Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [500]
So it was his own experience that led to his decision to emphasize discipline in Iori’s upbringing. If he was going to create a samurai, he should create one for the coming era, not for the past.
“Iori.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy was kneeling before Musashi almost before the words were out.
“It’s almost sunset. Time for our practice. Bring the swords.”
“Yes, sir.” When he placed them in front of Musashi, he knelt and formally requested a lesson.
Musashi’s sword was long, Iori’s short, both wooden practice weapons. Teacher and pupil faced each other in tense silence, swords held at eye level. A rim of sunlight hovered on the horizon. The cryptomeria grove behind the cabin was already sunk in gloom, but if one looked toward the voices of the cicadas, a sliver of moon was visible through the branches.
“Eyes,” said Musashi.
Iori opened his eyes wide.
“My eyes. Look at them.”
Iori did his best, but his eyes seemed to literally bounce away from Musashi’s. Instead of glaring, he was being defeated by his opponent’s eyes. When he tried again, he was seized by giddiness. His head began to feel as if it were no longer his own. His hands, his feet, his whole body felt wobbly.
“Look at my eyes!” Musashi commanded with great sternness. Iori’s look had strayed again. Then, concentrating on his master’s eyes, he forgot the sword in his hand. The short length of curved wood seemed to become as heavy as a bar of steel.
“Eyes, eyes!” said Musashi, advancing slightly.
Iori checked the urge to fall back, for which he had been scolded dozens of times. But when he attempted to follow his opponent’s lead and move forward, his feet were nailed to the ground. Unable either to advance or to retreat, he could feel his body temperature rise. “What’s the matter with me?” The thought exploded like fireworks inside him.
Sensing this burst of mental energy, Musashi yelled, “Charge!” At the same time he lowered his shoulders, dropped back and dodged with the agility of a fish.
With a gasp, Iori sprang forward, spun around—and saw Musashi standing where he himself had been.
Then the confrontation began again, just as before, both teacher and pupil maintaining strict silence.
Before long the grass was soaked with dew, and the eyebrow of a moon hung above the cryptomerias. Each time the wind gusted, the insects stopped singing momentarily. Autumn had come, and the wild flowers, though not spectacular in the daytime, now quivered gracefully, like the feathered robe of a dancing deity.
“Enough,” said Musashi, lowering his sword.
As he handed it to Iori, they became conscious of a voice coming from the direction of the grove.
“I wonder who that is,” said Musashi.
“Probably a lost traveler wanting to put up for the night.”
“Run and see.”
As Iori sped around to the other side of the building, Musashi seated himself on the bamboo veranda and gazed out over the plain. The eulalias were tall, their tops fluffy; the light bathing the grass had a peculiar autumn sheen.
When Iori returned, Musashi asked, “A traveler?”
“No, a guest.”
“Guest? Here?”
“It’s Hōjō Shinzō. He tied his horse up and he’s waiting for you in back.” “This house doesn’t really have any back or front, but I think it’d be better to receive him here.”
Iori ran round the side of the cabin, shouting, “Please come this way.” “This is a pleasure,” said Musashi, his eyes expressing his delight at seeing Shinzō completely recovered.
“Sorry to have been out of touch so long. I suppose you live out here to get away from people. I hope you’ll forgive me for dropping in unexpectedly like this.”
Greetings having been exchanged, Musashi invited Shinzō to join him on the veranda. “How did you find me? I haven’t told anyone where I am.” “Zushino Kōsuke. He said you’d finished the Kannon you promised him and sent Iori to deliver it.”
“Ha, ha. I suppose Iori let the secret out. It doesn’t matter. I’m not old enough to abandon the world and retire. I did think, though, that if I left the scene for a couple of months, the malicious