Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [453]
Among the rabble was a well-groomed samurai, searching for good horses. With a disgruntled look, he said, “Let’s go home. There’s nothing here but nags, nothing worth recommending to his lordship.”
Striding briskly between the animals, he came face to face with Musashi, blinked, and stepped back in surprise. “You’re Miyamoto Musashi, aren’t you?”
Musashi looked at the man for an instant, then broke into a grin. It was Kimura Sukekurō. Although the two men had come within inches of locking swords at Koyagyū Castle, Sukekurō’s manner was cordial. He seemed to bear no lingering rancor from that encounter.
“I certainly didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. “Have you been in Edo long?”
“I’ve just come from Shimōsa,” replied Musashi. “How’s your master? Is he still in good health?”
“Yes, thank you, but of course at Sekishūsai’s age … I’m staying with Lord Munenori. You must come to visit; I’d be glad to introduce you. Oh, there’s something else, too.” He flashed a meaningful look and smiled. “We have a beautiful treasure that belongs to you. You must come as soon as you can.”
Before Musashi could inquire what the “beautiful treasure” might be, Sukekurō made a slight bow and walked rapidly away, his attendant trailing along behind.
The guests staying at the inexpensive inns of Bakurōchō were mostly horse traders in from the provinces. Musashi decided to take a room there rather than in another part of town, where the rates would most likely be higher. Like the other inns, the one he chose had a large stable, so large in fact that the rooms themselves seemed rather like an annex. But after the rigors of Hōtengahara, even this third-rate hostelry seemed luxurious.
Despite his feeling of wellbeing, Musashi found the horseflies annoying and began grumbling.
The proprietress heard him. “I’ll change your room,” she offered solicitously. “The flies aren’t so bad on the second floor.”
Once resettled, Musashi found himself exposed to the full strength of the western sun and felt like grumbling again. Only a few days ago, the afternoon sun would have been a source of cheer, a bright ray of hope shedding nourishing warmth on the rice plants and portending good weather for the morrow. As for the flies, when his sweat had attracted them while he worked in the fields, he had taken the view that they were only going about their chores, just as he was going about his. He had even regarded them as fellow creatures. Now, having crossed one wide river and entered the maze of the city, he found the heat of the sun anything but comforting, the flies only an irritation.
His appetite took his mind off the inconveniences. He glanced at Iori and saw symptoms of lassitude and gluttony in his face too. Small wonder, for a party in the next room had ordered a great pot of steaming food and was now attacking it ravenously, amid much talk, laughter and drinking.
Buckwheat noodles—soba—that’s what he wanted! In the country, if a man wanted soba, he planted buckwheat in the early spring, watched it flower in the summer, dried the grain in the fall, ground the flour in the winter. Then he could make soba. Here it required no more effort than clapping one’s hands for service.
“Iori, shall we order some soba?”
“Yes,” came the eager reply.
The proprietress came and took their order. While they waited, Musashi propped his elbows on the windowsill and shaded his eyes. Diagonally across the way was a signboard reading: “Souls polished here. Zushino Kōsuke, Master in the Hon’ami Style.”
Iori had noticed it too. After staring for a moment in bewilderment, he said, “That sign says ‘Souls polished.’ What sort of business is that?”
“Well, it also says the man works in the Hon’ami Style, so I suppose he’s a sword polisher. Come to think of it, I ought to have