Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [491]
“I am Yogorō, the only son of Obata Kagenori. You took advantage of my father when he was sick. And you spread gossip about him all over the city.”
“I wasn’t the one who spread the gossip. It was the gossipers—the people of Edo.”
“Who was it who lured his students into a fight and killed them?”
“I did that, no doubt about it. I, Sasaki Kojirō. How can I help it if I’m better
than they? Stronger. Braver. More knowledgeable in the Art of War.”
“How can you have the gall to say that when you called on Hangawara’s
vermin to help you?”
With a snarl of disgust, Kojirō took a step forward. “If you want to hate me, go ahead! But any man who carries a personal grudge into a test of strength in the Art of War isn’t even a coward. He’s worse than that, more pitiable, more laughable. So once again I have to take the life of an Obata man. Are you resigned to that?”
No answer.
“I said, are you resigned to your fate?” He moved another step forward. As he did so, the light of the moon reflecting off the newly polished blade of his sword blinded Yogorō.
Kojirō stared at his prey as a starving man stares at a feast.
The Eagle
Kakubei regretted having allowed himself to be used shabbily and vowed to have nothing more to do with Kojirō. Yet deep down, he liked the man. What he didn’t like was being caught between his master and his protégé. Then he began to rethink the matter.
“Maybe Kojirō’s reaction proves how exceptional he is. The ordinary samurai would have jumped at the chance to be interviewed.” The more he reflected on Kojirō’s fit of pique, the more the rōnin’s independent spirit appealed to him.
For the next three days Kakubei was on night duty. He did not see Kojirō until the morning of the fourth day, when he walked casually over to the young man’s quarters.
After a short but awkward silence, he said, “I want to talk to you for a minute, Kojirō. Yesterday, when I was leaving, Lord Tadatoshi asked me about you. He said he’d see you. Why don’t you drop in at the archery range and have a look at the Hosokawa technique?”
When Kojirō grinned without replying, Kakubei added, “I don’t know why you insist on thinking it’s demeaning. It’s usual to interview a man before offering him an official position.”
“I know, but supposing he rejects me, then what? I’d be a castoff, wouldn’t I? I’m not so hard up that I have to go around peddling myself to the highest bidder.”
“Then the fault is mine. I put it the wrong way. His lordship never meant to imply any such thing.”
“Well, what answer did you give him?”
“None yet. But he seems a little impatient.”
“Ha, ha. You’ve been very thoughtful, very helpful. I suppose I shouldn’t put you in such a difficult position.”
“Wouldn’t you reconsider—go and call on him, just once?”
“All right, if it means so much to you,” Kojirō said patronizingly, but Kakubei was nonetheless pleased.
“How about today?”
“So soon?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“How about a little after noon? That’s when he practices archery.” “All right, I’ll be there.”
Kojir/div set about making elaborate preparations for the meeting. The kimono he chose was of excellent quality, and the hakama was made of imported fabric. Over the kimono he wore a formal vestlike garment of sheer silk, sleeveless but with stiff flaring shoulders. To complement his finery, he had the servants provide him with new zōri and a new basket hat.
“Is there a horse I can use?” he inquired.
“Yes. The master’s spare horse, the white one, is at the shop at the bottom of the hill.”
Failing to find the florist, Kojirō glanced toward the temple compound across the way, where a group of people was gathering around a corpse covered with reed matting. He went over to have a look.
They were discussing plans for burial with the local priest. The victim had no identifying possessions on him; no one knew who he was, only that he was young and of the samurai class. The blood around the deep gash extending from the tip of one shoulder to his waist was dried and black.
“I’ve seen him before. About four days ago, in