The Lives of the Eight Dogs of the Satomi of Southern Fusa

Volume IV, Book II

Assembled by the Master of the Crooked Pavilion in the Eastern Capital

Chapter XXXIII

Kobungo loses a hempen garment at night;

Genpachirō seeks efficacious medicine afar

Shino, Kenpachi, and Bungobei, unexpectedly hailed by a speaker among the reeds, all glanced at each other, cornered and hesitant. Then the speaker stepped down to the water’s edge and approached the boat’s prow. He held a bundle wrapped in a bath cloth, which he now shifted to his left hand, and a towel covered his head, tied beneath his jaw; this kerchief he now loosed and used to wipe the sweat from his brow. He placed a hand on the side of the boat. A look told the flabbergasted Bungobei that this was none other than Inuta Kobungo.

Bungobei spoke to him in a voice raised as if in anger: “How recklessly the villain has become drunk upon the festival sake: he jests with ne’er a thought about the place or its appropriateness, and bowls me over, much to my chagrin. Or does your mouth run on so because you harbor enmity toward these men, forgetting all righteousness and reason?”

Thus he fulminated, chastising his son, but Kenpachi tugged on his sleeve from behind to stop him: “Pray, be not so angered, Uncle. If no outsider overhears us, then none can know if we survived or not—if we live or die. But the longer we speak, the more it may leak out. Is this not the gist of your digressive remonstrance?”

Seeking to appease the two, he advanced to the prow of the boat, saying, “Have you been well, Mister Inuta? Did you hear our long stories, uniting within them pain and pleasure, sadness and rejoicing, happiness and haplessness, from the beginning? You must have had a reason for loitering so near and never telling us you were there, instead concealing yourself. Our fate is not exhausted—we are unexpectedly reunited—and I am, what is more difficult still, revived. All this is His Eminence your father’s blessing upon us.”

Having said this, Kenpachi hastily looked back at Shino and pulled him forward, saying, “This is Kobungo.”

Shino advanced closer. “Pray come here, Elder Brother. I am called Inuzuka Shino Moritaka. I know from His Honored Eminence your father’s tale that we share a connection from past lives, and so I feel as if this is not a first meeting. How could I have encountered His Eminence, how could I have returned to life, were it not fated? And what is more, how should I have met you, milord? Pray come aboard, even for a little while, and let us converse.”

Kobungo did not rise to this invitation, but said, “It was reckless of me to jest with my father so, and unmannerly of me to thus alarm Your Lordships. It may appear the work of drunken madness, but I know it is my aged father’s habit to talk loudly when he is excited, and as the proverb says, the walls have ears; it so pained me that I said what I said without thinking. Even so, I must say it was cruel of my father to suggest that I harbor enmity in my heart for Your Lordships, forgetting all righteousness and reason.” As he grumbled, he rubbed his knees and swatted away the mosquitos that clung to his hem.

“Indeed it was,” said Shino and Kenpachi. “There are mosquitos there, and your hem must be wet. It may be cramped, but please, come into the boat.”

Kobungo would not hear of it. “Nay, how long can I leave Your Lordships here? Indeed, I went home once, and have come to fetch you. My sire, Your Eminence, hear me. I left the temporary hall of the god and went home, only to see that Your Eminence was not there, and that the girls were anxious, saying, ‘He has gone out fishing again. Oh, will he not come back soon?” I could not bear to hear their complaints, so like talking to a wall. For many days they have been waiting expectantly for this day, and their home leave, and now they cannot go, but must watch the inn in your absence. They must be very sad. I knew your usual fishing spot, and so, I thought, shall I not go and speak to you on their behalf? And thus I sought you here on this plain where the reeds stand forever, and through the reeds in the distance I saw Your Eminence aboard an unfamiliar boat and without a glance around conversing with a youth—guessing you must have your reasons, I thought it better not to raise a cry. I came nearer and eavesdropped, and saw someone sit up—this was Master Kenpachi.

“And so I heard about the accursed perils, the prodigious encounters, the beads, the marks, the hearts full of filial piety and marrows full of righteousness, the unusual reports and outlandish tales, and the winding up of affairs that pertained to each of you. And, weird though it was, happy was I as well to know that I shared a connection with you both from past lives—my joy is unexampled. I wished to step out and face you at once, but then I thought how universally exposed we should feel to bring these men home with us without first dismissing the girls. I estimated that I should be able to return to our dwelling and put things in order there, and then come back here and still have time to meet you. And so I withdrew, gave the girls leave to depart, indeed sent them away. The sun was conveniently setting; I locked the gate, left through the back gate, and came back here. When I did, what should I see but that His Eminence was not done talking? His lengthy story now encompassed myself—he was speaking, tendentiously and boastfully, of me. It pained me to stand by.”

