by Unknown
First, when he had raised the conflict of faith with Sensei Yamada, the monk had explained to him that Buddhism was a philosophy open to all religions. This was why the Japanese had no issues with following Shintoism – their native religion – practising Buddhism, and even converting to Christianity, at the same time.
‘They’re all strands of the same rug,’ Sensei Yamada had said, ‘only different colours.’
Second, Jack had discovered that meditation was quite similar to the act of praying. Both required focus, peaceful surroundings and, usually, reflections upon life and how it should be led. So Jack decided he would think of meditation as simply another form of praying to God.
Third, during a particularly deep meditation, he had experienced the vision of a butterfly overcoming a demon and this vision had helped him win his taijutsu fight in the Taryu-Jiai contest.
This had been the proof that encouraged Jack to open his mind to the possibilities and benefits of Buddhism, even if he remained a Christian at heart.
Through daily practice he had become adept at meditation, and in no time at all his mind was focused on the piece of paper before him, trying to unravel the mystery of the koan. Even though no answer was immediately forthcoming, he wasn’t worried. He knew enlightenment, satori as Sensei Yamada called it, took patience and intense concentration.
Yet, whichever way he looked at the paper, it was still merely a sheet of paper.
A whole stick of incense had burnt through by the time Sensei Yamada called a halt to the meditation, and Jack was no closer to experiencing satori.
‘Mokuso yame!’ said the sensei, clapping his hands once more. ‘So, do you have an answer for me, Nobu-kun?’
‘No, Sensei,’ mumbled Nobu, bowing his head in shame.
‘Anyone else?’ invited the sensei.
Kiku raised her hand tentatively. ‘Is it kozo, Sensei?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The paper is made from the fibres of the kozo tree,’ explained Kiku.
‘A fair suggestion, but you are still thinking too literally. How about if I do this?’
Sensei Yamada picked up his paper and folded it several times. Initially shaping it into a smaller square, he then bent the sheet in increasingly intricate folds. Within moments, the flat piece of paper had been transformed into a small bird.
He placed the paper model on the floor for all to see.
‘So what is it?’
‘A crane!’ said Emi excitedly. ‘Our symbol of peace.’
‘Excellent, Emi. And folding a paper crane is like making peace – some of the steps are awkward. At first, it may even seem impossible. But, with patience, the result is always a thing of beauty. This is the art of origami.’
Sensei Yamada took a fresh piece of paper from a small pile behind him.
‘So let me rephrase my opening question for you to meditate on. The koan is now: what is it that origami teaches us? But first watch me closely, so that you can all make your own cranes.’
Sensei Yamada repeated the complex combination of folds that would create the little bird. There were more than twenty individual steps. When the sensei made his last move, pulling at the corners of the model to form the wings, he was left with a perfect miniature crane in his palm.
In Jack’s hand, though, was a crumpled piece of paper.
Jack realized that origami was far more difficult than it appeared. He looked around at the others. The attempts by Yamato and Saburo were equally flawed, and even Akiko’s model appeared rather lopsided with one wing vastly larger than the other. The only student to have folded a crane perfectly was Yori, who was pulling at its tail and making the little bird’s wings flap.
‘It seems some of you need more practice,’ observed Sensei Yamada, who selected a second piece of paper and laid it in front of him. ‘So who can tell me what this is?’
‘A crane!’ chimed the class in unison.
‘Certainly not!’ admonished Sensei Yamada, much to the confusion of his students. ‘Use the eyes of your mind, not the eyes in your head.’
Picking up the paper, he folded and bent the sheet, his fingers dexterously manipulating it into ever more complex shapes. The students gasped in astonishment at the finished model.
‘This is quite clearly a butterfly,’ said the sensei with a wry smile, and in his hand was a lifelike replica of a butterfly, complete with antennae. ‘Tonight, I want you all to practise making a paper crane like I showed you. And while you do this, meditate on what origami is teaching you.’
The class collected up their pieces of paper and filed out of the Buddha Hall.
