‘For your kindness to an old woman, I offer you this prophecy.’ She held up her gnarled hand, raising her fingers, one at a time, with each line she uttered:

‘One will live …

Two will love …

Three will cry …

Four will die!’

Jack exchanged a look of alarm with his friends, their party of four suddenly feeling cursed despite the witch’s promise not to. Then, cackling to herself, the old woman limped off into the woods, her words hanging in the air like a spell.

19: The Courtesy-Man

Dusk was descending by the time Jack and his friends reached the Fox and Pheasant Inn. The ostler met them at the gates and led their horses through a wide archway into the cobbled yard. While the horses were unsaddled and taken through to the stables at the rear, a young lad gathered their bags and bade them follow him into the main hall. A roaring fire was burning in the stone hearth and the smell of woodsmoke mingled with the mouth-watering aroma of roasted pheasant coming from the kitchen. At a long table sat a group of travellers, drinking and feasting, as a lank-haired musician played a lively jig on his fiddle. In the corner nearest the fire, a well-dressed gentleman and lady were afforded more privacy in their own booth, a pair of manservants attending to their every need. Jack, Akiko and Yori took an empty table close to the fire, while Rose went to negotiate with the innkeeper over their rooms and board.

‘It seems like a respectable establishment,’ said Jack, glancing round at the candlelit bar, cushioned benches and painted-cloth hangings on the walls.

‘Do you think they’ll have a bath?’ asked Akiko hopefully.

‘Probably …’ replied Jack, ‘but whether they have enough hot water is another matter.’

Akiko frowned in disappointment. ‘This country is so strange. Even the most basic tea house in Japan would be able to provide its guests with a proper bath.’

Jack scratched at the dirt on his neck from the long journey. He too missed the daily ritual of bathing, but was loath to admit it. ‘We English are a hardy lot,’ he said by way of an excuse. ‘Tell me,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘do you believe what the old woman said?’

The witch’s words still played on Jack’s mind: her prophecy was deeply troubling. After his encounter with the Riddling Monk in Japan, and the crazed man’s predictions that came true, he gave more credence to the forecasts of oracles and soothsayers.

Yori rested his staff against the table, its bronze rings jingling softly. ‘Divination is an unproven art,’ he said. ‘There’s always more beyond the horizon than one can see.’

Jack swallowed hard. ‘But she said the four of us will die!’

Yori nodded. ‘She did. But prophecies aren’t always direct predictions of future events. Often, they’re symbolic of possible outcomes.’