The Ring of Water

by Chris Bradford

‘Never a truer word spoken,’ agreed the cooper. ‘But these were a very fine pair of swords. A daisho forged by the legendary Shizu no less!’

  Jack’s ears pricked up at this. ‘What did these swords look like?’

  The cooper thought for a moment. ‘Mmm … black sayas with gold, maybe pearl inlay … I can’t really remember. But I do recall their handles, very distinctive. Dark red.’

  ‘Those are my swords!’ exclaimed Jack.

  The cooper stared at Jack in amused disbelief.

  ‘Not any more,’ he snorted, now curious about Ronin’s peasant boy who laid claim to such prestigious weapons.

  Jack knelt down beside the body to avoid his enquiring gaze.

  ‘Do you recognize him?’ asked Ronin.

  Jack studied the face – the high eyebrows, the flattened nose, the jutting jaw – but nothing came back to him and he shook his head.

  Stroking his beard pensively, Ronin peered down at the man. ‘He looks vaguely familiar …’ Crouching beside Jack, he inspected the man’s blue kimono. ‘But he hasn’t any identifying kamon. We can’t be certain he’s the one responsible –’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ Jack interrupted, spotting a star-shaped tear on the man’s collar. ‘He’s wearing one of my kimono! I remember snagging it on an overhanging branch and pulling loose the stitching, just like that.’ His voice dropped to a whisper that only Ronin could hear. ‘I was also given blue kimono without crests, so I couldn’t be identified as a member of any family who fought against the Shogun.’

  ‘Such a shame the kimono’s slashed and stained with blood,’ said Ronin, raising his voice as he noticed the cooper edging closer to eavesdrop. Reaching down, he pulled off the corpse’s straw sandals and handed them to Jack. ‘But he won’t be needing these any more.’

  Jack stood up, turning to keep his face hidden from the barrelmaker, and slipped on the dead man’s zori. A ghostly shiver ran up his spine, but his feet were grateful nonetheless for the comfort and protection.

  ‘Well, you’ve found your culprit,’ declared Ronin, ‘and he’s certainly got his comeuppance.’ The samurai examined the man’s wound, running his finger along the diagonal cut in his chest. ‘Whoever his opponent was, he’s a highly skilled swordsman. This is a perfect kesagiri attack.’

  The cooper, his brow creased in suspicion, said, ‘Who is this boy –’

  ‘Tell me, who paid for the coffin?’ demanded Ronin, cutting off the man’s question.

  ‘One of his two so-called friends,’ the cooper replied, patting his handiwork proudly. ‘They left straight after – not even bothering to wait for the funeral. Funny, isn’t it? How the person who pays for the coffin never wants it and the one who gets it never knows!’

  ‘Have you any idea which way they went?’ asked Jack.

  The cooper shook his head. ‘I only know where everyone is going …’ He paused dramatically, then pointed with a long bony finger down at the ground and grinned.

  Ronin began throughly searching the body.

  ‘No good looking for spoils,’ said the cooper. ‘His friends took all that he owned … apart from his swords and this old inro.’

  The cooper patted a small carrying case tied to his obi.

  ‘Is that yours?’ asked Ronin of Jack.

  Jack shook his head. The rectangular box was plain with an ivory toggle carved into a monkey. ‘No, mine has a sakura tree engraved upon its surface and the netsuke is in the shape of a lion’s head.’

  Ronin turned back to the cooper. ‘What happened to the swords?’

  ‘The other samurai claimed them as his prize.’

  ‘Does this samurai have a name?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He made certain everyone knew. Eager to spread his reputation, he announced this was the final duel of his musha shugyō – all without a single defeat,’ replied the cooper as he lowered the finished coffin beside the victim. ‘His name is Matagoro Araki.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’ asked Jack, hoping they could follow this samurai’s trail at least.

  The cooper looked at the bloodied corpse and then at Jack.

  ‘If you seek a similar fate, then you should head to Kyoto.’