As Kobungo thus proclaimed his thinking, Bungobei laughed and rubbed his bald pate. “You may be young still, but you outstrip your father for mindfulness. I was not aware of any of this, and so when you surprised me, I scolded you, spoke from anger things you did not expect—but such is a father’s role. Now let us escort our visitors hence. Run ahead and mark the way.”

He stood to go before he had even finished speaking, but Kobungo stopped him: “A moment, please! The gloaming has come swift upon us, but the marketplace is filled with people going to and from the Gion Festival, and every gate is festooned with lanterns aplenty; anyone who sees Master Inukai’s strange attire will be suspicious. On top of which, Master Inuzuka’s robe and trousers are bloody. In consideration of this I brought singlets, although their length may not be the most convenient for you. Pray, change your clothes for these.” With this he set his bundle down upon the plank in the prow of the boat and rolled it around until he had undone it; from within it emerged two swords.

Then Kobungo turned to face Shino and Genpachi. “These alder-dyed singlets are made of Nitayama cotton, so I think they will be rough on your skin, but pray, sirs, change into them. Among the robes are two or three strips of cloth, and within them you should find a shell containing unguent. It is what wrestlers use for scrapes and bruises, and it is efficacious. Apply it to your cuts, sirs, and then wrap them in cloth. Then, too, Master Inuzuka, you seem a bit light about the waist. I redeemed these two swords from a certain person recently. I am not one who may wear two swords, but as the price was low, and as the blades are of fine temper, though anonymous, I thought them splendid, and I desired them recklessly; I bought them, for which I was sore scolded by my father. I should be happy for you to wear them, just for the time being.”

Shino, touched by Kobungo’s display of sincerity in offering him these two blades, advanced and knelt, receiving them with reverence and saying, “When I made for myself enemies at the Koga Palace, it was so unexpected that I had no time to take back my blade. I held my opponents at bay, searching for an opening, and then stole the sword of the man in front of me and fought with it. But even that blade broke, leaving me without an inch of steel to my person. Now you give me, freely and easily, not just a change of clothing, but this evidence of thoughtfulness—a gift worth a thousand in gold. My lord, I had heard much from old Uncle here about your manly gallantry, your bravery and might. You are an elder brother to me not only in righteous courage, but in ability and prudence. I owe you a debt any real brother might find it hard to incur.”

Uncommon was his joy. Kenpachi, too, expressed his gratitude to Kobungo for his exhaustive efforts in a time of haste, and spoke of what a boon they were to him. Then Shino and Kenpachi nimbly changed their robes, and each helped the other to bind his wounds with cloth, tying tight the strips, while Bungobei, his heart as full as any parent’s at seeing his son’s ability so praised, allowed his joy expression on his face while he gathered Shino’s and Kenpachi’s robes and trousers, greaves and vambraces, as they took them off and laid them aside; he bundled them together in the cloth, pressing them tight as he wrapped them and tied the corners together.

Kobungo peered in every direction and then said, “Your Eminence, pray take our visitors home quickly. I shall push the boat so that it floats away, and then follow you. Leave the bath cloth bundle here, but take your fishing pole when you go. Do not forget anything.”

Bungobei nodded at these attentions and then turned to Shino and Kenpachi and said, “Pray let us go. We shall be going through narrow straits, so I will take the liberty of going first. Pardon me.”

He put his foot on the edge of the boat, but Kobungo would not let his father’s feet get wet, and he grasped him around the waist. “Kobungo, you need not do that. I am alright. Let me go, let me go,” said Bungobei, as Kobungo helped him down to the water’s edge.

Shino and Kenpachi followed him down in a flash so that they, too, stood at the water’s edge. “Well, then, Elder Brother, we shall do as you say and await you at your home, together with our old uncle. Indeed, leaving the boat here would be like the pheasant who hides in the grass but leaves his tail exposed. It pains me to think of all the labor we have put you to, milord.”

Kobungo would not hear him out. “Say not such things; I understand. Do not occupy your minds with matters here, but hie yourselves hence, quickly.” In response to these urgings, the two bowed at the waist and bade Kobungo farewell and then followed Bungobei as he hurried off toward the Konaya.

Kobungo watched them until they disappeared, and then he grasped his sash and twisted it, with practiced hand retying it to leave his shins exposed, his hems tucked up in fine imposing manner; then he pushed his long-bladed sidearm back until it hung behind him. He loosed the painter, cast it aside, picked up the bath cloth bundle, and placed it securely on his back. Then he placed his shoulder firmly against the boat’s prow, left to dry by the receding tide, and pushed, propelling it into the river’s center until the water covered his calves He held it, aimed it, drove it with all his might, and released it, so that the rocking boat rushed backward in the direction of the sea. Muttering to himself that “now my heart is set at ease,” Kobungo calmly returned to the water’s edge and climbed onto the bank, then wiped off his wet legs.

