Young Samurai: The Ring of Sky (2 page)

1
 
 

Spluttering and choking, Jack hacked up a
lungful of salt water. His fingers gripped the wet sand as another wave broke over him,
threatening to drag him back into the chill sea. The constant roll of breakers was like
the restless breathing of a great dragon that, having had its fill, spat him out on to
the shore.

With the last of his strength, Jack clawed
his way up the beach. Once clear of the waves, he rolled on to his back, gasping from
the effort, and opened his eyes. The sky was a wide expanse of crystal blue, not a cloud
in sight, no trace of the storm that had raged the previous night. The early morning sun
shone down in warming golden rays from the east, hinting at the fine summer day to
come.

Jack had no idea how long he lay there
recovering, but when he opened his eyes again the salt water had cracked his lips and
his kimono was bone dry. His mind whirled like the churning ocean and his entire body
felt sore and bruised, having been pummelled by waves, rocks and the reef in his
desperate bid
for land. So far as he could tell no bones were broken,
although every muscle ached and there was a painful throb in his left side. But, to his
relief, he discovered this was just the hilt of his sword jammed against his ribs.

He sat up groggily. By some miracle, he
still possessed both his
katana
and the shorter
wakizashi
. A samurai
warrior’s sword was considered to be his soul. And Jack – trained in the ways of
the samurai and the ninja – was thankful not to have lost his. For in a country that now
deemed foreigners and Christians to be the enemy of the state, these weapons were his
lifeline.

His pack was also tied round his waist.
Bedraggled and misshapen, its contents looked to be in a sorry state. He emptied it on
to the sand. A cracked gourd fell out, along with a couple of crushed rice balls and
three slim iron
shuriken
. The ninja throwing stars were followed by the heavy
thump of a book – his father’s
rutter
, a priceless navigational logbook
that offered the only means of safely crossing the world’s oceans. Jack was
reassured to find the
rutter
still protected within its waterproof oilskin
cover. But the sight of the broken gourd
was
cause for concern. Having spent
much of the night battling for his life, Jack was weakened by hunger and thirst.
Snatching up the gourd with a trembling hand, he poured the last dregs of fresh water
into his parched mouth. Then, without bothering to brush the sand off, he consumed the
cold rice balls in a few ravenous bites. Meagre and salty as they were, the rice revived
him enough to clear his head and take stock of his situation.

Glancing round, Jack discovered he’d
washed up in a sheltered bay. The beach was bounded by craggy headlands
to the north and south, while behind, a small cliff rose westwards to a scrub-lined
ridge. On first inspection the bay appeared to be deserted. Then Jack spied a piece of
wreckage bobbing at the shoreline. With a sinking heart, he recognized it instantly.
Sprawled out like a huge drowned moth was the broken mast of the skiff, its tattered
sail rippling in the waves.

Only now did the realization hit Jack that
his friends were missing.

Scrambling to his feet, he ran down to the
shore and frantically searched for any sign of them. Finding no bodies on the beach or
in the shallows, he scanned the bay and horizon for their boat. But the little skiff was
nowhere to be seen. With a growing sense of despair, Jack feared Yori, Saburo and Miyuki
were lost at sea. Then Jack spotted two sets of footprints in the sand and a spark of
hope was rekindled.

Dropping to one knee, he inspected the
prints and applied his ninja tracking skills. Grandmaster Soke had taught him how to
identify tracks by their size, shape, depth and pattern. Immediately – and with a sigh
of dismay – Jack could tell these didn’t belong to any of his friends. They were
too large. Made by an adult and facing opposite directions, it was evident that the two
sets belonged to the same individual. Both prints possessed a similar uneven pattern,
indicating the person either had a limp or an odd gait. Jack also noted the approach had
been hurried, but the departure
urgent
– the sand being more heavily displaced
and the prints wider apart, signalling a change of pace into a run.

Whoever it was, their presence was unlikely
to be favourable for Jack.

He caught the distant sound of voices to the
north. Hastily
gathering up his belongings, Jack fled the opposite way.
He ran along the beach towards the southern headland, all the time keeping his eye out
for the slightest proof his friends had survived. Approaching the rocky outcrop, he
noticed the opening to a cave and made directly for it. Just as he entered its cool
darkness, he heard a shout.

‘The
gaijin
’s over
here!’

Jack glanced back to see an old fisherman
with bandy legs leading a patrol of armed samurai on to the beach. Hiding inside the
cave’s entrance, Jack observed the fisherman totter over to where the mast
lay.

‘Where is he then?’ demanded the
leader of the patrol, a sour-faced man with a topknot of black hair and a thick
moustache.

‘I promise you,’ the fisherman
protested, pointing a gnarly finger at the marks in the sand. ‘I saw him with my
own eyes. A foreigner washed up on this beach
and
he had samurai
swords.’

The leader bent down to examine the
evidence. His eyes followed Jack’s tracks along the beach.

