Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [574]
“Nuinosuke,” said the older man pensively, “the world is indeed fragile and impermanent, isn’t it?” From his heavy homespun cloak and utilitarian hakama, he might have been taken for a country samurai, were it not for his swords, which were of outstanding quality, and the fact that his companion was far too suave and well-groomed for a provincial samurai’s attendant.
“You saw them, didn’t you?” he continued. “The graves of Oda Nobunaga, Akechi Mitsuhide, Ishida Mitsunari, Kobayakawa Kingo—all brilliant, famous generals only a few years ago. And over there, those moss-covered stones mark the burial places of great members of the Minamoto and Taira clans.”
“Friend and foe … all together here, aren’t they?”
“All of them nothing more than lonely stones. Were names like Uesugi and Takeda really great, or were we only dreaming?”
“It gives me an odd feeling. Somehow it seems the world we live in is unreal.”
“Is it that? Or is it this place that’s unreal?”
“Umm. Who knows?”
“Who do you suppose thought of calling this the Bridge of Illusions?” “It’s a well-chosen name, isn’t it?”
“I think illusion is truth, just as enlightenment is reality. If illusion were unreal, the world couldn’t exist. A samurai who devotes his life to his master cannot—not for an instant—allow himself to be nihilistic. That’s why the Zen I practice is living Zen. It’s the Zen of the tainted world, the Zen of hell. A samurai who trembles at the thought of impermanence or despises the world cannot perform his duties…. Enough of this place. Let’s go back to the other world.”
He walked quickly, with a remarkably firm step for a man of his age.
Catching sight of priests from the Seiganji, he frowned and grumbled, “Why did they have to do that?” He’d stayed at the temple the night before; now about twenty young priests were lined up along the pathway, waiting to see him off, though he had said his farewells that mornings with the intention of avoiding a display of this sort.
He ran the gauntlet, saying polite good-byes, and hurried on down the road overlooking the patchwork of valleys known as Kujūkutani. Only when he regained the ordinary world did he relax. Conscious as he was of his own fallible human heart, the odor of this world came as relief.
“Hello, who are you?” The question came at him like a shot as they rounded a bend in the road.
“Who are you?” asked Nuinosuke.
The well-built, light-complexioned samurai standing in the middle of the road said politely, “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but aren’t you Lord Hosokawa Tadatoshi’s senior retainer, Nagaoka Sado?”
“I’m Nagaoka, to be sure. Who are you, and how did you know I was in the vicinity?”
“My name is Daisuke. I’m the only son of Gessō, who lives in retirement on Mount Kudo.”
Seeing the name did not ring a bell, Daisuke said, “My father has long since discarded his former name, but until the Battle of Sekigahara he was known as Sanada Saemonnosuke.”
“Do you mean Sanada Yukimura?”
“Yes, sir.” With a bashfulness seemingly at odds with his appearance, Daisuke said, “A priest from the Seiganji dropped in at my father’s house this morning. He said you’d come to Mount Kōya for a short visit. Though we heard you were traveling incognito, my father thought it’d be a pity not to invite you to have a cup of tea with him.”
“That’s very kind of him,” replied Sado. He squinted for a minute, then said to Nuinosuke, “I think we ought to accept, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Nuinosuke without enthusiasm.
Daisuke said, “It’s still fairly early in the day, but my father would be honored if you’d spend the night with us.”
Sado hesitated a moment, wondering if it was wise to accept the hospitality of a man regarded as an enemy of the Tokugawas, then nodded and said, “We can decide about that later, but I’ll be delighted to join your father for a cup of tea. Don’t you agree, Nuinosuke?”
“Yes, sir.”
Nuinosuke seemed a bit on edge, but as they started down the road behind