Yet they couldn’t avoid contact all the time. Early in their journey their route passed through the riverport of Kurashiki. For a few days they sheltered in the village of Kasaoka while Yori recovered from a fever, until rumours of their presence were leaked to a passing samurai patrol. And on several occasions they had to stop and buy more rice. But their greatest concern had been the castle town of Fukuyama. The settlement was swarming with samurai. Unfortunately, it was the sole crossing point for the Ashida River. There were no bridges along this broad fast-flowing watercourse, only a ferry service within the town itself. Having no other option, the four of them took to Fukuyama’s backstreets. With Jack keeping his head down – his foreign face, blue eyes and blond hair concealed beneath a wide straw hat – they made the ferry crossing unnoticed. Or so they had thought …
‘This way!’ cried a furious samurai, hacking a path through the undergrowth.
Jack and the others increased their pace, Miyuki leading the way up a ridge. The ground underfoot became rocky, then began to slope downwards. All of a sudden, they broke into a clearing of hard-packed gravel. Miyuki skidded to a halt beside a small wooden temple. Inside, a statue of the Buddha sat facing east towards a view of such breathtaking beauty that it caused them all to pause.
A glassy blue sea like a mirror to the sky stretched towards the horizon, from where the rising sun shone bright as gold. Myriad islands shimmered like emerging clouds, each one melting into the next. At the foot of the hillside, the gentle sweep of a horseshoe harbour cradled a small fishing port. Grey and blue tiled roofs rippled down the slopes to the water’s edge, where a flotilla of boats bobbed quietly beside the jetty.
‘The Seto Sea,’ Yori breathed in awe.
Jack also gazed in wonder at the sight. This was the first time he’d laid eyes upon any sea since leaving Akiko in Toba the year before. The vision brought a lump to his throat as a wave of memories and hopes for the future washed over him. Prior to his samurai training, he’d been a rigging monkey on-board the Alexandria. His father had been the ship’s pilot and they’d set sail round the world to make their fortune. It was upon this voyage that Jack had learnt his father’s skills and been introduced to the rutter – an invaluable navigational logbook that was the only means of ensuring safe passage across the world’s oceans. His father had taught him its secrets and the logbook had become their bond. Jack could feel the rutter’s reassuring weight in his pack now and, combined with the sight of the sea, an unexpected smile lit up his face as he recalled happier times in his life. The ocean was beckoning to him. Home felt closer already.
Miyuki was less impressed by the view. ‘This is a headland. We’ve got nowhere left to run!’
An arrow whizzed past, sounding a heavy beat as it struck a wooden pillar of the temple.
‘We’ve no choice but to keep going,’ urged Jack, the pursuing samurai almost on their heels. ‘Perhaps we can lose them in the port, then double back.’
Leaving the shrine, the four of them raced down the gravel path and entered the port’s narrow twisting streets. They flew past bleary-eyed fishermen, weaved between the wooden shuttered shops and homes, and ducked down alleyways. Behind, they heard the outraged calls of the soldiers as they lost sight of their quarry. Cutting down a narrow alley, they passed a line of white plastered warehouses before coming to a dead end.
‘Back the other way!’ said Miyuki in alarm.
They retraced their steps to the previous street, but heard the pounding of urgent footsteps headed their way. With nowhere to go, the four of them dived behind a wooden water butt and pressed themselves flat against the alley wall.
A moment later, two samurai appeared. But they only gave a cursory glance down the alley before running on.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Jack whispered, ‘They’ve split up. We need to keep an eye out for the others.’
He led his friends across the street and down an opposite passageway. This time they found themselves at the water-washed steps of the harbour, where a majestic stone lantern, the height of a small tree, stood as the port’s lighthouse. There was a salty whiff of seaweed and drying fish, further reminding Jack of his seafaring days. Alongside the dock, he noticed the first catch of the day was already laid out for sale – baskets of prawns; racks of bream, mackerel, sweet fish and other seafood; as well as large pots of squirming crabs, all trying to escape their fate.
