Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [612]
What really troubled her was the question of what she would say to him. Fearfully she thought of becoming tongue-tied, as she had when she had seen him at other times. She didn’t want to say anything that would upset him, so she had to be particularly careful about that. He was on his way to a bout. The whole country was talking about it.
At this important moment in her life, Otsū did not believe he would lose to Kojirō, yet it was not absolutely certain he would win. Accidents could happen. If she did something wrong today, and if Musashi was killed later, she would regret it for the rest of her life. Nothing would be left for her but to cry herself to death, hoping, like the ancient Chinese emperor, to be joined with her loved one in the next life.
She must say what she had to say, no matter what he himself might say or do. She had mustered the strength to come this far. Now the meeting was near at hand and her pulse raced wildly. With so many things on her mind, the words she wanted to say would not take form.
Osugi had no such problem. She was choosing the words she would use to apologize for misunderstanding and hatred, to unburden her heart and beg forgiveness. As proof of her sincerity, she would see that Otsū’s life was entrusted to Musashi.
The darkness was broken only by an occasional reflection from the water. And it was quiet until Jōtarō’s running footsteps became audible.
“You’ve finally come, have you?” said Osugi, who was still standing on the bank. “Where’s Musashi?”
“Granny, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? What does that mean?”
“Just listen. I’ll explain everything.”
“I don’t want explanations. Is Musashi coming, or isn’t he?”
“He’s not coming.”
“Not coming?” Her voice was empty and full of disappointment.
Jōtarō, looking very awkward, related what had happened, namely that when a samurai had rowed out to the ship, he was told that it wasn’t stopping there. There were no passengers wanting to get off at Shikama; the cargo had been taken off by lighter. The samurai had asked to see Musashi, who came to the side of the ship and talked with the man but said disembarking was out of the question. Both he and the captain wanted to reach Kokura as quickly as possible.
By the time the samurai returned to the beach with this message, the ship was already heading out to the open sea again.
“You can’t even see it anymore,” said Jōtarō dejectedly. “It’s already rounded the pine woods at the other end of the beach. I’m sorry. Nobody’s to blame.”
“Why didn’t you go out in the boat with the samurai?”
“I didn’t think…. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do, no use talking about it now.”
“I suppose you’re right, but what a shame! What are we going to tell Otsū? You’ll have to do it, Jōtarō; I haven’t the heart. You can tell her exactly what happened … but try to calm her first, or her sickness might get worse.”
But there was no need for Jōtarō to explain. Otsū, seated behind a piece of matting, had heard everything. The lapping of the water against the side of the boat seemed to resign her heart to suffering.
“If I missed him tonight,” she thought, “I’ll see him another day, on another beach.”
She thought she understood why Musashi was set against leaving the ship. Throughout western Honshu and Kyushu, Sasaki Kojirō was acknowledged to be the greatest of all swordsmen. In challenging his primacy, Musashi would be burning with determination to win. His mind would be on that—only that.
“To think that he was so near,” she sighed. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she gazed after the invisible sail, making its way slowly westward. She leaned disconsolately against the boat rail.
Then, for the first time, she became conscious of an enormous force, swelling up with her tears. Despite her frailness, somewhere