Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [402]
When Tōji had recovered sufficiently, he joined them and begged Musashi’s forgiveness. He had, he avowed, acted on a sudden impulse, which he now deplored. There would come a day, he assured his guest, when he would reenter society as the Gion Tōji the world had known before.
Musashi kept quiet, but he would have liked to say that there didn’t seem to be much to choose from between Tōji the samurai and Tōji the bandit, but if he did return to the life of a warrior, the roads would be that much safer for travelers.
Somewhat mellowed by the sake, he said to Okō, “I think you’d be wise to give up this dangerous way of life.”
“You’re quite right, but of course, it’s not as though I’m living this way out of choice. When we left Kyoto, we were going to try our luck in Edo. But in Suwa, Tōji got to gambling and lost everything we had—travel money, everything. I thought of the moxa business, so we started gathering herbs and selling them in the town. Oh, I’ve had enough of his get-rich-quick schemes to last a lifetime. After tonight, I’m through.” As always, a few drinks had introduced a coquettish note into her speech. She was beginning to turn on the charm.
Okō was one of those women of indeterminate age, and she was still dangerous. A house cat will romp coyly on its master’s knees so long as it is well fed and cared for, but turn it loose in the mountains, and in no time it will be prowling the night with flaming eyes, ready to feast off a corpse or tear the living flesh off travelers who have fallen sick by the wayside. Okō was very much like that.
“Tōji,” she said lovingly, “according to Takezō, Akemi was headed for Edo. Couldn’t we go there too and live more like human beings again? If we found Akemi, I’m sure we’d think of some profitable business to go into.”
“Well, maybe,’ was the unenthusiastic reply. His arms were wrapped pensively around his knees; perhaps the implied idea—peddling Akemi’s body—was a little raw even for him. Tōji, after living with this predatory woman, was beginning to have the same regrets as Matahachi.
To Musashi, the expression on Tōji’s face seemed pathetic. It reminded him of Matahachi. With a shudder, he recalled how he himself had once been enticed by her charms.
“Okō,” said Tōji, lifting his head. “It won’t be long till daylight. Musashi’s probably tired. Why don’t you fix a place for him in the back room, so he can get some rest?”
“Yes, of course.” With a tipsy sidelong glance at Musashi, she said, “You’ll have to be careful, Takezō. It’s dark back there.”
“Thanks. I could use some sleep.”
He followed her down a dark corridor to the back of the house. The room seemed to be an addition to the cabin. It was supported by logs and projected out over the valley, with a drop of about seventy feet from the outer wall to the river. The air was damp from the mist and the spray blowing in from a waterfall. Each time the groaning of the wind rose a trifle, the little room rocked like a boat.
Okō’s white feet retreated across the slatted floor of the outdoor hallway to the hearth room.
“Has he gone to sleep?” asked Tōji.
“I think so,” she replied, kneeling by his side. She whispered in his ear, “What are you going to do?”
“Go call the others.”
“You’re going through with it?”
“Absolutely! It’s not just a matter of money. If I kill the bastard, I’ll have taken revenge for the House of Yoshioka.”
Tucking up the skirt of her kimono, she went outside, Under the starless sky, deep in the mountains, she sped through the black wind like a feline demon, her long hair streaming out behind.
The nooks and crevices on the mountainside were not inhabited solely by birds and beasts. As Okō raced along, she made contact with more than twenty men, all members of Tōji’s band. Trained for night forays, they moved more quietly than floating leaves to a spot just in front of the cabin.
“Only one man?”
“A samurai?”
“Does he have money?”
The whispered exchanges were accompanied by explanatory gestures and eye movements. Carrying muskets and daggers and the type of lances used