Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [480]
This assessment brought a burst of angry fire to Yogorō’s eyes. Observing this, Musashi felt it prudent to repeat his warning. “Let the proud have their day,” he added. “It’s senseless to risk disaster over a trivial grievance. Don’t entertain the idea that Shinzō’s defeat makes it necessary for you to settle the score. If you do, you’ll simply follow in his footsteps. That would be foolish, very foolish.”
After Musashi was out of sight, Yogorō leaned against the wall with his arms folded. Softly, in a faintly tremulous voice, he muttered, “To think it’s come to this. Even Shinzō has failed!” Gazing vacantly at the ceiling, he thought of the letter Shinzō had left for him, in which he’d said that his purpose in leaving was to kill Kojirō and that if he did not succeed, Yogorō would probably never see him alive again.
That Shinzō was not dead did not make his defeat any less humiliating. With the school forced to suspend operations, the public in general had concluded that Kojirō was right: the Obata Academy was a school for cowards, or at best for theoreticians devoid of practical ability. This had led to the desertion of some of the students. Others, apprehensive over Kagenori’s illness or the apparent decline of the Kōshū Style, had switched to the rival Naganuma Style. Only two or three were still in residence.
Yogorō decided not to tell his father about Shinzō. It seemed that the only course open to him was to nurse the old man as best he could, although the doctor’s opinion was that recovery was out of the question.
“Yogorō, where are you?”
It was a source of constant amazement to Yogorō that although Kagenori was at death’s door, when an impulse moved him to summon his son, his voice became that of a perfectly healthy man.
“Coming.” He ran to the sickroom, fell to his knees and said, “You called?”
As he often did when he was tired of lying flat on his back, Kagenori had propped himself up by the window, using his pillow as an armrest. “Who was the samurai who just went out the gate?” he asked.
“Huh,” said Yogorō, somewhat flustered. “Oh, him. Nobody in particular. He was just a messenger.”
“Messenger from where?”
“Well, it seems Shinzō has had an accident. The samurai came to tell us. He gave his name as Miyamoto Musashi.”
“Mm. He wasn’t born in Edo, was he?”
“No. I’ve heard he’s from Mimasaka. He’s a rōnin. Did you think you recognized him?”
“No,” Kagenori replied with a vigorous shake of his thin gray beard. “I don’t recall ever having seen or heard of him. But there’s something about him…. I’ve met a lot of people during my lifetime, you know, on the battlefield as well as in ordinary life. Some were very good people, people I valued greatly. But the ones I could consider to be genuine samurai, in every sense of the term, were very few. This man—Musashi, did you say?—appealed to me. I’d like to meet him, talk to him a little. Go bring him back.”
“Yes, sir,” Yogorō answered obediently, but before getting to his feet, he continued in a slightly puzzled tone: “What was it you noticed about him? You only saw him from a distance.”
“You wouldn’t understand. When you do, you’ll be old and withered like me.
“But there must have been something.”
“I admired his alertness. He wasn’t taking any chances, even on a sick old man like me. When he came through the gate, he paused and looked around—at the layout of the house, at the windows, whether they were open or closed, at the path to the garden—everything. He took it all in at a single glance. There was nothing unnatural about it. Anyone would have assumed he was simply halting for a moment as a sign of deference. I was amazed.”
“Then you believe he’s a samurai of real merit?”
“Perhaps. I’m sure he’d be a fascinating man to talk to. Call him back.”
“Aren’t you afraid it’ll be bad for you?” Kagenori had become quite excited, and Yogorō was reminded of the doctor’s warning that his father shouldn