The Way of the Sword

by Unknown

‘Thanks,’ said Jack, ‘but I’ve still got the one you gave me.’

  ‘Yes, but this one’s special. I finally finished Senbazuru Orikata. This is the thousandth crane. The one that holds the wish.’

  For a brief moment, the little bird in Jack’s hand seemed to flutter with hope.

  ‘I’m praying my wish can protect you, just as you saved my life,’ explained Yori with a hopeful look in his eyes.

  Overwhelmed by his friend’s compassion, Jack bowed, then tenderly slipped the little bird into the folds of his obi.

  Masamoto strode over. ‘Are you ready?’

  Jack gave an unconvincing nod of his head.

  ‘You needn’t fear. You have my first swords,’ Masamoto reassured him. ‘They will serve you well. Just remember to carefully judge the distance between yourself and your adversary. Bring him into your sphere of attack. Draw him out. Whatever you do, don’t let him draw you in.’

  Jack bowed his appreciation for the advice.

  ‘If you fight with courage,’ said Masamoto, speaking low so no one else would overhear, ‘you may yet regain your honour and my respect.’

  Masamoto returned to his commanding position in the crowd. Jack now felt even more pressure to succeed. He had been given a chance to redeem himself in his guardian’s eyes.

  Sensei Kano now approached.

  ‘How’s your foot?’ asked Jack.

  Sensei Kano laughed. ‘That’s what I like about you, Jack-kun. Always thinking of others before yourself. But what about your predicament? It’ll soon be sunset, won’t it? So try to attack your enemy at a point where the dying sun shines into his eyes.’

  He gripped Jack’s shoulders, then let go reluctantly to step aside for Sensei Yosa.

  ‘Maintain your centre and stay balanced. I have faith that you will survive,’ she said. Then she tenderly touched Jack’s cheek with the back of her hand. ‘But if that samurai harms more than a hair on your head, I’ll make a pincushion of him with my arrows.’

  Everyone seemed to want to offer Jack advice, even Sensei Kyuzo who, on his way to join the other sensei, said abruptly, ‘Ichi-go, ichi-e. You’ll only get one chance. Don’t make it your last.’ The little knot of a man threw Jack a twisted grin, as if it hurt him to smile, then strolled off.

  Jack didn’t feel any better for the taijutsu master’s counsel, and his mood plummeted further when he saw Kazuki and his Scorpion Gang swagger over, Moriko close by his side, her black teeth accentuated by her chalk-white face.

  Then Kazuki stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘Good luck, Jack,’ he said, apparently in earnest.

  ‘Err… thank you,’ mumbled Jack, caught unawares by Kazuki’s sincerity. Perhaps Kazuki wasn’t responsible for entering his name after all.

  Then, with a straight face, Kazuki asked, ‘Can I have your swords after he’s finished with you?’

  The Scorpion Gang sniggered uncontrollably, revelling in their little joke, then they all strode away, laughing.

  Akiko unexpectedly took Jack’s hand in hers to comfort him. ‘Ignore them, Jack. Don’t forget what the High Priest said: your spirit is your true shield.’

  ‘Fudoshin!’ suggested Kiku helpfully. ‘You’ll need that for the fight too.’

  ‘And remember what Sensei Kano taught us,’ Yamato added. ‘The eyes are the windows to your mind, so make sure you fight without eyes.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’ asked Saburo, offering Jack a skewer of chicken. ‘A samurai should never fight on an empty stomach, you know.’

  Jack shook his head, thoroughly bewildered by the onslaught of advice.

  At that moment, Emi pushed through the crowd and presented Jack with a posy of yellow and red camellia.

  ‘For luck,’ she breathed into his ear. ‘Don’t be late for the celebrations tonight.’

  Akiko reached between the two of them, graciously offering to hold the flowers for Jack. Emi gave her a civil smile and handed them over, though her eyes revealed annoyance.

  ‘It’s time, Jack-kun,’ said Sensei Hosokawa, summoning him over to where the musha shugyo samurai waited, sword in hand.

  ‘Mushin,’ Sensei Hosokawa whispered into Jack’s ear, having formally introduced Jack to his opponent, Sasaki Bishamon.

