Owl Ninja

by Sandy Fussell

  “Will they send the Dragon Master?” Nezume asks nervously.

  “As soon as he realizes we serve no lord, he will know what we intend to do. And he will quickly work out where we are going. He will follow us, but for his own purpose.” Sensei frowns. “Some people would be happy if we disappeared on our way to the castle.”

  “We’re not scared,” Taji says.

  “Definitely not,” agrees Yoshi.

  Nezume, Mikko, and I add our support. My face is brave, but inside my heart, the White Crane hides. It’s not as brave as I’m pretending to be.

  The Sword Master and his wife have risen, too. Kyoko is waiting with them, holding Sensei’s favorite traveling staff, the one with the owl feathers tied at the top.

  “I wish I could come with you,” Onaku says. “I would like to see the castle again, and I have a package to deliver.”

  “We need you here, old friend. Who else could I trust with Uma? I will see that the Emperor gets his new sword.”

  Onaku hands Sensei the package. Two sword handles protrude from the end. If one is for the Emperor, then who gets the other? The last time we carried a spare sword, we found Nezume in the forest and gave it to him. Now he’s one of us. But this time, the second sword is too large for another samurai kid.

  Mrs. Onaku grips her husband’s arm tight. She knows we’re heading into danger, but she trusts Sensei. We all do.

  Sensei raises his hand to signal good-bye, and Onaku nods. The most important conversations between friends don’t need words.

  Sensei turns and strides quickly into the night. As usual, we hurry to keep up.

  The village streets are quiet and empty. Darker than old cherrywood.

  “Where is everyone?” Taji asks.

  “Asleep in bed,” Mikko mutters. “Where we should be.”

  Nezume sighs. “Even the drummer isn’t awake yet.”

  “No. It’s something deeper than that,” says Taji. “The village is almost empty. Listen. There’s nothing at all. Where are the snuffles and the sounds of sleep? It’s too quiet.”

  “Sometimes it is what you don’t hear that matters most,” Sensei agrees.

  Where did they all go? A whole village can’t just disappear.

  Sensei hears every question, even the ones I haven’t asked yet. “Some have answered the drum and marched to war. Others have hidden far away.”

  Now we’re quiet, too, thinking of the villagers who might never return if we fail.

  Once the village was alive with noise.

  Now it’s dead silent.

  Sensei leads us west, toward the castle. Beyond that stretches the ocean. Even in the early morning gloom, I know I’ve been this way before. This is the direction toward my home.

  Many years ago Father and Grandfather brought me along the same path to the Cockroach Ryu.

  “I am going to be a samurai warrior,” I yelled up the mountain. The White Crane shrieked in echo.

  Waving my crutches with pride, I puffed out my chest. “The great Ki-Yaga wants to teach me.”

  “I thought he was dead,” Grandfather grumbled and wheezed. “He probably will be by the time we get there. I might beat him to it.”

  Sensei might be old, but he walks fast. We hurry behind him, pushing and shoving each other along. Giggling at Taji’s silly voices. Laughing at Mikko’s jokes. Samurai kids are not skilled at sneaking. We wouldn’t make very good ninja at all.

  At the fork in the path, Sensei turns left.

  I try to keep my voice still, but the quake in my stomach rises to shake my words.

  “Are we going into the Jigokudani Valley, Sensei?” I ask.

  Now Nezume’s worried, too. “What’s wrong with the valley?”

  “Nothing that bothers me,” Sensei says.

  But there’s plenty for the rest of us to be nervous about. They don’t call it Hell Valley for nothing. Boiling mud. Thick steam mists to get lost in. Great cracks in the ground to fall through. And most terrifying of all, the restless souls of the dead. If we die here, who will save the mountains from war?

  Yoshi moves to walk beside me. “Your face has turned white.”

  Mikko thinks it’s funny. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Niya.”

  I haven’t yet. Ask me later. We’ll be surrounded by them.

  “My grandfather told me the valley is haunted by demons,” I tell them. “Transparent shreds of flesh hang from their limbs. Their eyes burn like molten rock. They like to play tricks. And when they tell the future, it always comes true.” My voice quivers and cracks.