‘Remember the answer is in the paper!’ Sensei Yamada called after his departing students.
Jack, however, remained behind. He waited until everyone had gone, then approached his sensei.
‘You appear troubled, Jack-kun. What’s on your mind?’ asked Sensei Yamada, arranging his butterfly and crane models on the altar at the foot of the shrine’s great Buddha statue.
Jack summoned up the courage to speak about his personal fears. ‘I’ve been told that a Christian priest has been killed by daimyo Kamakura. Is this true?’
Sensei Yamada nodded sadly. ‘I’ve heard this news too. It’s an unfortunate case.’
‘So the daimyo does intend to kill all Christians in Japan?’ exclaimed Jack, alarmed to hear that the rumours were right.
‘Who told you that?’ said Sensei Yamada, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘As I understand, the death was not religiously motivated. The priest bribed a court official and so was punished for his crime. Granted, such a thing has never happened before and daimyo Kamakura does seem to be taking a hard line with foreigners, but this doesn’t automatically mean all Christians are under threat.’
‘But I’d heard that the daimyo was going to expel all foreigners by force,’ Jack insisted. ‘And that would include me!’
‘You needn’t worry,’ replied Sensei Yamada, smiling warmly at Jack. ‘If Masamoto-sama thought you were in danger, he would make moves to ensure your safety.’
Jack realized that Sensei Yamada was right and his idea of escaping to Nagasaki on his own had been idiotic, as well as completely unnecessary with Masamoto as his protector. But he was also aware of the strict hierarchy of Japanese rule. Kamakura, as the daimyo of Edo, was an influential man, and Jack wondered whether Masamoto wielded enough power to guard him from the higher authority of a lord.
‘But isn’t a daimyo more powerful than a samurai?’ he asked. ‘Can Masamoto-sama really protect me from him?’
‘We’re talking about Masamoto-sama here. Possibly the greatest swordsman to have lived,’ said Sensei Yamada, chuckling at the idea. ‘Besides, even if daimyo Kamakura was contemplating such a foolish notion, he would have little support for such ideas. Foreigners are needed in Japan since they bring in good trade.’
Sensei Yamada got up and walked Jack to the Buddha Hall’s entrance. From the top of the stone steps, he pointed across the rooftops to Nijo Castle.
‘As you’re well aware, the ruling lord here in Kyoto is daimyo Takatomi. But daimyo Takatomi is not just responsible for this province. He governs Japan as one of the appointed regents and he’s popular among the samurai lords. He likes Christians and foreigners. In fact, he likes them so much, I’ve heard that he’s converting to Christianity himself. So he wouldn’t allow anything like that to happen here.’
Sensei Yamada smiled and placed a reassuring hand on Jack’s shoulder.
‘Jack, you are perfectly safe.’
14
INTRUDER
Following Sensei Yamada’s reassurance that his fears were unfounded, Jack would have been in good spirits that evening had Yamato not reminded him of Sensei Kyuzo’s punishment. So, while everyone folded cranes and sought a solution to Sensei Yamada’s koan, Jack was hard at work polishing block after block of the Butokuden’s training area.
The wooden floor seemed as vast as an ocean to Jack as he rocked back and f
orth with the polishing oil, his shadow ebbing and flowing like a tiny wave across its surface.
‘Put your back into it!’ snarled Sensei Kyuzo, who was eating his dinner in the ceremonial alcove of the large hall.
The tantalizing aroma of grilled mackerel wafted past and Jack’s stomach rumbled with hunger.
‘I’ll return in the morning,’ the sensei suddenly announced, having finished his meal, ‘and I expect the Butokuden to be gleaming. Or else you will miss breakfast too.’
‘Hai, Sensei,’ Jack mumbled, bowing his head all the way to the floor.
However much he despised this samurai, he had to show the appropriate respect.
When Sensei Kyuzo had left, Jack resumed his punishment. He had no intention of being here in the morning and intended to work until his fingers were raw and his knees felt like granite, if need be.
