The Way of the Warrior - Chris Bradford [28]
Jack looked up from the hand-drawn picture of his family, suddenly aware he was being watched. The black-haired boy was staring at him from the house. How long had he been there?
Jack wiped his eyes, then acknowledged him with a brief bow. That was the polite thing to do. The boy ignored Jack’s bow.
What’s his problem? thought Jack. The boy was clearly of some standing having arrived with Masamoto, but he had not yet introduced himself, and he had been hostile towards Jack from the start.
Then Akiko rounded the house with Jiro, who was excitedly brandishing a slip of paper, and the black-haired boy slid shut the shoji. Jack folded up his sister’s picture and placed it carefully back inside the rutter.
Akiko bowed to Jack before taking the paper from Jiro and respectfully handing it to Jack with both hands.
‘Arigatō,’ said Jack, thanking her.
‘Dōmo,’ she replied.
Jack was frustrated that he could not communicate with her any further. He now had so much he wanted to say, questions he needed answering. He was surrounded by gracious strangers, yet utterly isolated by language. His impromptu lesson with Akiko the previous evening had been the closest to a proper conversation since his fever had broken some two weeks ago.
Jack opened the note, reading the message inside.
Your presence is requested. Please come directly following breakfast tomorrow to my quarters. I reside at the fourth house to the left of the jetty.
Father Lucius
Jack leant back against the tree. What could Father Lucius possibly want with him?
15
YAMATO
Father Lucius’s house was a small affair, set back from the main road. Taka-san, the samurai from Jack’s house, rang the bell hanging by the gate and waited for a response.
Jack heard shuffling footsteps and the gate swung back. Father Lucius appeared, bleary-eyed and wheezing.
‘Welcome to my humble home, heretic. Do enter.’
Jack stepped through the gateway and into a small garden that bore little resemblance to Uekiya’s paradise. This was a muddy patch of root vegetables and herbs. There were no ornamental features or pretty little streams, just a solitary apple tree bearing the beginnings of a few fruit. The garden was for growing, not contemplation.
Taka-san, having delivered Jack, bowed to them and left.
Father Lucius led Jack into a small room, simply furnished with a table, two chairs and a makeshift altar. A large wooden crucifix adorned the back wall.
‘Take a seat,’ instructed Father Lucius, who settled himself into the chair on the opposite side of the table. He coughed sporadically into his handkerchief.
‘So how is the young samurai today?’ mocked Father Lucius.
‘Why have you summoned me?’ said Jack, ignoring the priest’s scorn.
‘I am to teach you Japanese.’
‘Why?’ asked Jack, incredulous. ‘You didn’t seem too willing to help me yesterday.’
‘It is wise to do what Masamoto asks of you.’ He looked Jack in the eye. ‘We shall begin at this time every morning. You will do as I say, when I say. Perhaps you can even be saved.’
‘I don’t need “saving”. Teach me Japanese, but don’t give me any of your sermons –’
‘Enough of your insolence!’ Father Lucius slammed the flat of his hand on the table. ‘God protect you from your ignorance. We shall start. The sooner you know their language, the sooner you can hang yourself with your own tongue!’
He wiped his mouth of spittle, then continued.
‘The key to the Japanese is their language. It has a vocabulary and sentence structure all of its own. In a word, it is unique. It reflects their whole way of thinking. Understand Japanese, and you understand them. Do you follow so far?’
‘Yes. I have to think like a Japanese person to speak it.’
‘Excellent. I see your mother’s taught you to listen at least.’
Father Lucius reached behind him and slid back a small panel in the wall to reveal a cupboard, from which he removed a thick book and some paper, a quill and ink. He laid them upon the desk and so the lesson