‘Thanks,’ said Benkei, munching on a nut. ‘But we can’t live like squirrels all the way to Nagasaki. We need supplies. Have you got any money?’
Jack shook his head.
There was a brief sigh of disappointment, then Benkei said, ‘Not to worry. We’ll acquire some.’
Jack became wary. ‘You’re not going to steal, are you? I don’t wish to attract any more trouble.’
Benkei looked almost offended. ‘I’m no thief! We’ll win it.’
He produced three shells from inside his kimono and placed them in a row upon the rock. Taking a small nut from their breakfast pile, he hid it under the middle shell.
‘Follow the nut,’ he instructed Jack.
Benkei started to slide the three shells around, switching their places. Jack’s eyes remained fixed upon the one with the nut inside. Benkei made several more moves before asking, ‘Where’s the nut?’
Jack smiled. This was too easy. He pointed to the shell on the left.
‘Are you certain?’ asked Benkei with a sly grin. ‘Would you bet on it?’
Jack nodded.
‘Then you’d lose,’ he said, lifting the shell on the right to reveal the nut.
‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Jack. ‘I watched your every move.’
‘Try again. Let’s bet that last juicy berry on the outcome.’
Agreeing, Jack closely studied Benkei as he put the shell over the nut and shuffled their places around. He did a couple of back-switches, but these were easy enough to follow. Without hesitation, Jack selected the middle shell.
‘Wrong again,’ said Benkei, uncovering the end shell to show the nut. With a triumphant expression, he popped his prize into his mouth.
Jack was dumbfounded. There was simply no way he’d made a mistake. His eyes had never left the nut-containing shell.
‘Third time lucky. Do you want to bet your swords this time?’ suggested Benkei.
Jack shook his head. He’d never risk gambling his weapons. The red-handled katana and wakizashi were forged by Shizu, one of the greatest swordsmiths to have lived. Moreover, these swords were an heirloom from Akiko’s father as well as Jack’s last link to Akiko herself. He treasured them almost as much as he treasured their friendship.
‘Wise decision,’ said Benkei. ‘You see, this shell game is our moneymaker. Merchants and greedy samurai love to gamble!’
‘But what if you lose?’ said Jack, doubtful Benkei’s luck would hold.
‘That will never happen.’
Jack gave him a sceptical look.
‘You see, I’m not a gambler. I’m a conjuror!’ revealed Benkei with obvious pride. ‘That’s why my friends call me Benkei the Great.’ He jumped to his feet with a flurry of his multicoloured kimono and bowed. ‘I’m the greatest trickster in Kyushu.’
Jack looked uneasy at the idea.
‘Don’t worry, nanban. Your noble conscience will be safe. We’ll only take from those who can afford it – not like the daimyo and their samurai, who take all they can from the poor farmers.’
Picking up his three shells and the nut, Benkei strode off towards a treelined ridge heading west.
‘First stop, Yufuin. It’s the nearest spa town from here. There’ll be lots of rich merchants and dumb samurai who need their purses lightening.’
10
Lookout
As they descended a rocky mountainside later that afternoon, Jack could see why Yufuin was such a popular destination for travellers and onsen seekers. The small provincial town sat in a picturesque green valley, with a sparkling river weaving its way like a silver thread into a crystal-blue lake. A magnificent double-headed volcano reared up behind the town, providing a stunning backdrop for the hot springs. Serving the visitors’ every need, numerous thatched-roof inns, temples and onsen lined the streets and winding alleyways. Even from a distance, Jack could hear the tranquil flow of water and the meditative chime of temple bells.
‘A genuine heaven on earth, don’t you think?’ remarked Benkei.
Jack was inclined to agree and felt a sudden urge to stop running. He wished he could do what his heart really desired and return to Akiko in Toba. Ever since he’d made that fateful decision to leave her, his life had been like a cork tossed on the ocean waves. But however much he longed for those precious times he was duty-bound to his orphaned sister in England. And there was no turning back. The Shogun had made certain of that.
