The Way of the Warrior Read online

  Stepping out on to the veranda, Jack felt awkward in his new clothes. He was used to trousers and shirts, not ‘dresses’ and ‘skirts’. As he moved, the kimono proved disconcertingly drafty, but he had to admit the smooth silk was far more pleasant than stiff breeches and the rough hemp of his sailor’s shirt.

  The maid disappeared into another room while the woman led him along the veranda to another shoji. They entered a small room similar to his own, except this had a low oblong table and four flat cushions arranged on either side. On the far wall cradled upon a stand were two magnificent swords, with dark-red woven handles and gleaming black scabbards inlaid with mother of pearl. Beneath these weapons was a small shrine inset into the wall, in which two candles and a stick of incense burnt, the light scent of jasmine filling the air.

  A little Japanese boy sat cross-legged upon one of the cushions, staring in wide-eyed amazement at the foreigner with his golden hair and blue eyes.

  The woman gestured for Jack to sit next to the boy, while she made herself comfortable on the opposite side.

  There was an awkward silence.

  Jack noted that the fourth cushion remained unoccupied and presumed they were waiting for someone. The little boy continued to stare at Jack.

  ‘I’m Jack Fletcher,’ he said to the little boy, attempting to break the silence. ‘What’s your name?’

  The little boy convulsed in giggles at hearing Jack speak.

  The woman spoke sharply to him and he went quiet. Jack looked at the woman.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are, or where I am, but I’m much obliged to you for looking after me. Please may I ask your name?’

  She returned his gaze blankly. Then smiled without the faintest sign of comprehension having registered in her eyes.

  ‘I’m Jack Fletcher,’ he said, pointing at his chest and then pointing at the woman. ‘You are?’

  Jack repeated the gesture several times. She still didn’t appear to understand, maintaining the same infuriating enigmatic smile. He was just about to give up trying to make himself understood when the little boy piped up.

  ‘Jaku Furecha,’ then pointing at his nose. ‘Jiro.’

  ‘Jiro. Yes, yes, my name is Jack.’

  ‘Jaku! Jiro! Jaku! Jiro!’ cried the boy in delight, alternately pointing at Jack and then at himself.

  With a flood of understanding, the woman bowed. ‘Watashi wa Dāte Hiroko. Hi-ro-ko.’

  ‘Hi-ro-ko,’ repeated Jack slowly, returning the bow. At least, he now knew their names.

  A side shoji slid open and Chiro the maid entered, bearing six small lacquered bowls on a tray. As she laid each one upon the table, Jack was suddenly aware how hungry he was. There was fish soup, rice, strips of uncooked strange vegetables, what appeared to be a thick wheat porridge and small pieces of raw fish. The maid bowed and left.

  Jack wondered where the rest of the meal was. The small table was dotted with the little bowls of food, but surely there wasn’t enough for all of them? Where was the meat? The gravy? Even a bit of buttered bread? He noticed the fish wasn’t even cooked! Fearful of offending his host again, Jack waited to be served. There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, then Hiroko picked up two little sticks by her bowl.

  Jiro did the same.

  Then, holding them in one hand, they began to pick up small amounts of food, delicately putting the morsels into their mouths. All the time, they warily eyed Jack.

  Jack hadn’t even seen the sticks by his bowl. He examined the pencil thin bits of wood. How on earth was he supposed to eat with these?

  Jiro smiled at Jack through a mouthful of food.

  ‘Hashi,’ said the little boy, pointing to them.

  Jiro opened his own hand to show Jack how to hold the hashi correctly. But even though he managed to mimic Jiro’s scissor-like action, he couldn’t keep a grip on the fish or the vegetables long enough to lift them from their bowls.

  The more he dropped the food, the more frustrated he got. Never one to admit defeat, Jack decided to attempt some rice. This had to be easier, since there was more of it. But half the rice immediately slid straight back into the bowl, the other half dropping all over the table. By the time it reached Jack’s mouth, all that remained was one small grain.

  Nonetheless pleased by his accomplishment, Jack chewed on the solitary grain. He pretended to rub his belly in satisfaction.

  Jiro laughed.

