Reverently, Ayame wipes the bowl. Three scoops of tea for each of us. She blends the paste and adds the remaining water. Her hands swirl like magic. Around and around the path.
Grandfather sips, wipes the rim, and hands the bowl to Sensei. Sensei sips, wipes, and passes it to Father. Another circle. Around again. We all take turns. Finally, Grandfather passes the empty bowl to Sensei to admire one last time. Cracked in many places, it has been carefully glued with lacquer and painted over with gold. It’s an expensive way to repair an old pot. But I wouldn’t dare tell Father that.
When Sensei makes tea, we are allowed to ask questions.
I remember the time I asked, “Why is the tea ceremony so slow?”
“To allow us enough time to treasure each moment,” answered Sensei.
I didn’t understand and wished it was over. I pinched Mikko sneakily. He pinched me back so hard I spilled my lukewarm tea all over Yoshi. Then Kyoko giggled. Nezume and Taji chuckled.
But Sensei rolled his eyes and said, “We will practice washing up.”
Now with all the people I love around me, I finally understand. The room is filled with treasure, and I want this moment to last all night.
But it can’t. The drum doesn’t stop for cups of tea. There are only seven days left before the war begins. Ta-thum. Thum. Thump. Ayame folds her hands, and the ceremony is complete.
We leave the room with our hearts warm and full. Our bellies are still empty, but Mother has supper ready. Steaming noodles in fish broth. Nezume’s nose twitches, and Yoshi’s stomach growls.
“Your daughter shows much skill,” Sensei tells Father and Mother.
My little sister glows pink and proud beneath his praise. My friends and I know exactly how she feels. Sensei’s approval is even better than seconds for dessert.
“You should study tea making with a master,” I say, impressed.
Ayame shakes her head. “This is enough learning for me. I only wish to pour tea for my husband and his honored guests. I am not going to be a scholar. I’m going to be a rich man’s wife.”
Someone to keep her in pearls and pink kimonos. She’s still a little girl after all. I bet she’s got dolls tucked in her sleeves.
“What sort of man would that be?” Sensei smiles. “A samurai swordsman perhaps?”
“A court administrator,” says Ayame. “They have big houses filled with gold.”
Mikko sputters. “What’s wrong with a real samurai? Why would you want to marry a warrior who wields a writing brush?”
Ayame giggles.
I hate writing, but I love listening to stories. Sensei settles back cross-legged, ready to tell one. “When Grandfather was younger, he came on a pilgrimage to the Cockroach Ryu.”
Grandfather never told me this story.
“I asked him a koan. Like I ask all my students. ‘What was your face before you were born?’ I said. Your grandfather would make the strangest faces, but he never found the answer.” Sensei grins. “Would you like to tell him, Niya?”
“The boy always was twice as clever as me,” Grandfather says proudly.
I beam at our Eldest One. I am made in his image, but I never knew it until tonight.
“Before I was born, my face was my grandfather’s.”
Ayame clicks her tongue, unimpressed. “Any mirror could tell you that,” she says. “You’ve always looked like him.”
After supper Grandfather and Sensei retire to the tearoom to drink another cup. Through the rice-paper wall, we can see them huddled together, heads almost touching.
When Yoshi gestures to the partially closed screen, we don’t hesitate. Sensei told us that samurai kids need to be good listeners, and he’s always telling us to do more practice.
“Which way does the wind blow, old friend?” Sensei asks.
“Is your grandfather a ninja?” whispers Taji.
I shake my head. “Of course not. He couldn’t sneak past a rock.”
“The wind blows many ways,” Grandfather replies. “The Dragon Master has not reached the castle, but your friends are already inside.”
What friends? We thought Sensei had only enemies waiting for him.
“The streets of Toyozawa are filled with rumors of your return. I have whispered many myself. The Emperor is expecting you to appear any day now. But even more important than that, what happened in Hell Valley? Did the ghosts give you any advice?”
“Not this time. I must try to wait patiently until they are ready to help me. They chose to speak to Niya with a message about using one slipper,” says Sensei. “I’m glad you wrote to me about your grandson. The Dragon Master was a fool not to accept him as a student.”
