Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [492]
When he looked to see who it was, Kojirō said, “I’m told Kakubei’s horse is kept at your place. Get him ready for me, please.”
Bowing hastily, the florist asked perfunctorily, “Are you going out?” and hurried off.
He patted the dappled-gray steed on the neck as he led it out of his stable. “Quite a good horse,” Kojirō remarked.
“Yes, indeed. A fine animal.”
Once Kojirō was in the saddle, the florist beamed and said, “It’s a good match.”
Taking some money from his purse, Kojirō threw it to the man. “Use this for flowers and incense.”
“Huh? Who for?”
“The dead man over there.”
Beyond the temple gate, Kojirō cleared his throat and spat, as if to eject the bitter taste left by the sight of the corpse. But he was pursued by the feeling that the youth he had cut down with the Drying Pole had thrown aside the reed matting and was following him. “I did nothing he could hate me for,” he told himself, and felt better for the thought.
As horse and rider moved along the Takanawa highroad under the boiling sun, townsmen and samurai alike stood aside to make way. Heads turned in admiration. Even on the streets of Edo, Kojirō cut an impressive figure, causing people to wonder who he was and where he came from.
At the Hosokawa residence, he turned the horse over to a servant and entered the house. Kakubei rushed to meet him. “My thanks for coming. It’s just the right time too,” he said, as though Kojirō were doing him a great personal favor. “Rest awhile. I’ll tell his lordship you’re here.” Before doing so, he made sure the guest was provided with cool water, barley tea and a tobacco tray.
When a retainer came to show him to the archery range, Kojirō handed over his beloved Drying Pole and followed along wearing only his short sword.
Lord Tadatoshi had resolved to shoot a hundred arrows a day during the
summer months. A number of close retainers were always there, watching
each shot with bated breath and making themselves useful retrieving arrows. “Give me a towel,” his lordship commanded, standing his bow beside him. Kneeling, Kakubei asked, “May I trouble you, sir?”
“What is it?”
“Sasaki Kojirō is here. I would appreciate your seeing him.”
“Sasaki? Oh, yes.”
He fitted an arrow to the bowstring, took an open stance, and raised his shooting arm above his eyebrows. Neither he nor any of the others so much as glanced in Kojirō’s direction until the hundred shots were finished.
With a sigh Tadatoshi said, “Water. Bring me some water.”
An attendant brought some from the well and poured it into a large wooden tub at Tadatoshi’s feet. Letting the upper part of his kimono hang loose, he wiped off his chest and washed his feet. His men assisted by holding his sleeves, running to fetch more water and wiping off his back. There was nothing formal in their manner, nothing to suggest to an observer that this was a daimyō and his retinue.
Kojirō had supposed that Tadatoshi, a poet and an aesthete, the son of Lord Sansai and the grandson of Lord Yūsai, would be a man of aristocratic bearing, as refined in his conduct as the elegant courtiers of Kyoto. But his surprise did not show in his eyes as he watched.
Slipping his still damp feet into his zōri, Tadatoshi looked at Kakubei, who was waiting off to one side. With the air of one has suddenly recalled a promise, he said, “Now, Kakubei, I’ll see your man.” He had a stool brought and placed in the shade of a tent, where he sat down in front of a banner bearing his crest, a circle surrounded by eight smaller circles, representing the sun, moon and seven planets.
Beckoned by Kakubei, Kojirō came forward and knelt before Lord Tadatoshi. As soon as the formal greeting was completed, Tadatoshi invited Kojirō to sit on a stool, thus signifying that he was an honored guest.
“By your leave,” said Kojirō, as he rose and took a seat facing Tadatoshi. “I’ve heard about you from Kakubei. I believe you were born in Iwakuni, weren’t you?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Lord