Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [91]
The boy’s voice was too loud for his size. He could not have been more than ten or eleven years old, and with his hair wet from the rain and hanging down over his ears, he looked no more substantial than a water sprite in a whimsical painting. He was dressed for the part too: thigh-length kimono with tubular sleeves, a thick cord for an obi, and mud splattered clear up his back from running in his wooden clogs.
“That you, Jō?” called the old innkeeper from a back room.
“Yes. Would you like me to bring you some sake?”
“No, not today. The lodger isn’t back yet. I don’t need any.”
“Well, he’ll want some when he does come back, won’t he? I’ll bring the usual amount.”
“If he does, I’ll come get it myself.”
Reluctant to leave without an order, the boy asked, “What are you doing in there?”
“I’m writing a letter, going to send it by the packhorse up to Kurama tomorrow. But it’s a bit difficult. And my back’s getting sore. Be quiet, don’t bother me.”
“That’s pretty funny, isn’t it? You’re so old you’re beginning to stoop, and you still don’t know how to write properly!”
“That’s enough out of you. If I hear any more sass, I’ll take a stick of firewood to you.”
“Want me to write it for you?”
“Ha, as if you could.”
“Oh, I can,” the boy asserted as he came into the room. He looked over the old man’s shoulder at the letter and burst into laughter. “Are you trying to write ‘potatoes’? The character you’ve written means ‘pole.’”
“Quiet!”
“I won’t say a word, if you insist. But your writing’s terrible. Are you planning to send your friends some potatoes, or some poles?”
“Potatoes.”
The boy read a moment longer, then announced, “It’s no good. Nobody but you could guess what this letter’s supposed to mean!”
“Well, if you’re so smart, see what you can do with it, then.”
“All right. Just tell me what you want to say.” Jōtarō sat down and took up the brush.
“You clumsy ass!” the old man exclaimed.
“Why call me clumsy? You’re the one who can’t write!”
“Your nose is dripping on the paper.”
“Oh, sorry. You can give me this piece for my pay.” He proceeded to blow his nose on the soiled sheet. “Now, what is it you want to say?” Holding the brush firmly, he wrote with ease as the old man dictated.
Just as the letter was finished, the lodger returned, casually throwing aside a charcoal sack he had picked up somewhere to put over his head.
Musashi, stopping by the door, wrung the water out of his sleeves and grumbled, “I guess this’ll be the end of the plum blossoms.” In the twenty-odd days Musashi had been there, the inn had come to seem like home. He was gazing out at the tree by the front gate, where pink blossoms had greeted his eye every morning since his arrival. The fallen petals lay scattered about in the mud.
Entering the kitchen, he was surprised to catch a glimpse of the boy from the sake shop, head to head with the innkeeper. Curious as to what they were doing, he stole up behind the old man and peered over his shoulder.
Jōtarō looked up into Musashi’s face, then hastily hid the brush and paper behind him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” he complained.
“Let me see,” said Musashi teasingly.
“No,” said Jōtarō with a defiant shake of his head.
“Come on, show me,” said Musashi.
“Only if you buy some sake.”
“Oh, so that’s your game, is it? All right, I’ll buy some.”
“Five gills?”
“I don’t need that much.”
“Three gills?”
“Still too much.”
“Well, how much? Don’t be such a tightwad!”
“Tightwad? Now, you know I’m only a poor swordsman. Do you think I have money to throw away?
“All right. I’ll measure it out myself, give you your money’s worth. But if I do, you have to promise to tell me some stories.”
The bargaining concluded, Jōtarō splashed cheerfully off into the rain. Musashi picked up the letter and read it. After a moment or two, he turned to the innkeeper and asked, “Did he really write this?”
“Yes. Amazing, isn’t it? He seems very bright.”
While Musashi went to the well, poured some cold