White Crane (10 page)

I remember seeing Mitsuka when I was young. Mother and Father took me to the ceremony where the Emperor rewarded his samurai bravery.

Onaku continues with his story. “‘Thank you,’ the Emperor said, kneeling before his defender.

“‘No. I am your servant.’ Mitsuka helped the Emperor to his feet.
‘Chi. Jin. Yu.’

“‘You are well trained, Samurai Warrior,’ the Emperor said.

“‘My teacher was the great Ki-Yaga.’ Mitsuka bowed.

“The Emperor hesitated for just a moment. ‘I thought he was dead.’”

Onaku laughs at his own telling, and we all join in.

“Enough stories,” declares Sensei. “It is time. Gembuku has come.”

Mrs. Onaku has a razor in her hand. I reach up and run my fingers through my long, dark strands. I will never look or feel the same again. I am about to become a man.

“Who’s first?” she asks.

“Me,” volunteers Taji.

She undoes Taji’s ponytail. Jet-black hair gleams in the sun as she shaves a strip on each side of his head. Then Mrs. Onaku reties the ponytail and winds it into a knot, pinned with a bamboo clip.

“How do I look?” Taji asks. It’s important to answer right. Taji will never see his transformation into a samurai warrior, except through our eyes.

“You look older,” I say.

“You look brave,” Yoshi says.

“And honorable,” says Mikko.

Taji smiles, pleased.

“You look handsome,” says Kyoko.

He turns bright red, but he’s still smiling.

Mrs. Onaku finishes the boys first. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I see that I am older, brave, and honorable, too. And handsome. The White Crane preens its feathers.

Last it’s Kyoko’s turn. Pale hair falls onto the pile of black, like powdery snow on rock. But there’s nothing gentle about a samurai girl. The bruise on my arm from wrestling Kyoko yesterday throbs when I touch it.

We follow Mrs. Onaku to our room to change into our new kimonos. While Kyoko disappears behind her screen to dress, we struggle with the wraps and ties. At least it’s only one layer. For special occasions we just wear our kimonos.

At Gembuku, students in less old-fashioned
ryu
get a new name. Not us. Sensei says sometimes the old ways have to give way to the new, and sometimes new and old have to live together.

“You will not be a new person, so you do not need a new name. You were samurai long before a sword told you so,” says Sensei. “It is hard enough for me to remember the names of all my students, without giving them new ones halfway through their studies.”

Ba-boom. Boom. Boom.
The ceremonial gong in the practice area sounds. It rang on the day we came to the
ryu,
when Sensei called us for the first time. Now it rings as we join together to come of age.

Mrs. Onaku leads us, single file, to where Sensei and the Sword Master are waiting. Our weapons are laid out on a long, low table. Another covered table sits under Sensei’s favorite plum tree.

Kneeling in a row in front of the swords, we wait for the ceremony to begin. Onaku stands behind the gong with Sensei beside him and Mrs. Onaku sitting at the table’s end.

Ba-boom!
Onaku strikes the gong. Sound echoes across the valley. Everyone in the mountains will hear it and know that Gembuku has come to the Cockroach Ryu.

Sensei calls my name: “Student Niya Moto.” Without my crutch, I hop toward him. Today I do not care how many legs are missing. Standing in front of my master, I am proud of who I am.

Onaku hands Sensei my sword. I kneel, and he taps me gently on one shoulder. As I rise, he holds out my
katana.

When I touch the handle, the sword sings so loudly that my fingers falter. The blade falls through my hand, clattering into the dust. Silence crushes my chest hard. I can barely breathe. I wish the ground would open and an earthquake would swallow me. I wish Yoshi had left me on the mountainside.

Laughing, Onaku slaps me on the back.

“Just like Mitsuka. You’re going to be a great samurai warrior, young Niya.” He picks up the sword and passes it to me. “No wonder this sword sang so strong. It is in good hands.”

