Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [83]
Musashi himself ended the bloodshed. Since his challenge had been accepted, he had no qualms about the casualties, but he announced, “There’s no point in continuing until Seijūrō returns,” and refused to fight anymore. There being no alternative, he was shown, at his own request, to a room where he could wait. Only then did one man come to his senses and call for the doctor.
It was soon after the doctor left that voices screaming out the names of two of the wounded brought a dozen men to the back room. They clustered around the two samurai in stunned disbelief, their faces ashen and their breathing uneven. Both were dead.
Footsteps hurried through the dōjō and into the death room. The students made way for Seijūrō and Tōji. Both were as pale as though they’d just emerged from an icy waterfall.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Tōji. “What’s the meaning of all this?” His tone was surly, as usual.
A samurai kneeling grim-faced by the pillow of one of his dead companions fixed accusing eyes on Tōji and said, “You should explain what’s going on. You’re the one who takes the Young Master out carousing. Well, this time you’ve gone too far!”
“Watch your tongue, or I’ll cut it out!”
“When Master Kempō was alive, a day never passed when he wasn’t in the dōjō!”
“What of it? The Young Master wanted a little cheering up, so we went to the Kabuki. What do you mean, talking that way in front of him? Just who do you think you are?”
“Does he have to stay out all night to see the Kabuki? Master Kempō must be turning in his grave.”
“That’s enough!” cried Tōji, lunging toward the man.
As others moved in and tried to separate and calm down the two, a voice heavy with pain rose slightly above the sound of the scuffle. “If the Young Master’s back, it’s time to stop squabbling. It’s up to him to retrieve the honor of the school. That rōnin can’t leave here alive.”
Several of the wounded screamed and pounded on the floor. Their agitation was an eloquent rebuke to those who had not faced Musashi’s sword.
To the samurai of this age, the most important thing in the world was honor. As a class, they virtually competed with each other to see who would be the first to die for it. The government had until recently been too busy with its wars to work out an adequate administrative system for a country at peace, and even Kyoto was governed only by a set of loose, makeshift regulations. Still, the emphasis of the warrior class on personal honor was respected by farmers and townsmen alike, and it played a role in preserving peace. A general consensus regarding what constituted honorable behavior, and what did not, made it possible for the people to govern themselves even with inadequate laws.
The men of the Yoshioka School, though uncultured, were by no means shameless degenerates. When after the initial shock of defeat they returned to their normal selves, the first thing they thought of was honor. The honor of their school, the honor of the master, their own personal honor.
Putting aside individual animosities, a large group gathered around Seijūrō to discuss what was to be done. Unfortunately, on this of all days, Seijūrō felt bereft of fighting spirit. At the moment when he should have been at his best, he was hung over, weak and exhausted.
“Where is the man?” he asked, as he hitched up his kimono sleeves with a leather thong.
“He’s in the small room next to the reception room,” said one student, pointing across the garden.
“Call him!” Seijūrō commanded. His mouth was dry from tension. He sat down in the master’s place, a small raised platform, and prepared himself to receive Musashi’s greeting. Choosing one of the wooden swords proffered by his disciples, he held it upright beside him.
Three or four men acknowledged the command and started to leave, but Tōji and Ryōhei told them to wait.
There ensued a good deal of whispering, just out of Seijūrō’s earshot. The muted consultations centered