Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [397]
Embarrassed, Musashi said rather formally, “It was good of you to let me know.” He took out his money pouch, knowing it contained only enough for his own meal. He hesitated a moment, but reflecting that honesty should not go unrewarded, gave the laborer his last bit of cash.
Pleased with the tip, the man raised the money to his forehead in a gesture of thanks and went happily on his way.
Watching his money go down the road, Musashi felt he had used it for a purpose worthier than that of filling his stomach. Perhaps the laborer, having learned that right conduct can be profitable, would go out on the road the next day and help another traveler.
It was already dark, but he decided that instead of sleeping under the eaves of some peasant’s house, he would cross Wada Pass. By traveling all night, he should be able to catch up with Daizō. He started off, savoring once again the satisfaction of being on a deserted road at night. Something about it appealed to his nature. Counting his footsteps, listening to the silent voice of the heavens above, he could forget everything and rejoice in his own being. When he was surrounded by crowds of busy people, his spirit often seemed sad and isolated, but now he felt alive and buoyant. He could think about life coolly and objectively, even appraise himself as he might appraise a total stranger.
A little after midnight, his musings were distracted by a light in the distance. He had been climbing steadily since crossing the bridge over the Ochiai River. One pass was behind him; the next one, at Wada, loomed up in the starry sky ahead, and beyond that the even higher crossing at Daimon. The light was in a hollow that ran parallel to the two ridges.
“It looks like a bonfire,” he thought, feeling pangs of hunger for the first time in hours. “Maybe they’ll let me dry off my sleeves, give me a bit of gruel or something.”
As he drew near, he saw that it wasn’t an outdoor fire but the light from a small roadside teahouse. There were four or five stakes for tying horses, but no horses. It seemed incredible that there would be anyone in such a place at this hour, yet he could hear the sound of raucous voices mingling with the crackling of the fire. He stood hesitantly under the eaves for a few minutes. If it had been a farmer’s or a woodcutter’s hut, he would have had no qualms about asking for shelter and some leftovers, but this was a place of business.
The smell of food made him hungrier than ever. The warm smoke enveloped him; he could not tear himself away. “Well, if I explain my situation to them, maybe they’ll accept the statue as payment.” The “statue” was the small image of Kannon he had carved from the wood of an ancient plum tree.
When he barged into the shop, the startled customers stopped talking. The interior was simple, a dirt floor with a hearth and fire hood in the middle, around which huddled three men on stools. Stewing in a pot was a mixture of boar’s meat and giant radish. A jar of sake was warming in the ashes. Standing with his back to them, slicing pickles and chatting good-naturedly, was the proprietor.
“What do you want?” asked one of the customers, a keen-eyed man with long sideburns.
Too hungry to hear, Musashi passed by the men and, seating himself on the edge of a stool, said to the proprietor, “Give me something to eat, quick. Rice and pickles’ll do. Anything.”
The man poured some of the stew over a bowl of cold rice and set it before him. “Are you planning to cross the pass tonight?” he asked.
“Um,” mumbled Musashi, who had already seized some chopsticks and was attacking the food with gusto. After his second mouthful, he asked, “Do you know if a man named Daizō—he comes from Narai—passed here this afternoon, going toward the pass? He has a young boy with him.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Then, to the other men, “Tōji, did you or your friends see an older man traveling with a boy?”
After a bit of whispering, the three replied in the negative, shaking their heads in