Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [589]
He walked on irresolutely. The wide expanse of the Yahagi River came into view, and the wind coming off the river felt cool on his face.
Suddenly, warned by a piercing whistle, he leapt to one side. The shot passed within five feet of him, and the report of a musket reverberated across the river. Counting two breaths between the bullet and the sound, Musashi concluded the gun had been fired from quite a distance. He jumped under the bridge and clung batlike to a post.
Several minutes passed before three men came running down Hachijō Hill like pine cones driven by the wind. Near the end of the bridge, they stopped and began searching for the body. Convinced he’d scored a hit, the musketeer threw away the fuse. He was dressed in darker clothes than the other two and masked, only his eyes visible.
The sky had lightened a little and brass ornaments on the gun butt gave off a soft glow.
Musashi couldn’t imagine who in Okazaki wanted him dead. Not that there was any shortage of candidates. In the course of his battles, he had defeated many men who might still burn with the desire for revenge. He had killed many others whose families or friends might wish to pursue a vendetta.
Any person who followed the Way of the Sword was constantly in danger of being killed. If he survived one close call, chances were that by that very act he made new enemies or created a new peril. Danger was the grindstone on which the swordsman whetted his spirit. Enemies were teachers in disguise.
To be taught by danger to be alert even when asleep, to learn from enemies at all times, to use the sword as a means of letting people live; governing the realm, achieving enlightenment, sharing one’s joys in life with others—they were all inherent in the Way of the Sword.
As Musashi crouched under the bridge, the cold reality of the situation stimulated him and his lassitude evaporated. Breathing very shallowly, noiselessly, he let his attackers approach. Failing to find the corpse, they searched the deserted road and the space under the end of the bridge.
Musashi’s eyes widened. Though dressed in black, like bandits, the men carried samurai swords and were well shod. The only samurai in the district were those serving the House of Honda in Okazaki and the Owari House of Tokugawa in Nagoya. He was not aware of having enemies in either fief.
One man dived into the shadows and recovered the fuse, then lit it and waved it, leading Musashi to think there were more men across the bridge. He couldn’t move, not now anyway. If he showed himself, he would invite more musket fire. Even if he gained the opposite bank, danger, perhaps greater danger, lay waiting. But he couldn’t stay where he was much longer, either. Knowing he had not crossed the bridge, they would move in on him and possibly discover his hiding place.
His plan came to him like a flash of light. It was not reasoned out by the theories of the Art of War, which constituted the fiber of the trained warrior’s intuition. To reason out a mode of attack was a dilatory process, often resulting in defeat in situations where speed was of the essence. The warrior’s instinct was not to be confused with animal instinct. Like a visceral reaction, it came from a combination of wisdom and discipline. It was an ultimate reasoning that went beyond reason, the ability to make the right move in a split second without going through the actual process of thinking.
“There’s no point in your trying to hide,” he shouted. “If you’re looking for me, I’m right here.” The wind was fairly strong now; he wasn’t sure whether his voice carried or not.
The question was answered by another shot. Musashi, of course, was no longer there. While the bullet was still in the air, he jumped nine feet nearer the end of the bridge.
He rushed into their midst. They separated slightly, facing him from three directions but totally