‘Kyoto Gosho,’ breathed Akiko with utter reverence.
‘The Imperial Palace,’ explained Yamato, seeing Jack’s bafflement. ‘We are passing by the home of the Emperor of Japan, the Living God.’
Masamoto bowed briefly in its direction, then bore left along the palace’s walls. They followed him down the wide boulevard and back into the narrowing streets of the city. It was not long before they emerged in front of another fortified enclosure.
Thick white walls upon great stone foundations surrounded a three-tiered castle with a large curving roof. The fortifications sloped into a wide moat and at each corner large defensive turrets guarded the main gate and thoroughfares. The castle exuded an air of impregnability.
‘We are here,’ stated Kuma-san.
‘We are staying in the castle?’ said Jack in astonishment.
‘No! That is Nijo Castle. Home to daimyo Takatomi,’ said Kuma-san, and then with immense pride in his voice: ‘We are going to the Butokuden.’
They dismounted and Jack, unloading his saddlebag, turned to Akiko.
‘What is the Butokuden?’ he whispered, not wishing to offend Kuma-san.
‘It is the “Hall of the Virtues of War”. The Butokuden is Masamoto’s dojo, training hall,’ Akiko explained quietly and nodded in its direction. ‘It is the home of the Niten Ichi Ryū, the greatest sword school in Kyoto and the only one sponsored by the daimyo Takatomi himself. It is the place where we will be trained in Bushido, the Way of the Warrior.’
On the opposite side of the street was a large rectangular building constructed out of dark cypress wood and white earthen walls, crowned with two tiers of pale-russet tiles. Jutting out from its centre was an intricately carved entranceway bearing a large phoenix kamon. Masamoto stood beneath its flaming wings, waiting for Akiko, Yamato and Jack to join him.
‘Welcome to my school, the Niten Ichi Ryū,’ said Masamoto magnanimously.
Akiko, Yamato and Jack all bowed, and Masamoto led the way into his ‘One School Of Two Heavens’.
Even before Jack had set foot inside the Butokuden, he could hear the shouts of ‘Kiai’ emanating from the dojo.
There was a sharp cry of ‘Rei’ as Masamoto entered the great hall and the entire group of trainee warriors instantaneously ceased their practice. The room became so quiet that all Jack could hear was the sound of their breathing. As one, the entire class bowed and held their bow as a mark of utmost respect.
‘Continue your training,’ commanded Masamoto.
‘ARIGATŌ GOZAIMASHITA, MASAMOTO-SAMA!’ they thundered, their salutation rolling and rebounding around the dojo.
The forty or so students returned to their various activities of kihon, kata and randori. The late afternoon sun filtering through the narrow papered windows gave an almost mystical quality to their movements. As the warriors sparred, their shadows fought in unison across the honey-coloured wood-block floor that defined their training area.
Jack was overawed. From its rounded pillars of cypress wood to the elevated panelled ceiling, and the ceremonial throne set back in a curving alcove, the Butokuden radiated an aura of supreme power. Even the students kneeling in orderly lines round the edge of the dojo exhibited complete focus and determination. This was truly a hall of warriors in the making.
Slowly, like the sound of a receding storm, the dojo fell silent again. Jack wondered who had entered this time, but with increasing alarm he realized that every student had stopped their training and was now staring at him. They met his gaze with a mixture of amazement, disbelief and open contempt at the blond-haired gaijin who had intruded upon their dojo.
Masamoto, his back turned, was conversing with a stern-looking samurai with a sharp spike of a beard.
Jack could feel the hard stares of the students impaling him like arrows.
‘Why have you stopped?’ demanded Masamoto as if unaware of Jack’s presence. ‘Continue your training.’
The students resumed their activities, though they continued to steal furtive glances in Jack’s direction.
Masamoto addressed Jack, Akiko and Yamato. ‘Come. Sensei Hosokawa will show you to your quarters. I have business to attend to, so I won’t see you again until the reception dinner tonight in the Chō-no-ma. ’
They bowed to Masamoto and left the dojo through a door in the rear of the Butokuden. Sensei Hosokawa led them across an open courtyard to the Shishi-no-ma, the Hall of Lions, a long building housing a series of small rooms. They entered through a side shoji and, leaving their sandals at the door, walked down a narrow corridor.
