Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [434]
“Promise, won’t you? Please,” the boy insisted.
“Sannosuke, do you want to be a groom all your life?”
“Of course not. I want to be a samurai.”
“That’s what I thought. But if you come with me and become my pupil, you’ll be in for a lot of rough times, you know.”
The boy threw down the rope and, before Musashi knew what he was up to, knelt on the ground below the horse’s head. Bowing deeply, he said, “I beg you, sir, make a samurai of me. That’s what my father wanted, but there was no one we could ask for help.”
Musashi dismounted, looked around for a moment, then picked up a stick and handed it to Sannosuke. He found another one for himself and said, “I want you to strike me with that stick. After I’ve seen how you handle it, I can decide whether you have the talent to be a samurai.”
“If I hit you, will you say yes?”
“Try it and see.” Musashi laughed.
Sannosuke took a firm grip on his weapon and rushed forward as if possessed. Musashi showed no mercy. Time and again the boy was struck—on the shoulders, in the face, on the arms. After each setback, he staggered away but always came back to the attack.
“Pretty soon he’ll be in tears,” thought Musashi.
But Sannosuke would not give up. When his stick broke in two, he charged empty-handed.
“What do you think you’re doing, you runt?” Musashi snapped with deliberate meanness. He seized the boy by his obi and threw him flat on the ground.
“You big bastard!” shouted Sannosuke, already on his feet and attacking again.
Musashi caught him by the waist and held him up in the air. “Had enough?”
“No!” he shouted defiantly, though the sun was in his eyes and he was reduced to uselessly waving his arms and legs.
“I’m going to throw you against that rock over there. It’ll kill you. Ready to give up?”
“No!”
“Stubborn, aren’t you? Can’t you see you’re beaten?”
“Not as long as I’m alive I’m not! You’ll see. I’ll win in the end.” “How do you expect to do that?”
“I’ll practice, I’ll discipline myself.”
“But while you’re practicing for ten years, I’ll be doing the same thing.” “Yes, but you’re a lot older than I am. You’ll die first.”
“Hmm.”
“And when they put you in a coffin, I’ll strike the final blow and win!” “Fool!” shouted Musashi, tossing the boy to the ground.
When Sannosuke stood up, Musashi looked at his face for a moment, laughed and clapped his hands together once. “Good. You can be my pupil.”
Like Teacher, Like Pupil
On the short journey back to the shack, Sannosuke rattled on and on about his dreams for the future.
But that night, when Musashi told him he should be ready to bid farewell to the only home he had ever known, he became wistful. They sat up late, and Sannosuke, misty-eyed and speaking in a soft voice, shared his memories of parents and grandparents.
In the morning, while they were preparing to move out, Musashi announced that henceforth he would call Sannosuke Iori. “If you’re going to become a samurai,” he explained, “it’s only proper that you take your grandfather’s name.” The boy was not yet old enough for his coming-of-age ceremony, when he would normally have been given his adult name; Musashi thought taking his grandfather’s name would give him something to live up to.
Later, when the boy seemed to be lingering inside the house, Musashi said quietly but firmly, “Iori, hurry up. There’s nothing in there you need. You don’t want reminders of the past.”
Iori came flying out in a kimono barely covering his thighs, a groom’s straw sandals on his feet and a cloth wrapper containing a box lunch of millet and rice in his hand. He looked like a little frog, but he was ready and eager for a new life.
“Pick a tree away from the house and tie the horse up,” Musashi commanded.
“You may as well mount it now.”
“Do as I say.”
“Yes, sir.”
Musashi noted the politeness; it was a small but