Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [519]
Suddenly he snatched his hand away from a white object he’d been about to pick up.
“It’s a human bone,” he cried.
“Bring it over here,” said Musashi.
Iori had no stomach for touching it again. “What are you going to do with it?”
“‘Bury it where it won’t be walked on.”
“It’s not just a couple of bones. There’re lots of them.”
“Good. It’ll give us something to do. Bring all you can find.” Turning his back to the river, he said, “You can bury them over there, where those gentians are blooming.”
“I don’t have a spade.”
“You can use a broken sword.”
When the hole was deep enough, Iori put the bones in it, then gathered up his collection of arrowheads and bits of metal and buried them with the bones. “Is that all right?” he asked.
“Put some rocks over it. Make it into a proper memorial.”
“When was there a battle here?”
“Have you forgotten? You must have read about it. The Taiheiki tells about two fierce battles, in 1333 and 1352, in a place called Kotesashigahara. That’s about where we are now. On one side was the Nitta family, supporting the Southern Court, and on the other a huge army led by Ashikaga Takauji.”
“Oh, the battles of Kotesashigahara. I remember now.”
At Musashi’s urging, Iori continued. “The book tells us Prince Munenaga lived in the eastern region for a long time and studied the Way of the Samurai, but was astonished when the Emperor appointed him shōgun.” “What was the poem he composed on that occasion?” Musashi asked. Iori glanced up at a bird soaring through the azure sky and recited:
“How could I have known
I’d ever be master of
The catalpa bow?
Had I not passed through
life
Without touching it?”
“And the poem in the chapter telling how he crossed into Musashi Province and fought at Kotesashigahara?”
The boy hesitated, biting his lip, then began, in phrasing largely of his own making:
“Why, then, should I cling
To a life that is fulfilled
When nobly given
For the sake of our great
lord,
For the sake of the people?”
“And the meaning?”
“I understand that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Anyone who can’t understand without having it explained to him isn’t really Japanese, even if he is a samurai. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes. But tell me, Iori, if that’s the case, why are you behaving as though handling those bones made your hands dirty?”
“Would it make you feel good to handle the bones of dead people?”
“The men who died here were soldiers. They’d fought and perished for the sentiments expressed in Prince Munenaga’s poem. The number of samurai like that is uncountable; their bones, buried in the earth, are the foundation on which this country is built. Were it not for them, we’d still have neither peace nor the prospect of prosperity.
“Wars, like the typhoon we had, pass. The land as a whole is unchanged, but we must never forget the debt we owe to the white bones under the ground.”
Iori nodded at almost every word. “I understand now. Shall I make an offering of flowers and bow before the bones I buried?”
Musashi laughed. “Bowing’s not really necessary, if you keep the memory alive in your heart.”
“But …” Not quite satisfied, the boy picked some flowers and placed them before the pile of stones. He was about to clasp his hands together in obeisance when another troubling thought came to him. “Sir, it’s all well and good if these bones really belonged to samurai who were loyal to the Emperor. But what if they’re the remains of Ashikaga Takauji’s men? I wouldn’t want to pay respect to them.”
Iori stared at him, waiting for his answer. Musashi fixed his eyes on the thin sliver of daylight moon. But no satisfactory reply came to mind.
At length, he said, “In Buddhism there is salvation even for those guilty of the ten evils and the five deadly sins. The heart itself is enlightenment. The Buddha forgives the wicked if only they’ll open their eyes to his wisdom.”
“Does that mean loyal warriors and evil rebels are the same after they die?”
“No!” Musashi