Young Samurai: The Ring of Sky (21 page)

‘Jack!’

He almost jumped out of his skin. But it was
just Akiko whispering through the thin
washi
paper wall.

‘Benkei’s taken some money for
the permits,’ she said.
‘Seems my opinion of your new
friend was mistaken. He’s proving very useful.’

‘If anyone can get them, Benkei
will,’ Jack reassured her. ‘He’s got a silver tongue.’

‘Good. I’m going to take a bath
now. Then I’ll arrange for some dinner.’

Jack thought he could do with an
ofuro
too. Three days had passed since his last wash at Shiryu’s
house and his skin felt grimy. He smiled to himself; back in England he’d have
considered three months still too soon for a bath!

While he waited for Akiko and Benkei to
return, Jack passed the time cleaning his swords. He used a cloth to wipe off any dirt,
then polished the steel to a high gleam. Once satisfied, he put the blades aside, laying
them by his
futon
, and rummaged in his pack for his father’s
rutter
. Carefully laying the logbook on the table, he unwrapped the
protective oilskin covering and flicked through the pages. The sea charts, compass
bearings, travel logs and observation notes were like familiar friends. Thanks to his
father’s instruction, he could decipher the coded passages as easily as if
they’d been written in plain English. Jack even remembered his father inserting
many of the entries in the logbook during their long voyage to the Japans; the memories
were so distinct that, as he turned the pages, Jack could almost imagine his father by
his side.

All the while he read, Jack couldn’t
shake off the feeling that he was being watched. Yet when he looked around the room,
there was no one there … only the
koto
woman’s eyes upon him.
He put this down to nerves from the fraught day and went back to studying the logbook.
In a few days he’d be sailing for home – perhaps as a pilot like his father – and
the
idea of using this information to help navigate a ship back to
England filled him with excitement.

When he heard Akiko return from her bath,
Jack closed the
rutter
and stashed it back in his pack before slipping it under
his
futon
for a pillow. It had become habit for him to sleep on top of his most
prized possession. He couldn’t be too careful.

Glancing up at the little window to his
room, he noticed that dusk was fast approaching. Benkei still wasn’t back and Jack
began to worry. He was about to call to Akiko, when the corridor floorboards softly
creaked. Jack now realized his concerns were unfounded – Benkei was returning.

Then Jack registered multiple footsteps. He
reached for his swords. But, before he could get to them, the
shoji
burst open
and ten of
daimyo
Kato’s samurai charged in.

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Bound and gagged, Jack was dragged through
a twisting, turning and baffling complex of passageways to reach the inner bailey of
Kumamoto Castle. He struggled in his captors’ grip across the courtyard, his
hobbled feet scoring two lines in the grey gravel behind him. All ten samurai had
pounced on him when they’d barged into his room. He’d thrown the first three
off and broken the arm of the fourth before they managed to pin him to the floor. With a
knife held to his throat, Jack’s hands were tied behind his back and his ankles
fettered. Powerless to resist, he’d been forced to listen to a violent tussle next
door, Akiko screaming then falling silent. For several long seconds, he feared she was
dead. Then they’d hauled her in, half-conscious, between the shoulders of two
burly soldiers. Her lip was split and there was a vicious red welt across her temple.
Jack’s blood boiled at seeing Akiko in such a state and, fighting against his
bonds, had vowed retribution the first chance he got. The samurai had all laughed in his
face before the lead officer had shoved a gag in his mouth. Then, glaring up at
Akiko’s two attackers, Jack had felt a small surge of satisfaction when he noticed
one sported a freshly broken nose
and the other walked with an awkward
limp.
At least Akiko had been able to put up a fight as well
, thought Jack.

Now they were both being escorted through
the enormous castle for an audience with
daimyo
Kato. Akiko, having regained
consciousness, stumbled along behind. Tied to a short length of rope, she was barefoot
and bound like Jack. The two samurai delighted in manhandling her across the gravel. A
sharp pull on the tether sent Akiko sprawling.

‘Not so feisty now, are you?’
said the samurai, his voice muffled by his broken nose. He dragged the grazed Akiko back
to her feet.

‘And you’re not so
pretty,’ she retorted defiantly, before being yanked onward.

The black keep of Kumamoto Castle loomed
closer. Its seven arched roofs with its golden eaves soared into the sky like a colossal
multi-winged beast, its entrance a gated mouth that seemed to swallow all who entered.
And, in the deepening twilight, its barred windows flickered orange with burning oil
lamps, transforming the fortress into a mythical dragon with a hundred fiery eyes.

But the samurai patrol took them past the
forbidding tower and over to a grand hall on the other side of the courtyard. Two
massive wooden doors peeled back on their approach, and Jack and Akiko were led inside.
A highly polished woodblock floor stretched out before them like a glassy sea. Stout oak
pillars, stained black, stood to attention in a regimented line down either side and
supported an ornate panelled ceiling high above. Around the walls a vast collection of
weapons was on display –
katana
,
bokken
, spears,
bō
staffs,
spiked chains, studded clubs and a host of other lethal implements.

The hall was the largest and best-equipped
dojo
Jack had ever laid eyes on. Similar to the
Butokuden
at the
Niten Ichi Ryū
, there was a ceremonial throne set within a curving alcove
midway down the hall. Two carved eagles, their wings gilded and their eyes blazing with
emeralds, perched atop the alcove’s entrance and stared down with the keen
watchfulness of vengeful guardians. Beneath their protective gaze sat a slim man in a
dark green kimono and black
kataginu
jacket.

