Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [415]
“It’s too much. You must know that yourself.”
“Not at all. It costs a lot of money to fill in land. And don’t forget, there’s no more available around here.”
“Oh, there must be. They’re filling in everywhere.”
“Already sold. People are snatching it up as it is, swamp and all. You won’t find three hundred square feet for sale. Of course, if you’re willing to go way over toward the Sumida River, you might be able to get something cheaper.”
“Do you guarantee there’s two thirds of an acre?”
“You don’t have to take my word for it. Get a rope and measure it off yourself.”
Osugi was astounded; the figure quoted for a hundred square feet would have been sufficient for tens of acres of good rice land. But essentially the same conversation was taking place all over the city, for many a merchant speculated in land. Osugi was also mystified. “Why would anybody want land here? It’s no good for rice, and you can’t call this place a city.”
By and by the deal across the street was sealed with a ritual hand clapping intended to bring good luck to all concerned.
As she idly watched the departing shadows, Osugi became conscious of a hand on the back of her obi. “Thief!” she shrieked as she made a grab for the pickpocket’s wrist. But her coin purse had already been removed, and the thief was already in the street.
“Thief!” Osugi screamed again. Flying after the man, she managed to throw her arms around his waist. “Help! Thief!”
The pickpocket struggled, striking her several times in the face without being able to break her grip. “Let go of me, you cow!” he shouted, kicking her in the ribs. With a loud grunt, Osugi fell down, but she had her short sword out and slashed at the man’s ankle.
“Ow!” Blood pouring from the wound, he limped a few steps, then flopped down on the ground.
Startled by the commotion, the land dealers turned around, and one of them exclaimed, “Hey, isn’t that that good-for-nothing from Kōshū?” The speaker was Hangawara Yajibei, master of a large gang of construction workers.
“Looks like him,” agreed one of his henchmen. “What’s that in his hand? Looks like a purse.”
“It does, doesn’t it? And somebody just yelled thief. Look! There’s an old woman sprawled out on the ground. Go see what’s the matter with her. I’ll take care of him.”
The pickpocket was on his feet and running again, but Yajibei caught up with him and slapped him to the ground as he might have swatted a grasshopper.
Returning to his boss, the henchman reported, “Just as we thought. He stole the old lady’s purse.”
“I have it here. How is she?”
“Not hurt bad. She fainted, but came to screaming bloody murder.” “She’s still sitting there. Can’t she stand up?”
“I guess not. He kicked her in the ribs.”
“You son of a bitch!” Still glaring at the pickpocket, Yajibei issued a command to his underling. “Ushi, put up a stake.”
The words set the thief to trembling as though the point of a knife were being pressed against his throat. “Not that,” he pleaded, groveling in the dirt at Yajibei’s feet. “Let me off just this once. I promise I won’t do it again.”
Yajibei shook his head. “No. You’ll get what you deserve.”
Ushi, who had been named after the zodiac sign under which he was born, a not uncommon practice among farmers, returned with two workmen from the nearby bridge site.
“Over there,” he said, pointing toward the middle of a vacant lot.
After the workmen had driven a heavy post into the ground, one of them asked, “This good enough?”
“That’s fine,” said Yajibei. “Now tie him to it, and nail a board above his head.”
When this had been done, Yajibei borrowed a carpenter’s ink pot and brush and wrote on the board: “This man is a thief. Until recently, he worked for me, but he has committed a crime for which he must be punished. He is to be tied here, exposed to rain and sun, for seven days and seven nights. By order of Yajibei of Bakurōchō.”
“Thanks,” he said, returning the ink pot. “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, give him a bite to eat every once in a while. Just enough