  10

  CROSSROADS

  The very thought sent an ice-cold shudder through Jack. It would be suicidal to return to Kyoto. Someone could easily recognize him. Any of his old enemies could be there. In particular, those who’d attended the Niten Ichi Ryū with him and had objected to a foreigner learning the secrets of their martial arts – Nobu, Hiroto, Goro and, of course, his arch-rival, Kazuki. Jack had no wish to meet him ever again. Kazuki bore a deep hatred towards all foreigners, one of whom had inadvertently and tragically killed his mother through the spread of a fatal illness many years before. Being the only foreigner at the school, Jack had been the prime victim for his persecution.

  But equally he might run into a friend in Kyoto. And this thought gave Jack a small thrill. Perhaps he’d find Saburo or Kiku, who’d both remained behind at the Niten Ichi Ryū during the war. Maybe Sensei Kano, having led the escape from Osaka Castle, had returned to the school. Or he might even encounter Emi and her father, daimyo Takatomi, residing at Nijo Castle. Jack knew their lives had been spared and that the daimyo was now serving under the Shogun.

  But the risks were far too high.

  Besides, while Akiko’s father’s swords were important to him, retrieving the rutter had to be his priority. The concern was that if the two bandits had the logbook they might not realize its value, especially to the Shogun. They could have thrown the logbook away or, worse, used it as tinder for their campfire.

  ‘Come on, make your mind up!’ demanded Ronin impatiently.

  The two of them now stood at the crossroads in the centre of town. Being located on the route between Kyoto and Nara, Kizu was a convenient stopover and therefore unusually busy for a rural settlement. A constant flow of foot traffic passed in all directions.

  Jack hesitated, still unable to decide.

  ‘Kyoto’s north,’ stressed Ronin, pointing towards the long wooden bridge that spanned the Kizu River.

  So is a great deal of trouble, thought Jack.

  Behind him in an easterly direction lay the Iga mountains, beyond which was Toba and the false hope of staying with Akiko. Heading directly south would take them to Nara and the Tōdai-ji Temple. This was where the clue of the omamori had been leading them – it could be the destination of Manzo’s two friends and hopefully the rest of his belongings. But it was a gamble at most. West down a dirt track would bring them to Osaka and the coast, which he then planned to follow in the long trek south to Nagasaki. However, with nothing to his name, no swords with which to defend himself and a drunken samurai as company, the odds were stacked against him ever making it to Osaka, let alone Nagasaki.

  Four directions. Four choices. And none offered Jack any certainty.

  ‘One who chases after two hares won’t even catch one,’ said Ronin, seeing the dilemma played out on Jack’s face.

  Jack held up the amulet. ‘This clue says go south.’

  ‘Your swords are north.’

  ‘But everything else has gone the other way: my pearl, my money, my father’s diary –’

  ‘You don’t know that for certain. Anyway, what’s so special about a diary compared to a samurai’s swords?’ snorted Ronin.

  Jack considered it unwise to explain the significance of the rutter. The samurai couldn’t yet be trusted with knowledge of its value as a navigational tool and a political instrument – though for Jack it was so much more than this. The rutter was his passage home to England, the key to him becoming a ship’s pilot, and the means for providing for his sister, Jess. But the logbook was also his only remaining link to his father. With it gone, Jack felt as if his father had been taken from him again. He’d do anything to get it back.

  ‘Do you think the men who stole from me were samurai or bandits?’ asked Jack, avoiding Ronin’s question.

  ‘They could be eit
her,’ replied Ronin. ‘Manzo obviously thought himself a swordsman, but he acted like a bandit. Without a lord to serve, some samurai are turning to crime to survive. There are many more on the road now the war’s over.’

  ‘Well, we won’t know until we find them. The cooper said the duel was yesterday, so they can’t have gone too far.’

  ‘This way,’ argued Ronin, indicating the bridge north, ‘we have a name, a destination and a definite lead.’ He pointed south. ‘That way we have nothing. A guess, a hunch at most. We don’t even know what these two men look like, or if the omamori has anything to do with them.’

  Jack had to concede this point. ‘But what happens when we find this Matagoro Araki? He won’t just hand over my swords.’

  ‘Why not? He’s a samurai concerned with his reputation,’ replied Ronin. ‘He’ll want to protect his good name, not have it smeared with rumours he’s bearing the stolen swords of a distinguished samurai family. Besides, he can only use one daisho at a time!’

