Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [451]
The name acted like magic. “Well, well,” said the official amiably. “If you’re connected with the House of Yagyū, I’m sorry to have troubled you. As you must realize, there are all sorts of samurai on the road. We have to be particularly careful about anyone who appears to be a rōnin. Orders, you know.” After a few more questions for the sake of form or face, he said, “You can go now,” and personally escorted Musashi to the gate.
“Sir,” Iori asked when they were on the other side, “why are they so careful about rōnin and nobody else?”
“They’re on the lookout for enemy spies.”
“What spy would be stupid enough to come here looking like a rōnin? The officials are pretty dumb—them and their stupid questions! They made us miss the ferry!”
“Shh. They’ll hear you. Don’t worry about the ferry. You can look at Mount Fuji while we’re waiting for the next one. Did you know you could see it from here?”
“So what? We could see it from Hōtengahara too.”
“Yes, but it’s different here.”
“How?”
“Fuji’s never the same. It varies from day to day, hour to hour.” “Looks the same to me.”
“It’s not, though. It changes—time, weather, season, the place you’re looking at it from. It differs, too, according to the person who’s looking at it, according to his heart.”
Unimpressed, Iori picked up a flat stone and sent it skimming across the
water. After amusing himself in this fashion for a few minutes, he came back
to Musashi and asked, “Are we really going to Lord Yagyū’s house?” “I’ll have to think about that.”
“Isn’t that what you told the guard?”
“Yes. I intend to go, but it’s not all that simple. He’s a daimyō, you know.” “He must be awfully important. That’s what I want to be when I grow up.” “Important?”
“Umm.”
“You shouldn’t aim so low.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at Mount Fuji.”
“I’ll never be like Mount Fuji.”
“Instead of wanting to be like this or that, make yourself into a silent, immovable giant. That’s what the mountain is. Don’t waste your time trying to impress people. If you become the sort of man people can respect, they’ll respect you, without your doing anything.”
Musashi’s words didn’t have time to sink in, for just then Iori shouted, “Look, here comes the ferry,” and ran ahead to be the first one on board.
The Sumida River was a study in contrasts, wide in places, narrow in others, shallow here and deep there. At high tide, the waves washing the banks took on a muddy hue. Sometimes the estuary swelled to twice its normal width. At the point where the ferry crossed, it was virtually an inlet of the bay.
The sky was clear, the water transparent. Looking over the side, Iori could see schools of countless tiny fish racing about. Among the rocks he also spotted the rusty remains of an old helmet. He had no ears for the conversation going on around him.
“What do you think? Is it going to stay peaceful, the way it is now?” “I doubt it.”
“You’re probably right. Sooner or later, there’ll be fighting. I hope not, but what else can you expect?”
Other passengers kept their thoughts to themselves and stared dourly at the water, afraid an official, possibly in disguise, might overhear and connect them with the speakers. Those who did take the risk seemed to enjoy flirting with the ubiquitous eyes and ears of the law.
“You can tell from the way they’re checking everybody that we’re heading for war. It’s only very recently they’ve been clamping down like that. And there’re a lot of rumors about spies from Osaka.”
“You also hear about burglars breaking into daimyō’s houses, though they try to hush it up. It must be embarrassing being robbed when you’re supposed to be the enforcers of law and order.”
“You’d have to be after more than money to take that kind of risk. It’s got to be spies. No ordinary crook would have the nerve.”
As he looked around, it occurred to Musashi that the ferry was transporting a fair cross section of Edo society. A lumberman with sawdust clinging to his work clothes, a couple of cheap geisha who might have come from Kyoto,