Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [590]
Musashi followed at a walk, keeping to one side and stopping from time to time to listen. When nothing more happened, he went home and to bed.
The next morning two samurai appeared at his house. Finding the entranceway full of children’s sandals, they went around to the side.
“Are you Muka Sensei?” asked one. “We’re from the House of Honda.” Musashi looked up from his writing and said, “Yes, I’m Muka.”
“Is your real name Miyamoto Musashi? If it is, don’t try to conceal it.” “I’m Musashi.”
“I believe you’re acquainted with Watari Shima.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
“He says he’s been at two or three haiku parties when you were present.” “Now that you mention it, I do remember him. We met at the house of a mutual friend.”
“He was wondering if you wouldn’t come and spend an evening with him.”
“If he’s looking for someone to compose haiku with, he has the wrong man. Though it’s true I’ve been invited to a few such parties, I’m a simple man with little experience in such matters.”
“I think what he has in mind is discussing the martial arts with you.”
Musashi’s pupils were staring worriedly at the two samurai. For a few moments, Musashi gazed at them too, then said, “In that case, I shall be delighted to call on him. When?”
“Could you come this evening?”
“Fine.”
“He’ll send a palanquin for you.”
“That’s very kind of him. I’ll be waiting.”
After they’d gone, he turned back to his pupils. “Come, now,” he said. “You mustn’t let yourselves be distracted. Get back to work. Look at me. I’m practicing too. You have to learn to concentrate so completely that you don’t even hear people talking or cicadas singing. If you’re lazy when you’re young, you’ll turn out like me and have to practice after you’re grown.” He laughed and looked around at the ink-smeared faces and hands.
By twilight, he had donned a hakama and was ready to go. Just as he was reassuring the brush seller’s wife, who looked ready to cry, that he would be safe, the palanquin arrived—not the simple basket type seen around town but a lacquered sedan chair, which was accompanied by two samurai and three attendants.
Neighbors, dazzled by the sight, crowded around and whispered. Children called their friends and chattered excitedly.
“Only great people ride in palanquins like that.”
“Our teacher must be somebody.”
“Where’s he going?”
“Will he ever come back?”
The samurai closed the door of the palanquin, cleared the people out of the way, and they set off.
While not knowing what to expect, Musashi suspected there was a connection between the invitation and the incident at Yahagi Bridge. Perhaps Shima was going to take him to task for killing two Honda samurai. Then again, maybe Shima was the person behind the spying and the surprise attack and was now ready to confront Musashi openly. Not believing any good could come from tonight’s meeting, Musashi resigned himself to facing a difficult situation. Speculation wouldn’t get him very far. The Art of War demanded that he find out where he stood and act accordingly.
The palanquin rocked gently, like a boat at sea. Hearing the wind soughing through the pines, he thought they must be in the forest near the north castle wall. He did not look like a man bracing himself for an unpredictable onslaught. Eyes half shut, he appeared to be dozing.
After the castle gate grated open, the pace of the bearers was slower, the samurai’s tones more subdued. They passed flickering lanterns and came to the castle buildings. When Musashi alighted, servants ushered him silently but politely to an open pavilion. Since the blinds were rolled up on all four sides, the breeze wafted through in pleasant waves. The lamps dimmed and flared riotously. It did not seem like the sweltering summer night it was.
“I am Watari Shima,” said his host. He was a