  “One day Niya will be a better storyteller than I am.” Sensei places his arm around my shoulder. “Already he can frighten his friends with just a few words.”

  His praise lifts my spirit high, and the White Crane forgets its fear, soaring bravely into Hell Valley’s gaping mouth.

  “Since when did we care how people look? Do we worry about a missing arm? Or leg? Or slab of flesh?” Sensei plants his staff in the soft ground. “Dead people are usually very polite. They like to say hello and talk about the weather.”

  Mikko giggles and nudges Yoshi, but Sensei doesn’t laugh. “Some ghosts play tricks because they get bored,” he says. “Death is monotonous. But every spirit I’ve spoken to tells the truth. Their sense of honor is not dead, only their bodies.”

  “You talk to ghosts?” Kyoko’s mouth drops open.

  “All the time. I am very old, and many of my closest friends have died. It would be rude to ignore them.” Sensei’s eyes twinkle. “I hope you won’t stop talking to me when I die.”

  Mikko sticks his thumbs into his ears and waggles his fingers. “Whoooo-ooo, I’m a ghost,” he wails. “I want to talk to Kyoko.”

  We laugh, and Kyoko kicks Mikko in the shins. But I’m not so sure Sensei was joking. If he really is a tengu goblin priest, he would have conversations with the spirits all the time.

  As for me, I don’t think I could trust anyone I could see straight through. No matter how well mannered they are.

  “Phew. What’s that smell?” Taji interrupts my thoughts, his nose toward the valley.

  Yoshi sniffs. “I can’t smell anything.”

  Neither can I, but that’s not surprising. Taji’s nose is always first to the finish line. “Smells like . . .”

  “Niya’s slipper?” suggests Mikko.

  Taji pinches his nostrils tight. “It’s worse than that.”

  “Dead fish.” I grin, whacking Mikko across the shoulder with an imaginary bundle of them.

  “Oh, yuck.” Kyoko wrinkles her nose in disgust as the smell grows stronger.

  Choking and sputtering, I struggle to breathe. The White Crane isn’t brave anymore. Hiding its head under a wing, it refuses to come out.

  “Aaaah. Sulfur. More pungent than a bottle of medicinal wine,” Sensei says, inhaling deeply. “Even the bravest tracker would hesitate to follow us in here.”

  No one would think we would dare enter this valley.

  “Chop, chop, Little Cockroaches. The drum is still beating even though we can no longer hear it. We have only nine days left. No time to hesitate.” Sensei takes another step, and the mist reaches out to swallow him whole. “A samurai warrior must not allow himself to be beaten by his nose,” he calls.

  “A good student doesn’t hesitate to follow the teacher. How far will you follow me?” Sensei once asked.

  “All the way to hell and back,” Yoshi answered for us. “We are very good students.”

  Now the time has come to prove it.

  I can put up with the smell, but I can’t forget the ghosts. I don’t want to be at the end of the line anymore. Yoshi understands, already moving into place behind me. “Thanks, Yosh,” I whisper.

  We all feel safer with Sensei and Yoshi. Taji links his arm through mine. The earth is warm on the soles of our sandals, and early morning sun gently thaws the night from our backs. Steamy mist thickens into imaginary faces, but Sensei is right: these ghosts are not bothering us. They loo
k, laugh silently, and dissolve away. They were never really there at all.

  “Would the Dragon Master follow us here?” Nezume’s eyes scan the sparse clutches of trees.

  It’s his greatest fear that one day he will have to return to the Dragon Ryu. The Dragon Master didn’t want Nezume until Sensei claimed him as a Cockroach. Now every month the Dragon sends a letter demanding the return of “his boy.” Each time Sensei gives the same reply: “Poor handwriting. More practice needed.”

  “The Dragon Master will not find us here,” Sensei promises. “I do not need to see him to know his thoughts. They never change. He will already be on his way to thwart our plans, but as always he travels a different path from me. We’ll meet him at the castle.”

  Sensei smiles as if he’s going to meet old friends. But the Emperor and the Dragon Master are powerful foes. Ki-Yaga will need more than a tree frog grin. He’ll need two heads, one for each enemy to keep.

