Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [458]
“In that case, why don’t you pick out a replacement? None of the swords I have here now are very good, I’m afraid, but come and take a look.”
He guided Musashi into the back room, where he took several swords out of a cabinet and lined them up on the tatami. “You can take any one of these,” he offered.
Despite the craftsman’s modest disavowal, they were all weapons of excellent quality. Musashi had difficulty choosing from the dazzling display, but finally he selected one and immediately fell in love with it. Just holding it in his hands, he sensed its maker’s dedication. Drawing the blade from the scabbard confirmed his impression; it was indeed a beautiful piece of workmanship, probably dating from the Yoshino period in the fourteenth century. Nagged by the doubt that it was too elegant for him, once he had brought it close to the light and examined it, he found his hands reluctant to let it go.
“May I take this one?” he asked. He could not bring himself to use the word “borrow.”
“You have the eye of an expert,” observed Kōsuke, as he put away the other swords.
For once in his life, Musashi was swamped by covetousness. He knew it was futile to mention buying the sword outright; the price would be far beyond his means. But he couldn’t help himself.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider selling me this sword, would you?” he asked.
“Why not?”
“How much are you asking for it?”
“I’ll let you have it for what I paid for it.”
“How much was that?”
“Twenty pieces of gold.”
An almost inconceivable sum to Musashi. “I’d better give it back,” he said hesitantly.
“Why?” asked Kōsuke with a puzzled look. “I’ll lend it to you for as long as you wish. Go on, take it.”
“No; that’d make me feel even worse. Wanting it the way I do is bad enough. If I wore it for a while, it would be torture to part with it.”
“Are you really so attached to it?” Kōsuke looked at the sword, then at Musashi. “All right then, I’ll give it to you—in wedlock, as it were. But I expect an appropriate gift in exchange.”
Musashi was baffled; he had absolutely nothing to offer.
“I heard from Kōetsu that you carve statues. I’d be honored if you’d make me an image of Kannon. That would be sufficient payment.”
The last Kannon Musashi had carved was the one he’d left in Hōtengahara. “I have nothing on hand,” he said. “But in the next few days, I can carve something for you. May I have the sword then?”
“Certainly. I didn’t mean to imply I expected it this minute. By the way, instead of putting up at that inn, why don’t you come and stay with us? We have a room we’re not using.”
“That would be perfect,” said Musashi. “If I moved in tomorrow, I could start on the statue right away.”
“Come and take a look at it,” urged Kōsuke, who was also happy and excited.
Musashi followed him down the outside passageway, at the end of which was a flight of half a dozen steps. Tucked in between the first and second floors, not quite belonging to either, was an eight-mat room. Through the window Musashi could see the dew-laden leaves of an apricot tree.
Pointing at a roof covered with oyster shells, Kōsuke said, “That’s my workshop there.”
The craftsman’s wife, as if summoned by a secret signal, arrived with sake and some tidbits. When the two men sat down, the distinction between host and guest seemed to evaporate. They relaxed, legs stretched out, and opened their hearts to each other, oblivious of the restraints normally imposed by etiquette. The talk, of course, turned to their favorite subject.
“Everybody pays lip service to the importance of the sword,” said Kōsuke. “Anybody’ll tell you the sword’s the ‘soul of the samurai’ and that a sword is one of the country’s three sacred treasures. But the way people actually treat swords is scandalous. And I include samurai and priests, as well as townsmen. I took it upon myself at one time to go around to shrines and old houses where there were once whole collections of beautiful swords, and I can tell you the situation is shocking.”
Kōsuke’s pale cheeks were ruddy now. His eyes