The Way of the Warrior

by Chris Bradford

A lone samurai stood, like an ancient god, under the torii.

  The warrior was dressed in a black-and-gold kimono decorated on the chest, sleeves and back with a circular symbol of four crossed bolts of lightning. His hairstyle was fashioned in the traditional samurai manner with a topknot of black hair pulled forward over a shaved pate. This samurai, though, had tied a thick band of white cloth round his head. Stocky and powerful, with menacing eyes, the samurai warrior reminded Jack of a large bulldog, bred for fighting.

  In his hands, the warrior held the largest sword Jack had ever seen. The blade itself stretched over four feet in length, and together with the hilt was as long as Jack was tall. The warrior, his eyes fixed on the distant shoreline of the harbour, shifted impatiently and his sword caught the bright sunlight. For a brief moment it flashed like a bolt of lightning. Seeing the amazement in Jack’s eyes, Akiko whispered its name: ‘Nodachi.’

  The warrior stood alone in the arena and Jack wondered where the man’s opponent could be. No one else appeared to be preparing for combat. As Jack looked around the crowd, he noticed that a group of samurai on the opposite side to him were emblazoned with the same lightning emblem as the warrior, while those samurai surrounding him bore the round crest of a phoenix.

  So where was their champion?

  Jack gauged that an hour must have passed, for the sun had traversed some fifteen degrees further across the cloudless sky. The heat had intensified and the villagers were now growing restless. The samurai under the torii had become even more agitated and paced the beach like a caged tiger.

  Another hour went by.

  The mutterings of the crowd grew louder as the heat became unbearable. Jack dreaded what he would have felt like in his old shirt and breeches, instead of the silken kimono he now wore.

  Then, just as the sun reached its zenith, a small boat cast off from the jetty.

  The listless crowd instantly became animated. Jack could see a little fisherman rowing unhurriedly across the harbour, while a larger man sat Buddha-like at its prow.

  The boat drew closer. The crowd let out a huge cheer and began to chant ‘Masamoto! Masamoto! Masamoto!’

  Akiko, Taka-san and Jiro joined in the thundering refrain of the samurai’s name.

  The group of samurai bearing the lightning crest challenged the call with a rallying cry of their own champion ‘Godai! Godai! Godai!’ and the warrior stepped forward thrusting his nodachi high in the air. His followers roared even louder.

  The boat came to rest on the shoreline. The little fisherman shipped his oars and waited patiently for his occupant to disembark. Another huge cheer went up from the crowd as the man stood up and stepped barefoot on to the beach.

  Jack let out an involuntary gasp of surprise. Their champion, Masamoto, was the man with the scarred face.

  12

  THE DUEL

  The mass of dried skin and reddened welts fanned out like molten lava from above Masamoto’s left eye, across his cheek and down the line of his jaw. His remaining features were otherwise even and well-defined. He had the solid and muscular build of an ox and his eyes were the colour of honeyed amber. He wore a dark-brown and cream kimono which bore the circular emblem of a phoenix and, like Godai, he had a headband, but his was crimson red.

  Unlike Godai, Masamoto had a completely shaved head, though he maintained a small trimmed beard that encircled his mouth. To Jack, Masamoto appeared more monk than warrior.

  Masamoto surveyed the scene before turning to retrieve his swords from the boat. He slipped them, along with their protective sayas, into the obi of his kimono. First the shorter wakizashi sword, followed by the longer katana. Taking his time, he walked up the beach towards the torii.

  Furious at his opponent’s late and disrespectful arrival, Godai screamed insults as he approached.

  Unperturbed, Masamoto maintained his stoic pace, even pausing to acknowledge his samurai. At last he came face to face with Godai and bowed ceremoniously. This infuriated Godai even more. Blinded with rage, he charged at Masamoto in an attempt to take him off-guard before the contest officially commenced.

  Masamoto, however, was prepared for just such an offensive. He sidestepped Godai, the massive nodachi narrowly missing him. In a single motion, Masamoto unsheathed both his swords from their sayas, his right hand raising the katana to the sky and his left drawing the wakizashi across his chest to protect himself from any counter-attack.

