The Sword of Kuromori

The police convoy pulled out on to the short connecting highway which led away from the airport, before joining the six-lane Higashi-Kanto Expressway. Low humpbacked hills slunk in the distance and the setting sun seared the sky a hot neon-pink.

Kenny stared out of the window, his mind a whirl. He knew his grandfather had once lived and worked in Japan, but that was over half a century ago. How could anything that had happened then be affecting his grandson now? What did Sato mean when he had said that Grandad had sent Kenny to finish his work? And what had happened to his voice? How could Sato just turn off someone’s speech?

Kenny was reminded of the animal hiding under his shirt as it shifted its grip, digging its claws into his ribs and making him wince.

The driver muttered something in a low warning tone and the police officer handcuffed to Kenny whirled round in his seat to examine the view from the back window. Sensing something was wrong, Kenny looked back too.

‘Honto, da!’ the police officer said, pointing.

Kenny watched, seeing nothing unusual, until a black object swung out from behind a heavy truck and sped towards the police car. It was a motorcycle, black, shiny and sleek, moving so fast that it had shot silently past them on the inside lane before Kenny had registered it. Pressing himself against the window, Kenny watched as the motorbike swept past Sato’s car and hurtled towards the two police motorcycles in front.

The driver snatched up his police radio and started speaking quickly into it. The police officer beside Kenny leaned forward, nose twitching, and pressed against the front seat in his eagerness to see what was happening.

The motorcyclist was clad in black leathers and was wearing a helmet with a mirrored visor. He slowed momentarily as he passed the police riders and then sped out in front of them again. Reaching into a side pannier, he took out a handful of small objects and scattered them on the road behind him.

There was a bang, then another, and Kenny realised the sound was tyres blowing out on one of the police motorcycles. It flipped on to its nose and somersaulted across the road. The other motorbike swerved to avoid it. Sato’s car, close behind, braked hard and skidded as the stricken bike slewed towards it in a cascade of sparks.

The driver of Kenny’s car cried out and wrenched the steering wheel as Sato’s car loomed instantly larger before them. The nose of the police car veered to the left and clipped the back of the squad car in front, shattering the brake lights, but the swerve brought it straight on a collision course with the wreck of the police motorcycle.

Kenny barely had time to grab the seat in front before the car hit the motorbike with a bone-jarring crunch, the front wheels lifting and the underside of the vehicle screeching over the mangled remains. With a jolt, the car scraped over the bike and its four wheels hit asphalt again.

Cars behind slammed on their brakes and, looking back, Kenny saw bits of broken metal and glass glinting across the highway, rapidly fading into the distance. In front, Sato’s car sped up to catch the motorbikes. Kenny’s driver floored the accelerator too, shouting into his radio mike while he did so.

The remaining police motorcycle raced after the rider in black, weaving in and out of cars and trucks. Kenny craned his neck to follow the chase. The black motorbike slowed and waited for the police bike to draw alongside. The rider then jumped up, keeping both hands on the handlebars, and lashed out with an outstretched boot, catching the police rider on his helmet. His balance thrown off, the bike slipped from underneath the officer, and both vehicle and rider clattered to the hard shoulder.

Sato, riding in the car in front, sprang into action. He punched open the glove compartment and snatched up a short stubby sub-machine gun. He smashed the passenger window with the stock and, wrapping his hand round the seat belt as an anchor, he sat up on the side. He levelled the gun and fired off several short sharp bursts at the black motorcycle in front.

The black rider saw the tarmac explode into a bouquet of tiny craters around him and swung in front of an eighteen-wheeler truck for cover. Kenny watched in growing disbelief as Sato urged the police car forward, to overtake the truck, and fired off several more rounds of bullets in the direction of the black bike. The rider pressed himself flat against the motorcycle, squeezed the brakes and jerked the handlebars. The bike swooped close to the ground and slipped under the moving truck and out the other side.

Sato’s car slowed down, waited for the truck to roar past and once again accelerated to catch up with the rider in black. The motorcycle swung out to the right; the rider reached for something on his back and then slammed on his brakes.

