The Bamboo Sword

by Margi Preus

  Yoshi stared in wonder at the many and unusual items. The Americans had not spared any expense, that was clear. There were boats, carts, wagons, many kinds of tools, and something called a telegraph machine that could send messages in a kind of magical way. Most wondrous of all, a working railroad, smaller in size than a real one, Manjiro said, with several train cars, each big enough to hold a person or two.

  Yoshi wandered around, looking at all the things while keeping an eye on the lurking officials and the two hovering guards. Meanwhile, Manjiro took notes. So many things, American things. What was it about them that made them so distinctly foreign? What was it? Was it that they were just so . . . functional, without regard to beauty or form?

  In his country, no matter how ordinary or trivial a thing—an iron kettle, a paper lantern, a bamboo curtain, a wooden pillow—it was made by hand and crafted to be a thing of beauty.

  The gifts from the Americans were cold, strong, practical things meant for plowing earth or harvesting grains.

  Manjiro went about pointing at and naming them, often using the English word for the item. “These are meant for the emperor,” he said. “Maps of states and lithographs, telescope and stand, sheet-iron stove, rifles, muskets, swords.”

  “Swords,” Yoshi repeated.

  “Pistols,” Manjiro continued. “A silver-topped dressing case, yards of broadcloth and velvet. A pocket watch.” Manjiro said “watch” in English, adding that it was one of those American words that meant more than one thing. “It refers to a timepiece, but can also mean watch with your eyes.”

  “Watch,” Yoshi repeated. How could he ask to learn the English words that would be useful in order to talk to Jack? Things like “Stay here,” “Don’t move,” “I’ll come back.” And “How do you plan to get back to your ship? Any ideas? Keep your head down, you idiot! Don’t you have any manners in your country? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Tired?” But he couldn’t ask. The guards were always nearby.

  “Champagne, tea, casks of whiskey, bottles of cordial, and cases of champagne,” Manjiro rattled on in English. “Clocks, stoves, perfumes, farm tools, and seeds.” The words were as strange as the items. “Boat,” he said, pointing to a copper-sided boat.

  “Boat,” Yoshi repeated. That would be a handy word to know. It would be an even handier thing to have.

  One couldn’t help but be impressed by the cleverness of some of the gifts, or at least the unusualness. But nothing struck Yoshi as really beautiful until he laid eyes on the books. Nine large volumes, filled with paintings of birds. Here was something truly elegant, fit for the emperor. In fact, Manjiro said, “These are meant for the emperor.” He added under his breath that he doubted the shogun intended to send them to him.

  “May I look?” Yoshi said.

  Manjiro glanced at the guards, then opened a book. “Birds of America,” he said. “By an artist named Audubon.”

  There were birds of scarlet, orange, and blue, and one long-necked bird of the deepest pink. Some birds Yoshi knew, and some he had never before seen. The birds perched on branches thick with blossoms or berries, hid in thickets, or floated on glassy ponds. The images were elegant, colorful, detailed.

  That the barbarians could make iron tools, guns, and other weapons did not surprise Yoshi. But no “offal-eating demon” could have made these pictures, he thought as he turned the pages. What especially caught and held his attention were the backgrounds, the landscapes of these faraway places. Swamps, misty hills, rocky coasts, and stormy seas.

  On one page, a teal-colored heron stood in a river on whose far-off sunlit banks stood tall, tufted trees. The river disappeared around a bend that Yoshi found himself staring at, as if he might—if he looked hard enough—see around it, see what lay around that bend.

  For a moment, looking at these pictures, he could almost forget about the boy back at the stables, hidden in the straw. He was almost—just for a few glorious moments—transported to a glistening river, into tall grasses, on the shores of an ocean far, far away.

  “Louisiana Heron” from Birds of America by John James Audubon.

  “Louisiana heron.” The voice in Yoshi’s ear startled him.

  “What?” Yoshi said.

  “That is the name of that bird,” Manjiro said. “It lives in a place called Louisiana, in the United States.”

  “How did you learn to read the language of the outsiders?”

