Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [520]
“Then why does the Buddha treat bad people and loyal servants alike?”
“Because people are all fundamentally the same. There are those who are so blinded by self-interest and desire that they become rebels or brigands. The Buddha is willing to overlook this. He urges all to accept enlightenment, to open their eyes to true wisdom. This is the message of a thousand scriptures. Of course, when one dies, all becomes void.”
“I see,” said Iori, without really seeing. He pondered the matter for a few minutes and then asked, “But that’s not true of samurai, is it? Not everything becomes void when a samurai dies.”
“Why do you say that?”
“His name lives on, doesn’t it?”
“That’s true.”
“If it’s a bad name, it stays bad. If it’s a good name, it stays good, even when the samurai is reduced to bones. Isn’t that the way it is?”
“Yes, but it isn’t really quite so simple,” said Musashi, wondering if he could successfully guide his pupil’s curiosity. “In the case of a samurai, there is such a thing as an appreciation of the poignancy of things. A warrior lacking this sensitivity is like a shrub in a desert. To be a strong fighter and nothing more is to be like a typhoon. It’s the same with swordsmen who think of nothing but swords, swords, swords. A real samurai, a genuine swordsman, has a compassionate heart. He understands the poignancy of life.”
Silently, Iori rearranged the flowers and clasped his hands.
Two Drumsticks
Halfway up the mountain, antlike human figures, climbing in continual procession, were swallowed up by a thick ring of clouds. Emerging near the summit, where Mitsumine Shrine was situated, they were greeted by a cloudless sky.
The mountain’s three peaks, Kumotori, Shiraiwa and Myōhōgatake, straddled four eastern provinces. Within the Shinto complex there were Buddhist temples, pagodas, various other buildings and gates. Outside was a flourishing little town, with teahouses and souvenir shops, the offices of the high priests and the houses of some seventy farmers whose produce was reserved for the shrine’s use.
“Listen! They’ve started playing the big drums,” Iori said excitedly, gobbling down his rice and red beans. Musashi sat opposite, enjoying his repast at a leisurely pace.
Iori threw down his chopsticks. “The music’s started,” he said. “Let’s go and watch.”
“I had enough last night. You go alone.”
“But they only did two dances last night. Don’t you want to see the others?” “Not if it means hurrying.”
Seeing his master’s wooden bowl was still half full, Iori said in a calmer tone, “Thousands of people have arrived since yesterday. It’d be a shame if it rained.”
“Oh?”
When Musashi finally said, “Shall we go now?” Iori bounded for the front door like a dog unleashed, borrowed some straw sandals, and set them in place on the doorstep for his master.
In front of the Kannon’in, the subtemple where they were staying, and on both sides of the shrine’s main gate, great bonfires blazed. Every house had a lighted torch in front of it, and the whole area, several thousand feet above sea level, was as bright as day. Overhead, in a sky the color of a deep lake, the River of Heaven glittered like magic smoke, while in the street swarms of men and women, oblivious of the chill in the mountain air, surged toward the stage where the sacred dances were performed. Flutes and great drums echoed on the mountain breeze. The stage itself was empty, except for the gently fluttering banners that would soon serve as a backdrop.
Jostled by the mob, Iori got separated from Musashi but quickly pushed his way through the crowd until he spied him standing near a building, staring up at a list of donors. Iori called his name, ran up to him, tugged at his sleeve, but Musashi’s attention was riveted on one plaque, larger than the others. It stood out from all the rest because of the size of the contribution made by “Daizō of Narai, Shibaura Village, Province of Musashi.”
The booming of