The Way Of The Sword (32 page)

Yori handed him an
origami
crane. It was tiny, smaller than a cherry-blossom petal, but perfectly formed.

‘Thanks,’ said Jack, ‘but I’ve still got the one you gave me.’

‘Yes, but this one’s special. I finally finished
Senbazuru Orikata
. This is the thousandth crane. The one that holds the wish.’

For a brief moment, the little bird in Jack’s hand seemed to flutter with hope.

‘I’m praying my wish can protect you, just as you saved my life,’ explained Yori with a hopeful look in his eyes.

Overwhelmed by his friend’s compassion, Jack bowed, then tenderly slipped the little bird into the folds of his
obi
.

Masamoto strode over. ‘Are you ready?’

Jack gave an unconvincing nod of his head.

‘You needn’t fear. You have my first swords,’ Masamoto reassured him. ‘They will serve you well. Just remember to carefully judge the distance between yourself and your adversary. Bring him into your sphere of attack. Draw him out. Whatever you do, don’t let him draw you in.’

Jack bowed his appreciation for the advice.

‘If you fight with courage,’ said Masamoto, speaking low so no one else would overhear, ‘you may yet regain your honour and my respect.’

Masamoto returned to his commanding position in the crowd. Jack now felt even more pressure to succeed. He had been given a chance to redeem himself in his guardian’s eyes.

Sensei Kano now approached.

‘How’s your foot?’ asked Jack.

Sensei Kano laughed. ‘That’s what I like about you, Jack-kun. Always thinking of others before yourself. But what about your predicament? It’ll soon be sunset, won’t it? So try to attack your enemy at a point where the dying sun shines into his eyes.’

He gripped Jack’s shoulders, then let go reluctantly to step aside for Sensei Yosa.

‘Maintain your centre and stay balanced. I have faith that you will survive,’ she said. Then she tenderly touched Jack’s cheek with the back of her hand. ‘But if that samurai harms more than a hair on your head, I’ll make a pincushion of him with my arrows.’

Everyone seemed to want to offer Jack advice, even Sensei Kyuzo who, on his way to join the other sensei, said abruptly,
‘Ichi-go, ichi-e
. You’ll only get one chance. Don’t make it your last.’ The little knot of a man threw Jack a twisted grin, as if it hurt him to smile, then strolled off.

Jack didn’t feel any better for the
taijutsu
master’s counsel, and his mood plummeted further when he saw Kazuki and his Scorpion Gang swagger over, Moriko close by his side, her black teeth accentuated by her chalk-white face.

Then Kazuki stepped forward and bowed.

‘Good luck, Jack,’ he said, apparently in earnest.

‘Err… thank you,’ mumbled Jack, caught unawares by Kazuki’s sincerity. Perhaps Kazuki wasn’t responsible for entering his name after all.

Then, with a straight face, Kazuki asked, ‘Can I have your swords after he’s finished with you?’

The Scorpion Gang sniggered uncontrollably, revelling in their little joke, then they all strode away, laughing.

Akiko unexpectedly took Jack’s hand in hers to comfort him. ‘Ignore them, Jack. Don’t forget what the High Priest said:
your spirit is your true shield
.’

‘Fudoshin!’
suggested Kiku helpfully. ‘You’ll need that for the fight too.’

‘And remember what Sensei Kano taught us,’ Yamato added. ‘The eyes are the windows to your mind, so make sure you fight without eyes.’

‘Have you eaten?’ asked Saburo, offering Jack a skewer of chicken. ‘A samurai should never fight on an empty stomach, you know.’

Jack shook his head, thoroughly bewildered by the onslaught of advice.

At that moment, Emi pushed through the crowd and presented Jack with a posy of yellow and red camellia.

‘For luck,’ she breathed into his ear. ‘Don’t be late for the celebrations tonight.’

Akiko reached between the two of them, graciously offering to hold the flowers for Jack. Emi gave her a civil smile and handed them over, though her eyes revealed annoyance.

‘It’s time, Jack-kun,’ said Sensei Hosokawa, summoning him over to where the
musha shugyo
samurai waited, sword in hand.

‘Mushin
,’ Sensei Hosokawa whispered into Jack’s ear, having formally introduced Jack to his opponent, Sasaki Bishamon.