“Thank you,” I say, glad to be breathing again.

“Nothing ever goes according to plan,” counsels Sensei. “Best not to expect it to and plan nothing. Remember this lesson.”

“I remember NOTHING,” I say. Then I do something unplanned, just as Sensei taught me. Raising my sword high, I call to the White Crane. “Ay-ee-ah!” I jump high and kick, landing perfectly on one foot.

“I am pleased with your progress, student.” Sensei bows to show his respect. “You are now a novice samurai warrior, having traveled halfway along the path. Bushido go with you as you continue on your way.” He takes the dagger and hands it to me. I grasp it firmly and tuck it safely into my belt. Kneeling again, I bend my forehead to the dirt. “Master,” I say.

“Rise, samurai.” Sensei’s eyes shine with pride.

Leaving my childhood behind, I return to my place beside Yoshi. I am still Niya. Sensei was right. I don’t need a new name.

Finally we all have our swords and daggers.

“Now, my Little Cockroaches, let us eat,” Sensei proclaims.

Mrs. Onaku uncovers the second table and reveals the ceremonial last meal of a samurai. Just as we left one life behind when we came to study with Sensei, we are now dead to our childhood. The table is set with dried chestnuts, kelp, and abalone. There is
sake
in red lacquered drinking cups. But there’s one extra smell. Something new. Roast pig! It’s Black Tusk. He won’t be bothering us again.

“Why do you still call us Little Cockroaches?” I ask. “We have grown older today.”

“Do you feel any bigger?” asks Sensei.

“No,” I admit.

“That’s because you are still little.” Bacon grease dribbles down Sensei’s chin, and he wipes it with his cloak. “But you are much wiser. What is it you have learned?”

Teacher sits cross-legged, waiting for pearls of wisdom to drop in his lap.

“If you are chased by a boar, run fast,” says Yoshi.
Clink.
The first pearl.

“Run very fast,” Taji elaborates.

Kyoko grins. “A true samurai doesn’t need a sword.”

“Not if he can yell loud.” I think of Sensei, weaponless as he screeched in to attack the boar.

“The point of the sword is very sharp,” Mikko says.

Clink, clink, clink.
Sensei’s lap is full.

“I am such a good teacher. I think I deserve a nap.” Leaning back against his tree, our master closes his eyes.

Onaku looks at us and winks. “Let’s go fishing. Maybe I can poach some fish out of your river before Ki-Yaga catches me.”

We leave Sensei to snore and Mrs. Onaku to clear away the lunch. Grinning, the Sword Master produces a fishing rod from under his ceremonial cloak. He planned this all along!

As we pass the kitchen, I sneak a dollop of pudding for Uma. Our horse gallops to meet me, licking my fingers until every honeyed rice grain is gone. Then he walks beside us to the river.

“Do you think we should have left Sensei behind?” I ask.

“Do you think he would have let us, if he did not want us to go?” answers Onaku.

He’s right. Even asleep, Sensei is wide awake.

Kyoko pulls at the pin in my topknot. “How long have you known our teacher?” she asks Onaku, ducking behind Uma so I can’t retaliate.

“Since I was a boy.”

“What was Sensei like as a boy?” Taji wants to know.

The swordsmith shakes his head. “Ki-Yaga wasn’t a boy. He was old even then. He chooses his students carefully. Few are chosen. In the years when he had no students, he came to the village to teach and tell stories. I always pushed my way to the front, to sit and listen at his feet. As I grew older, we became friends. I helped him build the
ryu.
”

“But the
ryu
is very old,” Mikko says.

“Only the trees. Your teacher planted trees long before the school was built. He doesn’t care to look after the buildings, but he cares about trees. Ki-Yaga is older than the forest and wiser than the mountain.”

“Why didn’t you become a samurai?” I ask. “I’m sure Sensei would have taught you.”

“Did you ever want to become a swordsmith?”

