‘Araki’s the eldest son of the Matagoro clan. He’s revered and feared in equal measure,’ explained Ronin, oblivious to Jack’s alarm. ‘But, from what I can gather, he values his integrity and is essentially honourable. I’m confident we can persuade him to return your swords.’
‘That might be more difficult than you imagine,’ interrupted Jack. He retold the events that led up to the Taryu-Jiai and of his part in the Niten Ichi Ryū’s controversial victory over their rival school.
Ronin grunted with amusement. ‘You’re right, the Yagyu Ryū will never forgive you for that! But it’s a bit late to turn back now,’ he said, approaching a large wooden gate set into a walled enclosure. ‘We’re here.’
‘But what’s to stop Araki turning me over to the Shogun?’
‘Nothing. Just keep your hat on, your head bowed and let me do the talking.’
Ronin reached for a rope attached to a bronze bell hanging above the door and pulled. ‘Hana, stay here. Keep an eye out for the Scorpion Gang. If you see anything suspicious, ring the bell three times and run. We’ll meet you back at the Niten Ichi Ryū.’
Nodding obediently, Hana hid from view in a nearby alley.
As the bell’s chime faded away, the sound of shuffling feet could be heard on the other side of the door. A slat opened and two brown-flecked eyes peered out. ‘Yes?’
Ronin bowed. ‘We have come to seek an audience with Matagoro Araki.’
‘Does he know you?’
‘No, but he may have heard of my father, Obata Torayasu.’
‘Wait!’ The slat snapped shut.
Several long moments passed and Jack began to worry that word of his arrival in Kyoto had already spread, that the Yagyu Ryū were preparing their reprisal and about to greet him, swords drawn.
Then the shuffling feet returned, followed by a click of the latch, and the gate swung open. A wily old man impatiently beckoned them inside.
‘Leave your swords,’ he rasped, pointing to a rack in the entrance hall.
Ronin glared at the man. ‘This is a sword school, isn’t it? Surely you don’t expect me to walk around without mine.’
The old man looked Ronin up and down, and clearly decided the argument wasn’t worth the hassle. ‘Please yourself. It was for your own safety. Those carrying weapons can be challenged to a duel at any time by anyone. No refusal allowed. School rules.’
Ronin didn’t even blink at this veiled threat. The old man, glowering at the samurai’s brazenness, ushered them along a corridor, not even bothering to ask Jack to remove his hat. Through a latticed window, Jack glimpsed lines of young samurai in a courtyard, training with their bokken. As their wooden swords rose and fell in unison, cries of kiai echoing off the walls, he felt a wave of nostalgia for the glory days of the Niten Ichi Ryū.
The old man led them into a reception room, carpeted with fawn-coloured tatami mats and a polished cedar dais at one end. Hanging from a wall was a calligraphy scroll, each kanji brushstroke looking like the slash of a blade.
‘Wait here,’ instructed the old man, closing the door behind him.
Left alone, Jack began to raise his head. ‘Do y–’
‘Head down and be quiet!’ whispered Ronin. ‘They’ll be watching us.’
Ronin respectfully gestured for Jack to kneel before the dais, then joined him by his side. They waited together in silence.
After a while, a shoji in the far wall slid open and a man entered. Jack risked a quick peek. Young, fit and confident to the point of arrogance, the samurai knelt down on the dais, flicking the folds of his hakama to one side in sharp precise movements. The top of his head was shaved and his hair tied into a tight topknot as befitted a samurai of his status. He wore a crisp green and black kimono with specks of iridescent purple like a peacock’s tail feather. His face was handsome yet severe, his dark eyebrows being too dominant and the corners of his mouth permanently downturned.
Araki glanced at Ronin, then eyed the hat-wearing Jack with suspicion.
‘Welcome to the Yagyu Ryū – the New Shadow School – and home to the official swordmasters of the Shogun.’
‘We appreciate you taking the time to see us,’ said Ronin, bowing his head. Jack followed suit.
Araki returned the greeting, his eyes never leaving them.
‘I was sorry to learn of your father’s fate,’ replied Araki, without any hint of true remorse. ‘I’d heard you had died too.’