‘He can’t have got far,’
snarled the man, drawing his
katana
. ‘We’ll hunt this
gaijin
samurai down like a dog!’

2
 
 

Jack plunged deeper into the cave to avoid
being spotted. The headland was a honeycomb of rock with passages breaking off in
different directions. The cold wet stone closed in around him and the sunlight receded
to little more than a reflected gleam. He could hear the sea surging deep within like a
primeval heartbeat. Jack took the most obvious route along the widest passage, hoping
this would lead to a way out. He stumbled through the darkness and damp. His fingers
groped for handholds on the bare rock as he followed the curving wall to his right. But
this turned out to be a dead end and he had to double back.

As Jack tried the next passage, a wave
boomed, rolling like thunder, and the previous night’s storm flashed before his
eyes. White lightning and black clouds. Torrential rain and monumental waves. Their boat
tossed like a cork from crest to trough. His friends clinging on in sheer terror, their
faces pale and drawn. Jack still couldn’t fathom how their good fortune had turned
ill so quickly. They’d escaped Pirate Island with their lives, and been blessed
with a well-stocked boat, an accurate sea chart and a fair wind. It should have been
plain sailing
to the port of Nagasaki. After no more than two
weeks’ voyage, he should have been standing upon the deck of an English galleon,
preparing to sail home to his sister, Jess.

But the Seto Sea had other plans. During the
middle of the third night, a tempest erupted out of nowhere. Taken by surprise, Jack had
been unable to avoid its perilous path. His seafaring skills were tested to the limit as
he fought to keep their little boat afloat. But the storm worsened. In danger of all
being washed overboard, he’d instructed his friends to tie themselves to the
skiff. Then suddenly his pack, with its precious cargo, became dislodged. Fearful of
losing his father’s
rutter
to the depths, Jack had dived to rescue it.
He’d caught hold of its strap just as an almighty wave engulfed the boat. There
was a horrendous crack, like a bone breaking, and the mast was snapped in two. The boat
keeled over, throwing its young crew into the wild foaming sea.

Jack swam hard to be reunited with his
friends, but he was dragged away with the current. Weighed down by his pack and swords,
he only managed to keep his head above water by grasping on to the broken mast. His
friends, tethered to their capsized skiff, cried out to him. But their shouts were
carried away on the howling wind as they drifted further and further apart, until the
mountainous waves overwhelmed their little boat.

That was the last time he saw Yori, Saburo
and Miyuki alive. Jack had to face the bleak truth – his friends had perished in the
storm. Drowned. Dead. Gone forever.

But he had no time to grieve their loss as a
man’s gruff voice echoed through the cave. ‘The tracks lead this
way.’

Jack fled down another passage. Tighter than
the previous
ones, he had to keep his head low to avoid hitting the
jagged rocks. After twenty or so paces, he noticed a glimmer of light and held out hope
that he would escape.

He entered a gloomy cavern. But, everywhere
he turned, he met with solid rock. The sunlight he’d spotted was filtering in
through a crack high in the ceiling. Jack desperately sought for handholds to pull
himself up. But the sea had worn the rock smooth, and even with his climbing skills he
had no chance of reaching the tiny gap. Jack had struck another dead end and this time
he couldn’t turn back.

A voice worryingly close by said,
‘Let’s try this one.’

‘Don’t take any chances,’
warned the leader. ‘Kill the
gaijin
on sight.’

Jack heard the samurai entering the passage
to the cavern. Weakened from the storm, Jack had wished to avoid a fight. But, cornered
as he was, he now drew his swords and prepared to make a stand. He felt water slosh over
his feet then disappear. Looking down, he discovered a narrow opening in the cavern
floor. Jack’s luck had finally returned. If the sea was flowing in, there was
every chance of a way out.

‘I’ve found him!’ cried a
samurai.

Dropping to all fours, Jack shoved his
swords and pack into the gap and squeezed through after them. Hands grabbed at his
ankles and he was yanked backwards. Jack kicked out hard, breaking the samurai’s
grip. He disappeared down the hole like a rabbit into a warren. The gap widened into a
descending passageway. He scrambled along, knees and elbows scraping against the rough
rock.

‘Don’t let him get away!’
cried their leader. ‘There’s a price on his head.’

‘It’s too narrow,’ the
samurai protested.

The leader swore in frustration. ‘Stay
here in case he doubles back. The rest of you come with me. We’ll catch him on the
other side … if he gets out alive.’

3
 
 

Jack furiously crawled, pushed and pulled
his way down the passage. It was pitch-black and growing ever tighter. As the sides
closed in, he couldn’t help thinking of the immense weight and pressure of the
headland bearing down on him. He began to perspire. His hands trembled uncontrollably as
claustrophobia took hold. His shoulders became jammed between two rocks and he panicked.
He twisted and turned, but couldn’t free himself. All of a sudden he had trouble
breathing. There didn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the air.