Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [449]
Tadatoshi put on his glove and accepted an arrow from an attendant. “I’ll take a look at Kakubei’s man,” he said. “I’d also like to see that rōnin you mentioned. Miyamoto Musashi, was it?”
“Oh, you remember?”
“I do. You’re the one who seems to have forgotten.”
“Not at all. But being so busy, I haven’t had a chance to go out to Shimōsa.”
“If you think you’ve found someone, you should take the time. I’m surprised at you, Sado, letting something so important wait until you’ve got other business to take you out there. It’s not like you.”
“I’m sorry. There’re always too many men looking for positions. I thought you’d forgotten about it. I suppose I should have brought it up again.”
“Indeed you should have. I don’t necessarily accept other people’s recommendations, but I’m eager to see anyone old Sado considers suitable. Understand?”
Sado apologized again before taking his leave. He went directly to his own house and without further ado had a fresh horse saddled and set out for Hōtengahara.
“Isn’t this Hōtengahara?”
Satō Genzō, Sado’s attendant, said, “That’s what I thought, but this is no wilderness. There’re rice fields all over. The place they were trying to develop must be nearer the mountains.”
They had already gone a good distance beyond the Tokuganji and would soon be on the highroad to Hitachi. It was late afternoon, and the white herons splashing about in the paddies made the water seem like powder. Along the riverbank and in the shadows of hillocks grew patches of hemp and waving stalks of barley.
“Look over there, sir,” said Genzō.
“What is it?”
“There’s a group of farmers.”
“So there is. They seem to be bowing to the ground, one by one, don’t they?”
“It looks like some sort of religious ceremony.”
With a snap of the reins, Genzō forded the river first, making sure it was safe for Sado to follow.
“You, there!” called Genzō.
The farmers, looking surprised, spread out from their circle to face the visitors. They were standing in front of a small cabin, and Sado could see that the object they’d been bowing before was a tiny wooden shrine, no larger than a birdcage. There were about fifty of them, on their way home from work, it appeared, for their tools had all been washed.
A priest came forward, saying, “Why, it’s Nagaoka Sado, isn’t it? What a pleasant surprise!”
“And you’re from the Tokuganji, aren’t you? I believe you’re the one who guided me to the village after the bandit raid.”
“That’s right. Have you come to pay a call at the temple?”
“No, not this time. I’ll be going back right away. Could you tell me where I might find that rōnin named Miyamoto Musashi?”
“He’s not here anymore. He left very suddenly.”
“Left suddenly? Why should he do that?”
“One day last month, the villagers decided to take a day off and celebrate the progress that’s been made here. You can see for yourself how green it is now. Well, the morning after that, Musashi and the boy, Iori, were gone.” The priest looked around, as though half expecting Musashi to materialize out of the air.
In response to Sado’s prompting, the priest filled in the details of his story. After the village had strengthened its defenses under Musashi’s leadership, the farmers were so thankful for the prospect of living in peace that they practically deified him. Even the ones who had ridiculed him most cruelly had come forward to help with the development project.
Musashi treated them all fairly and equally, first convincing them that it was pointless to live like animals. He then tried to impress upon them the importance of exerting a little extra effort so as to give their children a chance for a better life. To be real human beings, he told them, they must work for the sake of posterity.
With forty or fifty villagers pitching in to help each day, by fall they were able to keep the floodwaters under control. When winter came, they plowed. And in the spring, they drew water from the new irrigation ditches and transplanted the rice seedlings. By early summer the rice was thriving, while in the