White Crane (9 page)

“She needed to give it to me.”

“Huh?” says Mikko.

“Sensei gave her dignity by accepting her payment for the service he provided,” explains Kyoko.

Sensei nods. “It is important to serve. A samurai lives to serve. Sometimes what is right does not make immediate sense.”

“Was it right for me to give him my sword?” I ask. It feels strange to be swordless. Without Izuru there is an empty space in my heart that even the White Crane cannot fill.

“Is it right for me to tell you what to do with your sword? What is right?” Sensei asks me in answer. It’s the Zen thing, so I keep my mouth shut. NOTHING.

Later I ask a different question. “Why is Riaze coming to study with us? Once his leg is healed, there will be nothing wrong with him.”

Sensei looks at me, teaching teeth bared in a smile.

“Do you think I chose you because you only had one leg? Foolish boy, I choose the best. I chose each of you because I saw great talent. It is not my problem if there are some other irrelevant parts missing. Now, after all my hard work in the sun, I would like a rest by the river. Swimming practice!”

The sun is high overhead, and the sweat drips down my neck into the folds of my kimono. You’d think I’d be happy to go swimming. I’m not. A samurai has to swim in his clothes and his armor. Wet clothes are heavy, and leather armor weighs a ton, even on dry land.

“No battle ever stopped so a warrior could put on his bathing suit,” Sensei says.

“But we shouldn’t put
more
clothes on to go swimming,” says Yoshi. “We should take some off.”

“We could go swimming in our underwear,” suggests Mikko.

Sensei grins. “You cannot wield a sword if you are hiding embarrassed behind your hands. Kyoko would giggle so hard, she’d sink to the bottom.”

Still complaining, we climb into our armor to go swimming.

The river runs through Uma’s field, behind the kitchen. We file along the path with slow heavy steps. Uma nuzzles our empty pockets, searching for pudding. He stomps his foot to show his displeasure, and when Sensei offers him an apple, he snorts.

My eyes dart back and forth.

“I wouldn’t worry about Black Tusk.” Ki-Yaga smiles like the Sensei that swallowed the boar. He puts his fingers to his lips. “It’s a surprise,” he whispers.

It’s not far to the river. A brisk five-minute walk, even in battle armor. I like the sound of water. When it rains, I lie in bed listening to the river race past. Water is restful and relaxing, as long as it is not in goldfish bowls on the floor.

Sensei has a favorite place where he likes to sleep and watch us swim. He closes his eyes and leans against the gnarled cherry tree.

I dive in with a clumsy
splash
and
splunk.
It’s the best anyone can do, weighed down by leather. I kick hard with my one leg and I reach the middle, where no one can stand up, even if they have two feet.

Sensei opens one eye and his voice drifts out to teach me. “Different places have a way of leveling. What matters is where you stand, not how many legs you do it on.”

I’m in the right place and ready for action. “Come on,” I call. “Who wants a dunking?”

Kyoko swims over, her arms effortlessly carving up the water.

“Banzai!” she yells, pulling her practice sword from her sash and waving it in the air.

“Yah!” I answer, doing the same.

We touch sword points.

“One,” Yoshi counts.

We turn and swim as fast as we can.

“Two, three. Turn,” the others shout from the water’s edge.

Kyoko and I double back and swim toward each other, swords raised. Then she disappears beneath the water. She pulls my one leg out from under me, and I sink, coughing and spluttering.

“Kyoko wins,” Sensei calls. “When in the water, a samurai needs to keep an eye on what is below as well as what is above. There might be a river snake. Or worse, there might be a samurai girl.”

Grumbling, I swim back to the edge with Kyoko. Next it’s Mikko’s turn to fight Taji.

Sensei’s chest rises and falls with each snore.

“Shh.” Kyoko puts her fingers to her lips. She pulls a bamboo ball of twine from her pocket, winks, and throws it at Taji’s head. Taji’s arm shoots straight out and catches it. Did he hear the ball in the air or Kyoko’s wink? You can’t sneak anything past the ears of a blind kid.

