The Way of the Warrior

by Chris Bradford

  So their afternoons had begun and, combined with Father Lucius’s lessons, his Japanese improved rapidly. Akiko had been a lifeline to him. With each passing week, Jack had been able to converse more and more fluently.

  Yamato, on the other hand, in spite of his father’s edict to be his friend, had maintained an icy distance. Jack could have been invisible for all the boy cared.

  ‘Why does Yamato not speak to me?’ he had asked Akiko one day. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘No, Jack,’ she replied with deliberate courtesy. ‘He is your friend.’

  ‘Everyone is my friend but only because Masamoto orders them,’ Jack shot back.

  ‘He has not ordered me,’ she said, a flicker of hurt showing in her eyes.

  Jack, realizing he had been rude, tried desperately to think of the appropriate Japanese words to apologize. Apologizing, Father Lucius had explained to Jack, was considered a virtue in Japan. Unlike Europeans, who view an apology to be an admission of one’s own guilt or failure, the Japanese see it as taking responsibility for one’s actions and avoiding blaming others. When one apologizes and shows remorse, the Japanese are willing to forgive and not hold a grudge.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Akiko,’ Jack had eventually said. ‘You have been very kind to me.’

  She bowed, accepting his apology, and they had continued with their conversation, his prickly remark forgotten.

  Today, as he approached the spot to begin his studies, Jack noticed the cherry blossom tree had shed many more of its leaves, leaving a golden carpet beneath its branches. Uekiya the gardener was sweeping them away, stuffing the dead leaves into an old sack.

  Jack went to pick up the rake and help the old man in his task.

  ‘This is not work for samurai,’ stated the gardener gently, taking the rake out of Jack’s hands.

  At that moment, Akiko crossed the bridge and made her way over to them. Jack noticed she wore a lilac kimono dotted with ivory flowers and tied with a yellow-gold obi. He could never quite get used to how immaculate the Japanese women always were.

  Jack and Akiko settled beneath the tree and Uekiya, bowing, moved away to tend one of his already perfectly pruned bushes. They began their afternoon lesson. But before they had progressed very far, Jack asked her about the gardener’s strange comment to him.

  ‘How can I be samurai? I don’t even have a sword.’

  ‘Being samurai is not only about wielding a sword. True, samurai are warriors, for we are bushi, the warrior class. As Masamoto’s adopted son, you are now also samurai.’ Akiko paused to allow her words to sink in. ‘And samurai means “to serve”. A samurai’s loyalty is to the Emperor first and then to his daimyo. It is about duty. And your duty is to Masamoto. Not to the garden.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’ What other duties would Masamoto require of him? Was he tied to this samurai for life?

  ‘You will. Being samurai is an attitude of mind. Masamoto will teach you this.’

  As Jack tried to grasp Akiko’s meaning, Yamato strode out of the house carrying a shaft of dark wood. It was about the length of his arm, one-third of it rounded into a sturdy handle, the other two-thirds hewn into a long blade that curved slightly towards its tip.

  ‘What’s that he’s carrying?’ asked Jack.

  ‘A bokken. It’s a wooden sword.’

  Yamato saw them, bowed stiffly then marched over to a clear patch of garden.

  ‘What? A toy sword!’ laughed Jack, seeing Yamato whirl the bokken above his head and execute a vicious strike on an imaginary opponent.

  ‘Toy? No, a bokken is no toy,’ said Akiko suddenly becoming serious. ‘It can kill a man. Masamoto-sama himself has defeated more than thirty samurai using a bokken against their swords.’

  ‘So what is Yamato doing now? It looks like playing to me.’

  Yamato had repeated the strike, then followed through with a series of cuts and blocks.

  ‘Kata. They are set patterns of movements that help a samurai to perfect his martial skills. Yamato is learning the art of sword fighting.’

  ‘Well, if I am a samurai, I had better learn how to fight too,’ said Jack, adjusting his kimono and standing.

  Ignoring Akiko’s protests, Jack strode over to where Yamato was practising. He watched with interest, studying his moves and technique. All the while, Yamato ignored him and continued to parry and thrust at his imaginary opponent.