‘But you said it would take me years to master
mushin
,’ protested Jack as Sensei Hosokawa performed a final check on his sword for him.

‘You no longer have the grace of time,’ he replied, looking Jack in the eye. ‘You have trained hard and you have completed the Circle. As long as you expect nothing and are ready for anything in this fight,
mushin
is within your grasp. Let your sword become no sword.’

With that last piece of counsel, he handed back the
katana
and left Jack alone to face his opponent in the centre of the bloodstained duelling ground.

Up close, Sasaki Bishamon appeared exactly like the God of War his name proclaimed him to be. Scars were visible on both his arms like long, dead snakes and his eyes were as hard and heartless as if they had been chiselled from granite. It was clear even in the way he stood that this samurai was no novice fighter. He had duelled his way across Japan.

What alarmed Jack the most, though, was the
kamon
emblazoned on the jacket of the man’s
gi
and his white headband. A circle of four black scorpions.

Jack’s first dream of the year flashed before his eyes and he recalled Sensei Yamada’s reading. Scorpions symbolized treachery. Four meant death. He had encountered Kazuki’s Scorpion Gang, the scorpion in the Spirit challenge and now this warrior’s family crest. Was the samurai himself the fourth scorpion?

‘I see you’ve already dressed for your funeral. How appropriate,
gaijin
,’ laughed the samurai, pointing at Jack’s chest.

Confused, Jack looked down at his own
gi
. In his haste to get ready for the duel, he had folded the right lapel over the left, like a corpse prepared for burial! Why hadn’t anyone noticed this before?

‘Soon there’ll be one less
gaijin
in the world!’ shouted someone in the crowd.

‘Make his first blood his last!’ cried another spectator.

These heckles were followed by a cacophony of cheering and jeering, the spectators seemingly split between
gaijin
supporters and haters.

The shouts grew louder and Jack became disorientated with the noise, heat and confusion of the duelling ground. His head whirled like a storm from all the advice he’d been given. He started to hyperventilate and Sensei Yamada, noticing his panic, shuffled to his side.

‘Take a deep breath. You need to focus on the fight.’

‘Sensei, I can’t. He’s going to kill me. Tell me what to do.’

‘Nobody can give you wiser counsel than yourself,’ replied Sensei Yamada, laying a reassuring hand on Jack’s trembling sword arm to steady it. ‘Act on the advice you would give to others. Consider what that would be.’

‘Come on, you little urchin! No more time-wasting!’ shouted the samurai, kicking at the dust.

‘Don’t be afraid of fear itself,’ replied Jack without thinking.

Sensei Yamada nodded. ‘Exactly. Remember – this samurai’s flesh and blood. He’s no Mountain Monk.’

The air was dreadfully dry. Jack’s tongue felt like it was caked in dust. He tried to lick his lips, but fear seemed to have drained his mouth of all moisture.

The tips of their opposing
kissaki
glinted golden red in the dying light of the day. Jack made a final adjustment to his grip on the sword. Masamoto’s
katana
, although heavier than his
bokken
, was well balanced, the steel sharp and the blade true. Over the past months of practice, Jack had performed so many cuts with the weapon, he swore he could hear the sword whispering to him.

A calm gradually descended over him.

He was no longer scared but tense. Like the rope of a hangman’s noose, he might snap at any moment, but he had already faced down and conquered his fear during the Spirit challenge.

Jack recalled Sensei Hosokawa’s words:
‘The three evils for a samurai are fear, doubt and confusion
.’

He had defeated his fear.

He had overcome his confusion.

Now there was only doubt.

Jack studied the callous face of his opponent. The man’s grey eyes gave nothing away.

Not for the first time, Jack found himself staring into the face of death.

This time, though, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Jack noticed the samurai held his
kissaki
slightly too low, exposing a way in straight to the neck.

To every spectator watching, the attack was so quick that it was like the blur of a startled bird. Jack knocked the samurai’s sword to one side and struck at his target.

The blade whistled through the air.

And missed.

For the samurai, it had all been part of his plan. Enticing Jack in with an opportunity and countering with a driving thrust to the stomach that began at Jack’s bottom rib and finished its cut at the base of his belly.