  “English, you mean?” Manjiro asked. “I went to school in America. I learned many things: English, mathematics, and, especially interesting to me, navigation. This is something the Westerners understand much more fully than we do. And it is why they can sail all over this vast earth.”

  Yoshi’s eyes drifted back to the picture of the heron and the mesmerizing blue-green world in which it lived.

  “Perhaps one day you will sail to that place, Louisiana,” Manjiro said, “and see it for yourself.”

  Yoshi shook his head. Such a thing was unimaginable. But he couldn’t help thinking of Kiku, and how she wanted to go to the wooded hills and mountains beyond the shogun’s garden. He imagined telling her about these pictures, and how he had felt that same desire—to go beyond what you could see. It was just a nameless longing, really, to see more, to know more, maybe even to be more.

  He took one final look at the picture, trying to remember it exactly so he could describe it to Kiku, and then Manjiro closed the book.

  “There is much we can learn from the Westerners,” Manjiro said. “I hope our countrymen will welcome them and accept them here.”

  “There are those who say they will destroy our way of life,” Yoshi said.

  “Well,” Manjiro replied, “we shall see. Some things it would be good to change. Some things will have to change. And some things may change that we wish would not. But that is the way of life, is it not?”

  Maybe, Yoshi thought, everything could remain the same except a few Americans would show up to trade at a couple of remote ports far from Edo. Probably, Yoshi thought, life would just go on as normal.

  But when he gazed around at the things the Americans had sent, he knew it would not. People would want these things. They would want other things the Americans brought. He himself would like some of those fire sticks that Jack had.

  People would want the knowledge of the Americans, as Manjiro said. But some people would not want any of the changes; some of them would be willing to fight to prevent it. And what would happen then?

  Now, Yoshi thought, as he followed Manjiro out of the storehouse, tell him about Jack. He stepped closer to Manjiro and opened his mouth to speak, but heard the guard behind him whisper, “That man”—Yoshi glanced back to see the guard following Manjiro with his eyes. “There is an extra watch on him, now that the barbarians have returned.”

  The other guard agreed. “He is not to be trusted. The councillors say that he should be ‘treated generously while guarded closely.’”

  What had he been thinking? Yoshi wondered. Of course he couldn’t involve Manjiro in his troubles! If Manjiro were to be discovered associating in any way with an American, it would prove that he was a spy. It would be just what his enemies wanted.

  No, he was going to have to figure out what to do with Jack on his own. And that meant that he needed to get back to the stables right away!

  But just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flapping of sleeves and the fluttering of fans, the scurrying and whispering of messages being passed. Suddenly messengers were among them, saying, “The shogun’s advisers wish to speak with you.” And, just like that, Manjiro and Yoshi were whisked away.

  As they were escorted across the moat to the gate, Yoshi felt chilled to his core. They’ve discovered Jack, he thought. And now we three will be punished: Jack and I, and Manjiro, too. It’s my fault for leaving Jack for so long. I should never have left him. It was stupid to bring him to Edo.

  He felt his heart sinking lower and lower as they wended their way farther and farther into the interior of the
castle.

  37

  BASEBALL

  You’re up next,” Jack told the little kid, handing him the bamboo stick.

  Three other stableboys were positioned at rough approximations of first, second, and third base. Jack had made the biggest boy the pitcher. Then, in order to show them how it was done, he had been the first up to bat himself.

  The big kid had thrown Jack a perfect pitch, and Jack hit “the ball”—a wadded-up bunch of cloth bandages—out of the park. Well, not really, but it landed in some kind of canal, and while the boys ran over to fish it out, Jack ran the bases, cheering for himself as he slid into home.

  The boys caught on fast, and soon they were arguing over the rules. At least that’s what it sounded like to Jack. He laughed. They sounded like his friends back home—different language, same arguments.

  While they argued, he leaned on the “bat” and took a look around. These were some impressive stables, he thought. Whoever owned these buildings and these small but sturdy-looking horses must be a rich so-and-so.

  He’d been awakened by one of those horses earlier that morning when its tail kept switching him in the face. He’d opened his eyes to see a horse’s rear end and nobody else—Yoshi was gone.