By this time the sun had fully set, and the dark of the evening was severe upon the reeds that grew thickly on every side. Kobungo could not distinguish black from white, so he must guess and grope for the sandals he had left on a rock. He pulled them onto his feet, let down his rolled-up sleeves, wiped the dirt off with a towel, and then commenced to make his way quite leisurely along the road leading toward his home, a road to which he was accustomed, so that all night’s darkness could not make him lose his way.

But hardly had he gone a dozen yards when from out of the reed bed there suddenly appeared a villain. He wore a thin robe of thick stripes into which midnight blue and cerulean strips had been interwoven crosswise; this was tied shut with a wide black sash of Chinese weave, into which one corner of the robe had been tucked by way of raising high the hem; horizontally at his waist he wore a single sword; and his head was covered with a towel, tie-dyed in indigo, knotted under his chin.

He peered at Kobungo a while and then padded silently up behind him and grasped, grabbed at the pommel of his sword to stop him—he pulled him back two paces, three—Kobungo calmly twisted his body, gave himself a shake that threw his assailant off, then turned to look behind him—as he did, his attacker grasped his shoulder, turned his back to him again, and thrust his hand with a flash into the bath cloth bundle on Kobungo’s shoulder, gripped it, and tried to pull Kobungo down with it—the bundle tore open, and one of the hempen robes spilled out, which Kobungo, in the impenetrable raven-black darkness, did not notice. Kobungo grew ever more enraged, and spun about, jumped on his attacker, and took hold of the villain’s right forearm as if to crush it.

The man thus grasped never flinched, but shook Kobungo off, received his fists with practiced moves that softened the blows, like bracken shoots that brush ’gainst silvergrass. One punched, one dodged; one pushed, one disengaged. In the myst’ries of fighting hand to hand, neither was inferior to the other—neither knew the other’s face, while underfoot the melee made it easy for neither to advance or to retreat—each tried to rush forward, but each slipped on the gravel they had both kicked up, so that one missed this way, and the other that, and both were left stampeding past their mark for several paces, stopping just before they tumbled to the ground. They stopped and stared toward each other for a time, and then the villain, having fixed his aim, advanced to strike his blow, while Kobungo blocked his way with fists and with his own advance—the upshot was that the villain sustained a great blow to his abdomen, on the side, unbearable for even a moment, so that he gave a great scream and backed up two yards or more—Kobungo heard him falling on his rump, although he could not see it in the dark.

Kobungo tightened up his bundle where it had come loose, retied it, then fled, fleet of foot, returning to his home. After a time the villain returned to his senses and got up and took a step as if to renew the pursuit, but his foot caught on the fallen hempen robe. He caught it up, felt it, held it up in the darkness, raven-black, and stared at it, then nodded to himself and grinned. The robe he wadded up and slipped into his bosom, while he folded his hands and cocked his head; then changing both his mind and road, he left at a run toward the brine-salt makers’ beach.

Meanwhile, Bungobei had taken Shino and Kenpachi home to his inn at the foot of the bridge. At last they stepped through the back gate. Bungobei lit lamps here and there before settling the two guests in a small parlor nestled in the back of the inn; he prepared liquor and food for them with his own hands, and pressed it on them, saying:

“’Tis hot as it is every year, but rain has been incessant this sixth and Waterless Month. Perhaps that is what defeats the travelers, for we have had few guests recently. Then again the ascetic I was telling you about earlier, the priest Nengyoku, the Great Guide from Kamakura, is sojourning here, alone, having sent his followers back. But he, too, has gone to the beach to pray to the god-bier at its cleansing, or so he said when he left at midday. He told me he would stop there this evening, and should not return here until morning; good for us. With the girls all gone we are constrained in everything, but with no outsiders in the house, at least you need not look over your shoulders. Whenever you wish to speak with me, sirs, please clap your hands and summon me. Never hesitate to make an old man work a little.”

So earnest were his efforts at providing them with comfort that Shino and Kenpachi hurriedly set the chopsticks they gripped down on their trays, placed their palms reverently on their knees, and said, “We cannot thank you enough for entertaining us so earnestly, in spite of having only your own aged hands to work with. Even relatives and friends will turn their backs when one is down and out. Who would brave the consequences of sitting down with an accused man long enough to offer him a night’s lodgings? You are a rare parent, Uncle, who measures his child’s friends and sees only their righteousness, with no thought of what future hardships they may bring. Nevertheless, regret will do us no good if allowing you to play host to us for days on end entangles you in our affairs. Once your son returns, sir, we will speak to him of our joy at this encounter, acknowledge our indebtedness to him, and then, when we have talked this night away, we will depart tomorrow before dawn.”

