Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [568]
“You can’t get the potato out after you’ve dug that far?” asked Ushinosuke. “Here, I’ll pull it out for you.”
“No,” said Iori, pulling back Ushinosuke’s hand. “It’ll break.” He gently pushed the dirt back in the hole and packed it down.
“Bye,” called Ushinosuke, proudly shouldering his potato and accidentally revealing that the tip was broken off.
Seeing that, Hyōgo said, “You lost. You may have won the fight, but you’re disqualified from the potato-digging contest.”
Sweepers and Salesmen
The cherry blossoms were pale, past their prime, and the thistle blossoms were wilting, hinting nostalgically of the time centuries ago when Nara had been the capital. It was a little warm for walking, but neither Gonnosuke nor Iori tired of the road.
Iori tugged at Gonnosuke’s sleeve and said worriedly, “That man’s still following us.”
Keeping his eyes straight ahead, Gonnosuke said, “Pretend you don’t see him.”
“He’s been behind us ever since we left the Kōfukuji.”
“Umm.”
“And he was at the inn where we stayed, wasn’t he?”
“Don’t let it worry you. We don’t have anything worth stealing.” “We have our lives! They’re not nothing.”
“Ha, ha. I keep my life locked up. Don’t you?”
“I can take care of myself.” Iori tightened the grip of his left hand on his scabbard.
Gonnosuke knew the man was the mountain priest who had challenged Nankōbō the previous day, but couldn’t imagine why he’d be tailing them. Iori looked around again and said, “He’s not there anymore.”
Gonnosuke looked back too. “He probably got tired.” He took a deep breath and added, “But it does make me feel better.”
They put up at a farmer’s house that night and early the next morning reached Amano in Kawachi. This was a small village of low-eaved houses, behind which ran a stream of pristine mountain water. Gonnosuke had come to have the memorial tablet to his mother placed in the Kongōji, the so-called Women’s Mount Kōya. But first he wanted to look up a woman named Oan, whom he had known since childhood, so there would be someone to burn incense before the tablet from time to time. If she could not be found, he intended to go on to Mount Kōya, the burial place of the rich and the mighty. He hoped he wouldn’t have to; going there would make him feel like a beggar.
Asking directions from a shopkeeper’s wife, he was told that Oan was the wife of a brewer named Tōroku and their house was the fourth one on the right inside the temple gate.
As he went through the gate, Gonnosuke wondered if the woman knew what she was talking about, for there was a sign saying that bringing sake and leeks into the sacred compound was prohibited. How could there be a brewery there?
This little mystery was cleared up that evening by Tōroku, who had made them feel welcome and readily agreed to talk to the abbot about the memorial tablet. Tōroku said that Toyotomi Hideyoshi had once tasted and expressed admiration for the sake made for use by the temple. The priests had then established the brewery to make sake for Hideyoshi and the other daimyō who contributed to the temple’s support. Production had fallen off somewhat after Hideyoshi’s death, but the temple still supplied a number of special patrons.
When Gonnosuke and Iori awoke the next morning, Tōroku was already gone. He returned a little past noon and said that arrangements had been made.
The Kongōji was situated in the Amano River valley, amid peaks the color of jade. Gonnosuke, Iori and Tōroku stopped for a minute on the bridge leading to the main gate. Cherry blossoms floated in the water beneath the bridge. Gonnosuke straightened his shoulders and an air of reverence seemed to settle over him. Iori rearranged his collar.
Approaching the main hall, they were greeted by the abbot, a tall, rather stout man wearing an ordinary priest’s robe. A torn basket hat and a long staff would not have seemed unnatural.
“Is this the man who wants