Free The Pure Land by Alan Spence Page A

understand.’
    The man who had spoken, middle-aged, bearded, held out a Bible, leather-bound, gold-embossed.
    ‘Kiss the Volume of the Sacred Law.’
    Glover pressed his lips to the book.
    The man spoke again. ‘Let the candidate be entered as an apprentice in the First Degree.’
    Behind him he heard Mackenzie’s voice. ‘So mote it be.’
    The man held out to him a pure white apron, folded. ‘This emblem is a badge more ancient than the Roman Eagle, the Golden Fleece. It is a symbol of purity and the bond of friendship. I urge you never to disgrace it.’
    ‘I shall honour it,’ said Glover, and he heard his own voice, strange to him, and he felt for a moment absurdly moved, thought of his father, the old Bible on the kitchen table.
    He looked round the room, these people, this place, saw it dreamlike but intensely clear, in the midst of it came to himself here, came to himself here. This was his life and this was him living it.
    Then the bearded man was shaking him by the hand, pressing with the thumb in the secret Masonic grip, and Mackenzie was doing the same, and the others, welcoming him into the brotherhood.
    When the ceremony was over and they’d adjourned to the Foreigners’ Club, he ordered a round of drinks.
    The bearded man, the Master of the Lodge, was Barstow, a Captain in the Royal Navy. There were three young Englishmen, a year or two older than Glover, and they introduced themselves, Frederick Ringer, Edward Harrison, Francis Groom. Like Glover, each of them had come to Japan to make his mark, find his own grail, seek wealth and adventure far from home.
    Harrison speculated in property, real estate. Groom gambled on the fluctuations of foreign exchange. Ringer dealt in tea, knew the business inside out. Glover could learn from all of them.
    ‘To friendship and brotherhood!’ he said, and they clinked glasses.
    Walsh had come in to the Club, waved to him from the bar.
    Glover beckoned him over. ‘Come and join us!’
    ‘I’ll join you,’ said Walsh, ‘but not join you, if you know what I mean.’ He touched his finger to the side of his nose, winked.
    ‘You could do worse, Jack,’ said Mackenzie.
    ‘I’m all in favour of oiling the wheels of commerce,’ said Walsh, ‘but I draw the line at rolling up my trouser-leg and giving a funny handshake.’
    ‘There’s more to it than that,’ said Barstow, ‘and you know it.’
    ‘It amazes me,’ said Walsh. ‘The settlement here is barely established and you fellows have already formed a Lodge. You’re as keen as the Catholic Church to spread your influence.’
    ‘There is no comparison, sir,’ said Barstow, irritated.
    ‘Just as well,’ said Walsh. ‘I’d hate to see you meet the fate of the early missionaries and end up disembowelled, flayed alive or boiled in oil!’ He raised his glass. ‘Your health.’
    *
    The same night, the night of Glover’s initiation into the Lodge, the community was once more shaken to its core. Hunt, the young English foreman from Jardine’s warehouse, had taken a drink or two, gone wandering off on his own towards Maruyama. He was seen by an American sailor, crossing the first bridge, and the second. He was heard roaring out, drunk, that he wanted to buy a Japanese woman, that he had a few shillings in his pocket and that was all they were worth.
    What happened next was sudden and vicious. Two black-robedfigures appeared out of the dark, one in front of him, carrying a lantern, another moving up behind him. The one in front shoved the lantern in his face. As he stepped back the one behind ran him clean through with the blade of his sword, drew it out again pushing him forward, cut him down with two more swift strokes as he fell. The lantern was doused, the two men disappeared into the night.
    The American had run across, sobered in an instant, looked down at the man’s remains. One stroke had filleted him, another had severed his head. The American had thrown up on the spot.
    ‘He should be