  But he had caught a glimpse of something between the slats in the stall door. Eyes. Many eyes staring at him through the cracks. Then heads: nine heads appeared over the top of the door, staring down at him.

  Just kids. Still, he’d thought, better safe than sorry. He groped around in the straw for something with which to protect himself, and his hand came upon a length of bamboo, buried under the straw. He grabbed the stick and, not wanting to be cornered in the stall, unlatched the door and stepped out.

  A lot of curious horses and a gang of kids—stableboys, he reckoned—that’s all there was. He stood with crossed arms and glowered at them while they stared back at him. This time he was going to take a stand: absolutely no bowing to these ragamuffins!

  There was some giggling, and by their whispering and gesturing, he got the distinct impression that he had been dressed up as a girl. How could anyone ever tell? It seemed to him that everybody, male and female, dressed in the same silk petticoats.

  One of the boys, the tallest and apparently also the bravest, crept toward Jack and touched his hair, then pretended to be burned, which made the others laugh. Jack rolled his eyes. This was the oldest joke in the book. If he’d had a half dime every time a kid back home tried that trick, he’d be as wealthy as John Jacob Astor.

  Now the others were creeping closer, also wanting to touch his red hair, he supposed, but he’d put a stop to that.

  He tossed a stone up in the air, hit it with the stick, and asked, “You fellows know how to play baseball?”

  The boys settled their argument, and next up was the littlest kid. Jack showed him how to stand and how to swing the bat when the “ball” came over the plate. The kid smacked it and made a run for third base, but Jack nabbed him and sent him in the other direction. The outfielder fumbled the ball, and the boy circled the bases, stomping triumphantly on the dusty old straw mat that was home plate.

  “You’re a natural!” Jack said, patting him on the back.

  “Natcha!” the kid shouted.

  Then Jack was up to bat again. He kicked his long “petticoat” behind him, tapped the bat against the plate, and, when the ball came at him, bunted. He dropped the bat and charged for first base, but his foot caught in his skirt, and down he went, into the dust. The boys howled with laughter.

  A shadow seemed to pass over the sun, the boys’ laughter stopped abruptly, and Jack felt a big hand close around his arm.

  38

  IN THE SHOGUN’S CASTLE

  The courtyard garden outside the reception room was a profusion of cherry blossoms. This did nothing to lift Yoshi’s mood as he knelt outside the room, waiting for the meeting to begin.

  He heard the rustle of silk and brocades and the murmur of voices as the councillors arrived and arranged themselves inside the room. Then one cleared his throat and Yoshi squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blow.

  “What does it mean that at this very moment the Black Ships are approaching Edo?” the councillor asked Manjiro. “Will the barbarians dare to enter our sacred city?”

  Yoshi’s eyes flew open. The ships were coming to Edo?

  “Do the barbarians intend to invade?” one of the councillors asked, adding that they had been told in the strictest terms not to approach the city.

  Yoshi breathed a sigh of relief. So this wasn’t about Jack. He hadn’t been discovered hiding in the stables. Not yet, anyway.

  The councillors continued their questions, wanting to know what the barbarians intended to do next.

  Manjiro answered calmly that he didn’t know, he didn’t fully understand their motivations, but he would assume that the American commodore was simply curious and wanted a closer look at the famous city of Edo. Westerners were naturally curious, Manjiro told them. “That is why their learning is constantly becoming greater and greater.”

  “This breach of the edict cannot be tolerated!” a councillor insisted.

  “We have already suffered humiliation at the hands of the barbarians. This is too much!” asserted another.

  In the garden, Yoshi noticed a familiar figure clipping dead twigs from a cherry tree. Kiku. He thought of how he wanted to tell her about the pictures of the birds and describe the bend in the river and how he had wanted to go there to see what lay beyond that bend, in just the same way she wanted to go to the faraway mountain beyond the shogun’s garden.

  “Kiku,” he whispered.

  She turned just as Yoshi heard a councillor’s voice say, “There are rumors that there is an American in Edo.”

