Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [555]
After the official left, Shinzō had told his father and Takuan about Osugi’s visit. “She even tried to sell her wares here,” was the way he put it.
What was left unexplained was why people accepted so unquestioningly what they were told. Not just ordinary people—women gossiping around the well or laborers drinking in cheap sake shops—but men who had the intelligence to sift fact from fabrication. The shōgun’s ministers had discussed the matter for many long hours, but even they had ended up giving credence to Osugi’s calumnies.
Takuan and the others half expected Musashi’s letter to express his discontent, but in fact it said little beyond giving his reason for going away. He began by saying that he had asked Gonnosuke to tell them how he felt. Then came the song he had sung for Gonnosuke. The short letter ended: “Indulging my chronic wanderlust, I am setting out on another aimless journey. On this occasion, I offer the following poem, which may amuse you:
If the universe
Is indeed my garden,
When I look at it,
I stand at the exit of
The house called the Floating World.”
Though Ujikatsu and Shinzō were deeply touched by Musashi’s consideration, Ujikatsu said, “He’s too self-effacing. I’d like to see him once more before he goes away. Takuan, I doubt that he’d come if we sent for him, so let’s go to him.” He got to his feet, ready to leave immediately.
“Could you wait a moment, sir?” asked Gonnosuke. “I’d like to go with you, but Musashi asked me to give something to Iori. Could you have him brought here?”
When Iori came in, he asked, “Did you want me?” His eyes went immediately to the pouch in Gonnosuke’s hand.
“Musashi said you were to take good care of this,” said Gonnosuke, “since it’s the only keepsake you have from your father.” He then explained that the two of them would be together until Musashi’s return.
Iori couldn’t hide his disappointment, but not wanting to appear weak, he nodded halfheartedly.
In answer to Takuan’s inquiries, Iori told all he knew about his parents. When there were no more questions, he said, “One thing I’ve never known is what became of my sister. My father didn’t say much about her, and my mother died without telling me anything I can remember. I don’t know where she lives, or whether she’s alive or dead.”
Takuan placed the pouch on his knee and took out a crumpled piece of paper. As he read the cryptic message Iori’s father had written, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Staring hard at Iori, he said, “This tells us something about your sister.”
“I thought maybe it did, but I didn’t understand it and neither did the priest at the Tokuganji.”
Skipping over the first part, Takuan read aloud: “‘Since I had resolved to die of starvation before serving a second lord, my wife and I wandered around for many years, living in the humblest circumstances. One year we had to abandon our daughter at a temple in the central provinces. We put ‘one sound of heaven’ in her baby clothes and entrusted her future to the threshold of compassion. Then we went on to another province.
“‘Later, I acquired my thatched house in the fields of Shimōsa. I thought back to that earlier time, but the place was far away and we had had no word, so I feared it might not be in the girl’s interest to try to find her. I consequently left matters as they were.
“‘How cruel parents can be! I am reproved by the words of Minamoto no Sanetomo:
Even the animals,
Which cannot speak their feelings,
Are not bereft of
The tender generous love
Of parents for their offspring.
“‘May my ancestors take pity on me for refusing to sully my honor as a samurai by taking a second lord. You are my son. No matter how much you crave success, do not eat dishonorable millet!”’
As he placed the paper back in the pouch, Takuan said, “You’ll be able to see your sister. I’ve known her since I was a young man. Musashi knows her too. Come with us, Iori.” He gave no hint as to why he said this, nor did he mention Otsū or