  Godai brought his nodachi round for a second assault, the sword arcing at lightning speed towards Masamoto’s head. Masamoto shifted his weight, angling his katana to deflect the strike off to the left. Their swords clashed and the nodachi scraped along the back of Masamoto’s blade.

  Masamoto pressed forward under the crushing blow, cutting his wakizashi across the midriff of Godai. The sword sliced through Godai’s kimono, but failed to meet flesh. Godai spun away to prevent Masamoto extending his strike and drawing blood.

  Masamoto pursued the retreating Godai into the sea, his two swords a furious blur, but he was immediately cut short by the returning nodachi and barely had time to leap beyond its reach.

  Jack was astounded at the skill and agility of these two warriors. They fought with the grace of dancers, pirouetting in an exquisite yet deadly ritual. Each strike was executed with the utmost accuracy and commitment. Masamoto wielded his two swords as if they were natural extensions of his own arms. It was no wonder that his fellow crewmen had been slaughtered so effortlessly by the Japanese wako. They stood little chance against an enemy so proficient in such fighting arts.

  Godai drove Masamoto back up the beach, his samurai cheering him on.

  Despite its massive size, Godai was devastatingly adept with the nodachi, wielding it with ease as if it were no more than a shaft of bamboo. Godai continued to force Masamato backwards and into the throng of spectators, right where Jack was standing.

  Godai bluffed a strike to the right then switched his attack and sliced at Masamoto’s exposed arm. Masamoto managed to avoid the strike, but Godai’s immense effort to connect drove his weighty sword onward into the crowd.

  In panic, the villagers scattered, but Jack remained rooted to the spot, paralysed with fear at the man’s unwavering determination to kill.

  At the very last second, Taka-san wrenched Jack out of the way, but the villager behind Jack was not so fortunate. The little man tried to protect himself, but the sword sliced straight through his outstretched fingers.

  Godai, ignoring the screaming villager, flicked the blood from his blade and began yet another onslaught on the retreating Masamoto.

  This was no practice match, Jack realized with astonishment. This was a fight to the death.

  Two of Masamoto’s samurai dragged the wounded villager away as the crowd surged forward, anxious not to miss the action, the amputated fingers trampled under a sea of feet.

  Concerned at the sight of Jack’s ashen face, Akiko signed to Jack if he was all right.

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Jack, forcing a smile, though in truth he was sickened to the pit of his stomach.

  He swallowed down the bitter shock of what he had just witnessed. How could a people who invested their time in cultivating idyllic gardens and decorating kimonos with images of butterflies be so barbaric? It made no sense to Jack.

  Jack turned his attention back to the combat in order to avoid Akiko’s anxious gaze. The two samurai had broken apart, breathing heavily from their exertions. They circled one another, waiting for the next move. Godai feigned an advance and the crowd surged backwards, desperate to avoid being caught up in the attack.

  Masamoto, now familiar with Godai’s tactics, slipped to his blindside, parrying the nodachi with his short sword and countering with his katana. The katana scythed towards Godai’s head. Godai ducked and the katana sliced over the top of his head.

  The two warriors spun round on one another and froze. The crowd held their breath. Then Godai’s topknot slipped from his head and fell limp on to the beach. Masamoto smirk
ed at Godai’s public disgrace, and his phoenix samurai began chanting ‘Masamoto! Masamoto! Masamoto!’

  Incensed at the humiliation of losing his topknot, Godai screamed a kiai and attacked. His nodachi struck downward and then, like an eagle climbing after swooping down on its prey, flicked upward at an angle that defeated Masamoto’s katana.

  Masamoto, bending backwards to avoid the blow, brought his sword up to deflect the blade from his neck, but his katana was knocked out of his hand and the tip of the nodachi cut deep into his right shoulder. Masamoto grunted in pain, dropping backwards and rolling away in an attempt to distance himself from Godai. After several controlled rolls, he flipped himself back on to his feet.

  It was now the turn of Godai’s samurai to cheer.

  Godai was certain to win now Masamoto had forfeited his katana. The shorter wakizashi was no match for a mighty nodachi. Masamoto’s samurai realized their champion had little chance of overcoming such an advantage. For the first time in his life, Masamoto’s legendary handling of two swords had not withstood the onslaught of a nodachi.