Kenny saw a long black smear of fishtailing tyres, a puff of rubber dust and the flash of a sword as the police car zoomed past the motorbike. The barrel of Sato’s gun fell in two and the rider thrust the curved blade back into the scabbard on his back before picking up speed once more.

Sato, still perched on the car door, drew something in the air with his free hand. The motorcycle swerved and swung from side to side, as if dodging unseen obstacles. Sato then drew a larger pattern and a huge wall of flame, some six metres high, erupted across the width of the road. The motorcyclist gunned the engine and shot through the flames, unharmed.

Kenny’s driver yelled and stamped on the brake. Nothing happened. He pumped his foot again as they advanced towards the wall of fire. Kenny threw an arm over his eyes and screamed silently. The police officer handcuffed at his side prodded him and giggled in relief which made Kenny look up. The flames had completely vanished and they were still speeding after Sato’s car and the mysterious rider in black.

Sato reached up again to draw in the air, but a flash of metal landed on his outstretched arm: a grappling hook, attached to a thin line – and the other end was in the firm grip of the black rider. Standing up on the footrests, the rider pulled with all his strength. Sato just had time to scream before he was yanked out of the speeding police car and bounced along the road.

The rider let go of the line, looked back once and then raced to catch up with the police car. Kenny saw Sato rise to his feet, unhurt, and throw his tattered jacket on the ground in disgust.

The driver again stamped on the brake pedal, but it was loose. He looked at Kenny in the rear-view mirror and shrugged apologetically. ‘Dameh da,’ he said.

Up ahead, the black rider pulled alongside Sato’s police car. He lobbed a small canister in through the passenger window and moved clear. There was a flash and white smoke filled the car. The driver immediately braked, pulling the car on to the hard shoulder so that he and the other police officers inside could burst free from the choking fumes and fall to their knees, retching.

Kenny’s mouth was dry, his pulse was racing and his chest was tight. Here he was, trapped in a police car without a voice, careening along at eighty kilometres per hour with no brakes. And, to top it all, it seemed like he was being hunted by a mad ninja on a motorbike who had just totalled three police vehicles and was coming to finish the job.

The driver pumped the brake pedal one last time before giving up. ‘No brakes,’ he shouted to Kenny. ‘You must jump before crash. Gambatte, ne ?’ And with that, his features melted away and his empty uniform sagged on to the seat.

Kenny stared in mute shock. A striped, furry nose poked from the trouser waistband and a brown badger shrugged out of the clothes, clawed open the door and dived out on to the road, clear of the speeding car.

‘Okubyomono!’ shouted the police officer next to Kenny. He jumped forward to hold the steering wheel steady with his free hand; the other tugged at the handcuff anchoring him to Kenny, until his wrist stretched like putty and the hand slipped out.

Kenny had completely forgotten about the creature wrapped round his middle until he felt it now loosen its hold and begin to grow thicker as it unflattened itself. It oozed out from under his shirt and dropped to the floor of the squad car, just as the black motorcycle drew up alongside, its speed matching the car’s, and took up position by Kenny’s door. The rider drew a symbol in the air and Kenny felt a twitch in his throat. Before he could wonder about this, he saw that the rider had unsheathed the sword again and was taking aim at him through the window.

Kenny yelled and hurled himself across the back seat as the sword came down. There was a clang and the door fell away completely, cut from its hinges. It cartwheeled down the road behind them.

‘Not good!’ shouted the police officer steering the car.

Kenny looked up and saw a bright row of lights across the road in front: toll gates. In about twenty seconds, the car was going to smash into the waiting traffic ahead. He had to get out quickly.

The furry animal evidently had the same idea as it was now jumping up and down, tugging Kenny’s collar and pointing in the direction of the black motorcycle. Kenny glanced up and saw that the rider was holding out a hand, gloved fingers beckoning him to take hold.

‘No way!’ he cried and then realised that his voice had filled the car. His voice! It was back, and that meant the rider had– There was no time for that.

‘Trust me!’ the rider said, his voice filtered through a speaker.