Avoiding the main road, they approached Yufuin from the east, using the trees for cover. The town’s terraced paddy fields had turned golden in the late afternoon sun, their shallow waters still as dew ponds now that the farmers had finished working for the day. Benkei and Jack trotted along the mudbanks, skirting the fields until they came to a group of farm buildings. An old farmer emerged from a nearby cottage and Jack and Benkei quickly ducked inside a barn.
‘I can’t go into town like this,’ said Jack, indicating his blond hair and foreign looks.
‘You’re right, nanban,’ replied Benkei, studying him intently. ‘We should put a bag on your head. That would make you easier on the eye!’
Jack baulked at the idea, unsure whether he was being serious or not.
Benkei laughed at Jack’s offended expression. ‘Only joking! Here, wear this.’
He’d found a straw hat discarded upon a pile of rotting hay. The hat was old and tattered, but its rim was broad enough to cover Jack’s face and hair.
‘It stinks of dung,’ said Jack, trying not to grimace as he put it on.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ smirked Benkei and held his nose against the reek. ‘At least no one will go near you!’
After the farmer had gone back inside, they slipped out of the barn and entered town. Keeping to the backstreets and alleys, they passed walled gardens, several bubbling onsen and a noisy kitchen. The inviting smell of cooked rice wafted under Jack’s nostrils, and his mouth began to water and his stomach tighten. He suddenly realized how critical it was that Benkei succeeded in his scheme.
Forcing all thoughts of hunger aside, Jack followed Benkei down a narrow alleyway. They heard the clack of wood, followed by the rattle of rolling dice and several disappointed groans. Through a gap in the boards, Jack spied a group of men sitting cross-legged beside varying piles of wooden tokens. With an almost desperate excitement, the men began slapping down the tokens and calling out ‘odd’ and ‘even’.
‘It appears Yufuin isn’t just about soaking in hot springs,’ whispered Benkei, raising his eyebrows knowingly. ‘All the better for us.’
They continued to make their way through the backstreets until they reached a small square in the centre of town. A steady flow of foot traffic passed along the two roads leading off from it. Kimono-clad women, sword-bearing samurai and finely dressed merchants browsed shops, frequented tea houses and entered the numerous onsen establishments.
Remaining in the shadows of the alley, Benkei turned to Jack.
‘This spot is ideal. Now your job is to act as lookout,’ he explained. ‘If you see any dōshin or patrols coming along, whistle twice like this.’ He put his fingers in his mouth and sounded two high-pitched notes like a cuckoo. ‘Got that?’
Jack nodded.
‘Wish me luck!’ he said, brushing his wild hair up into spikes. ‘Not that I need it,’ he added with a wink.
Benkei marched out as if he were an actor taking to the stage. He strode across the square, his colourful garb drawing the attention of passers-by. Setting himself up on a flat bench by a street corner, he quickly gathered a small crowd.
Jack remained hidden in the alleyway, from where he had a clear view of Benkei and the main thoroughfare.
‘Double your money!’ Benkei promised the intrigued onlookers, beckoning them closer.
A merchant laid a confident bet upon a shell. With a flourish, Benkei revealed the actual location of the nut and the merchant cursed his misfortune. Benkei claimed his winnings. Another bet was made and promptly lost, and the crowd gasped in as
tonishment, many convinced they’d known where the nut was. Benkei pocketed his takings. After a third round was lost by a portly samurai, mutterings of disgruntlement arose and a few people drifted away. Then a cry of delight went up as an old woman won a small bet on the shell she’d chosen. Immediately there was a flurry of gambling.
Jack had to admit Benkei was good. His artful skills made winning appear possible, enticing people to lay bigger bets. But, as Jack knew from experience, they had no chance – unless Benkei wanted them to.
‘People’s greed is their downfall,’ he’d said, and he was right.
As the crowd grew bigger and the money rolled in, Jack noticed two men dressed in black haori jackets, tight-fitting trousers and dark-blue tabi socks heading down the road. They each wore thin white hachimaki across their foreheads and carried a jutte in their belts. The distinctive iron truncheons were the trademark weapon of the dōshin – the Shogun’s recently appointed enforcement officers.
Jack whistled twice and Benkei looked up in alarm.
