Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [435]
Iori tied up the horse and came back to where Musashi was standing under the eaves of the old shack, gazing at the surrounding plain. “What’s he waiting for?” wondered the boy.
Putting his hand on Iori’s head, Musashi said, “This is where you were born and where you acquired your determination to win.”
Iori nodded.
“Rather than serve a second lord, your grandfather withdrew from the warrior class. Your father, true to your grandfather’s dying wish, contented himself with being a mere farmer. His death left you alone in the world, so the time has come for you to stand on your own feet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must become a great man!”
“I’ll try.” Tears sprang to his eyes.
“For three generations this house sheltered your family from wind and rain. Say your thanks to it, then say good-bye, once and for all, and have no regrets.”
Musashi went inside and set fire to the hovel.
When he came out, Iori was blinking back his tears.
“If we left the house standing,” said Musashi, “it’d only become a hideout for highwaymen or common thieves. I’m burning it to keep men like that from desecrating the memory of your father and grandfather.”
“I’m grateful.”
The shack turned into a small mountain of fire, then collapsed. “Let’s go,” said Iori, no longer concerned with relics of the past. “Not yet.”
“There’s nothing else to do here, is there?”
Musashi laughed. “We’re going to build a new house on that knoll over there.”
“New house? What for? You just burned the old one down.”
“That belonged to your father and grandfather. The one we build will be for us.”
“You mean we’re going to stay here?”
“That’s right.”
“We’re not going away somewhere and train and discipline ourselves?” “We’ll do that here.”
“What can we train ourselves for here?”
“To be swordsmen, to be samurai. We’ll discipline our spirits and work hard to make ourselves into real human beings. Come with me, and bring that ax with you.” He pointed to a clump of grass where he had put the farm tools.
Shouldering the ax, Iori followed Musashi to the knoll, where there were a few chestnut trees, pines and cryptomerias.
Musashi, stripping to the waist, took the ax and went to work. Soon he was sending up a veritable shower of white chips of raw wood.
Iori watched, thinking: “Maybe he’s going to build a dōjō. Or are we going to practice out in the open?”
One tree fell, then another and another. Sweat poured down Musashi’s ruddy cheeks, washing away the lethargy and loneliness of the past few days.
He had conceived of his present plan while standing by the farmer’s fresh grave in the tiny burial ground. “I’ll lay down my sword for a time,” he had decided, “and work with a hoe instead.” Zen, calligraphy, the art of tea, painting pictures and carving statues were all useful in perfecting one’s swordsmanship. Couldn’t tilling a field also contribute to his training? Wasn’t this broad tract of earth, waiting for someone to bring it under cultivation, a perfect training hall? By changing inhospitable flatlands into farmlands, he would also be promoting the welfare of future generations.
He’d lived his whole life like a mendicant Zen priest—on the receiving end, so to speak, depending on other people for food, shelter and donations. He wanted to make a change, a radical one, since he’d long suspected that only those who had actually grown their own grain and vegetables really understood how sacred and valuable they were. Those who hadn’t were like priests who did not practice what they preached or swordsmen who learned combat techniques but knew nothing of the Way.
As a boy, he had been taken by his mother into the fields and had worked alongside the tenants and villagers. His purpose now, however, was more than just to produce food for his daily meals; he sought nourishment for his soul. He wanted to learn what it meant to work for a living, rather than beg for one. He also wanted to implant his own way of thinking among the people