Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [528]
It was too late to get behind a tree. If he made a dash for it now, he’d probably run into another foe.
He heard a clear, plaintive cry, and thought: “Uh-oh. Iori?” He wanted to look but in his heart gave the boy up for lost.
“Die! You son of a bitch!” The cry came from behind Musashi, then: “Musashi, why’re you taking so much time? I’m taking care of the vermin behind you.”
Musashi didn’t recognize the voice but decided he could focus his attention on Baiken alone.
To Baiken, the most important factor was his distance from his opponent; his effectiveness depended on manipulating the length of the chain. If Musashi could move a foot beyond the reach of the chain or approach a foot nearer, Baiken would be in trouble. He had to make sure that Musashi did neither.
Musashi marveled at the man’s secret technique, and as he marveled, it suddenly struck him that here was the principle of the two swords. The chain was a single length, the ball functioned as the right sword, the sickle as the left.
“Of course!” he cried triumphantly. “That’s it—that’s the Yaegaki Style.” Now confident of victory, he leapt back, putting five feet between the two of them. He transferred his sword to his right hand and hurled it straight as an arrow.
Baiken twisted his body, and the sword glanced off, burying itself in the root of a nearby tree. But as he twisted, the chain wrapped itself around his torso. Before he could even cry out, Musashi slammed his full weight into him. Baiken got his hand as far as the hilt of his sword, but Musashi broke his hold with a sharp chop to the wrist. In a continuation of the same motion, he drew the weapon and split Baiken open, like lightning splitting a tree. As he pulled the blade down, he twisted ever so slightly.
“What a pity,” thought Musashi. As the story was later told, he even uttered a sigh of compassion as the originator of the Yaegaki Style breathed his last.
“The karatake slice,” exclaimed an admiring voice. “Straight down the trunk. No different from splitting bamboo. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen it.”
Musashi turned and said, “Why, if it isn’t … Gonnosuke from Kiso. What are you doing here?”
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? The god of Mitsumine must have arranged it, perhaps with the aid of my mother, who taught me so much before she died.”
They fell to chatting, but Musashi suddenly stopped and cried, “Iori!” “He’s all right. I rescued him from that pig of a priest and had him climb a tree.”
Iori, watching them from a high branch, started to speak but instead shaded his eyes and looked toward a small flat area beyond the edge of the forest. Kuro, tied to a tree, had caught Okō’s kimono sleeve with his teeth. She yanked desperately at the sleeve. In a trice, it tore off, and she ran away.
The lone survivor, the other priest, was hobbling along, leaning heavily on his lance, blood flowing from a head wound. The dog, perhaps crazed by the smell of blood, started making a terrible racket. The noise echoed and reechoed for a time, but then the rope gave way, and the dog went after Okō. When he reached him, the priest lifted his lance and aimed for the dog’s head. Wounded in the neck, the beast ran into the woods.
“That woman’s getting away,” cried Iori.
“Never mind. You can come down now.”
“There’s an injured priest over there. Shouldn’t you catch him?” “Forget it. He doesn’t matter anymore.”
“The woman’s probably the one from the Oinu Teahouse,” said Gonnosuke. He explained his presence, the heavensent coincidence that had enabled him to come to Musashi’s assistance.
Deeply grateful, Musashi said, “You killed the man who fired the gun?”
“No.” Gonnosuke smiled. “Not me; my staff. I knew ordinarily you could take care of men like that, but