‘These are your sleeping quarters,’ said Sensei Hosokawa, indicating a number of small unadorned rooms barely big enough for three tatami mats. ‘The bathhouses are at the rear. I will collect you for dinner once you have washed and changed.’
Jack stepped inside his room and closed the inner shoji behind him.
He put down his shoulder bag and placed the bonsai tree on a narrow shelf beneath a tiny lattice window. Looking around, he searched for a safe place to hide his father’s rutter, but with no furnishings to speak of, his only option was to slip it beneath the futon spread out on the floor. Patting back the mattress, he then collapsed on top of it.
As he lay there, exhausted from three days of hard travel, a sense of dread shuddered through his body and he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. What was he doing here?
He was no samurai.
He was Jack Fletcher, an English boy who had dreamed of being a pilot like his father, exploring the wonders of the New World. Not a trainee samurai warrior stranded in an alien world, the prey of a one-eyed ninja.
Jack felt like a lamb going to the slaughter. Every single one of those students had looked like they wanted to tear him limb from limb.
24
SENSEI
‘YOUNG SAMURAI!’ boomed Masamoto down the Chō-no-ma, the Hall of Butterflies, a long chamber resplendent with panels of exquisitely painted butterflies and sakura trees.
Masamoto sat cross-legged at the head table, a black lacquered slab of cedar which dominated the end of the room. Raised upon a dais, he was flanked on either side by four samurai in ceremonial kimonos.
‘Bushido is not a journey to be taken lightly!’
Jack, Yamato and Akiko listened along with a hundred other trainee warriors, all of whom had requested to study under Masamoto Takeshi.
‘To train to be a samurai warrior, one must conquer the self, endure the pain of gruelling practice, and cultivate a level mind in the face of danger,’ declared Masamoto. ‘The way of the warrior is lifelong. Yet mastery is often simply staying the path.1 You will need commitment, discipline and a fearless mind.’
He took a measured sip from a cup of sencha, letting his words settle in the minds of the students who knelt in neat, disciplined rows along the length of the chamber.
‘You will also need guidance. For without it, you will perish! You are all blinded by ignorance! Deafened by inexperience! Voiceless with incompetence!’
Masamoto paused again and took in the whole room, ensuring his speech had had the intended effect. Jack could feel the gravity of his stare upon him, even though he was at the very back of the chamber.
‘From every tiny bud springs a tree of many branches,’ he continued, his austere tone thawing slightly. ‘Every castle commences with the laying of the first stone. Every journey begins with just one step.2 To assist you in making that first step and the many others you will take, I present your sensei. REI!’
All the students bowed, their heads touching the tatami mat as a mark of their complete respect for their teachers.
‘First, Sensei Hosokawa, master of kenjutsu and the bokken.’
Masamoto acknowledged the samurai to his immediate right, the one who had directed Jack to his room earlier that day. A fierce-looking warrior with jet-black hair swept up into the customary topknot, Hosokawa possessed dark piercing eyes and tugged thoughtfully at his sharp stub of a beard.
‘Together with
myself, he will train you in the Art of the Sword and, should you demonstrate excellence, we will impart to you the technique of “Two Heavens”.’
Sensei Hosokawa stared at them, as if assessing each student in turn for their right to be there. He then bowed his head, apparently satisfied. Jack wondered what the ‘Two Heavens’ technique was and looked across to Akiko to ask, but she like everyone else was staring resolutely in the direction of the sensei.
‘To Sensei Hosokawa’s right is Sensei Yamada, your sage in Zen and meditation.’
A bald-headed man with a long, wispy grey beard and a crinkled old face dozed at the far end of the table. He was thin and reedy, as if grown from a bamboo shoot, and Jack guessed he had to be at least seventy years old, for even his eyebrows had gone grey.
‘Sensei Yamada?’ asked Masamoto gently.
‘Hai! Dōzo, Masamoto-sama. It’s good to have an end to journey toward,’ said the old man with considered care, ‘but it’s the journey that matters, in the end.’3
‘Wise words, Sensei,’ responded Masamoto.