  The little boy may have enjoyed the joke, thought Jack, but if he didn’t learn how to use these hashi soon, he was going to starve – and that would be no laughing matter!

  10

  ABUNAI!

  Jack fell into a routine of bathing, eating and sleeping.

  His body gradually recovered from the fever, his arm began to mend and he was able to take regular walks around the garden. Most days he sat beneath the cherry blossom tree and watched Uekiya the gardener weed the flower bed or prune back some shrub with infinite care. Uekiya would acknowledge Jack’s presence with a brief bow of the head, but little passed between them since Jack couldn’t make head or tail of their strange language.

  Jack soon got restless, his world now confined to a monotony of indistinguishable rooms, daily bathing and flawless gardening. He felt trapped, like a canary in a gilded cage. What did they want from him? He was constantly watched, but they didn’t try to speak with him. He was allowed to wander the garden and house, but was always stopped from exploring further. Were they deciding his fate? Or were they waiting for someone who would?

  Jack was desperate to know what lay beyond the garden walls. Surely there had to be someone out there who could understand English and help get him home, or maybe he would find a ship bound for a foreign port. He could then smuggle aboard with the hope their next port of call would have passage back to England, back to his sister, his last fragment of family. Whatever, it had to be better than sitting under a tree doing nothing.

  Jack resolved to escape.

  Each day he had seen the young samurai, Taka-san, who appeared to be Hiroko’s house guard, enter and leave through a small gate in the garden wall. That was his way out. It was pointless asking if he could leave – he was a prisoner both of language and circumstance. They simply bowed and responded ‘Gomennasai, wakarimasen’ to everything he said, which by their expression and tone he presumed meant ‘Sorry, I don’t understand’.

  After the now familiar breakfast of rice, a few pickled vegetables and wheat gruel, he went for his daily walk round the garden. When Uekiya bent over to tend some already immaculately pruned bush, Jack made for the gate. He checked Jiro and Hiroko were inside the house before pulling on the latch, and silently slipped through. The gate closed with the tiniest of clicks, but Uekiya heard it and shouted after him.

  ‘Iye! Abunai! Abunai!’

  Jack ran.

  Not caring about the cries of alarm or where he was headed, he darted down a dirt road and weaved in between buildings until he was out of sight of the house.

  Quickly taking his bearings, Jack saw that the village sat in the bowl of a large natural harbour with mountains rising up in the distance. Surrounding the village were countless terraced fields dotted with farmers tending rice beds. Despite the pain in his arm, he dashed past the stunned villagers and headed downhill towards the sea.

  Jack turned a corner and unexpectedly found himself in the middle of the village square. Ahead was a large cobblestone jetty where men and women were gutting fish and repairing nets. In the harbour beyond, myriad fishing boats dotted the waters. Women dressed in thin white slips dived from the boats, disappearing and reappearing with bags full of seaweed and shellfish and oysters. A small sandy island lay in the centre of the bay, a red wooden gateway dominating its beach.

  A hushed silence descended upon the square and Jack became aware of hundreds of eyes studying him. The whole village appeared frozen in time. Women in vibrantly coloured kimonos knelt motionless by sellers in mid-purchase; fish, half-gutted in the hands of fisherme
n, glinted in the bright sunshine; and a samurai warrior, statue-like, glared stonily at him.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Jack tentatively bowed. The samurai barely acknowledged his greeting, but moved on, ignoring him. A few women returned Jack’s bow, bemusement shining in their eyes, and the villagers resumed their daily activities. Only too aware that all were still eyeing him with suspicion, Jack crossed the square to the jetty and made his way down to a small beach.

  He scanned the boats, seeking a foreign ship. But to no avail; every vessel was Japanese and crewed by Japanese. Despairing, Jack huddled down next to a small fishing boat and stared blankly out to sea.

  England was two years and four thousand leagues away. The only home he knew and Jess, the only family he had left, were on the other side of the world. What hope did he have of ever reaching her? What had been the point in running? He had nowhere to go. No money. No rutter. Not even his own clothes! With his blond hair, he stood out like a sore thumb among the black-haired Japanese.

