The Way Of The Sword (3 page)

The ninja’s threat still haunted him, and Jack didn’t doubt that Dragon Eye would return. The ninja was out there, waiting for him.

Akiko was right. While he was at the
Niten Ichi Ryū
, he was under Masamoto’s protection. He was safe. But he was dangerously exposed outside the school walls. Travelling alone, he would be lucky to make it beyond the city outskirts.

Jack had no option but to remain in Kyoto, training at the
Niten Ichi Ryū
. He had to learn the Way of the Sword if he was ever going to survive the journey home.

While the choice wasn’t his, the idea of perfecting his skills as a samurai gave Jack a sharp thrill. He was drawn to the discipline and virtues of
bushido
and the thought of wielding a real sword was exhilarating.

‘He’s out there,’ Jack said. ‘Dragon Eye will come.’

Reaching across the room, Jack picked up the Daruma Doll. He looked it squarely in the eye and solemnly remade his wish.

‘But next time I’ll be ready for him.’

‘Why have you brought your sword?’ barked Sensei Hosokawa, a severe-looking samurai with an intimidating stare and a sharp stub of a beard.

Jack looked down at his
katana
. The polished black
saya
gleamed in the morning light, hinting at the razor-sharp blade within. Thrown by his sword teacher’s unexpected hostility, he thumbed the golden phoenix
kamon
embossed near the hilt.

‘Because… this is a
kenjutsu
class, Sensei,’ Jack replied, shrugging his shoulders for lack of a better answer.

‘Do any other students carry a
katana
?’

Jack glanced at the rest of the class lined down one side of the
Butokuden
, the
dojo
where they trained in the Way of the Sword,
kenjutsu
, and
taijutsu
, unarmed combat. The hall was cavernous, its elevated panel ceiling and immense pillars of dark cypress wood towering over the row of young trainee samurai.

Jack was once again reminded of how utterly different he was from the rest of his class. Not yet fourteen, unlike many of the other students, he was nonetheless the tallest, possessing sky-blue eyes and a mop of hair so blond it stood out like a gold coin among the black-haired uniformity of his classmates. To the olive-skinned, almond-eyed Japanese, Jack may have been training as a samurai warrior, but he would always be a foreigner – a
gaijin
as his enemies liked to call him.

Looking around, Jack realized that not a single student held a
katana
. They all carried
bokken
, their wooden training swords.

‘No, Sensei,’ said Jack, abashed.

At the far end of the line, a regal, darkly handsome boy with a shaved head and hooded eyes smirked at Jack’s error. Jack ignored Kazuki, knowing his rival would be delighting in his loss of face in front of the class.

Despite coming to grips with many of the Japanese customs, like wearing a kimono instead of shirt and breeches, bowing every time he met someone and the etiquette of apologizing for nearly everything, Jack still struggled with the strict ritualized discipline of Japanese life.

He had been late for breakfast that morning, following his nightmare-filled sleep, and had already had to apologize to two of the sensei. It looked like Sensei Hosokawa would be the third.

Jack knew his sensei was a fair but firm teacher who demanded high standards. He expected his students to turn up on time, be dressed smartly and be committed to training hard. Sensei Hosokawa made no allowance for mistakes.

He stood at the centre of the
dojo’
s training area, a broad honey-coloured rectangle of varnished woodblock, glaring at Jack. ‘So what makes you think you should bear a
katana
while the others don’t?’

Jack knew whatever answer he gave Sensei Hosokawa would be the wrong one. There was a Japanese saying that went ‘The stake that sticks out gets hammered down’, and Jack was starting to appreciate that living in Japan was a matter of conforming to the rules. No one else in the class carried a sword. Jack, therefore, stuck out and was about to be hammered down.

Yamato, who stood close by, looked as if he was going to speak on his behalf, but Sensei Hosokawa gave him a cautionary glance and he immediately thought better of it.

The silence that had descended upon the
dojo
was almost deafening. Jack could hear the blood rushing through his ears, his mind turning itself over and over for an appropriate response.

The only answer Jack could think of was the truth. Masamoto himself had presented his own
daishō
, the two swords that symbolized the power of the samurai, to Jack in recognition of the school’s victory at the
Taryu-Jiai
contest and for his courage in preventing Dragon Eye from assassinating the
daimyo
Takatomi.