“Dragons have big, fast wings but small, slow brains. No wonder I never fit in when I studied there.” Grandfather chuckles. “Buddha taught that we are born as Cockroaches so we can work our way up to being reborn as Dragons. Just goes to show that no one is right all the time.”
It’s a good joke, but Sensei doesn’t laugh. “I, too, make mistakes,” he says sadly.
Grandfather’s voice softens. “It is the way of the Tao. There cannot be light without dark. There cannot be good without evil. Not even in one man.”
“Who is he talking about?” Kyoko whispers.
“Maybe it’s the Emperor,” says Yoshi.
“Or the Dragon Master,” Nezume suggests.
Or Sensei. Our teacher is wise and kind, but what if he really did do something evil? Good and evil in one man. It’s the perfect description of a tengu goblin priest. Why else would Sensei need advice from the ghosts of Hell Valley?
The door slides open, but this time we’re not ashamed to be caught.
“We are practicing gathering information,” announces Yoshi.
“Excellent. Then I do not need to repeat anything,” Sensei says. “But now it is time for your ears to sleep. Good night, Little Cockroaches.”
I lead the way to my room, where Mother has laid seven mats on the floor.
“Your sister is very beautiful,” says Nezume. “Like the moonflower.”
Mikko sighs. “Like a lotus blossom.”
“And what am I?” Kyoko asks. “Bamboo grass?”
Remembering Kyoko and the crane, I know it’s important to say the right thing. I want to tell her how beautiful she is, but once again, I can’t find any words.
Luckily, Yoshi knows what to say. “You are yukika. The snow flower.”
“Not an ugly snow monkey?” There’s a smile in her voice now.
Taji leans over to give her a hug. “Snow monkeys are cuddly.”
“So why doesn’t anyone make eyes at me?” she demands.
It’s a challenge that answers itself. She would beat us up if we did.
“You are our sister,” Yoshi says. “We look at you and we feel proud.”
I keep my mouth shut. I know how I feel when I look at my sister. And it doesn’t feel at all like that when I look at Kyoko.
At sunrise we take our leave. We will travel along the main road now. There’s no need for secrecy anymore. No one would dare harm those whom the Emperor is expecting.
But none of that matters if we can’t convince the Emperor to stop the drum before the war begins. And if Sensei loses his head first, he won’t even get a chance to speak. What will we do then?
I know what Sensei would say. “We will worry about that when we get there. Why waste time on what might never be?”
I try, but I can’t stop worrying.
“You should reach the east gate by midday,” says Father.
My grandfather grins. “Ki-Yaga doesn’t need a gate.”
“Sensei’s going to fly over the walls,” Mikko murmurs, elbowing me in the ribs.
I’d like to poke him back, but Father is watching and he wouldn’t approve. The White Crane lifts its head high, ignoring the lizard at its foot.
I’m the last to say good-bye, lingering for one final kiss from Mother and a hug from Ayame. The men in my family are more reserved. But whe
n Father and Grandfather gaze at me with pride, it feels just like another hug.
Beside me Mikko dawdles with a whispered message for my sister. “I’ll be back with a bag full of gold. And a writing brush. Just you wait.”
She answers softly, “I think I will.”
Now I can tease Mikko. I’ll poke him in the ribs this time and clutch theatrically at my heart. But if he did marry Ayame one day, we’d be related. The laughter bubbling in my throat drains away. I think I’ll help him fill that bag with gold.
“Chop, chop, Little Cockroaches,” Sensei calls to us.
Grandfather raises a hand in farewell, his fingers stained with black smudges. He likes to play with fireworks, and once he set the roof ablaze. But I’ll never think of him as doddery ever again. I saw the respect in Sensei’s eyes, and I heard him ask Grandfather for advice.
This morning other people share the road around the edge of town. Women with straw baskets on their backs and children on their hips. Men going to work in the fields. The occasional ox and one barking dog that follows us until Sensei waves his staff and growls.