Thus did they address him as one, but he would not hear them out. “What are you saying? I may be a man of the marketplace, but I came from the womb of a warrior’s wife. You, sirs, are bound to my son with bonds of righteousness, and are brothers to each other: how then can you be other than sons to me? Stay you here ever so long, shall I not shelter you, come what may? But first, take up your chopsticks, I pray you.”

The hospitality he showed to them—heaping rice on dishes on their trays—proved to them he had no other thought in mind but reassuring them, inviting them to stay; both were deeply moved. “The father of a champion is, it seems, by nature no different from his son. We find it consolation without end that all this happiness is meant for us, and not for any normal ones,” they sighed.

When their feasting was nearly done, Kobungo came home. When the villain had attacked him unaware, challenging him, seeking to detain him, his bath cloth bundle had rent, and he had dropped Shino’s hempen robe, but he had never noticed in his haste and the raven’s-wing darkness in which the encounter had taken place. Nevertheless, he thought that “the villain was not of the run of petty thieves who set their hands against the treasures one keeps next to one’s bosom. Considering the nature of the affair, he was probably hiding in the reed bed eavesdropping on the secret conversations in the boat. Or perhaps he had some grudge against me, that led him to lie in ambush that he might attack me in darkness. Be that as it may, if it means that those secret conversations leak to outsiders then he is an enemy to our guests. It makes me uneasy.”

His expression betrayed nothing of this, however, as he untied the bundle he carried on his back, lowered it, and stowed it in a cupboard, closing the door firmly, before at length heading toward the little parlor.

There Shino and Kenpachi greeted him joyfully, yielding him a place so that they might sit in a circle, whereupon they redoubled their expressions of appreciation for what father and son had done, with deep-hued leaves of speech. Kobungo would not hear of it, though.

“Do not trouble yourselves, sirs. What little I have done hardly deserves the gratitude you offer me. When aspirations agree, intimacy follows, even though a thousand leagues intervene; when aspirations differ, a single shared wall brings insurmountable estrangement. Once Master Inukai and I bound ourselves in virtue: we are brothers. Even without the beads and the marks, I should look on this affair and share his sadness. However, not only Master Inukai, but you, too, Master Inuzuka, see fit not to shun me, and this is because of those two strange prodigies. I already heard most of the affair from the reed bed, only I have not yet seen the beads. But first, have a look at my bead.”

Thus saying, he took from his bosom an old pouch of gold brocade in which he kept paper. He searched inside it and removed a bead, which he showed to Shino and Kenpachi. They too took out their beads, bringing the three side by side, and when viewed together they were nigh indistinguishable one from another. Only the characters each bore—for filiality, fraternity, and fidelity—allowed each bead to be matched with its owner. As if newly aware of them, they held the beads up to the light and gazed at them—the three exclaimed as one.

When they had again separated the three beads, and each had put his away, Bungobei, beaming with joy, turned to Kobungo and said, “The beads show that what I said earlier was no lie. While we are on the subject, show our two guests your mark.”

Hearing this, Kobungo grinned. “My mark is in an inconvenient place. It would be rude to show it to you, and yet I cannot disobey my father. Pray forgive me,” he said. He undid his sash and sloughed off his robe, then turned his back to show his mark; Bungobei pointed the lamp toward the spot. Shino and Kenpachi squinted at Kobungo’s plump, meaty flesh, white enough to outdazzle snow. His back bore no moxa or needle traces, but there was a black mark on his buttock, and it was indeed shaped like a peony blossom. They had nothing but words of praise for it as they helped Kobungo back into the singlet he had doffed, until finally he put his arms through its sleeves. He then quickly tied his sash.

Shino looked at him anew and spoke. “Long ago in a foreign land, in the time of Zhou in China, Chong Er, son of Duke Xian of Jin, was driven from his country to wander, and he passed through the country of Cao. Duke Gong of Cao [whose name was xiang] heard that Chong Er’s ribs were yoked together, and secretly desired to see them. One of his ministers, Li Fuji, remonstrated with him, but to no avail: the Duke peeked at Chong Er when the latter was bathing. [the huainan master says that the prince of cao, out of his incessant desire to see chong er’s yoked ribs, caused chong er to strip to the skin to catch a fish.] Chong Er, upon finding out, resented it. When he had returned to his own country and attained rank, it is said, he raised men-at-arms and attacked Cao, captured Duke Gong, and repaid him for the insult. This Chong Er became Duke Wen of Jin: he is written about in the State Discourses and the Chronicles of the Historian,¹ and so anyone who reads will know of him. You, Mister Inuta, differ from him. Having loved to wrestle for years now, you have no antipathy to baring your skin. However, displaying such a hard-to-see spot might have exposed you to ridicule, had our relationship not been so steadfast, might it not? Here is my mark.”

