Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [476]
Shinzō was still standing, his legs spread apart. There was no sign of blood yet, but it was plain that he’d been wounded. Though his sword was still stretched out at eye level, his left hand had gone reflexively to his neck.
“Oh!” Gasps went up on both sides of Shinzō at the same time—from Kojirō and from a man running up behind Shinzō. The sound of footsteps, together with the voice, sent Kojirō off into the darkness.
“What happened?” cried Kōsuke. He reached out to support Shinzō, only to have the full weight of the other man’s body fall into his arms. “Oh, this looks bad!” cried Kōsuke. “Help! Help, somebody!”
A piece of flesh no larger than a clamshell fell from Shinzō’s neck. The blood gushing out soaked first Shinzō’s arm, then the skirts of his kimono all the way to his feet.
A Block of Wood
Plunk. Another green plum fell from the tree in the dark garden outside. Musashi ignored it, if he heard it at all. In the bright but unsteady lamplight, his disheveled hair appeared heavy and bristly, lacking in natural oil and reddish in color.
“What a difficult child!” his mother had often complained. The stubborn disposition that had so often reduced her to tears was still with him, as enduring as the scar on his head left by a large carbuncle during childhood.
Memories of his mother now floated through his mind; at times the face he was carving closely resembled hers.
A few minutes earlier Kōsuke had come to the door, hesitated and called in: “Are you still working? A man named Sasaki Kojirō says he’d like to see you. He’s waiting downstairs. Do you want to speak to him, or shall I tell him you’ve already gone to bed?”
Musashi had the vague impression Kōsuke had repeated his message but wasn’t sure whether he himself had answered.
The small table, Musashi’s knees and the floor immediately around him were littered with wood chips. He was trying to finish the image of Kannon he had promised Kōsuke in exchange for the sword. His task had been made even more challenging because of a special request by Kōsuke, a man of pronounced likes and dislikes.
When Kōsuke had first taken the ten-inch block out of a cupboard and very gently handed it to him, Musashi saw that it must have been six or seven hundred years old. Kōsuke treated it like an heirloom, for it had come from an eighth-century temple at the tomb of Prince Shōtoku in Shinaga. “I was on a trip there,” he explained, “and they were repairing the old buildings. Some stupid priests and carpenters were axing up the old beams for firewood. I couldn’t stand seeing the wood wasted that way, so I got them to cut off this block for me.”
The grain was good, as was the feel of the wood to the knife, but thinking of how highly Kōsuke valued his treasure made Musashi nervous. If he made a slip, he would ruin an irreplaceable piece of material.
He heard a bang, which sounded like the wind blowing open the gate in the garden hedge. Looking up from his work, for almost the first time since he had begun carving, he thought: “Could that be Iori?” and cocked his head, waiting for confirmation.
“What’re you standing there gaping for?” Kōsuke shouted at his wife. “Can’t you see the man’s badly wounded? It doesn’t make any difference which room!”
Behind Kōsuke, the men carrying Shinzō excitedly offered to help.
“Any spirits to wash the wound with? If there aren’t, I’ll go home for some.”
“I’ll fetch the doctor.”
After the commotion died down a bit, Kōsuke said, “I want to thank all of you. I think we saved his life; no more need to worry.” He bowed deeply to each man as he left the house.
Finally it penetrated Musashi’s consciousness that something had happened and Kōsuke was involved. Brushing the chips from his knees, he descended the staircase formed by the tops of tiered storage chests and went to the room where Kōsuke and his wife stood staring down at the wounded man.
“Oh, are you still awake?” asked the sword polisher, moving over to make a place for Musashi.
Sitting down near