Kenny saw the line of parked cars looming closer. There were mere seconds left. He grabbed his backpack lying on the seat beside him, scrambled across the car and tried not to look at the gritty blur of speeding tarmac below. He reached for the outstretched hand. The bike wobbled, moving out of reach. Kenny slipped and almost fell. He steadied himself and reached out again. The rider’s strong grip closed round his and Kenny was about to jump when he felt a sharp tug on his jacket. The police officer was holding on tightly and pulling him back.

‘You, prisoner!’ the officer yelled. ‘Under arrest!’

‘No! Let go!’ Kenny shouted.

The line of tollbooths grew larger and a truck was parked directly in front.

Kenny saw a flash of red-brown fur and the police officer shrieked as the animal sank its teeth into his arm. His grip loosened, Kenny jumped and the motorcyclist swung him on to the pillion. The bike peeled away from the police car which ploughed into the back of the truck and exploded.

Kenny stared numbly as the flames licked the back of the trailer, shocked at how close he had come to a fiery end. A blur of movement drew his eye and he saw the furry creature bounding after him. The bike slowed and the animal scampered aboard, its fur smoking, and tucked itself between Kenny and the rider.

The motorcycle slipped through a toll gate and moved silently towards Tokyo.

Kenny kept his arms around the leather-clad rider, with the furry animal pressed warm against his belly. He was tired, but his mind was abuzz with too many questions – and there was something weird about the motorbike, but he was too sleepy to pinpoint what it was. Still, he was fairly sure that neither the odd creature nor the rider meant him any harm, not yet at least, so that was something.

From time to time, he opened his heavy eyes to see road signs flash overhead in Japanese and English, plus bright, shining skyscrapers in the near distance; once, he even thought he glimpsed an orange and white painted Eiffel Tower lit up against the darkening sky. The only thing he was sure about was that the bike was keeping to the back roads.

At one point, the rider stopped and pulled over at the sound of approaching sirens, but when it became clear that the police cars weren’t stopping, they resumed their journey.

After what seemed to Kenny like more than an hour, the motorcycle slowed and circled a large plot of land protected by a high stone wall. Satisfied that the way was clear, the bike approached the iron gates, which were ornamented with two fighting dragons, claws raking at one another. A man in a dark suit watched the bike draw closer and signalled to another to open the gates. Sliding silently on well-oiled runners, the dragons withdrew from their brawl.

The bike glided in and eased up the long driveway towards the magnificent house at the centre of the plot. Kenny stirred himself enough to see gracefully curved gable roofs, black wooden beams, slate-coloured tiles and soft light filtering out through the windows.

Parking the bike to one side, the rider dismounted and strode towards the main doors.

‘Hey! Wait up,’ Kenny called. ‘Where am I? Who are you?’

The rider disappeared into the house.

‘Great. My turn to be invisible,’ Kenny muttered.

The furry creature slithered from the bike and waddled after the rider. Kenny climbed off the seat, winced, and squatted to loosen the stiffness in his legs and the numbness in his backside. With both hands on his lower back, he flexed his hips. Feeling something tugging at his leg, he looked down to see the small animal impatiently pointing towards the house.

‘OK, I get the idea. Let’s go see what this is all about,’ Kenny said, and he followed the creature through the open front door.

The hallway inside was softly lit by recessed lighting. The walls were papered in sage green and on one hung a scroll with large Chinese characters written upon it. There was no sign of the biker, but a huge Japanese man stood in the entrance, holding out a pair of white slippers in his plate-sized hands.

Looking down, Kenny saw that he was standing in a kind of shallow pit. The biker had left his boots there, neatly placed side by side, the toes pointing to the door. Small feet, Kenny thought, before he shrugged, kicked off his trainers and took the slippers from the giant of a man.

‘Thank you,’ Kenny said. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what –’

The big man turned and gestured for Kenny to follow.

‘I guess not,’ Kenny finished. He pulled on the slippers, stepped up on to the wooden floor and followed the huge servant into the house.

His guide led him to a screen door and slid it open. Beyond was a spacious room furnished only with a low table and a cushion on the floor in front of it. The man ushered Kenny inside and then left him.

