Young Samurai 06 - The Ring of Fire (8 page)

‘Pester someone else with your childish games!’ growled the samurai, irritably waving Saburo away.

‘But this is a
real
mission,’ insisted Saburo, pursuing the
ronin
across the square.

‘Don’t take me for a fool. If there was a serious problem, the farmers wouldn’t be hiring
young
samurai like you.’

‘That’s why they need your help.’

‘
You’re
the one needing help. Now leave me alone before I’m forced to end your very short life!’

At that, Saburo stopped in his tracks and let the
ronin
walk away. Returning to the entrance of Okayama’s main Buddhist temple, he slumped on the steps next to Jack.

‘That’s the sixth
ronin
to say no,’ complained Saburo. ‘They just won’t take me seriously.’

Peering from beneath the rim of his hat, Jack surveyed the square. They’d been trying all morning to recruit samurai. But with market day over, Okayama was no longer as busy and the choice of
ronin
was limited.

‘I can’t believe there isn’t a single samurai willing to help,’ said Jack.

Saburo shrugged. ‘Everyone’s out for themselves since the Shogun came to power.’

‘Then why not look to yourselves for salvation?’ advised a small monk descending the steps of the temple.

Dressed in white robes with a saffron-coloured mantle, he wasn’t much bigger than a child and carried a
shakujō
– a ringed staff – its pointed iron tip and six metal bands jangling with each step. The monk’s face was in shadow beneath a large conical straw hat. Jack had come across similar monks on his travels. They often hid their faces as a symbol of their detachment from the outside world.

‘We’re not the ones who need help,’ explained Jack, bowing his head respectfully. He pointed to Toge and Sora, glumly crouching on their haunches nearby. ‘The farmers need samurai to protect their rice harvest. But no
ronin
will help them.’

‘And no
ronin
will listen to us,’ said Saburo, sighing.

‘Then why not approach
young
samurai?’ suggested the monk. ‘They can be just as brave.’

Jack considered this. ‘They might still be training and won’t have the sword skills. It’s too risky against a bandit like Akuma. We need warriors with battle experience.’

‘Do
you
lack such experience?’

‘Not entirely,’ Jack admitted, his mind returning to the attack on the
Niten Ichi Ryū
and the Battle of Osaka Castle.

‘Have you not duelled adult samurai … and won?’

‘Errr … yes,’ replied Jack, taken off-guard by such a knowing question.

‘Then who’s to say there aren’t more warriors like you?’

‘Because I’m …’ Jack trailed off.
Because I’m a
gaijin, he’d almost said.

Yet maybe the monk was right.
He
, Jack, was willing to tackle the bandits. And if the
Niten Ichi Ryū
could produce warriors like Akiko, Yamato and himself, then why couldn’t there be other young samurai of equal skill?

‘But this isn’t Kyoto,’ argued Saburo. ‘There won’t be many sword schools here – if any! Where will we find young samurai?’

‘Sometimes what you seek is right in front of your eyes,’ the monk replied, lifting the hat from his face.

Dumbstruck, Jack and Saburo could only stare open-mouthed at the little monk with bright eyes and a smooth shaven head.

‘B-b-but you’re supposed to be at the Tendai Temple in Iga Ueno … with Sensei Yamada,’ Jack finally managed to gasp.

‘And
you’re
supposed to be on a ship bound for England,’ replied Yori.

Back at the storehouse, Neko brewed a pot of
sencha
while Jack, Saburo and Yori caught up on each other’s news. Yori couldn’t believe all the trials and tribulations Jack had suffered; and Saburo was stunned to learn of Yori’s gruesome escape from the Red Devils at the Battle of Osaka Castle. All three of them mourned the tragic closure of their school, but Jack and Yori were pleased to learn from Saburo that Sensei Kano, their blind
bōjutsu
master, had safely returned the surviving young samurai to Kyoto before going into hiding himself. To Jack’s disappointment, there was no further word of his guardian Masamoto’s fate, following his banishment to a remote temple on Mount Iawo. But sorrow turned to laughter when Yori learnt of Saburo’s uneventful
musha shugyō
.

