The Ring of Water - Chris Bradford [3]
The stable backed on to a simple wooden building, one storey high, with a thatched roof and bamboo walls. There was a single doorway at its rear and Jack made this his next goal. Pulling himself to his feet, he stumbled and half fell towards the entrance. With a final lurch across the yard, he reached the shoji door, hanging on to its frame with relief.
Why am I so weak? Jack wondered as he recovered his breath.
Sliding open the door, he stepped inside a tiny kitchen. A pot of fish-noodle soup simmered away over a fire. Ahead was another doorway in which hung a white cotton curtain, split vertically down its centre. Peeking through the gap, Jack saw he was in a roadside tea house. Straw mats were laid upon a raised floor and immediately before him was a counter stocked with green tea and rice wine. There were a few low wooden tables, but otherwise the establishment was unfurnished and basic. One wall was open to the elements, protected solely by a large curtain. The wind rippled in waves along the sodden cloth.
In the far corner Jack spotted an elderly man in an apron, presumably the owner. Short with spindly legs and thinning hair, the man was haranguing a customer who looked rather the worse for wear. In a plain black kimono marked only with the mon emblem of a white camellia flower, the customer had a ragged beard, wayward dark hair and bloodshot eyes. On the floor next to him were a wide-brimmed straw hat and two battleworn swords – a katana and a shorter-bladed wakizashi. Though they weren’t Jack’s, he knew that the pairing of swords, a daishō, signified the customer’s status as a samurai.
‘You must pay up and go!’ the owner was saying in a firm tone. But judging from the way he was wringing his hands he was scared of the warrior. And rightly so – the samurai were the ruling class in Japan, and the old man, as a lowly tea-house owner, could easily have his head cut off for not showing the appropriate respect.
Ignoring him, the samurai took an irritable swig from his cup.
‘I’ll summon the local dōshin officers,’ the owner threatened.
The samurai, mumbling something incoherent, slammed a coin on to the table.
‘I’m afraid … that’s not enough,’ said the owner, his voice wavering as his bravado almost broke. ‘You’ve had three jugs of saké since last night!’
Grunting, the samurai fumbled in his kimono sleeves for more money. Another two coins were produced, but he lost his grip on them and the money rolled across the floor. Snatching up the coins, the owner turned back to the samurai. ‘Now you must leave.’
The samurai scowled at him. ‘I’ve paid … for my drink,’ he slurred, clasping a saké jug to his chest. ‘I intend to finish it … all of it.’
The owner appeared unhappy, but the thunderous look in the samurai’s eyes dissuaded him from pressing the matter any further. Retreating with a scant bow, the owner hurried away to serve the only other customer in the establishment, a middle-aged man with a moustache.
Jack was wondering how to get the attention of the owner when he heard a shocked gasp. A girl, not much older than fourteen, had appeared beside the counter and was staring at him in wide-eyed alarm. Slim-faced, with dark hair tied into a bun, she held a tray of teacups that shook audibly in her trembling hands. Jack remembered how appalling he must look and tried to reassure her with a smile. But it hurt his face to even do that.
The girl, putting down the tray, soon recovered herself. She beckoned Jack to enter and sit at a nearby table. Jack was reluctant, concerned about revealing his presence to the samurai. But she was insistent and led him to his seat before disappearing into the kitchen. Jack needn’t have worried about the samurai. He was so drunk he didn’t even look up. The other customer glanced over in surprise, not so much at Jack’s dishevelled appearance as at his foreign blond hair and blue eyes. But with typical Japanese discretion, he merely gave a curt bow and