  ‘But you said it would take me years to master mushin,’ protested Jack as Sensei Hosokawa performed a final check on his sword for him.

  ‘You no longer have the grace of time,’ he replied, looking Jack in the eye. ‘You have trained hard and you have completed the Circle. As long as you expect nothing and are ready for anything in this fight, mushin is within your grasp. Let your sword become no sword.’

  With that last piece of counsel, he handed back the katana and left Jack alone to face his opponent in the centre of the bloodstained duelling ground.

  Up close, Sasaki Bishamon appeared exactly like the God of War his name proclaimed him to be. Scars were visible on both his arms like long, dead snakes and his eyes were as hard and heartless as if they had been chiselled from granite. It was clear even in the way he stood that this samurai was no novice fighter. He had duelled his way across Japan.

  What alarmed Jack the most, though, was the kamon emblazoned on the jacket of the man’s gi and his white headband. A circle of four black scorpions.

  Jack’s first dream of the year flashed before his eyes and he recalled Sensei Yamada’s reading. Scorpions symbolized treachery. Four meant death. He had encountered Kazuki’s Scorpion Gang, the scorpion in the Spirit challenge and now this warrior’s family crest. Was the samurai himself the fourth scorpion?

  ‘I see you’ve already dressed for your funeral. How appropriate, gaijin,’ laughed the samurai, pointing at Jack’s chest.

  Confused, Jack looked down at his own gi. In his haste to get ready for the duel, he had folded the right lapel over the left, like a corpse prepared for burial! Why hadn’t anyone noticed this before?

  ‘Soon there’ll be one less gaijin in the world!’ shouted someone in the crowd.

  ‘Make his first blood his last!’ cried another spectator.

  These heckles were followed by a cacophony of cheering and jeering, the spectators seemingly split between gaijin supporters and haters.

  The shouts grew louder and Jack became disorientated with the noise, heat and confusion of the duelling ground. His head whirled like a storm from all the advice he’d been given. He started to hyperventilate and Sensei Yamada, noticing his panic, shuffled to his side.

  ‘Take a deep breath. You need to focus on the fight.’

  ‘Sensei, I can’t. He’s going to kill me. Tell me what to do.’

  ‘Nobody can give you wiser counsel than yourself,’ replied Sensei Yamada, laying a reassuring hand on Jack’s trembling sword arm to steady it. ‘Act on the advice you would give to others. Consider what that would be.’

  ‘Come on, you little urchin! No more time-wasting!’ shouted the samurai, kicking at the dust.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of fear itself,’ replied Jack without thinking.

  Sensei Yamada nodded. ‘Exactly. Remember – this samurai’s flesh and blood. He’s no Mountain Monk.’

  The air was dreadfully dry. Jack’s tongue felt like it was caked in dust. He tried to lick his lips, but fear seemed to have drained his mouth of all moisture.

  The tips of their opposing kissaki glinted golden red in the dying light of the day. Jack made a final adjustment to his grip on the sword. Masamoto’s katana, although heavier than his bokken, was well balanced, the steel sharp and the blade true. Over the past months of practice, Jack had performed so many cuts with the weapon, he swore he could hear the sword whispering to him.

  A calm gradually descended over him.

  He was no longer scared but tense. Like the rope of a hangman’s noose, he might snap at any moment, but he had already faced down and conquered his fear during the Spirit challenge.

  Jack recalled Sensei Hosokawa’s words: ‘The three evils for a samurai are fear, doubt and confusion.’


  He had defeated his fear.

  He had overcome his confusion.

  Now there was only doubt.

  Jack studied the callous face of his opponent. The man’s grey eyes gave nothing away.

  Not for the first time, Jack found himself staring into the face of death.

  This time, though, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  Jack noticed the samurai held his kissaki slightly too low, exposing a way in straight to the neck.

  To every spectator watching, the attack was so quick that it was like the blur of a startled bird. Jack knocked the samurai’s sword to one side and struck at his target.

  The blade whistled through the air.

  And missed.