The first thing Kenny did was take out his phone. He was about to call his father when he noticed that the signal reading was again at zero. How can there be no signal in the middle of Tokyo? he thought, scowling at the screen. For a smartphone, this thing’s pretty stupid.

He plonked himself down on the edge of the table and rubbed his burning eyes. This was not exactly the welcome to Japan he’d been expecting. After a long flight, all he wanted was a hot shower, a proper meal and maybe even a chat with his dad. Instead, he’d been arrested, interrogated, confronted by a horned monster, caught up in a high-speed car chase, almost killed and now kidnapped by a maniac ninja. And that was just in the past two hours.

His fingers idly danced over the touchscreen, calling up images of home – his new home in Oregon and his real home, back in London. It was funny; even after seven years in America, he still thought of England as home. His room-mate Chad would tease him about this, both for his accent and his manners. ‘Stop living in the past, Kenneth old bean,’ he would say. ‘Let it go, dude. Today is a gift, that’s why it’s called the present.’

Kenny stopped when an old photo filled the screen. He hadn’t been thinking about it; it was just that he always seemed to find this picture when he was feeling low, which was every other day lately.

A five-year-old Kenny grinned back at him, a squidge of pink tongue poking out through the gap in his bottom teeth. Kneeling beside him, with a protective arm around his waist, was his mother, Sarah. She was still beautiful, despite the hollowed-out cheeks and missing eyebrows brought on by all the radiotherapy she’d been having at the time. His father, standing behind, was cropped from the photo, left only as a pair of trouser legs.

The door slid open again and the big man came in, holding a lacquered tray. With surprising grace, he set the tray on the table and withdrew once more.

Kenny hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the tempting smell of fried food drifted towards him. He jumped on the cushion and knelt to inspect the meal. On the tray, carefully arranged, was a bewildering variety of small plates, bowls and dishes. Some were round, some oval, some hexagonal; some were plain, others floral; a few were striped. Inside each was a tiny portion – no more than a single bite – of a different food. Kenny recognised something fried in batter, but that was all he could make out. In one bowl was a clear soup with some leaves swimming in it and a thick layer of sediment on the bottom. Another held what looked like an omelette squashed into a cube. On a plate was something resembling a pink and white eraser. A leaf folded into a samosa-like triangle sat beside a bowl of sticky, slimy blobs.

Kenny’s appetite wavered, but he finally settled on a deep-fried battered prawn. It was delicious – firm, sweet and crispy – and he could easily have devoured a dozen more, but there was only the one. He sipped a steaming, bitter-tasting, dirt-coloured drink in a cup and sat back to wonder where he was and what was happening to him.

His thoughts were interrupted by a scratching sound at the door. Cautiously, Kenny opened it a crack to peep out. A furry paw inserted itself into the gap and slid the door open wide enough for a fat little body to squeeze through. The now familiar creature waddled over to the tray, picked up a pair of chopsticks and began to tuck in.

‘You have got to be kidding,’ Kenny said to the animal. ‘Of all the weird stuff I’ve seen today . . . Did someone train you to do that?’

He sat and watched, amazed at the easy manner in which the creature transferred food from plate to mouth. When it had finished, it belched loudly and pushed the tray away.

The door slid open again and the huge man motioned for Kenny to follow him. He led the way down a short passage and knelt before another sliding door, which he opened. Kenny went inside and stopped dead in his tracks.

The far wall opposite was a bank of flat television screens, easily ten deep and twenty across. Each was tuned to a different channel and Kenny could see international news bulletins, stock-market updates, documentaries, quiz shows and sporting events among the competing images.

Standing in front of the screens, with hands clasped behind his back, and his shape silhouetted by the ever-changing light, was a Japanese man wearing a white suit. He watched the chaotic medley of programmes for a few more minutes before abruptly snapping his fingers. All of the pictures went dark at once and a large screen slid into position to cover the televisions completely.

The man turned towards Kenny and nodded once to acknowledge him. ‘Kuromori-san,’ he said, ‘welcome to my humble home.’

