‘I know exactly what you mean,’ agreed Jack. ‘I had that same sensation, when the Alexandria was under full sail and I was allowed to stand on its prow. I felt like I was riding the crests of the waves and could conquer the world!’
They both dropped into silent mutual reverie, gazing up at the autumn brown leaves of the cherry blossom tree, sunlight dappling their upturned faces.
‘Are you feeling better today?’ asked Akiko after a while.
‘I’m fine, thank you. Yamato didn’t hit me that hard anyway,’ he replied with obvious bravado.
Akiko gave him a doubtful look.
‘Well, my nose hurts like hell,’ Jack finally admitted, ‘and I still have a headache, but I’m much better today.’
‘I am responsible. I shouldn’t have let you get involved,’ said Akiko, bowing. ‘I apologize for Yamato’s behaviour. He should not have acted like he did.’
‘Why are you apologizing? It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Because it happened in my house. I am certain Yamato did not mean to harm you. He merely got carried away in the heat of the moment.’
‘Well, I’d hate to see Yamato when he did mean it,’ said Jack vehemently.
‘I’m so sorry. You must understand, Jack, Yamato is under great pressure from his father. Ever since Tenno was killed, Masamoto expects Yamato to be as skilled a samurai as his brother was, despite being younger. But that does not excuse his actions or him calling you gaijin. I am so sorry.’
‘Will you stop apologizing for him!’ said Jack, somewhat exasperated. ‘And why does it matter that he calls me gaijin?’
‘Gaijin means barbarian. It is the name we give to uncivilized foreigners. It’s not very nice and now that you are a member of his family, Yamato is wrong to use such a disrespectful term. It is an insult to you.’
At that moment, Yamato strode out of the house, bokken tucked inside his obi. He gave a purposeful bow in Akiko’s direction, but disregarded Jack’s presence entirely.
Jack watched Yamato begin his kata routine, then decided his own course of action. He packed away Father Lucius’s dictionary and stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Akiko, concerned.
‘To get some more practice in,’ said Jack and walked over to where Yamato had commenced his second kata.
‘Back for more?’ asked Yamato incredulously, not breaking off from his training.
‘Why not? I can’t do any worse than yesterday.’
‘You certainly have spirit for a gaijin,’ said Yamato with mild amusement.
Jack bit back on his retort. He didn’t wish to ruin his chances of learning more from his rival.
Yamato called to Jiro to retrieve a bokken from the house again.
‘Follow what I do. Exactly,’ said Yamato to Jack, their weapons in hand.
Yamato stood, his feet together, heels touching. He had slipped his bokken through his obi on his left-hand side. His left hand, grasping it just below the hilt, kept it firmly in place by his hip.
‘Other way up,’ he said, nodding at Jack’s bokken. ‘The blade edge should face towards the sky, so that when you withdraw the sword you are immediately able to make your cut.’
Jack turned the blade over so that the curved edge of the wooden blade was pointing upwards.
‘Good. Now watch me.’
Yamato moved his right hand across his waist and gripped the handle. His right leg slid forwards, dropping into a wide stance. Simultaneously he whipped out his bokken, grasping it with both hands, and sliced downwards. He drove forwards another step, lifting the kissaki up to his imaginary victim’s throat. The attack completed, he then twisted the bokken with a sharp one-handed flick to the right before stepping up carefully and re-sheathing his weapon.
‘Now your turn.’
Jack went to mimic Yamato’s movements, but had not even grabbed the hilt before he was interrupted.
‘No! Your hand must stay close to your body. If you have it out there, your enemy will just chop it off.’
Jack began again. At every stage Yamato stopped him and corrected his movements. Jack quickly grew frustrated. There was so much to think about and Yamato was unflinching in his criticism.
‘What’s the final flick for?’ asked Jack irritably.
‘That move is called chiburi,’ replied Yamato, giving a sadistic smile. ‘It shakes your enemy’s blood from the blade.’
∗ ∗ ∗
The whole afternoon was spent repeating that single kata over and over again. Little by little Jack progressed through each step of the sequence until he was able to execute it in one complete move. He was by no means fluid, but he had learnt the core techniques. The sun was beginning to set by the time Yamato brought the session to an end.
