A thin orange haze lit the winter sky, and Jack could make out the tracery of the cherry blossom tree, its branches silhouetted against the crisp, white landscape. The samurai’s arrow was still buried in its trunk, a deadly reminder that Dragon Eye was out there, somewhere, bent upon stealing the rutter. Jack shuddered and hugged himself against the chill of morning.
‘Good morning, Jack-kun.’
Uekiya the gardener had shuffled up and was bowing low by Jack’s side.
‘Good morning, Uekiya-san, what are you doing up so early?’
‘Jack-kun, please accept this humble gift.’
The old man handed him a small wooden carrying case, opening up the lid to reveal a tiny potted plant within.
‘What is it?’ asked Jack.
‘It is bonsai,’ explained Uekiya, ‘a miniature sakura tree, just like the one you sit under in this garden.’
Jack examined the little plant. It was a perfect cherry blossom tree, yet not much larger than the span of his hand.
‘Sakura bloom in April,’ explained Uekiya with tenderness. ‘The blossom is brief, but beautiful. Like life.’
‘Arigatō, Uekiya-san. But I don’t have anything to give you in return.’
‘That is not necessary. You have given me great pleasure every day you have enjoyed my garden. That is all an old gardener could wish for.’
‘Jack-kun! Jack-kun!’ beckoned Hiroko, scurrying out of the house. ‘You must hurry. It is time to go.’
‘In Kyoto, look upon this bonsai and remember old Uekiya and his garden?’
‘I will,’ said Jack, bowing his gratitude. He realized that he would miss everything in this garden, the wooden bridge spanning the stream, the trickle of the waterfall, and most of all the shade and shelter of the cherry blossom tree itself.
Hiroko ushered him towards the front of the house. Jack glanced back over his shoulder one last time and saw the old man bow low, holding it to mark respect. He was so still it was as if he grew out of the very earth itself.
‘How do I look after bonsai?’ called Jack.
Uekiya looked up. ‘Prune it and water a little every day, but not too much…’ he began, but the rest of his words were lost as Jack turned the corner.
Hiroko led him through the front gate, where a troop of samurai and their horses was gathered. Final preparations were being made for the journey and Jack could see Yamato mounting a horse at the head of the column, next to Masamoto.
‘Just a moment, Jack-kun,’ said Hiroko, disappearing back into the house.
She returned almost immediately with a neatly wrapped kimono made of a deep burgundy-coloured silk.
‘You will need this for ceremonies and festivals. It bears the phoenix kamon, the family crest of Masamoto,’ she said, small tears welling in her eyes at his departure. ‘You will be safer under Masamoto-sama’s watchful eye in Kyoto than you can be here.’
‘Arigatō, Hiroko-san,’ said Jack, taking the gift with both hands and admiring it. ‘It is truly magnificent.’
A heavyset samurai, with dark, bushy eyebrows and a large moustache that appeared to grow directly out of his nostrils, approached on a horse. He was dressed in a dark-brown kimono and riding coat. As he drew closer, Jack recognized him. It was Masamoto’s trusted samurai. Kuma-san.
‘Jack-kun! You are to ride with me,’ he commanded, patting the back of his saddle.
Jack placed the new kimono in his shoulder bag, together with the bonsai tree, and secured them in an empty saddlebag. Kuma-san offered his hand and Jack mounted the horse. He passed Jack a thick cloak to ward off the cold.
‘And remember to bathe!’ admonished Hiroko, giving the departing Jack a rueful smile.
As they trotted to the front, Jack’s eyes suddenly burned and he had to blink back tears. He would be sad to leave Toba. This had been his home since arriving in the summer. He had no idea when or if he would ever return. He waved goodbye to Hiroko, who bowed back. Then he realized he had not seen Akiko. Where was she? He had to say farewell. Jack desperately looked around, unable to get down from the horse.
Eventually he spied her behind a group of mounted samurai. She was riding her own white stallion, the same one Jack had seen her with that first morning in Japan.
‘Akiko!’ called Jack, ‘I was worried I wouldn’t see you to say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye?’ She gave Jack a perplexed look and trotted over. ‘But Jack, I am coming to Kyoto.’