‘No point taking unnecessary risks!’ explained Saburo, archly raising his eyebrows. ‘What brings
you
to Okayama anyway?’

‘Sensei Yamada sent me on a pilgrimage too,’ replied Yori. ‘But a religious one.’

‘Is Sensei Yamada here?’ Jack asked, eager to see the Zen philosophy master who’d been his closest mentor at the
Niten Ichi Ryū
.

Shaking his head, Yori gave a sad smile. ‘I think something died in him during that last battle in Osaka. Sensei Yamada’s been teaching me everything he knows, as if he expects to depart this world soon.’

Jack and Saburo exchanged worried glances.

‘Then why aren’t you with him now?’ asked Saburo.

‘
Life is the greatest teacher
, he told me. That’s why he sent me on this pilgrimage, asking that I deliver a message to an old friend at the Okayama Temple.’

Neko, a steaming teapot in hand, approached the raised platform with deference and poured out three cups of
sencha
. Saburo raised his cup in a toast.

‘To the
Niten Ichi Ryū
!’ he said, hoping to lift their spirits.

‘To friends!’ said Jack, still reeling from the fortuity of meeting both Saburo and Yori but overwhelmingly grateful to have them once more at his side.

‘To friends, gone but not forgotten,’ agreed Yori, his eyes reddening with tears.

The reunited young samurai drank in their friends’ honour. A moment of respectful silence settled between them, Saburo choking up at the memory of his brave brother Taro, and Jack mourning the loss of Yamato, who’d sacrificed himself to save him and Akiko from the ninja Dragon Eye.

Neko looked shocked, thinking her tea was to blame. But Yori signed to her that the
sencha
tasted good. She bowed at the compliment before scampering back to her corner to prepare their lunch.

As ever, Jack was amazed at Yori’s sensitivity to people – without even being told, his friend was aware of Neko’s condition. He was just the same as Jack remembered. Although small of stature, Yori possessed a great heart and a warmth of spirit that made him the perfect monk. Such virtues hadn’t always helped him during his training to become a samurai warrior. Nonetheless, Yori had demonstrated surprising resilience and extraordinary skills that belied his mild-mannered appearance.

‘I still can’t believe I ran into you
and
Saburo,’ said Jack.

Yori smiled warmly at him. ‘Coincidence is a deity’s way of staying anonymous. Perhaps Hotei the Laughing Buddha, one of our seven lucky gods, was looking favourably upon you.’

‘I must thank him for his kindness,’ said Jack, smiling too. ‘So when do you go back to Iga Ueno?’

‘When my good friend is safely home,’ replied Yori, bowing his head.

‘You’re as loyal as ever,’ said Jack, returning his bow. ‘But before I can go anywhere, I’ve promised to help these farmers.’

Yori nodded sagely, as if expecting this answer. In the true spirit of a Buddhist monk, he replied, ‘In helping others, we shall help ourselves.’

‘You don’t have to stay,’ insisted Jack. ‘This mission will be dangerous.’

So far he hadn’t directly asked Yori to join them, since he knew his friend avoided violence wherever he could. But Jack couldn’t deny Yori’s wisdom and sound advice would be useful in the forthcoming battle against Akuma.

‘Where there are friends, there’s hope,’ said Yori. ‘
You
told me that.’

‘Wise words, Yori,’ remarked Saburo. ‘But where do we find more young samurai to help
us
?’

‘You’ve such little faith, Saburo!’ chastised Yori, with a shrewd look in his eyes that was reminiscent of Sensei Yamada. ‘The priest at the Okayama Temple told me about an archery contest down by the riverside. That’s where they’ll be.’

