Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [477]
“I couldn’t have been more surprised. I didn’t recognize him until we got him back here, but it’s Hōjō Shinzō, the son of Lord Hōjō of Awa. He’s a very dedicated young man who’s been studying under Obata Kagenori for several years.”
Musashi carefully lifted the edge of the white bandage around Shinzō’s neck and examined the wound, which had been cauterized, then washed with alcohol. The clam-sized piece of flesh had been sliced out cleanly, exposing the pulsating carotid artery. Death had come that close. “Who?” Musashi wondered. From the shape of the wound, it seemed probable the sword had been on the upswing of a swallow-flight stroke.
Swallow-flight stroke? Kojirō’s specialty.
“Do you know what happened?” Musashi asked.
“Not yet.”
“Neither do I, of course, but I can tell you this much.” He nodded his head confidently. “It’s the work of Sasaki Kojirō.”
Back in his own room, Musashi lay down on the tatami with his hands under his head, ignoring the mess around him. His pallet had been spread, but he ignored that too, despite his fatigue.
He had been working on the statue for nearly forty-eight hours straight. Not being a sculptor, he lacked the technical skills necessary to solve difficult problems, nor could he execute the deft strokes that would cover up a mistake. He had nothing to go on but the image of Kannon he carried in his heart, and his sole technique was to clear his mind of extraneous thoughts and do his best to faithfully transfer this image to the wood.
He would think for a time that the sculpture was taking form, but then somehow it would go wrong, some slip would occur between the image in his mind and the hand working with the dagger. Just as he felt he was making progress again, the carving would get out of hand again. After many false starts, the ancient piece of wood had shrunk to a length of no more than four inches.
He heard a nightingale call twice, then dropped off to sleep for perhaps an hour. When he awoke, his strong body was surging with energy, his mind perfectly clear. As he arose, he thought: “I’ll make it this time.” Going to the well behind the house, he washed his face and swilled water through his teeth. Refreshed, he sat down by the lamp again and took up his work with renewed vigor.
The knife had a different feel to it now. In the grain of the wood he sensed the centuries of history contained within the block. He knew that if he did not carve skillfully this time, there would be nothing left but a pile of useless chips. For the next few hours, he concentrated with feverish intensity. Not once did his back unbend, nor did he stop for a drink of water. The sky grew light, the birds began to sing, all the doors in the house save his were thrown open for the morning’s cleaning. Still, his attention remained focused on the tip of his knife.
“Musashi, are you all right?” asked his host in a worried tone, as he slid open the shoji and entered the room.
“It’s no good,” Musashi sighed. He straightened up and tossed his dagger aside. The block of wood was no larger than a man’s thumb. The wood around his legs lay like fallen snow.
“No good?”
“No good.”
“How about the wood?”
“Gone….I couldn’t get the bodhisattva’s form to emerge.” Placing his hands behind his head, he felt himself returning to earth after having been suspended for an indeterminate length of time between delusion and enlightenment. “No good at all. It’s time to forget and to meditate.”
He lay on his back. When he closed his eyes, distractions seemed to fade away, to be replaced by a blinding mist. Gradually, his mind filled with the single idea of the infinite void.
Most of the guests leaving the inn that morning were horse traders, going home after the four-day market that had ended the day before. For the next few weeks, the inn would see few customers.
Catching sight of Iori going up the stairs, the proprietress called out to him from the office.
“What do you want?” asked Iori. From his vantage point, he could