Despite the injustice of the punishment, Jack found solace in the chore. He was reminded of all the times he’d had to holystone the decks of the Alexandria. Though it had meant toiling under the blistering heat of a Pacific sun with the rest of the crew, the task had been necessary work to maintain the ship, not a punishment. Scouring the decks became a time of songs and merry tales, when friendships were made and worries forgotten.
He was reminded of Ginsel, his shark-toothed friend, who now lay dead at the bottom of the ocean. He missed their camaraderie. In fact, he missed all the crew, even the Bosun, who had kept the men in check with the threat of the cat-o’-nine-tails!
But most of all, he missed his father. His murder had left a gaping hole in Jack’s life. His father had been the one he’d always turned to, the one who had guided and protected him, the one who had believed in him.
Jack wiped an unexpected tear from his eye and turned back to the task in hand.
The moon had nearly completed its arc across the heavens by the time Jack had polished every block of the wooden floor. The inky black sky was showing the first signs of dawn on the horizon as he emerged from the Butokuden, exhausted and light-headed with hunger.
At least breakfast would soon be served, thought Jack. Not that he was particularly looking forward to it. Miso soup, cold fish and rice were hard to stomach early in the morning. How he longed for a normal English breakfast of crusty buttered bread, fried eggs and ham.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a movement on the opposite side of the courtyard. At first he thought his eyes were deceiving him, for who else would be up at this time?
He looked harder.
A shadow flitted along the edge of the Hall of Lions.
Whoever it was, they didn’t want to be seen. Dressed all in black, the figure kept close to the wall and barely made a sound as it crept towards the entrance of the Hall of Lions, where the students slept.
Jack’s senses went on alert. The intruder looked like a ninja.
Retreating behind the Butokuden’s doorway, Jack watched the ninja’s progress.
So Dragon Eye had finally returned.
‘Another time, gaijin! The rutter is not forgotten.’ The ninja’s words resounded in Jack’s head. He cursed himself for not having spoken with Emi yet to arrange going back to Nijo Castle to hide the logbook. But Jack had foolishly begun to think that Yamato had been right and that Dragon Eye had died from his wounds, for there had been no sight or sound of his sworn enemy for months.
But it appeared that Dragon Eye wasn’t dead.
Akiko had suggested that the ninja, as an assassin for hire, had simply been employed by someone else on another mission. Clearly that assignment was over and he’d returned to finish his original job.
The figure in black reached the doorway and, as it turned to enter the Shishi-no-ma, the moonlight caught the intruder’s face.
Jack drew back in surprise. It was a fleeting glimpse, but he could have sworn it was Akiko.
15
SENSEI KANO
Jack sprinted across the courtyard.
Reaching the doorway, he slid back the shoji and peered in. All of the lamps had burnt out so it was hard to see anything, but the corridor seemed empty.
He silently made his way down the girls’ corridor towards Akiko’s room. When he got there, he found that her door was slightly ajar. He peeked in through the gap.
Akiko was fast asleep under the covers of her futon – and looked like she had been there for some time.
Seeing her asleep, Jack became aware of just how exhausted he was. Suffering from hunger and lack of sleep, could he have imagined the intruder?
He decided he would speak with Akiko in the morning, but now the pull of his own bed was too much to resist and he stumbled back to his room. Collapsing on to his futon, Jack’s mind whirled. He stared at his Daruma Doll, willing himself to sleep, and after a while he felt his eyelids grow heavy.
He could have sworn he’d closed his eyes for only a moment before Yamato was at his door, the bright morning sunshine flooding his room.
‘Come on, Jack!’ said Yamato, rousing him out of bed. ‘You’ve missed breakfast and Sensei Kano’s said we’re to meet at the Butokuden right now. We’ve got our first lesson in the Art of the Bō.’
Leaving the bustle of Kyoto city behind, the students crossed the wide wooden bridge that spanned the Kamogawa River and headed north-east in the direction of Mount Hiei. Despite being the tail end of summer, the weather was warm and dry, the sky cloudless, and in the sharp light of morning the burnt-out temples, that could be seen scattered over the mountain’s forested slopes, glinted like broken teeth.