12

SPLITTING ARROWS

A large crowd had gathered along the eastern bank of the Asahi River. The area itself was the thriving centre of Okayama’s merchant quarter. Several flat-keel riverboats with single square sails were moored at the dock. Porters rushed around lugging bales of rice or transporting barrels of
saké
, stacked by the dozen, upon rickety wooden carts. Goods of all descriptions were being unloaded into the vast wooden warehouses that lined the riverbank, while empty vessels awaited their loads for distribution to other parts of Japan.

Upon the opposite shore, a five-tiered castle dominated the skyline, its all-black exterior casting an oppressive shadow over the proceedings.

‘That’s Crow Castle,’ said Toge, as they worked their way through the throng. ‘The home of
daimyo
Ikeda.’

Jack realized that a lord who lived in such an imposing structure would have little sympathy for
any
of his subjects, especially lowly farmers.

The archery contest was taking place on the broad veranda of the largest of the warehouses. Six small targets had been set up at one end and the archers were lined up at the other, some sixty metres away. The competing samurai were dressed in winter kimono, their left arms pulled out of the sleeve and laid bare to the elements so that they could draw their bows and shoot cleanly.

Arrows flew through the air like flights of startled sparrows, followed by a percussive thunder of steel tips striking hard wooden targets. As soon as one round was complete, another hail of arrows was unleashed.

‘Every year Okayama holds a
Tōshiya
contest,’ explained Toge. ‘The archer who hits their target the most out of a hundred arrows is declared the winner.’

Another pepper of bolts struck home, the shafts quivering upon impact. Those that missed either fell short into the veranda’s decking or embedded themselves in the warehouse wall behind.

Saburo spotted several young samurai among the spectators. ‘Which one shall we ask first?’

Jack followed his gaze. The group were a mix of boys and girls, but none were anywhere near their coming-of-age ceremony. He shook his head. ‘Far too young.’

‘How about those two?’ suggested Sora.

An older boy and a girl, who appeared to be his sister, stood at the front, transfixed by the ongoing contest. Scanning the crowd, Jack considered they were the only likely candidates.

‘What do you think, Yori?’

‘I need to have a closer look,’ he replied, unable to see over the crowd’s shoulders.

‘Follow me,’ said Saburo, leading the way.

Just as they reached the front row, a great shout went up. The archers had ceased firing and the judging now began. The spectators fell silent in anticipation, while a white-robed official inspected the targets in turn, counting the successful hits of each archer.

‘Fifty-two,’ he announced to respectful applause, and the first samurai gave a humble bow.

‘Sixty-four.’ To which the second archer allowed himself a smug grin as he was greeted with enthusiastic cheering.

‘Twenty-one.’ A polite yet half-hearted clapping couldn’t hide the crowd’s sniggering, or the shame burning on the third samurai’s face. But he didn’t have to suffer their ridicule for long. A collective gasp of amazement sounded when the fourth competitor’s score was revealed.

‘
Ninety-eight!
’ declared the official, clearly astonished himself. ‘A new record!’

Dressed in a crisp white
gi
and all-white
hakama
, a severe-looking samurai with a thin moustache gave a victorious shout and thrust his bow into the air.

‘Why not him?’ said Yori, nodding towards the veranda as the official called out a disappointing ‘Forty-seven’ for the fifth samurai.

‘Make your mind up, Yori,’ said Saburo. ‘I thought we were looking for young samurai.’

‘We
are
,’ said Yori, directing their attention to the sixth and final archer.

A lone boy stood among the other competitors. Wearing a plain black kimono, his hair tied up into a topknot, the boy appeared unexceptional. Yet his face was sharp and attentive, and his demeanour cool and collected.

The official had completed his count of the boy’s target, but he seemed uncertain of the result and checked again. The excitement among the crowd grew. Then the official turned to them and announced, ‘Ninety-nine!’

For a moment, no one could believe the result – in particular, the samurai with the thin moustache, who stared in fury at the boy’s target as if trying to re-count the forest of arrows from a distance. Then the spectators burst into amazed applause.

When the initial cheering had subsided, the official approached the boy and began, ‘I declare the winner to be –’