Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [401]
“Don’t kill me! I’m sorry!” pleaded Gion Tōji, his whining tone exactly that of a petty crook.
He was soon back on his feet again, trying to find Musashi’s weak point. Musashi parried each of his moves, but when he pressed forward to hem in his opponent, Tōji, mustering all his strength, pulled his short sword and made a powerful thrust. Dodging adroitly, Musashi swept him up in his arms and with a cry of contempt sent him crashing into the next room. Either an arm or a leg struck the pot hanger, for the bamboo pole from which it hung broke with a loud crack. White ashes billowed up from the hearth like a volcanic cloud.
A barrage of missiles coming through the smoke and ashes kept Musashi at bay. As the ashes settled, he saw that his adversary was no longer the bandits’ chief, who was flat on his back near the wall. The woman, between curses, was throwing everything she could lay her hands on—pot lids, kindling, metal chopsticks, tea bowls.
Musashi leapt forward and quickly pinned her to the floor, but she managed to pull a bodkin from her hair and take a stab at him. When he brought his foot down on her wrist, she gnashed her teeth, then cried out in anger and disgust at the unconscious Tōji, “Haven’t you any pride? How can you lose to a nobody like this?”
Hearing the voice, Musashi abruptly drew in his breath and let her go. She jumped to her feet, grabbed up the short sword and lunged at him.
“Stop it, ma’am,” said Musashi.
Startled by the oddly courteous tone, she paused and gaped at him. “Why, it’s … it’s Takezō!”
His hunch was right. Apart from Osugi, the only woman who would still call him by his childhood name was Okō.
“It is Takezō,” she exclaimed, her voice growing syrupy. “Your name’s Musashi now, isn’t it? You’ve become quite a swordsman, haven’t you?”
“What are you doing in a place like this?”
“I’m ashamed to say.”
“Is that man lying over there your husband?”
“You must know him. He’s what’s left of Gion Tōji.”
“That’s Tōji?” murmured Musashi. He had heard in Kyoto what a reprobate Tōji was, and how he had pocketed the money collected to enlarge the school and absconded with Okō. Still, as he looked at the human wreck by the wall, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. “You’d better tend to him,” he said. “If I’d known he was your husband, I wouldn’t have been so rough with him.”
“Oh, I want to crawl in a hole and hide,” simpered Okō.
She went to Tōji’s side, gave him some water, bound his wounds, and when he had begun to come around, told him who Musashi was.
“What?” he croaked. “Miyamoto Musashi? The one who … Oh, this is awful!” Placing his hands over his face, he doubled up abjectly.
Forgetting his anger, Musashi allowed himself to be treated as an honored guest. Okō swept the floor, tidied up the hearth, put on new kindling and heated some sake.
Handing him a cup, she said, in accordance with the accepted rules of etiquette, “We haven’t a thing to offer, but …”
“I had quite enough at the teahouse,” Musashi replied politely. “Please don’t go to any trouble.”
“Oh, I hope you can eat the food I’ve prepared. It’s been such a long time.” Having hung a pot of stew on the pot hanger, she sat down beside him and poured his sake.
“It reminds me of old times at Mount Ibuki,” said Musashi amiably.
A strong wind had come up, and though the shutters were again securely in place, it came in through various cracks and teased the smoke from the hearth as it rose to the ceiling.
“Please don’t remind me of that,” said Okō. “But tell me, have you heard anything of Akemi? Do you have any idea where she is?”
“I heard she spent several days at the inn on Mount Hiei. She and Matahachi were planning to go to Edo. Seems she ran away with all his money.”
“Oh?” said Okō disappointedly. “Her too.” She gazed at the floor, sadly comparing her daughter’s life with