‘Having won the
Taryu-Jiai
,’ ventured Jack, ‘I thought I’d earned the right to use them.’

‘The right?
Kenjutsu
is not a game, Jack-kun. Winning one little competition doesn’t make you a competent
kendoka
.’

Jack fell silent under Sensei Hosokawa’s glare.

‘I will tell you when you can bring your
katana
to class. Until then, you will only use
bokken
. Understand, Jack-kun?’

‘Hai
, Sensei,’ submitted Jack. ‘I just hoped I could use a real sword for once.’

‘A real one?’ snorted the sensei. ‘Do you
really
think you’re ready?’

Jack shrugged uncertainly. ‘I suppose so. Masamotosama gave me his swords, so he must think I am.’

‘You’re not in Masamoto-sama’s class yet,’ said Sensei Hosokawa, tightening his grip on the hilt of his own sword so that his knuckles turned white. ‘Jack-kun, you hold the power of life and death in your hands. Can you handle the consequences of your actions?’

Before Jack could answer, the sensei beckoned him over.

‘Come here! You too, Yamato-kun.’

Jack and a startled Yamato stepped out of line and approached Sensei Hosokawa.

‘Seiza
,’ he ordered and the two of them knelt down. ‘Not you, Jack-kun. I need you to understand what it means to carry a
katana
. Withdraw your sword.’

Jack unsheathed his
katana
. The blade gleamed, its edge so sharp that it appeared to cut the very air itself.

Uncertain as to what Sensei Hosokawa expected of him, he fell into stance. His sword was stretched out in front of him and he gripped the hilt with both hands. His feet were set wide apart, the
kissaki
level with the throat of his imaginary enemy.

Masamoto’s sword felt unusually heavy in his hands. Over the course of a year of
kenjutsu
training, his own
bokken
had become an extension of his arm. He knew its weight, its feel and how it cut through the air.

But this sword was different. Weightier and more visceral. It had killed people. Sliced them in half. And Jack suddenly sensed its bloody history in his hands.

He was starting to regret his rashness in bringing the sword.

The sensei, noting the visible trembling of Jack’s
katana
with grim satisfaction, proceeded to remove a single grain of rice from his
inro
, the small wooden carrying case attached to his
obi
. He then placed the grain on top of Yamato’s head.

‘Cut it in half,’ he ordered Jack.

‘What?’ blurted Yamato, his eyes wide with shock.

‘But it’s on his head -‘ protested Jack.

‘Do it!’ commanded Hosokawa, pointing at the tiny grain of rice.

‘But… but… I can’t…’

‘If you think you’re ready for such responsibility, now is your chance to prove it.’

‘But I could kill Yamato!’ exclaimed Jack.

‘This is what it means to carry a sword. People get killed. Now cut the grain.’

‘I can’t,’ said Jack, lowering his
katana
.

‘Can’t?’
exclaimed Hosokawa. ‘I command you, as your sensei, to strike at his head and slice that grain in half.’

Sensei Hosokawa grabbed Jack’s hands and brought the sword into direct line with Yamato’s exposed head. The miniscule grain of rice perched there, a white speck among the mass of black hair.

Jack knew that the blade would slice through Yamato’s head as if it were little more than a watermelon. Jack’s arms quivered uncontrollably and Yamato gave him a despairing look, his face completely drained of blood.

‘DO IT NOW!’ commanded Hosokawa, lifting Jack’s arms to force him to strike.

The rest of the students watched with dread fascination.

Akiko looked on fearfully. Beside her, her best friend Kiku, a petite girl with dark shoulder-length hair and hazelnut-coloured eyes, was almost on the point of tears. Kazuki, though, was apparently relishing the moment. He nudged his ally Nobu, a large boy with the build of a mini-Sumo wrestler, and whispered in his ear, loud enough for Jack to hear.

‘I bet you the
gaijin
chops off Yamato’s ear!’

‘Or maybe his nose!’ chortled Nobu, a fat grin spreading across his podgy face.

The sword wavered in the air. Jack felt all control over the weapon drain from his body.

‘I… I… can’t,’ Jack stammered. ‘I’ll kill him.’

Defeated, he lowered the
katana
to the floor.

