Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [532]
“That should do it,” said Daizō. “Time for a smoke.” He sat down by the pine tree and took out his pipe. The others brushed off their clothes and joined him.
During the four years of his so-called pilgrimage, Daizō had covered the Kantō Plain very thoroughly. There were few temples or shrines without a plaque attesting to his generosity, the extent of which was no secret. Strangely, though, no one had thought to ask how he had come by all this money.
Daizō, Jōtarō and the three men from Kiso sat in a circle for about an hour, discussing future plans. That it was now risky for Daizō to return to Edo was not in doubt, but one of them had to go. There was gold in the storehouse at Shibaura to be recovered and documents to be burned. And something had to be done about Akemi.
Just before sunup, Daizō and the three men began the journey down the Kōshū highroad to Kiso. Jōtarō, on foot, set off in the opposite direction.
The stars Iori was gazing at offered no answer to his question: “Who to follow?”
Under the transparently blue autumn sky, the strong rays of the afternoon sun seemed to sink right into Jōtarō’s skin. His head filled with thoughts of his role in the coming age, he was strolling across the Musashino Plain as though he owned it.
Casting a somewhat apprehensive glance behind him, he thought: “He’s still there.” Thinking the boy might want to talk to him, he’d already stopped a couple of times, but the boy had made no attempt to catch up with him.
Deciding to find out what was going on, Jōtarō chose a clump of eulalia and hid in it.
When Iori reached the stretch of road where he’d last seen Jōtarō, he began looking around worriedly.
Abruptly Jōtarō stood up and called out, “You there, runt!”
Iori gasped but recovered quickly. Knowing he couldn’t get away, he walked on past and asked nonchalantly, “What do you want?”
“You’ve been following me, haven’t you?”
“Unh-unh.” Iori shook his head innocently. “I’m on my way to Jūnisō Nakano.”
“You’re lying! You were following me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Iori started to break and run, but Jōtarō caught him by the back of his kimono.
“Out with it!”
“But … I … I don’t know anything.”
“Liar!” said Jōtarō, tightening his grip. “Somebody sent you after me. You’re a spy!”
“And you—you’re a lousy thief!”
“What?” Jōtarō shouted, his face almost touching Iori’s.
Iori bent nearly to the ground, broke loose and took off.
Jōtarō hesitated a minute, then set off after him.
Off to one side, Iori could see thatched roofs scattered about like wasp nests. He ran through a field of reddish autumn grass, kicking apart several dusty molehills.
“Help! Help! Thief!” cried Iori.
The small village he was entering was inhabited by families charged with fighting fires on the plain. Iori could hear a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil. People came running out of dark stables and houses where persimmons had been hung to dry. Waving his arms, Iori panted, “The man with the bandanna … chasing me … is a thief. Capture him. Please! … Oh, oh! Here he comes.”
The villagers stared in bewilderment, some looking fearfully at the two youths, but to Iori’s dismay they made no move to capture Jōtarō.
“He’s a thief! He stole from the temple!”
He stopped halfway through the village, conscious that the only thing disturbing the peaceful atmosphere was his own shouting. Then he took to his heels again and found a place to hide and catch his breath.
Jōtarō cautiously slowed down to a dignified walk. The villagers watched in silence. He certainly didn’t look like either a robber or a rōnin up to no good; in fact, he seemed like a clean-cut youth incapable of committing any kind of crime.
Disgusted that the villagers—grownups!—wouldn’t stand up to a thief, Iori made up his mind to hurry back to Nakano, where he could at least present his case to people he knew.
He left the road and struck out across the plain. When he could see the cryptomeria grove