‘Arigatō, Yamato,’ said Jack, bowing courteously.
‘Dōmo, gaijin.’
‘My name is Jack.’ And he held Yamato’s imperious look, challenging him to show appropriate respect.
‘Your name is gaijin until you prove otherwise,’ he said, re-sheathing his bokken.
Yamato then spun on his heels and, without returning Jack’s bow, disappeared into the house.
18
BEST OUT OF THREE
The next day, Jack arrived early in the garden to make sure he was practising the kata before Yamato turned up. Yamato made no comment, but Jack’s point had been made. He would not be put off bokken practice, however disrespectfully Yamato acted.
Yamato fell in beside Jack and began to synchronize his training with Jack’s.
Yamato was by no means a skilled martial artist. He had only been training properly for a year. But he had clearly inherited some of his father’s ability with a weapon and knew enough to teach Jack the basics of kenjutsu – the art of the sword.
As autumn gave way to winter, Jack steadily improved. At first the various kata moves were awkward and stilted, but gradually they began to flow and the bokken became a natural extension of his arms. Even Yamato could not deny Jack’s progress. Their randori became more evenly matched and each time Yamato needed greater skill to defeat Jack.
Akiko, however, did not approve of Jack’s decision to train with Yamato. She thought Jack should wait until Masamoto returned. Masamoto could train him properly in the art of the bokken, and without Jack constantly getting injured. However, Akiko soon realized Jack would not be dissuaded and resigned herself to administering herbal ointments for the numerous cuts and bruises he sustained during randori.
As a compromise, Akiko had insisted that if Jack was to train in the martial arts of the samurai then he should also acquaint himself with the finer and more refined aspects of what it meant to be a samurai, in particular formal Japanese etiquette. She reminded Jack that Masamoto would expect him, as his adopted son, to be well versed in their ways, and that Jack should not disappoint him.
Akiko demonstrated the accepted ways of bowing, sitting and rising in the presence of a samurai and master of the household. She showed him the correct manner in which to offer and receive gifts, using both hands. She helped Jack perfect his Japanese language skills, detailing the correct forms of address when meeting people of differing status and relationship.
Jack thought his head would explode during each and every one of Akiko’s etiquette lessons. There were so many customs and codes of behaviour that he was almost paralysed for fear of offending someone.
Perhaps this was the reason why he enjoyed randori with Yamato so much. It allowed him to be free, to control, in some small way, his own actions and destiny.
‘Best out of three?’ challenged Jack one day as the first dusting of snow settled over the garden.
‘Why not, gaijin?’ said Yamato, taking up his fighting stance.
Akiko, who was teaching Jiro to trace kanji, the Japanese form of writing, in the snow, gave her usual disapproving look before returning to Jiro’s studies.
Jack checked his posture, adjusted his grip and raised his kissaki. Yamato immediately struck, parrying Jac
k’s bokken clear and thrusting forward. Jack swept his body sideways, evading the blade, and brought his own weapon round on Yamato.
Yamato effortlessly blocked it and countered with a rising cut. Jack jumped backwards, the kissaki barely missing his chin. He heard Akiko let out a worried gasp.
Yamato drove forwards and caught Jack on the shoulder with a downward strike. Jack winced under the blow.
‘One to me,’ said Yamato, relishing his victory.
They faced off.
Jack did not make the same mistake this time and came in straight for the kill. He knocked Yamato’s bokken aside, thrusting the kissaki into Yamato’s face. Yamato stumbled backwards, desperately seeking to avoid being stabbed. He slashed wildly with his bokken in retaliation and Jack had to retreat to avoid getting caught by the flurry of blows.
Jack baited him by lowering his kissaki. Yamato spotted the opening and, raising his bokken high, sliced downward at Jack’s exposed head. Jack slipped to Yamato’s outside and cut across his stomach. Yamato crumpled, defeated by the unexpected manoeuvre.