  We’ve been walking for half the night and all the morning. Muscles hurt, eyes ache, and the thick air clogs our throats. We are no longer laughing and jostling. Instead, we drag our tired feet through the sticky mud. Grandfather’s stories of this place can’t be right. Not even dead souls would hang around here.

  The trees have shrunk and thinned. Grass has given way to stone. In the beginning, the Tateyama Mountains were born of fire. Now their volcanic heart pulses where patches of mud bubble like thick rice porridge. But no one would come running for a bowl of this foul-smelling sludge, no matter how hungry they were.

  “Walking is so boring,” Mikko moans.

  “A shortcut would be good,” adds Nezume.

  When we found Nezume on our way to the Annual Trainee Games, he showed us a quicker way into the mountain. Now the Long-Tailed Rat knows all the tracks and trails around the ryu, but this valley is a strange, alien place.

  The mist wraps across our eyes like a hachimaki headband.

  “I can’t see very well,” Yoshi complains.

  “Lucky you,” laughs Taji. “I can’t see at all.”

  Even Taji’s humor can’t lift our spirits out of the mud. The White Crane’s wings are wet and heavy. The Rat’s tail is covered in slime, and the Tiger’s fur is matted.

  “There’s nothing but mud and rocks,” Kyoko grumps.

  “Then we will walk another way,” says Sensei. “It is good to practice.”

  I groan. There are thirty-three ways to walk, and Sensei makes us learn every one.

  “We will walk like a wild cat,” he announces. His long legs stretch out in loping strides. We pad after him, but it’s not easy to copy.

  “Your choice next, Nezume,” Sensei instructs.

  “Walk like a mouse.”

  Of course a Rat would say that.

  We take small, soundless steps. It’s hard with only one leg, but Sensei doesn’t let me complain.

  “When a one-legged boy creeps, he makes half as much noise,” Sensei told me once. “One leg is not an excuse. It is a reason to be proud.”

  Now it’s Mikko’s turn to choose.

  “Walk like a wild boar,” he shouts.

  Boars like mud. Crashing and blundering, we make more noise than Black Tusk, the wild boar who once stalked the forests around the ryu — until Sensei cooked roast pork for dinner. We’re making enough noise to wake the dead. I scan the trees, just in case.

  My foot aches. My shoulders hurt.

  “Are we stopping to rest soon, Sensei?” Yoshi asks.

  “I see I am not the only mind reader. Excellent.” Our teacher points to a pool of water just ahead. “We are almost there.”

  We forget our sore muscles and race ahead to look.

  “This is a heated mineral pool,” Sensei says, easily catching up to us on his thin spider legs. “The water springs from the warm soul of the earth to heal tired joints and cold bones.”

  “Have we got time for this?” asks Taji, wistfully. He wants to swim, but the drum is pounding inside his head, too.

  “After we rest here, we will be able to walk much faster,” Sensei promises.

  That’s all the encouragement we need.

  Nezume kicks off his sandals and dips a toe into the pool. A grin ripples across his face.

  Kyoko cups a handful of the water, and her Snow Monkey spirit smiles mischievously. “You try it.” She flicks the water into my face and up my nose. “That’s for pulling my hair yesterday. Now we’re even.”

  I should have known I couldn’t outsmart her.

  “The ninja come here often,” says Sensei. “Unlike my samurai kids, they love to bathe. A clean person has no odor and cannot be identified when disguised. We can learn much from the study of the ninja arts.”

  Sensei said the ninja are not our enemies. I trust him, but the ninja are not my friends, either. I’m not ready to learn anything from them yet. How can it be right to sneak and deceive? When I draw my sword in battle, the White Crane will screech and I’ll shout my name proudly for all to hear. Grandfather says the ninja are part demon and part man, part magic and part trickery. They would fit right in in Hell Valley.

  “Are there ninja here now?” Yoshi’s eyes comb the straggly-haired trees. “I’d like to meet one.”

  My eyes follow his. “I don’t see anyone.”

  And I don’t want to meet one.

  “There’s nowhere for a ninja to hide here,” says Nezume.

  Sensei points to the nearest rock. “A ninja doesn’t need to hide to conceal himself. Does a moth hide away when camouflaged against the tree trunk? The ninja way is one of budo, of blending into his surroundings. Are you sure that’s really a rock?”

