Young Musashi: Before Cutting Through Doubt 🎬 Episode 2: The Mountain Pass Where Mother's Voice Echoes

Episode 2: The Mountain Pass Where Mother's Voice Echoes

The wind at the mountain pass blew from both sides of the mountain.

The wind coming from the west was dry, carrying the scent of withered grass.

The wind coming from the east was cold, bringing with it the sound of water from the valley floor.

The two winds collided atop the pass, swirling as if to steal each other's path.

Musashi stood in the middle of that wind.

He carried a small bundle on his back and a wooden sword tucked into his waist.

The hem of his kimono was stained with dirt, and one of his sandal straps was worn thin.

He had been walking since morning.

Yet, if asked where he was heading, he had no answer.

He was simply moving away from home.

Musashi did not even know if it was a place that could be called home.

A place where his father's voice echoed.

A garden where the sound of swords being swung resonated.

A place where he had to keep his back straight even while eating.

If that was to be called home, then home was not a place to rest one's heart.

It was a place where his own inadequacies were pointed out to him every single day.

Even so, now that he had left, a part of his heart kept looking back.

Did he want to return?

Or did he not want to return?

Musashi looked down at his own heart as if viewing it from high above the mountain pass.

A small boy stood alone in the middle of the road.

He could neither move forward nor turn back.

What an awkward figure he cut.

Musashi looked down at himself with a touch of coldness.

Are you lost?

A woman's voice spoke.

Musashi reflexively reached for the hilt of his wooden sword.

A woman was sitting at the edge of the road.

There had been no one there just a moment ago.

The woman wore a large hat on her back, and the hem of her travel clothes was tucked up to her knees. Her legs were wrapped in white cloth, and the dried mud on them was cracked and thin.

She looked to be just over twenty.

Her hair was tied back in a single bundle, but a few strands were stuck to her cheeks.

She was a beautiful woman.

Yet, she lacked the vibrancy of the village girls.

Like a stone worn down by rain and wind, there was a quiet strength in her face.

The woman was stirring a small iron pot with the tip of a thin stick.

The scent of miso drifted up with the steam.

Musashi's stomach growled.

The woman pretended not to hear and continued to stir the pot.

I am not lost.

Musashi said.

Is that so?

There is only one path.

Even if there is only one path, people still get lost.

Musashi looked at the woman.

The woman was not smiling.

She was not teasing him either.

She simply had the look of someone who had stated the obvious.

Where are you going?

Who knows.

You don't even know your own destination?

I am walking precisely because I don't know.

Musashi furrowed his brows.

Those who walk have a purpose.

Those who swing a sword have an opponent to defeat.

Those who cross a mountain have business on the other side.

He had thought that was only natural.

You are a strange woman.

I hear that often.

The woman transferred the soup from the pot into a bowl.

Then, she served the same amount into another bowl.

"Will you eat?"

"I don't need any."

"Your stomach is asking for it."

"My stomach and I are separate."

"You say interesting things."

The woman placed one of the bowls on the stone in front of Musashi.

Musashi did not reach out his hand.

The woman did not urge him either.

She simply cupped her own bowl with both hands and drank the soup slowly.

The steam was carried by the wind and brushed against Musashi's face.

The scent of boiled daikon radish and wild vegetables.

The aroma of scorched miso.

At that moment, something stirred deep within his chest.

It was a distant memory.

The sound of someone opening a pot lid.

The sound of the hearth fire crackling.

A soft hand wrapping around his small one.

"It's hot, so eat slowly."

A voice called out.

Musashi was standing on the mountain pass.

But for a fleeting moment, he was somewhere else.

A dimly lit room.

A low ceiling.

The light of a fire.

A shadow larger than his own.

Mother.

The moment he thought that word, the memory crumbled like mist.

He could not recall her face.

Her voice was not clear either.

Only the sensation of warmth remained.

Musashi hated that.

A memory without form cannot be cut.

If he cannot see his opponent, his wooden sword cannot reach them.

"What is it?"

The woman asked.

"It's nothing."

"You had the look of someone remembering their mother."

Musashi's hand gripped the hilt of his wooden sword tightly.

"Don't say such selfish things."

"Was I wrong?"

"You were."

"Then let's just leave it at that."

The woman asked nothing more.

That way of staying silent did not sit well with Musashi.

If he were pressed for answers, he could refuse.

If he were laughed at, he could get angry.

But when she accepted it without a word, it made him feel as if he were the only one telling a lie.

Musashi picked up the bowl from the stone.

He took a sip of the soup.

It was hot.

His tongue went numb, and the saltiness of the miso slid down his throat.

The daikon radish was soft, and the wild vegetables had a slight bitterness.

It was a nostalgic taste.

Yet, he could not remember when or where he had eaten it before.

"What is your name?"

Musashi asked.

"Sayo."

"Where did you come from?"

From various places.

I am asking where you were born.

The place you were born and the place you came from are not the same.

Sayo placed the empty bowl on her lap.

And you?

Musashi.

Musashi, is it? That is a heavy name.

A name has no weight.

It does. Every time it is called, the past follows along.

Musashi remained silent.

Every time the name is called, the past follows along.

Those words fell into his chest like an invisible pebble.

The name Musashi.

Who gave it to him?

Why that name?

What was he meant to carry in his blood by being given that name?

His father's name.

His family's name.

His ancestors' name.

Blood was an invisible rope.

Even if I try to cut it, I cannot tell where the rope begins or ends.

Are you running away from home?

Sayo said.

No.

Are you on your way home?

No.

Then, are you on your way to not going home?

Musashi did not answer.

Sayo stood up, poured water into the iron pot, and rinsed it.

It was the movement of a traveler.

There was no waste, no hesitation.

