Disorientated, he turned his head, the muscles in his neck stiff and sore.
There, kneeling quietly beside him, appeared a tiny woman. She looked familiar but he couldn’t be sure; everything was out of focus.
‘Mother?’ asked Jack. The woman edged closer. It must be his mother. She had always nursed him when he was sick, but how could she possibly be here?
‘Yasunde, gaijinsan,’ came the gentle reply, as soft as the trickle of a stream.
The woman was wrapped entirely in white. Her long black hair brushed his cheek as she pressed a cool cloth against his forehead. Its feathery touch reminded Jack of his little sister… Jess’s hair was just as soft… but Jess was in England… this woman… no, she was a girl… looked like… an angel all in white… was this Heaven?… A veil of darkness enveloped him once again…
The shadow warrior stared directly at Jack.
A single emerald-green eye baited him with vindictive pleasure. The shadow had Jack by the throat and was slowly squeezing the life out of him.
Jack dropped the knife and it went clattering to the deck.
‘Rutter?’ hissed the green-eyed shadow, turning to Jack’s father.
John Fletcher, now restrained by one of the other shadows, stopped struggling against his garrotte, the unexpected demand momentarily bewildering him.
‘Rutter?’ repeated the green-eyed shadow, unsheathing the sword strapped to his back and aiming its sharpened tip at Jack’s heart.
‘Leave him… he’s just a boy!’ spluttered his father, rising to attack.
John Fletcher’s eyes flared with anger. He writhed against the garrotte, reaching out to his son, but it was futile. The shadow yanked back hard. John gagged and gradually all the fight in him ebbed away. Defeated, he went as limp as a rag doll.
‘Cabin… in my desk…’ he wheezed, pulling out a small key from his pocket and throwing it upon the deck.
The green-eyed shadow didn’t appear to understand.
‘My cabin. In my desk,’ repeated John Fletcher, pointing first to the key and then in the direction of his cabin.
The shadow warrior nodded to one of his men, who picked up the key and disappeared below.
‘Now let my son go,’ pleaded Jack’s father.
The green-eyed shadow gave a throaty laugh, drawing back on his sword to deliver the killing strike…
Screaming as his eyes snapped open, Jack’s heart pounded.
He looked frantically around the room. A single candle flickered in the corner. A door slid open and the girl came and knelt beside him.
‘Aku rei. Yasunde, gaijinsan,’ said the girl with that same gentle voice he had heard previously.
She once again placed the cool cloth to his forehead and settled him back down.
‘What? I… I… I don’t understand,’ stuttered Jack. ‘Who are you? Where’s my father…?’
The laughter echoed on.
Jack’s father exploded with rage as he realized the shadow was intent upon killing Jack.
John Fletcher flung back his head, striking his captor in the face and breaking his nose. The garrotte loosened and fell away. John threw himself at his knife lying on the deck and, in one last desperate attempt to save his son, seized the blade and slammed it into the green-eyed shadow’s leg.
The shadow grunted with pain before he could deliver the killing blow and Jack, released from his choking grip, collapsed in a barely conscious pile. Whipping his sword round, the shadow flew at his attacker.
With a battle cry of ‘KIAI’, the green-eyed shadow drove his weapon down into John’s chest…
7
SAMURAI
Spotlessly clean, the floor of the small, unadorned room was covered in a geometric pattern of soft straw mats. The walls were squares of translucent paper that softened the daylight, lending the air an unearthly glow.
Jack lay on a thick futon, covered by a quilt made of silk. He’d never slept under silk before and its touch on his skin felt like a thousand butterfly wings.
After so long at sea, the nauseating motionlessness of the floor made his head spin as he tried to sit up. He moved to steady himself, but a sharp jolt of pain shot through his arm.
On examination, he discovered his left arm was swollen and discoloured and appeared to be broken, but someone had set it, securing it with a wooden splint. With an effort he tried to recall what had happened. Now his fever had broken, the disjointed images that had flashed through his mind became lucid and painfully real.
