The Ring of Water

by Chris Bradford

  ‘Arigatō gozaimasu,’ he said, bowing and thanking the girl.

  Her mouth fell open in astonishment. ‘You speak Japanese?’

  Jack nodded. He had his best friend, Akiko, to be grateful to for that. After being stranded in Japan, he was first taught the language by a Portuguese priest, Father Lucius. But the man died not long after his arrival and Akiko took over his lessons. Jack had spent many hours with her beneath the sakura tree in her mother’s garden in Toba, learning about the Japanese way of life. And although he’d lost his memory of the last few days there were some things he would never forget – Akiko’s kindness was one of them.

  Looking at the bowl before him, Jack said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have any money.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the girl, placing a wooden spoon on the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied, savouring the soup’s mouth-watering aroma.

  The girl turned to leave, but Jack stopped her.

  ‘Please …’ Jack called, so many questions rushing into his head at once, ‘did you leave me the jug of water?’

  Offering a shy smile, the girl nodded.

  ‘You’re very kind. Perhaps you can tell me where I am?’

  ‘Kamo,’ she replied, and, seeing the bewildered expression on his face, continued. ‘It’s a village on the banks of the Kizu River. We’re not far from the main town of Kizu itself.’

  ‘Am I still in the Iga mountains?’

  ‘No, they’re some two days’ walk east. This is Yamashiro Province.’

  At least Jack knew he’d made some progress on his journey home. ‘Did you find me like this?’ he asked, indicating his injuries.

  ‘No, my father did,’ replied the girl, glancing over at the tea-house owner who now stood behind his counter, observing Jack. The previous customer with the moustache had departed.

  ‘He found you yesterday morning, left for dead beside the river.’

  She looked at Jack’s swollen eye and split lip with concern.

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Jack, putting on a brave face for her benefit. ‘Do you know if your father has any of my belongings?’

  The girl shook her head apologetically. ‘It was just you.’

  ‘Junko!’ called her father sternly. ‘The soup’s boiling over.’

  Bowing to Jack, Junko smiled. ‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ she said, before hurrying into the kitchen.

  Alive, yes … but for how long? thought Jack.

  He had nothing. No money to buy food. No clothes of his own. No disguise to elude his pursuers. No friends to help him. No swords to protect himself with. And he couldn’t rely on this girl and her father’s charity for more than a few days. After that, he’d be on his own.

  Jack took some mouthfuls of soup, wincing as his cut lip stung. But the food’s nourishing warmth began to revive him. By the time he finished the meal, he was feeling a little better, and much stronger.

  With some more rest, he thought, I might remember what happened to me.

  His most distressing concern was the loss of his father’s prized possession, the rutter. This logbook was the only means of navigating the world’s oceans safely and therefore a highly valuable item. His was one of the few accurate rutters in existence, and its importance reached far beyond its use as a navigational instrument. The country in possession of such a logbook could in effect rule the seas by controlling the trade routes between nations. His father, the Pilot of the Alexandria, had warned him never to let the rutter fall into the wrong hands and Jack had spent the last three years protecting the logbook with his life. It had been stolen once and recovered at great cost, his good friend Yamato sacrificing his life to get it back from the villainous ninja Dragon Eye. So, whatever had happened to Jack this time, the logbook was most definitely in the wrong hands. The question was whose hands?

  The only clue to his predicament was the amulet. He studied its green silk pouch. The wreath logo meant nothing to him and, although Akiko had taught him some kanji, his mind was still so addled he didn’t recognize any of the symbols.

  Junko brought him a second bowl of soup, which he devoured with equal relish. Draining the last of its contents, Jack decided to ask her about the omamori. It was most likely Junko’s or her father’s, a charm they’d given him to encourage healing. But if it wasn’t then she might know who the amulet belonged to and this could lead him to his possessions and the rutter.

  As he went to beckon Junko over, the curtain shielding the tea house from the road was pulled aside and four armed men entered, followed by the moustached customer. They were dressed officially in black haori jackets, tight-fitting trousers and dark blue tabi socks. Around their heads they wore hachimaki, bandanas reinforced with metal strips. Each man bore a sword on his hip and in his left hand carried a jutte, an iron truncheon with a small prong parallel to the main shaft.

