The cherry blossom tree had shed all its leaves now; a skeleton against the
sky, its bare branches burdened with snow. Jack walked through the garden,
passing beneath its shadow. Death seemed to hang all around. What had
Father Lucius meant, 'I didn't know they'd kill for it'? Was he talking about
the rutter? If so, that must mean he was in danger. But from whom?
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice from behind.
'I'm so sorry for the passing of Father Lucius. You must be very sad.'
Akiko, who was wearing a plain white kimono, appeared like a
snowflake in a world of white.
'Thank you,' he said, bowing, 'but I don't think he was any friend of
mine.'
'What makes you say that?' gasped Akiko, shocked at his cold sentiment.
Jack took a breath before answering. Could he trust her? Could he trust
anyone here? Yet Akiko was the closest he had to a friend. He had no one
else to turn to.
'When Father Lucius died,' Jack explained, 'he said something very
strange. He implied someone wanted to kill me, then died weeping and
asking for God's forgiveness.'
'Why would anyone want to kill you, Jack?' asked Akiko, her nose
wrinkling in bewilderment.
Jack considered her. Could his trust extend to revealing his father's
rutter? No, he decided, he couldn't reveal the whole truth. Not yet, anyway.
His father's rutter was the only possession he had of any worth. He could
only assume they wanted it, but since he didn't know who they were, the
fewer who knew of its true purpose the better.
'I don't know. Perhaps they don't like gaijin?' lied Jack.
'Who are they?'
'I don't know. Father Lucius died before he could say any more.'
'We should tell someone.'
'No! Who'd believe me? They'd say it was the ravings of a dying man.'
'But you seem to believe it,' said Akiko, eyeing him closely. She knew
he wasn't revealing everything. She was no fool, but Jack also knew that
Japanese courtesy prevented her from pressing for the answer.
Jack shrugged. 'Perhaps I misheard him. I'm not certain what he said.'
'Clearly,' she said, letting the matter go. 'But just in case you did hear
right, you should be careful. Keep your bokken with you at night. I will ask
my mother to leave a lamp burning. I'll tell her I'm troubled by nightmares.
That way any intruder will believe someone is always up.'
'Thank you, Akiko. But I'm sure it'll turn out to be nothing,' said Jack,
sceptical of his own words even as he spoke them.
But Jack was right. Nothing happened.
Father Lucius was buried according to his customs, and Jack returned to
his routine of Japanese study with Akiko and kenjutsu with Yamato.
A few days later a mounted samurai arrived with a letter announcing
Masamoto's return to Toba. He would be here within the week.
The household became a flurry of activity. Hiroko personally visited the
market, ensuring Masamoto's specialities would be in the house, and hired
additional help for the cook to prepare a celebratory meal. Chiro scrubbed
all the floors, washed bedding and kimonos, and prepared Masamoto's
room. Uekiya swept the paths and somehow made the garden appear
beautiful, even in its stark winter state.
The night before Masamoto was due to arrive, the whole household went
to bed early, eager to be fresh and alert for the following day. Jiro was
almost bouncing off the paper walls with excitement and it took Hiroko
several attempts to settle him.
Yamato's mood, on the other hand, had darkened with his father's
imminent arrival and he practised his kata late into the night, aware that he
would have to impress his father greatly to gain favour.
Jack's mind whirled as he lay down on his futon, staring at the muted
glow of the night lamp through the shoji. He had no idea what was expected
of him during his audience with Masamoto. Would he have to prove himself
like Yamato? Did he have to fight? Was it to be a test of his Japanese
language ability? Or was it all three? Worst of all, what if he caused serious
offence through a simple lapse in etiquette?
Masamoto was clearly a man who did not expect to be questioned and
had a killing streak that ran deep in his veins. He was austere and brusque,
and his severe scarring put Jack on edge. He wondered what had happened
in the man's life to disfigure the samurai so badly.
Yet all those around Masamoto honoured him and Akiko thought him to
be 'one of the greatest samurai to have lived'. He had re-set Jack's broken
arm, a skill beyond that of even the most experienced English surgeons.
Jack realized there was so much more to Masamoto than a scarred face and
a swift sword.
A shadow passed across the night lamp, briefly blacking out Jack's room.
Jack instinctively tensed, but there appeared to be no one there. Not even
the sound of a footstep.
Possibly it had been Yamato returning to his quarters or else a breeze
dipping the flame, surmised Jack. He turned over to settle down to sleep.
He closed his eyes and imagined himself, as he often did at night,
standing on the prow of the Alexandria, returning home to England,
triumphant, with his father piloting the ship, the hold crammed with gold,
silk and exotic eastern spices, Jess waving to them from the harbour…
Another shadow passed across the room.
Jack opened his eyes, having sensed the room darken. Behind him, he
heard the shoji slide softly back.
No one ever entered his bedroom during the night. Ever so quietly, Jack
reached for his bokken, lying by the edge of his futon. He held his breath,
listening intently.
There was the unmistakable creak of the wooden veranda and the
slightest pad of a foot coming to rest on the tatami as someone stepped into
his room.
Jack spun off his futon, rolling to one knee, simultaneously bringing the
bokken up to defend himself. A flash of silver flew past his face and a
shuriken thwacked into a wooden beam behind him.
Jack froze.
Crouched in front of him was the shadow warrior, his single green eye
fixed upon Jack.
'Dokugan Ryu!' uttered Jack in disbelief