Sensei Yamada then nodded forward and appeared to drift back to sleep. Jack wished he could fall to sleep so easily in such a position. His knees were already stiffening up and his feet ached.
‘You must stop fidgeting,’ whispered Akiko, seeing Jack shift his weight around. ‘It is disrespectful.’
No sympathy from her, thought Jack, perhaps the Japanese were born kneeling!
Masamoto turned to a young woman on his left. ‘Now I present Sensei Yosa, mistress of kyujutsu and horsemanship.’
The sensei wore a shimmering blood-red and ivory kimono adorned with a kamon of a moon and two stars. Her black hair glistened in the light of the numerous lanterns hanging from the walls of the Chō-no-ma, giving it the appearance of a cascading waterfall. Jack quickly forgot his kneeling misery as, like the rest of the students, he was immediately captivated by this female warrior.
‘She is undoubtedly one of the most prodigious talents in the Art of the Bow,’ explained Masamoto. ‘I would go so far as to say she is the finest archer in all the land. I truly envy those who benefit from her tutelage.’
As she bowed, her chestnut-coloured eyes never left her students. They darted to each as if calculating distance and trajectory. She reminded Jack of a hunting hawk, elegant and graceful, yet sharp and deadly. Then, as she sat back up, she drew her hair behind her ears and revealed an ugly ruby-red scar that cut the entire length of her right cheekbone.
‘Finally, but by no means least, may I introduce Sensei Kyuzo, master of taijutsu.’
A small man perched at the end of the table to Sensei Yosa’s left. He had black specks for eyes and a tuft of a moustache beneath a flattened pudgy nose.
‘He is your authority on all matters of hand-to-hand combat: kicking, punching, grappling, striking, blocking and throwing. The skills you will learn from Sensei Kyuzo will feed into everything you do here.’
Jack was amazed. The sensei could not have been much bigger than a child and seemed an extremely odd choice for a tutor of hand-to-hand combat. Jack noticed that many of the other new students wore similar looks of disbelief.
The small man gave an irritable bow. Then Jack noticed he was crushing nuts with his bare hands. Methodically and without haste, Sensei Kyuzo would pick up a large unhulled nut from a red lacquered bowl and squeeze it between his fingers until it split. He would then pick at the pieces before moving on to the next nut.
With the introductions over, Masamoto indicated for all the students to bow once more in honour of their new sensei.
‘But the Way of the Warrior means not only martial arts and meditation,’ continued Masamoto. ‘It means living by the samurai code of honour – bushido – at all times. I demand courage and rectitude in all your endeavours. I expect honesty, benevolence and loyalty to be demonstrated daily. You must honour and respect one another. Every student of the Niten Ichi Ryū is personally chosen by me and thus every student is worthy of your respect.’
Jack felt the last comment had been said directly for his benefit and a number of the students turned their heads in his direction. One of them, an imperious-looking lad with a shaved head, high cheekbones and dark hooded eyes, shot him a look of pure malevolence. He wore a jet-black kimono with a red sun kamon emblazoned on the back.
‘Tomorrow you will begin your formal training. Those of you who have been students a season or more, you too will need to refresh the skills acquired to date. Do not think for one moment that you know it all. You have only taken your first step!’ proclaimed Masamoto, slamming his fist down on to the table to emphasize the point.
‘Given enough time, anyone may master the physical. Given enough knowledge, anyone may become wise. It is only the most dedicated warrior who can master both and achieve true bushido.4 The Niten Ichi Ryū is your path to excellence. Learn today so that you may live tomorrow!’
Masamoto bowed his respect to his students and everyone let loose a resounding chorus.
‘MASAMOTO! MASAMOTO! MASAMOTO!’
As the salutation died away, the large entrance shoji slid back and servants entered bearing several long lacquered tables. All the students rose to allow the tables to be placed in two rows down the length of the Chō-no-ma.
An unspoken but rigid system of hierarchy dictated the seating arrangement. The most advanced and elder students assembled nearest the head table, while the newest recruits sat closest to the entrance. Jack, Yamato and Akiko, who wore a jade-green ceremonial kimono with her father’s family kamon of a sakura flower, went to seat themselves with seventeen other new recruits at the very end.