At the opposite end of the harbour, a second group of samurai charged out of an alleyway. Before they had a chance to spot the four fugitives, Miyuki slid open a door to a warehouse and ushered everyone inside. They entered the cool interior of a saké brewery. Round casks of rice wine were piled ten high in readiness for shipment.
‘Now we’re really trapped!’ Saburo exclaimed, finding no other exit from the darkened warehouse.
Just like those crabs, thought Jack.
3
Pilgrims
‘It’s only a matter of time before they find us,’ said Yori, peeking through the gap in the door.
The samurai were scouring the streets and checking each of the buildings in turn. But, with the sun up, the harbour was coming to life and the soldiers’ task was hampered as clusters of people gathered along the harbour side.
‘We have to make a stand,’ said Miyuki, reaching for her sword.
Jack shook his head, realizing the futility of their situation. ‘If I hand myself over, at least there’s a chance you can all escape.’
‘Jack, we didn’t come this far to give up now,’ countered Saburo.
‘I can’t let you sacrifice yourselves like this –’
Yori interrupted him. ‘Remember what Sensei Yamada once said: A samurai alone is like a single arrow. Deadly but capable of being broken. Only by binding together as a single force will we remain strong and unconquerable.’
He went and stood beside Saburo and Miyuki.
‘Forever bound to one another. Isn’t that what Akiko vowed to you, Jack? Well, we are too.’
Jack looked at his friends. Their unwavering loyalty astounded him. He knew this was what it meant to be samurai – and ninja, for that matter.
‘I’m honoured to have such friends,’ he said, humbled, and bowed his respect. ‘We had better make a plan then.’
Miyuki patted one of the saké casks upon which an oil lamp sat. ‘We can set fire to the place as a diversion.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Too many innocent people could be hurt.’
‘What about hiding among the crowd?’ Saburo suggested. ‘It’s getting busy out there.’
Jack and the others peered through the doorway. Aside from the fishermen and dockhands, there were several groups of men and women queuing to join boats lined along the jetty. Many of these were dressed identically in white breeches, white jackets, straw hats and sandals. A white bag was slung across each of their shoulders, and round their necks hung a dark-blue stole – the rectangular cloth being the only item not coloured white. In one hand, each held a set of rosary beads; in the other, a wooden staff with a small bell attached to the handle.
‘It’s like a gathering of winter ninja,’ remarked Jack, throwing a wry grin in Miyuki’s direction. When she’d come looking for him, she’d been wearing an all-white shinobi shozoku, the customary ninja garb for missions in snow. Miyuki had since reversed her clothes to the black side, concealing them beneath a plain brown kimono.
‘They’re pilgrims,’ explained Yori.
‘We could ask them to pray for our escape!’ Saburo quipped, his nerves evident in his strained attempt at humour.
Jack saw the samurai working their way down the harbour, getting closer with every step. ‘I think we’ll need more than prayers.’
Yori turned to him. ‘This fishing port must be Tomo Harbour. Followers of Kobo Daishi, the Great Saint, pass through here to get to Shikoku Island, where they embark upon a pilgrimage of eighty-eight temples in his honour.’
‘But why are they all dressed in white?’ Jack asked.
‘That’s very admirable,’ replied Jack, ‘but it means we’ll be easily spotted by the samurai in the crowd.’
‘Not if we’re pilgrims too,’ said Miyuki, with a cunning gleam in her eyes. ‘Have you forgotten everything you learnt as a ninja, Jack?’ She gave him a teasing smile. ‘Shichi Hō De – “the seven ways of going”.’
Jack remembered how he’d once dressed as a komusō monk to avoid detection on a mission. ‘Of course! A ninja must be a master of disguise and impersonation.’
‘But where will we get matching outfits?’ asked Saburo.
‘From other pilgrims,’ replied Miyuki, as if the answer was obvious.
Yori pursed his lips, uncomfortable at the suggestion. ‘It’s against my vows to steal.’
‘We’ll just be borrowing them,’ she explained kindly. ‘I presume these pilgrims accept o-settai?’