Laughing, Mikko ducks into the water, feet waving in the air. Taji times his throw perfectly.
Thwack.
Wet bamboo clunks Mikko on the foot. Taji roars and dives aside as Mikko aims at him.

Eventually we tire of being splatted in the head, feet, and backside.

“I’m hungry,” I say, throwing my armor onto the riverbank beside Sensei. The others follow. Taji’s armor lands with a wet thump in Sensei’s lap. Teacher opens both eyes.

“I see I have been swimming too,” he says, moving Taji’s dripping armor aside. “Excellent. It must be time for lunch.”

Inside the picnic basket I find fish and cucumber rolls, pickled ginger, and peaches. Yum. My stomach growls louder than Yoshi’s Tiger.

We lie on the bank munching happily. Kyoko takes a napkin and twists and turns it. She’s trying to make a cockroach again.

“If I can do this, I’ll win an origami point at the Games.”

But making a cockroach is hard. Only Sensei can do it.

“It’s impossible,” she complains.

“It is difficult,” Sensei agrees. “Poor wretched me. I have five Little Cockroaches to finish.”

He means us.

“If we are not finished, then what are we?” I ask.

“Bug bits. Cockroaches with pieces missing.” Old eyes twinkle.

“Maybe I could slice off Kyoko’s extra finger. That would be one bug finished,” says Mikko, pretending to unsheathe his sword.

Kyoko throws a ball of paper at him. He dodges, and the ball flies into Sensei’s hands. Twisting and folding, Sensei transforms the wrinkled imperfect page into a cockroach.

“It is amazing what I can make from things other people throw aside,” he says.

He’s talking about us again. I smile wider than my face. Lying in the sun, with a full stomach, I’m proud to be one of Sensei’s bug bits.

Bang, Bang. Bang.

Sensei strides around our room banging his drum like a crazy man. He is crazy. Most mornings it’s like this. We wake before the sun, and it’s a struggle to open our eyes. It’s easy for Sensei to get up in the morning, because he spends all day sleeping.

Still banging his drum, our master heads out the door toward the kitchen.

Today is a special day. Today we come of age. Instead of a boy’s ponytail, we’ll bind our long hair up like samurai men. I’ll have two new blades: my
katana
and my
wakizashi.
When the Gembuku Ceremony is over, I’ll be a warrior student.

I jump out of bed and stab at the bedclothes with an imaginary sword. The White Crane screeches to the others to wake. We throw on our kimonos, jackets, and trousers as fast as three layers of clothing will let us.

Summer mornings in the Tateyama Mountains are freezing cold. Steaming rice warms our bellies; breakfast readies us for the day ahead.

“Lots of work to do,” Sensei announces. “We need to prepare for Gembuku.”

Time has rushed through the
ryu
. With only two days until the tournament, we are still cockroaches fit for squashing.

“Today we paint our school,” says Sensei.

“Ooooooh,” I groan.

Once I helped Father paint. My arms ached; my leg ached. Painting isn’t good practice for anything.

“We should be doing something special today, not yard work,” I complain.

Sensei strokes his beard. “Niya has a good idea. We will do haiku.”

Now everyone groans and glares at me. There’s something worse than painting. Poetry! That’s what haiku is. Haiku poems are only three lines long but hard to write. It’s the worst class in samurai school.

When I was younger, I thought haiku was an even greater punishment. It sounds like
seppuku,
when a samurai warrior slits his stomach open to save himself from dishonor. Lucky for us, the custom isn’t practiced any more. After our performance at the last Samurai Trainee Games, we would all be gutless. Still, writing haiku is almost as painful as emptying the contents of your stomach.

Sensei recites a poem.

“Who would like to comment?” he asks.

I suppose the only decent poem is one with a sword in it. “I agree with the guy who chopped the head off the snake,” I volunteer.

Kyoko giggles, so I know I’ve got it wrong.

“There is no snake in this poem,” says Sensei. “Become blind. Close your eyes to the words, and open your heart to the images.”

I close my eyes, and the words disappear. It’s a good start. No more poem! I try hard, but I don’t understand. I think about the sword. Chop. Chop. The White Crane swings its razor-sharp beak, and the water snake falls in pieces.