A great cry of anguish broke from Akiko, Emi and the others, as Jack was skewered on the samurai’s sword.

It was only by the greatest good fortune that Jack had managed to avoid being impaled. The blade had pierced the loose side of his
gi
, slicing straight through his jacket but to one side, almost grazing his flesh. The sword was so close Jack could feel the hard cool steel against his skin.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Jack cursed himself, driving past his opponent, his
gi
ripping asunder in an effort to escape. He hastily created distance between himself and the samurai.

What had Masamoto said?

‘Whatever you do, don’t let him draw you in
.’

That’s exactly what he had just done.

The samurai glanced at Jack’s exposed midriff, disappointed. ‘Don’t
gaijin
bleed?’

There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd.

‘Of course not!’ shouted a spectator.
‘Gaijin
are like worms!’

The crowd erupted, some baying for Jack’s blood, others defending his honour.

Jack felt his own anger swell at the bigotry of the spectators. The majority seemed to have no concept of
bushido
. Where was the respect? The honour? The benevolence? The moral integrity of rectitude?

Drawing on his courage, Jack would show them exactly what it meant to be samurai.

Like Masamoto had told him to, Jack tossed his anger on to the water of his mind, letting it disappear in ripples.

He calmed his breathing and considered his strategy.

The first encounter had been too close.

He knew he wouldn’t get a second chance.

This time he would wait for the samurai, willing the warrior to enter his sphere of attack. Though Jack was now completely calm inside, he gave an outward impression of being distraught.

He let his sword shake. He appeared to attempt an escape, circling around until his back was to the sun and the samurai had to squint at him. He even began to blubber.

‘Please… don’t kill me…’ pleaded Jack.

Sasaki Bishamon shook his head, disgusted. There were boos from the crowd and Jack caught Masamoto hanging his head at Jack’s shameful surrender.

‘You’re pathetic. So much for the Great
Gaijin
Samurai,’ spat the warrior, flicking his sword at Jack. ‘It’s time I put you out of your misery.’

The samurai approached in slow deliberate steps, lifting the
katana
high to slice down through Jack, with the clear intent of not only drawing first blood, but making it the last blood Jack ever shed.

Jack willed his mind to flow like water.

Mushin
.

No mind.

He let the baying of the crowd fade into the background.

No sound.

He let the samurai’s advance become still.

No distraction.

He let the sword in his hand become one with his heart.

No sword.

The samurai struck without mercy.

Time appeared to have slowed as a spontaneous knowledge of the warrior’s attack blossomed in Jack’s mind. He knew exactly where the samurai was directing his sword. He knew when to step within its arc so he could evade it. He knew where to strike and when.

Jack knew the hand of his mind now wielded the sword.

He acted intuitively.

In three quick swipes, the duel was over.

With the same accuracy that Sensei Hosokawa had cleaved the grain of rice in two, Jack had cut the samurai, slicing through his
obi
,
hakama
trousers and headband.

First the man’s
obi
hit the ground.

Then his
hakama
fell in a heap.

Finally the samurai’s headband floated down through the air, the scorpion
kamon
cut exactly in half.

The warrior turned on Jack and roared, bringing his sword up to retaliate.

‘First blood!” announced Masamoto, quickly stepping between the two of them to halt the fight.

The samurai blinked in disbelief. He had the tiniest trickle of blood running down his forehead from where Jack had nicked him with his
kissaki
.

‘My apologies,’ said Jack, bowing to stifle a grin. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

One of the spectators began to laugh.

Then another joined in. And another. Soon the whole crowd was in fits of laughter, many of the women waving their little fingers at the defeated warrior. Slowly it dawned on the samurai that he was totally naked, his
hakama
around his ankles. The warrior glanced around, mortified at his loss of face. Pulling up the remains of his clothing round him, he fled from the duelling ground.

Jack was swamped by his friends and a whole host of other students from the
Niten Ichi Ryū
, all clamouring to congratulate him.

Jack took in little of what was being said. His mind was lost in the moment of the duel.
Mushin
. He had mastered
mushin
. Or, at the very least, experienced it. More importantly, for a brief moment, his sword had existed in his heart. It had become part of him.