Jack had dressed in the burgundy kimono Hiroko had presented him before leaving Toba. Somehow wearing Masamoto’s family kamon had given him the strength to subdue his fears. The phoenix kamon had acted like an invisible armour and discouraged the other students from approaching or physically challenging his presence. They had merely observed him with guarded suspicion.
As Jack went to seat himself, though, the student with the red sun kamon strode over.
‘That’s my seat, gaijin,’ he challenged.
All the students turned to see what the blond-haired gaijin’s reaction would be.
Jack squared up to the boy.
They held one another’s stares, the seconds seeming to stretch into infinity. Then he felt Akiko’s hand lightly touch his elbow and gently pull him away.
‘It’s all yours,’ said Jack to the boy. ‘I didn’t like the smell over here anyway.’
The boy’s nostrils flared at the implied insult on his cleanliness and he shot a scathing look at two trainees who had smirked at Jack’s retort.
‘You shouldn’t offend people like that, Jack,’ whispered Akiko, hurriedly leading him over to the table where Yamato had seated himself. ‘You do not want to be making enemies – certainly not within the Niten Ichi Ryū.’
25
THE SHINING ONE
‘I wasn’t the one who confronted him,’ said Jack, sitting cross-legged in between Akiko and Yamato.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ stressed Akiko. ‘It’s all about face.’
‘Face?’ queried Jack, but before Akiko could reply they were interrupted by several servants laden with trays of food.
The servants arranged the dishes precisely on the tables. Bowls of miso soup, fried noodles, pickled vegetables, different varieties of raw fish, some soft white cubes that were called tofu, little dishes filled with a dark salty liquid – soy sauce for dipping, informed Akiko helpfully – and a number of heaped servings of steaming boiled rice. Jack had never seen so many different types of food to choose from. The sheer variety of dishes implied that this was a highly prestigious event.
‘Itadakimasu!’ cried Masamoto, now that the banquet had been served.
‘Itadakimasu!’ responded all the students and they began to tuck in.
With so much on offer, it was difficult for Jack to know where to start. He picked up the hashi and carefully
adjusted his grip. Although he was getting used to the little chopsticks, he still found small morsels tricky to eat.
‘You were saying it’s all about face,’ prompted Jack, selecting a good-sized piece of sushi.
‘Yes. It’s very important for a Japanese person never to “lose face”,’ replied Akiko.
‘How can you lose a face?’ asked Jack incredulously.
‘It’s not a physical thing, Jack,’ explained Yamato. ‘Face is our perception of another person’s status. It’s crucial to maintain face. Face translates into power and influence. If you “lose face”, you lose authority and respect.’
‘You made him “lose face” in front of his fellow students,’ agreed Akiko.
‘So, he “lost face”,’ said Jack, shrugging and pointing his hashi at the boy with the red sun kamon. ‘Who is he anyway?’
The boy stared directly at Jack, his eyes narrowing aggressively.
‘Don’t do that!’ scolded Akiko.
‘Do what?’
‘Point your hashi at him. Don’t you remember what I taught you? It is considered very rude,’ said Akiko, exasperated at Jack’s continual uncivilized behaviour. ‘And don’t leave them sticking up in your bowl of rice either!’
‘For heaven’s sake, why not?’ exclaimed Jack, immediately retrieving his offending hashi from the rice bowl. He would never get this Japanese etiquette right, he thought. There was just so much to think about for each and every action and occasion, however insignificant or senseless.
Suddenly he realized everyone on his table was staring at him. He dropped his eyes to the dish in front of him and started picking at its contents.
‘Because it means someone has died,’ said Akiko, in a hushed tone, bowing. ‘Only at a funeral service are hashi stuck into the rice. The bowl is then placed at the head of the deceased so that they won’t starve in the next world.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that before?’ fumed Jack under his breath. ‘Everything I do is thought of as rude by you people. Come to England and your habits would be thought of as very odd. I’m sure even you could offend somebody!’
The Way of the Warrior Page 12
