Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [438]
Again, Iori’s weather sense was accurate. The sudden downpour, driven by a raging, gusty wind, that sent Musashi scurrying for shelter developed its own distinctive rhythms. The rain fell in unbelievable quantity for a time, stopped suddenly, then recommenced with even greater fury. Night came, but the storm continued unabated. It began to seem as though the heavens were set on making the entire earth into an ocean. Several times Musashi feared that the wind would rip off the roof; the floor was already littered with shingles torn off its underside.
Morning came, gray and formless and with no sign of Iori. Musashi stood by the window, and his heart sank: he could do nothing. Here and there a tree or a clump of grass was visible; all else was a vast muddy swamp. Luckily, the cabin was still above water level, but in what had been a dry riverbed immediately below it, there was now a rushing torrent, carrying along everything in its path.
Not knowing for sure that Iori hadn’t fallen into the water and drowned, Musashi felt time drag on, until finally he thought he heard Iori’s voice calling, “Sensei! Here!” He was some distance beyond the river, riding a bullock, with a great bundle tied behind him.
Musashi watched in consternation as Iori rode straight into the muddy flow, which seemed about to suck him under at every step.
When he gained the other bank, he was quaking from the cold and wet, but he calmly guided the bullock to the side of the cabin.
“Where have you been?” demanded Musashi, his voice both angry and relieved.
“To the village, of course. I brought back lots of food. It’ll rain half a year’s worth before this storm’s over, and when it is, we’ll be trapped by the floodwaters.”
After they had taken the straw bundle inside, Iori untied it and removed the items one by one from the inner wrapping of oiled paper. “Here are some chestnuts … lentil beans … salted fish…. We shouldn’t run out of food even if it takes a month or two for the water to go down.”
Musashi’s eyes misted over with gratitude, but he said nothing. He was too abashed at his own lack of common sense. How could he guide humanity if he was careless about his own survival? Were it not for Iori, he would now be facing starvation. And the boy, having been raised in a remote rural area, must have known about laying in supplies since he was two years old.
It struck Musashi as odd that the villagers had agreed to furnish all this food. They couldn’t have had very much for themselves. When he recovered his voice and raised the question, Iori replied, “I left my money pouch in hock and borrowed from the Tokuganji.”
“And what’s the Tokuganji?”
“It’s the temple about two miles from here. My father told me there was some powdered gold in the pouch. He said if I got into difficulty, I should use it a little at a time. Yesterday, when the weather turned bad, I remembered what he said.” Iori wore a smile of triumph.
“Isn’t the pouch a keepsake from your father?”
“Yes. Now that we’ve burned the old house down, that and the sword are the only things left.” He rubbed the hilt of the short weapon in his obi. Though the tang bore no craftsman’s signature, Musashi had noted when he’d examined the blade earlier that it was of excellent quality. He also had the feeling that the inherited pouch had some significance beyond that of the powdered gold it contained.
“You shouldn’t hand keepsakes over to other people. One of these days, I’ll get it back for you, but after that you must promise not to let go of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you spend the night?”
“The priest told me I’d better wait there till morning.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No. You haven’t either, have you?”
“No, but there’s no firewood, is there?”
“Oh, there’s plenty.” He pointed downward, indicating the space under the cabin, where he’d stored a good supply of sticks and roots and bamboo picked up while he worked in the fields.
Holding a piece of straw matting over his head, Musashi crawled under the cabin and again marveled at the boy’s good sense. In an environment