The enormous bulk of Sensei Kano, a mountain in himself, strode out in front, his great white bō staff striking the ground with each step. Like sheep following their shepherd, his students trailed behind in two regimented rows, their pace dictated by the rhythmic thunk-thunk of the sensei’s staff.
As instructed, the class had gathered outside the Butokuden to await their new teacher. Jack and the others had been watching the early morning workers digging the foundations for the new Hall of the Hawk when Sensei Kano appeared. He acknowledged his students with a brief bow before instructing them to collect a wooden bō staff from a pile stacked against the weapons wall inside the Butokuden. They had then left the school at a brisk march.
Their teacher hadn’t spoken a word since.
By the time they reached the foot of the mountain, the morning sun had risen high in the sky. The forced march, combined with the dust of the road, soon left the students hot and thirsty, so the cool shade of the cedar trees was a welcome relief when they entered the forest and began their ascent of Mount Hiei.
As they weaved their way up its slope, the students spread out a little and Jack finally spotted an opportunity to speak with Akiko.
‘So where do you think Sensei Kano’s taking us?’ he asked nonchalantly.
‘Enryakuji, I presume.’
‘Why there? Didn’t you tell me a samurai general destroyed it?’
‘Yes, General Nobunaga.’
‘So what’s there left to see?’ asked Jack.
‘Nothing. Apart from the remains of several hundred deserted temples. Enryakuji has been a tomb for over forty years.’
‘It seems a rather odd place to take us to train.’ Jack drew closer, checking no one was listening before he whispered, ‘By the way, what were you doing last night?’
Akiko momentarily faltered at the question. Then, keeping her gaze fixed on the path, replied, ‘I was folding cranes.’
‘No, I mean just before dawn,’ pressed Jack. ‘I’m sure I saw you outside the Shishi-no-ma. You were dressed all in black like a ninja!’
Akiko’s face was an odd mixture of disbelief and alarm.
‘You must be mistaken, Jack. I was asleep. Like everyone else.’
‘Well, I saw someone – and I swear it looked like you. But when I got inside, there was no one around.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?’ She studied his face with concern. ‘You look dead on your feet. Did you get any sleep
last night?’
Jack shook his head wearily and was about to question her further, when the students behind caught them up.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack continued to study Akiko, but her face gave nothing away. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Akiko had no reason to lie to him. But if it wasn’t Akiko, then who else could it have been?
THUNK!
Jack’s thoughts were interrupted by the final beat of Sensei Kano’s bō staff upon the ground. The students all came to an abrupt halt.
‘We cross here,’ announced Sensei Kano. His voice was deep and booming, as if a temple gong had been rung inside his chest.
The students gathered round. Jack edged his way forward with Yamato and Akiko by his side. In front of them was a ravine splitting the forest in two, with a fast-flowing river far below. Shimmering in the watery mist, the remains of a footbridge jutted out over the abyss.
‘Where shall we cross, Sensei?’ asked Yamato.
‘Is there not a bridge?’ enquired Sensei Kano.
‘Hai Sensei,’ Yamato replied, bemused at the question, ‘but it’s been destroyed.’
Sensei Kano raised his eyes to heaven, as if listening to some distant sound, then said, ‘What about the log?’
A little way down from the bridge, spanning the gorge, was a small felled cedar tree, its branches pruned, the trunk stripped bare of its bark.
‘But, Sensei,’ objected Yamato, a tremor in his voice, ‘the log is barely wide enough for one foot… it’s covered in moss… and it’s wet… someone could easily slip and fall.’
‘Nonsense. You’ll all cross here. Indeed you, Yamatokun, will go first. You are Masamoto’s son, aren’t you?’
Yamato’s mouth fell open, his face going a touch pale. ‘Hai, Sensei,’ he replied weakly.
‘Good, then lead the way!’
The sensei gave Yamato an encouraging prod with his staff and Yamato shuffled to the edge of the ravine. He stopped at its lip.
