Neko looked shocked, thinking her tea was to blame. But Yori signed to her that the sencha tasted good. She bowed at the compliment before scampering back to her corner to prepare their lunch.

As ever, Jack was amazed at Yori’s sensitivity to people – without even being told, his friend was aware of Neko’s condition. He was just the same as Jack remembered. Although small of stature, Yori possessed a great heart and a warmth of spirit that made him the perfect monk. Such virtues hadn’t always helped him during his training to become a samurai warrior. Nonetheless, Yori had demonstrated surprising resilience and extraordinary skills that belied his mild-mannered appearance.

‘I still can’t believe I ran into you and Saburo,’ said Jack.

Yori smiled warmly at him. ‘Coincidence is a deity’s way of staying anonymous. Perhaps Hotei the Laughing Buddha, one of our seven lucky gods, was looking favourably upon you.’

‘I must thank him for his kindness,’ said Jack, smiling too. ‘So when do you go back to Iga Ueno?’

‘When my good friend is safely home,’ replied Yori, bowing his head.

‘You’re as loyal as ever,’ said Jack, returning his bow. ‘But before I can go anywhere, I’ve promised to help these farmers.’

Yori nodded sagely, as if expecting this answer. In the true spirit of a Buddhist monk, he replied, ‘In helping others, we shall help ourselves.’

‘You don’t have to stay,’ insisted Jack. ‘This mission will be dangerous.’

So far he hadn’t directly asked Yori to join them, since he knew his friend avoided violence wherever he could. But Jack couldn’t deny Yori’s wisdom and sound advice would be useful in the forthcoming battle against Akuma.

‘Where there are friends, there’s hope,’ said Yori. ‘You told me that.’

‘Wise words, Yori,’ remarked Saburo. ‘But where do we find more young samurai to help us?’

‘You’ve such little faith, Saburo!’ chastised Yori, with a shrewd look in his eyes that was reminiscent of Sensei Yamada. ‘The priest at the Okayama Temple told me about an archery contest down by the riverside. That’s where they’ll be.’

12 Splitting Arrows

12

SPLITTING ARROWS

A large crowd had gathered along the eastern bank of the Asahi River. The area itself was the thriving centre of Okayama’s merchant quarter. Several flat-keel riverboats with single square sails were moored at the dock. Porters rushed around lugging bales of rice or transporting barrels of saké, stacked by the dozen, upon rickety wooden carts. Goods of all descriptions were being unloaded into the vast wooden warehouses that lined the riverbank, while empty vessels awaited their loads for distribution to other parts of Japan.

Upon the opposite shore, a five-tiered castle dominated the skyline, its all-black exterior casting an oppressive shadow over the proceedings.

‘That’s Crow Castle,’ said Toge, as they worked their way through the throng. ‘The home of daimyo Ikeda.’