White Crane (5 page)

Lizards rustle in the undergrowth. Birds startle as we detour through the grass and inside a hollow tree stump I see two snakes. It’s a lucky sign to see two together. The mountain is at peace again. No
tanuki.
No wolf. No dogs at all.

Some people have a dog for their spirit totem. I’m glad my totem is the White Crane; dogs have too many teeth. Then I realize what Yoshi’s secret is. There’s only one thing that would give him the courage to tell me why he doesn’t fight.

“Yoshi! You’ve found your spirit totem. What is it?”

He grins and growls softly, like a great cat.

“It’s the Tiger,” I whoop. I would dance too if I could. The Tiger is a powerful spirit. “You are strong and clever. And your face is beginning to grow hair in scruffy tufts — like the Tiger’s whiskers.”

He takes a swipe at me with his good arm, but his smile tells me I’m right.

“Missed me,” I tease, ducking out of his way.

Time passes quickly when you have a friend to lean on. When we reach the lower slopes, the path is undisturbed and I’m walking as if I never fell off the mountain.

The tremors haven’t touched the rice field terraces. Here the crop is green and healthy. The rich valley soil keeps the people well fed, with a ready surplus for sale and trade. That’ll be good news for our stomachs when the winter snow falls.

The village in front of us is a large settlement of more than twenty-five houses. The thing I like best about the village is the noise. Except when Sensei’s banging his drum, it’s very quiet at the
ryu.
Sensei doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s sleeping.

“How can I get any work done if you keep waking me up?” he asks.

Yoshi and I thread our way through stray chickens, yapping dogs, and people coming and going in every direction. An enormous ox stands in the middle of the street. Keeping an eye on its powerful back legs, we edge our way around.

“Hey!” I call to a boy about our age, standing with the ox. “Which way is the market today?”

The market is never in the same place.

“That way.” He gestures down the road. “It’s a long hop for a samurai kid.”

“You should be careful you don’t stand too close to that ox’s back legs. Otherwise you might be hopping, too,” retorts Yoshi.

The village boy points at me and laughs. “Is that how you lost your leg?”

I take a deep breath and pull my hat down over my face so no one can see.

“
Om
-grrrh,” I swear into the bamboo.

Yoshi places his arm on mine. “Ignore him. Have you still got the list in your head?”

I nod. It takes more than an egg roll down a cliff face to make me forget things.

First we visit the Village Chief and exchange two bottles of
dokudami
wine for a letter of credit.

“Greetings, young samurai.” The Chief bows low.

We bow lower to show our respect.

“I wish your master health and good fortune.” He bows even lower for Sensei. The Chief’s nose touches the ground. It’s a good thing there is no one more respected than Sensei or we would all be lying face-first in the dirt. The Chief gives me a piece of rice paper with a number on it. It tells the market sellers how much we have to spend. Other buyers use coins but not us. Samurai aren’t allowed to handle money.

“A samurai serves because it is his duty. Not because he desires gold coins,” Sensei told us.

“How will he eat, then?” Mikko asked.

“With his mouth,” Sensei answered.

Our teacher is skinny like a chopstick, but he eats a lot. He can slurp down honey rice pudding faster than me. Once I saw him mop the bowl with his beard and suck the pudding from it until it was clean and white again.

We work our way through the bustle to the far end where the women lay out goods on rows of bamboo mats under the trees.

“It’s Ki-Yaga’s kids. Have some cherry blossom gum.” Chattering like birds, they help us select our purchases.

“How is your good master?” they ask as they pack the items into Yoshi’s harness.

By now our mouths are stuffed full of sweets and we can only mumble.

“Ki-Yaga must be very old,” a gray-haired woman says. “He was old when I was young.”

“I thought he was dead,” exclaims another. “Didn’t he die last winter?”

The first one puts her finger to her lips. “Hush, don’t say such things.”

“You can’t kill that one,” interrupts an ancient crone. “He’s not human.”

“Shhh, Grandmother,” Gray-Hair clucks. “Don’t mind her,” she whispers to us. “She’s very feeble.”

The crone won’t be shushed. She goes on.

“Your master sends a message. He says the Little Cockroaches are safe, and he is pleased to see a smile on the face of his Tiger.”

“How do you know that?” I demand.

“A little bird told me. Birds sing to other birds. This old raven squawks in the White Crane’s ear,” she answers, winking.

“What bird told you? Sensei is not a bird.”

The old woman cackles so hard she spits bits of bean curd on her sandals. “He’s a
tengu
crow, that’s what he is. An old black demon bird with wrinkled goblin feet. A fallen samurai priest from the dark side. Have a look at your master’s feet.” Coughing and spluttering, she doubles over with screeching laughter.

