White Crane (3 page)

“We can do it at sword fighting! I know we can. Let’s go practice.” Mikko waves his weapon in the air.

I’m not so sure we can win, but I’m going to try harder than ever.

In the training ring, it’s Taji’s turn to fight me. Taji bends his leg up. Yoshi places a blindfold over my eyes. All I can see is blue silk. All I can hear is my friends’ playful laughter.

Around and around we circle, poking and stabbing at air. I leap forward. I can’t find Taji anywhere. Taji’s skilled ears have no trouble tracking my clumsy moves, but it doesn’t matter if he knows where I am or not. He can’t reach me from where he has fallen rump first in the dirt.

“No one wins,” announces Kyoko.

The ground shakes.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
We all land in the dust. The Tateyama are fire-breathing mountains.

“The dragon laughs at us,” says Mikko, looking up as if he expects fire and ash to rain down.

I sneak a look, too. Just in case he’s right.

“No. The dragon is afraid,” Sensei instructs from under the cherry tree. “When I was first old, the mountain erupted with fire. Many people thought I was dead.”

They still do, I think with a smile.

Sensei looks at me, and his too-bright blue eyes sparkle in the sun. “Cockroaches are small, but they are very hard to kill,” he says.

Boom, boom!
The sound of Sensei’s drum echoes into the valley. It reaches every corner of the
ryu
and crashes into the garden where Yoshi, Mikko, Kyoko, and I are planting
dokudami
herb. We work quickly, with clothespins on our noses.
Dokudami
stinks like rotten fish heads.

Sensei uses the herb to make medicinal wine, which he trades for supplies at the village in the valley.

“Magic always smells fishy in the noses of men,” our wizard master says, inhaling from the bottle.

Sensei’s thin hooked nose is filled with thick noodle balls of white nostril hair. The smell doesn’t bother him at all!

Once, when I ate so much honey pudding my stomach wanted to explode, Sensei gave me a small glass of his wine.
Ye-ech!
I didn’t even need to drink it. One fish-laden sniff and I forgot I had a stomach.

Taji isn’t gardening. Even though he can’t see, he’s chasing chickens to sharpen his wrestling reflexes.
Cluck-tuk!
The terrified chicken dodges sideways. Taji dives toward the sound but misses and skids face-first through a row of cabbages.

“You didn’t catch the chicken, but you scared it eggless.” Yoshi picks up a warm new egg.

Kyoko giggles. “Well done. You caught an egg instead of a chicken.” She takes the egg from Yoshi and puts it in her pocket.

Boom, boom,
the drum insists. We run to see what our master wants.

Sensei waits, dozing cross-legged beneath the cherry tree. The drum and two traveling hats rest in his lap. When a samurai goes into a village or town, he wears a big, wide bamboo hat to cover his face.

“Why does the samurai hide his face?” Mikko asked the first time Sensei showed us the hats.

“It is tradition to hide the face, in case of accidental dishonor. Or rain. A samurai does not like to be embarrassed, and he hates to get wet.”

It makes good sense to me. There’s nothing worse than a soggy kimono lapping at your ankles. And the village is a busy, confusing place where anything could happen. It’s full of strange things and something we rarely see — other kids. Samurai training
ryu
regularly visit each other to play friendly tournaments. But not us. Sensei says no.

“Why can’t we travel to another
ryu
?” I ask.

“There is nothing to learn there, and I have already taught you nothing.”

“Couldn’t we visit the Mountain Eagles? It’s not very far,” Taji cajoles. The Mountain Eagle Ryu is closest to us, on the other side of Mount Tateyama. Eagle trainees are famous for their flying acrobatic kicks.

Sensei shakes his head. “Sparrows. Puny birdseed eaters.”

“What about the Snakes?” asks Mikko. “They’re strong wrestlers and eat raw meat.”

“Wriggling worms. Raw meat makes smelly droppings.” Sensei wrinkles his nose.

They couldn’t smell worse than
dokudami
in the morning sun. But in Sensei’s closed eyes, no one is good enough for the mighty Cockroaches. Still, I wish we could practice against normal kids. Just sometimes.

The wizard Ki-Yaga reads my mind. “What is normal?” he asks.

It’s a Zen question. Sensei is a Zen Master and teaches us to study questions so we can become wise samurai. The hardest question is: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”

Mikko knows the answer to that one. Clapping with one hand is what a kid with one arm does all the time.

Zen questions are easy for me because I know the secret. It’s NOTHING. The answer to every question is some sort of NOTHING. If you say nothing, you are wise because you already know the answer and don’t need to speak it. If you jump up and yell NOTHING, you are wise and generous with your knowledge.

This morning I feel noisy, generous, and wise. I know what is normal.

“NOTHING!” I shout.

“Very good, Niya. Now, sit down and listen,” Sensei instructs.

We sit in a half circle, and I try to concentrate. It’s not a story this time. The White Crane’s head droops in the heat, but Sensei’s stern glance snaps it upright.

“I have ordered many things in the village, and they need to be collected today,” he says.

Crossing my fingers, I hope I can go. Every month two of us trek partway down the mountain path to pick up supplies the villagers leave on the big, flat halfway rock, but we rarely go all the way to the village.

The White Crane crosses its clawed feet while I hold my breath.

“Yoshi will go because he is strong and there is much to carry. Niya will go because he is quick to calculate and remembers everything I tell him.”

