Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [594]
His eyes fell on a plaque hanging on a gatepost. He got up and went up to it for a closer look. By the light of the moon, he read:
I beg you, try to find the fundamental source.
Pai-yün was moved by the merits of Pai-ch’ang;
Hu-ch’iu sighed over the teachings left by Pai-yün.
Like our great predecessors,
Do not merely pinch off the leaves
Or concern yourselves only with the branches.
It appeared to be a quotation from the Testament of Daitō Kokushi, the founder of the Daitokuji.
Musashi reread the last two lines. Leaves and branches … How many people were thrown off course by irrelevant matters? Was he himself not an example? While the thought seemed to lighten his burden, his doubts would not go away. Why would his sword not obey him? Why did his eyes wander from his goal? What prevented him from achieving serenity?
Somehow it all seemed so unnecessary. He knew that it was when one had pursued the Way as far as possible that vacillation set in and one was attacked by fretfulness—leaves and branches. How did one break through the cycle? How did one get at the core and destroy it?
I laugh at my ten-year pilgrimage—
Wilted robe, tattered hat, knocking at Zen gates.
In reality, the Buddha’s Law is simple:
Eat your rice, drink your tea, wear your clothes.
Musashi recalled this verse written by Gudō in self-mockery. Gudō had been about the same age Musashi was now when he composed it.
On Musashi’s first visit to the Myōshinji, the priest had all but kicked him away from the door. “What strange line of thinking leads you to my house?” he had shouted. But Musashi persisted, and later, after he’d gained admittance, Gudō regaled him with this ironic verse. And he laughed at him, saying the same thing he had said a few weeks ago: “You’re always talking…. It’s futile.”
Thoroughly disheartened, Musashi gave up the idea of sleep and walked around the gate, just in time to see two men emerge from the temple.
Gudō and Matahachi were walking at an unusually rapid pace. Perhaps an urgent summons had come from the Myōshinji, the head temple of Gudō’s sect. In any event, he brushed past the monks gathered to see him off and headed straight for the Kara Bridge in Seta.
Musashi followed, through the town of Sakamoto, which was asleep, the woodblock print shops, the greengrocer’s, even the bustling inns, all tightly shuttered. The only presence was the ghostly moon.
Leaving the town, they climbed Mount Hiei, past the Miidera and the Sekiji in their veils of mist. They met almost no one. When they reached the pass, Gudō stopped and said something to Matahachi. Below them lay Kyoto, in the other direction the tranquil expanse of Lake Biwa. Aside from the moon itself, everything was like mica, a sea of soft silvery mist.
Reaching the pass a few moments later, Musashi was startled to find himself only a few feet from the master. Their eyes met for the first time in weeks. Gudō said nothing.
Musashi said nothing.
“Now … it has to be now,” thought Musashi. If the priest got as far as the Myōshinji, it might be necessary to wait many weeks for the opportunity to see him again.
“Please, sir,” he said. His chest swelled and his neck twisted. His voice sounded like that of a frightened child, attempting to tell his mother something he really did not want to say. He edged forward timidly.
The priest did not condescend to ask what he wanted. His face might have belonged to a dry-lacquer statue. The eyes alone stood out whitely, glaring angrily at Musashi.
“Please, sir.” Musashi, oblivious of everything save the flaming impulse propelling him forward, fell to his knees and bowed his head. “One word of wisdom. Just one word …”
He waited for what seemed like hours. When he was unable to restrain himself any longer, he started to renew his plea.
“I’ve heard all that,” Gudō interrupted. “Matahachi talks about you every night. I know all there is to know, even about the woman.”
The words