Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [571]
Gonnosuke listened humbly, respectfully. Iori, awed by the gravity of Kōetsu’s voice, could not take his eyes from the man’s face.
Kōetsu took a deep breath and went on: “Everything here is a relic of that age. The mausoleum is the last resting place of the Emperor Kōgon. Since the decline of the Ashikagas, nothing’s been properly taken care of. That’s why my mother and I decided to do a little cleaning up, as a gesture of reverence.”
Pleased by the attentiveness of his audience, Kōetsu searched diligently for words to express his heartfelt emotions.
“While we were sweeping, we found a stone with a poem carved on it, perhaps by a soldier-priest of that age. It said:
Though the war goes on,
Even for a hundred years,
Spring will return.
Live with a song in your hearts,
You, the Emperor’s people.
“Think of the bravery, the largeness of spirit it took for a simple soldier, after fighting for years, perhaps decades, to protect the emperor, to be able to rejoice and sing. I’m sure it’s because the spirit of Masashige communicated itself to him. Though a hundred years of fighting have passed, this place remains a monument to the imperial dignity. Isn’t this something for which we should be very grateful?”
“I didn’t know this was the site of a sacred battle,” said Gonnosuke. “I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance.”
“I’m glad I had a chance to share with you some of my thoughts on the history of our country.”
The four of them strolled down the hill together. In the moonlight, their shadows seemed thin and unsubstantial.
As they passed the refectory, Kōetsu said, “We’ve been here seven days. We’ll be leaving tomorrow. If you see Musashi, please tell him to come see us again.
Gonnosuke assured him that he would.
The shallow, swift-flowing stream along the outer temple wall was like a natural moat and was crossed by a dirt-floored bridge.
Gonnosuke and Iori had hardly set foot on the bridge when a large white figure armed with a staff emerged from the shadows and flew at Gonnosuke’s back. Gonnosuke evaded the attack by sliding to one side, but Iori was knocked off the bridge.
The man plunged on past Gonnosuke to the road on the other side of the bridge. Turning around, he took a solid stance, his legs resembling small tree trunks. Gonnosuke saw it was the priest who had been following him the previous day.
“Who are you?” shouted Gonnosuke.
The priest said nothing.
Gonnosuke moved his staff into striking position and shouted, “Who are you? What reason do you have for attacking Musō Gonnosuke?”
The priest acted as if he hadn’t heard. His eyes spat fire as his toes, protruding from heavy straw sandals, inched forward like a centipede in motion.
Gonnosuke growled and cursed under his breath. His short, heavy limbs bursting with the will to fight, he too inched forward.
The priest’s staff broke in two with a resounding crack. One part flew through the air; the other the priest hurled with all his might at Gonnosuke’s face. It missed, but while Gonnosuke was recovering his balance, his opponent drew his sword and stomped out onto the bridge.
“You bastard!” shouted Iori.
The priest gasped and put his hand to his face. The small stones Iori had thrown had found their mark, one hitting him squarely in the eye. He spun around and ran down the road.
“Stop!” shouted Iori, scrambling up the bank with a handful of stones.
“Never mind,” said Gonnosuke, putting his hand on Iori’s arm.
“I guess that’ll show him,” gloated Iori, casting the stones toward the moon.
Soon after they returned to Tōroku’s house and went to bed, a squall came up. The wind roared through the trees, threatening to tear the roof off the house, but this was not the only thing that kept them from falling asleep right away.
Gonnosuke lay awake thinking about past and present, wondering if the world was really better off now than it had been in bygone ages. Nobunaga, Hideyoshi and Ieyasu had won the hearts of the people, as well as the authority to govern, but, he wondered,