With that, Shino bared enough flesh to reveal his own mark. Kobungo looked at it and praised it, saying, “More and more prodigious.”

Then Shino, again covering his skin, emitted an involuntary sigh. “And yet we three friends are not the only ones, for a man named Inukawa Sōsuke Yoshitō, nicknamed Gakuzō, has an identical mark and an identical bead. It disappoints me greatly that he alone must be excluded from this circle. This is the kind of man Gakuzō Sōsuke is,” he said, and proceeded to describe him.

He then said, “I know not the reasons, the karmic causes and effects, that may lie behind these beads and these marks. But once I buried the body of a dog named Yoshirō, beloved of my late mother, beneath a plum tree in our garden, and the next year that tree bore fruit in bunches of eight, and on each plum appeared a character. There were eight in all: benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, filiality, fraternity, loyalty, and fidelity they read, unmistakably. Such a mysterious thing was this that I picked some of the plums and put them away; I still have the pits. The characters disappeared together with the flesh as it dried, but the pits are round and small, just like the beads we each carry in secret. When I first discovered that the plums were octuplets, there were only Sōsuke and myself, and yet we both thought their shape, not to mention the writing, was so like our beads that there must be yet others with such beads hidden away. And if there were, they must certainly be to us as brothers of different families: so thought we then, and indeed it has proved to be even so, for here we have gained in Inukai and Inuta two friends to the death, and we are now four. Should there be others besides, then becomes our future something in which we may trust. What greater joy can there be?”

As he gave this fine-spoken explanation, Bungobei inched forward on his knees and pricked up his ears, exclaiming now and then, while Kenpachi and Kobungo, too, could not fail to be struck by the curiousness of the tale. They felt what they were now aware of, their vows from a previous life, and conceived a great affection for Gakuzō Sōsuke.

Thus it was that Kenpachi picked up the cup that sat next to him and offered it anew to Shino and Kobungo. Rejoicing, they bound themselves in righteousness, vowing that “though we share not each other’s pleasures, we shall share each other’s sorrows. Though we were not born on the same day, we shall die on the same day.”

Bungobei, too, rejoiced, and brought more food and pressed on them more cups. Shino and Kenpachi, whose bodies still bore cuts from blades, accepted their cups but did not drink the sake. “Old man, you gave us life: in that you are our father. Moreover, as your son Kobungo is our brother of a different family, you are as our stepfather, too—a father in righteousness. We ought to offer a cup to you,” they petitioned, by way of expressing their joy. But Bungobei, embarrassed by his baseness, would only honor Shino and Kenpachi.

Then Kobungo faced his father and spoke, saying: “There is that which gives me concern. Perhaps it is not worth mentioning, but I wish you might take special caution on days when I am not at the inn. Although we have had few travelers staying with us of late, that ascetic, the priest Nengyoku, is sure to return tomorrow. Nor does he alone worry me. Fusahachi has borne a terrible grudge ever since we wrestled at Yawata some days past. Husband of my sister he may be, but I fear trouble may come from that quarter if we let it; we cannot know. I will consider the public temper, and should there be anything I find hateful, then I will move you, sirs, to another place. I can seize opportunities and respond to changes—I am not without resources. I say this only that you might be prepared.”

It was because the villain who had accosted him that evening on the reed beds still weighed on his mind that he said these things. Bungobei was not aware of this, but still he answered, “Truly, ’tis only true.”

Kenpachi listened closely and then said: “Indeed, the Chiba, who control this territory, are allies to the Koga lord, while Yokohori Arimura is a most jealous man. When he hears that Kenpachi is unscathed, has bound himself to Mister Inuzuka in righteousness, and has absconded from his post, he will conceive of an exceeding hatred for Master Inuzuka and myself. In avoiding the eyes and ears of other people, nothing is handier than a change of name: and yet the ‘Ken’ in Kenpachi was a component of my adoptive father’s name, and to discard it would be out of the question. But because of this bead, I have come to know, all unexpectedly, of my real father. And so I shall add the character for jewel to my ‘Ken,’ and call myself, from this day forth, Genpachi.² What think you?”