Sensei’s feet
are
elderly and wrinkled like claws, but it’s because he’s very old, not because he’s a
tengu
goblin from the mountain.

The commotion attracts the Chief’s attention.

“Please ignore our old one. Her brain is egg yolk. She means no disrespect,” he says.

He gives his nose a scrape in the dirt to apologize. Still bowing, he leads the old woman away from the mats.

“What do you think about that?” I whisper to Yoshi.

“Old fishwife tales.”

I remember what Sensei said about
dokudami.
Magic smells fishy to the noses of men. But Sensei’s nose can’t smell
dokudami.
Maybe it isn’t about thick nostril hair. Maybe he’s not a man at all.

“Sensei can see with his eyes closed,” I say.

“That’s because he’s a wizard. They learn things like that. You know what I think?” The Tiger grins, ready to pounce.

“What?”

“I think you must have hit your head recently. You’re thinking crooked.”

Yoshi’s right. Sometimes I let my imagination run away, like I did yesterday on the mountain.

“Let’s go look at swords,” I say, linking arms with my friend.

“We’re not the only customers this morning.” Yoshi points to a sword hanging outside Master Onaku’s door.

Golden dragons stalk the blade’s scabbard, breathing fire studded with precious stones. Silver rivers run beneath their feet. Someone rich and powerful is inside the smithy.

When a samurai goes into a building, he leaves his sword outside. If anyone touches a samurai sword, even accidentally, the penalty is instant death. Sensei told us the tale of a warrior who went visiting and forgot to remove his sword.

“This is a very sad story,” he said. “One day a samurai went to dine at his friend’s home, where the lady of the house was famous for her honey rice pudding. As the friend sat down to dinner, he bumped the samurai’s sword and . . .” We all ducked as Sensei swung an imaginary blade in front of our noses. “
Swish. Swish.
The friend fell dead on the floor. The samurai was never invited back.”

Sensei sighed into his beard. “It was a terrible tragedy. Never to taste such pudding again. Listen carefully, Little Cockroaches. He who remembers what Bushido teaches will never miss out on great desserts.”

Yoshi and I remember the story and lean our swords against the wall.

“I don’t need this anymore.” Yoshi unfastens his bamboo splint and stands it beside the swords. He stretches his arm and flicks his wrist. “It feels better now.”

“That was quick. Probably nothing wrong with your arm in the first place. You just wanted my sympathy,” I joke.

But Yoshi is serious.

“You bound it well. I’m glad you were there to help me.”

Standing inside the smithy is a tall, dark man in a red silk traveling cloak embroidered with gold thread. He has removed his battle helmet, revealing long black hair bound up in a warrior topknot. A narrow scar runs down the side of his weasel-thin face.

He turns to nod, but when he sees it is us, he looks over our heads and then away. Little Cockroaches are beneath the gaze of the Master of the Dragon Ryu.

Oblivious to his visitors, the swordsmith is crafting a new blade. As he works, he chants the story of a legendary sword locked into stone. I want to listen, but Onaku’s singing is even worse than mine. Covering my ears would be impolite, so I grit my teeth and hum inside my head.
Om. Om. Om.

“An honorable sword sings loudly with truth and purity,” Sensei teaches.

No wonder Master Onaku’s swords are so prized. They are born singing at the top of their lungs to drown out their maker’s awful voice.

An arsenal of weapons hangs on the walls. My fingers itch to touch the dual weapons of samurai combat: the long, curved
katana
and the short, pointed
wakizashi.
A sword and dagger. After my Coming-of-Age Ceremony, both will hang from my belt. Three days is such a long time to wait.

It’s warm in the smithy, where a large charcoal fire burns in one corner. I take off my traveling coat, fold it into a cushion, and sit down on a mat to wait. Yoshi does the same. A padded seat is much more comfortable than a bony backside. Some swords take a long time to forge, and it’s a great insult to interrupt a master craftsman at work.

The Dragon Master has no respect for the sword making.

“You, swordsmith!” he yells.

Master Onaku continues working.

“I will not be ignored!” The Dragon Master’s angry voice roars through the workshop. He thumps his fist against the wall in rage. Two swords, a small dagger, and a large package fall to the dirt floor.

Master Onaku raises his head to glare but doesn’t stop.

“Bring me the goods I have ordered!” the Dragon Master shouts. “Get them NOW or I will swing my sword to cut off your head!”

Beside me, the Tiger tenses ready to spring. Touching Yoshi gently, I let him know I’ll defend Onaku’s honor with him.