Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [544]
In his heart, he cried out to his mother, who at this moment seemed very dear to him. If only he had never left her side, he wouldn’t be here now. He recalled other women too: Okō, Akemi, Otsū, others he had been fond of or dallied with. But his mother was the only woman he genuinely longed to see. If only he were given the opportunity to go on living, he was certain he would never again go against her will, never again be an unfilial son.
He felt a damp chill on the back of his neck. He looked up at three wild geese winging their way toward the bay and envied them.
The urge to take flight was like an itch. And why not? He had nothing to lose. If he were caught, he would be no worse off than he was now. With a desperate look in his eyes, he glanced toward the gate across the street. No sign of Takuan.
He jumped up and started to run.
“Stop!”
The loud voice alone was enough to break his spirit. He looked around and saw one of the commissioner’s executioners. The man stepped forward and brought his long staff down on Matahachi’s shoulder, felling him with one blow, then pinned him down with the staff, as a child might pin down a frog with a stick.
When Takuan came out of the commissioner’s residence, he was accompanied by several guards, including a captain. They led out another prisoner, who was tied up with a rope.
The captain selected the place where the punishment would be carried out, and two freshly woven reed mats were spread on the ground.
“Shall we get on with it?” he asked Takuan, who nodded his assent.
As captain and priest sat down on stools to watch, the executioner shouted, “Stand up!” and lifted his staff. Matahachi dragged himself to his feet but was too weak to walk. The executioner seized him angrily by the back of his robe and half dragged him to one of the mats.
He sat. His head dropped. He could no longer hear the quail. Though he was conscious of voices, they sounded indistinct, as though separated from him by a wall.
Hearing his name whispered, he looked up in surprise.
“Akemi!” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”
She was kneeling on the other mat.
“No talking!” Two of the guards made use of their staffs to separate them.
The captain stood up and began reading the official judgments and sentences in stern, dignified tones. Akemi held back her tears, but Matahachi wept shamelessly. The captain finished, sat down and shouted, “Strike.”
Two low-ranking guards carrying long switches of split bamboo pranced into position and began systematically lashing the prisoners across the back.
“One. Two. Three,” they counted.
Matahachi moaned. Akemi, head bowed and face ashen, clamped her teeth together with all her might in an effort to bear the pain.
“Seven. Eight. Nine.” The switches frayed; smoke seemed to rise from their tips.
A few passersby stopped at the edge of the lot to watch.
“What’s going on?”
“Two prisoners being punished, it looks like.”
“A hundred lashes, probably.”
“They’re not even to fifty yet.”
“Must hurt.”
A guard approached and startled them by thumping the ground sharply with his staff. “Off with you. You’re not allowed to stand here.”
The gawkers moved to a safer distance and, looking back, saw that the punishment was over. The guards discarded their switches, which were now only bundles of flabby strands, and wiped the sweat off their faces.
Takuan stood up. The captain was already on his feet. They exchanged amenities, and the captain led his men back toward the commissioner’s compound. Takuan stood still for several minutes, looking at the bowed figures on the mats. He said nothing before walking away.
The shōgun had bestowed a number of gifts on him; these he had donated to various Zen temples in the city. Yet the gossips of Edo were soon at it again. According to which rumor one heard, he was an ambitious priest who meddled in politics. Or one the Tokugawas had persuaded to spy on the Osaka