Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [569]
“Yes, sir,” replied Tōroku, prostrating himself on the ground.
Having expected a stern-visaged cleric in gold brocade, Gonnosuke was somewhat confused in his greeting. He bowed and watched as the abbot came down from the porch, slipped his big feet into dirty straw sandals and came to a halt in front of him. Prayer beads in hand, the abbot directed them to follow him and a young priest fell in behind them.
They passed the Hall of Yakushi, the refectory, the one-story treasure pagoda and the priests’ living quarters. When they reached the Hall of Dainichi, the young priest came forward and spoke to the abbot. The latter nodded and the priest opened the door with an enormous key.
Entering the large hall together, Gonnosuke and Iori knelt before the priests’ dais. Fully ten feet above this was a huge golden statue of Dainichi, the universal Buddha of the esoteric sects. After a few moments, the abbot appeared from behind the altar, attired in his cassock, and arranged himself on the dais. The chanting of the sutra began, and he seemed to be subtly transformed into a dignified high priest, his authority evident in the set of his shoulders.
Gonnosuke clasped his hands in front of him. A small cloud seemed to pass before his eyes and from it emerged an image of Shiojiri Pass, where he and Musashi had tested each other. His mother was sitting to one side, straight as a board, looking worried, just as she had been when she called out the word that saved him in that fight.
“Mother,” he thought, “you don’t have to worry about my future. Musashi has consented to be my teacher. The day is not far off when I’ll be able to establish my own school. The world may be in turmoil, but I won’t stray from the Way. Nor will I neglect my duties as a son….”
By the time Gonnosuke came out of his reverie, the chanting had stopped and the abbot was gone. Beside him, Iori sat transfixed, his eyes glued to the face of Dainichi, a miracle of sculptural sensitivity carved by the great Unkei in the thirteenth century.
“Why are you staring so, Iori?”
Without moving his eyes, the boy said, “It’s my sister. That Buddha looks like my sister.”
Gonnosuke burst out laughing. “What are you talking about? You’ve never even seen her. Anyway, no human could ever have the compassion and serenity of Dainichi.”
Iori shook his head vigorously. “I have seen her. Near Lord Yagyū’s residence in Edo. And talked to her. I didn’t know she was my sister then, but just now, while the abbot was chanting, the Buddha’s face turned into hers. She seemed to be saying something to me.”
They went out and sat down on the porch, reluctant to break the spell of the visions they had experienced.
“The memorial service was for my mother,” said Gonnosuke pensively. “But it’s been a good day for the living too. Sitting here like this, it’s hard to believe fighting and bloodshed exist.”
The metal spire of the treasure pagoda glistened like a jeweled sword in the rays of the setting sun; all the other buildings stood in deep shadow. Stone lanterns lined the darkened path leading up the steep hill to a Muromachi-style teahouse and a small mausoleum.
Near the teahouse, an old nun, her head covered with a white silk bandanna, and a plump man of about fifty were sweeping leaves with straw brooms.
The nun sighed and said, “I guess it’s better than it was.” Few people came to this part of the temple, even to clear away the winter’s accumulation of leaves and bird skeletons.
“You must be tired, Mother,” said the man. “Why don’t you sit down and rest? I’ll finish up.” He was dressed in a simple cotton kimono, sleeveless cloak, straw sandals, and leather socks with a cherry blossom design, and carried a short sword with an unadorned hilt made of sharkskin.
“I’m not tired,” she replied with a little laugh. “But what about you? You’re not used to this. Aren’t your hands chapped?”
“No, not chapped, but they’re covered with blisters.”
The woman laughed again, saying, “Now, isn’t that a nice reminder to take home with