Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [459]
“Almost none of the famous swords from the past are being properly taken care of. At Suwa Shrine in Shinano Province there are more than three hundred swords. They could be classed as heirlooms, but I found only five that weren’t rusted. Ōmishima Shrine in Iyo is famous for its collection—three thousand swords dating back many centuries. But after spending a whole month there, I found only ten that were in good condition. It’s disgusting!” Kōsuke caught his breath and continued. “The problem seems to be that the older and more famous the sword is, the more the owner is inclined to make sure it’s stored in a safe place. But then nobody can get at it to take care of it, and the blade gets rustier and rustier.
“The owners are like parents who protect their children so jealously that the children grow up to be fools. In the case of children, more are being born all the time—doesn’t make any difference if a few are stupid. But swords …”
Pausing to suck in the spit, he raised his thin shoulders even higher and with a gleam in his eyes declared, “We already have all the good swords there’ll ever be. During the civil wars, the swordsmiths got careless—no, downright sloppy! They forgot their techniques, and swords have been deteriorating ever since.
“The only thing to do is to take better care of the swords from the earlier periods. The craftsmen today may try to imitate the older swords, but they’ll never turn out anything as good. Doesn’t it make you angry to think about it?”
Abruptly he stood up and said, “Just look at this.” Bringing out a sword of awesome length, he laid it down for his guest to inspect. “It’s a splendid weapon, but it’s covered with the worst kind of rust.”
Musashi’s heart skipped a beat. The sword was without doubt Sasaki Kojirō’s Drying Pole. A flood of memories came rushing back.
Controlling his emotions, he said calmly, “That’s really a long one, isn’t it? Must take quite a samurai to handle it.”
“I imagine so,” agreed Kōsuke. “There aren’t many like it.” Taking the blade out, he turned the back toward Musashi and handed it to him by the hilt. “See,” he said. “It’s rusted badly—here and here and here. But he’s used it anyway.”
“I see.”
“This is a rare piece of workmanship, probably forged in the Kamakura period. It’ll take a lot of work, but I can probably fix it up. On these ancient swords, the rust is only a relatively thin film. If this were a new blade, I’d never be able to get the stains off. On new swords, rust spots are like malignant sores; they eat right into the heart of the metal.”
Reversing the sword’s position so that the back of the blade was toward Kōsuke, Musashi said, “Tell me, did the owner of this sword bring it in himself?”
“No. I was at Lord Hosokawa’s on business, and one of the older retainers, Iwama Kakubei, asked me to drop in at his house on the way back. I did, and he gave it to me to work on. Said it belonged to a guest of his.”
“The fittings are good too,” remarked Musashi, his eyes still focused on the weapon.
“It’s a battle sword. The man’s been carrying it on his back up till now, but he wants to carry it at his side, so I’ve been asked to refit the scabbard. He must be a very large man. Either that or he has a very practiced arm.”
Kōsuke had begun to feel his sake. His tongue was becoming a little thick. Musashi concluded it was time to take his leave, which he did with a minimum of ceremony.
It was much later than he thought. There were no lights in the neighborhood.
Once inside the inn, he groped through the darkness to the stairway and up to the second floor. Two pallets had been spread, but both were empty. Iori’s absence made him uncomfortable, for he suspected the boy was wandering about lost on the streets of this great unfamiliar city.
Going back downstairs, he shook the night watchman awake. “Isn’t he back yet?” asked the man, who seemed more surprised than Musashi. “I thought he was with you.”
Knowing