Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [88]
“This is a new age,” he thought. “I have the rest of my life before me. I came along too late to follow in the footsteps of Nobunaga or Hideyoshi, but I can still dream of my own world to conquer. No one can stop me from doing that. Even that palanquin bearer must have a dream of some sort.”
For a moment he put these ideas out of his mind and tried to view his situation objectively. He had his sword, and the Way of the Sword was the way he had chosen. It might be fine to be a Hideyoshi or an Ieyasu, but the times no longer had use for people of their particular talents. Ieyasu had everything neatly tied up; there was no more need for bloody wars. In Kyoto, stretched out below him, life was no longer a touch-and-go affair.
For Musashi, the important thing from now on would be his sword and the society around him, his swordsmanship as it related to existing as a human being. In a moment of insight, he was satisfied that he had found the link between the martial arts and his own visions of greatness.
As he sat lost in thought, the palanquin bearer’s face came into view beneath the cliff. He pointed his bamboo pole at Musashi and shouted, “There he is, up there!”
Musashi looked down to where the porters were milling about and shouting. They began climbing the hill toward him. He got to his feet and, trying to ignore them, walked farther up the hill, but soon discovered that his path was blocked. Locking arms and thrusting out their poles, a sizable group of men had encircled him at a distance. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the men behind him had come to a halt. One of them grinned, showing his teeth, and informed the others that Musashi seemed to be “staring at a plaque or something.”
Musashi, now before the steps of the Hongandō, was indeed gazing up at a weather-beaten plaque hanging from the crossbeam of the temple entrance. He felt ill at ease and wondered if he should try frightening them away with a battle cry. Even though he knew he could make quick work of them, there was no point in brawling with a bunch of lowly laborers. It was probably all a mistake anyway. If so, they would disperse sooner or later. He stood there patiently, reading and rereading the words on the plaque: “Original Vow.” “Here she comes!” one of the porters cried.
They began talking among themselves in hushed tones. Musashi’s impression was that they were working themselves into a frenzy. The compound within the western gate of the temple had quickly filled with people, and now priests, pilgrims and vendors were straining their eyes to see what was going on. Their faces brimming with curiosity, they formed circles outside the ring of porters surrounding Musashi.
From the direction of Sannen Hill came the rhythmical, pace-setting chants of men carrying a load. The voices came closer and closer until two men entered the temple grounds bearing on their backs an old woman and a rather tired-looking country samurai.
From her porter’s back, Osugi waved her hand briskly and said, “This will do.” The bearer bent his legs, and as she jumped spryly to the ground, she thanked him. Turning to Uncle Gon, she said, “We won’t let him get away this time, will we?” The two were clothed and shod as though they expected to spend the rest of their lives traveling.
“Where is he?” called Osugi.
One of the bearers said, “Over there,” and pointed proudly toward the temple.
Uncle Gon moistened the handle of his sword with spittle, and the two pushed through the circle of people.
“Take your time,” cautioned one of the porters.
“He looks pretty tough,” said another.
“Just make sure you’re well prepared,” advised still another.
While the laborers offered words of encouragement and support to Osugi, the spectators looked on in dismay.
“Is the old woman actually planning to challenge that rōnin to a duel?” “Looks that way.”
“But she’s so old! Even her second is shaky on his legs! They must have good reason to try taking on a man so much younger.”
“Must be a family feud