Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [607]
What struck him most forcefully about this great send-off was its absurdity. He had no desire to be anybody’s idol. Still, they were here to express their goodwill. There was no way to stop them.
Some, he felt, understood him. For their good wishes he was grateful; their admiration infused him with a sense of reverence. At the same time, he was being swept up on a wave of that frivolous sentiment called popularity. His reaction was almost one of fear, that the adulation might go to his head. He was, after all, only an ordinary man.
Another thing that upset him was the long prelude. If it could be said that both he and Kojirō saw where their relationship was leading them, it could also be said that the world had pitted them one against the other and decreed that they must decide once and for all who was the better man.
It had started with people saying, “I hear they’re going to have it out.” Later, it was: “Yes, they’re definitely going to face each other.”
Still later: “When is the bout?”
Finally, the very day and hour were being bruited about before the principals themselves had formally decided them.
Musashi resented being a public hero. In view of his exploits, it was inevitable that he would be made one, but he did not seek this. What he really wanted was more time to himself for meditation. He needed to develop harmony, to make sure his ideas did not outpace his ability to act. Through his most recent experience with Gudō, he had advanced a step on the path toward enlightenment. And he had come to sense more keenly the difficulty of following the Way—the long Way through life.
“And yet …” he thought. Where would he be if it were not for the goodness of the people who supported him? Would he be alive? Would he have the clothes on his back? He was dressed in a black short-sleeved kimono sewn for him by Kōetsu’s mother. His new sandals, the new basket hat in his hand, all the belongings he carried now, had been given to him by someone who valued him. The rice he ate—grown by other people. He lived on the bounties of labor not his own. How could he repay people for all they had done for him?
When his thoughts turned in this direction, his resentment at the demands made on him by his legion of supporters lessened. Nevertheless, the fear of letting them down lingered.
It was time to set sail. There were prayers for a safe voyage, final words of farewell, invisible time already flowing between the men and women on the pier and their departing hero.
The moorings were cast off, the ship drifted toward the open sea, and the great sail spread like wings against the azure sky.
A man ran out to the end of the pier, stopped and stamped his foot in disgust. “Too late!” he growled. “I shouldn’t have taken a nap.”
Kōetsu approached him and asked, “Aren’t you Musō Gonnosuke?” “Yes,” he replied, tucking his staff under his arm.
“I met you once at the Kongōji in Kawachi.”
“Yes, of course. You’re Hon’ami Kōetsu.”
“I’m glad to see you’re well. From what I heard, I wasn’t sure you were still alive.”
“Heard from who?”
“Musashi.”
“Musashi?”
“Yes; he was staying with me until yesterday. He had several letters from Kokura. In one, Nagaoka Sado said you’d been taken prisoner on Mount Kudo. He thought you might have been injured or killed.”
“It was all a mistake.”
“We learned, too, that Iori is living at Sado’s house.”
“Then he’s safe!” he exclaimed, relief flooding his face.
“Yes. Let’s sit down somewhere and talk.”
He steered the burly staff expert to a nearby shop. Over tea, Gonnosuke told his story. Luckily for him, after one look Sanada Yukimura had come to the conclusion he was not a spy. Gonnosuke was released, and the two men became friendly. Yukimura not only apologized for his subordinates’ error, but sent a group of men to search for Iori.
When they failed to find the boy’s body, Gonnosuke assumed he was still alive. He had spent his time since then searching the neighboring provinces. When he heard that Musashi