  Yoshi froze.

  “A barbarian spy within our midst!” the councillor finished.

  Yoshi’s heart hammered in his ears so loudly that he didn’t hear anything else. Did they know about Jack after all? He had to get back to the stables as fast as he could. But how? How would he find his way through the palace’s serpentine corridors, or get past the dozens of checkpoints, gates, and hundreds of armed guards and sentries? Without Manjiro, he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere!

  Kiku looked at Yoshi from under her gardener’s hat. Her arched eyebrow and flashing eyes wordlessly asked, “Do you know something about this?”

  He thought of how she seemed to appear and disappear so easily. How did she do that? And where did she go? Did he dare ask her to help him? He had to risk it.

  “I have to get back to the stables right away,” he whispered. “Can you help me?”

  A smile flickered across Kiku’s face. “Follow me. But make sure you keep up.” She disappeared behind the shrubs.

  Yoshi followed her, but once again, when he stepped behind the greenery, all he saw was the long, impenetrable hedge. Kiku was nowhere to be seen!

  Then a tiny motion like a bird flitting into the hedge caught his eye, and when he looked he saw it was not a bird at all, but a small foot disappearing into the foliage!

  Yoshi raced to the spot to see that a wooden tub—a tub with no bottom—had been shoved into the hedge, and it was through this that Kiku had disappeared. He bent down and saw her hand, gesturing to him to crawl through.

  After he wiggled through, Kiku pulled out the tub, and the branches sprang back into place, as if nothing at all had just happened there.

  The two of them dashed past a group of startled washer-women who sat ripping the stitches out of kimonos, then past another group washing the long pieces of cloth, and finally past those who were hanging the wet fabric to dry. The women looked up in surprise as Kiku and Yoshi raced past.

  Into the washhouse and out, through the back doors of servants’ quarters, and along alleyways they went. Yoshi panted out an explanation to Kiku as they climbed through hedges, under fences, up and over walls, employing ropes, buckets, and all manner of things that Kiku seemed to find, quite remarkably, hidden under
shrubs or steps or behind doors.

  Yoshi started to think about what he might say to Kiku when they reached the stables. He would thank her, but what could he say so that he might be sure to see her again?

  Then suddenly he was standing in the wide, gravel exercise yard of the stables. He turned to thank Kiku, but she had already disappeared back into the labyrinth of the castle buildings.

  At the stables, Yoshi confronted the row of sheepish-looking boys. “Where is he?” he asked them. “What did you do with him?” Glancing around, he noticed a bamboo stick lying in the dirt.

  “We didn’t do nothing!” Han squeaked.

  “Where is he?” Yoshi demanded again, still staring at the length of bamboo. He recognized it. It was his practice katana. Lying there in the dirt, though, it looked like nothing special—just an ordinary stick.

  “Hiko?” Yoshi turned his eyes on the leader of the boys.

  Hiko cleared his throat. “Bushi . . .”

  Yoshi felt a flutter of fear. “How many?” he asked.

  Hiko held up one finger.

  “Just one? One? And you let him take Jack? Why didn’t you stop him?” Yoshi asked.

  The boys stared at Yoshi, mouths agape. Yoshi knew what they were thinking: Who would ever go against even one samurai?

  “What did he look like, this bushi?” Yoshi asked.

  “He was big,” Han said.

  “He walked like this.” Enju stamped his feet.

  “He had a long blue scar on his face,” Hiko said. “And he was looking for you.”

  Yoshi steeled himself. Now, instead of running away from Kitsune, Yoshi would have to go looking for him.

  PART FIVE

  AIR

  When your spirit is not in the least clouded, when the cloud of bewilderment is cleared away, there is the Void.

  —Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings

  39

  THE ASSIGNMENT

  Yoshi was pretty sure he knew where he would find Kitsune. The big bushi and the others would be sitting in the soba shop arguing about what to do with the barbarian boy. Someone would suggest that they should keep the boy as a hostage and make demands, but Kitsune would advocate for slicing his head off and putting it on a pole as a warning to other barbarians.