Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [413]
For the first time in his life, Jōtarō began to feel real fear. “I’m sorry,” he repeated fervently. “Don’t kill me. I don’t want to die!” Like a captured skylark, he wriggled timidly in Daizō’s arms, afraid that if he really struggled, the hand of death would descend on him forthwith.
Although the boy felt his grip to be viselike, Daizō was not holding him tightly at all. In fact, when he pulled the boy onto his lap, his touch was almost tender. “Then you’ll be my son, won’t you?” His stubbly chin scratched Jōtarō’s cheek.
Though he couldn’t have identified it, what fettered Jōtarō was an adult, masculine scent. He was like an infant on Daizō’s knee, unable to resist, unable even to speak.
“It’s for you to decide. Will you let me adopt you, or will you die? Answer me, now!”
With a wail, the boy burst into tears. He rubbed his face with dirty fingers until muddy little puddles formed on both sides of his nose.
“Why cry? You’re lucky to have such an opportunity. I guarantee you’ll be a great samurai when I finish with you.”
“But …”
“What is it?”
“You’re … you’re …”
“Yes?”
“I can’t say it.”
“Out with it. Speak. A man should state his thoughts simply and clearly.”
“You’re … well, your business is stealing.” Had it not been for the hands resting lightly on him, Jōtarō would have been off like a gazelle. But Daizō’s lap was a deep pit, the walls of which prevented him from moving.
“Ha, ha,” chortled Daizō, giving him a playful slap on the back. “Is that all that’s bothering you?”
“Y-y-yes.”
The big man’s shoulders shook with laughter. “I might be the sort of person who’d steal the whole country, but a common burglar or highwayman I am not. Look at Ieyasu or Hideyoshi or Nobunaga—they’re all warriors who stole or tried to steal the whole nation, aren’t they? Just stick with me, and one of these days you’ll understand.”
“Then you’re not a thief?”
“I wouldn’t bother with a business that’s so unprofitable.” Lifting the boy off his knee, he said, “Now stop blubbering, and let’s be on our way. From this moment on, you’re my son. I’ll be a good father to you. Your end of the bargain is that you never breathe a word to anyone about what you think you saw last night. If you do, I’ll wring your neck.”
Jōtarō believed him.
The Pioneers
On the day near the end of the fifth month when Osugi arrived in Edo, the air was steamingly sultry, the way it was only when the rainy season failed to bring rain. In the nearly two months since she had left Kyoto, she had traveled at a leisurely pace, taking time to pamper her aches and pains or to visit shrines and temples.
Her first impression of the shōgun’s capital was distasteful. “Why build houses in a swamp like this?” she remarked disdainfully. “The weeds and rushes haven’t even been cleared away yet.”
Because of the unseasonable drought, a pall of dust hung over the Takanawa highroad, with its newly planted trees and recently erected milestones. The stretch from Shioiri to Nihombashi was crowded with oxcarts loaded with rocks or lumber. All along the way, new houses were going up at a furious clip.
“Of all the—!” gasped Osugi, looking up angrily at a half-finished house. A gob of wet clay from a plasterer’s trowel had accidentally landed on her kimono.
The workmen exploded with laughter.
“How dare you throw mud on people and then stand there laughing? You should be on your knees, apologizing!”
Back in Miyamoto, a few sharp words from her would have had her tenants or any of the other villagers cowering. These laborers, among the thousands of newcomers from all over the country, barely looked up from their work.
“What’s the old hag babbling about?” a worker asked.
Osugi, incensed, shouted, “Who said that? Why, you …”
The more she sputtered, the harder they laughed. Spectators began to gather, asking each other why the old woman wasn’t acting her age and taking the matter in stride.
Storming into the house, Osugi seized the end of the plank the plasterers were standing on and yanked it off its supports. Men and buckets full of wet clay