The Ring of Water - Chris Bradford [10]
‘Good. It’s settled then,’ said Ronin, taking a swig of rice wine to seal the deal, before settling back against the wall and closing his eyes. Within seconds, he was snoring loudly.
Some help he’s going to be! thought Jack.
5
THE RIDDLING MONK
Jack knelt before the shrine’s altar, hands clasped, eyes tight shut. He prayed, thinking of his parents up in heaven, desperately wishing for the comforting embrace of his mother and the sound counsel of his father. John Fletcher was a man who never wavered, never lost hope, not even in the fiercest of storms.
A smooth sea never made a skilful mariner, he would say.
Now, as the rain battered the little shrine, Jack called upon that same strength of mind. But, try as he might, a sense of despair seeped into his thoughts. What chance did he have of recovering his possessions, let alone of surviving? He still couldn’t remember anything. He had no idea who’d attacked him, or why. It could have been a samurai patrol or, as Ronin suspected, a bunch of bandits. Had they known who he was? Or had it been a random assault? Did they even realize the true worth of what they’d stolen? And, most importantly, where were his possessions now?
There were so many unanswered questions. Jack pounded the floor in frustration, willing himself to remember … a face … a name … a place … anything!
But his mind remained a blank.
Whoever it was, they evidently thought they’d killed him. That gave him an edge at least, since they wouldn’t be expecting him to rise from the grave. On the other hand, he was a wanted gaijin, a samurai without his swords, a ninja without a disguise. His situation was desperate, summed up in the fact he had to rely upon a washed-up masterless samurai for help. The ordeal before him seemed insurmountable.
Sorry, Jess, thought Jack, reflecting on his responsibility to his sister back in England. Although she’d been left in the care of a neighbour, Mrs Winters, that was over five years ago and the woman was old then. Jack was worried that Jess, now aged ten, could be on her own – or, worse, in a workhouse for orphans.
Jack bowed his head, a tear rolling down his cheek. May God take care of you, because I fear I might not make it home.
‘Only dead fish swim with the current,’ cried a croaky ratchety voice.
Jack spun round in shock. Ronin was still comatose in the corner of the shrine. But, emerging through the silver curtain of rain, a fiery grizzled demon hopped towards him. Jack’s heart was in his mouth as the vision drew nearer.
Then he realized it was a man. Bug-eyed, with a shiny bald pate and a wild bush of a beard, he wore a long red robe, a black obi and a necklace of blue prayer beads. Jack guessed by this he was a yamabushi, a mountain monk. Over one shoulder was slung a sturdy stick from which hung a white cloth knapsack. In his right hand, he clutched a parasol of broad green leaves to keep off the rain.
The mountain monk skipped lightly down the path, leaping puddles like a deranged toad. In a singsong voice, he cried, ‘Riddle me this before I die, what gets wet as it dries?’
The monk landed with both feet in a puddle, soaking Jack by the entrance.
‘Purified!’ he declared. ‘Now do you know the answer to my riddle? Be quick, be fast, be nimble!’
Bewildered, Jack shook his head. The bizarre behaviour of the man left him speechless. The Riddling Monk entered the shrine, eyeballing Jack and tutting loudly.
‘This answer I’ll give for free, but next time you’ll pay a fee,’ he announced, giving the sleeping Ronin a cursory inspection. ‘What gets wet as it dries? A towel, of course!’
The monk danced a jig, then plonked himself down beside Jack.
‘You’re a strange-looking fish,’ he said, plucking a blond hair from Jack’s head and examining it.
‘Excuse me,’ said Jack, gathering his wits, ‘but who are you?’
‘My name