Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [493]
“No, we never served the House of Kikkawa. I’ve been told we’re descended from the Sasakis of Ōmi Province. After the fall of the last Ashikaga shōgun, my father seems to have retired to my mother’s village.”
After a few more questions concerning family and lineage, Lord Tadatoshi asked, “Will you be going into service for the first time?”
“I do not yet know whether I am going into service.”
“I gathered from Kakubei you wish to serve the House of Hosokawa. What are your reasons?”
“I believe it is a house I would be willing to live and die for.”
Tadatoshi seemed pleased with this answer. “And your style of fighting?”
“I call it the Ganryū Style.”
“‘Ganryū’?”
“It’s a style I invented myself.”
“Presumably it has antecedents.”
“I studied the Tomita Style, and I had the benefit of lessons from Lord Katayama Hisayasu of Hōki, who in his old age retired to Iwakuni. I’ve also mastered many techniques on my own. I used to practice cutting down swallows on the wing.”
“I see. I suppose the name Ganryū comes from the name of that river near where you were born?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to see a demonstration.” Tadatoshi looked around at the faces of his samurai. “Which one of you would like to take this man on?”
They had been watching the interview in silence, thinking that Kojirō was remarkably young to have acquired the reputation he had. Now all looked first at each other, then at Kojirō, whose flushed cheeks proclaimed his willingness to face any challenger.
“How about you, Okatani?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re always claiming the lance is superior to the sword. Now’s your chance to prove it.”
“I shall be glad to, if Sasaki is willing.”
“By all means,” Kojirō answered with alacrity. In his tone, which was polite but extremely cool, there was a hint of cruelty.
The samurai who had been sweeping the sand on the archery range and putting away the equipment assembled behind their master. Although weapons were as familiar to them as chopsticks, their experience had been primarily in the dōjō. The chance to witness, much less have, a real bout would occur only a few times throughout their lives. They would readily agree that a man-to-man fight was a greater challenge than going out on the battlefield, where it was sometimes possible for a man to pause and get his wind while his comrades fought on. In hand-to-hand combat, he had only himself to rely on, only his own alertness and strength from beginning to end. Either he won, or he was killed or maimed.
They watched Okatani Gorōji solemnly. Even among the lowest-ranking foot soldiers there were quite a few who were adept with the lance; Gorōji was generally conceded to be the best. He had not only been in battle but had practiced diligently and devised techniques of his own.
“Give me a few minutes,” said Gorōji, bowing toward Tadatoshi and Kojirō before withdrawing to make his preparations. It pleased him that today, as on other days, he had on spotless underwear, in the tradition of the good samurai, who started each day with a smile and an uncertainty: by evening he might be a corpse.
After borrowing a three-foot wooden sword, Kojirō selected the ground for the match. His body seemed relaxed and open, the more so since he didn’t hitch up his pleated hakama. His appearance was formidable; even his enemies would have had to admit that. There was an eaglelike air of valor about him, and his handsome profile was serenely confident.
Worried eyes began to turn toward the canopy behind which Gorōji was adjusting his clothing and equipment.
“What’s taking him so long?” someone asked.
Gorōji was calmly wrapping a piece of damp cloth around the point of his lance, a weapon he had used to excellent effect on the battlefield. The shaft was nine feet long, and the tapering blade alone, at eight or nine inches, was the equivalent of a short sword.
“What are you doing?” called Kojirō. “If you’re worried about hurting me, save yourself the trouble.” Again,