White Crane (8 page)

“Thanks,” I say when I can breathe again. “You’re a hero, Yosh.”

“Now what?” says Mikko.

Yoshi shrugs. “We wait.”

“Shoo, shoo!” Kyoko yells and waves her fists.

Black Tusk claws at the tree. Staring into its big, hairy face, I see eyes filled with hate. What it hates is us.

“We’re stuck here,” moans Kyoko.

“At least we won’t be missing dinner. We’ve already had that,” Mikko jokes.

“Sensei said we choose how we look at things. Maybe we should enjoy the view,” suggests Taji.

That’s a pretty smart idea, considering Taji can’t see. Sensei would be pleased.

From the top of the cherry tree, I can see for miles. The
ryu
buildings are old and dilapidated — the kitchen, Sensei’s room beside the teahouse rubble, our sleeping quarters and classroom. In the center of the buildings, the practice ring is surrounded by even older trees.

“There are a lot of cherry and plum trees,” Yoshi comments.

Kyoko hugs her branch. “I’m glad this one’s here.”

“Maybe Sensei put it here for harmony,” says Taji. “To provide balance with the buildings.”

When you put things in certain places to create harmony, good things happen. Water brings peace and purity, so my mother puts fishbowls everywhere, even in doorways. It’s not easy to hop around fishbowls on the floor, but it’s even harder to jump flopping goldfish.

“Let’s ask Sensei, after he rescues us.” Mikko points to the edge of field.

Sensei sits astride Uma. A skinny old man on a crazy old horse. The boar looks up but sees nothing to be afraid of. Silly pig.

“Zaa! Zaa!” Sensei screeches, charging toward us, his beard flapping wildly. The terrified boar doesn’t look again. It rushes, squealing, into the forest. Everything runs when Sensei yells. Not just us.

“I see you have been practicing sprinting. Excellent,” Sensei says. “Breakfast is ready. Rice pancakes and syrup.” He digs his pointy crow feet into Uma’s flank, and they gallop toward the
ryu.

We climb down and follow, racing through the sunset toward the kitchen. As if a wild boar is chasing us.

“People are coming! People are coming!” Yoshi shouts from his meditation stone. Yoshi’s stone juts way out over the valley. He likes to sit right out on the end and watch the sunrise.

It makes me dizzy to look at him, but he says it helps him think. I know he thinks about that day on the path when he saved my life and that other day long ago when his friend died. He’s balancing more than his body out on the edge of the rock.

“Who is it?” Kyoko is faster than the rest of us and reaches the stone first. Even with my crutch, I’m last, of course.

Four of us strain to see into the valley. We don’t get many visitors. Sometimes old friends come to visit Sensei, like Master Onaku, the swordsmith. And once my mother and father came to check on me.

“He is a good boy. He listens well and eats everything on his plate,” Sensei said. My teacher knows exactly what to say to parents. Mother and Father were proud. I could imagine them repeating Sensei’s words in tearooms across Japan, to their friends and anyone who would listen. Little Niya, praised so highly by the great Ki-Yaga.

I peer down the valley path. “There are a lot of them, at least ten.” With excellent eyesight, the White Crane can spot a beetle from the air.

Yoshi leans so far over the edge, he makes us all nervous. “They’re carrying something. Someone on a stretcher,” he reports.

“I’ll go and get Sensei.” Taji sprints back toward the classroom, where our master is preparing the afternoon lessons.

By the time Taji returns with Sensei, the band of villagers has almost reached the
ryu.

“Mikko, Niya. Go and greet our visitors. Yoshi, help with the stretcher. Kyoko, come with me to ready the healing table.” Sensei’s arms wave wildly, like a squid kite in the wind.

Yoshi rushes ahead to meet the stretcher, with Mikko and I hurrying behind him. The front bearer is a small woman, her expression blank with worry and exhaustion. She nods gratefully when Yoshi takes her corner.

“What can we do to help you?” I ask.

“My son needs Master Ki-Yaga’s aid.” She points to the young boy lying on the stretcher, his face white with pain. “Not much longer, Riaze,” his mother comforts him. “The Master will make it right.”

Riaze’s face is familiar. It’s the boy Yoshi and I spoke to in the village. He made fun of me then, but he’s not laughing now. His leg lies askew, and I can see it’s badly broken.

“Don’t worry,” I say to his mother. “Ki-Yaga is a master of healing medicine. He set my broken arm, and now it is stronger than the other one.”

The boy recognizes me, too. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“It doesn’t matter.” I touch his shoulder gently to let him know I mean it.

He tries to smile, but it hurts too much.

“You’re safe now,” Mikko says. “Sensei is a wizard with broken bones. Soon your leg will be so strong, you’ll think it was magic.”

“That’s right. Sensei is so good, I trust him with my leg and I haven’t got a spare one like you,” I joke.

Laughter between friends is the best medicine. Sensei teaches us to brew herbs and set bones, but he also teaches us that humor heals the spirit. A samurai needs to be able to mend wounds of the body and mind. That’s why a samurai does calligraphy and writes haiku as well as practices sword fighting and wrestling. The spirit needs exercise to stay healthy and happy.