  Masamoto retreated down the beach, edging towards the fishing boat he had arrived in. Godai gloated, sensing victory was close at hand. He quickly manoeuvred himself between Masamoto and the wooden vessel, preventing his escape.

  Masamoto appeared defeated. Blood seeped from the gash on his shoulder. He weakly lowered his wakizashi. The crowd gave a despondent groan. Godai grinned from ear to ear as he slowly raised his weapon for the final blow.

  That was the moment of over-confidence Masamoto had been waiting for. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he sent his wakizashi spinning through the air. Taken by surprise, Godai stumbled backwards to avoid the flying blade and lost his footing in the sand.

  Little more than a blur, Masamoto shot past Godai and headed for the boat. Godai, getting back to his feet, screamed at his fleeing opponent.

  But Masamoto was not intent on escaping. Instead he grabbed the long wooden oar from the boat and spun round to face Godai. Now Masamoto possessed a weapon of equal length to the nodachi.

  Immediately Godai charged at Masamoto, who parried his blows with the oar. Chunks of wood flew through the air. Godai then struck low attempting to chop off Masamoto’s legs.

  Masamoto jumped high over the blade and brought his oar straight down on to Godai’s exposed head. The oar connected and Godai’s legs crumpled under the force of the blow. He collapsed backwards like a felled tree.

  Masamoto’s samurai cheered and the crowd took up a chant urging him to kill Godai. But Masamoto stepped away from the prone body of Godai. His victory clear and decisive, he had no reason to kill.

  As he approached the crowd, they fell silent and all dropped to their knees, bowing their heads to the sand. Even Akiko, Jiro and Taka-san followed suit.

  Jack alone remained standing, unsure what to do. He was not one of them, but the man emanated such absolute authority and power that Jack found himself instinctively bowing anyway. As he eyed the sand, Jack sensed Masamoto approaching him.

  The bare feet of the scarred man planted themselves directly in front of him.

  13

  FATHER LUCIUS

  ‘Você fala o português?’ the priest asked Jack.

  The priest knelt on the floor in front of Masamoto, who now sat on a raised platform in the main room of the house.

  ‘Parlez-vous français?’

  The priest, with hard glassy eyes and greasy thinning hair, wore the distinctive buttonless cassock and cape of a Portuguese Jesuit. He had been summoned to translate for Masamoto and studied Jack distrustfully.

  ‘Habla español? Do you speak English?’ he asked in frustration.

  ‘Falo um pouco. Oui, un petit peu. Sí, un poco,’ Jack replied fluently. ‘But I prefer my own tongue, English. My mother was a teacher, always getting me to learn different languages. Even yours…’

  ‘Cursed child! You’d be wise not to make more of an enemy of me than you already are. You’re clearly the offspring of a heretic and not welcome on these shores –’

  He gave a sharp rasping cough and wiped dark-yellow spittle from his lips with a handkerchief.

  And you’re clearly sick, thought Jack.

  ‘The only reason you’re still alive,’ he continued, ‘is that you’re a child.’

  Jack had already thought he was as good as dead when Masamoto had stood over him on the beach. But the samurai had merely ordered him to accompany him and his samurai back to the mainland where Hiroko was waiting to escort them up to the house.

  ‘Doushita? Kare wa doko kara kitanoda?’ asked Masamoto.

  His shoulder wound having been dressed, the samurai had changed into a crisp sky-blue kimono patterned with white maple leaves. He sipped placidly from a cup of sencha. Jack could not believe this was the same man who barely hours before had been fighting for his life.

  He was now flanked by two armed samurai. To his left knelt Akiko and next to her was the boy she had been talking with prior to Masamoto’s duel. From the moment Jack had entered the room, the boy had glowered at him with a look that was both detached and threatening as a thundercloud.

  ‘Sumimasen, Masamoto-sama,’ apologized the priest, tucking his handkerchief away.

  The priest, who knelt on the floor close to Jack, bowed with considerable deference to Masamoto, the dark wooden cross that hung from his neck gracing the tatami-covered floor as he did so.

  ‘His lordship Masamoto Takeshi wants to know who you are, where you are from and how you come to be here,’ he said, turning to Jack.

