Little Yokozuna

by Wayne Shorey

  So they waved and bowed as the turtle sank into the depths of the ocean, and as they descended on its back. As always happens when anyone invited descends to the realm of the Dragon King, they were able to do so without drowning or even getting wet. Thus it was that the great turtle delivered them safely to the gates of the King's palace, and delivered his message to the King himself. Then the American children were taken into the beautiful palace, given into the care of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting, allowed to bathe luxuriously in deep steaming tubs, and given exquisite embroidered kimonos to wear. When they were ready, they were entertained at a great banquet in the presence of the King and Queen themselves, and served an incredible array of sashimi, paper-thin slices of every kind of fish all arranged in wondrous and brilliant floral designs, reminders of the flowers of the Garden of a Thousand Worlds. As they ate, musicians entertained them with koto, shakuhachi, and shamisen, delicate instruments of suggestion and significance, their music patterned after the rhythms of wind, rain, sea, and forest. Afterward they watched dramatic performances and spoke with the King and Queen for many hours until the littlest children were sagging with sleep and even the older ones wanted nothing more than a soft warm futon. Their first night in the palace of the Dragon King was spent in rooms of white tatami, with the sound of the sea beyond the pearl-colored shoji doors.

  Having been properly tended at last, Q.J.'s ugly injury healed with amazing speed, leaving her without even a scar to take home and show her friends. With this last worry removed, there was nothing to hinder the children's enjoyment of the Dragon Kingdom, and for many days they lived in that palace in great happiness. But sooner or later, as every Japanese tale about that realm records, its visitors always grow homesick. Some say there is something in the magic of the realm itself that causes the homesickness, perhaps to keep the kingdom from being too populated by its guests. But more likely, there is simply something in the magic of home, which sooner or later always draws one back, even from the most enchanting places.

  By whatever magic it happens, it happened once again with these children, and they went to the King and Queen and requested a ride home.

  "Maybe one of your turtles could drop us off somewhere on the West Coast?" asked Annie. "We could call our parents from there, and arrange a way home."

  "And in our own time?" Owen Greatheart added. "Could that be arranged?"

  The Dragon King and Queen smiled graciously, as they always do in such situations, and taking the four smaller children by the hand, they led them all to an inner courtyard of the palace. There the children found themselves in a little garden that they had visited before, but had no reason to prefer to the many other beautiful philosophical gardens of the Dragon Kingdom.

  "Sayonara," the Dragon King and Queen said together, releasing the hands of the littlest children and gesturing them all toward a thick stand of green bamboo in the corner of the courtyard. Annie was reminded of the bamboo grove in Kyoto, and was stricken again with regret for how little she had seen, given the opportunity.

  But now they were all bowing and saying sayonara with growing eagerness, as they backed toward the bamboo grove. As they got nearer to it, they could feel and smell a breeze blowing from it, a hot, familiar Boston breeze that brought tears to their eyes. Then they felt the garden rushing up and outward to receive them, and the last they saw of the Dragon Realm was the King and Queen bowing in farewell, and other friends of the palace peeping around the royal couple to wave and bow.

  "I can't wait to get home," said Little Harriet, as they were swept away.

  Epilogue

  On the second floor of Boston's Museum of Fine Arts, Brenda the security officer decided to change her usual coffee-break routine and take a crisp walk, hoping that this would excite her circulation and keep her awake for the rest of the shift. After a quick circuit through the Egyptian and Chinese galleries, she meandered back toward her post in the Impressionist room. With a moment to spare, she first paused in the exhibition shop and put her round elbows down on her favorite leaning place, the broad windowsill that overlooked the Japanese garden. The sun shone on her face and she relaxed, resting her chin on her right hand. Whatever her walk had done for her circulation seemed to be subsiding, and she yawned an enormous yawn. Thinking that the garden seemed unusually full of children, she yawned again. Children? She looked, rubbed her eyes, and looked again, her cheeks quivering.

  "Hey!" she yelped. "Hey!"

  She glared into the garden, her nose pressed to the glass.