  Despite their ominous presence, the owner appeared pleased to see them. ‘I didn’t really think any dōshin would come for him. Not in this weather,’ he said to his daughter. Then, pointing, the owner declared, ‘He’s over there.’

  ‘We’re not here for him,’ snorted the dōshin leader, looking down his nose at the drunken samurai who now lay sprawled across his table. Nodding in Jack’s direction, the dōshin announced, ‘We’ve come to arrest the gaijin.’

  3

  RONIN

  Before Jack could react, the four dōshin surrounded him, their lethal jutte at the ready. Both the owner and Junko looked startled by this turn of events.

  ‘Come with us, gaijin,’ ordered the leading officer.

  ‘But he’s causing no trouble,’ argued Junko.

  Her father restrained her. ‘Be quiet. He’s none of our business now.’

  ‘But you found him.’

  Her father nodded sadly. ‘Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t.’

  The dōshin leader indicated for Jack to stand. ‘In the name of the Shogun, you’re under arrest.’

  ‘What am I charged with?’ asked Jack, playing for time. His samurai instincts had kicked in and he was looking for a way out. There was only the back door, but it was blocked by a dōshin and he was in no fit state to fight his way to freedom.

  ‘All foreigners and Christians are banished from our land by order of Shogun Kamakura. Those found remaining are to face punishment.’

  ‘I’m trying to leave,’ insisted Jack.

  ‘That may be the case, but we have reason to believe you’re Jack Fletcher, the gaijin samurai. And you’re accused of treason of the highest order.’

  ‘What did he do?’ asked Junko, her hand going to her mouth in disbelief.

  ‘This gaijin fought against the Shogun in the battle for Osaka Castle,’ the dōshin leader explained as his officers manhandled Jack out of the tea house. ‘And there’s a reward for his head.’

  Shoved through the entrance curtain, Jack fell from the raised floor to land sprawled in the muddy rainsoaked road. The four dōshin grunted their amusement while putting on their wooden geta clogs.

  Jack realized this might be his one chance of escape and scrambled to his feet. But he’d barely taken three steps when he was struck from behind. The force of the iron truncheon dropped him to his knees, his eyes screwing up against the flare of pain in his shoulder.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ snarled a dōshin, his round, pockmarked face revelling in Jack’s agony. He raised the jutte again, eager to cause more damage.

  But Jack was ready this time. As the truncheon came down, Jack met it with his own hands, twisting the man’s wrist into a lock and flinging him over his head. The dōshin crash-landed in the quagmire of mud and sludge, writhing like an eel as his fingers became caught between the shaft and prong of his own jutte and snapped on impact. Jack turned to face the other dōshin as they rushed to capture him.

  Try as he might to defend himself, Jack was outnumbered and too weak to hold out.

  ‘This gaijin needs to be taught a lesson,’ said the dōshin lea
der, catching Jack across the gut with a heavy blow.

  Winded, Jack collapsed in the mud as they struck him repeatedly. He protected his head as much as he could, but the blows rained down from every direction. In the whiteout of pain, Jack become numb to the attacks and was only aware of the dull thud as the iron bars struck his arms, back and legs.

  ‘Dōshin!’ growled a voice.

  The beating stopped and Jack glanced up to see the drunken samurai from the tea house swaying unsteadily towards them, a saké jug in his left hand. He was now wearing his straw hat against the rain and bore his two swords on his hip.

  ‘This has nothing to do with you, ronin!’ said the leader.

  The ronin wagged a finger at the dōshin leader. ‘There’s four of you and …’ The samurai’s bleary eyes tried to focus on Jack. ‘… two of him. That’s not fair!’

  ‘You’re drunk, ronin.’

  Disregarding the officer, the samurai kept coming.

  ‘This is my final warning. Be gone!’

  Taking a swig from his saké jug, the samurai stumbled a couple of steps closer, then belched loudly into the dōshin leader’s face.