Thus addressed, Shino and Kobungo were moved by Kenpachi’s filial feeling in not forgetting his parents even at such a time. “It is as it should be,” they replied, and as of that evening, Kenpachi changed his name to Genpachirō. Shino, too, used a false name for a time in order to avoid notice.

The night drew quickly on, until sometime past midnight, or so they thought, when they heard an insistent knocking at the gate. Kobungo went to the door and inquired, “Who calls at the gate?”

Hearing this, the visitor raised his voice. “I am Karashirō from the saltmakers’ beach. On their way back from the washing of the god-bier some young men got into a great brawl on the beach that left several of them hurt. Among them were some of your wrestling disciples, and some disciples of Yamabayashi Fusahachi in Ichikawa. Someone stepped in last night as judge to appease both sides, but as he is from elsewhere, the night draws ever on, without bringing a solution. Please, Champion, go and take care of matters, somehow. Your followers await you. Hurry, please hurry.”

Kobungo listened to his urgings, then clucked and said, “What a time for that lot to go brawling. My father has been stricken by the heat, and the girls have gone to the country—I have no one here—I cannot go out. That is why I did not help with the god-bier as I always do. But if this fight is with boys from Ichikawa—Yamabayashi’s disciples—I cannot turn a deaf ear to it. Run on ahead—I will follow you. What a troublesome lot.”

Karashi hardly heard him out: “We shall be waiting for you, Champion. Please come quickly,” he said, pressing his point before running off, his footfalls loud in the night.

Kobungo went back to the little parlor and said, “I must excuse myself, gentlemen, unmannerly though it be of me. Your Eminence must have heard what was said just now at the gate, for he spoke loudly, as the beach folk do. It would be suspicious if I, who every year attend the Gion Festival, and who nevertheless stayed in this night, did not go now. Short as the nights are at this season, I doubt I shall be back before it is light. Put our guests to bed, Your Eminence, then pray bar the doors and sleep.”

Bungobei would not hear of this; he knitted his brow, cocked his head, and said, “’Tis no uncommon thing for young men to drink themselves silly, and to hit and be hit, but your opponents are Ichikawa men, disciples of that unpleasant Fusahachi. No doubt he has sent them as seeds that will someday spread their limbs. Do not be lured into another man’s fight.”

A smile bloomed on Kobungo’s face. “The things you say are all well understood. Fusahachi lost. This angered him, and now he seeks to push my cart aside, but how shall he prevail when I pursue a straight course along a straight path?”

Bungobei would not listen. He took a piece of paper from his bosom and tore it loudly into two strips, one long and one short. He twisted each of them and then, holding them in his left hand, said: “Kobungo, your determination here and your determination there, once your dander is up, may be two different things. When you were sixteen and took care of Inuta the Barricade, you made a promise that should you fight, you would not hit, and that though you wear a longsword, you would not draw your blade; since then you have refrained from engaging in quarrels, but this feud makes me uneasy. Now, give me your sidearm.”

Bungobei took Kobungo’s sword and laid it across his knee, and then passed one of the strips of twisted paper through the openwork of his sword guard and then through a collet on the scabbard; he tied the twine tight, then set the sword aside. Next he took Kobungo’s right hand and brought it close to his breast, where he tied the other strip of paper in a loop around the bases of Kobungo’s right thumb and little finger. As Bungobei tore off the remaining ends of paper, Kobungo, nearly dumbfounded, asked, “What are you doing?”

Before he had finished his question, Bungobei had grasped Kobungo’s sidearm by the scabbard and stood it up on his knee. “Does the son not know the father’s heart?³ A strip of twisted paper is a fragile thing, but when it is used to tie a blade in place, the blade may not be drawn without tearing the paper. The laws of the land and the instructions of a parent are just like this twist of paper. They are easily enough broken when you have a mind to break them, but having broken them, you make yourself lawless and unfilial. The longsword is a man’s soul. Its virtue is to protect him; he does not wear it in order to kill others. Hands are treasures in that they serve one. Their virtue is to be able to manipulate all things; they are not for hitting with. No matter what you encounter that is annoying or unendurable, I would have you reflect on how easy this paper is to tear, and how difficult it is of tying after once being torn: I would have you endure, and not give your father cause to lament.”

To these homely teachings, reasoning much more deeply upon righteousness than usual, Kobungo could make no answer, abashed with gratitude as he was; he simply sat with bowed head. Shino and Genpachi heard, and exclaimed in spite of themselves: “What exquisitely subtle teaching! The character for ‘heart’ resembles a lock. When this lock of the heart is attached to ‘blade,’ it becomes ‘to endure.’⁴ When one endures the unendurable one is happy, with no resentments, no regrets, and no enmities to be avenged. And who but a parent can enlighten one so thoroughly? Can any god or buddha do more to protect one than one’s parent? Both of us have lost both parents: it is our greatest unhappiness. We envy you the hearing of such teaching.”

