Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [420]
“I can have some sake now, can’t I?” Jūrō asked eagerly. Permission having been granted, he hastened to the priest’s house and arranged their lunch on the porch. By the time the others joined him, he was sipping sake with one hand and broiling the fish they had bought with the other. “Who cares if there aren’t any cherry blossoms?” he remarked. “Feels just like a flower-viewing picnic anyway.”
Yajibei handed the priest an offering, delicately wrapped in paper, and told him to use it for the roof repairs. As he did so, he happened to notice a row of wooden plaques on which were written donors’ names, together with the amounts they had contributed. Nearly all were about the same as Yajibei’s, some less, but one stood out conspicuously. “Ten gold coins, Daizō of Narai, Province of Shinano.”
Turning to the priest, Yajibei remarked, somewhat diffidently, “Perhaps it’s crass of me to say so, but ten gold coins is a considerable sum. Is this Daizō of Narai as rich as all that?”
“I really couldn’t say. He appeared out of the blue one day toward the end of last year and said it was a disgrace that the most famous temple in the Kanto district was in such had shape. He told me the money should be added to our fund for buying lumber.”
“Sounds like an admirable sort of man.”
“He also donated three gold coins to Yushima Shrine and no fewer than twenty to Kanda Myōjin Shrine. He wanted the latter to be kept in good condition because it enshrines the spirit of Taira no Masakado. Daizō insists that Masakado was not a rebel. He thinks he should be revered as the pioneer who opened up the eastern part of the country. You’ll find there are some very unusual donors in this world.”
Hardly had he finished speaking when a crowd of children came running helter-skelter toward them.
“What’re you doing here?” shouted the priest sternly. “If you want to play, go down by the river. You mustn’t run wild in the temple grounds.”
But the children swept on like a school of minnows until they reached the veranda.
“Come quick,” cried one. “It’s awful!”
“There’s a samurai down there. He’s fighting.”
“One man against four.”
“Real swords!”
“Praise to Buddha, not again!” lamented the priest as he hurriedly slipped on his sandals. Before running off, he took a moment to explain. “Forgive me. I’ll have to leave you for a while. The riverbank is a favorite place for fights. Every time I turn around, somebody’s down there cutting people to pieces or beating them to a pulp. Then men from the magistrate’s office come to me for a written report. I’ll have to go see what it is this time.”
“A fight?” chorused Yajibei and his men, and off they raced. Osugi followed but was so much slower on her feet that by the time she got there the fight was over. The children and some onlookers from a nearby fishing village all stood around in silence, swallowing hard and looking pale.
At first Osugi thought the silence strange, but then she, too, caught her breath, and her eyes opened wide. Across the ground flitted the shadow of a swallow. Walking toward them was a young, smug-faced samurai clad in a purplish-red warrior’s cloak. Whether or not he noticed the spectators, he paid them no heed.
Osugi’s gaze shifted to four bodies lying in a tangle some twenty paces behind the samurai.
The victor paused. As he did so, a low gasp went up from several lips, for one of the vanquished had moved. Struggling to his feet, he cried, “Wait! You can’t run away.”
The samurai assumed a waiting stance while the wounded man ran forward, gasping, “This … fight’s … not over yet.”
When he leapt weakly to the attack, the samurai retreated a step, allowing the man to stumble forward. Then he struck. The man’s head split in two. “Now is it over?” he shouted viciously.
No one had even seen the Drying Pole drawn.
Having wiped off his blade, he stooped to wash his hands in the river. Though the villagers