‘Then I’ll do it for you,’ said Sensei Hosokawa.

Yamato, who had let out a sigh of relief, instantly froze.

In the blink of an eye, the sensei withdrew his own sword and cut down on to Yamato’s head. Kiku screamed as the blade buried itself in his hair. Her cry reverberated throughout the
Butokuden
.

Yamato fell forward, his head dropping to the ground.

Jack saw the tiny grain of rice peel apart and fall in two separate pieces on to the
dojo
floor.

Yamato remained bowed, trembling like a leaf, trying to regain control of his breathing. Otherwise, he was completely unscathed. The blade had not even grazed his scalp.

Jack stood motionless, overwhelmed at Sensei Hosokawa’s skill. What a fool he had been to question his sensei’s judgement.
Now
he understood the responsibility that came with a sword. The choice of life over death was truly in his hands. This was no game.

‘Until you have complete control,’ said Sensei Hosokawa, fixing Jack with a stern look as he resheathed his
katana
, ‘you don’t have the skill to warrant carrying a real blade. You’re not ready for the Way of the Sword.’

‘
YOUNG
SAMURAI!’ thundered Masamoto down the length of the
Chō-no-ma
, the ceremonial dining hall that earned its name from the lavishly decorated panelled walls of painted butterflies.

The students, who were kneeling in regimented rows, stiffened and prepared for Masamoto’s opening address. Jack, his legs already becoming numb from being in the
seiza
posture, shifted himself in order to get a better view of the proceedings. Masamoto sat in his usual place, raised upon a dais behind a low table of black-lacquered cedar. The table was laid with cups of steaming
sencha
, the bitter green tea the samurai enjoyed.

Masamoto took a measured sip from his cup, letting the silence sink in.

Dressed in a flame-red kimono emblazoned with his golden phoenix
kamon
, Masamoto was a man who commanded total authority and deep respect from both his students and fellow samurai. His strength of presence was such that Jack no longer registered the crimson scarring that disfigured the entire left-hand side of the man’s face like a mask of melted candlewax. All Jack saw was an invincible warrior.

Flanking him on either side were the sensei of the
Niten Ichi Ryū
and two other samurai Jack didn’t recognize.

‘This dinner is in honour of our
daimyo
, Lord of Kyoto Province, Takatomi Hideaki,’ announced Masamoto, bowing humbly to the man on his immediate left.

Every student and sensei did likewise.

This was the first time Jack had laid eyes upon the
daimyo
whose life he’d saved. A genial man with large dewy eyes, a brushstroke of a moustache and a generous rounded belly, he wore a flamboyant ceremonial kimono decorated with five
kamon
of a white crane, two on the sleeves, two on the chest and one on the back. He gave a short respectful nod of his head in acknowledgement of Masamoto’s respect.

Masamoto sat back up. Then the sensei and students straightened in rank order, the new students being the last to raise their heads.

‘Takatomi-sama has graced us with his presence in recognition of our victory at the
Taryu-Jiai
against the
Yagyu Ryū
.’

The school let loose a great cheer.

‘And following our prevention of the attempt on his life he has generously extended his sponsorship of the
Niten Ichi Ryū
, securing the future of this school indefinitely.’

The students chanted and clapped in unison three times.

‘TAKATOMI!’
CLAP!
‘TAKATOMI!’
CLAP!
‘TAKATOMI!’
CLAP!

The
daimyo
gave a cordial smile and the briefest of bows in response.

‘Furthermore, he has bestowed upon the school a new training hall: the
Taka-no-ma
, the Hall of The Hawk!’

The students erupted into applause and fevered discussion broke out. A new hall meant the possibility of another martial art being taught. Masamoto held his hand up for silence. Immediately, the students checked their enthusiasm and he continued his address.

‘Before we commence the meal, allow me to introduce our second guest.’

Masamoto directed his attention to a large barrel of a man whose round head was covered in a fuzz of short black hair and a similarly fuzzy beard.

‘Sensei Kano is a
bōjutsu
master visiting us from the
Mugan Ryū
, our sister school in Osaka. Under his tutelage, you will learn how to defend and attack with the
bō
staff. Sensei Kano is a man of great heart and greater skill. You could not ask for a better teacher in the Art of the
Bō
.’