The steely expression on Ronin’s face barely flickered. For a moment, Jack wondered whether Obata Torayasu was his father or merely a ruse to get an audience with Araki.
‘Don’t believe every rumour you hear,’ replied Ronin.
Araki and Ronin held one another’s gaze, as if a silent battle of wills was taking place. The tension in the room grew and Jack realized one false move on either his or Ronin’s part could result in their downfall.
‘Have you travelled far?’ said Araki, finally breaking the silence.
Ronin nodded. ‘Your reputation has spread the length and breadth of Japan.’
Araki smiled at this news. ‘So you’re here for a … duel?’
‘Much as I’d be honoured by such a privilege, I’m here on behalf of my master,’ he explained, inclining his head in deference to Jack.
‘Your master?’ queried Araki, somewhat surprised at Jack’s status considering his appearance. ‘Can’t he speak for himself?’
‘I’m afraid not. Allow me to explain. An unfortunate incident resulted in his swords being stolen.’
Araki raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
‘In respect of this, he’s taken a vow of silence and keeps his head bowed in order to separate himself from the world, until the day his swords are back in his possession. As you’ll appreciate, for a samurai they’re his soul.’
Araki pursed his lips and nodded in approval of such a symbolic sacrifice.
‘And how may I be of service?’
‘We’ve been led to believe you have his swords.’
Araki’s expression grew thunderous. ‘Are you implying I stole them?’
‘Of course not!’ replied Ronin, his tone conciliatory. ‘They’ve come into your possession by virtue of your esteemed duelling skills.’
The flattery went some way to pacifying Araki’s indignation. ‘I’ve acquired many trophies in my time,’ he bragged. ‘But who’s to say any belong to your master?’
‘My master’s swords are unique. They’re a family heirloom. Black sayas inlaid with mother-of-pearl, unusual dark-red woven handles and upon the blade is inscribed the name of its swordmaker, Shizu.’
An undeniable flicker of recognition passed across Araki’s face.
‘Do you recall them?’ pressed Ronin.
‘Perhaps,’ he replied carefully. ‘Your description sounds familiar.’
‘Then we humbly request their return to the rightful owner.’
‘That won’t be possible.’
Jack, who’d been mutely following the progress of the conversation, felt his heart sink at the news. But it was now that Ronin made his play.
‘I’m sure you don’t wish it to be known that you use stolen swords?’
Araki laughed without humour. ‘Spoken like a true samurai. A fine attack upon my sense of honour.’ He paused, evaluating the threat posed by Ronin and his enigmatic master. ‘You’ve judged me well. But you must appreciate that I can’t be known for giving out daishō to every samurai who’s been careless enough to lose theirs.’
‘They were stolen,’ repeated Ronin, his tone firm and even. ‘We can prove they’re my master’s. Just examine the tang of the blade, there’s –’
‘They may very well have belonged to your master,’ Araki interrupted, raising his hand to Ronin. ‘Your description is precise and your word as Obata’s son is more than enough. But I won those swords fair and square in a duel. By all rights, they belong to me now.’
‘That doesn’t change the fact they were taken unlawfully by your opponent.’
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Once again Araki and Ronin fell into a staring match, waiting to see who would break first.
‘I’ll return them,’ declared Araki, much to Jack’s astonishment.
Ronin remained deadpan, aware the samurai had yet to finish.
‘On one condition. That your master defeats me in a duel.’
Jack’s elation was instantly quashed, replaced with a cold dread.
‘Surely no one need die over these swords,’ countered Ronin.
‘First blood will be enough,’ Araki conceded. ‘However, your master must prove he’s worth such magnificent swords. My last opponent was a great disappointment, despite the promise of his weaponry. So anything less than an impressive display of swordsmanship will result in sudden death.’
‘Agreed,’ said Ronin without hesitation, much to Jack’s growing dismay. ‘When and where?’
‘The Sound of Feathers waterfall, tomorrow at dawn.’
Jack’s consternation increased. Not only did he have to contend with the forthcoming duel, but they’d have to evade detection by Kazuki and his network of metsuke for another day.
