Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [630]
“At this season, the tide’s lowest between six and eight in the morning. It should be on the rise again about now.”
“Thank you,” Musashi said absently, again addressing his attention to the white paper.
Tarōzaemon quietly closed the shoji and went back to the parlor. He intended to sit down and wait quietly, but before long his nerves got the better of him. He rose and strode out to the veranda, from where he could see the current running through the strait. The water was already advancing on the beach.
“Father.”
“What is it?”
“It’s time for him to leave. I put his sandals out at the garden entrance.” “He’s not ready yet.”
“Still painting?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were going to make him stop and get ready.”
“He knows what time it is.”
A small boat pulled up on the beach nearby, and Tarōzaemon heard his name called. It was Nuinosuke, asking, “Has Musashi left yet?” When Tarōzaemon said no, Nuinosuke said rapidly, “Please tell him to get ready and start as quickly as possible. Kojirō’s already left, and so has Lord Hosokawa. My master’s leaving from Kokura right now.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Please! Maybe I sound like an old woman, but we want to be sure he’s not late. It’d be a shame to bring dishonor on himself at this point.” He rowed away hurriedly, leaving the shipping broker and his daughter to fret by themselves on the veranda. They counted the seconds, glancing from time to time toward the little room in the back, from which came not the slightest sound.
Soon a second boat arrived with a messenger from Funashima, sent to hurry Musashi along.
Musashi opened his eyes at the sound of shoji opening. There was no need for Otsuru to announce her presence. When she told him about the boat from Funashima, he nodded and smiled affably. “I see,” he said, and left the room.
Otsuru glanced at the floor where he had been sitting. The piece of paper was now heavily blotched with ink. At first the picture looked like an indistinct cloud, but she soon saw that it was a landscape of the “broken ink” variety. It was still wet.
“Please give that picture to your father,” Musashi called above the sound of splashing water. “And the other one to Sasuke.”
“Thank you. You really shouldn’t have done it.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything better to offer, after all the trouble you’ve gone to, but I hope your father will accept it as a keepsake.”
Otsuru replied thoughtfully, “Tonight, by all means, come back and sit by the fire with my father, as you did last night.”
Hearing the rustling of clothes in the next room, Otsuru felt pleased. At last he was getting dressed. Then there was silence again, and the next thing she knew, he was talking to her father. The conversation was very brief, only a few succinct words. As she passed through the next room, she noticed he had neatly folded his old clothes and placed them in a box in the corner. An indescribable loneliness seized her. She bent over and nestled her face against the still warm kimono.
“Otsuru!” called her father. “What are you doing? He’s leaving!”
“Yes, Father.” She brushed her fingers over her cheeks and eyelids and ran to join him.
Musashi was already at the garden gate, which he had chosen to avoid being seen. Father, daughter and four or five others from the house and shop came as far as the gate. Otsuru was too overwrought to utter a word. When Musashi’s eyes turned toward her, she bowed like the others.
“Farewell,” said Musashi. He went through the low gate of woven grass, closed it behind him and said, “Take good care of yourselves.” By the time they raised their heads, he was walking rapidly away.
They stared after him, but Musashi’s head did not turn.
“I guess that’s the way it’s supposed to be with samurai,” someone mumbled. “He leaves—just like that: no speech, no elaborate good-byes, nothing.”
Otsuru disappeared immediately. A few seconds later, her father retreated into the house.
The Heike Pine stood in solitude about two hundred yards up the beach. Musashi walked toward it, his mind completely at rest. He had put all his