Yori nodded. ‘Custom dictates they can’t refuse any gift.’
‘Excellent,’ said Miyuki, snatching up a ceramic jug that sat beside the lamp and hurriedly filling four cups with saké. ‘A long pilgrimage must be thirsty work.’
4
O-settai
The tinkling of bells alerted them to the arrival of more pilgrims.
‘We’re in luck,’ said Jack, spotting four walking down the alleyway next to their warehouse.
‘You should hide,’ instructed Miyuki.
Jack positioned himself behind a stack of casks in the corner.
Checking there were no samurai in sight, Miyuki slid open the door. ‘Now remember what I told you, Yori.’
Yori nodded somewhat reluctantly. He didn’t agree with the methods of Miyuki’s plan but realized there was little other option. He scampered out of the brewery and into the pilgrims’ path. Bowing low, he announced, ‘Our master wishes to offer you o-settai. A cup of his finest saké in return for your blessings upon his brewery.’
Unable to refuse yet equally happy to accept, the four pilgrims followed Yori to the open door, where Saburo greeted them and beckoned them inside. The first two were weather-beaten old men who appeared to be brothers, the third was a middle-aged woman and the fourth a young man, tall and bony as a bamboo stem.
Jack watched as Miyuki presented each pilgrim with a full cup. They gratefully received the offering and drank the contents. The brothers downed their saké in one go and smacked their lips with satisfaction. According to tradition, the four pilgrims then put their hands together in prayer and began to chant the mantra, ‘Namu Daishi Henjo Kongo …’
Yori had told Jack that the pilgrims would repeat this phrase three times before handing over an osame-fuda, a paper nameslip that would confer their blessings upon the brewery.
But they never got that far.
The woman was the first to pass out, her cup falling from her hands and clattering upon the wooden floor. Saburo immediately stepped forward and eased her to the ground. The two brothers were next, collapsing like puppets whose strings had been cut. The fourth, blinking in shock at the fate of his companions, swayed unsteadily. Then he bolted for the door, screaming for help.
Miyuki leapt on him in an instant and drove her thumb into a pressure point at the base of his neck. The cry died in the man’s throat as he fell limp, dropping lifeless at her feet.
‘You promised you wouldn’t hurt anyone!’ Yori exclaimed.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Miyuki, giving him a reassuring smile. ‘He’ll just have a nasty headache when he comes round.’
‘What about the others?’ asked Jack, emerging from his hiding place and inspecting the unconscious woman and two inert brothers.
‘I only put enough doku powder in the saké to knock them out for a few hours,’ explained Miyuki. ‘Any more than a few grains and it would have killed them.’
‘Good work, Miyuki,’ said Jack, satisfied their victims were still breathing.
The four of them quickly removed the pilgrims’ clothes and began to dress themselves. Being small of stature, Yori was swamped by his outfit and had to roll up the legs and sleeves. Jack anticipated the opposite problem – as a foreigner he was tall by comparison to the Japanese – but he was fortunate the younger pilgrim was so gangly.
Yori helped Jack adjust his blue stole. ‘This is a wagesa. It’s a cloth symbolizing a monk’s robe and is meant to show your devotion to the Buddha.’ Yori handed him the rosary beads. ‘These are nenju. The number of beads equal the one hundred and eight bonnō.’
‘What are bonnō?’ asked Jack, fingering the wooden beads as he absorbed Yori’s information. It was vital to know such facts if he was to pass himself off as a real pilgrim.
‘They’re the misleading Karmas that bind people in Samsara, the world of suffering. You must carry both the wagesa and nenju to be considered a true worshipper.’
Jack picked up the pilgrim’s staff. ‘What’s the bell on the end for?’
‘The bell acts as an omamori, like the amulet Sensei Yamada gave you,’ explained Yori, pointing to the small red silk bag attached to Jack’s pack. ‘It protects the traveller upon the road.’
‘Well, it didn’t work for them,’ Saburo chortled, glancing down at the comatose pilgrims as he wriggled his generous belly into a pair of the brothers’ breeches.