For a moment, Kenny wondered who the man was addressing. He looked around, but he was on his own. ‘Um, my name is Kenny . . . sir. Kenny Blackwood. I live in Portland, Oregon –’

‘Please, sit.’ The man gestured towards an elegant mahogany table with high-backed chairs. ‘I apologise for the . . . unpleasantness of your arrival to our shores. I had hoped to meet you under more hospitable circumstances, but events overtook me. I am Harashima.’

‘I need to call my dad,’ Kenny said, taking out his phone.

‘In 1942, your grandfather, Lawrence Blackwood, was recruited into British Intelligence because of his skills in the Japanese language.’

‘Say what?’ Kenny’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re the second person to mention my grandad since . . . And that Sato guy called him a thief. And did you just say “British Intelligence”? Are you saying . . . he was a spy?’

‘No, his role was translation and code-breaking, to begin with. In 1945, at the request of the United States government, your grandfather came to Japan to assist the Americans during the period of Occupation.’ Harashima spat the last word as if it stung his mouth. ‘This was a time of terrible suffering in Japan and many people were forced to sell family treasures to survive. Some of these treasures were more . . . significant than they seemed.’

‘Uh, I really don’t know why you’re –’

‘Kuromori-san, your grandfather rescued some of these treasures and hid them away. He sent you here to help find one of them.’

‘No, he sent me here to spend time with my dad, that’s all.’

Harashima arched an eyebrow. ‘Really? Then why did he ask us to keep an eye on you after you arrived?’

Kenny opened his mouth to protest, but then forced it closed. ‘Er, I can see . . . things. Is that a part of this?’

‘What sort of things?’ Harashima’s eyes shone with interest.

‘Well, there was this raccoon thing on the plane, who seems to live here – he’s in the next room – and this huge oni thing at the airport.’ Kenny’s cheeks burned. ‘I know it sounds stupid.’

The man smiled and his body relaxed slightly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is, as you say, a part of this.’

A huge wave of relief flooded through Kenny, pushing out more words. It was all still weird, but at least this man was taking him seriously.

‘Really? This guy, Sato, at the airport, he turned my voice off. And, after, when this ninja biker dude was chasing us, he made fire. And this police guy turned into a badger. What’s that all about?’

Harashima looked away and pursed his lips. ‘The word you would use in English isn’t one I would choose, but I cannot think of a suitable alternative, so “magic” will have to suffice.’

Kenny’s eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Magic?’

‘Please think of a better word to explain what you saw.’

Kenny ignored him, his face reddening again. ‘Where is that biker guy, anyway? You can ask him. The one who brought me here.’

‘After rescuing you and saving your life, yes?’

‘I wouldn’t have been in any danger if he hadn’t come along in the first place.’

Harashima smiled again. ‘Kuromori-san, you would be dead by now if my . . . associate had not helped you. But yes, I should introduce you.’ He clapped his hands once and the biker came in, still wearing the helmet with the mirrored visor. Without his boots, the rider was five centimetres shorter than Kenny.

‘Kenny Blackwood,’ Harashima said, ‘please say hello to my daughter, Kiyomi.’

Kenny stood weakly as the biker removed the helmet and shook out her long black hair.

‘You’re a girl?’ Kenny hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation, but that was how it came out.

‘Last time I checked, yes,’ Kiyomi said, smiling at his awkwardness. Her almond eyes looked directly into his and he blushed, turning away.

Harashima cleared his throat and addressed Kenny. ‘Your grandfather gave you a message, did he not?’

‘How could you possibly know about that?’

‘Poyo told me,’ Kiyomi said, setting her motorcycle helmet on the table. The visor faced Kenny and he saw his own distorted reflection looking in bewilderment back at him.

‘Who’s Poyo?’ Kenny was floundering; too many new things were happening to him at once and he felt the urge to scream, just to drown it all out.

‘This is Poyo,’ Kiyomi said and the furry animal squeezed through the doorway and scampered up to her. She knelt and gathered it up in her arms. ‘Ooh, you’re getting fat,’ she cooed. ‘Is Poyo missing Mama?’