Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [570]
“I don’t mind. I feel my heart’s been purified. I hope that means our little offering of labor has pleased the gods.”
“Oh, it’s getting so dark. Let’s leave the rest for tomorrow morning.”
Gonnosuke and Iori were standing by the porch now. Kōetsu and Myōshū came down the path slowly, hand in hand. When they got near the Dainichi Hall, both started and cried, “Who’s there?”
Then Myōshū said, “It’s been a lovely day, hasn’t it? Have you come for sightseeing?”
Gonnosuke bowed and said, “No, I’ve had a sutra read for my mother.”
“It’s nice to meet young people who are grateful to their parents.” She gave Iori a maternal pat on the head. “Kōetsu, do you have any of those wheat cakes left?”
Taking a small package from his sleeve, Kōetsu offered it to Iori, saying, “Forgive me for offering you leftovers.”
“Gonnosuke, may I accept it?” asked Iori.
“Yes,” said Gonnosuke, thanking Kōetsu on Iori’s behalf.
“From the way you talk, you seem to be from the east,” said Myōshū. “May I ask where you’re going?”
“It seems to be on an endless journey on a never-ending road. This boy and I are fellow disciples in the Way of the Sword.”
“It’s an arduous path you’ve chosen. Who is your teacher?”
“His name is Miyamoto Musashi.”
“Musashi? You don’t say!” Myōshū gazed into space, as though conjuring up a pleasant memory.
“Where is Musashi now?” asked Kōetsu. “It’s been a long time since last we saw him.”
Gonnosuke told them of Musashi’s fortunes during the past couple of years. As he listened, Kōetsu nodded and smiled, as if to say: “That’s what I’d expect of him.”
When he finished, Gonnosuke asked, “May I inquire who you are?”
“Oh, forgive me for not telling you before.” Kōetsu introduced himself and his mother. “Musashi stayed with us for a while, several years ago. We’re very fond of him and often talk about him even now.” He then told Gonnosuke about two or three incidents that had occurred when Musashi was in Kyoto.
Gonnosuke had long known of Kōetsu’s reputation as a sword polisher, and more recently he had heard of Musashi’s relationship with the man. But he’d never expected to run into this wealthy townsman tidying up neglected temple grounds.
“Is there a grave of someone close to you here?” he asked. “Or perhaps you’ve come for an outing?”
“No, nothing so frivolous as an outing,” exclaimed Kōetsu. “Not in a holy place like this…. Have you heard from the priests something of the history of the Kongōji?”
“No.”
“In that case allow me, in the priests’ stead, to tell you a little about it. Please understand, however, that I’m merely repeating what I’ve heard.” Kōetsu paused and looked around slowly, then said, “We have just the right moon tonight,” and pointed out the landmarks: above them the mausoleum, Mieidō and Kangetsutei; below, the Taishidō, Shinto shrine, treasure pagoda, refectory and two-story gate.
“Look carefully,” he said, seemingly under the spell of the lonely setting. “That pine tree, those rocks, every tree, every blade of grass here, partake of the invisible constancy, the elegant tradition of our country.”
He went on in this vein, solemnly telling how in the fourteenth century, during a conflict between southern and northern courts, the mountain had been a stronghold of the southern court. How Prince Morinaga, known also as Daitō no Miya, had held secret conferences to plan the overthrow of the Hōjō regents. How Kusunoki Masashige and other loyalists had fought the armies of the northern court. Later the Ashikagas had come to power, and Emperor Go-Murakami, driven from Mount Otoko, had been forced to flee from place to place. Finally he took refuge at the temple and for many years lived the same sort of life as the mountain priests, suffering the same deprivations. Using the refectory as his seat of government, he had worked tirelessly to recover the imperial prerogatives seized by the military.
At an earlier time, when samurai and courtiers had gathered around the ex-emperors Kōgon, Kōmyō and Sukō, the monk Zen’e had written poignantly: “The priests’ quarters and mountain