Yoshi guides the stretcher bearers into the Healing Room. It’s the same room where Sensei sleeps at night. In the middle is the healing table, crafted from the wood of the
ryu
’s first cherry tree. Bunches of herbs hang drying from the roof. Against the west wall is Sensei’s hard bed with its thin cotton blanket.

“If my bed is too comfortable, I might never wake up,” Sensei says. “I prefer to nap under a tree surrounded by the noise of practice. There, if I do not wake up in time, Niya will trip over me.”

It’s true. I fall over Sensei’s long spidery legs all the time. They’re more lethal than my mother’s goldfish bowls.

Kyoko and Sensei have dragged the table into the sun. Sensei believes in the healing power of sunlight. I do too. When the sun is warm against my back, my spirit soars and I am the White Crane, flying through summer.

The three villagers and Yoshi place the stretcher on the table. Riaze closes his eyes against the sun. He looks more peaceful already.

Sensei motions for everyone to leave, except the five of us and the boy’s mother. He moves his hand gently along the broken leg, searching for fractures. His hands pause twice — two breaks need mending. The boy moans beneath the gentle pressure.

Taji sings a song about brave villagers defending their families from a dragon. Yoshi joins in, his deep, hypnotic voice weaving through the melody. Sensei hums.
Om. Om. Om.

Riaze’s whimpering softens, then stops. Kyoko takes a bamboo
shakuhachi,
a kind of flute, from her pocket and starts to play. Her notes pour over us in a cool waterfall of sound. Music takes you somewhere else, and it takes Riaze away from his pain. On outstretched wings, Kyoko’s Zen flute flies where only Riaze and the White Crane can follow.

I know what my friends are doing. They’re creating a distraction because the next bit is going to hurt, a lot. When I broke my arm, Sensei had to straighten it first. I can still hear myself scream. I wish I could find a way to help ease Riaze’s pain, but I can’t play the flute and my singing would ruin the song.

“If you can’t find something, look in your heart. Many things get lost in there. It can take years for a memory to find its way out,” Sensei says.

Looking inward, I see my sword. Taking Izuru from my belt, I place the hilt between Riaze’s teeth.

“Here, bite on this. It will help.”

Riaze gently bites into the leather as he slips his hand into mine. Sensei moves quickly. Suddenly, Riaze’s sharp teeth clamp down hard, crushing the crane engraved on Izuru’s handle. The White Crane cries inside my head as the teeth pierce his wing. Even with my sword in his mouth, Riaze screams. His body shakes as if an earthquake is rolling from head to toe.

“It’s over now,” I whisper, holding him still.

Sensei binds the leg firmly. Now the bone will heal properly and Riaze will walk and run through the village again. But first he must hop like me. That won’t be easy for a two-legged boy.

Pling, pling!
An idea blinks inside my brain. “Mikko, will you go and get the spare crutch from under my bed?”

Mikko nods and runs off. My extra crutch is special. Sensei helped me carve it from one of his favorite plum trees. He said he would not miss one tree when he has so many.

“I think you planted all these trees on purpose so you could spend your days sleeping and pretending to teach,” I said.

Sensei raised one eyebrow. “Do you think I walked around as a young man planting trees for when I became old?”

I’m sure he did. One day I think I would like to be Sensei, sleeping in the sun.

“Maybe you will.” The wizard’s blazing blue eyes burrow into my head.

Mikko returns with the crutch, and I hand it to Riaze.

“Thank you. Now I am like you,” he says.

“Another little frog hopper.” Laughing at myself, I try to make him smile.

But Riaze doesn’t laugh. “I am proud to be like you.” He clutches my sword against his chest.

“You were very brave,” Taji says.

Upset, the boy turns his face away. “I cried.”

I understand how he feels. “Everyone cries. I cried louder than you did.”

“You are kind. I am ashamed I made fun of you. Thank you for the crutch and the use of your sword.”

“The sword is yours to keep.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I just gave away my best friend!

“No, no. I can’t take it. I am not a samurai.”

Sensei takes Riaze’s hand. “Some samurai are born; others are made. This sword, Izuru, has your mark on it now. It distinguishes you as a samurai, because it was given from the heart of a samurai warrior. Next year, when your leg is strong, I will call for you, and your parents will decide if you can come to study with me.”

Riaze is crying again but this time he is happy. Already I miss my sword, but I know it’s time for me to say good-bye and let go of childhood weapons. Tomorrow I will have my
katana
and
wakizashi.

Handing Riaze’s mother two bags of herbs and a sac of
dokudami
wine, Sensei explains how to blend them to ease the pain. Poor Riaze. The cure is almost as bad as the broken leg. If he survives Sensei’s wine, he’s brave enough to be a samurai kid.

Riaze’s mother gives Sensei a small sack of rice. She gives me an embarrassing hug. I smile politely and grit my teeth. She is so happy, she hugs us all. Even Sensei, who grits his teeth, too.

Sensei calls the villagers to take the boy home. Riaze is asleep now, my sword and crutch beside him. Despite her exhaustion, his mother lifts the stretcher’s left corner. Love gives her great strength.

From Yoshi’s rock, we watch them carefully track down the mountain.

“Why did you take her payment when we have plenty of rice?” Taji asks Sensei. “She is a poor woman.” Taji doesn’t miss anything. The soft sound of worn sandals and grains of rice rubbing together echoes like thunder in his ears.