Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [628]
The salty breeze caressed his silent face. His eyes were fixed on the green pines of Funashima.
In Shimonoseki, Tarōzaemon walked past a row of beach sheds and entered his shop. “Sasuke,” he called. “Hasn’t anybody seen Sasuke?” Sasuke was among the youngest of his many employees, but also one of the brightest. Treasured as a household servant, he also helped out in the shop from time to time.
“Good morning,” said Tarōzaemon’s manager, emerging from his station in the accounting office. “Sasuke was here just a few minutes ago.” Turning to a young assistant, he said, “Go find Sasuke. Hurry.”
The manager started to bring Tarōzaemon up to date on business matters, but the merchant cut him off, shaking his head as though a mosquito were after him. “What I want to know is whether anybody’s been here looking for Musashi.”
“As a matter of fact, there was someone here already this morning.”
“The messenger from Nagaoka Sado? I know about him. Anybody else?”
The manager rubbed his chin. “Well, I didn’t see him myself, but I’m told that a dirty-looking man with sharp eyes came last night. He was carrying a long oak staff and asked to see ‘Musashi Sensei.’ They had a hard time getting rid of him.”
“Somebody blabbed. And after I told them how important it was to keep quiet about Musashi’s being here.”
“I know. I told them too, in no uncertain terms. But you can’t do anything with the young ones. Having Musashi here makes them feel important.” “How did you get rid of the man?”
“Sōbei told him he was mistaken, Musashi’s never been here. He finally left, whether he believed it or not. Sōbei noticed there were two or three people waiting outside for him, one a woman.”
Sasuke came running up from the pier. “Do you want me, sir?”
“Yes. I wanted to make sure you’re ready. It’s very important, you know.” “I realize that, sir. I’ve been up since before sunrise. I washed in cold water
and put on a new white cotton loincloth.”
“Good. The boat’s all ready, the way I told you last night?”
“Well, there wasn’t much to do. I picked out the fastest and cleanest of the boats, sprinkled salt around to purify it and swabbed it down inside and out. I’m ready to leave whenever Musashi is.”
“Where’s the boat?”
“On the shore with the other boats.”
After thinking a moment, Tarōzaemon said, “We’d better move it. Too many people will notice when Musashi leaves. He doesn’t want that. Take it up by the big pine, the one called the Heike Pine. Hardly anyone goes by there.”
“Yes, sir.”
The shop, usually quite busy, was nearly deserted. Nervously upset, Tarōzaemon went out into the street. Here and in Moji, on the opposite shore, people were taking the day off—men who appeared to be samurai from neighboring fiefs, rōnin, Confucian scholars, blacksmiths, armorers, lacquer-makers, priests, townsmen of all descriptions, some farmers from the surrounding countryside. Scented women in veils and broad traveling hats. Fishermen’s wives with children on their backs or clinging to their hands. They were all moving in the same general direction, trying vainly to get closer to the island, through there was no vantage point from which anything smaller than a tree could be seen.
“I see what Musashi means,” thought Tarōzaemon. To be set upon by this mob of sightseers, to whom the fight was merely a spectacle, would be unendurable.
Returning to his house, he found the whole place fastidiously clean. In the room open to the beach, wave patterns flickered on the ceiling.
“Where have you been, Father? I’ve been looking for you.” Otsuru came in with tea.
“Nowhere in particular.” He lifted his teacup and gazed pensively into it.
Otsuru had come to spend some time with her beloved father. By chance, traveling from Sakai on the same vessel with Musashi, she had discovered they both