  “I’ll check,” Mikko volunteers with a grin. He gives it a kick.

  “Ow-aw. It’s a rock!” he yelps, hopping around as if he were me.

  “What about that one?” Sensei points again.

  But Mikko cannot kick rocks all the way to the castle.

  “I think there were five ninja following us.” Taji listens and sniffs. “But they are not here now.”

  “I’m sure they have better things to do than watch my students wash.” Hanging his sword and staff on a tree branch, Sensei throws his kimono, jacket, and trousers onto a large flat rock.

  Sensei is chopstick-thin, like rice paper stretched over chicken bone. This time I’m not fooled by what I can see. The Dragon Master is younger and strong as an oak tree. But when he challenged Sensei at the Games, our teacher whirled his bamboo staff and that oak tree crashed into the dirt.

  The first pool flows into an even deeper one, wide enough to swim and play in. Sensei steps into the shallows, then wades out until only his head is showing.

  Carefully, we place our swords in the tree, too. Then we toss our clothes on top of Sensei’s jacket. Shivering in my long undershirt and loincloth, I throw my crutch down as well. But I miss the clothes, and it bounces off the rock to land in the stringy branches of a small tree. It’s the perfect place for anyone or anything to hide. I have to go get it, but I stall by pulling on my robe and grabbing my sword.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Mikko calls from the water. Mikko and I tease each other all the time, but we know when to stop. That’s how the lines of friendship are drawn: in exactly the right place.

  “I’m okay,” I call, already halfway to the tree. Taji said the ninja had gone, and so far I haven’t seen a single ghost.

  Except for the one sitting on the bottom branch, holding my crutch.

  Red-hot eyes burn through me. The White Crane cringes and pulls its wings in close, away from the heat. My stomach cramps tighter than a tangled kite string.

  “Nice weather, isn’t it?” The ghost’s words whistle through missing teeth.

  I shiver. “Very n-nice.”

  “You should be more careful.” It passes me my crutch. “Dead people don’t like to be hit in the head with lumps of wood. Didn’t you see me sitting here?”

  “S-s-sorry. Thank you.”

  The ghost nods, accepting my ap
ology. “Some people don’t even believe I exist. Like your friends. They can’t see me because they won’t look. I don’t like being ignored.” Angry now, its voice hisses like steam. “Nobody wants to fade away to nothing. Not even a ghost.”

  Sensei told us that a samurai warrior must stand straight and still when he looks into the face of death. Now I understand why. It’s easier to stand still when you’re scared stiff.

  “Would you like it if people looked straight through you?” the ghost demands.

  I shake my head politely, trying not to stare. But my eyelids are frozen open in fright. Grandfather told me that ghosts like gruesome meals. In Grandfather’s stories, their caves are littered with the bones of kids just like me. My teeth chatter.

  “Are you cold?” Its voice curdles, sour as overheated milk. “If you take my hand, you’ll feel warm.”

  I can see only two fingers and a shard of broken bone. The hand is a lump of melted flesh.

  I’m not touching that.

  Fiery eyes spit and crackle, but I’m shivering so hard that my head shakes without me. “N-no. I’m fine. Thank you.”

  The ghost nods approvingly in Sensei’s direction. “Ki-Yaga always teaches his students good manners.”

  Looking up, Sensei waves. I should have known he could see what was happening. The wizard sees everything, even with eyes closed, asleep under the old cherry tree back at the ryu.

  Fear is nothing to be afraid of, Sensei whispers inside my head. And except for a little leftover skin and bone, a ghost is all hot air.

  Braver now, the White Crane unfolds one wing. I place my hand on my sword. Onaku’s blade cannot cut through what is hardly there, but with my fingers around the hilt and Sensei’s words in my head, I feel less afraid.

  I’m not out of the trees and into the pool yet. The ghost grins, its mouth a grotesque cave of bones. “I have a message for you.”

  I don’t want to know.

  It leans closer, hot breath in my ear. My heart beats like the mountain drum. Thum. Ta-thum. Thum-thum-thump. I’m afraid to listen, but there’s no escape.