Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [98]
“Yes. I’m from Harima; he’s from the village of Miyamoto in the neighboring province of Mimasaka.”
“Is he tall and manly? And does he leave the top of his head unshaved?” “Yes. How did you know?”
“I remember him telling me once that when he was a child he had a carbuncle on the top of his head. If he shaved it the way samurai usually do, you would see an ugly scar.”
“Told you? When?”
“Oh, it’s been five years now.”
“Have you known my teacher that long?”
Akemi did not answer. The memory of those days evoked stirrings in her heart that made even speaking difficult. Convinced from the little the boy had said that Musashi was Takezō, she was gripped by a yearning to see him again. She had seen her mother’s way of doing things, and she had watched Matahachi go from bad to worse. From the first, she had preferred Takezō and had since grown more and more confident in the rightness of his choice. She was glad to be still single. Takezō—he was so different from Matahachi.
Many were the times she had resolved to never let herself wind up with the likes of the men who always drank at the teahouse. She scorned them, holding on firmly to the image of Takezō. Deep within her heart, she nourished the dream of finding him again; he, only he, was the lover in her mind when she sang love songs to herself.
His mission fulfilled, Jōtarō said, “Well, I’d better be going now. If you find Matahachi, be sure to tell him what I told you.” He hurried off, trotting along the narrow top of the dike.
The oxcart was loaded with a mountain of sacks, containing rice perhaps, or lentil beans, or some other local product. On top of the pile, a plaque proclaimed that this was a contribution being sent by faithful Buddhists to the great Kōfukuji in Nara. Even Jōtarō knew of this temple, for its name was virtually synonymous with Nara.
Jōtarō’s face lit up with childish joy. Chasing after the vehicle, he climbed up on back. If he faced backward, there was just enough room to sit down. As an added luxury, he had the sacks to lean against.
On either side of the road, the rolling hills were covered with neat rows of tea bushes. The cherry trees had begun to bloom, and farmers were plowing their barley—praying, no doubt, that this year it would once again be safe from the trampling feet of soldiers and horses. Women knelt by the streams washing their vegetables. The Yamato highroad was at peace.
“What luck!” thought Jōtarō, as he settled back and relaxed. Comfortable on his perch, he was tempted to go to sleep but thought better of it. Fearing they might reach Nara before he awoke, he was thankful every time the wheels struck a rock and the wagon shook, since it helped him keep his eyes open. Nothing could have given him more pleasure than to be not only moving along like this but actually heading toward his destination.
Outside one village, Jōtarō lazily reached out and plucked a leaf from a camellia tree. Putting it to his tongue, he began to whistle a tune.
The wagon driver looked back, but could see nothing. Since the whistling went on and on, he looked over his left shoulder, then his right shoulder, several more times. Finally he stopped the wagon and walked around to the back. The sight of Jōtarō threw him into a rage, and the blow from his fist was so sharp the boy cried out in pain.
“What’re you doing up there?” he snarled.
“It’s all right, isn’t it?”
“It is not all right!”
“Why not? You’re not pulling it yourself!”
“You impudent little bastard!” shouted the driver, tossing Jōtarō onto the ground like a ball. He bounced and rolled against the foot of a tree. Starting off with a rumble, the wheels of the wagon seemed to be laughing at him.
J nottarō picked himself up and began to search carefully around on the ground. He’d just noticed he no longer had the bamboo tube containing the reply from the Yoshioka School to Musashi. He had hung it from his neck with a cord, but now it was gone.
As the totally distraught boy gradually widened the area