The Ring of Water

by Chris Bradford

  Having taken his fill of the nuts and berries he’d managed to forage, Jack placed a handful beside the still-sleeping samurai. Suddenly a blade was held to his throat.

  ‘Who are you?’ growled Ronin.

  ‘It’s me, Jack!’ he replied, startled by the unexpected attack.

  Ronin’s eyes narrowed as he pressed the blade harder against Jack’s neck.

  ‘The gaijin samurai!’ added Jack in desperation.

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I’ve brought you some food.’

  Ronin glanced down at the small pile of nuts and berries.

  ‘You’re a right little squirrel, aren’t you?’ he said, releasing Jack and scooping them up. He popped a juicy red berry into his mouth. ‘So how do I know you?’

  Jack stared in amazement at the samurai. ‘You saved me from the dōshin at the tea house.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You offered to help get back my belongings.’

  ‘I said that?’

  Jack’s mouth fell open in disbelief. ‘You mean you’ve forgotten!’

  Shooting him a black look, Ronin snarled, ‘I may be drunk, but in the morning I’ll be sober and you’ll still be ugly! Now get out of here!’

  Jack bristled at the man’s rudeness. ‘Some samurai you are!’

  Leaping to his feet, Ronin grabbed Jack and slammed him against the shrine wall. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I … I thought samurai were meant to be honourable,’ spluttered Jack, taken aback by the man’s sudden mood swing. ‘You promised to help me. Where’s your sense of bushido?’

  ‘You’ve no right to ask that!’ Ronin spat into Jack’s face. ‘Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes!’

  ‘I would if I had any,’ replied Jack.

  Ronin looked down at Jack’s muddy and blistered feet. He grunted with amusement and his anger dissipated. ‘I remember now,’ he said, grinning. ‘I admired your fighting spirit. You were the underdog, yet you still bit back.’

  He let go, patting out the ruckles in Jack’s tattered kimono.

  ‘If I said I’d help you, I will. I am a man of my word.’

  Ronin sat back down, took a swig from the remains of his saké and coughed harshly. ‘So remind me, what’s our plan?’

  ‘We haven’t made one yet,’ Jack replied, warily sitting opposite the hungover samurai. The man’s temperament was proving as unpredictable as the sea. Deciding against mentioning his encounter with the Riddling Monk, Jack said, ‘But have you heard of the Great Buddha?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you know where we could find him?’

  ‘Depends which one you seek,’ replied Ronin.

  Taken aback to hear this, Jack pulled out the amulet. ‘The one who owns this omamori.’

  Ronin attempted to focus his eyes on the silk pouch. ‘Tō … dai … ji.’

  Jack stared blankly at the samurai.

  ‘That’s what it says here,’ Ronin explained, pointing to the three kanji characters. ‘Tōdai-ji. It’s the name of the Buddhist temple this amulet comes from.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Maybe a day or so’s walk. It’s in Nara.’

  Jack now realized the monk had told him where to go. If you went backwards, it would be Aran … Nara!

  ‘Can you take me there?’

  ‘I’d be honoured to,’ Ronin replied, leaning against the wall and enjoying a long draft of saké. ‘Once it stops raining.’

  7

  A TROUBLED PAST

  Flashes of lightning lit the sky and rain poured in a continuous waterfall from the heavens as the thunderstorm battered the little shrine. Sheltered inside, Jack stared into the deepening gloom, troubled that he still had no recollection of the past few days. Ronin, sipping the last of his saké, drifted into another drunken slumber. A short while after, Jack surrendered to exhaustion too. Lying down, he listened to the rain drum upon the shrine’s roof. Accustomed to bad weather from his time on-board the Alexandria, Jack slept through the night, only waking when the dawn chorus heralded a new day. The storm had passed and the early morning sun was burning off the mist in the valley below.

  Jack sat up and stretched. His body was still stiff and sore, but the night’s rest had done him some good. Cupping his hands, he scooped up some fresh water from a puddle and finished off the last of his berries. While he waited for Ronin to wake, he resumed his self-healing meditation. His senses heightened by the trancelike state of kuji-in, Jack heard the forest resounding to a million drops of water falling from leaf to leaf as the ninja magic did its work.