“No. I’ve always wanted to be a samurai. It’s in my heart.”

“It was like that for me. The swords were calling, even when I was a boy. But now”— Onaku grins —“the fish are yelling.”

I like fish. Even the goldfish in Mother’s bowls that flop out to trip me. Even the ones that swim in my stomach when I am nervous. Best of all, I like raw fish on my dinner plate, wrapped in seaweed and dipped in soy sauce. Sushi. Yum. My mouth waters, and the White Crane snaps its beak.

But catching fish is boring. Leaning against Sensei’s tree, Onaku doesn’t notice. He sleeps while the fish gobble his bait.

“Let’s practice,” suggests Taji. We can use our new swords.”

Now that we’ve come of age, we’re allowed to practice with real swords. Sensei still prefers us to use our wooden ones. But we have to use the new ones at the Samurai Trainee Games this year. It can’t hurt to try them out now. “I’ll go first,” I say. I want to test mine and Taji is easy to beat.

“I see you,” he calls as he raises his blade.

I’m sure he can’t. I’m standing very still. There’s nothing for Taji to hear.

You should never underestimate the ears of a blind samurai kid. The flat part of Taji’s blade whacks me across the nose and squashes it flat as a sheet of rice paper. Again.

“Sorry, Ni,” he apologizes.

“Good shot,” I snort. “I’ll get you later.”

I was wrong. It
does
hurt to use our new swords. Yoshi’s loud chuckle echoes across the mountains.

Onaku wakes with a jolt and surveys my bloody face.

“Not the first time that’s happened, Niya?” he asks me.

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head.

“We’ll go back and get Ki-Yaga to look at it,” Onaku decides.

“Not again,” Sensei says as he packs my nose in ice. Later he binds it with yellow tape. The White Crane looks like a vulture.

We wait in a line while Sensei inspects our packing for the journey. It’ll take us two days to walk to the Games, and we have to carry everything we need — food, clothing, and our equipment.

“Good. Almost complete,” he says.

“What have we missed?” I memorized the list and checked it twice. I’m sure I haven’t forgotten anything.

“You need rain cloaks.”

Mikko raises his eyebrows at me. The sky is clear and blue. It’s been cloudless for weeks.

“Are you sure it’s going to rain, Sensei?” Taji asks.

“If we had a boat, I would suggest you take it.”

We rush off to get our cloaks. When we return, Sensei is standing in the drizzle, drops falling from his pointy nose to form puddles around his sandals. Uma is waiting also, his tail flicking water at anyone who stands too close.

“This year you are warrior students, and your Games’ team needs a captain. I have chosen Yoshi,” Sensei announces.

Yoshi was born to lead. He’s always carried more on his shoulders than the rest of us, and I’m not talking about harnesses and packages. Ever since that day on the mountain, I’d follow Yoshi anywhere. Even to the Games and back.

We leave together, but Sensei and Uma travel a different way. Sensei says it’s good for us to travel without him. He says it makes us think instead of using his brain. We’ll take a shortcut through the tunnel between this peak and the next. Horses don’t like tunnels, so Sensei and Uma will go the long way around, down one mountain and up the other. But Sensei will still get there first.

It’s not because he rides. He doesn’t. Sensei has a pack strapped to his back.

“Uma is a warrior, not a packhorse,” he says.

Sensei is stronger than a horse anyway. Our master will get there first because he walks very fast, with long, spidery wizard steps with which only Uma can keep up.

“I will give you a half day’s head start,” Sensei decides. “I don’t want to be waiting too long at the other end. I might fall asleep.”

I’m sure he will. Anywhere he can find a cherry tree.

The old village woman’s words seep through my thoughts. Maybe Sensei doesn’t walk. Maybe he flies. A black
tengu
crow wings across my imagination and off into the distance. As I shake the image from my head, my topknot unravels and I slap myself in the face with my soggy ponytail. That’ll teach me to daydream.