  ‘May I try?’ asked Jack, when Yamato had apparently decapitated his attacker with a powerful cross-cut.

  Yamato slid the bokken into his obi and inspected Jack as if he were a fresh recruit. For a moment, Jack thought the boy would refuse in order to prove his authority over him.

  ‘Why not, gaijin,’ said Yamato with a look of haughty amusement. ‘It would be good to have a target to practise on. Jiro,’ he called, ‘fetch me a bokken for the gaijin!’

  The little boy came scampering out of the house with a second wooden sword in his arms. Struggling to carry an object that was taller than he was, Jiro gave the weapon to Yamato who, bowing with his two hands outstretched, offered the bokken to Jack.

  Jack stepped forward to take it.

  ‘NO! You must bow when given the honour of using another’s sword.’

  Jack riled at Yamato’s command, but did as he was told. He dearly wanted to handle the weapon, to know how to use it like he had seen Masamoto wield his two swords on the beach.

  ‘And take it with two hands,’ instructed Yamato as if Jack were a little boy.

  Grasping it with both hands, Jack found the wooden sword to be surprisingly heavy. He could now appreciate how such a weapon could inflict damage devastating enough to kill.

  ‘NO! Blade down,’ corrected Yamato, when Jack held the bokken out in front of him as he had seen Yamato do. He turned the bokken the right way up in Jack’s hands.

  ‘Don’t let the kissaki drop!’ Yamato rolled his eyes in disbelief at Jack’s ignorance.

  ‘Kissaki?’ questioned Jack.

  ‘The tip of the bokken. Keep it in line with the your opponent’s throat. One foot forward. One foot back. Wider. You must stand strong.’

  Warming to his role as teacher, Yamato paced round Jack, fastidiously adjusting Jack’s stance and form until he was satisfied.

  ‘That’ll have to do. First, we will practise kihon – the basics. A simple parry and strike.’

  Yamato stood opposite Jack and lined his kissaki up with Jack’s. An instant later, he struck Jack’s bokken. The weapon shuddered in Jack’s hands, sending a shock wave of pain up his arms and forcing him to drop it. Yamato’s blade struck forward and stopped a hair’s breadth from Jack’s throat. Yamato stared Jack contemptuously in the face, daring him to move.

  ‘Don’t they teach you how to fight where you come from? You hold it like a girl,’ admonished Yamato. ‘Pick it up. Don’t grip with your thumb and forefinger next time. That is weak, your hold can be broken easily. Look at mine. Place the little finger of your left hand round the base of the handle. Then wrap the rest of your fingers round the remainder of the hilt. The bottom two fingers should be tight. Your right hand should be just below the guard, and grip it in the same manner as your left. This is correct tenouchi.’

  Yamato was enjoying the spectacle he was making of Jack in front of Akiko and Jiro. He obviously relished the feeling of superiority it gave him, so much so that he failed to notice Akiko’s mortified reaction to his behaviour.

  No matter, thought Jack. He would soon learn how to use the bokken and then he could teach Yamato a lesson or two.

  Once Jack had mastered the grip, Yamato repeated the attack. This time Jack kept hold of the bokken.

  ‘Good. Now you try.’

  Jack found the movement of the strike awkward at first. It was difficult to get enough force behind the parry, but Yamato made him repeat the movement again and again until the technique began to flow.

  They practised through the afternoon, Yamato teaching Jack three other kihon moves: a basi
c cut, an evasive manoeuvre and a simple defensive block. The kata training was surprisingly hard work and after a while Jack began to tire. Having done little physical exercise since his time on-board ship, the bokken was beginning to feel like lead in his hands. Yamato was clearly pleased to see Jack flagging.

  ‘Want to try some randori now?’ challenged Yamato.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Jack, out of breath.

  ‘Free-sparring. Best out of three?’

  ‘Excuse me, Yamato,’ interrupted Akiko, hoping to avert the trouble she foresaw coming. ‘May I suggest that you both join me for sencha? You have practised much and should rest.’

  ‘No, thank you, Akiko. I’m not thirsty. But Jack looks like he could do with a rest.’

