Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [627]
Up the beach from the shore commissioner’s office, he positioned himself behind a tree and watched the bustle that had been going on since early morning. Several teams of samurai had already left for Funashima—the ground cleaners, the witnesses, the guards—each group in a separate boat. On the beach another small boat stood ready for Kojirō. Tadatoshi had had it built especially for this occasion, of new timber, with new water brooms and new hemp-palm ropes.
The people seeing Kojirō off numbered about a hundred. Nuinosuke recognized some as friends of the swordsman; many others he did not know. Kojirō finished his tea and came out of the commissioner’s office, accompanied by the officials. Having entrusted his favorite pony to friends, he walked across the sand toward the boat. Tatsunosuke followed close behind. The crowd silently arranged itself into two rows and made way for their champion. Seeing the way Kojirō was dressed made many imagine that they themselves were about to go into battle.
He had on a narrow-sleeved silk kimono, solid white with a raised figured pattern; over this, a sleeveless cloak of brilliant red. His purple leather hakama was of the type that is gathered just below the knees and is tight, like leggings, on the calf. His straw sandals appeared to have been dampened slightly to keep them from slipping. Besides the short sword he always carried, he had the Drying Pole, which he had not used since becoming an official in the House of Hosokawa. His white, full-cheeked face was a study in calm above the flaming red of his cloak. There was something grand, something almost beautiful, about Kojirō today.
Nuinosuke could see that Kojirō’s smile was quiet and confident. Flashing his grin in all directions, he looked happy and perfectly at ease.
Kojirō stepped into the boat. Tatsunosuke got in after him. There were two crewmen, one in the prow and the other manning the scull. Amayumi perched on Tatsunosuke’s fist.
Once clear of the shore, the sculler moved his arms with great languid strokes, and the little vessel glided gently forward.
Startled by the cries of the well-wishers, the falcon flapped its wings.
The crowd broke up into small groups and slowly dispersed, marveling over Kojirō’s calm demeanor and praying that he would win this fight of all fights.
“I must get back,” thought Nuinosuke, remembering his responsibility to see that Sado departed on time. As he turned away, he caught sight of a girl. Omitsu’s body was pressed tightly against the trunk of a tree, and she was crying.
Feeling it indecent to stare, Nuinosuke averted his eyes and slipped away noiselessly. Out in the street again, he took a parting look at Kojirō’s boat, then at Omitsu. “Everyone has a public and private life,” he thought. “Behind all that fanfare, a woman stands weeping her heart out.”
On the boat, Kojirō asked Tatsunosuke for the falcon and held out his left arm. Tatsunosuke transferred Amayumi to his fist and respectfully moved away.
The tide was flowing swiftly. The day was perfect—clear sky, crystal water—but the waves were rather high. Each time water splashed over the gunwale, the falcon, in a fighting mood, ruffled its feathers.
When they were about halfway to the island, Kojirō removed the band from its leg and threw the bird into the air, saying, “Go back to the castle.”
As though hunting as usual, Amayumi attacked a fleeing seabird, sending down a flurry of white feathers. But when its master did not call it back, it swooped down low over the islands, then soared into the sky and disappeared.
After releasing the falcon, Kojirō began stripping himself of the Buddhist and Shinto good-luck charms and writings showered on him by his supporters, casting them overboard, one by one—even the cotton underrobe with the embroidered Sanskrit charm given him by his aunt.
“Now,” he said softly, “I can relax.” Faced with a life-or-death