Her hands were quick to pack her belongings as well.

This woman must have walked away many times before.

From someone's side.

From some home.

From some memory.

Do you have a place to return to?

Musashi asked.

Sayo's hands stopped for a moment.

I could say I do, and I could say I don't.

"Who is it?"

"There is a place I want to return to. But even if I return, it will not be the same place."

"The place does not change."

"It does. When the people are gone."

Sayo picked up her hat and brushed off the dirt.

"A home is not about the pillars or the roof. It is about the person who is there and calls your name."

In Musashi's heart, his mother's voice echoed once more.

"Musashi."

He did not know if he had truly been called.

It might have been a voice created by his memory.

It might just be his loneliness borrowing his mother's form.

"Is a place where the dead reside also a place to return to?"

Musashi asked in a voice so low it surprised even himself.

Sayo looked at Musashi.

For the first time, a shadow crossed the woman's eyes.

"If it is a place where only the dead reside, then it is not a place to return to, but a place to visit."

"Is that not the same thing?"

"No, it is different. Those who return are welcomed. Those who visit must open the door themselves."

Musashi stared at his bowl.

There was no soup left.

Small grains of miso were stuck to the bottom.

"I have no one to welcome me back."

After saying it, a chill ran deep through his chest.

If he spoke it aloud, it would become the truth.

He had a father.

But would he welcome him?

If he returned, he might say, "You're late."

He might ask, "Where have you been?"

He might say nothing at all and just toss a wooden sword at him.

Was that what it meant to be welcomed?

Musashi did not know.

Sayo reached out a hand toward Musashi's head.

Musashi quickly pulled away.

"Don't touch me."

"My apologies."

Sayo lowered her hand.

That gesture resembled someone from his memories.

Musashi felt a tremor in his heart.

He wanted to be touched.

He did not want to be touched.

I want to be treated kindly.

I don't want to be thought of as weak.

These two thoughts clashed like the blades of swords.

If I cut one, the other remains.

But is it truly right to cut either?

"You resemble my mother."

Musashi said.

Sayo smiled slightly.

"I don't know your mother."

"It's not her face."

"Then what is it?"

Musashi could not answer.

Is it her scent?

Her voice?

The way her hand stirs the pot?

The way she waits without asking anything?

Or is it because I am seeking a mother, that I search for her shadow in every woman?

Another Musashi, watching himself from high above, spoke.

You are not looking at this woman.

You are looking at the mother within yourself.

It was not a longing for Sayo.

It was a hand reaching out for what had been lost.

Musashi felt angry.

He was angry at himself.

Himself for seeking his mother.

Himself for clinging to his family.

Himself for wishing to return, yet being unable to do so.

Though his hand gripping the sword had grown strong, his heart remained forever childish.

"Musashi."

Sayo called his name.

The way she said it was gentle.

Musashi did not look up.

"A place to return to is not something that exists from the beginning."

"Then what is it?"

"It is a place you decide for yourself to return to."

Musashi looked at Sayo.

"Even if there is no one there to welcome me?"

"If there is no one to welcome you, then you should become the one who welcomes others."

The wind stopped.

For just a brief moment, the mountain pass fell silent.

Neither the birds' songs nor the sound of the valley stream could be heard.

Only Sayo's words remained in Musashi's heart.

To become someone who welcomes another.

Musashi could not imagine himself in such a role.

He could see himself gripping a sword.

He could see himself facing an enemy.

But he had never once thought of himself standing at a doorway, waiting for someone to return.

"I wait for no one."

"For now, perhaps."

"And forever after."

"That may be so."

Sayo put on her sedge hat.

"But people cannot always live exactly as they say they will."

"I will."

"You are stubborn."

"Call it strong."

"Stubbornness and strength are different things."

Sayo laughed.

Musashi was left speechless once again.

This woman carried no sword.

And yet, she easily pierces the openings in Musashi's stance.

She quietly inserts words into places his wooden sword cannot defend.

"Where are you going?"

Musashi asked.

Sayo pointed beyond the mountain pass.

"To the other side."

"What is there?"

"I won't know until I go and see."

"You'll get lost again."

"If I get lost, I'll just stop again."

Sayo walked a few steps, then looked back.

"Where are you returning to?"

Musashi did not answer.

Sayo did not wait for a reply and began to descend the mountain path.

Her straw hat grew smaller and smaller.

Before long, the path curved, and her figure vanished.

Musashi was left alone on the mountain pass.

A wind blew from the west.

A wind also blew from the east.

The two winds collided once more around Musashi.

Move forward.

Go back.

Forget your mother.

Do not forget your mother.

Follow your blood.

Sever your blood.

Become strong.

I want to rely on someone.

Various voices were intertwined within his heart.

Musashi closed his eyes.

He could not see his mother's face.

But he could hear only her voice.

"Musashi."

That voice did not tell him to come home.

It did not tell him to go, either.

It was simply calling his name.

Musashi thought to himself.

Perhaps a place to return to is not just a place to go back to.

Perhaps it is a place from which to start walking once again.

Attachment to one's family is not a weakness.

Thinking of those you have lost does not only serve to dull your blade.

It is a mark to ensure you do not forget where you came from.

Musashi looked back at the path he had traveled.

The road descended and continued deep into the forest.

His home was not in sight.

His father was not in sight either.

Yet, if he decided to return, it could still be a place to go back to.

Musashi did not start walking immediately.

First, he listened to the voice within himself.

I want to go home.

He did not deny those words.

Even so, he would not return just yet.

Not to run away, but to return on his own two feet.

Musashi took a step toward the other side of the mountain pass.

His mother's voice was not coming from behind him, but from within his heart.

Cutting through doubt with a single stroke.

The path of doubt for young Musashi continues.