Above the sounds of the students training, a bell rang out three times.
‘We’ll look forward to it,’ said Ronin, getting to his feet and bowing respectfully. Jack did the same, doing his best to remain calm, despite the threat presented by Hana’s warning.
The old man reappeared to guide them out.
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Araki, a smirk on his face, ‘does your master need to borrow some swords?’
‘No,’ replied Ronin coolly. ‘He’ll use mine.’
27
BACK TO SCHOOL
‘The metsuke were huge! And very hairy!’ exclaimed Hana as they hurriedly put distance between themselves and the Yagyu Ryū. ‘They wore black kimono with red sun kamon like the others. That’s how I spotted them.’
‘Our luck was in. We got out just in time,’ said Ronin in amazement.
‘Did these watchers look like overgrown apes?’ asked Jack.
Hana laughed. ‘Yes!’
‘They’re Kazuki’s cousins from Hokkaido – Raiden and his brother Toru – both students of the Yagyu Ryū.’
‘Then it may have been a coincidence. They could have simply turned up for training,’ said Ronin, leading them across a bridge spanning the canal. ‘But with so many metsuke around, we need to find a place to lie low.’
‘Why not Jack’s old school?’ suggested Hana.
‘Because it’s right next to Nijo Castle!’ said Jack, shaking his head at her naivety.
‘Exactly,’ replied Hana. ‘That’s the last place they’ll look.’
‘Good thinking,’ agreed Ronin, much to Jack’s surprise that the samurai had even listened to Hana. ‘Where better to hide than under the enemy’s nose?’
Outvoted, Jack allowed himself to be led across the city and back to the Niten Ichi Ryū. If he was honest with himself, Hana’s idea wasn’t a bad one. It was just that he was reluctant to return, preferring to keep alive his memories of the place as he’d known it.
‘We can’t go through the main gates,’ said Ronin as they neared their destination. ‘It’s too exposed.’
‘There’s a side gate that the students used,’ stated Jack.
The three of them cut through a network of alleys and reached the smaller entrance unopposed. Even at this gate a sign had been posted, declaring Closed by order of the Shogun. When the street was clear, they approached and Ronin tried the handle.
‘It’s locked!’ He backed up to shoulder-barge it open.
‘Let me try first,’ said Hana, stepping into his path. ‘It’ll be obvious someone’s broken in if you do that.’
She pulled out a knife, tucked discreetly into the back of her obi. The blade gleamed, its edge honed razor-sharp.
‘Where did you get that?’ demanded Ronin.
‘Off the gap-toothed bandit.’
‘You stole it?’
‘No,’ objected Hana, her mouth dropping open as if that was the last thing she’d ever do. ‘He threw it away. Anyway, I left my old one for him.’
Slipping the tip of the knife into the lock, she carefully twisted and jiggled the blade until there was a sharp click. The gate swung open. Hana turned to them, a smug grin on her face.
Ronin grunted with almost a hint of admiration.
‘Good work!’ said Jack, pleased Hana had proved her usefulness to Ronin twice in quick succession.
They hurried inside and shut the gate behind them. Their feet crunched loudly as they crossed the deserted pebbled courtyard. Jack felt as if they’d entered a cemetery, the derelict buildings no more than tombs to the martial arts that were once taught here.
‘I can see this was an impressive school,’ commented Ronin, heading for the Butokuden. ‘Such a waste!’
They entered the great hall, its rounded pillars of cypress wood still propping up the immense panelled ceiling, with its criss-cross of beams like the skeleton of a beached whale. Shafts of late afternoon sun pierced the vast interior, catching dust motes in the stale air and illuminating the ransacked Weapons Wall. Stripped of all its equipment during the height of battle over the school, just a broken wakizashi and a worn bokken now remained discarded upon the floor.
Walking over to the ceremonial alcove, their footsteps echoed off the bare walls. Ronin picked up the wooden sword and casually tested its weight. He sighed. ‘To have trained in a place like this must have been a great honour.’