Christiaan dying in the doorway. Shadows in the darkness. The crew of the Alexandria slaughtered. His father fighting, a garrotte around his throat. The shadow warrior thrusting his sword into his father…
Jack could remember lying on the bloodied deck for what seemed an age. The shadows, thinking he was dead, had left the quarterdeck to ransack the ship. Then, as if surfacing from a deep dive, he had heard his father.
‘Jack… Jack… my son…’ he cried feebly.
Jack dragged himself out of his paralysis and crawled over to his dying father.
‘Jack… you’re alive…’ he said, a thin smile appearing on his bloodied lips. ‘The rutter… get it… home… it’ll get you home…’
Then the light faded from his father’s eyes and he exhaled his final breath.
Jack buried his head into his father’s chest, trying to stifle the sobbing. He clung on to his father as if he were a drowning sailor seizing a lifeline.
When his crying finally subsided, Jack realized he was utterly alone, stranded in a foreign land. His only hope now for getting home was the rutter.
He ran for the lower decks. The wako, occupied with loading the guns, gold and sappanwood into their own ship, failed to notice him. Below deck, Jack stepped over body after dead body until he entered his father’s cabin, where he found the now lifeless corpse of Christiaan.
The room had been ransacked, his father’s desk turned over, charts scattered everywhere. Jack flew to his father’s bunk, pulling away the bedding. He pressed on the concealed catch beneath and, to his relief, there was the rutter, safe in its oilskin.
He shoved the book inside his shirt and ran out of the cabin. He had almost reached the companionway when a hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing him by his shirt.
A blackened face loomed into sight.
It grinned maniacally, revealing a set of shark-like teeth.
‘A plague on ’em! They ain’t beaten us yet,’ whispered a wild-eyed Ginsel. ‘I’ve set fire to the magazine. BOOM!’
Ginsel’s arms exploded outwards in a gesture of destruction. He laughed briefly, then grunted, a look of surprise registering on his face. He collapsed to the deck, a large knife attached to a chain sticking out of his back.
Jack looked up to see a sinister figure emerge from the shadows. A single green eye glared at him and then at the rutter stuffed inside his shirt. The shadow jerked on the chain, whipping the knife back into his grasp. Jack spun on his heels and fled up the companionway, praying he could reach the ship’s rail in time…
Jack was flung as high as the yardarm by the massive explosion before dropping with the rest of the wreckage into the ocean…
Then… then… a blank…
Flaring pain.
Darkness.
Blinding light.
A man’s scarred face.
Strange unfamiliar voices…
Jack was suddenly aware he could hear those same voices now, talking outside the room. For a moment Jack didn’t breathe.
Were they wako? Why then was he alive?
Jack spotted his shirt and breeches, neatly folded in the corner of the room, though there was no sign of the rutter. He staggered to his feet and hastily pulled on his clothes. Crossing the room he searched for the door, but was met with an unbroken grid of panels.
He was at a loss. There was not even a door handle.
Then Jack remembered one of his fevered dreams – the girl had entered the room through a sliding door. Jack grabbed
hold of the wooden slats to pull but, still unsure on his feet, he reeled slightly and his hand shot straight through the wafer-thin paper wall. The conversation on the other side of the shoji door abruptly ceased.
The panel slid sharply open and Jack stumbled back, embarrassed by his clumsiness.
A middle-aged woman with a round face and a stocky young man with dark almond-shaped eyes glared at him. The man’s expression was fierce. Two swords – one daggerlike, the other long and slightly curved – were thrust into his blood-red waistband. He stepped forward, his hand firmly gripping the hilt of the larger blade.
‘Naniwoshiteru, gaijin?’ challenged the man.
‘Sorry. I… I don’t understand,’ said Jack, retreating in fear.
The woman spoke firmly to the man, but his hand didn’t leave his sword.
Jack was afraid he was about to use it on him. Terrified, he scanned the room for a means of escape. But the man barred his way, partly withdrawing his sword. Jack’s eyes fell upon the gleaming blade, its razor-sharp edge primed to cut off his head.
