Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [426]
“Ono Jirōemon! Who gives a fart about him? The Yagyūs don’t impress me much either. You watch me. One of these days …”
They had reached the stretch of road along which the new moat was being dug, and soft dirt was piled halfway up the willow trees.
“Watch out, sir; it’s very slippery,” said Jūrō as he and Koroku tried to help their teacher down from the pile of dirt.
“Hold it!” Kojirō shouted, abruptly shoving the two men away. He slid rapidly down the dirt pile. “Who’s there?”
The man who had just lunged at Kojirō’s back lost his balance and tumbled headfirst into the moat.
“Have you forgotten, Sasaki?”
“You killed four of our comrades!”
Kojirō jumped to the top of the dirt pile, from where he could see that there were at least ten men among the trees, partly hidden by rushes. Swords pointed at him, they slowly began closing in.
“So you’re from the Obata School, are you?” he said in a contemptuous tone. The sudden action had sobered him completely. “Last time, you lost four men out of five. How many of you came tonight? How many want to die? Just give me the number, and I’ll oblige. Cowards! Attack if you dare!” His hand went deftly over his shoulder to the hilt of the Drying Pole.
Obata Nichijō, before taking the tonsure, had been one of the most celebrated warriors in Kai, a province famous for its heroic samurai. After the defeat of the House of Takeda by Tokugawa Ieyasu, the Obata family had lived in obscurity until Kagenori distinguished himself at the Battle of Sekigahara. He had subsequently been summoned into service by Ieyasu himself and had gained fame as a teacher of military science. He had, however, refused the shogunate’s offer of a choice plot of land in central Edo with the plea that a country warrior like himself would feel out of place there. He preferred a wooded lot adjoining Hirakawa Tenjin Shrine, where he had established his school in an ancient thatched farmhouse to which had been added a new lecture hall and a rather imposing entrance.
Now advanced in years and suffering from a neural disorder, Kagenori had been confined to his sickroom in recent months, appearing only rarely in the lecture hall. The woods were full of owls, and he had taken to signing his name as “Old Man Owl.” Sometimes he’d smile weakly and say, “I’m an owl, like the others.”
Not infrequently, the pain from the waist up was agonizing. Tonight had been one of those times.
“Feel a little better? Would you like some water?” The speaker was Hōjō Shinzō, son of Hōjō Ujikatsu, the celebrated military strategist.
“I’m much more comfortable now,” said Kagenori. “Why don’t you go to bed? It’ll soon be light.” The invalid’s hair was white, his frame as skinny and angular as an aged plum tree.
“Don’t worry about me. I get plenty of sleep during the day.”
“You can’t have much time left for sleeping when you spend your days taking over my lectures. You’re the only one who can do that.”
“Sleeping too much isn’t good discipline.”
Noticing that the lamp was about to go out, Shinzō stopped rubbing the old man’s back and went to fetch some oil. When he returned, Kagenori, still lying on his stomach, had raised his bony face from the pillow. The light was reflected eerily in his eyes.
“What is it, sir?”
“Don’t you hear it? It sounds like splashing water.”
“It seems to be coming from the well.”
“Who would it be at this hour? Do you suppose some of the men have been out drinking again?”
“That’s probably it, but I’ll take a look anyhow.”
“Give them a good scolding while you’re at it.”
“Yes, sir. You’d better go to sleep. You must be tired.”
When Kagenori’s pain had subsided and he had dropped off to sleep, Shinzō carefully tucked the covers up around his shoulders and went to the back door. Two students were leaning over the well bucket, washing blood off their faces and hands.
He ran toward them with a scowl on his face. “You went, didn’t you?” he said curtly. “After I pleaded with you not to!” The exasperation in his voice faded when he saw a third man lying in the shadow of the well.