Jack nodded in agreement. Yet his experiences hadn’t been all good. Sensei Kyuzo, the dwarf-sized yet lethal taijutsu master, had spent many a lesson demonstrating excruciatingly painful combat techniques upon him for the benefit of the rest of the class. And, as a punishment once, he’d forced Jack to spend the entire night cleaning every single woodblock of the dojo floor. But Jack would willingly suffer all that again to see the Niten Ichi Ryū back to its former glory.
They left the Butokuden and made for the Chō-no-ma.
‘It’s beautiful!’ gasped Hana, running her fingers over the exquisite silk-screen paintings of butterflies and sakura trees that lined the dining hall.
Some of the tables were still set for dinner as if waiting for the students and their sensei to appear. Jack almost expected Masamoto to stride through the door, proclaiming his return. But then he caught sight of a dried bloodstain upon one of the tabletops. This was where Saburo had lain to have his arrow wound tended to and bandaged. That night had been the beginning of the end.
Jack wondered what had become of his friend, and of Kiku who’d stayed behind as his nurse. Were they still alive? If so, were they hiding like him? Or had they escaped the Shogun’s purge of his enemies?
While Jack contemplated his friends’ fate, Ronin found the kitchen and returned a few moments later with some dishes, three pairs of hashi and a cooking bowl.
‘Time to eat. You’ll need your strength for the duel tomorrow.’
Ronin led them outside and ordered Hana to collect some wood from the ruins of the Hall of the Hawk. Then he found a suitable spot in the Southern Zen Garden to make a fire, in the lee of an immense standing stone to shield the light and beneath a tree to disperse the smoke, so that their presence within the Niten Ichi Ryū wouldn’t be detected. As the rice cooked, Hana cut up some vegetables and Jack gutted a fish that Ronin had bought earlier with their dwindling money supply.
By the time dinner was ready, however, Jack had lost his appetite. He’d been unable to shake off his sadness at coming back to the school and he was worried about the impending duel. Returning to the Niten Ichi Ryū had reminded him that he’d not practised his swordwork, let alone the Two Heavens technique, since regaining consciousness several days before.
‘I need a walk,’ he said, smiling apologetically when Hana offered him his share.
‘And I need a drink,’ replied Ronin, lifting a bottle of saké to his lips.
‘But you must eat, Jack …’ said Hana.
R
onin silently shook his head at Hana, warning her to let Jack go.
Jack wandered through the abandoned school. With early evening settling in, the Niten Ichi Ryū merely appeared to be asleep, not dead. Climbing the stone steps in front of him, he found himself outside the Butsuden, the wide wooden doors hanging off like broken wings. He stepped inside its shadowy interior.
‘Hello?’ he called.
Only the echo of his voice responded. What more had he expected?
Solitary and stoic, the great bronze Buddha sat unworshipped in the darkened recesses of the hall. Above, like a heavenly crown, hung the immense temple bell. The Buddha seemed to glow in the afterlight of the fading sun and Jack felt himself drawn to him. Before he even realized it, he’d crossed the room and was kneeling at the statue’s feet.
Bringing his hands together, he prayed. For Saburo. For Kiku. For Masamoto. For the memory of Yamato. For the friendship of Akiko. And … for his sister, Jess, in England.
Once again he found himself facing the possibility of death by the sword and his only thoughts were for his friends and the welfare of his remaining family. No matter what it took, he had to survive. How he wished for Sensei Yamada’s guidance now. The Zen master always had an answer, even if it wasn’t always obvious.
All of a sudden there was a noise and a bird in the rafters took flight, its wings flapping in a wild panic.
Jack spun round. ‘Who’s there?’
Distant laughter.
He turned the other way, his eyes darting around the gloomy hall. He caught a flash of red reflecting off the bronze Buddha. He felt his throat go dry with fear.
Surely not?
His senses on high alert, Jack heard every creak and groan of the derelict building. Shadows seemed to spring to life.
Riddle me this, young samurai! What is greater than God, more evil than the Devil? Poor people have it, rich people need it, and if you eat it you’ll die. Tell me this and I shall give it to you.
The Ring of Water Page 11