All of a sudden Jack felt a hand clamp on to his shoulder. The fingers dug in, pain rocketing through his body as pressure was applied. His legs were kicked out from under him and he buckled to his knees. Struggling to break free from the grip, Jack twisted away. At the same time, he grabbed his attacker’s wrist and wrenched the arm into sankyo. This powerful wristlock would dislocate his attacker’s arm, or at the very least throw the person to the ground. But his assailant swiftly countered by flipping through the air and turning the lock back on to Jack’s own wrist.
‘How dare you resist me!’ exclaimed his attacker.
In a white-out of pain, Jack was driven into the earth. His head struck the side of the building and his hat fell off. Unable to roll away, his ligaments were stretched to their limit, the agonizing force of the lock threatening to break his arm. But at the last second the attack was halted.
Still immobilized by pain, Jack managed to twist his head for a glimpse of his attacker. His eyes widened in disbelief.
11
Bugyō
A diminutive man with black specks for eyes glared down at Jack. He had a pudgy nose – broken many times in battle – and a thin unsmiling mouth, above which sat a greying tuft of a moustache. In spite of his tiny stature and age, every muscle was toned as hard as granite beneath his crisp dōshin uniform.
‘Sensei Kyuzo,’ gasped Jack, both shocked and relieved to see his old taijutsu master again.
But Sensei Kyuzo didn’t release the excruciating wristlock and his expression remained inscrutable.
‘It’s me! Jack!’
‘I know who you are, gaijin,’ he hissed, ‘but you don’t know me.’
‘But, Sensei –’ Jack’s wrist flared once more in agony.
Sensei Kyuzo forced Jack’s face into the dirt as the two dōshin came running over.
‘Did you get the other one?’ he barked.
‘No … he disappeared into the crowd,’ explained one of the officers sheepishly.
‘Idiots! How could you lose a suspect dressed like a clown fish?’
‘Sorry, Renzo. He was too slippery.’
Renzo? thought Jack. Have I mistaken the man?
Spitting dirt from his mouth, Jack tried to catch another glimpse of his captor. The man certainly looked like his taijutsu master. His voice had the same rough edge to it. And his attitude was as harsh and unforgiving as ever. Then there was the wristlock he had him in: tekubi gatamae. It was classic Sensei Kyuzo, and Jack could never forget the distinctive pain his teacher was capable of inflicting. Always selected as his uke, demonstration partner, at the Niten Ichi Ryū, Jack had suffered many agonizing sessions being locked, thrown, grappled, kicked and punched by his teacher – all for the purposes of authentic technique. Pinned helpless to the ground now, Jack was left in no doubt that this dōshin was Sensei Kyuzo.
The other two officers stared in astonishment at their prisoner.
‘You’ve captured the gaijin samurai!’ cried the dōshin in unison.
‘Yes,’ snapped Sensei Kyuzo impatiently. ‘Now quit gawping and hand me your hayanawa.’
The dōshin obediently passed him a short rope with a small loop on one end. Snatching it from the officer’s grasp, Sensei Kyuzo dropped his full weight on top of Jack. With a knee pressed painfully into the small of his back, Jack was swiftly relieved of his swords and pack. Then, in a matter of seconds, he was trussed up with the hayanawa. His hands were bound behind him and the rope secured round his neck, so that if he struggled the hayanawa would choke him. Although still able to walk, Jack was otherwise powerless to fight back.
Sensei Kyuzo dragged him to his feet.
‘Let’s go, gaijin!’ he ordered, shoving Jack down the road.
‘Where are you taking me, Sen–’
Sensei Kyuzo jabbed his thumbtip between Jack’s ribs, sending a shockwave of pain through him.
‘Less talking and more walking.’
As Jack recovered his breath and hobbled on, he finally figured out why his teacher was being so brutal in silencing him. Benkei had mentioned that certain samurai warriors who’d opposed the Shogun were being hunted down. Sensei Kyuzo must be trying to keep his past identity secret. Realizing he’d almost given the deception away twice, Jack now held his tongue. Besides, he had to trust Sensei Kyuzo. His taijutsu master was his sole hope of escaping this predicament alive. And, until he discovered what the plan was, he had no choice but to follow his teacher’s lead.