Aaa-aah.
I can breathe again. My master doesn’t look at weaknesses, only strengths. One leg and a clumsy crutch don’t matter. I am going because my mind can outrun other two-legged brains.

“Rice cakes, arrowheads, string, wrestling oil, dried fish . . .” Sensei recites a list of things I have to remember, provisions for our journey to the Trainee Games. As each item is named, I catch it with my mind. When there are no more words, Sensei hands Yoshi a big harness for strapping packages to his back. Three bottles of
dokudami
wine are tied to the frame. Thick stoppers hold the liquid and its smell in place.

“Last, you will visit Onaku, the Sword Master. He has a message for me.”

My heart jumps high. The Sword Master is crafting our new swords! In four days, at our Coming-of-Age Ceremony, we swap our childhood weapons for the
katana
and the
wakizashi:
the long, curved blade and the short, sharp dagger of a warrior samurai. Our studying will be half over.

The White Crane strains to fly skyward.

Yoshi puts on a traveling hat, tilting it forward to cover his face. I do the same.

“Be careful you don’t trip.” Taji laughs. “Now, if it were me, I don’t need to see where I’m going. . . .”

Sensei puts his fingers to his lips. No more talking.

“Go quickly, Little Cockroaches. You must scurry to the village before sunset. The path grows treacherous.”

Everyone looks surprised.

“The path was never dangerous before.” Mikko voices our thoughts.

“What was true yesterday might be a lie today. Paths always change,” says Sensei.

“Perhaps they shouldn’t go.” Kyoko worriedly fiddles with the egg in her pocket.

“A samurai runs toward danger.” Sensei raises his arms. “Hurry! Hurry!”

It is our signal to leave.

With Sensei’s warning stalking our heels, we hasten downward. The path is steep and narrows in places where we have to hug the mountainside as we edge around the rocky outcrops. Even with my crutch under my arm, I am a fast walker and have no trouble keeping up with Yoshi’s long strides. It’s a four-hour walk to the village, so we’ll be there long before sunset.

“I can’t see anything different. There’s no danger here,” I say. The White Crane swoops out into the valley, and my heart is as light as its feathers.

“I don’t think there is anything to worry about. Sensei probably has a lesson hidden somewhere,” agrees Yoshi.

Sensei never stops teaching. “Life is a lesson,” he says. I wish the lessons were more interesting. Like how many bowls of honey rice pudding can a boy eat in five minutes? Or how far can an egg roll?

But Sensei asks difficult questions. Questions like: “Which came first: the chicken or the egg?”

I like to think with my stomach. The egg came first because it’s omelette for breakfast and chicken noodles for dinner.

The question reminds me of the lunch Sensei packed. “I’m hungry.”

Yoshi’s stomach growls. “Me too.”

Unwrapping little parcels of egg and chicken rice, I wonder if maybe the chicken and the egg came together.

We eat and walk. Since we left the
ryu,
I haven’t seen a single living thing. Not even a bird. While I search the sky, a lizard darts across under my feet, forcing me to lurch forward. Strong arms steady me. Yoshi has a wrestler’s timing. I want to say, “If you fight for us, we’re sure to win the wrestling event.” But we try not to ask Yoshi why he doesn’t want to fight. “Thanks,” I say instead.

I feel better now that I have seen a lizard. It reminds me of Mikko. Poor Striped Gecko stuck in the class­room practicing calligraphy, while Yoshi and I munch our way down the mountain.

“Maybe the Games won’t be so bad this year,” I mumble through a mouthful.

“I think we will surprise people,” says Yoshi.

That’s for sure. The sight of us — one-armed, one-legged, and the rest — is a surprise every time.

Yoshi’s mood matches mine. Happy. Excited. We kick stones over the edge.

Farther along the track, a flock of pitta birds flies upward. Another group follows. Their bright red, blue, and green wings swamp the sky with feathers. The air echoes with their frightened
piphy-piphy
calls. Then nothing. It’s suddenly still and silent.

“Eerie,” murmurs Yoshi.

The White Crane agrees. It wants to open its wings and follow the pitta birds.

As a cloud moves over the sun, the mountain grows cold and gray. There’s nothing strange about that. Mountain and Sun argue all the time, and the sun often sulks behind a cloud. Sensei’s warning clangs inside my head. If the sun doesn’t return, it might be dark before we reach the village. We need to hurry.

I recite Sensei’s list aloud to make sure I don’t forget anything. And to keep myself from thinking about frightened birds and shadows and mountain goblins and —

“Shh,” Yoshi interrupts, pointing up the ridge. The silhouette of a huge gray wolf lopes along the path above us. My heart hiccups. No one has ever seen a wolf on this mountain. Old people say the wolf uses magical powers to transform into a man. While I watch, the wolf sniffs the air, then disappears into nothing.

Thickening gloom reminds me of Sensei’s soup and the tales my grandfather tells.

“The gray wolf is a shape-shifter.” Grandfather rolled his eyes as he told the story, and my stomach somersaulted nervously. “One day a samurai came upon a gray wolf, and when it attacked him, he cut it across the leg. The wolf ran away. Then another wolf attacked him, and he cut its neck. At the forest’s edge, the samurai came to a house where a woman had blood on her arm and a man had a bandage on his neck. Without hesitation, the samurai killed them. He knew they were the evil shape-shifting wolves.”