  Jack shook his head doubtfully. ‘Kyoto’s too much of a risk.’

  ‘You say you’re samurai! But a samurai is nothing without his swords,’ said Ronin, grasping the hilt of his katana emphatically. ‘Besides, you’ll stand a far better chance of getting back your other possessions if you have your rightful weapons in hand.’

  Only dead fish swim with the current. The problem was Jack didn’t know which way the current was flowing, and he realized he could end up dead if he chose the wrong way.

  ‘Looks like the decision’s been made for you,’ said Ronin, nodding south in the direction of Nara.

  Marching up the road was a patrol of dōshin, scattering anyone in their path.

  ‘Best not wait around,’ said Ronin, walking briskly in the opposite direction and towards Kyoto.

  Jack hurried after him. The heavy rains of the previous day were now washing down from the mountains and the Kizu River was a powerful torrent. Weaving in between the other travellers, they reached the opposite bank and kept up their brisk pace until they entered the forest.

  ‘Do you think the dōshin spotted us?’ asked Jack, looking back over his shoulder. The road was busy and he couldn’t see for certain if anyone was wearing the distinctive hachimaki of an officer.

  ‘Can’t be too sure,’ Ronin replied. ‘But we shouldn’t stop to find out.’

  The day drew on and the further they got from Kizu, the fewer people they met. By the time dusk fell, not a single soul was in sight. At this, Ronin veered off deep into the forest, finally coming to a halt in a small clearing.

  ‘We’ll camp here for the night,’ he said, settling against a fallen log.

  Jack sat beside him, as the samurai uncorked his bottle and took three large gulps. He wondered if Ronin got drunk every night, or if he was just drowning a recent sorrow. Jack decided it wasn’t his place to ask. Removing the two manjū he’d saved, he passed one to Ronin.

  ‘You have it,’ said Ronin, waving the steamed bun away.

  Jack didn’t argue, but decided to save Ronin’s for the following morning. Taking a bite of his, Jack was surprised at the sugary taste of the red-bean manjū. While it wasn’t as filling as the meat one, Jack relished it nonetheless and the sweet dough ball was gone all too soon.

  As he finished his paltry meal, Jack felt a prickling sensation run down the back of his neck. During his ninjutsu training, the Grandmaster had taught him not to ignore such signs. Pretending to make himself more comfortable against the log, Jack took the opportunity to subtly look round. There was no one there, but he thought he caught a slight movement among the bushes.

  Turning to Ronin, Jack whispered gravely, ‘Someone’s watching us.’

  11

  SHADOW IN THE NIGHT

  The forest was pitch-black, the trees blocking out any moonlight. Only the clearing was open to the stars and that made them sitting ducks. Jack and Ronin scanned the undergrowth for further movement, but whoever might be watching was well hidden.

  ‘Are you certain?’ breathed Ronin, his hand reaching for his sword.

  Nodding gently, Jack clutched his bō in readiness to fight. He felt eyes upon him. Someone was definitely out there. Dōshin? But they didn’t seem the type to sneak up on people. More likely they’d charge in and overwhelm with numbers. Could it be bandits? It would be just his luck to be ambushed a second time. Or ninja? For once, Jack hoped it was.

  The ninja were no longer his enemy. Soke had shown him a secret hand sign – the Dragon Seal – that could be used as a signal of friendship. There was no guarantee it would work, however. What ninja would believe a foreigner was one of them?

  Besides, Ronin was still a target. And he wouldn’t be so welcoming to an assassin. Without doubt, there would be a fight.

  Ronin stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ hissed Jack.

  ‘Call of nature,’ he replied loudly, raising an eyebrow to indicate it was a ruse.

  The samurai disappeared into the darkness, noisily making his way through the undergrowth. Left alone, Jack kept up his vigilance and surveyed the forest for movement. He knew the ninja were able to disguise their presence by assuming the shape of rocks, blending into tree trunks and hiding within long grass. The forest could conceal any number of assassins, and Jack began seeing them in every bulge and fleeting shadow.

  All of a sudden, Ronin became silent.

