Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [565]
“Ushinosuke,” said Sukekurō, “run over to those priests there and get some tea. But don’t tell them who it’s for.”
“It’d be a nuisance if they came over to pay their respects,” added Hyōgo, who had a basket hat pulled down over his face. Sukekurō’s features were more than half hidden by a bandanna of the type worn by priests.
As Ushinosuke got to his feet, another boy, about fifty feet away, was saying, “I can’t understand it. The matting was right here.”
“Forget it, Iori,” said Gonnosuke. “It’s no great loss.”
“Somebody must have swiped it. Who do you suppose would do a thing like that?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Gonnosuke sat down on the grass, took out his brush and ink and began listing his expenses in a small notebook, a habit he had recently acquired from Iori.
In some ways, Iori was too serious for his years. He paid close attention to his personal finances, never wasted a thing, was meticulously neat, and felt grateful for every bowl of rice, every fair day. He was, in short, fastidious, and he looked down on people who were not.
For anyone who’d walk off with another person’s property, even if it was only a cheap piece of matting, he had only contempt.
“Oh, there it is,” he cried. “Those men over there took it. Hey, you!”
He ran toward them, but stopped about ten paces short to consider what he
was going to say and found himself face to face with Ushinosuke. “What do you want?” growled Ushinosuke.
“What do you mean, what do I want?” snapped Iori.
Regarding him with the coldness country folk reserve for outsiders, Ushinosuke said, “You’re the one who called to us!”
“Anybody who goes off with somebody else’s things is a thief!” “Thief? Why, you son of a bitch!”
“That matting belongs to us.”
“Matting? I found it lying on the ground. Is that all you’re upset about?”
“A mat’s important to a traveler,” said Iori rather pompously. “It protects him from the rain, provides him with something to sleep on. Lots of things. Give it back!”
“You can have it, but first take back what you said about me being a thief!” “I don’t have to apologize to get back what belongs to us. If you don’t give it back, I’ll take it back!”
“Just try it. I’m Ushinosuke of Araki. I have no intention of losing to a runt like you. I’m the disciple of a samurai.”
“I bet you are,” said Iori, standing a little straighter. “You talk big with all these people around, but you wouldn’t dare fight if we were by ourselves.”
“I won’t forget that!”
“Come over there later.”
“Where?”
“By the pagoda. Come alone.”
They parted, Ushinosuke went for the tea, and by the time he came back with an earthenware teapot, the matches were under way again. Standing in a large circle with the other spectators, Ushinosuke looked pointedly at Iori, challenging him with his eyes. Iori’s eyes answered. Both believed that winning was all that counted.
The noisy crowd pushed this way and that, raising yellow clouds of dust. In the center of the circle stood a priest with a lance as long as a fowling pole. One after another, rivals stepped forward and challenged him. One after another, they were struck to the ground or sent flying through the air.
“Come forward,” he cried, but eventually no more came. “If there’s no one else, I’m going to leave. Is there any objection to declaring me, Nankōbō, the winner?” After studying under In’ei, he had created a style of his own and was now the chief rival of Inshun, who was absent today on the pretext of illness. No one knew whether he was afraid of Nankōbō or preferred to avoid conflict.
When no one came forward, the burly priest lowered his lance, holding it horizontally, and announced, “There’s no challenger.”
“Wait,” called a priest, running out in front of Nankōbō. “I’m Daun, a disciple of Inshun. I challenge you.”
“Get ready.”
After bowing to each other, the two men jumped apart. Their two lances stared at each other like living beings for such a long time that the crowd, bored, began