  For the samurai, it had all been part of his plan. Enticing Jack in with an opportunity and countering with a driving thrust to the stomach that began at Jack’s bottom rib and finished its cut at the base of his belly.

  A great cry of anguish broke from Akiko, Emi and the others, as Jack was skewered on the samurai’s sword.

  50

  NO SWORD

  It was only by the greatest good fortune that Jack had managed to avoid being impaled. The blade had pierced the loose side of his gi, slicing straight through his jacket but to one side, almost grazing his flesh. The sword was so close Jack could feel the hard cool steel against his skin.

  Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

  Jack cursed himself, driving past his opponent, his gi ripping asunder in an effort to escape. He hastily created distance between himself and the samurai.

  What had Masamoto said?

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t let him draw you in.’

  That’s exactly what he had just done.

  The samurai glanced at Jack’s exposed midriff, disappointed. ‘Don’t gaijin bleed?’

  There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd.

  ‘Of course not!’ shouted a spectator. ‘Gaijin are like worms!’

  The crowd erupted, some baying for Jack’s blood, others defending his honour.

  Jack felt his own anger swell at the bigotry of the spectators. The majority seemed to have no concept of bushido. Where was the respect? The honour? The benevolence? The moral integrity of rectitude?

  Drawing on his courage, Jack would show them exactly what it meant to be samurai.

  Like Masamoto had told him to, Jack tossed his anger on to the water of his mind, letting it disappear in ripples.

  He calmed his breathing and considered his strategy.

  The first encounter had been too close.

  He knew he wouldn’t get a second chance.

  This time he would wait for the samurai, willing the warrior to enter his sphere of attack. Though Jack was now completely calm inside, he gave an outward impression of being distraught.

  He let his sword shake. He appeared to attempt an escape, circling around until his back was to the sun and the samurai had to squint at him. He even began to blubber.

  ‘Please… don’t kill me…’ pleaded Jack.

  Sasaki Bishamon shook his head, disgusted. There were boos from the crowd and Jack caught Masamoto hanging his head at Jack’s shameful surrender.

  ‘You’re pathetic. So much for the Great Gaijin Samurai,’ spat the warrior, flicking his sword at Jack. ‘It’s time I put you out of your misery.’

  The samurai approached in slow deliberate steps, lifting the katana high to slice down through Jack, with the clear intent of not only drawing first blood, but making it the last blood Jack ever shed.

  Jack willed his mind to flow like water.

  Mushin.

  No mind.

  He let the baying of the crowd fade into the background.

  No sound.

  He let the samurai’s advance become still.

  No distraction.

  He let the sword in his hand become one with his heart.

  No sword.

  The samurai struck without mercy.

  Time appeared to have slowed as a spontaneous knowledge of the warrior’s attack blossomed in Jack’s mind. He knew exactly where the samurai was directing his sword. He knew when to step within its arc so he could evade it. He knew where to strike and when.

  Jack knew the hand of his mind now wielded the sword.

  He acted intuitively.

  In three quick swipes, the duel was over.

  With the same accuracy that Sensei Hosokawa had cleaved the grain of rice in two, Jack had cut the samurai, slicing through his obi, hakama trousers and headband.

  First the man’s obi hit the ground.

  Then his hakama fell in a heap.

  Finally the samurai’s headband floated down through the air, the scorpion kamon cut exactly in half.

  The warrior turned on Jack and roared, bringing his sword up to retaliate.

  ‘First blood!” announced Masamoto, quickly stepping between the two of them to halt the fight.

  The samurai blinked in disbelief. He had the tiniest trickle of blood running down his forehead from where Jack had nicked him with his kissaki.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Jack, bowing to stifle a grin. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  One of the spectators began to laugh.

  Then another joined in. And another. Soon the whole crowd was in fits of laughter, many of the women waving their little fingers at the defeated warrior. Slowly it dawned on the samurai that he was totally naked, his hakama around his ankles. The warrior glanced around, mortified at his loss of face. Pulling up the remains of his clothing round him, he fled from the duelling ground.

  Jack was swamped by his friends and a whole host of other students from the Niten Ichi Ryū, all clamouring to congratulate him.

