Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [523]
“Not yet,” came the absentminded reply. Iori’s spirit had become part of the dance; he felt himself to be one of the performers.
“Come back before it gets too late. Tomorrow we’re going to climb the peak to the inner shrine.”
The Demon’s Attendant
The dogs of Mitsumine were a feral breed, said to result from the crossing of dogs brought by immigrants from Korea more than a thousand years earlier with the wild dogs of the Chichibu Mountains. Only a step removed from the wild stage, they roamed the mountainside and fed like wolves on the other wildlife in the region. But since they were regarded as messengers of the deity and were spoken of as his “attendants,” worshipers often took home printed or sculptured images of them as good-luck charms.
The black dog with the man following Musashi was the size of a calf.
As Musashi entered the Kannon’in, the man turned, said, “This way,” and beckoned with his free hand.
The dog growled, tugged at his leash—a piece of thick rope—and began sniffing.
Flicking the leash across the dog’s back, the man said, “Shh, Kuro, be quiet.”
The man was about fifty, solidly but supplely built, and like his dog, he seemed not quite tame. But he was well dressed. With his kimono, which looked like a priest’s robe or a samurai’s formal wear, he wore a narrow, flat obi and a hemp hakama. His straw sandals, of the sort men wore at festivals, were fitted with new thongs.
“Baiken?” The woman held back, to keep away from the dog.
“Down,” commanded Baiken, rapping the animal sharply on the head. “I’m glad you spotted him, Okō.”
“Then it was him?”
“No doubt about it.”
For a moment, they stood silently looking through a break in the clouds at the stars, hearing but not really listening to the sacred dance music.
“What’ll we do?” she asked.
“I’ll think of something.”
“We can’t let this chance go to waste.”
Okō stared expectantly at Baiken.
“Is Tōji at home?” he asked.
“Yes; he got drunk on the festival sake and fell asleep.”
“Get him up.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve got work to do. After I make my rounds, I’ll come to your place.”
Outside the main shrine gate, Okō broke into a trot. Most of the twenty or thirty houses were souvenir shops or teahouses. There were also a few small eating establishments, from which emanated the cheerful voices of revelers. From the eaves of the shack Okō entered hung a sign saying “Rest House.” On one of the stools in the dirt-floored front room sat a young servant enjoying a catnap.
“Still sleeping?” asked Okō.
The girl, expecting a scolding, shook her head vigorously.
“I don’t mean you—my husband.”
“Oh, yes, he’s still asleep.”
With a disapproving click of her tongue, Okō grumbled, “A festival’s going on, and he’s sleeping. This is the only shop that isn’t full of customers.”
Near the door, a man and an old woman were steaming rice and beans in an earthen oven. The flames struck the only cheerful note in the otherwise gloomy interior.
Okō walked over to where a man was sleeping on a bench by the wall, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Get up, you! Open your eyes for a change.”
“Huh?” he mumbled, raising himself slightly.
“Oh, my,” she exclaimed, as she backed away. Then she laughed and said, “I’m sorry. I thought you were my husband.”
A piece of matting had slipped to the ground. The man, a round-faced youth with large, questioning eyes, picked it up, pulled it over his face and stretched out again. His head rested on a wooden pillow and his sandals were spattered with mud. On the table next to him were a tray and an empty rice bowl; by the wall, a travel pack, a basket hat and a staff.
Turning back to the girl, Okō said, “I suppose he’s a customer?”
“Yes. He said he’s planning to go up to the inner shrine early in the morning and asked if it was all right to take a nap here.”
“Where’s Tōji?”
“I’m over here, stupid.” His voice came from behind a torn shoji. Reclining in the next room, with one foot hanging out into the shop, he said sullenly, “And