Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [378]
Taking his cue from the look in Gonnosuke’s eyes, Musashi bided his time. There was something about the man’s posture, something that said it was best to be cautious. He seemed to be leaning slightly forward from the waist. Musashi could not make out what sort of weapon he was carrying, but when he turned, Musashi saw he had a four-foot staff behind his back. No ordinary pole, it had the sheen of a much-used weapon and seemed to be an integral part of the man’s body. There was no question in Musashi’s mind but that he lived with it day in and day out and knew exactly how to use it.
Moving into view, Musashi shouted, “You—whoever you are! I’ve come for my companions!”
Gonnosuke glared silently at him.
“Give me back the woman and boy you kidnapped on the highroad. If they’re unharmed, we’ll let it go at that. But if they’ve been injured, you’re in for it.”
The snowmelt feeding the streams in this area gave the breeze a sharp edge, which somehow emphasized the silence.
“Turn them over to me. Now!” Musashi’s voice bit more sharply than the wind.
Gonnosuke had what was called a reverse hold on his staff. His hair standing up like a hedgehog’s, he straightened to his full height and shouted, “You horse’s turd! Who are you calling a kidnapper?”
“You! You must have seen the boy and woman were unprotected, so you kidnapped them and took them here. Bring them out!”
The staff came away from Gonnosuke’s side in a movement so rapid Musashi could not tell where the man’s arm ended and the weapon began.
Musashi jumped aside. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he warned, then withdrew several paces.
“Who do you think you are, you crazy bastard!” As Gonnosuke spat out his reply, he moved swiftly into action again, determined not to give-Musashi a moment’s rest. When the latter shifted ten paces, he covered the same distance simultaneously.
Twice Musashi started to move his right hand to the hilt of his sword, but both times he stopped. During the instant when he grasped his sword, his elbow would be exposed. Musashi had seen the swiftness of Gonnosuke’s staff and knew he wouldn’t have time to complete the movement. He saw, too, that if he allowed himself to make light of his stocky opponent, he’d be in trouble. And if he didn’t remain calm, even taking a breath could endanger him.
Musashi had yet to size up this enemy, who at the moment had his legs and torso in a splendid stance of the Indestructible-Perfect type. Musashi was already beginning to feel that this farmer had a technique superior to that of any expert swordsman he had encountered so far, and a look in his eyes suggested he had mastered that Way which Musashi was forever seeking.
But he had little time for assessment. Strike followed strike, almost by the second, as one curse after another poured from Gonnosuke’s mouth. Sometimes he used both hands, sometimes only one, executing with flowing dexterity the overhead strike, the lateral strike, the thrust and the shift. A sword, being distinctly divided into blade and hilt, has only one point, but either end of a staff can be applied lethally. Gonnosuke was wielding the staff with the same agility as a candy-maker handling taffy: now it was long, now short, now invisible, now high, now low—seemingly everywhere at once.
From the window, the old woman urged her son to be careful. “Gonnosuke! He doesn’t look like an ordinary samurai!” She seemed to be as involved in the fight as he was.
“Don’t worry!” The knowledge that she was watching appeared to raise Gonnosuke’s fighting spirit to an even higher pitch.
At this point, Musashi ducked a blow to his shoulder, and in the same movement slid in close to Gonnosuke and seized his wrist. The next instant, the farmer was flat on his back, his feet kicking at the stars.
“Wait!” shouted the mother, breaking the lattice of the window in her excitement. Her hair stood on end; she seemed thunderstruck