Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [521]
“They’ve started the dance,” squealed Iori, his heart flying to the sacred dance pavilion. “Sensei, what are you looking at?”
Musashi, stirred from his reverie, said, “Oh, nothing special…. I just remembered something I have to do. You go watch the dances. I’ll be along later.”
Musashi sought out the office of the Shinto priests, where he was greeted by an old man.
“I’d like to inquire about a donor,” said Musashi.
“Sorry, we don’t have anything to do with that here. You’ll have to go to the residence of the chief Buddhist priest. I’ll show you where it is.”
Though Mitsumine Shrine was Shinto, general supervision of the whole establishment was in the hands of a Buddhist prelate. The plaque over the gate read: “Office of the High Priest in Charge,” in suitably large characters.
At the entrance hall, the old man talked at some length with the priest on duty. When they were finished, the priest invited Musashi inside and very politely led him to an inner room. Tea was served, along with a tray of splendid cakes. Next came a second tray, followed shortly by a handsome young acolyte bearing sake. Presently no less a personage than a provisional bishop appeared.
“Welcome to our mountain,” he said. “I fear we have only simple country fare to offer you. I trust you’ll forgive us. Please make yourself comfortable.”
Musashi was at a loss to understand the solicitous treatment. Without touching the sake, he said, “I came to make an inquiry about one of your donors.”
“What?” The benign countenance of the priest, a rotund man of about fifty, underwent a subtle alteration. “An inquiry?” he asked suspiciously.
In rapid succession, Musashi asked when Daizō had come to the temple, whether he came there often, whether he ever brought anyone with him, and if so, what sort of person.
With every question the priest’s displeasure grew, until finally he said, “Then you’re not here to make a contribution but merely to ask questions about someone who did?” His face was a study in exasperation.
“The old man must have misunderstood me. I never intended to make a donation. I only wanted to ask about Daizō.”
“You could have made that perfectly clear at the entrance,” the priest said haughtily. “From all I can see, you’re a rōnin. I don’t know who you are or where you come from. You must understand that I can’t give out information about our donors to just anyone.”
“I assure you nothing will happen.”
“Well, you’ll have to see the priest in charge of such matters.” Looking as though he felt he’d been robbed, he dismissed Musashi.
The register of contributors turned out to be no more helpful, for it recorded only that Daizō had been there several times. Musashi thanked the priest and left.
Near the dance pavilion, he looked around for Iori without seeing him. If he’d looked up, he would have. The boy was almost directly over his head, having climbed a tree to get a better view.
Watching the scene unfolding on the stage, Musashi was transported back to his childhood, to the night festivals at the Sanumo Shrine in Miyamoto. He saw phantom images of the crowds, of Otsū’s white face in their midst. Of Matahachi, always chewing food, of Uncle Gon, walking about importantly. Vaguely he sensed the face of his mother, worried about his being out so late, coming to look for him.
The musicians, clad in unusual costumes intended to simulate the elegance of the imperial guards of old, took their places on the stage. In the light of the fire, their tawdry finery, glittering with patches of gold brocade, was suggestive of the mythical robes of the age of the gods. The beating of the slightly slack drumheads reverberated through the forest of cryptomeria, then the flutes and well-seasoned boards, clapped rhythmically with small blocks, sounded the prelude. The master of the dance came forward, wearing the mask of an ancient man. This unearthly face, from whose cheeks and chin much of the lacquer had peeled, moved slowly as he sang the words of Kamiasobi, the dance of the gods.
On sacred Mount Mimuro
With its