Jiro, who had lost interest in Akiko’s kanji lesson as soon as the randori had commenced, let out a loud whoop, shouting ‘Jack won! First time! Jack won!’
‘One all, I believe,’ said Jack as he helped the winded Yamato back to his feet.
‘Lucky strike, gaijin,’ wheezed Yamato, shrugging off Jack’s helping hand.
Incensed at his lapse of judgement, Yamato broke with fighting etiquette and attacked Jack without waiting to match guards.
He swiftly struck at Jack’s bokken and cut downwards at Jack’s neck. Jack just managed to spin out of harm’s reach, stepping back to create distance between himself and Yamato. Yamato cut across at Jack’s feet, forcing Jack to jump the blade. Jack lost his balance but somehow blocked Yamato’s returning strike to his stomach.
‘Yamato!’ reprimanded Akiko, but he resolutely ignored her.
Yamato slammed his bokken up under Jack’s, knocking it skyward out of Jack’s grip. He then kicked Jack hard in the chest, throwing him back against the cherry blossom tree.
Pressing forward his attack, Yamato swung his weapon directly at Jack’s head. At the last second, more out of instinct than design, Jack ducked and felt the tree shudder as the bokken collided with the trunk, a shower of snow dropping from its branches.
This had turned serious, realized Jack, and he charged forward with all his might, driving his shoulder into Yamato’s gut. Yamato flew backwards and they landed in a heap.
‘Enough! Enough!’ pleaded Akiko, while Jiro jumped up and down with excitement at the apparent wrestling match.
Jack rolled off, desperately searching for his own bokken. He saw it at the foot of the bridge and scrambled for it. Yamato immediately pursued Jack, screaming at the top of his lungs, his bokken held high primed to strike.
Jack snatched up his weapon and, ignoring Akiko’s cries for calm, ran past her on to the bridge. Hearing Yamato close on his heels, Jack turned on the spot bringing his own bokken slicing through the air at Yamato’s approaching head. Also aiming for Jack’s head, Yamato collided with Jack’s bokken, and the blades juddered to a halt inches from one another’s throats.
‘Draw!’ shouted Jiro in delight.
At that very moment, Taka-san appeared and the two fighters lowered their bokken.
‘Jack-kun!’ he called, approaching the three of them. ‘Father Lucius requests your attendance. Urgently.’
Jack knew that it could only mean one thing.
He bowed to Yamato and Akiko then hurried after Taka-san.
Entering Father Lucius’s room, Jack was struck by an overpowering stench of vomit, stale sweat and urine. It reeked of mortality.
A guttering candle feebly lit the gloom. From the far corner, he could hear the priest’s laboured breathing.
‘Father Lucius?’
Jack edged closer to the shadowy figure lying supine on the futon. His foot came into contact with something in the darkness and looking down he saw a small bucket, brimming with vomit. Jack retched but forced himself forward, bending over the bed.
The candlelight spluttered then flared and Jack was confronted with the hollow, shrivelled face of Father Lucius.
The priest’s skin was a pallid blue and moist with oily sweat. His hair, thin and streaked with grey, was plastered in limp strands over his sunken cheeks. Specks of blood mottled his cracked lips and there were now permanent black shadows under his eyes.
‘Father Lucius?’ said Jack, almost hoping the priest was already dead and no longer suffering such torment.
‘Jack?’ croaked Father Lucius, his pale tongue running the length of his cracked lips.
‘Yes, Father?’
‘I must ask for your forgiveness…’
‘For what?’
‘I’m sorry, Jack… son of a heretic though you are… you have spirit…’
He spoke in short bursts, taking harsh wheezing breaths in between each utterance. Jack listened, saddened by the pitiful state of the priest. He was Jack’s last link to the far side of the world and, despite the constant preaching, he had come to respect the man. The priest too had seemingly warmed to him, even if he still refused to be converted.
‘I misjudged you… I enjoyed our lessons… I wish I could have saved you…’
‘Don’t worry about me, Father,’ consoled Jack, ‘my own God will look after me. Just as yours will.’
Father Lucius let out a small sobbing moan.
