Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [620]
“I must win. I must, I must.”
Thinking of winning placed a psychological burden on him. He realized this but could not help himself. “Win, win, win.” Like a wind-driven wave, the word kept on repeating itself somewhere in his mind. Not even Kojirō was able to grasp why the primitive urge to conquer buffeted his brain with such persistence.
The night wore on, but quite a number of guests stayed up, drinking and talking. It was quite late when the word came.
“Musashi arrived today. He was seen getting off a boat in Moji and later walking down a street in Kokura.”
The response was electric, though uttered furtively, in excited whispers. “It stands to reason.”
“Shouldn’t some of us go over there and take a look around?”
At Daybreak
Musashi arrived in Shimonoseki several days early. Since he knew no one there, and no one knew him, he passed his time quietly, unbothered by sycophants and busybodies.
On the morning of the eleventh, he crossed the Kammon Strait to Moji to call on Nagaoka Sado and confirm his acceptance of the time and place of the bout.
A samurai received him at the entrance hall, staring unabashedly, one thought going through his mind: “So this is the famous Miyamoto Musashi!” All the young man said aloud, however, was: “My master is still at the castle but should be back shortly. Please come in and wait.”
“No, thank you; I have no other business with him. If you’d just be so kind as to give him my message …”
“But you’ve come so far. He’ll be very disappointed to have missed you. If you really have to go, please let me at least tell the others that you’re here.”
He’d hardly disappeared into the house when Iori came rushing out and into Musashi’s arms.
“Sensei!”
Musashi patted him on the head. “Have you been studying, like a good boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve grown so tall!”
“Did you know I was here?”
“Yes; Sado told me in a letter. I also heard about you at Kobayashi Tarōzaemon’s in Sakai. I’m glad you’re here. Living in a house like this will be good for you.”
Looking disappointed, Iori said nothing.
“What’s the matter?” asked Musashi. “You mustn’t forget that Sado’s been very good to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have to do more than just practice martial arts, you know. You have to learn from books. And although you should be the first to help when help is needed, you should try to be more modest than the other boys.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t fall into the trap of feeling sorry for yourself. Many boys like you, who’ve lost a father or mother, do that. You can’t repay the warmheartedness of others unless you’re warm and kind in return.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re bright, Iori, but be careful. Don’t let your rough upbringing get the best of you. Keep yourself under tight rein. You’re still a child; you have a long life ahead of you. Guard it carefully. Save it until you can give it for a really good cause—for your country, your honor, the Way of the Samurai. Hold on to your life and make it honest and brave.”
Iori had the sinking feeling that this was a parting, a final farewell. His intuition probably would have told him this even if Musashi hadn’t spoken of such serious matters, but the mention of the word “life” left little doubt. No sooner had Musashi said it than Iori’s head was buried in his chest. The child sobbed uncontrollably.
Musashi, noting that Iori was very well groomed—his hair nicely combed and tied and his white socks immaculate—now regretted his sermon. “Don’t cry,” he said.
“But what if you … “
“Stop your bawling. People will see you.”
“You … you’re going to Funashima the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes, I have to.”
“Win, please win. I can’t bear to think of not seeing you again.” “Ha, ha. You’re crying about that?”
“Some people say you can’t beat Kojirō—you shouldn’t have agreed to fight him in the first place.”
“I’m not surprised. People always talk like that.”
“You can win, though, can’t you, Sensei?”
“I wouldn’t even waste my time thinking about it.”
“You mean you’re sure you