  ‘What are you up to?’ demanded Ronin gruffly, eyeing Jack’s hand sign with suspicion. Ronin looked like a bear that had been roused from hibernation too early. His beard was unkempt, his eyes red and his expression grouchy.

  ‘Just meditating,’ replied Jack, unclasping his hands.

  Ronin snorted with derision. ‘Meditation won’t fill an empty stomach.’

  He shook his saké jug, then upended it. Not a single drop came out and he threw it away in disgust. ‘Let’s go.’

  Lacking footwear, Jack hobbled as fast as he could after the departing Ronin. The samurai forged ahead down the forest path, irritably glancing back as Jack lagged further and further behind. He eventually stopped and waited for him at a crossroads. To pass the time, Ronin cut a long branch from a tree with his wakizashi, sheared the twigs off the main stem, rounded the ends and stripped away the bark. On Jack’s arrival, he presented him with the whittled stick. ‘Here, use this.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Jack, weighing up the sturdy branch in his hands. It was straight and strong, ideal not only as a walking stick but as a bō staff. Having trained in bōjutsu under the blind Sensei Kano at the Niten Ichi Ryū, Jack felt more confident now he had a weapon at his disposal.

  ‘Just keep up,’ muttered Ronin, turning on his heel and heading down the road.

  Jack realized if this samurai was going to help him, he needed to get to know the man and befriend him. He considered the best way would be to show respect for Ronin’s fighting skills.

  Trying to keep pace, Jack began, ‘It’s obvious you’re a highly trained warrior. Yesterday you defeated four armed dōshin single-handedly, even after three jars of saké! Where did you learn to fight like that?’

  Ronin kept walking, not even acknowledging that Jack had asked a question.

  ‘I realize everything looked accidental,’ Jack persisted, ‘but to my trained eye there seemed more to it than pure luck.’

  Jack still got no response, Ronin now avoiding eye contact altogether.

  He tried one more time. ‘As a student of Masamoto-sama’s, I’m impressed anyone can fight like that – and win. How did you do it?’

  Suddenly Ronin came to a halt. He turned on Jack, his eyes blazing.

  ‘There are two rules for being victorious in martial arts. Rule one is never tell others everything you know.’

  Jack waited for Ronin to continue, but the samurai simply walked on and resumed his stoical silence.

  ‘And rule two?’ Jack prompted, hurrying after him.

  Ronin raised an eyebrow in irritation. Then it dawned on Jack that he wouldn’t be telling him, even if there was another rule.

  ‘Very funny,’ said Jack, laughing in an attempt to break the tension.

  Ronin didn’t laugh, so Jack decided to try a different tack. ‘Were you at the battle of Osaka Castle?’

  Ronin’s expression became grave and Jack took that as a ‘yes’.

  ‘On whose side?’ he enquired hesitantly.

  Glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, Ronin replied, ‘The only one I trust – my own.’

  ‘But you must have served a daimyo,’ Jack continued, not willing to give up now he’d started Ronin talking. ‘What was his name? Masamoto-sama may have known him.’

  ‘My sword is my daimyo,’ Ronin shot back. ‘Now, less talk and more walk.’

  As Ronin quicke
ned his pace, Jack wondered what could have happened to make the man so bitter and guarded. The samurai walked as if a dark shadow clung to his back. Jack had seen men like Ronin on-board the Alexandria, who’d turned to the bottle to blot out some horror or regret in their lives. A troubled past appeared to haunt Ronin’s every step. The question was, what was he escaping from?

  As they turned a corner in the path, the outskirts of a town came into view.

  ‘You’d better wear this,’ said Ronin, shoving his wide-brimmed hat on to Jack’s head to cover his face. ‘We don’t want you attracting any trouble.’

  8

  TANUKI

  Ronin led the way, Jack keeping close at his heel and only risking the occasional glance up. The going in town was easier for Jack compared to the muddy and rocky paths they had been travelling. Hard-packed by countless feet, the main road was even and relatively stone-free. The street itself was a mishmash of wooden buildings and bamboo huts that housed various businesses: an inn, a shop selling cloth, a couple of tea houses, a restaurant filled with customers tucking into steaming bowls of soba, and several other stores, their wares hidden behind large cloth awnings. Dotted in between were private houses and the occasional Shinto shrine. In the background, Jack could hear a river flowing, its peaceful wash punctuated by the rhythmic thunk of a hammer against wood.