‘I’m sorry… I had to tell them… it was my duty…’ he cried feebly.
‘Tell who what?’ asked Jack.
‘Please understand… I didn’t know they’d kill for it… May God have mercy…’
‘What did you say?’ urged Jack.
The priest continued to move his lips, trying to say something else, but his words weren’t audible.
With the faintest of coughs, Father Lucius exhaled his last breath and died.
19
MASAMATO’S RETURN
The cherry blossom tree had shed all its leaves now; a skeleton against the sky, its bare branches burdened with snow. Jack walked through the garden, passing beneath its shadow. Death seemed to hang all around. What had Father Lucius meant, ‘I didn’t know they’d kill for it’? Was he talking about the rutter? If so, that must mean he was in danger. But from whom?
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice from behind.
‘I’m so sorry for the passing of Father Lucius. You must be very sad.’
Akiko, who was wearing a plain white kimono, appeared like a snowflake in a world of white.
‘Thank you,’ he said, bowing, ‘but I don’t think he was any friend of mine.’
‘What makes you say that?’ gasped Akiko, shocked at his cold sentiment.
Jack took a breath before answering. Could he trust her? Could he trust anyone here? Yet Akiko was the closest he had to a friend. He had no one else to turn to.
‘When Father Lucius died,’ Jack explained, ‘he said something very strange. He implied someone wanted to kill me, then died weeping and asking for God’s forgiveness.’
‘Why would anyone want to kill you, Jack?’ asked Akiko, her nose wrinkling in bewilderment.
Jack considered her. Could his trust extend to revealing his father’s rutter? No, he decided, he couldn’t reveal the whole truth. Not yet, anyway. His father’s rutter was the only possession he had of any worth. He could only assume they wanted it, but since he didn’t know who they were, the fewer who knew of its true purpose the better.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps they don’t like gaijin?’ lied Jack.
‘Who are they?’
‘I don’t know. Father Lucius died before he could say any more.’
‘We should tell someone.’
‘No! Who’d believe me? They’d say it was the ravings of a dying man.’
‘But you seem to believe it,’ said Akiko, eyeing him closely. She knew he wasn’t revealing everything. She was no
fool, but Jack also knew that Japanese courtesy prevented her from pressing for the answer.
Jack shrugged. ‘Perhaps I misheard him. I’m not certain what he said.’
‘Clearly,’ she said, letting the matter go. ‘But just in case you did hear right, you should be careful. Keep your bokken with you at night. I will ask my mother to leave a lamp burning. I’ll tell her I’m troubled by nightmares. That way any intruder will believe someone is always up.’
‘Thank you, Akiko. But I’m sure it’ll turn out to be nothing,’ said Jack, sceptical of his own words even as he spoke them.
But Jack was right. Nothing happened.
Father Lucius was buried according to his customs, and Jack returned to his routine of Japanese study with Akiko and kenjutsu with Yamato.
A few days later a mounted samurai arrived with a letter announcing Masamoto’s return to Toba. He would be here within the week.
The household became a flurry of activity. Hiroko personally visited the market, ensuring Masamoto’s specialities would be in the house, and hired additional help for the cook to prepare a celebratory meal. Chiro scrubbed all the floors, washed bedding and kimonos, and prepared Masamoto’s room. Uekiya swept the paths and somehow made the garden appear beautiful, even in its stark winter state.
The night before Masamoto was due to arrive, the whole household went to bed early, eager to be fresh and alert for the following day. Jiro was almost bouncing off the paper walls with excitement and it took Hiroko several attempts to settle him.
Yamato’s mood, on the other hand, had darkened with his father’s imminent arrival and he practised his kata late into the night, aware that he would have to impress his father greatly to gain favour.
Jack’s mind whirled as he lay down on his futon, staring at the muted glow of the night lamp through the shoji. He had no idea what was expected of him during his audience with Masamoto. Would he have to prove himself like Yamato? Did he have to fight? Was it to be a test of his Japanese language ability? Or was it all three? Worst of all, what if he caused serious offence through a simple lapse in etiquette?
The Way of the Warrior Page 9
