Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [635]
Silently, Sasuke fixed his eyes on a tall, thin pine tree, standing alone. Underneath it, the wind was playing with a brilliant red cloak.
Sasuke started to point but realized that Musashi had already seen his opponent. Keeping his eyes on Ganryū, Musashi took a russet hand towel from his obi, folded it in four lengthwise, and tied it around his windblown hair. Then he shifted his short sword to the front of his obi. Taking off his long sword, he laid it in the bottom of the boat and covered it with a reed mat. In his right hand, he held the wooden sword he had made from the broken oar.
“This is far enough,” he said to Sasuke.
Ahead of them was nearly two hundred feet of water. Sasuke took a couple of long strokes with the scull. The boat lurched forward and grounded on a shoal, the keel shuddering as it rose.
At that moment, Musashi, his hakama hitched high on both sides, jumped lightly into the sea, landing so lightly he made barely a splash. He strode rapidly toward the waterline, his wooden sword cutting through the spray.
Five steps. Ten steps. Sasuke, abandoning his scull, watched in wonderment, unconscious of where he was, what he was doing.
As Ganryū streaked away from the pine like a red streamer, his polished scabbard caught the glint of the sun.
Sasuke was reminded of a silver fox tail. “Hurry!” The word flashed through his mind, but Ganryū was already at the water’s edge. Sasuke, sure that Musashi was done for, couldn’t bear to watch. He fell face down in the boat, chilled and trembling, hiding his face as if he were the one who might at any moment be split in two.
“Musashi!”
Ganryū planted his feet resolutely in the sand, unwilling to give up an inch. Musashi stopped and stood still, exposed to the water and the wind. A hint of a grin appeared on his face.
“Kojirō,” he said quietly. There was an unearthly fierceness in his eyes, a force pulling so irresistibly it threatened to draw Kojirō inexorably into peril and destruction. The waves washed his wooden sword.
Ganryū’s were the eyes that shot fire. A bloodthirsty flame burned in his pupils, like rainbows of fierce intensity, seeking to terrify and debilitate. “Musashi!”
No answer.
“Musashi!”
The sea rumbled ominously in the distance; the tide lapped and murmured at the two men’s feet.
“You’re late again, aren’t you? Is that your strategy? As far as I’m concerned, it’s a cowardly ploy. It’s two hours past the appointed time. I was here at eight, just as I promised. I’ve been waiting.”
Musashi did not reply.
“You did this at Ichijōji, and before that at the Rengeōin. Your method seems to be to throw your opponent off by deliberately making him wait. That trick will get you nowhere with Ganryū. Now prepare your spirit and come forward bravely, so future generations won’t laugh at you. Come ahead and fight, Musashi!” The end of his scabbard rose high behind him as he drew the great Drying Pole. With his left hand, he slid the scabbard off and threw it into the water.
Waiting just long enough for a wave to strike the reef and retreat, Musashi suddenly said in a quiet voice, “You’ve lost, Kojirō.”
“What?” Ganryū was shaken to the core.
“The fight’s been fought. I say you’ve been defeated.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you were going to win, you wouldn’t throw your scabbard away. You’ve cast away your future, your life.”
“Words! Nonsense!”
“Too bad, Kojirō. Ready to fall? Do you want to get it over with fast?” “Come … come forward, you bastard!”
“H-o-o-o!” Musashi’s cry and the sound of the water rose to a crescendo together.
Stepping into the water, the Drying Pole positioned high above his head, Ganryū faced Musashi squarely. A line of white foam streaked across the surface as Musashi ran up on shore to Ganryū’s left. Ganryū pursued.
Musashi’s feet left the water and touched the sand at almost the same instant that Ganryū’s sword—his whole body—hurtled at him like a flying fish. When Musashi