“A word on a sharp tongue is a lethal as a sword,” says Taji. He has an unfair advantage. He doesn’t have to try to become blind.

“A true samurai doesn’t need a sword,” adds Yoshi. Sensei nods, pleased.

The burble of their voices washes over me. Closing my eyes, I give up on haiku and let the White Crane fly while the others do more poems.

Thwreck-creck!
A crack of thunder reminds me to return to land.

Sensei claps his hands again. “Now we will paint,” he says.

“Hoy. Hoy-hoy,” a voice calls from the practice compound. It’s Onaku. We’re saved by the swordsmith and his beautiful wife.

Yoshi runs to take the harness from Onaku’s back. Strong as an ox, the Sword Master carried all our weapons up the mountain. He lays two large packages on a blanket under the cherry tree.

Mrs. Onaku has a package too: yellow silk tied with ribbons of straw. She gives it to Kyoko, and they undo it together. New kimonos!

We always wear cockroach brown. A samurai should attract attention with his sword, not his clothes. But there’s nothing drab about our new brown kimonos; they shine like bronzed earth. A Dragon would be proud to wear one.

Mrs. Onaku whispers in Kyoko’s ear, and they both giggle.

“What?” I ask.

“Girl talk.” Kyoko giggles again.

The Snow Monkey is a trickster spirit. One day Kyoko climbed Sensei’s plum tree and pelted us with fruit.

“Get down!” we called.

“Stop it!” bellowed Mikko.

But Kyoko laughed at us, a big samurai belly laugh, not a girlish giggle. “I am the Snow Monkey,” she called, shaking her white hair. “I climb trees to throw things at pesky bats and birds.”

When Sensei saw our plum-stained clothes, he made us go down to the river and wash them. Kyoko came to help, still laughing. The laughter of a friend doesn’t hurt. It tickles until you begin to laugh, too.

Onaku undoes the first of his packages. No one speaks. Six swords lie on the blanket. I recognize mine, with the White Crane dancing around its handle. My heart stops for a second, and in the dead silence, the sword sings to me.

The Sword Master gestures to Yoshi to open the second package. Six
wakizashi
blades gleam in the sun.

“Why are there six swords and daggers?” Mikko asks. “There are only five of us.”

Sensei’s eyes smile. “You never know when you might need a spare set.”

I can’t imagine that Onaku’s fine swords would ever break. Some men pay a year’s wages for a weapon with his signature on the hilt. But the Sword Master will not let Sensei pay.

“It is not honorable for a samurai to deal in silver and gold. I respect that,” Onaku says.

“Even the Sword Master must eat,” Sensei replies.

“I do not eat silver and gold.”

“Good,” says Sensei. “Because I do not have either. Have a flask of
dokudami
wine instead.”

“I’ll take two. They’re very good swords.” Onaku guffaws and pats his large belly.

The two old friends tell the same stories all the time, sharing the shade under the cherry tree. Sensei crosses his chopstick-thin legs and tucks his beard into his belt. Onaku squats on trunk-thick legs and scratches his bald head.

We try to get them to talk about the samurai kids who studied at the Cockroach Ryu in the old days, before we came. I like to hear about Mitsuka Manuyoto. His name is carved in the wood above my pillow. He’s an old man now, living as a hermit somewhere by the ocean. But once he was a samurai kid like me and slept in my bed.

“Mitsuka was a great warrior,” Onaku begins. “His skills were famous far and wide. He went to serve the Emperor.” Pausing, the Sword Master scratches behind his ear. “I seem to remember Mitsuka wasn’t a good horseman. He was always falling off. In fact, Mitsuka was the clumsiest kid I’d ever seen. He kept dropping his sword. I had to make him a special one with a sticky grip on the hilt.”

“All my students have something to overcome. It leads them to great things,” says Sensei.

Onaku nods. “Mitsuka grew into greatness under your master’s teaching. When Mitsuka raised his sword, it was like lightning in his fingers. Single-handedly, he protected the Emperor from six ninja assassins. He became a national hero, and the Emperor declared him a Japanese treasure.”