White Crane (18 page)

To my terrific boys, Jackson and Cassidy; to my mentor and valued friend Di Bates; to my partners in writing crimes — Bill Condon, Ann Whitehead, Vicki Stanton, Mo Johnson, DC Green, and Sally Hall; to my sister, Neridah; to my first fan (and critic) Barbara Brown; to my wonderful editor Sue Whiting; and to two extraordinary high-school teachers, Robyn Sankey and Vic Playford. Thanks. You are all a part of this book.

“Someone’s coming!” Taji yells.

I reach Taji first. Not because I’m the fastest. I’m good at many things, but running isn’t one of them. It’s hard to sprint with just one leg. I get there fast because I’m practicing sword thrusts only a hop away.

I peer into the valley and see a short, stocky figure making his way up the mountain path.

“Who is it?” Kyoko flops onto the grass.

Mikko, Nezume, and Yoshi arrive, pushing and shoving one another out of the way. Like an upended bowl of rice noodles, they land in a tangled mess beside me.

I’ve got really good eyes because in my heart I am the White Crane, able to spot a beetle on the ground from the air. My sight takes wing, soaring deep into the valley. But I don’t know how Taji does it. How can a blind kid see at all? When I asked him, he laughed at me. “You have to listen, Niya. You are much too noisy to see with your ears.”

It’s true. I like to laugh and jump and yell.
Aeeeyagh! Aeeeyagh!
When I am practicing, the White Crane screeches out across the
ryu
. Even when I’m sleeping, Mikko has to poke me in the ribs because I snore louder than a pondful of frogs.

“It’s Master Onaku,” I announce.

“Why is the swordsmith coming?” Yoshi voices the question we all want to ask.

Master Onaku is Sensei Ki-Yaga’s oldest friend, and it’s always a special occasion when he visits. We usually spend days preparing the food. Sensei says a samurai kid must be able to wield his sword on the battlefield and a sharp knife in the kitchen. But we don’t fall for that. The cooking isn’t really about training. It’s about Onaku’s big, round stomach. The Sword Master loves to eat.

Last time, we prepared fish soup, three-egg omelette, and honey rice pudding, the finest dessert in all of Japan. My nose follows the imaginary smell as it curls into a smoke ring and drifts skyward.

“We should tell Sensei,” says Nezume.

Puff.
The smell disappears, but my mouth is still watering.

“I’ll go,” I volunteer. Maybe our teacher is in the kitchen.

But I can’t even get up onto my foot before Sensei’s voice meets me. “Tell Master Onaku I am waiting in the tearoom.”

Sensei always handles important business there. My friends and I don’t like the tea ceremony. Too many rules. Most days, Ki-Yaga slurps his pudding and sucks the splatters from his long white beard, but during the tea ceremony, he doesn’t make a sound and he doesn’t spill a drop.

By the time Onaku is almost to the top of the mountain, we have made up many stories to explain his visit.

“He’s bringing us extra swords,” suggests Mikko.

Not likely. Last year, at our Coming-of-Age Ceremony, we were given new swords — the long
katana
and the short
wakizashi,
dual weapons of the warrior samurai. Onaku is a master craftsman. One of his swords would last two lifetimes, so it can’t be that.

Kyoko looks concerned. “Maybe Mrs. Onaku is sick.” Sensei is a great healer, and Onaku wouldn’t trust anyone else to care for his wife. We hope that’s not the reason.

“Perhaps he has run out of wine,” says Yoshi.

It’s the most likely explanation of all. Sensei’s
dokudami
wine smells like rotten fish, but Onaku would walk up the mountain and back at the promise of a bottle.

“Hello, young Cockroaches,” he calls as he draws closer. “How goes the studying and the practicing? And how is Niya’s nose?”

It’s an old joke. When I first came to the Cockroach Ryu, I fell over many times during training. Twice I broke my nose. Then twice more Taji caught me unaware with the flat blade of his wooden practice sword and broke it for me.

“Our master is waiting in the tearoom,” says Yoshi.

Onaku nods and hurries off to find Sensei. Something is wrong. Usually, the Sword Master will chat and joke for hours, telling us stories of the days when he was a boy listening at Ki-Yaga’s feet. Sensei was old, even then.

Across the valley, a drumbeat echoes.
Thum. Thum
.

“What’s that?” Nezume asks.

Ta-thum. Ta-thum. Thum.

Yoshi shakes his head. We all do. No one knows what it means, but we don’t like it. It kicks hard against my chest and makes me nervous.

Yoshi puts his finger to his lips and gestures for us to follow. Yoshi is our leader, and I’d follow him anywhere. He has the spirit of a tiger — big and strong. When an earthquake rolled me off the mountain, he climbed through the darkness to my rescue.

Yoshi pads noiselessly to the tearoom. Crouching low behind Sensei’s row of potted bonsai trees, he places his ear against the wall. We copy him, one by one. The wall is made of thin rice paper, so it’s easy to hear every word.

“You were right, Ki-Yaga,” Onaku says with a sigh. “It has happened just as you said it would.”

I can see his blurred shadow, head bowed and shoulders slumped. Onaku looks old and beaten. The Sword Master is strong, and his spirit is tougher than twice-folded steel. What could make him clutch his head in his hands?

“Yes. Sometimes I really wish to be wrong.” Sensei sounds sad. He places his arm around his friend.

Uneasiness surrounds us all. Things that were once solid are now wavering, hard to grasp. It’s worse than when the mountain trembles, but that same air of foreboding hangs low over our heads.

SANDY FUSSELL
lives in Australia. She majored in mathematics, is intensely interested in history, and now works in information technology. She is the author of the Samurai Kids series, which includes
White Crane
and
Owl Ninja.

RHIAN NEST JAMES
started working as a freelance illustrator in 1987 and has since illustrated more than sixty children’s books. Rhian moved to Sydney, Australia, from her native Wales in 2002.