Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [636]
He held the wooden sword with both hands, extended out to the right behind him and partially hidden. Satisfied with his position, he half grunted, an almost noiseless sound that wafted before Ganryū’s face. The Drying Pole had appeared to be on the verge of a downward slice, but it wavered slightly, then stopped. Nine feet away from Musashi, Ganryū changed direction by leaping nimbly to the right.
The two men stared at each other. Musashi, two or three paces from the water, had the sea to his back. Ganryū was facing him, his sword held high with both hands.
Their lives were totally absorbed in deadly combat, and both were free from conscious thought.
The scene of the battle was a perfect vacuum. But in the waiting stations and beyond the sound of the waves, countless people held their breath.
Above Ganryū hovered the prayers and the hopes of those who believed in him and wanted him to live, above Musashi the prayers and hopes of others. Of Sado and Iori, on the island. Of Otsū and Osugi and Gonnosuke, on the beach at Shimonoseki. Of Akemi and Matahachi, on their hill in Kokura.
All their prayers were directed to heaven.
Here, hopes, prayers and the gods were of no assistance, nor was chance. There was only a vacuum, impersonal and perfectly impartial.
Is this vacuum, so difficult of achievement by one who has life, the perfect expression of the mind that has risen above thought and transcended ideas?
The two men spoke without speaking. Then to each came the unconscious realization of the other. The pores of their bodies stood out like needles directed at the adversary.
Muscles, flesh, nails, hair, even eyebrows—all bodily elements that partake of life—were united into a single force against the enemy, defending the living organism of which they were a part. The mind alone was one with the universe, clear and untroubled, like the reflection of the moon in a pond amidst the ragings of a typhoon. To reach this sublime immobility is the supreme achievement.
It seemed like eons, but the interval was in fact short—the time required for the waves to come in and recede half a dozen times.
Then a great shout—more than vocal, coming from the depths of being—shattered the instant. It came from Ganryū, and was followed immediately by Musashi’s shout.
The two cries, like angry waves lashing a rocky shore, sent their spirits skyward. The challenger’s sword, raised so high that it seemed to threaten the sun, streaked through the air like a rainbow.
Musashi threw his left shoulder forward, drew his right foot back and shifted his upper body into a position half-facing his opponent. His wooden sword, held in both hands, swept through the air at the same moment that the tip of the Drying Pole came down directly before his nose.
The breathing of the two combatants grew louder than the sound of the waves. Now the wooden sword was extended at eye level, the Drying Pole high above its bearer’s head. Ganryū had bounded about ten paces away, where he had the sea to one side. Though he had not succeeded in injuring Musashi in his first attack, he had put himself in a much better position. Had he remained where he was, with the sun reflecting from the water into his eyes, his vision would soon have faltered, then his spirit, and he would have been at Musashi’s mercy.
With renewed confidence, Ganryū began inching forward, keeping a sharp eye out for a chink in Musashi’s defense and steeling his own spirit for a decisive move.
Musashi did the unexpected. Instead of proceeding slowly and cautiously, he strode boldly toward Ganryū, his sword projecting before him, ready to thrust into Ganryū’s eyes. The artlessness of this approach brought Ganryū to a halt. He almost lost sight of Musashi.
The wooden sword rose straight in the air. With one great kick, Musashi leapt high, and folding his legs, reduced his six-foot frame to four feet or less.
“Y-a-a-ah!” Ganryū’s sword screamed