Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [45]
As he listened raptly, his eyes closed, Takuan could not help but recall the legend of Prince Hiromasa, who, while strolling on a moonlit night at Suzaku Gate in Kyoto and playing his flute as he walked, heard another flute harmonizing with his. The prince searched out the player and found him in the upper story of the gate. Having exchanged flutes, the two played music together throughout the night. Only later did the prince discover that his companion had been a devil in human form.
“Even a devil,” thought Takuan, “is moved by music. How much more deeply must a human being, subject to the five passions, be affected by the sound of the flute in the hands of this beautiful girl!” He wanted to weep but shed no tears. His face sank deeper between his knees, which he unconsciously hugged more tightly.
As the light from the fire gradually faded, Otsū’s cheeks turned a deeper red. She was so absorbed in her music that it was difficult to distinguish her from the instrument she was playing.
Was she calling to her mother and father? Were these sounds ascending into the sky really asking, “Where are you?” And was there not mingled with this plea the bitter resentment of a maiden who’d been deserted and betrayed by a faithless man?
She seemed intoxicated by the music, overwhelmed by her own emotions. Her breathing began to show signs of fatigue; tiny beads of sweat appeared around the edges of her hair. Tears flowed down her face. Though the melody was broken by stifled sobs, it seemed to go on and on forever.
And then suddenly there was a movement in the grass. It was no more than fifteen or twenty feet from the fire and sounded like a creeping animal. Takuan’s head shot up. Looking straight at the black object, he quietly raised his hand and waved a greeting.
“You over there! It must be chilly in the dew. Come over here by the fire and warm yourself. Come and talk with us, please.”
Startled, Otsū stopped playing and said, “Takuan, are you talking to yourself again?”
“Didn’t you notice?” he asked, pointing. “Takezō has been over there for some time, listening to you play the flute.”
She turned to look, and then, with a shriek, threw her flute at the black form. It was indeed Takezō. He jumped like a startled deer and started to flee.
Takuan, as astonished as Takezō by Otsū’s scream, felt as though the net he was so carefully hauling in had broken and the fish escaped. Jumping to his feet, he called out at the top of his lungs, “Takezō! Stop!”
There was overpowering strength in his voice, a commanding force that could not easily be ignored. The fugitive stopped as though nailed to the ground and looked back, a little stupefied. He stared at Takuan with suspicious eyes.
The monk said no more. Slowly crossing his arms on his chest, he stared back at Takezō as steadily as Takezō was staring at him. The two seemed even to be breathing in unison.
Gradually there appeared at the corners of Takuan’s eyes the wrinkles that mark the beginning of a friendly smile. Unfolding his arms, he beckoned to Takezō and said, “Now, come here.”
At the sound of the words, Takezō blinked; a strange expression came over his dark face.
“Come on over here,” Takuan urged, “and we can all talk to each other.” There followed a puzzled silence.
“There’s lots to eat and we even have some sake. We’re not your enemies, you know. Come over by the fire. Let’s talk.”
More silence.
“Takezō, aren’t you making a big mistake? There’s a world outside where there are fires and food and drink and even human sympathy. You persist in driving yourself about in your own private hell. You’re taking a pretty warped view of the world, you know.
“But I’ll stop trying to argue with you. In your condition, you could hardly have much of an ear for reason. Just come over here by the fire. Otsū, warm up the potato stew you made a while ago. I’m hungry too.”
Otsū put the pot on the fire, and Takuan placed a jar of sake