Hearing this, Kobungo raised his head. “They say shortsightedness never earns merit.⁵ I am obliged to my father for his admonitions not to lose myself in wrath: they pierce my breast and sink into my innards. Your Eminence, let your heart be easy. Now that I know that my past lives have appended me to three or four such excellent men, my body is worth a thousand, ten thousand in gold. How then shall I let a moment’s rage draw me into the error of forgetting my father and turning my back on my friends? If I sever these strips of paper, I must be disowned by my sire, abandoned by all men: I should then have no need for the name of gallant. These paper rings you have placed on me, that I might not forget this, shall be as the reconciliation that mends the circle and ends the fight. Now, the night is quickly grown late, and I go. Sleep, I pray you,” he said, picking up his sword and thrusting it into his sash.

Bungobei nodded. “Then am I relieved. Will you not take a lantern?”

Kobungo prevented his father from standing, saying, “’Tis the night of the twentieth: the light of the crescent moon floods the night. A lantern would only be trouble. Do not think too much of it if I am late returning—even if it is past dawn.” Thus reassuring his father, he said farewell to Shino and Genpachi and quickly made his way outside; both stood and escorted him to the door.

Once Kobungo had left, Bungobei bolted the door, then set about clearing away the cups and trays, hanging mosquito netting in the little parlor, and leaving Shino and Genpachi to rest. He withdrew to his own closet, but just as he was trying to sleep, the bells tolled the third quarter of the hour of the ox,⁶ echoing past his pillow while he was still awake.

Thus it was that Bungobei arose early the next morning, lit a fire, drew water, and prepared the morning meal. He then waited for Shino and Genpachi to arise, and as he waited the sun climbed high in the sky, until already it was the hour of the snake.⁷ Konbungo had not yet returned, and his two guests had not yet awakened.

He let them be for a while, thinking that “their uncommon fatigue must have brought them deep slumber,” but when even more time passed, he began to think that “it would not be a bad time for them to awaken.” And so he stood at the sliding door that separated the small parlors and called to them in a loud voice, saying, “Will you not awaken, my visitors? The fullness of the day is upon us.”

Genpachi hastened out of the mosquito netting and pushed open the sliding door. “I have been awake since sunrise, but for some reason, before dawn, Mister Inuzuka’s cuts began to swell exceedingly—he seems to be suffering greatly. Since his wounds, happily, were shallow and not in vital spots, I had thought he should heal in time, but this sudden swelling and pain may mean that the rough wind that blew off the river all night gave him the tetanus. I did all I could think of—would nurse him if I could—but I am without the medicine case I usually carry at my waist. I thought to tell you, sir, to discuss the matter with you, but Master Inuzuka said, ‘I do not wish to disturb the old man at his morning cooking, when he has no one to take his place. Besides, he is no physician: even if he saw me, he could do nothing for me. Let him be a while.’ And so I kept silent.”

Bungobei was astonished. “This is a surprise. He was healthy last night when we were conversing. But illness is what cannot be fathomed. I imagine he suffers not only from the tetanus, but from the pain of the bruises he sustained falling from that tower. But it is somewhat of a comfort that you, sir, are unharmed. Well, then, let me take a look at him,” he said, advancing into the chamber and pushing the hanging mosquito netting aside with his face. “How are you feeling, Mister Inuzuka? Do you want for anything?”

Shino opened his eyes at this query and tried to raise his head from the pillow, but he could not; his breathing told how unendurable was the effort. “Is that you, Uncle? Has Lord Kobungo not returned since last night? Bad enough to have to flee the floating world and stay in rented room, but then to fall ill—it pains me; more than that, it pains my heart to cause such pains for others. Life or death: ’twill be as Heaven decrees. Please, let me be.” Hardly had he spoken when he closed his eyes.

Bungobei sighed and then withdrew, exchanging glances with Genpachi that brought him, too, to the next room, where they knelt, facing each other. Bungobei spoke in lowered voice. “He is in a bitter state. His fever is like a flame burning him, and yet his color is not good. It must be an empty fever, and no doubt he has chills, too. If we are not careful in treating him, nursing him, I have misgivings about whether or not he will recover. We have no famous doctors or excellent medicines out here in the countryside, although we do have a few practitioners of basic medicine, acupuncture, chirurgery, women’s medicine, massage, chiropractic, and the like, scattered here and there. However, it is hard for me to countenance letting a local physician see him, as he has fled the floating world. My elder brother, Shichirō of the Nako, passed down to me a remedy for the tetanus, a real prodigy. The method that was handed down to me specifies that, when the tetanus swells and hurts, when the wound does not heal after many days, when the blood flows like thread and does not stop, when, in short, the sufferer is on the point of death—if four cups each of blood are drawn from a young male and a young female, mixed together, and poured over the wound to bathe it, the pain will depart, the swelling will recede, the wound will heal straightaway, and the sufferer will recover his energy in the space of a day. It will be like sweeping dust away with a broom. My brother passed this down to me orally when I was very young, and I recently transmitted it to Kobungo, so that it would remain among the traditions of our house. However, anyone from whom four cups of blood are drawn will surely die. Yea, though the giver die not, money will not buy vitality; ’tis a hard medicine to obtain. I leave it to your discretion.”