  Jack knew Yamato was trying to break him. Jack recognized this moment from his time on-board the Alexandria. The men who had not stood up for themselves the first week were the ones last in line for food, the ones shoved to the hammocks nearest the bilge, the ones lumbered with the worst duties, like scrubbing the scuppers where the crew relieved themselves. Jack had to prove he was not someone who could easily be beaten. If he backed down now, he would forever be trying to regain his ground

  ‘No, thank you, Akiko. I’m not tired.’

  ‘But your arm?’ she insisted. ‘It is not wise to –’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Jack, politely cutting her off before turning back to Yamato. ‘Randori, eh? Best out of three. Why not?’

  They faced off, kissaki touching.

  Jack’s hands were slippery with sweat. He tried to remember the moves: the footwork, the parry, the block, the strike. He readied himself, but Yamato struck first. He knocked Jack’s bokken aside and slammed his own down on to Jack’s exposed fingers. Jack cried out in shock and pain, dropping his bokken.

  ‘Too slow,’ said Yamato, a sadistic smile spreading across his face. ‘I could see you thinking the move before you made it.’

  Jack bent to pick up his weapon. His fingers throbbed and he had difficulty closing his hand round the bokken. He gritted his teeth and lined up his kissaki again.

  This time, he saw Yamato’s bokken twitch and instinctively stepped backwards to evade the first cut. Yamato brought his bokken round for a second time and Jack, more by luck than design, blocked his strike. This infuriated Yamato who piled in with a vicious thrust, which Jack only managed to avoid by twisting away. Yamato hit Jack hard across the back. The blow sent Jack to his knees, his kidneys flaring up in pain and his lungs feeling like they had collapsed.

  ‘Two–nothing,’ gloated Yamato as Jack writhed on the ground in agony. ‘A bit of advice. Never turn your back on your opponent.’

  ‘Enough, Yamato,’ broke in Akiko. ‘He doesn’t know how to fight with a bokken yet. He cannot defend himself!’

  Winded and stiff with pain, Jack dragged himself to his feet, using the bokken as a crutch. He refused to give in. This was the actual moment he had to prove himself. He’d always known he wouldn’t win, but he had to draw the line for when they stopped, not Yamato. With an effort, he raised his sword.

  Yamato looked dumbfounded.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Best out of three. I won.’

  ‘What? Scared I might beat you?’

  The direct challenge spurred Yamato into action and he instantly fell into guard.

  Knowing Yamato was watching for telltale signs of his first move, Jack feigned a strike to the left like he had seen the warrior Godai do with the nodachi on the beach. Yamato went to block it and Jack switched offensive, bringing his bokken round hard to the right.

  Yamato was thrown off-guard and had to block awkwardly, so much so that Jack’s sword cut across his right hand. Inflamed by the unexpected contact, Yamato retaliated with a flurry of blows. They rained down on Jack, who managed to avoid the first two and miraculously block the third, but the fourth cracked Jack across the face.

  It was as if someone had cut the connection between his brain and the rest of his body. His legs crumpled and he collapsed to the floor. His head rang in agony and little flashes of light sparked across his eyes.

  Akiko was immediately by his side, calling for Chiro to bring water and towels to stem the blood dripping from his nose. Jiro was pulling on Jack’s sleeve, upset by the unexpected violence. Even Taka-san had appeared and was bending over Jack with concern.

  Jack could see Yamato standing alone, a thunderous look on his face as everyone disregarded his victory. Jack may have been beaten, but it was he who had ultimately won.

  17

  GAIJIN

  ‘What happened to you?’ wheezed Father Lucius from his bed.

  ‘I had a fight,’ said Jack defensively, unable to hide the bruises ringing his eyes.

  ‘Looks to me like you lost. I warned you that the samurai could be ruthless.’

  Father Lucius sat up, hacking into his handkerchief. The coughing and yellow sputum were recently accompanied by a fever and shaking chills. Conscious of Masamoto’s order, Father Lucius still insisted that Jack have his lessons, despite fatigue often overwhelming him. But after only a few sentences, they had to stop.

  ‘Jack, I’m afraid this sickness is defeating me in spite of all the teas, herbs and ointments the local doctor can administer. Even their medicines are no match for this…’

  The priest broke into a coughing fit, pain wracked his face and he clenched his chest. Slowly, the coughing subsided to be replaced by the laboured wheezing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ said Jack, not knowing what else he could say.

