Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [411]
When the man came to a road marker, he set down his bundle, which appeared to be very heavy. As he leaned over to read the writing on the stone, something about him again struck Jōtarō as familiar.
While the man climbed the path up the hill, Jōtarō examined the marker, on which were carved the words “Pine Tree on Head-burying Mound—Above.” This was where the local inhabitants buried the severed skulls of criminals and defeated warriors.
The branches of an immense pine were clearly visible against the night sky. By the time Jōtarō reached the top of the rise, the man had seated himself by the roots of the tree and was smoking a pipe.
Daizō! No question about it now. A peasant would never carry tobacco with him. Some had been successfully grown domestically, but on such a limited scale that it was still very expensive. Even in the relatively well-off Kansai district, it was considered a luxury. And up in Sendai, when Lord Date smoked, his scribe felt constrained to make an entry in his daily journal: “Morning, three smokes; afternoon, four smokes; bedtime, one smoke.”
Financial considerations aside, most people who had a chance to try tobacco found it made them dizzy or even nauseated. Though appreciated for its flavor, it was generally regarded as a narcotic.
Jōtarō knew that smokers were few; he also knew that Daizō was one of them, for he had frequently seen him drawing on a handsomely made ceramic pipe. Not that this had ever before struck him as strange. Daizō was wealthy and a man of expensive tastes.
“What’s he up to?” he thought impatiently. Accustomed now to the danger of the situation, he gradually crept closer.
Having finished his pipe, the merchant got to his feet, removed his black kerchief and tucked it into his waist. Then slowly he walked around the pine. The next thing Jōtarō knew, he was holding a shovel in his hands. Where had that come from? Leaning on the shovel, Daizō looked around at the night scenery for a moment, apparently fixing the location in his mind.
Seemingly satisfied, Daizō rolled aside a large rock on the north side of the tree and began digging energetically, looking neither right nor left. Jōtarō watched the hole grow nearly deep enough for a man to stand in. Finally, Daizō stopped and wiped the sweat from his face with his kerchief. Jōtarō remained as still as a rock and totally baffled.
“This’ll do,” the merchant murmured softly, as he finished trampling down the soft dirt at the bottom of the hole. For an instant, Jōtarō had a peculiar impulse to call out and warn him not to bury himself, but he held back.
Jumping up to the surface, Daizō proceeded to drag the heavy bundle from the tree to the edge of the hole and undo the hempen cord around the top. At first Jōtarō thought the sack was made of cloth, but now he could see that it was a heavy leather cloak, of the sort generals wore over their armor. Inside was another sack, made of tenting or some similar fabric. When this was opened, the top of an incredible stack of gold came into view—semi-cylindrical ingots made by pouring the molten metal into half sections of bamboo, split lengthwise.
There was more to come. Loosening his obi, Daizō unburdened himself of several dozen large, newly minted gold pieces, which had been stuffed into his stomach wrapper, the back of his kimono and other parts of his clothing. Having placed these neatly on top of the ingots, he tied both containers securely and dropped the bundle into the pit, as he might have dumped the carcass of a dog. He then shoveled the dirt back in, stamped on it with his feet, and replaced the rock. He finished off by scattering dry grass and twigs around the rock.
Then he set about transforming himself back into the well-known Daizō of Narai, affluent dealer in herbs. The peasant’s garb, wrapped around the shovel, went into a thicket not likely to be explored by passersby. He donned his traveling cloak and hung his money pouch around his neck in the manner of itinerant priests. As he slipped