Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [94]
Musashi had since learned a few things and now recognized that his actions at the age of seventeen had been both mindless and devoid of accomplishment. For a man to serve his lord faithfully, it was not enough to jump blindly into the fray and brandish a lance. He must go all the way, to the brink of death.
“If a samurai dies with a prayer for his lord’s victory on his lips, he has done something fine and meaningful,” was the way Musashi would have put it now. But at the time neither he nor Matahachi had had any sense of loyalty. What they had been thirsting for was fame and glory, and more to the point, a means of gaining a livelihood without giving up anything of their own.
It was odd that they should have thought of it that way. Having since learned from Takuan that life is a jewel to be treasured, Musashi knew that far from giving up nothing, he and Matahachi had unwittingly been offering their most precious possession. Each had literally wagered everything he had on the hope of receiving a paltry stipend as a samurai. In retrospect, he wondered how they could have been so foolish.
He noticed that he was approaching Daigo, south of the city, and since he’d worked up quite a sweat, decided to stop for a rest.
From a distance, he heard a voice shouting, “Wait! Wait!” Gazing far down the steep mountain road, he made out the form of the little water sprite Jōtarō, running for all he was worth. Presently the boy’s angry eyes were glaring into his.
“You lied to me!” Jōtarō shouted. “Why did you do that!” Breathless from running, face flushed, he spoke with belligerence, though it was clear he was on the verge of tears.
Musashi had to laugh at his getup. He had discarded the work clothes of the day before in favor of an ordinary kimono, but it was only half big enough for him, the skirt barely reaching his knees and the arms stopping at the elbows. At his side hung a wooden sword that was longer than the boy was tall, on his back a basket hat that looked as big as an umbrella.
Even as he shouted at Musashi for having left him behind, he burst into tears. Musashi hugged and tried to comfort him, but the boy wailed on, apparently feeling that in the mountains, with no one around, he could let himself go.
Finally Musashi said, “Does it make you feel good, acting like a crybaby?”
“I don’t care!” Jōtarō sobbed. “You’re a grownup, and yet you lied to me. You said you’d let me be your follower—then went off and left me. Are grownups supposed to act like that?”
“I’m sorry,” said Musashi.
This simple apology turned the boy’s crying into a pleading whine.
“Stop it now,” said Musashi. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, but you have a father and you have a master. I couldn’t bring you with me unless your master consented. I told you to go and talk with him, didn’t I? It didn’t seem likely to me that he’d agree.”
“Why didn’t you at least wait until you heard the answer?”
“That’s why I’m apologizing to you now. Did you really discuss this with him?”
“Yes.” He got his sniffling under control and pulled two leaves from a tree, on which he blew his nose.
“And what did he say?”
“He told me to go ahead.”
“Did he now?”
“He said no self-respecting warrior or training school would take on a boy like me, but since the samurai at the inn was a weakling, he ought to be just the right person. He said maybe you could use me to carry your luggage, and he gave me this wooden sword as a going-away present.”
Musashi smiled at the man’s line of reasoning.
“After that,” continued the boy, “I went to the inn. The old man wasn’t
there, so I just borrowed this hat from off the hook under the eaves.” “But that’s the inn’s signboard; it has ‘Lodgings’ written on it.” “Oh, I don’t mind. I need a hat in case it rains.”
It was clear from Jōtarō’s attitude that as far as he was concerned, all necessary promises and vows had been exchanged, and he was now Musashi