  Jack took in little of what was being said. His mind was lost in the moment of the duel. Mushin. He had mastered mushin. Or, at the very least, experienced it. More importantly, for a brief moment, his sword had existed in his heart. It had become part of him.

  The sword was truly the soul of a samurai.

  The crowd opened out to allow Masamoto and Sensei Hosokawa through.

  ‘A masterful ruse, Jack-kun. You had me fooled,’ commended Masamoto. ‘If you cannot defeat your opponent physically, then you have to trick his mind. You have earned my respect.’

  ‘I understand, Masamoto-sama,’ replied Jack, bowing, and thanking God that he’d been forgiven for his lie over the rutter.

  When he looked up again, Sensei Hosokawa stood before him. His sharp eyes studied Jack as he pulled pensively at the sharp stub of his beard. Then his sword master grinned, broad and proud.

  ‘Jack-kun, you are ready. You’ve proved to me you truly comprehend the Way of the Sword.’

  51

  KUNOICHI

  The night was unduly warm and the room airless, making Jack sweat uncomfortably as his hand fumbled in the darkness for his father’s rutter.

  The high floating sound of a bamboo flute entwined with the vibrating plucking of a shamisen could be heard from the distant Grand Chamber of daimyo Takatomo’s palace, where everyone was gathered to celebrate the completion of the Circle of Three.

  ‘It’s not here!’ said Jack, a note of panic entering his voice.

  ‘Are you sure?’ queried Yamato.

  ‘Yes. I left it on the upper ledge,’ Jack insisted, as he emerged from behind the silk white crane that hung upon the wall of the reception room, ‘but it’s gone.’

  ‘Let me look,’ offered Akiko. She stepped on to the cedar dais and peered into the bolt-hole.

  The three of them had slipped out of the celebrations, having left Saburo and Kiku to look after Yori. Their intention had been to retrieve the rutter and return before anyone noticed their absence. Masamoto, now aware of the logbook, had asked to see it for himself, requesting that Jack bring it to him the following morning. Jack had agreed, though he hadn’t revealed its location in case he further angered the samurai.

  But it appeared they were too late. Dragon Eye had already stolen it.

  ‘How could he ha
ve got into a ninja-proof castle?’ despaired Jack, slumping to the floor.

  ‘Jack!’

  Jack was vaguely aware that Akiko was waving something in front of his face.

  ‘Is this what you were looking for?’ She smiled, brandishing the oilskin-covered rutter in her hand, and placed it in his lap. ‘It had just fallen on the floor.’

  ‘You are…’ began Jack, but he didn’t quite know how to express his relief and joy to Akiko.

  The music in the Great Chamber came to an end and in the lull a bird could be heard singing.

  A nightingale.

  The grin on Jack’s face faded as he remembered daimyo Takatomi’s unique alarm system built into the floorboards.

  His growing look of horror was mirrored by both Akiko and Yamato.

  Someone was coming.

  ‘Quick! Hide the rutter,’ instructed Akiko.

  The Nightingale Floor sang with each approaching footstep.

  Jack had no choice. He replaced the logbook on the upper ledge and let the wall hanging fall back into place.

  Outside the noise of the floorboards ceased.

  The stranger was at the shoji door.

  They looked at one another. What should they do? If it was a guard, they could they pretend they were lost; but if it wasn’t, shouldn’t they be getting ready to fight?

  The shoji slid open.

  A figure knelt before them, silhouetted in the corridor, the face veiled in shadow.

  No one moved.

  Jack noticed the wall hanging was still swinging slightly and desperately willed it to stop.

  The figure bowed and stood.

  A beautiful woman in a jade-green kimono, her long hair twirled high upon her head and fastened with an ornate hairpin, glided into the room.

  ‘The daimyo thought you might like some refreshments for your private party,’ the woman said softly, putting a small tray with a teapot and four china cups down on the tatami.

  She indicated for them to sit.

  Bewildered, yet somewhat relieved, the three of them did as they were told. Jack watched the serving woman pour out three cups of sencha. She smiled kindly, offering Jack the first drink; her eyes, shiny as black pearls, never leaving his face.