Jack spent that afternoon in the garden.
He still couldn't get his head round the fact he had been adopted by a
samurai! He supposed he should be grateful. He had food and shelter, and
the household no longer treated him like some stray dog. Jack felt more like
an honoured guest. Taka-san had even bowed to him!
Yet he did not belong here. He was a stranger in a land of warriors,
kimonos and sencha. The question, though, was where did he belong?
With his father and mother both dead, he had no home to speak of. His
sister was living with Mrs Winters, but what would happen when the money
his father gave the woman to look after her ran out? Or if the old woman
died? Jack needed to find a way home and be there for her. But with
England on the far side of the world, there was no conceivable way a boy of
twelve could sail across two oceans, even with his father's rutter.
Despite the heat of the day, Jack shuddered with the helplessness of his
situation. He was stuck in Japan until he discovered a ship bound for
England, or else was old enough to strike out on his own.
Staying was a matter of survival, not choice.
He sat down under the cherry blossom tree, shaded from the sun, and
contemplated the fragile hope the rutter held for him
Jack could distinctly recall the intense excitement he had felt when his
father had first handed him the leatherbound book. The rutter had seemed
heavy with knowledge and secrets. When he had opened it, Jack swore he
could smell the ocean in its pages.
Inside were intricate hand-drawn maps; compass bearings between ports
and headlands; observations of the depth and nature of the seabed; there
were detailed reports of his father's voyages; places where there were
friends, and the ports where there were foes; reefs were pinpointed; tides
marked; havens circled; and on every page secret ciphers that protected the
knowledge of safe passage from enemy eyes.
'A rutter for a pilot,' his father had told him, 'is the equivalent of a Bible
for a priest.'
Jack had listened, rapt, while his father had explained how it was easy
enough to work out latitude by the position of the stars, but it was still
impossible to fix longitude to any degree of certainty. This meant that once
a ship was out of sight of land, it was, for all intents and purposes, lost. Any
sea voyage was consequently fraught with danger. Unless…
'Unless,' his father had said, 'you have a rutter. This book, my son,
contains all the knowledge you will ever need to guide a ship safely across
the seas. These notes were obtained at great cost to life and limb. Now,
every time I complete a sailing, I add my own observations. This rutter is
invaluable! There are only a few truly accurate ones in existence. Possess
this book and you rule the seas! And that is why our enemies, the
Portuguese, would dearly love to get their hands on a rutter such as this…
at any cost…'
Now it was his.
The rutter was his sole link to his previous life. To his father. Indeed it
contained his only real hope of getting home, a tenuous thread of directions
that circumnavigated the world.
As Jack flicked through its pages, a loose piece of parchment fell to the
ground. Jack picked it up. Opening it out, the parchment, brittle with sea
salt, its edges tattered and worn from repeated handling, revealed a childish
drawing of four figures in a little garden with a square house. Jack
immediately recognized the figures.
There was his father, tall with a black scribble of windswept hair, himself
with an unfeasibly large head and a mop of chalky hair, his little sister in a
smock, one hand waving, the other holding Jack's hand, and above them all
in the centre of the picture was his mother, complete with angel wings.
Jess had drawn the picture and given it to his father the day they had left
England for the Japans. Jack choked back tears, trying not to cry. How
would Jess cope when she knew her father was dead too?
Jack looked up from the hand-drawn picture of his family, suddenly
aware he was being watched. The black-haired boy was staring at him from
the house. How long had he been there?
Jack wiped his eyes, then acknowledged him with a brief bow. That was
the polite thing to do. The boy ignored Jack's bow.
What's his problem? thought Jack. The boy was clearly of some standing
having arrived with Masamoto, but he had not yet introduced himself, and
he had been hostile towards Jack from the start.
Then Akiko rounded the house with Jiro, who was excitedly brandishing
a slip of paper, and the black-haired boy slid shut the shoji. Jack folded up
his sister's picture and placed it carefully back inside the rutter.
Akiko bowed to Jack before taking the paper from Jiro and respectfully
handing it to Jack with both hands.
'Arigatō,' said Jack, thanking her.
'Dōmo,' she replied.
Jack was frustrated that he could not communicate with her any further.
He now had so much he wanted to say, questions he needed answering. He
was surrounded by gracious strangers, yet utterly isolated by language. His
impromptu lesson with Akiko the previous evening had been the closest to
a proper conversation since his fever had broken some two weeks ago.
Jack opened the note, reading the message inside.
Your presence is requested. Please come directly following
breakfast tomorrow to my quarters. I reside at the fourth house to
the left of the jetty.
Father Lucius
Jack leant back against the tree. What could Father Lucius possibly want
with him?