Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [511]
Osugi had forgotten how to interpret the omens, but tonight the cheerful halo, as colorfully beautiful as a rainbow, suggested something splendid in the offing.
Could it have been Matahachi? Her hand reached toward the brush once but drew back. As though entranced, she forgot herself and her surroundings and for the next hour or two thought only of her son’s face, which seemed to float about in the darkness of the room.
A rustling noise at the back entrance brought her out of her reverie. Wondering if a weasel was playing havoc with her kitchen, she took the candle and went to investigate.
The sack of vegetables was by the sink; on top of the sack was a white object. Picking it up, she found it was heavy—as heavy as two pieces of gold. On the white paper in which they were wrapped, Matahachi had written: “I still don’t have the heart to face you. Please forgive me if I neglect you for another six months. I’ll just leave this note, without coming in.”
A samurai with murder in his eyes was crashing through the tall grass to reach two men standing on the riverbank. Gasping for breath, he called, “Hamada, was it him?”
“No,” groaned Hamada. “Wrong man.” But his eyes sparkled as he continued to survey the surroundings.
“I’m sure it was.”
“It wasn’t. It was a boatman.”
“Are you sure?”
“When I ran after him, he climbed into that boat over there.”
“That doesn’t make him a boatman.”
“I checked.”
“I must say, he’s fast on his feet.”
Turning away from the river, they started back through the fields of Hamachō.
“Matahachi … Matahachi!”
At first, the sound barely rose above the murmuring of the river, but as it was repeated and became unmistakable, they stopped and looked at one another in astonishment.
“Somebody’s calling him! How could that be?”
“Sounds like an old woman.”
With Hamada in the lead, they quickly traced the sound to its source, and when Osugi heard their footsteps, she ran toward them.
“Matahachi? Is one of you—”
They surrounded her and pinioned her arms behind her.
“What are you doing to me?” Puffing up like an enraged blowfish, she shouted, “Who are you anyway?”
“We’re students of the Ono School.”
“I don’t know anybody named Ono.”
“You never heard of Ono Tadaaki, tutor to the shōgun?”
“Never.”
“Why, you old—”
“Wait. Let’s see what she knows about Matahachi.”
“I’m his mother.”
“You’re the mother of Matahachi, the melon vendor?”
“What do you mean, you pig! Melon vendor! Matahachi is a descendant of the House of Hon’iden, and that’s an important family in the province of Mimasaka. I’ll have you know the Hon’idens are high-ranking retainers of Shimmen Munetsura, lord of Takeyama Castle in Yoshino.”
“Enough of this,” said one man.
“What should we do?”
“Pick her up and carry her.”
“Hostage? Do you think it’ll work?”
“If she’s his mother, he’ll have to come for her.”
Osugi pulled her scrawny body together and fought like a cornered tigress, but to no avail.
Bored and dissatisfied these past several weeks, Kojirō had fallen into the habit of sleeping a lot, in the daytime as well as at night. At the moment, he was lying on his back, grumbling to himself, hugging his sword to his chest.
“It’s enough to make my Drying Pole weep. A sword like this, a swordsman like myself—rotting away in another man’s house!”
There was a loud click and a metallic flash.
“Stupid fool!”
Striking in a great arc above him, the weapon slithered back into its scabbard like a living creature.
“Splendid!” cried a servant from the edge of the veranda. “Are you practicing a technique for striking from a supine position?”
“Don’t be silly,” sniffed Kojirō. He turned over onto his stomach, picked up two specks and flicked them toward the veranda. “It was making a nuisance of itself.”
The servant’s eyes widened. The insect, resembling a moth, had had both its soft wings and tiny body sliced neatly in two.
“Are you here to lay out my bedding?” asked Kojirō.
“Oh, no! Sorry! There’s a letter for you.”
Kojirō unhurriedly unfolded the letter