Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [556]
They all left together and hurried to the cabin, arriving shortly after the first rays of the rising sun touched it. It stood empty. On the edge of the plain was one white cloud.
Book VII • THE PERFECT LIGHT
The Runaway Ox
The shadow of the plum branch cast on the white plaster wall by the pallid sun was beautiful in a restrained way evocative of monochrome ink painting. It was early spring in Koyagyū, and quiet, the branches of the plum trees seemingly beckoning southward to the nightingales that would soon flock to the valley.
Unlike the birds, the shugyōsha who presented themselves at the castle gate knew no season. They came in a constant stream, seeking either to receive instruction from Sekishūsai or to try their hand against him. The litany varied little: “Please, just one bout”; “I beg you, let me see him”; “I’m the only true disciple of so-and-so, who teaches at such-and-such a place.” For the past ten years, the guards had been giving the same reply: because of their master’s advanced age, he was unable to receive anyone. Few swordsmen, or would-be swordsmen, would let it go at that. Some launched diatribes on the meaning of the true Way and how there should be no discrimination between young and old, rich and poor, beginner and expert. Others simply pleaded, while still others rashly tried to offer bribes. Many went away muttering angry imprecations.
Had the truth been generally known, namely that Sekishūsai had passed away late the previous year, matters might have been greatly simplified. But it had been decided that since Munenori couldn’t get away from Edo until the fourth month, the death should be kept secret until the funeral service had been held. One of the handful of people outside the castle who knew the circumstances now sat in a guest room asking rather insistently to see Hyōgo.
It was Inshun, the elderly abbot of the Hōzōin, who throughout In’ei’s dotage and after his death had upheld the temple’s reputation as a martial arts center. Many even believed he had improved it. He had done everything possible to maintain the close ties between the temple and Koyagyū that had existed since the days of In’ei and Sekishūsai. He wanted to see Hyōgo, he said, because he wanted to have a talk about the martial arts. Sukekurō knew what he really wanted—to have a bout with the man whom his grandfather had privately regarded as a better swordsman than either himself or Munenori. Hyōgo, of course, would have no part in such a match, since he thought it would benefit neither side and was therefore senseless.
Sukekurō assured Inshun that word had been sent. “I’m sure Hyōgo would come to greet you if he were feeling better.”
“So you mean to say he still has a cold?”
“Yes; he can’t seem to get rid of it.”
“I didn’t know his health was so frail.”
“Oh, it isn’t really, but he’s been in Edo for some time, you know, and he can’t quite get used to these cold mountain winters.”
While the two men chatted, a servant boy was calling Otsū’s name in the garden of the innermost encirclement. A shoji opened, and she emerged from one of the houses, trailing a wisp of incense smoke. She was still in mourning more than a hundred days since Sekishūsai’s passing, and her face looked as white as a pear blossom.
“Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking everywhere,” asked the boy. “I’ve been in the Buddhist chapel.”
“Hyōgo’s asking for you.”
When she entered Hyōgo’s room, he said, “Ah, Otsū, thank you for coming. I’d like you to greet a visitor for me.”
“Yes, of course.”
“He’s been here quite a while. Sukekurō went to keep him company, but listening to him go on and on about the Art of War must have Sukekurō pretty exhausted by now.”
“The abbot of the Hōzōin?”
“Um.”
Otsū smiled faintly, bowed and left the room.
Meanwhile, Inshun was not too subtly feeling Sukekurō out regarding Hyōgo’s past and character.
“I’m told that when Katō Kiyomasa offered him a position, Sekishūsai refused to consent unless Kiyomasa agreed to an unusual