  "Shoot" she finally said in a fierce voice, kneading her temples with trembling fingers but not taking her eyes off the scene below her. "I've been working too hard. I've got to get a vacation, anyhow I can."

  "Sumimasen," said a gentle voice beside her. "Excuse me, please."

  She jumped sideways, and looked back to her left in alarm. A short, slight Japanese man was standing at her elbow, with his hands clasped behind his back. He was probably middle-aged, with thinning hair on top and light crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He was looking out of the window as she had been, with an odd smile on his face.

  "Please excuse me," he said again, still smiling, "but why do you say that?"

  "Say what?" she asked. "I didn't say anything."

  "You said," he went on, still looking away to give her a chance to collect herself, "that you have been working too hard and need a vacation." His English was really quite good.

  "So?" she said, leaning back on the windowsill as if to reclaim a piece of lost ground. "Everybody says that. Everybody needs vacations."

  He shrugged an American-style shrug. "I see," he said. He went on looking at the remarkable scene below them. There was a silence. Then he turned back to Brenda.

  "You do see those children?" he asked, smiling again. "The ones in those most beautiful kimonos down in the garden?"

  "Sure," said Brenda, with a nonchalant air. "Pretty, aren't they?"

  "Yes," said the man. "I would not have thought that there were such kimonos anywhere on Earth."

  "Oh," said Brenda, not being expert in such matters.

  "Curiously enough," said the man, "Just a few moments ago I saw those same children run behind that stone lantern, dressed in the most ordinary American jeans and sneakers. Then they emerged seconds later in kimonos embroidered by goddesses. Did you see that?"

  "Hmph," said Brenda, but there was a part of her that was relieved, in spite of herself. After all, how seldom do two perfect strangers lose their minds at the same moment for no obvious reason, only a few feet apart.

  The two stood there for several minutes, watching the seven decorative children walk around a bit, as if bewildered, then suddenly start laughing and run for the garden gate. One boy hung back a little. He was about ten years old, wearing crooked glasses, a weatherworn Red Sox cap, and a sea-green dragon kimono that would have been worth a fortune to this very museum. He looked toward the stone lantern with sadness on his face, then turned and ran to catch up to his brothers and sisters.

  The Japanese man said something, staring after the little boy.

  "Huh?" said Brenda.

  The man turned to her. "His name is Knuckleball," he said, speaking the word carefully, with only a hint of several extra syllables. "I knew him once, long ago. He was my best friend."

  This puzzled Brenda. "You crazy?" she asked. Her comfort in their shared sanity wavered.

  "But there is a sad thing I remember," the man said. "Once I told him that he did not have the spirit of a true rikishi."

  "Really?" said Brenda. "Whoa. Hard to believe. What's a rickishy?"

  "He does have it, you know," the man said. He still gazed away in the direction the children had gone. "They all do."

  "Oh, well," said Brenda, still puzzled but feeling a small fondness toward this Japanese tourist who had shared her hallucinations. "I've got no explanation for any of this. And I don't admit to anything that I've got no explanation for." She chuckled.

  The man looked up at her.
She was startled to see that his eyes were brimmed with tears.

  "Why, sir," she said, "I didn't know... I mean..."

  He blinked quickly, but some tears spilled down his cheeks.

  "Funny," she said, "but I always heard that Japanese folk don't cry. Funny the things people think. Course I always knew better. There's nobody don't cry."

  Still talking, she smoothly handed him a clean tissue from a little plastic package she carried in her pocket. He dabbed at his cheeks with it, as if he had never used one before.

  "Thank you," he said. "Thank you very much." He returned to the window. The children were out of sight. With his hands clasped once more behind his back, the strange tourist gazed down into the garden, looking as if he would never move again.

  "Well," said Brenda. "Guess it's time to go."

  He looked at her and smiled. "Yes," he said. "It's time to go." Then he turned with a quick, decisive movement and walked away.

  Brenda the museum guard raised one eyebrow at the empty garden and shook her head, smiling in a small way. "Nope," she said. "I don't admit to anything I can't explain." She stretched, yawning again a huge yawn, and went back to work.