“I liked your family.” Kyoko sighs. “I wish I had one like it.”
“The Cockroach Ryu is a family,” says Sensei. “You have more brothers than any sister should have to put up with.”
“That’s true.” She laughs. “What about you, Sensei? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
It’s hard to imagine Sensei as a young boy, wrestling with a brother or pulling a sister’s hair.
“I had a sister once. She’s dead now.”
That’s sad but not surprising. Sensei is very old, and his sister would be old, too. We wait for Sensei to tell us about her. There’s usually a story, but not this time.
The silence is interrupted by two women arguing on the roadside. One yells, waving a plum in the other’s face. The second shouts, brandishing a peach. If fruit was a weapon, both women would be in slices.
“Old, wise one,” they call to Sensei. “Help us, please.”
Sensei bows low. “How may I assist?”
“I say a plum is worth more than a peach,” declares the first woman, handing Sensei a plum.
“I say a peach is worth more than a plum.” The second places a large yellow fruit in Sensei’s other hand.
Before Sensei can speak, they begin arguing again.
Sensei drops both pieces of fruit in the dirt, grinding them into dusty pulp with his sandals. No longer bickering, the women stand openmouthed. Sensei has worked his first piece of magic. He has made them stop and listen.
“If you do not want each other’s fruit, then neither has value. But if you do, one is not better than the other. You must trade with honor.”
Bowing to Sensei’s wisdom, the women fill his arms with fruit. We continue on our way with sticky peach fingers and red plum-juice mouths. Sensei was right, of course. One is not better than the other.
The road echoes with the stomp of marching feet. A procession is coming. Thump. Thump. Ta-thum. Thump. A drum beats loud and insistent, in ominous time with the one in my head. “Come look,” it pounds. “Hear my noise. See how important my travelers are.” As the group draws nearer, red and gold banners flash against the sun. Their master swaggers in front.
Nezume gasps.
It’s the Dragon Master. He holds his head high and is oblivious to the dust and traffic around him. Six of his students follow with bags, weapons, and boxes of all sizes. They are big and strong and carry the load effortlessly. Their faces echo their master’s haughty disdain.
People stop to stare. The tallest Dragon boy raises his sword high, and the crowd cheers.
Sensei shakes his head. “A sword is not a flag to be waved in the wind.”
The crowd roars again.
“Some people are easily fooled,” says Sensei. “All that glitters is not gold. Sometimes it is just shiny rubbish.”
The procession is almost out of sight now. The arrogant master and his students didn’t even notice us. Perhaps it was best the Dragon Master didn’t lower his gaze to meet Sensei’s eyes. Imagine the sparks then. The grass would be burning.
Ta-thum. Thum-thum. Thump. The drum is only an echo, but its message is loud and clear. Six days to war.
Yoshi sighs. “Their uniforms were splendid.”
I don’t like to admit it, but he’s right. Our drab brown robes are covered with dust and splattered with mud.
“Did you see all the feathers on the Dragon Master’s helmet?” asks Nezume.
He wants one like it, and so do I. Our bare heads are thick with grit from the road.
“Did you see the size of the broadsword the last kid was carrying?” I ask.
It’s hard not to be impressed.
Sensei thumps his staff on the ground to call us to attention. “Weapons should be avoided wherever possible. Or chosen carefully for the task. Size does not matter. Would you use a hatchet to remove a fly from the face of a friend?”
I grin. “I might if it was Mikko bugging me.”
“If there was a fly buzzing around, it wouldn’t be on my forehead. It would be on your smelly slipper,” he retorts.
I swipe at him, and he dodges, laughing, just out of reach.
Giving in to temptation, I take off my slipper and throw it.
The others prefer to walk in sandals. But sometimes, when we have been traveling a long time, I find my slipper more comfortable.
“Perhaps we should leave Niya’s slipper alone.” Sensei’s eyes twinkle as he hands it back to me. “The spirit messenger said it is fated for great things. But right now, it is destined to walk some more.”
Sandals and slipper slap against the road. Nobody notices our little procession. Outwardly, there is nothing golden about us. Sensei teaches us to shine inside.