  Jack felt he was on trial. He had been summoned into the room only to be confronted by this mean-spirited Jesuit priest. His father had cautioned him against such men. The Portuguese, like the Spanish, had been at war with England for nearly twenty years, and while the conflict was now officially over, the two nations still harboured great animosity towards one another. And the Jesuit Catholics remained the worst of England’s enemies. Jack, being an English Protestant, was in serious trouble.

  ‘My name is Jack Fletcher. I’m from England. I arrived on-board a trader ship –’

  ‘Inconceivable, there are no Englanders in these waters. You’re a pirate, so don’t waste my time, or his Lordship’s, with lies. I’ve not been brought here to translate your deceit.’

  ‘Douka shimashita ka?’ interjected Masamoto.

  ‘Nani no nai, Masamoto-sama…’ replied the priest, but Masamoto immediately cut him off with what sounded to Jack like an order.

  ‘Moushiwake arimasen, Masamoto-sama,’ apologized the priest more emphatically and bowed, coughing harshly into his handkerchief again. He turned back to Jack and continued. ‘Boy, I ask you again, how did you come to be here? And by the Blood of Christ, you had better speak true!’

  ‘I’ve just told you. I arrived here on the Alexandria, part of a trading fleet for the Dutch East India Company. My father was the Pilot. We’d been sailing for nearly two years to get to the Japans…’

  The priest translated as Jack spoke, before interjecting ‘By what route did you sail?’

  ‘South, through Magellan’s Pass –’

  ‘Impossible. Magellan’s Pass is secret.’

  ‘My father knew.’

  ‘Only we, the Portuguese, the Righteous, possess safe passage,’ countered the priest indignantly. ‘It’s well-protected against Protestant heretics like your father.’

  ‘Your warships were no match for my father. He outran them in a day,’ said Jack, a fiery sense of pride filling him as the priest begrudgingly informed Masamoto of this Portuguese humiliation.

  Jack studied the priest distrustfully. ‘Who are you anyway?’

  ‘I am Father Lucius, a brother of the Society of Jesus, the protectorate of the Catholic Church and their sole missionary here in the port of Toba,’ replied the priest fervently, making the sign of the cross upon his chest then kissing the wooden talisman that hung from his neck. ‘I report to God and my superior, Father Diego Bobadilla, in Osaka
. I am his eyes and ears here.’

  ‘So what position does this samurai hold?’ asked Jack, nodding his head towards Masamoto, ‘And if you’re so important why do you bow to him?’

  ‘Boy, I’d be more prudent with your words in future – if you want to live. The samurai demand respect.’

  Bowing low again, the priest continued. ‘This is Masamoto Takeshi, Lord of Shima and right-hand man to Takatomi Hideaki, daimyo of Kyoto province –’

  ‘What’s a daimyo?’ interrupted Jack.

  ‘A feudal lord. He rules this whole province on behalf of the Emperor. The samurai, including Masamoto here, are his vassals.’

  ‘Vassals?… Do you mean slaves?’

  ‘No, the peasants, the villagers you’ve seen, are more akin to slaves. The samurai are members of the warrior caste, much like your knights of old, but considerably more skilled. Masamoto here is an expert swordmaster, undefeated. He is also the man responsible for plucking you, half-drowned, from the ocean and fixing your broken arm, so show him due deference!’

  Jack was astonished. He knew such medical skill was unheard of in England. A broken limb at sea meant a slow agonizing death from gangrene or else a painful and risky amputation. He was indeed extremely fortunate to have met Masamoto.

  ‘Please can you thank him for saving my life?’

  ‘You can do it yourself. Arigatō means “thank you” in Japanese.’

  ‘Arigatō,’ repeated Jack, pointing at his broken arm, then bowing as low as his arm would allow. This appeared to please Masamoto, who acknowledged the respect shown with a curt nod of his head.

  ‘So is this Masamoto’s house?’

  ‘No, this is his sister’s, Hiroko. She lives here with her daughter Akiko.’ The priest started coughing violently once more and it took a moment for him to recover. ‘Enough of your questions, boy! Where’s the rest of your crew?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Dead? All of them? I don’t believe you!’

  ‘A storm drove us off-course. We were forced to shelter in a cove, but a reef hulled the Alexandria. We had to make repairs, but were attacked by… I’m not sure… shadows.’