  Jack watched the little boats in the harbour bob up and down, at a loss what to do next. Then the girl appeared, rising up out of the water like a mermaid. She had the same snowy white skin and jet-black hair as the girl he had seen at the temple with the white stallion.

  Jack watched her slip into one of the boats closest to shore. A fisherman pulled in a bag loaded with oysters and, while she stood and dried herself, he prised the oysters open to search for pearls. She ran her hands through her hair, the seawater cascading off and reflecting the morning sunlight like a thousand tiny stars.

  Even as the fisherman rowed across the harbour, the girl remained completely at ease with the swaying motion of the boat, her slender body moving with the grace of a willow tree. It was almost as if she was floating across the water. As the girl neared a little wooden jetty, Jack could clearly see her features. She wasn’t much older than he was. Blessed with soft, unblemished skin, her half-moon eyes were the colour of ebony, and beneath a small rounded nose was the blossom of a mouth, with lips like the petals of a red rose. If Jack had ever imagined a fairy-tale princess, she would have looked like this.

  ‘GAIJIN!’

  Jack, snapping out of his daydream, looked up. Blinking into the bright sunlight, he saw two Japanese men standing over him, dressed in plain kimonos and thong sandals. One was squat with a round bulbous head and a flattened nose, while the other had tightly slit eyes and was as skinny as a rake.

  ‘Nani wo shiteru, gaijin?’ challenged Flat-Nose.

  The thin man peered over his friend’s shoulder and prodded Jack sharply in the chest with a wooden staff.

  ‘Eh, gaijin?’ he chimed, in a thin reedy voice.

  Jack tried to back away, but he had nowhere to go.

  ‘Onushi ittai doko kara kitanoda, gaijin?’ demanded Flat-Nose, who then tugged in cruel amazement at Jack’s blond hair.

  ‘Eh, gaijin?’ the thin man taunted, purposefully planting his staff on Jack’s fingers.

  Jack snatched his hand away.

  ‘I… I don’t understand…’ he stammered and began desperately to search for a means of escape.

  Flat-Nose grabbed Jack by the scruff of his kimono and jerked him up to eye level.

  ‘Nani?’ he spat into Jack’s face.

  ‘YAME!’

  Jack barely registered the booming command, before Flat-Nose’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets, a hand knifing into the back of the man’s neck. Flat-Nose collapsed face first into the sand. He lay there motionless, even as the waves washed over him.

  Taka-san, the young samurai from Jack’s house, having appeared from nowhere, now spun on Jack’s other assailant, withdrawing his sword in one fluid motion. The thin man threw himself to the ground, apologizing feverishly.

  The sword cut through the air and arced down towards the prostrate man.

  ‘Iye! Taka-san. Dōzo,’ instructed another voice, and Taka-san stopped the sword barely an inch from the man’s exposed neck.

  Jack immediately recognized the gentle voice.

  ‘Konnichiwa,’ she said, walking up to Jack and bowing gently to him. ‘Watashi wa Dāte Akiko.’

  The girl on the headland, the same girl from his fevered dreams, was Akiko.

  11

  SENCHA

  That evening, when Jack was summoned to dinner, Hiroko and her son Jiro sat in their usual places, but the fourth cushion was now occupied by Akiko. Above her hung the two gleaming samurai swords.

  Akiko’s presence made Jack feel both elated and awkward at the same time. She had the finesse of a lady of class, yet possessed an aura of authority that Jack had never encountered in a girl before. The samurai Taka-san obeyed her every word and the household bowed very low when in her company.

  Jack had been somewhat surprised that he was not punished for his escape. In fact, the household appeared more concerned than angry, Uekiya the gardener especially, and Jack felt a twinge of guilt for worrying the old man.

  After dinner, Akiko led Jack out on to the veranda, where they sat on plump cushions in the fading evening sunlight. A silence had settled over the village like a soft blanket and Jack could hear the tentative chirps of crickets and the trickle of the stream as it wound itself through Ueyika’s immaculate garden.

  Akiko sat absorbing the peace and, for the first time in days, Jack allowed his guard to drop.

