Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [566]
Nankōbō arrogantly threw back his shoulders and surveyed the crowd. “There seem to be a few brave men left. If indeed there are, come ahead.”
A mountain priest stepped out from behind a tent, took his traveling chest off his back and asked, “Is the tournament open only to lancers of the Hōzōin?”
“No,” chorused the Hōzōin priests.
The priest bowed. “In that case, I’d like to try my hand. Can anyone lend me a wooden sword?”
Hyōgo glanced at Sukekurō and said, “This is getting interesting.” “It is, isn’t it?”
“No question about the outcome.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of Nankōbō’s losing.”
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t think Nankōbō will agree to fight. If he does, he’ll lose.”
Sukekurō looked puzzled but didn’t ask for an explanation.
Someone handed the vagabond priest a wooden sword. He walked up to Nankōbō, bowed and issued his challenge. He was a man of about forty, but his body, like spring steel, strongly suggested training not in the ascetic fashion of mountain priests but on the battlefield, a man who must have faced death many times and would be prepared to accept it philosophically. His manner of speaking was soft, his eyes placid.
Despite his arrogance, Nankōbō was no fool. “Are you an outsider?” he asked pointlessly.
“Yes,” replied the challenger with another bow.
“Wait just a minute.” Nankōbō saw two things clearly: His technique might be better than the priest’s. He couldn’t win in the long run. Quite a few celebrated warriors, defeated at Sekigahara, were still masquerading as wandering priests. There was no telling who this man was.
“I can’t take on an outsider,” he said, shaking his head.
“I just asked the rules and was told it was all right.”
“It may be all right with others, but I prefer not to fight outsiders. When I fight, it’s not for the purpose of defeating my opponent. It’s a religious activity, in which I discipline my soul by means of the lance.”
“I see,” said the priest with a little laugh. He seemed to have something more to say, but hesitated. After mulling it over for a moment, he retired from the ring, returned the wooden sword and disappeared.
Nankōbō chose this time to make his exit, ignoring the whispered comments that it was cowardly of him to back out. Trailed by two or three disciples, he strode away grandly, like a conquering general.
“What did I tell you?” said Hyōgo.
“You were absolutely right.”
“That man is without a doubt one of those hiding out on Mount Kudo. Change his white robe and bandanna for a helmet and armor, and you’ll find you’re looking at one of the great swordsmen of a few years ago.”
When the crowd thinned out, Sukekurō began looking around for Ushinosuke. He didn’t find him. At a signal from Iori, he had gone over to the pagoda, where now they stood glaring fiercely at each other.
“Don’t blame me if you get killed,” said Iori.
“You talk big,” said Ushinosuke, picking up a stick to use as a weapon.
Iori, sword held high, rushed to the attack. Ushinosuke jumped back. Thinking he was afraid, Iori ran straight at him. Ushinosuke leaped over him, kicking him in the side of the head. Iori’s hand went to his head, and he crashed to the ground. Recovering quickly, he was on his feet again in no time. The two boys faced each other with their weapons raised.
Forgetting what Musashi and Gonnosuke had taught him, Iori charged with his eyes shut. Ushinosuke moved slightly to one side and knocked him down with his stick.
Iori lay on his stomach, moaning, sword still in hand.
“Ha! I won,” shouted Ushinosuke. Then, noticing that Iori was not moving at all, he grew frightened and ran.
“No you don’t!” roared Gonnosuke, his four-foot staff catching the boy on the hip.
Ushinosuke fell with a shriek of pain, but after one look