  ‘What town is this?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Kizu,’ Ronin grunted in response.

  The townspeople, going about their daily business, gave Ronin a wide berth as soon as they caught sight of his fearsome appearance. No one even looked at Jack – the peasant boy in the ragged kimono and straw hat who obediently followed in his master’s wake. This suited Jack just fine.

  ‘Wait here,’ ordered Ronin, striding over to a nearby store, above which hung a large ball of cedar branches.

  Jack was pleased to see Ronin stepping out of his wooden getas and into the shop. They would need provisions with a good day’s trek still ahead and his hunger pangs were already beginning to bite.

  As he lingered outside the entrance, his feet too dirty to enter the store, he contemplated how different this custom was from life in England. Shoes and boots caked in mud soiled the floors of every establishment throughout his homeland. Streets were awash with muck and rubbish, houses and shops grimy and rat-infested as a result. Despite Japan disowning him, along with every other foreigner, Jack still admired much of Japanese culture – its cleanliness and sense of order being among its many virtues. Deep down, Jack didn’t want to leave. If he’d had a choice, Jack would have stayed in Toba with Akiko and made a life for himself as a samurai. But, with the Shogun after him and the need to return to England for the sake of his sister, that was not to be. Even though he thought of Akiko every day, he’d long since left that dream behind.

  Ronin reappeared, clutching his purchase – a large ceramic bottle of saké.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said.

  ‘What about food?’ asked Jack, worried the rice wine would be their only sustenance.

  Delving into his kimono sleeve, Ronin counted the coins he had. ‘There might be enough.’

  They crossed the road to another store, where a sweet smell wafted through the air. The establishment was small, with space for only a few customers inside. Two men sat round a sunken hearth, sipping hot tea and eating white apple-sized dough balls. At the entrance was a tiny counter and beside the door frame stood a wooden statue. Reaching Jack’s knee, the carved figure was of a badger-like creature on its hind legs. It had a round distended belly, imploring eyes and a broad grin. On its head, it wore a straw cone-shaped sunhat and in its paws carried a bottle of saké and an empty purse. To Jack’s mind, the creature looked exceedingly mischievous.

  ‘We’ll eat outside,’ said Ronin, indicating a rough wooden bench to the right of the statue. ‘That way you won’t have to remove your hat.’

  He banged on the counter and a little man with bright eyes and a shiny forehead popped up from behind and bowed. ‘Yes, how may I be of service?’

  ‘Four manjū,’ ordered Ronin.

  ‘What flavour would you like?’ asked the manjū vendor, pointing to a board upon which six fillings were listed:

  (meat)

  (green tea)

  (aubergine)

  (chestnut)

  (peach)

  (red bean)

  Ronin tugged at his beard as he briefly considered the menu. ‘Two meat and two bean will do.’

  Bowing again, the little man lifted the lid off a square wooden box. A cloud of steam burst forth, dispersing to reveal a dozen or so milky-white buns. He selected two, then took another two from a different box.

  ‘That’ll be four bitasen, please,’ he said, proudly presenting Ronin with two plates of steamed buns.

  Ronin produced four copper coins and paid the vendor. They sat down upon the bench and tucked into their meal. Jack took a bite of his first manjū, the doughy outside giving way to a meaty filling reminiscent of pork, and he groaned contentedly. It took a great deal of willpower not to wolf down the entire bun in one go. As they ate, Jack eyed the strange wooden creature next to him.

  ‘What’s that supposed to be?’ asked Jack, nodding at the statue.

  ‘It’s a tanuki,’ Ronin replied, washing down his manjū with a mouthful of saké. ‘It’s meant to encourage customers.’

  Noticing the samurai’s mood mellowing with the consumption of food and wine, Jack continued, ‘Is there such an animal?’

  Ronin nodded. ‘But many believe they’re shape-shifters, taking on other forms to play tricks on people.’

