Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [583]
Iori offered tea to each of the samurai, bowing politely each time. Standing
before Kojirō with the last two cups, he said, “Please have some tea.”
Kojirō absentmindedly extended his hand but abruptly withdrew it as his
eyes met Iori’s. Startled, he exclaimed, “Why, it’s—”
Breaking into a grin, Iori said, “The last time I had the bad luck to run into you was in Musashino.”
“What’s that?” rasped Kojirō, in a tone hardly appropriate to his present status.
He was about to say something else when Iori shouted, “Oh, you remember me?” and slung the tray at his face.
“Oh!” cried Kojirō, grabbing Iori by the wrist. Though the tray missed him, a bit of hot tea caught him in the left eye. The rest of the tea spilled onto his chest and lap. The tray crashed into a corner post.
“You little bastard!” shouted Kojirō. He threw Iori onto the dirt floor and planted one foot on top of him. “Manager,” he called angrily. “This brat is one of your boys, isn’t he? Come here and hold him down. Even if he is only a child, I won’t stand for this.”
Frightened out of his wits, Sahei rushed to do as he was told. But somehow Iori managed to draw his sword and take a swing at Kojirō’s arm. Kojirō kicked him to the middle of the room and jumped back a pace.
Sahei turned and rushed back, screaming his lungs out. He reached Iori just as the boy jumped to his feet.
“You keep out of this!” Iori cried, then, looking Kojirō straight in the face, he spat out, “Serves you right!” and ran outside.
Kojirō picked up a carrying pole that happened to be handy and threw it at
the boy, scoring a perfect hit behind his knee. Iori landed flat on his face.
At Sahei’s command, several men fell on Iori and hauled him back to the
hot-water shed, where a servant was wiping off Kojirō’s kimono and hakama. “Please forgive this outrage,” pleaded Sahei.
“We don’t know how to apologize,” said one of the assistants.
Without looking at them, Kojirō took a damp towel from the servant and wiped off his face.
Iori had been forced to the ground, his arms bent tightly behind him. “Let me go,” he begged, his body writhing in pain. “I won’t run away. I’m a samurai’s son. I did it on purpose and I’ll take my punishment like a man.”
Kojirō finished straightening his clothing and smoothed his hair. “Let him go,” he said quietly.
Not knowing what to make of the placid expression on the samurai’s face, Sahei stammered, “Are … are you sure it’s all right?”
“Yes. But”—the word sounded like a nail being driven into a board—”although I have no intention of becoming involved with a mere child, if you feel he should be punished, I can suggest a method. Pour a dipperful of boiling water over his head. It won’t kill him.”
“Boiling water!” Sahei recoiled at the suggestion.
“Yes. If you want to let him go, that’s all right too.”
Sahei and his men looked at each other uncertainly.
“We can’t let something like that go unpunished.”
“He’s always up to no good.”
“He’s lucky he didn’t get killed.”
“Bring a rope.”
When they started to tie him, Iori fought off their hands. “What are you doing?” he screamed. Sitting on the ground, he said, “I told you I wouldn’t run away, didn’t I? I’ll take my punishment. I had a reason for doing what I did. A merchant might apologize. Not me. The son of a samurai is not going to cry over a little hot water.”
“All right,” said Sahei. “You asked for it.” He rolled up his sleeve, filled a dipper with boiling water and walked slowly toward Iori.
“Shut your eyes, Iori. If you don’t, you’ll go blind.” The voice came from across the street.
Not daring to look to see whose voice it was, Iori shut his eyes. He recalled a story Musashi had told him once in Musashino. It was about Kaisen, a Zen priest highly revered by the warriors of Kai Province. When Nobunaga and Ieyasu attacked Kaisen’s temple and put it to the torch, the priest seated himself calmly in the upper floor of the gate and, while burning to death, uttered the words: “If your heart is obliterated through enlightenment, the fire is cool.”
“It’s only