Sensei Kyuzo and the two dōshin escorted him along the main street to a large white building with a curving tiled roof. Steps led up to the entrance beside which a wooden sign read:
Thanks to Akiko’s patient teaching, Jack was able to translate the Japanese script. The sign proclaimed: Bugyō of Oita District. Jack knew bugyō meant magistrate. Above, a long golden banner hung from a rafter. Emblazoned in the centre was the circular mon of three hollyhock leaves – the family crest of the Shogun.
Jack’s blood ran cold at the sight. Not only had Sensei Kyuzo arrested him but he was now turning him over to an official of their mutual enemy. Had he been wrong to trust in his taijutsu master? It was true that they’d never seen eye to eye. From his very first lesson at the Niten Ichi Ryū, Sensei Kyuzo had objected to teaching a foreigner the secrets of their martial arts. And he’d made little attempt to hide his personal hatred of Jack, bullying him at every opportunity. But, in spite of the bad blood between them, Sensei Kyuzo had ultimately proven to be loyal. During the Battle of Osaka Castle, he’d fought a group of ninja single-handedly – sacrificing himself while Jack and Akiko had made their escape. Sensei Kyuzo was a true samurai. He would not break the code of bushido. Jack was certain of that.
A guard at the entrance waved them through. He stared open-mouthed at the appearance of the infamous gaijin samurai.
Slipping off their wooden geta at the top of the steps, Sensei Kyuzo led Jack down a corridor to a double set of fusuma doors. The two dōshin followed close behind, their hands on their jutte at all times. After knocking respectfully, Sensei Kyuzo slid back the panel doors to reveal a stark white rectangular room with dark wooden ceiling beams. A shoji to their right was left ajar, through which the setting sun shone and gleamed off the polished woodblock floor. A cool evening breeze wafted in from the stone Zen garden outside, where a wind chime tinkled softly.
At the far end of the room, a portly man sat behind a desk studying some papers. Dressed in an ink-blue kataginu jacket with stiffened shoulders like wings, he exuded an air of authority and Jack assumed this was the bugyō. Although the magistrate didn’t look up, Jack noticed his jowls hung loose, seeming to merge with his neck. And his thinning hair was overly oiled and tied into a sparse topknot. A katana and wakizashi sat upon a display rack behind him, their sayas brightly polished and silk handles unblemished. At his side, an Akita hunting dog sat obediently to attention, regarding Jack with hungry eyes.
The magistrate didn’t bother to acknowledge their entran
ce as Sensei Kyuzo marched Jack into the room. Halfway down, Jack was forced to his knees and made to bow his respects. Still the magistrate barely glanced up as he selected a fresh piece of paper and dipped a fine brush into an inkstone.
‘Name?’
Encouraged by a rough prod from a jutte, he declared, ‘Jack Fletcher.’
The magistrate started to inscribe the kanji characters before the foreign name fully registered. The bugyō almost dropped his brush when he realized the Shogun’s most wanted fugitive knelt before him.
12
Trial
‘How on earth did you catch the gaijin?’ enquired the bugyō.
‘He was an accomplice to an illegal betting scam,’ stated Sensei Kyuzo.
The bugyō raised his pencil-thin eyebrows in surprise. ‘So where are the other perpetrators?’
Sensei Kyuzo glared at the two dōshin. ‘There was only one other and he got away.’
The magistrate tutted disapprovingly. ‘I don’t like loose ends, but I suppose it’s of little consequence at a moment like this.’
He wet his ink brush again and finished writing Jack’s name on the paper.
‘Was the gaijin carrying any belongings?’
Sensei Kyuzo nodded and one of the dōshin presented the magistrate with Jack’s swords and pack. The bugyō inspected the weapons, then laid out the pack’s contents on the table, making a meticulous inventory of all that he found. To Jack’s consternation, the magistrate took particular interest in the rutter. Then with surprising care he repacked the bag and instructed the dōshin to store the property in his private office.
Recharging his brush from the inkstone, the bugyō now fixed his bulbous eyes on Jack.
‘Before we attend to the greater matter at hand, we must first deal with your crime here,’ he declared. He inscribed several more characters on the paper. ‘Jack Fletcher, you’ve been arrested on the charge of illegal gambling.’
Young Samurai: The Ring of Sky Page 4