Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [450]
Villagers began to drop in at the cabin to pay their respects, thanking Musashi from the bottom of their hearts, the women bearing gifts of vegetables. On the day of the celebration, the men arrived with great jars of sake, and all took part in performing a sacred dance, accompanied by drums and flutes.
With the villagers gathered around him, Musashi had assured them that it was not his strength, but theirs. “All I did was show you how to use the energy you possess.”
Then he had taken the priest aside to tell him that he was concerned about their relying on a vagabond like him. “Even without me,” he said, “they should have confidence in themselves and maintain solidarity.” He had then taken out a statue of Kannon he’d carved and given it to the priest.
The morning after the celebration, the village was in an uproar.
“He’s gone!”
“He can’t be.”
“Yes, he’s disappeared. The cabin’s empty.”
Grief-stricken, none of the farmers went near the fields that day.
When he heard about it, the priest reproached them sharply for their ingratitude, urging them to remember what they’d been taught and subtly coaxing them to carry on the work that had been started.
Later, the villagers had built the tiny shrine and placed the treasured image of Kannon in it. They paid their respects to Musashi morning and evening, on their way to and from the fields.
Sado thanked the priest for the information, concealing the fact that he was disconsolate as only a man of his position could do.
As his horse made its way back through the evening mist of late spring, he thought uneasily: “I shouldn’t have put off coming. I was derelict in my duty, and now I’ve failed my lord.”
The Flies
On the east bank of the Sumida River where the road from Shimōsa converged with a branch of the Ōshū highroad rose a great barrier with an imposing gate, ample evidence of the firm rule of Aoyama Tadanari, the new magistrate of Edo.
Musashi stood in line, idly waiting his turn, Iori at his side. When he had passed through Edo three years earlier, entering and leaving the city had been a simple matter. Even at this distance, he could see that there were far more houses than before, fewer open spaces.
“You there, rōnin. You’re next.”
Two officials in leather hakama began frisking Musashi with great thoroughness, while a third glared at him and asked questions.
“What business do you have in the capital?”
“Nothing specific.”
“No special business, eh?”
“Well, I’m a shugyōsha. I suppose it could be said that studying to be a samurai is my business.”
The man was silent. Musashi grinned.
“Where were you born?”
“In the village of Miyamoto, district of Yoshino, Mimasaka Province.” “Your master?”
“I have none.”
“Who furnishes your travel money?”
“No one. I carve statues and draw pictures. Sometimes I can exchange them for food and lodging. Often I stay at temples. Occasionally I give lessons in the sword. One way or another, I manage.”
“Where are you coming from?”
“For the past two years, I’ve been farming in Hōtengahara in Shimōsa. I decided I didn’t want to do that for the rest of my life, so I’ve come here.”
“Do you have a place to stay in Edo? No one can enter the city unless he has relatives or a place to live.”
“Yes,” replied Musashi on the spur of the moment. He saw that if he tried to stick to the truth, there was going to be no end to it.
“Well?”
“Yagyū Munenori, Lord of Tajima.”
The official’s mouth dropped open.
Musashi, amused at the man’s reaction, congratulated himself. The risk of being caught in a lie did not trouble him greatly. He felt that the Yagyūs must have heard about him from Takuan. It seemed unlikely they would deny all acquaintance with him if questioned. It might even be that Takuan was in Edo now. If so, Musashi had his means of introduction. It was too late to have a bout with Sekishūsai, but he longed to have one with Munenori, his father’s successor in the Yagy