“The Dragon Master will get to the castle first,” Nezume says. “What if he turns the Emperor against us?”
Sensei shakes his head. “At the castle, there are many procedures and protocols. The Emperor must set an example by following his own rules. He will wait for us. And besides, it is bad manners not to do so. Even the Son of Heaven does not want to be in trouble with his teacher.”
What about the Emperor’s decree that if Sensei returns he must forfeit his head? There’s nothing polite about that. I’ve always hated rules. Now more than ever.
But Sensei doesn’t seem worried about the future of his head. He leaves that to me. We walk along, kicking dust in the Dragon Master’s footprints. Sensei whistles, tapping the ground with his staff. He nods politely to a fat man with a mat under his arm and calls a greeting to a farmer working in a field beside the road.
Father was right. By midday we have reached the castle wall. And Grandfather was right, too. There’s not a gate to be seen.
The wall stretches high to tug the clouds into place around its turrets and towers. Along the base of the wall runs a moat. We stop underneath a giant cherry tree. But Sensei’s usual space in the shade is already taken by a large dirty man, asleep in the ragged remains of a red kimono and jacket — snoring there without his trousers on. We don’t know which way to look. Sensei makes it even harder when he sits down next to the tramp.
“Wake up,” he bellows into the man’s ear. “Lunch has arrived.”
Seaweed-green eyes snap open. “Good.” The tramp smiles at Sensei. “I haven’t eaten for three days. I am hungry enough to eat my bamboo hat.”
I can’t see a hat anywhere. Maybe he’s eaten it already.
Dutifully, we unroll the lunch Mother packed and spread it on the grass. Sensei’s new friend eats so fast, even Yoshi has trouble keeping up.
Leaning back against the tree, the big man burps loudly and looks up the wall. “It’s a long way to the top.”
“Always is,” Sensei agrees.
Like a flea-riddled dog, the tramp scratches his ear so hard, his knees shake. I shift a little to the left so any dislodged fleas don’t jump onto me. Cockroaches and fleas don’t get along at all.
“Are you going in tonight?” the tramp asks.
“As soon as it’s dark,” replies Sensei. “I have business to complete before I let the Emperor know we have arrived.”
We look up at the wall, amazed. The swim across the moat would be freezing cold, but the climb is impossible.
“How are we going to get over that wall?” Nezume shakes his head.
Maybe the Snow Monkey could scale it, but the rest of us haven’t got a chance. Unless Sensei really can work a little magic.
The wizard smiles and waves his bamboo wand. “I have arranged for some expert help.”
“Who?” we chorus.
The tramp bursts into a spasm of guffaws, spattering bits of rice all over Yoshi. Politely, Yoshi wipes the food spittle from his jacket and his cheek.
“Only a ninja can climb a wall like that,” the tramp says. “What are you teaching these students, Master, that they don’t know such obvious things?”
Sensei sighs. “They are still learning to listen. I have taught them Nothing, and it is all they know.”
The tramp burps again. “Nothing is enough, Master.”
Sensei rummages in his pack and pulls out a pair of trousers. They must have belonged to Onaku. Sensei’s skinny pants would never fit this huge man. How did Sensei know to bring Onaku’s trousers?
Fully clothed, the tramp nods his thanks before closing his eyes to sleep and snore again.
“Who is he?” Kyoko whispers.
“A ronin,” says Sensei. “A wandering samurai who serves no lord but chooses to travel his own path. A lot like us.”
Mikko gently lifts the ronin’s jacket. “Phew. It wouldn’t take a ninja to smell this vagabond coming. If he’s a warrior, where’s his sword? All he has is a student’s wooden bokken.”
Taji wrinkles his nose. “Perhaps he lost his samurai sword.”
It’s almost unimaginable. But if anyone could do it, it would be this scruffy man.
“Maybe he is not deserving enough,” Nezume suggests.
Sensei’s eyes dance. “Perhaps he does not need one. He might be a better swordsman than any of us.”
Owl Ninja Page 6