Then he remembered Piper’s words. ‘If you ever meet a samurai, lads, bow low. Bow very, very low!’
Although Jack had never seen, let alone met one, the fearsome man looked like he should be a samurai. He wore a T-shaped robe in crisp white silk over wide black leggings spotted with golden dots. He had shaved the crown of his head, pulling the back and sides of his remaining black hair into a tight knot on the top. His face was severe and impenetrable – a warrior’s face. The man had the look of someone who could kill Jack as easily as stepping on an ant.
Jack’s body was battered and bruised, and every muscle ached, but he forced himself through the pain to bow. As he did so, the man stepped back in amazement.
The samurai then began to laugh, an amused chuckle that grew into a deep roar.
8
OFURO
Jack must have cried himself to sleep after they had put him back to bed, for when he rolled over, the round-faced woman was kneeling by his side.
Like the samurai the day before, she wore a silk robe, but hers was a deep blue decorated with images of white and pink flowers. She smiled sweetly and offered him some water. Jack took the small bowl and gulped the liquid down. It was cool and fresh.
‘Thank you. May I beg you for a little more?’
She frowned.
‘Can I have some more water?’ said Jack, pointing to the small bowl in his hand and making slurping noises.
Understanding, she smiled and bowed. Disappearing through the sliding door, which Jack noticed had already been repaired, she returned with a scarlet lacquered tray bearing three small bowls. One contained water, one a thin steaming fish soup and the third a small pile of white rice with a serving of pickles.
Jack drained the water and, although he didn’t like the peppery taste, the soup warmed him. He then greedily shovelled the rice into his mouth, eating with his fingers. Jack had seen rice once before, when his father had brought some back after a trading trip for his mother to cook. To Jack it was a bit tasteless, but as he hadn’t eaten for days he didn’t care. Licking his fingers clean, he gave the woman a broad smile to show that he appreciated the food.
The woman looked utterly shocked.
‘Err… thank you. Thank you very much.’ Jack didn’t know what else to say.
Obviously upset, the woman collected the empty dishes and scurried out of the room.
What had he done? Perhaps he should have offered her some too?
A few moments later, the wall panel slid open again and she entered with a white robe and laid it by his bed.
‘Kimono wo kite choudai,’ she said, gesturing for him to put it on.
Jack, aware he was naked under the quilt, refused.
The woman appeared perplexed. She pointed to the robe once again.
Frustrated at their inability to communicate, Jack signed for her to go through the sliding panel. Clearly bewildered by the request, she nevertheless bowed and left the room.
Jack stood up as quickly as his aching body would allow and, taking care with his splinted arm, put on the silk robe.
Moving over to the door, he slid it open, being careful not to damage it this time. The woman was waiting outside on a wooden veranda that circled the house. A set of small steps led to a large garden surrounded by a high wall. The garden was unlike anything he had ever seen.
A little bridge spanned a pond filled with pink water lilies. Pebbled paths weaved their way through colourful flowers, green shrubs and large ornate stones. A tiny waterfall ran into a stream that wound around a glorious cherry blossom tree then flowed back into the pond.
Everything about the garden was so perfect, so peaceful, thought Jack. How his mother would have adored all the flowers. It was another world to the muddy patches of herbs, vegetables and hedges that were strewn across England.
‘It’s like the Garden of Eden,’ murmured Jack.
The woman indicated for Jack to put on some wooden sandals, then shuffled along the path in tiny steps, beckoning him to follow.
On the other side of the pond a bony old man, evidently the gardener, tended an already perfect plot with a rake. As they passed by, he bowed low. The woman gave a slight bow in return and Jack followed suit. It appeared bowing was the thing to do, at all times.
They entered a small wooden building on the other side of the garden. The room was pleasantly warm and inside there was a long stone bench and a large square wooden tub filled with steaming water. To Jack’s horror, the woman signed for him to get in.