  ‘Have it your own way,’ said the leader in disgust and, nodding to his other dōshin, ordered, ‘Arrest him too. For obstructing the course of justice.’

  The nearest dōshin, a young man with hollow cheeks, stepped up to bind the samurai’s hands with a rope, while the second-in-command officer went to hold them together. The ronin offered this one his saké jug. ‘Here, take this.’

  Without thinking, the officer obediently complied. As the younger dōshin attempted to loop the rope round their new prisoner’s wrists, the samurai lurched drunkenly to one side, accidentally headbutting the man in the face.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, while continuing to stagger around the dazed dōshin, knocking into him several more times before regaining his balance.

  The young dōshin looked down to discover he was now completely tied up in his own rope.

  ‘How did that happen?’ exclaimed the ronin in surprise.

  Realizing they’d been tricked, the dōshin leader thrust his jutte at the drunken samurai. The ronin reeled away at the last moment and the iron tip of the truncheon struck the bound dōshin instead. The young man collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. The officer who held the saké jug was bewildered by the unexpected assault and seemed at a loss about what to do with the jug.

  ‘Thank you,’ slurred the ronin, taking back his drink and solving the man’s problem. Lifting it to take a swig, he knocked the officer hard in the jaw with the bottom of the jug. The officer reeled backwards. The samurai then spun to face the dōshin leader, his elbow inadvertently catching the stunned officer in the head and knocking him out cold.

  Jack couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The samurai could barely stand, yet he was defeating the dōshin with startling ease.

  ‘You’ll pay for this, ronin!’ snarled the dōshin leader, striking for the samurai’s head.

  By now the dōshin with the broken fingers had recovered and drawn his sword. He came at the samurai from behind, while the leader attacked from in front. Jack cried out a warning to the ronin, who was apparently passing out from too much saké. But at the last second, he somersaulted out of the way. The two dōshin were on a collision course with one another and the officer’s sword pierced his leader in the gut.

  ‘That’s going to hurt!’ said the ronin, grimacing in sympathy as the dōshin leader fell to the ground, clutching his stomach.

  The leader, his face pale with shock, glared at the ronin. ‘Kill him!’

  Mortified at wounding his superior, the remaining officer hesitated before screaming an enraged battle cry as he charged at the samurai. During that split second, the ronin had picked up the man’s jutte.

  ‘I believe this is yours?’ he said as the dōshin cut for his head.

  With lightning speed, the samurai blocked the attack with the iron bar of the jutte and caught the steel blade between the jutte’s shaft and prong. With a sharp twist, the ronin snapped the dōshin’s sword in two. The officer took one look at his broken katana and turned on his heel.

  ‘Don’t forget your jutte,’ called the ronin, throwing the weapon at the fleeing officer. It spun through the air, the handle striking the man in the back of the head. The dōshin took a couple of faltering steps before collapsing face first into the mud.

  ‘He was supposed to catch it,’ said the ronin, raising his hands apologetically. He took another long slug of rice wine, then peered down at the dōshin leader who was lying flat out on the ground.

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Jack.

  ‘No, just passed out,’ replied the ronin, staggering away. ‘What’s your excuse for still being on the floor?’

  ‘I’ve just been …’ began Jack, his body aching from the beating. But the ronin wasn’t listening.

  By the time Jack got to his feet, the samurai was already halfway down the road. Jack didn’t know whether the warrior wanted him to follow or not. But, glancing at the four barely conscious dōshin in the mud, Jack realized he couldn’t stay.

  Emerging from the tea house, Junko ran up to him. ‘You left this,’ she said, handing him the omamori.

  In the confusion of the arrest, Jack had forgotten his only clue. Yet again, he was indebted to her kindness. But now he knew the amulet didn’t belong to her. ‘Thank you – ’ he began.

  ‘Come on!’ the ronin roared impatiently. ‘No time for girls.’