Genpachi considered the matter. “This method of washing with blood is good, you say, and yet is not physic originally a benevolent art? To harm someone in quest of medicine is not in keeping with this. It is an act hardly to be conscioned, think you not? In the writings of the late Mister Nikaimatsu, who was my teacher in the martial arts, such remedies can be found under entries on camp medicine, but I never approved of them, and so I have never tried them. But in Shiba Cove in Musashi there is for sale a tetanus medicine, a good medicine of proven efficacy. When I was younger, a certain person in my fief was seriously wounded at the battle of Nakata and stricken with the tetanus. As physicking was of no effect, he tried this medicine from Shiba, and was healed straightaway. From here to Shiba must be over a dozen miles, perhaps as many as fifteen. But if I leave now, and, as the days are long, if I make single-minded haste on the road, I can still return here by the fourth watch of the morning.⁸ The name of the apothecary I have forgotten, but once I am there I will inquire after him—surely I shall find him.”

Thus did he whisper, and Bungobei nodded, saying, “Indeed, such a medicine would be just the thing. But you have cuts of your own. To run so far, exposing yourself to the heat—even if you come back unscathed, you will fast become known, and if something should happen to you on the way, no regrets of mine would suffice. I will dash to the beach and call Kobungo back, and send him to Shiba, or else I shall go there myself—yes, that is what we must do.”

He tried to stand, but Genpachi restrained him quickly. “If my elder brother has not returned by now, it is because something has happened that he cannot easily evade. Were it not so, how could he still be there for you to go and summon back? Then, too, Uncle, you might tire your legs in the journey only to find that he cannot return, which would be a waste of time, when we are trapped like a crucian in a wheel-rut. My wounds are mere scratches. I will hide my face with a sedge hat while on the road. Should something occur on the way, then I am yet free to advance or retreat at will. Behold,” he said, waving his arms and stamping his feet.

Bungobei was moved by his aspirations, his brave pursuit of the right, and no longer sought to hold him back, but merely offered him some breakfast, and some money for travel expenses and the medicine. Genpachi rinsed his mouth out and combed his hair before sitting down to a tray of food. A short time later, when he put away his chopsticks and stood to go, Bungobei had already set out everything he needed for the journey, from a basket of food to a sedge hat, gaiters, and straw sandals.

Genpachi accepted these things from Bungobei. “I have not taken my leave of Shino, and for good reason. Were I to tell him that I was bound for Shiba, and on what counsel, he would refuse to let me—he would forbid me to go. Were I to go anyway, in very spite of his prohibition, it would only add to his sufferings. Should Inuzuka inquire after me later, Uncle, please tell him thus-and-such,” he whispered.

As he did so he seated himself on the veranda and put on the straw sandals, crossing their laces before tying them. Then, taking up his sword and thrusting it horizontally into his sash, he bade farewell to Bungobei, placed the sedge hat on his head, its brim low so as to hide his face, and sneaked out by the back gate.

1. The Guoyu (J. Kokugo), a Spring and Autumn–period history, and the Shi ji, respectively. The Huainan Master is the Huainanzi. The story occurs in chapter 4 of Guoyu, chapter 39 of Shi ji, and chapter 18 of Huainanzi.

2. The ken in Kenpachi is the character meaning “to see.” The addition of the ball or jewel radical turns it into the character for “to appear.” It also changes the pronunciation from ken to gen. It should be noted that this is a different character from the gen in his childhood name, Genkichi (which means “dark” or “obscure”). The “rō” element that appears immediately below is the same as in the name of the dog Yoshirō, signifying “man.”

3. A phrase that, as “the son knows not the father’s heart,” goes back at least to the fourteenth-century war chronicle Gikeiki (chapter 7).

4. The character in question is that for the word shinobu, also read nin, which is composed of elements separately meaning “heart” and “blade.”

5. See Chapter XXII, note 2.

6. The hour after that of midnight.

7. The hour before that of noon.

8. That is, the hour of the ox (see note 6).