‘What? But we’re going to train to be samurai warriors.’
‘Women are samurai too, Jack,’ said Akiko, giving Jack an affronted look, and spurred her horse onwards before he could reply.
There was a cry of ‘Ikinasai!’ and the column of horses set off.
Jack became aware of someone sprinting up alongside his horse.
‘Bye bye, Jack Fwesher!’ shouted Jiro enthusiastically.
‘Goodbye, Jiro,’ replied Jack, waving back.
Then the samurai took off up the hill, leaving the little boy lost in a flurry of snow.
Climbing out of the harbour, the troop of samurai wound their way through the terraced paddy fields to join a narrow dirt road. At the lip of the hill, Jack looked back on the port of Toba. It appeared so small now, the boats like petals on a pond. The torii in the harbour glowed fire-red in the early morning light. Then it was gone, lost behind the rise of the hill.
Kyoto was forty ri, some ninety miles, from Toba, Kuma-san told Jack. They would ride until midday, rest, then push on to the village of Hisai. From there, they would head to Kameyama and join the main Tokaido Road, striking inland to approach Kyoto from the southern end of Lake Biwa. The whole journey would take three days.
The route itself was empty of traffic, though little pockets of life came in and out of view along the way. Coastal villages with boats tied to stakes at the shoreline, and fishermen repairing their nets. Paddy fields dotted with farmers tending the frozen rice terraces. A local vegetable market. A roadside inn opening up for business for the day. Half-wild dogs that barked and chased the horses. A lone merchant making for the Tokaido Road, his back laden with goods.
Jack noticed that as Masamoto and his entourage passed each in turn, every villager bowed in deep respect, keeping their heads low until the whole train had gone by.
When they halted for lunch at a roadside inn, Jack sought out Akiko and found her tending her horse.
‘That’s a fine horse,’ said Jack, not knowing quite what else to say, still embarrassed by his tactless remark earlier that morning.
‘Yes, Jack. It was my father’s,’ she replied, not looking at him.
‘Your father’s? What happened to him?’
‘My father was Dāte Kenshin. He was a great warrior, but he died at the hands of his enemies. He was not allowed to commit seppuku and was therefore shamed in death.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…’ stumbled Jack. ‘What’s seppuku?’
‘Ritual suicide. It would have been an honourable death for my father. But don’t be sorry. It happened many years ago. This horse and the swords in my mother’s house are all that’s left of him.’
Jack recalled the red and black swords on the stand in Hiroko’s dining room. It made him think about the only evidence he possessed of his father’s existence – the rutter. He recognized in Akiko’s eyes the same bitter sense of loss that he experienced each day.
‘Well, I am still sorry,’ he said, wishing he could comfort her more. ‘I also apologize for this morning. I upset you. I had no idea a woman could be a samurai. In England, it is only the men who do the fighting.’
‘I accept your apology, Jack,’ she said, bowing, and her face brightened. ‘Sometimes I forget you are not Japanese.’
‘How can you? Who else here has blond hair and a big nose!’ he said, pointing at the throng of samurai all with dark hair and small features. They both laughed out loud.
A samurai came over, a bemused look on his face, and handed them each a bowl of rice and smoked fish.<
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Sitting down to eat, Akiko said, ‘There have always been female samurai, Jack. Six hundred years ago, at the time of the great Gempei War, lived Tomoe Gozen whose courageous deeds are honoured with a verse in the Heike Monogatari.’
‘The Heike what?’ asked Jack, through a mouthful of rice.
‘The Heike Mono-ga-tari is the epic tale of the struggle between the Taira and Minamoto clans for the control of Japan. Tomoe Gozen was a female general for the almighty daimyo Minamoto Yoshinaka. She rode into battle and fought as skilfully and valiantly as any male samurai.’
‘Go on,’ encouraged Jack, taking another portion of smoked fish with his chopsticks. ‘What was she like?’
‘The Heike describes Tomoe as exceptionally beautiful, with white skin and long dark hair. She was an outstanding archer, and as a swordswoman she was a warrior worth a thousand men, ready to confront god or demon, mounted or on foot.’
‘She sounds invincible.’