  Then he noticed Taka-san standing silently in the shadows, his hand resting upon his sword. Jack instantly tensed. They were taking no chances; he was being watched now.

  A shoji slid open and Chiro brought out a lacquered tray with a beautifully embellished pot and two small cups. She laid the tray on the floor and carefully measured out some hot green-coloured water. The liquid reminded Jack of ‘tea’, the fashionable new drink Dutch traders had begun importing into Holland from China.

  With both hands, she passed a cup to Akiko, who then offered it to Jack.

  Jack took the cup and waited for Akiko to pick up hers, but she signed for him to drink first. He hesitantly sipped at the steaming brew. It tasted like boiled grass and he had to force back a grimace at its bitterness. Akiko then drank from her own cup. A look of quiet contentment spread across her face.

  After several moments of silence, Jack plucked up the courage to speak.

  Pointing to the green tea she evidently enjoyed so much, he said, ‘What is this drink called?’

  There was a brief pause as Akiko attempted to understand his question before replying ‘Sencha.’

  ‘Sen-cha,’ repeated Jack, feeling the word in his mouth and working it into his memory. He realized he would have to acquire a taste for sencha in the future. ‘And this?’ he said, indicating the cup.

  ‘Chawan,’ she replied.

  ‘Chawan,’ copied Jack.

  Akiko quietly applauded and then began pointing at other objects, giving Jack their Japanese names. She seemed pleased to teach him her language and Jack was relieved, since this was the first time that anyone had attempted to properly communicate with him. Jack continued to press for new words until his head was overflowing with them and it was time to go to bed.

  Taka-san led him back to his room, closing the shoji door behind Jack.

  Jack settled down on his futon, but he couldn’t sleep. His head whirled with Japanese words and turbulent emotions. As he lay there in the darkness, looking at the soft glow of the night lanterns through the walls, he allowed a sliver of hope to enter his heart. If he could learn the language, then perhaps he could survive in this strange land. Maybe gain work with a Japanese crew, get to a port where his fellow countrymen were and, from there, work his way back to England. Perhaps Akiko was the key. Maybe she could help him get home!

  A shadow shifted on the other side of the paper wall and Jack realized Taka-san still stood outside, guarding him.

  Jack was completing his early morning walk in the garden the following day, when Jiro came flying round the corner of the veranda.

  ‘Kinasai!’ he shouted, draggi
ng Jack to the front entrance of the house.

  Jack could barely keep up.

  Outside, Akiko and Taka-san were waiting. Akiko wore a shimmering ivory kimono, embroidered with the image of a crane in flight. She held a crimson-coloured parasol over her head to keep off the sun.

  ‘Ohayō gozaimasu, Jack,’ she said, bowing.

  ‘Ohayō gozaimasu, Akiko,’ echoed Jack, wishing her a good morning.

  She seemed pleased at his response and they set off down the dirt track towards the harbour.

  At the jetty, they climbed into the boat of Akiko’s pearl fisherman, who rowed them across to the island in the middle of the harbour. As they drew closer, Jack was astonished to see a huge crowd had gathered along a wide stretch of the beach in front of the red wooden gateway.

  ‘Ise Jingu Torii,’ Akiko said, pointing at the structure.

  Jack nodded his understanding. The torii was the colour of evening fire and the height of a double-storey house. It was constructed from two upright pillars cut across by two large horizontal beams, the uppermost of which had a narrow roof of jade-green tiles.

  Their small craft landed on the southern tip of the island and they joined the thronging mass of villagers, women in brightly coloured kimonos and sword-bearing samurai. The crowd had formed an ordered semi-circle, but the villagers all bowed and gave way as Akiko and her entourage moved towards the front, joining a large group of samurai.

  The warriors immediately acknowledged Akiko’s arrival with a low bow. Returning their greeting, Akiko then began to converse with a young samurai boy, who appeared to be of Jack’s age, with chestnut-brown eyes and black spiky hair. The boy threw Jack a disdainful look, before ignoring him completely.

  The villagers, however, were astonished by Jack’s presence. They gave him a wide berth, whispering to one another behind their hands, but Jack didn’t mind since this allowed him a clear view of the makeshift arena.