Daimyo
Kato, Jack presumed, as they
were escorted in his direction.

The samurai lord was seated upon a
tiger-skin rug, the animal’s head still attached and fixed in a snarling growl. He
held an iron-edged fan, which he tapped upon the palm of his hand. His face was young
yet severe, his eyes sharp and intense, and his posture straight as an arrow. With his
pate neatly shaven and the remaining hair tied into the traditional topknot, the
daimyo
looked every inch the samurai warrior and gave the impression he
could spring into action at a moment’s notice.

Yet
daimyo
Kato paid them no
attention as they approached. His entire focus was on the
sumo
wrestling ring –
a
dohyō
– that took prominence in the centre of the
dojo
. The
dohyō
consisted of a raised square platform of hard-packed clay, its
surface covered with a thin layer of brushed sand. A circle of rice-straw bales were
partly buried in the clay and two white lines scored, parallel to one another, in the
middle. Above the ring, suspended from the hall’s rafters, was the pitched roof of
a Shinto shrine with coloured tassels – blue, red, white and black – hanging from each
of the corners.

Standing at the edge of the ring was a small
man in a purple silk outfit. He wore a peaked hat and carried a wooden oval
war-fan. The man was dwarfed by two gargantuan warriors, whose chests
were bare, their lower halves wrapped in loincloths. They were each the size of
elephants, their bodies a combination of blubbery fat and bulging muscle. At the command
of the purple-clad referee, the two combatants mounted the
dohyō
. Facing out,
they clapped their hands loudly, then turned to each other and stomped the ground in a
ritual to drive the evil spirits from the ring.

Jack watched all this as the patrol dumped
him and Akiko unceremoniously opposite the razor-toothed tiger’s head. The samurai
soldiers forced them both into a kneeling bow and waited patiently for their lord to
acknowledge them. But
daimyo
Kato’s eyes remained firmly fixed on the
sumo
bout.

The two wrestlers, having stepped from the
dohyō
to rinse their mouths with water, now returned and squatted, hands on
knees, either side of the white lines. They glared at one another, clapped their hands
for a second time, then spread them wide to show neither of them carried weapons. Still
they did not fight. Rising back up, they strode over to their respective corners and
grabbed a handful of salt from a wooden box. In the manner of a farmer scattering seed,
each of them tossed the salt on to the ring to purify it. Once this sacred rite was
concluded, they crouched beside the white lines again and stared each other down.

Jack waited for the attack but it never
came.

Instead, after glaring at one another, the
two warriors returned to their corners. They repeated the salt rite and the staring
contest twice more, before both wrestlers placed their fists on the ground. Then all
chaos broke loose.

The two juggernauts sprang up, colliding
mid-ring with
the force of charging bulls. The
smack
of flesh
against flesh echoed through the
dojo
, as they slapped, pushed and grappled one
another for dominance. One seized his opponent’s loincloth, trying to topple him
sideways, but the other sidestepped the attack, spun and tripped his rival up. The
sumo
wrestler crashed heavily to the sand, tumbling out of the designated
ring. The referee brought the match to a halt and held up his fan to declare the
champion.

Following the slow drawn-out ritual of
preparation, the bout itself lasted a matter of seconds.

The winner bowed his respects to
daimyo
Kato, who applauded the man’s victory. Then the samurai lord
at last turned his attention to Jack and Akiko.

‘Good work,’ said
daimyo
Kato, addressing the officer of the samurai unit. ‘Ensure the
informant is handsomely rewarded. Such loyalty to the Shogun is deserving of special
consideration.’

‘As you command,
daimyo
Kato,’ said the samurai officer, bowing.

Akiko glanced at Jack, her eyes telling him
all:
Benkei had betrayed them
.

Jack
couldn’t … 
wouldn’t
believe it. The informant had to
be the innkeeper. But the suspicious old man hadn’t managed to see his face, so
how could he have known Jack was the
gaijin
samurai? A tiny seed of doubt was
sown. Maybe twenty
koban
was too much for
any
person to resist?

Daimyo
Kato’s gaze raked
appreciatively over Akiko and he tutted at her injuries.

‘That’s no way to treat a
lady,’ he remarked. ‘Untie her.’

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’
said the officer. ‘She’s a wildcat.’

The
daimyo
laughed. ‘Like this
tiger?’ he said, tapping the skin of the dead animal with his fan. He caught
Akiko’s eye. ‘I killed this tiger in Korea … with just a
tantō
. If you try anything, I’ll snap your neck in two. Do you
understand?’

Chilled by his murderous tone, Akiko offered
a submissive nod.

Confident he’d broken her will, the
daimyo
smiled and indicated for her bonds to be cut.

‘And
the … 
gaijin
?’ queried the officer with hesitation.

‘Is he as dangerous as they
say?’

The officer nodded his head. ‘It took
all ten of us to subdue him. He
broke
the arm of one of my men and threw others
around like they were toys.’

Daimyo
Kato rested his chin upon
the end of his fan, his expression one of marked interest rather than concern.

‘A spirited fighter!’ he said,
regarding Jack with a hint of admiration. ‘Let’s put that warrior spirit of
yours to the test.’

35