of pain and frustration flow into the withered grass.
He felt she’d made a fool of him—deceived, defeated, tortured and shamed him. Hadn’t her words—her lips, her eyes, her hair, her body—been calling out to him? Hadn’t she labored to light a fire in his heart, then when the flames burst forth, fled in terror?
By some perverse logic, it seemed that all his efforts to become a superior person had been defeated, all his struggles and privations had been rendered utterly meaningless. His face buried in the grass, he told himself he’d done nothing wrong, but his conscience wasn’t satisfied.
What a girl’s virginity, vouchsafed to her for only a short period of her life, meant to her—how precious and sweet it was—was a question that never entered his mind.
But as he breathed in the smell of the earth, he gradually regained his self-control. When he eventually dragged himself to his feet, the raging fire was gone from his eyes and his face was devoid of passion. Trampling the sachet underfoot, he stood looking intently at the ground, listening, it seemed, to the voice of the mountains. His heavy black eyebrows were knit together just as they had been when he threw himself into battle under the spreading pine.
The sun went behind a cloud, and the sharp screech of a bird split the air. The wind changed, subtly altering the sound of the falling water.
Otsū, her heart fluttering like a frightened sparrow’s, observed his agony from behind a birch tree. Realizing how deeply she had hurt him, she now longed to have him at her side again, but as much as she wanted to run to him and beg forgiveness, her body would not obey. For the first time, she realized that the lover she had given her heart to was not the vision of masculine virtues she