  4

  ROBBED OF MEMORIES

  At no point did the ronin wait for Jack, even as the rain turned into a downpour and he diverged from the main road into a forest. Ascending a steep track, Jack struggled to keep pace, given his earlier beating by the dōshin. He eventually caught up with the samurai at a secluded Shinto shrine. Constructed in a small clearing at the top of a hill, the shrine consisted of a simple wooden hut, a couple of lichen-covered standing stones and a wooden torii gateway marking the entrance. Jack found the warrior relaxing inside the shrine, sipping from his saké jug.

  Careful to remember the appropriate etiquette for entering a place of worship, Jack walked through the torii gateway. He stopped at a stone bowl filled with water and, using the wooden ladle beside it, washed first his left hand and then his right, before rinsing out his mouth and carefully replacing the ladle. Jack didn’t know whether the purification was necessary since he was soaked to the skin anyway, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Although he was a Protestant Christian at heart, his Zen master, Sensei Yamada, had advised him to follow Shinto and Buddhist practices in order to blend in as much as possible. With the Shogun – and now Japan – set against Christians, it was important for Jack not to offend anyone. Moreover, if he could convince locals, like this samurai, he was of their religious persuasion, they might be more willing to help him on his journey.

  Jack bowed twice, clapped his hands two times to wake the kami spirits and bowed again. He then clasped his hands together in silent prayer.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ grumbled the samurai. ‘Shrines are good for shelter, but little else.’

  Jack looked up, surprised at the man’s lack of faith. The Japanese were a pious race and he hadn’t expected such disrespect from a samurai. Jack entered the shrine and sat down, glad to be out of the torrential rain and to rest his aching limbs.

  ‘So who are you?’ demanded the warrior. ‘You don’t look like you’re from these parts.’

  ‘My name’s Jack Fletcher,’ he replied, bowing his head in deference. ‘I’m from England, an island like Japan but on the other side of the world. May I ask who you are?’

  ‘Ronin.’

  ‘But I thought that meant “masterless samurai”?’

  ‘Just call me Ronin,’ he repeated gruffly, quaffing on his saké before offering Jack the jug.

  ‘No, thank you,’ replied Jack, having tasted rice wine once before and choked on its potency. He didn’t think his stomach c
ould handle it at this moment. ‘But I do have to thank you, Ronin, for saving me back there.’

  The samurai grunted indifferently. ‘They were in my way.’

  ‘But won’t those dōshin be after you now?’

  Ronin snorted with laughter. ‘Those excuses for samurai! The new enforcement officers of the Shogun’s new Japan. They’re just trumped-up low-ranking soldiers. They’ll be too ashamed. Besides, you saw for yourself, they attacked one another.’

  Thinking back to the fight, Jack realized this was almost true. The only real injury had been inflicted by the second officer and any retaliation by Ronin had looked purely accidental.

  ‘You, on the other hand,’ said Ronin, pointing an unsteady finger at Jack, ‘will be sought after. Tell me, what makes you such a wanted young man?’

  ‘I fought against the Shogun in the war,’ replied Jack, recalling that the samurai had passed out by the time the dōshin arrived. He hoped Ronin had also missed hearing about the price on his head. Jack didn’t fancy his chances if this samurai suddenly decided to turn him in for the reward.

  ‘There were many samurai who fought against the Shogun, but he’s not looking for them. Why are you so special?’

  Jack briefly wondered whose side Ronin had been on, but was afraid to ask. ‘Because I’m a foreigner –’

  ‘I can see that,’ he said, giving Jack a cursory yet non-judgemental inspection. ‘It still doesn’t explain why the Shogun wants you.’

  Jack realized there could be many reasons, but suspected it was ultimately to do with the rutter. Shogun Kamakura was one of the few people in Japan who knew of its existence and its significance. Before his death, Dragon Eye, having stolen it for the Portuguese priest Father Bobadillo, attempted to reclaim the logbook on behalf of Kamakura, but failed. Apparently the Shogun hadn’t forgotten about the rutter since his rise to power. Despite the fact that Ronin had saved his life, Jack knew it would be foolish to trust the samurai and decided not to mention this likely motive.

  ‘I’m samurai too,’ revealed Jack.