Yori rolled his eyes at his friend’s irreverence, then continued. ‘Treat the staff with respect. It represents the body of Kobo Daishi, who spiritually accompanies all pilgrims on their path.’
Nodding, Jack studied the staff in more detail. There were five characters etched into the handle. Thanks to Akiko, he not only spoke fluent Japanese but had a basic understanding of kanji, its written form. Yet, even without this knowledge, these characters were instantly familiar to him:
‘The Five Rings,’ breathed Jack, turning to Miyuki who’d already finished dressing and was dragging the bodies out of sight.
‘The Buddhist monks apply them for spiritual purposes,’ she replied quickly, giving Jack a meaningful look to keep secret their ninja arts, even among friends.
Jack held his tongue. He’d been taught about the Five Rings from the Grandmaster. These five great elements of the universe formed the basis of a ninja’s approach to life. They used the Rings’ power and influence within their fighting techniques and survival tactics. This is what gave the ninja their strength and made them so deadly and feared.
Placing the staff to one side, Jack turned his attention to the pilgrim’s white bag. Inside he found incense, candles, a sūtra book, coins, a set of bells for chanting, a small notebook and a supply of paper nameslips. He removed the notebook to make room for his own belongings.
‘I’d keep that,’ said Yori. ‘The nōkyōchō is for collecting visitor stamps from the temples. More importantly, it’s a travel permit. You’ll need it for passage to Shikoku Island.’
Heeding Yori’s advice, Jack returned it to the bag and took out the bells instead. There was just enough room to stow the most precious item he carried – his father’s rutter. The logbook wasn’t only of sentimental value to him; it was his means of getting home and also highly sought after by those who knew of its power. With the rutter, the trade routes between nations could be controlled. And Jack had promised his father never to let it fall into the wrong hands. That’s why he had safeguarded it with his life and he wasn’t going to leave it behind now.
His only other item of value, apart from his swords, was the black pearl Akiko had given him the day he departed for Nagasaki. It had a golden hairpin attached on account of a thieving merchant, but this proved useful for securing inside the lapel of his kimono. That left his four remaining shuriken stars, a gourd of water and the food supplies in his pack. Whil
e Jack contemplated where to stow these, Yori emptied the coins from his pilgrim bag and put them in a small pile, along with some rice from his own provisions.
‘We’re going to need that food,’ said Saburo.
‘We’re not thieves,’ chided Yori. ‘We should at least leave the pilgrims a gift for their involuntary kindness.’
Feeling a touch guilty, Jack took out his pilgrim’s coins and left a couple of his mochi. Saburo, unwilling to part with his supply of rice cakes, threw down a samurai helmet with a round dent in the peak.
‘They can sell that if they want.’
‘But that’s the proof to your father you’re a hero,’ exclaimed Jack, recalling the moment Saburo had taken a bullet in the battle against the bandits.
‘It’s too bulky. Besides, if we don’t escape, it won’t matter whether I’m a hero or not!’
‘Hurry up, everyone,’ Miyuki urged, tossing a rice cake on to the pile. ‘The samurai are closing in.’
‘What should we do about the weapons?’ asked Saburo, holding up his swords. ‘They’re not exactly typical of a pilgrim.’
‘I’ve an idea,’ said Jack, pulling out a canvas bag from behind the stack of casks where he’d hidden earlier. ‘Put them in this. They’ll simply look like goods for shipment.’
Stashing their weapons, packs and remaining supplies in the bag, they donned their straw conical hats. Pulling the brim low over his face, Jack peered out of the door. A unit of samurai was entering the warehouse opposite.
‘Quick, let’s go!’ said Jack.
With Saburo carrying the canvas bag, they joined the other pilgrims. The urge to run for the boat was overwhelming.
‘Slow down,’ whispered Miyuki as they approached the jetty.
‘But two samurai are headed this way!’ Yori breathed in terror.
‘Whatever you do, don’t stop,’ she instructed through gritted teeth.
Young Samurai: The Ring of Wind Page 2