  ‘What do they change into?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Trees, teapots, monks –’

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  The hammering Jack had heard earlier resumed. It was now much closer and Ronin grimaced at the ear-splitting disturbance.

  ‘Teapots?’ queried Jack, amused at the idea, though he did now wonder whether the Riddling Monk might have been a meddlesome tanuki. They certainly shared the same bulging eyes.

  Thwack!

  Ronin nodded, his brow furrowing at the noise. ‘But they’re not all harmless. There’s a tale of one tanuki who killed a quarrelsome farmer’s wife –’ thwack! – ‘and cooked her up as soup –’ thwack! – ‘for her husband to eat –’ thwack!

  The incessant hammering was making Ronin wince with every strike and Jack could see the samurai’s temper rising rapidly.

  ‘WHO’S MAKING THAT DREADFUL NOISE?’ demanded Ronin.

  The manjū vendor poked his head out. ‘That’ll be the cooper next door,’ he informed them sheepishly.

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  ‘How many nails does one barrel need?’ complained Ronin, rubbing his temples.

  ‘I believe he’s making a coffin,’ explained the vendor.

  ‘Well, if he doesn’t stop that infernal banging, he’ll be making one for himself.’

  At that moment, the hammering ceased and Ronin let out a slow relieved sigh. But a second later, the cooper resumed his work.

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  ‘Enough’s enough!’ Ronin exclaimed, snatching up his bottle and storming off.

  ‘Hold on!’ shouted Jack, grabbing their two remaining buns and stuffing them inside his tattered kimono. Staff in hand, he dashed after the enraged samurai.

  9

  ONE DEAD SAMURAI

  Jack caught up with Ronin at the back of the cooper’s store, a small yard full of timber, half-finished barrels and an open coffin. The sound of hammering had been replaced by a deathly silence and at Ronin’s feet lay a blood-splattered corpse, the victim sliced open from neck to waist.

  ‘NO!’ exclaimed Jack, rushing up to the samurai.

  Ronin shot him a defiant look.

  ‘You can’t just kill someone for making a noise –’

  To Jack’s utter disgust, Ronin laughed heartily at this.

  Jack realized he’d made the mistake of teaming up with a ruthless and unpredi
ctable killer. No longer able to meet Ronin’s eye, Jack looked in pity at the dead man. He was dressed in a plain blue kimono, now cut into ribbons by a single vicious sword attack. His face was young, perhaps in his early twenties, but his sudden and violent end had stretched it taut into a pale death mask, the man’s mouth frozen in an agonized scream. Jack felt sickened to his stomach by Ronin’s cold-blooded murder.

  ‘How could you –?’

  ‘My sincere apologies,’ said a rasping voice. A withered man, all skin and bones like the leg of a chicken, tottered out of a hut. He presented Ronin with a small china cup. ‘The best in the entire province!’

  The samurai knocked back its contents in one go and smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘Excellent saké, cooper. Apology accepted.’

  The cooper grinned, revealing two front teeth that protruded like tombstones in an otherwise empty mouth. Jack stared at Ronin in disbelief and then at the body.

  ‘If that’s the cooper, then who’s this?’ said Jack, pointing to the corpse.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Ronin replied, smiling as he handed the cup back to the barrelmaker. ‘Some samurai or other.’

  ‘His name is – was – Manzo,’ revealed the cooper, chuckling darkly to himself. ‘It was an entertaining duel – while it lasted.’

  ‘Was it a test of skill or just a brawl?’ enquired Ronin.

  ‘As I hear it,’ the cooper sniffed, ‘the man was bragging about his ability to defeat anyone with his new swords. A samurai on his musha shugyō challenged him to prove his boast. The whole town came out yesterday to witness the duel.’

  Jack now realized Ronin had been playing him along like a fish on a line. The samurai certainly had a morbid sense of humour. He wasn’t the murderer at all. The man had been killed by another samurai on his warrior pilgrimage.

  ‘Unless an idiot dies, he won’t be cured,’ Ronin muttered, giving the corpse a disdainful look. ‘It’s the hand that wields the sword, not the sword itself that matters.’