‘To many samurai she was. Some thought her so powerful that they believed she was the reincarnation of a river goddess.’
Akiko put down her bowl and looked directly at Jack.
‘She could break wild horses with unparalleled skill and could ride down perilous descents unscathed. Whenever a battle was imminent, Yoshinaka sent her out as his advance guard. She wielded a katana and a mighty bow; and she performed more deeds of valour than any of his other warriors.’
Jack was stunned into silence. There was more to Akiko’s fervour than a simple respect for Tomoe Gozen’s achievements. Akiko clearly had something to prove – as a female samurai herself.
‘What did Dragon Eye mean by a… rutter?’ asked Akiko suddenly, keeping her voice low so that the samurai eating nearby wouldn’t overhear.
‘Err… I don’t know,’ mumbled Jack, taken off-guard by her directness. He knew this was a poor answer. He had been struggling with his conscience ever since he’d decided to keep quiet about the rutter.
‘But Dragon Eye demanded it from you. What is it?’
‘It’s nothing…’ Jack made a move to leave. He was not used to such forthright questioning from Akiko.
‘Jack, it is a mighty nothing for Dragon Eye to risk his life for… and for Chiro to lose hers!’
Her voice had risen in frustration and several of the samurai nearby glanced up from their bowls. Akiko forced a serene smile, bowing her head slightly by way of an apology for her outburst, and they returned to their meals.
Jack considered Akiko for a moment. Could he really trust her?
He had to. She was his only friend.
‘It’s my father’s diary,’ he finally admitted.
‘A diary?’
‘Well, not exactly. The rutter is a guide to the oceans of the world. My father said the person who possesses it has dominion over the seas,’ explained Jack. ‘Its knowledge is priceless, and it’s the only hope I have of ever getting home.’
‘So why didn’t you tell Masamoto?’
‘Because my father swore me to secrecy,’ explained Jack. ‘The more people who know of its survival, the more dangerous it is for all of us. I don’t know who I can trust.’
‘Well, you can trust me. I remained silent on your behalf – and so did Yamato – and you can trust me to stay silent.’
‘But what about Yamato? Can I really trust him?’ enquired Jack.
A cry from the head of the column interrupted them.
The samurai rapidly re-grouped in preparation for departure.
‘We must go,’ said Akiko, leaving the question unanswered.
Akiko mounted her stallion, and Kuma-san rode up before Jack could press Akiko further. Then in a long disciplined file, two abreast, they set off down the road.
By nightfall, they had reached the coastal village of Hisai. The main street boasted two resthouses, and Kuma-san secured lodgings in the better of the two for the night.
∗ ∗ ∗
The next day, they rose early and made rapid progress to Kameyama, a bustling stopgap of a town on the main route between Edo and Kyoto. This was the station at which they joined the Tokaido Road.
The main Tokaido Road was little more than a wide track but it was busy with foot traffic. Merchants. Samurai. Travellers. Exhausted porters warming themselves by fires. Some wore round-domed straw hats and carried large, square backpacks. Others had slung cloth bags over their shoulders and wrapped their heads with large patterned bandanas. The few that were on horseback were all samurai. The scene struck Jack as a little odd for there were no carts or horse-drawn vehicles of any kind, unlike the roads back in England.
As they journeyed along the thoroughfare, Jack noticed that they frequently passed small mounds with two trees planted on either side.
‘What are those, Kuma-san?’ asked Jack, pointing at one.
‘Distance markers. We are now seventeen ri from Kyoto,’ explained Kuma-san.
Near these markers was the occasional merchant plying his wares or else there was a small inn offering refreshment and lodgings. As they passed one very old merchant, who had a teapot hanging from a tree and was selling freshly brewed sencha, the pedestrian traffic in the distance began to scatter. Jack heard a far cry of ‘Down! Down!’ and the road ahead became lined with Japanese prostrating themselves on the ground.
‘Jack-kun, off the horse and bow. Now!’ commanded Kuma-san urgently.
Jack did as he was told and Kuma-san joined him by his side.
Clearly deaf, the old tea merchant had not heard the warning and was so involved in preparing another brew that he didn’t notice the approaching convoy. Everyone was bowing except him. He was completely unaware of his disrespect.