‘What? You don’t expect me to get in there, do you?’ exclaimed Jack, backing away from the bath.
Smiling, she held her nose, pointed at Jack, then at the bath. ‘Ofuro.’
‘I don’t stink!’ said Jack. ‘I washed barely a month ago.’ Didn’t they know that baths were disease pits? His mother had warned him that he could catch the flux or worse!
‘Ofuro haitte!’ she said again, slapping her hand on the bath. ‘Anata ni nomiga tsuite iru wa yo!’
Jack didn’t understand and didn’t care. There was no way he was going to get in that bath.
‘Uekiya! Chiro! Kocchi ni kite!’ shouted the woman, making a grab for Jack.
He ran round the bath and headed for the door, but the gardener had appeared and blocked his path. A young maid then dashed in and caught hold of him. The woman pulled off his robe and began to sluice him down with cold water.
‘Stop that! It’s freezing!’ cried Jack. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘Dame, ofuro no jikan yo, ohkina akachan ne,’ the woman said, and the maid laughed.
Jack struggled and kicked so much that the gardener had to help hold him down too, though the old man took great care to avoid Jack’s broken arm.
Jack felt like a baby as they scrubbed him down and then lowered him, still protesting, into the steaming bath. The heat was almost unbearable, but every time he tried to get out the woman gently pushed him back in.
Eventually they let him out, but only to wash him down again, this time with warm soapy water. By now, though, he was too tired to resist and resigned himself to the indignity of it all. The worst thing was that the water was scented. He smelt like a girl!
They dunked him back in the bathtub, his skin turning bright pink from the heat. After a while, they let him out, only to subject him to a final dousing of cold water before drying him and dressing him in a new robe.
Exhausted, he was led back to his room where he collapsed on his quilt and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
9
KIMONOS AND CHOPSTICKS
‘Ofuro,’ said the woman.
‘I had one yesterday…’ complained Jack.
‘Ofuro!’ she scolded.
Jack, realizing it was futile to resist, put on the fresh gown and wound his way through the garden to the bathhouse. This time, he almost enjoyed the experience.
Apart from the throbbing pain in his arm and a dull ache in his head, he had to
admit that the bath had done him some good. He felt rested and his scalp didn’t itch with lice or sea salt any more.
When Jack returned to his room, garments similar to those that the samurai had worn were laid out upon his bed. What did these people want with him? They fed and bathed him and now clothed him, but otherwise kept their distance.
The round-faced woman entered.
‘Chiro!’ she called and the maid came hurrying in after.
The maid was petite, maybe eighteen years old, but it was difficult for Jack to judge, her skin was so smooth and unblemished. She had small dark eyes and a short bob of black hair and, though pretty, she didn’t compare to the girl who had nursed him through his fever.
So where was she? And, for that matter, the man with the scarred face? He had only seen two other men in the house so far – the old gardener, whom the woman called Uekiya, and the fierce-looking samurai – and neither of them bore scars. Perhaps the girl and the scarred man were both figments of his imagination, like the girl he’d seen on the headland.
‘Goshujin kimono,’ said the woman, pointing at the clothes.
Jack realized the woman meant him to put the garments on but, looking at the puzzling array of items, he wondered where on earth to start. He picked up a pair of funny-looking socks with split toes. At least it was obvious where these went, but his feet were too big to fit into them. The maid saw his predicament and giggled softly behind her hand.
‘Well, how should I know how to put these on!’ said Jack, not liking being ridiculed.
The maid ceased laughing, dropped to her knees and bowed apologetically. The woman stepped forward.
Jack put the socks down and submitted to the woman and young maid helping him dress. First, they pulled on the white tabi socks, which thankfully stretched a little. Then, they gave him some undergarments, a white cotton top and skirt they called juban. Next a silk robe was wrapped round him, the women carefully ensuring that the left side of the robe overlapped with the right side. All of this was tied off from behind with a wide red belt called an obi.
The Way of the Warrior Page 4