  Jack turned in his direction. ‘Ronin,’ he whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

  There was no response. Jack tightened his grip on the bō. Perhaps the samurai had simply stopped walking and was out of earshot. On the other hand, he could have been seized, possibly even killed. The ninja were experts in silent assassination. And if Ronin was dead Jack would be next.

  The silence stretched on; even the forest seemed to have stopped breathing.

  Judging by their stealth, Jack was now convinced it was a ninja ambush. Clasping both hands together, middle fingers entwined, thumbs and little finger extended in a V-shape, he formed the Dragon Seal and turned slowly in a circle.

  Jack waited for a reponse.

  Nothing.

  ‘Ronin!’ he whispered more urgently.

  A branch snapped behind him. Jack whirled round, staff held high to strike. The steel blade of a battleworn katana glinted in the moonlight and a fearsome warrior stepped out.

  ‘Didn’t find anyone,’ Ronin grunted.

  Jack lowered his staff. ‘But I know I sensed a presence.’

  ‘You should stay on the alert then,’ replied Ronin, sheathing his sword and lying down on the ground.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Jack asked.

  Ronin didn’t bother replying. He just folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, leaving Jack to guard their camp alone.

  Jack still had the unnerving feeling of being watched. But after sweeping the bushes he’d found no one and put the sensation down to anxiety at the thought of returning to Kyoto.

  Tired as he was, Jack forced himself to perform another self-healing meditation. His swollen eye was already going down and the bruises were fading fast, but it would still be a few more days before he was back to full health. He quietly murmured the words of the Sha mantra to ensure he didn’t disturb Ronin.

  At some point, Jack leant back against the fallen log and drifted in and out of sleep.

  A soft furred creature emerged from a bush, its bright inquisitive eyes twinkling in the starlight. Its snout twitched, sniffing him out. Jack let the animal approach.

  You’re a tanuki, thought Jack.

  Suddenly a swirling tornado of leaves enveloped the tanuki, rising to the height of a man. A second later, as if the wind had died, the leaves fell to the ground, revealing a bushy-bearded man in a blood-red robe.

  ‘Riddle me this, young samurai! What is greater than God, more evil than the Devil? Poor people have it, rich people need it, and if you eat it you’ll die. Tell me this and I shall give it to you.’

  Jack thought he knew the answ
er, but his mouth wouldn’t open. His lips were sealed as tight as a tomb.

  The Riddling Monk began to shrink before his eyes, the voice falling away like a pebble down a well. ‘What you find is lost … What you give is given back … What you fight is defeated … What you want is sacrificed.’

  The monk’s robes consumed him until he was no more than a cloth heap. A tanuki crawled out and sauntered off into the forest, leaves crackling like fresh snow beneath its paws …

  Halfway between sleep and waking, Jack sensed a shadow pass before his eyes. He caught a whiff of pine needles and saw a hand reach for Ronin’s swords. In that instant, Jack became alert. Without hesitating, he leapt upon the shadow crouching beside Ronin. Executing a punishing shoulder throw, he pinned the shadow to the ground, pressing his staff hard across its throat. Ronin was immediately by his side, a tantō knife in his hand ready to kill the intruder.

  ‘No … Stop!’ spluttered a terrified voice.

  Jack stared into the dark eyes of a waif-like girl. She had a bob of knotted black hair that framed a slim impish face with ruddy lips and a petite nose.

  ‘What sort of ninja are you?’ he said, noticing her clothing was tatty and only black because of ingrained dirt.

  ‘What sort of samurai are you?’ she retorted, her eyes wide with alarm at the sight of her blond-haired, blue-eyed attacker.

  Jack released the pressure on the girl’s throat, but still didn’t let her up. ‘One who protects his friends from murderers like you.’

  ‘I’m no murderer!’

  ‘So what were you doing?’

  ‘I … I … just wanted to look at his inro,’ she protested, pointing to the small battered wooden carrying case on the samurai’s hip.

  ‘A petty thief!’ spat Ronin in disgust, his bloodshot eyes glaring at her.

  ‘No, I’m not!’ responded the girl indignantly.

  ‘What are you then?’ demanded Ronin.

  She considered for a moment, then answered, ‘A highly skilful thief.’

  ‘Not that skilful,’ Ronin snorted. ‘You were caught.’