Jack raised himself up and tried to get the attention of the old man, but Kuma-san yanked Jack’s head back down just as the leading samurai swept past on his horse, his sword passing within a hair’s breadth of Jack’s head.
The mounted samurai glared at Jack; then, without breaking pace, raised his sword again and chopped the old merchant’s head off.
The contingent of mounted samurai powered past, heralding a procession of ceremonial samurai, uniformed marching men and attendants holding colourful blue, yellow and gold banners aloft. In the midst of this convoy was a brilliantly lacquered palanquin, borne by four sweating men in loincloths.
As it passed by, Jack caught a glimpse of a man ensconced inside, his haughty face ignoring the old tea merchant’s body flopped in the dirt.
‘Who was that?’ whispered Jack, breathless with shock.
‘The daimyo Lord Kamakura Katsuro returning to Edo,’ said Kuma-san, with venom in his voice. ‘He insists on utmost respect.’
The procession ploughed on down the Tokaido Road, scattering pedestrians like human autumn leaves.
23
BUTOKUDEN
‘Jack-kun! Kyoto!’ said Kuma-san the following afternoon, nudging Jack from the doze that the gentle rocking of the horse had lulled him into. ‘The Heart of Japan, where the great Emperor himself resides!’
Jack opened his eyes. The Tokaido Road had ended in a magnificent wooden bridge that spanned a wide, lazily flowing river. The bridge streamed with people coming and going, an exotic flood of colour and noise. But as soon as they saw Masamoto and his samurai approaching, the crowd parted like a wave breaking upon a rock and a uniform bow rippled along as the troop passed through.
Beyond the bridge, Jack could see the broad expanse of Kyoto.
A vast city of villas, temples, houses, gardens, shops and inns filled the valley floor. Bound by mountains on three sides, the rising slopes were swathed in cedar trees and dotted with shrines. Soaring up to the north-east of the city was the most magnificent of these peaks, upon which the desecrated remains of a massive temple complex perched.
‘Mount Hiei,’ said Akiko, as she and Yamato joined him on the bridge. ‘It was the site of Enryakuji, the most powerful Buddhist monastery in Japan.’
‘What happened to it?’ asked Jack, surprised at the hundreds
of burnt-out buildings, temples and structures littering its slopes.
‘The Great General Nobunaga invaded the monastery forty years ago,’ said Kuma-san. ‘Burnt every temple to the ground. Executed every monk.’
‘But why?’
‘When Kyoto was first built,’ replied Akiko, ‘Emperor Kammu established a monastery on Mount Hiei to protect the city from evil spirits. It was the monks’ responsibility to guard Kyoto.’
‘They even had their own army of sohei,’ added Yamato.
‘Sohei?’
‘Fierce warrior-monks trained in martial arts,’ explained Kuma-san. ‘Nobunaga challenged their control of Kyoto. His forces stormed up the mountain and conquered the sohei.’
‘But if they were the guardians of Kyoto, why did Nobunaga destroy them?’ asked Jack.
‘Nobunaga was not the destroyer of this monastery,’ said Kuma-san vehemently. ‘The monks had become too rich, too powerful, too greedy. The destroyer of the monastery was the monastery itself!’
‘So who protects Kyoto from evil spirits now?’
‘There are many other monasteries, Jack,’ explained Akiko. ‘Kyoto is a city of temples. See there on that steep slope, peeking just above the trees, that is Kiyomizudera Temple, the Temple of Clear Water. It protects the source of the Kizu river, the Otowa-no-taki.’
‘What’s Otowa-no-taki?’
‘The “Sound of Feathers” waterfall. It is said that to drink from its waters will help cure any illness.’
Jack gazed at the towering pagoda temple until it disappeared from view.
Wending their way through the narrow streets and byways of Kyoto, Akiko pointed out the various shrines and temples. Every street appeared to have its own shrine. Finally, the road opened out on to a large paved thoroughfare dominated by a magnificent wooden gateway, with a large curving roof and decorated in gold leaf. Pale earthen walls, topped with jade-green tiles, stretched out either side for over half a mile, completely encircling the buildings hidden within.
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