  The hostility that had characterized their earlier meetings had faded during the course of their lessons into a wary friendship, and Jack did honestly feel concern for the sick priest.

  ‘No need for pity, Jack. I have done my duty on this earth and will soon be rightfully rewarded in Heaven.’ He made the sign of the cross on his chest. ‘I’ll be better tomorrow, but today you must teach yourself. Please hand me my book.’

  Jack reached over to the table and passed over the priest’s thick notebook.

  ‘This is my life’s work,’ he said, gently caressing its soft leather binding. ‘A Japanese–Portuguese dictionary. I have been compiling this book ever since I came to the Japans over ten years ago. It is the key to unlocking their language and their way of thinking. Using it, the Brotherhood can bring the Word of the Lord to every island of Japan.’

  Religious fervour shone in Father Lucius’s rheumy eyes.

  ‘It’s the only one in existence, Jack,’ he said, and fixed Jack with a grave look. He studied him for several moments before, with a shaky hand, offering the book to Jack.

  ‘Would you take care of it for me, and if I am to pass from this world, will you ensure that it is placed in the hands of his Eminence, Father Diego Bobadilla, in Osaka?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ promised Jack, unable to refuse the man’s dying wish. ‘It would be an honour.’

  ‘No, it would be mine. You have been a good pupil, in spite of your beliefs. Your mother must have been a fine teacher. With Akiko’s continued assistance, you’ll be speaking as fluently as a natural-born Japanese boy before the turn of the year.’

  He smiled graciously at Jack, then continued in an unusually honeyed tone.

  ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to let me look at your father’s diary in return? I fear my days are shortening on this earth and it would give me great pleasure to read of another’s worldly adventures.’

  Jack immediately stiffened. Had the offer of the dictionary been a ploy to get the rutter?

  Jack remembered the way the Jesuit’s eyes had gleamed with desire when it had first been presented by Masamoto. Since that day Father Lucius had often mentioned his father’s diary during their lessons. Was it safe? Where did he keep it? Would he care to regale one of his father’s stories? Would he show him a page from the diary? The priest clearly wanted the rutter, if not for himself, then most certainly for the Brotherhood.

  Jack felt a small spike of anger at Father Luci
us’s request and wondered whether the priest’s change of heart had been genuine at all, or merely a ruse to obtain his precious rutter.

  ‘I am sorry, Father Lucius,’ replied Jack, ‘but as you know, it is private and the only remaining possession of my beloved father.’

  ‘I know, I know. No matter.’ The priest seemed too weary to pursue the issue any further. ‘I will see you again tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, Father. Of course.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  That afternoon under the cherry blossom tree, Jack leafed through the pages of the dictionary. Father Lucius had been right to speak so proudly of his work. It contained reams of Japanese words together with their Portuguese equivalents, detailed notes on grammar, directions for correct pronunciation, and guidance on proper Japanese etiquette. It was truly his magnum opus.

  ‘Excuse me, Jack,’ said Akiko, approaching Jack from across the little bridge. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Jack, putting the dictionary down. ‘You’re welcome to join me, but I thought you were going pearl diving today?’

  ‘No, not today,’ said Akiko, with soft disappointment.

  ‘Why not? You usually do, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes…’ She hesitated, clearly considering whether it was appropriate or not to confide in Jack. Then, apparently making her mind up, she knelt down beside him.

  ‘Mother says that I’m too old to be associating with such people now. She says being an ama is not fitting for a lady of the samurai class and she forbids it.’

  ‘Not fitting? Why would she say that?’

  ‘Pearl diving can be very dangerous, Jack. Ama sometimes get caught up in rip tides or are attacked by sharks. That is why only lower-caste villagers are given such work.’

  ‘So why do you do it?’ asked Jack, somewhat amazed by her revelation.

  ‘I like it,’ said Akiko emphatically, a keen fire lighting up in her eyes. ‘Down there you get to see shellfish, octopus, sea urchins and sometimes even sharks. Under the water, I can go where I want. Do what I want. I’m free… and that’s such a glorious feeling.’