Not likely. This man is no skilled samurai. He’s not even a worthy opponent. Mikko could easily beat him one-handed. Even on one leg, I’m sure I could too.
“All that glitters is not gold,” Sensei reminds us. “And all that smells is not rubbish.”
While we play games to pass the time, Sensei joins the ronin in a snoring bout. Sensei is a champion snorer, but it’s a close competition and we quickly lose interest in judging it. Kyoko draws a grid in the dirt. I’m an expert at hopping games. Throwing a stone, we jump from square to square, avoiding the lines. It’s good practice for getting across the mats to the tea ceremony.
Late in the afternoon, Sensei wakes. With his staff he raps our new companion across the knees.
“Dinner?” the ronin asks hopefully.
Kyoko lays out the remains of our food and we race our guest to the last honey cake.
The ronin belches appreciatively. “Now I will tell you a story in return for your hospitality. Would you like to hear what happened to my trousers?”
We nod, shifting ourselves into a storytelling circle. The White Crane bends closer. It loves a good story.
“Listen and learn, young samurai. I am about to tell you a tale of great strategy.”
Losing your trousers doesn’t sound like much of a strategy to me.
“On the way to the castle, I was challenged by a renowned swordsman, victorious in his last fifteen duels. I did not want to hurt such an esteemed opponent.”
It’s hard to imagine his opponent was in any danger. Kyoko swallows a giggle and Sensei glares, but the ronin doesn’t notice. Like all good stories, this one has a life of its own. It doesn’t need to feed off the faces of its listeners.
“I required a strategy to disorientate my opponent. Something to make him hesitate.”
“Because he who hesitates has already lost,” Taji says.
The ronin chuckles, scratching the stray whiskers on his chin. “It seems your students have been listening, Master. To distract my worthy adversary, I decided to take off my trousers.”
That’s not so silly after all. It’s enough to make anyone stop and stare.
“My opponent refused to fight someone he thought was an idiot. He went away. So I notched a victory on my scabbard, and my respected foe survived unharmed. But no plan is perfect, and while I was congratulating myself, a gust of wind blew my trousers into the nearby lake. They sleep with the sweetfish now.”
“Your opponent was very fortunate. It was his lucky day,” Sensei says.
What? Sensei thinks this ruffian would have won? He’s got to be kidding.
“My lucky day, too. I didn’t need my pants or my sword that morning,” the ronin says. “Sometimes it is not what you have but what you don’t have. So I gave my sword away to someone who needed it more.”
That sounds like something Sensei would teach. And Sensei is nodding, pleased, as if he was somehow involved.
“Everything is not as it looks,” he says. “The easiest opponent is the one who thinks he has already won.”
Like the Dragon Master?
Sensei nods inside my head. I’m getting used to it now.
“I wouldn’t mind fighting if I didn’t have to use a sword or hurt anyone,” Yoshi says.
“As long as you keep your trousers on. We don’t need your lumpy legs to look at,” teases Mikko.
“Sometimes it is good to be blind.” Taji laughs. “There are some things no one should have to see.”
Bellies full, Sensei and the ronin are soon snoring again. We wait excitedly for the adventure that tonight promises. Just a few hours to go, but the time crawls like a caterpillar.
“What if this tattered tramp really is a famous swordsman?” I whisper.
Nezume shrugs. “Like who?”
“Sensei seems to know him. He might even be Mitsuka Manuyoto.”
The others giggle and guffaw, Mikko loudest of all.
“You think Sensei is a tengu and some old vagabond is the celebrated swordsman Manuyoto. A national hero who saved the Emperor from even more assassins than Sensei? Sometimes, Niya, you have mung beans for brains.”
My friends laugh even louder, waking Sensei and the ronin.
“Mmmh.” The ronin yawns. “Is there any leftover supper?”
“Eating must wait. There is work to do.” Sensei rises, shaking his long, skinny arms. He stretches his legs and touches his toes.
The ronin lumbers to his feet, looks down, and decides to stay upright.
Long, deep shadows have draped across the castle town. An owl hoots. A bat screeches. Night clambers over the walls and just behind it, a small dark figure.
Darkness chases the ninja down the wall. We strain to see his shadow disappear against the night. We struggle to listen. But all we hear is the muffled bok-bok of frogs in the weeds. Not a ripple breaks the water until the ninja emerges to shake himself like a wet cat. He runs toward us on silent feline feet.
Bowing low, he doesn’t rise until Sensei taps him on the shoulder.
“Master,” the small but familiar voice says.
Before I can fit the words to a face, the sword on the ninja’s belt calls out to me. Izuru, the blade of my childhood.
Last year, I gave it to the young village boy who was carried to the ryu with a broken leg. While Sensei straightened the bone, the boy bit hard on the hilt of my sword. Once his teeth marks were on the leather, I knew where Izuru belonged. I was ready to wear the katana and wakizashi of the warrior samurai, and it was time to let Izuru go.
I know I did the right thing. I can hear it in Izuru’s song.
The boy turns to me. Up close, in the gray gloom, I can see him clearly. He’s wearing a dark indigo-blue suit, the night uniform of the ninja. His body and face are covered except for his hands and a narrow slit across his eyes so he can see.
Taji has recognized the voice, too. A voice is like a face in his memory.
“Hello, Riaze,” he says.
“Hello, Little Cockroaches.” Riaze bows to each of us in turn, including the ronin.
We all bow our response. It’s a well-coordinated movement, perfectly timed to avoid a lot of head knocking and forehead rubbing. We learned this the hard way. The first time we bowed together, I received a lump the size of a duck egg. And Mikko had one even bigger.
Riaze touches the sword at his side. “I am taking good care of Izuru. I have not drawn it once in a fight. But I have taken it out of the scabbard many times to admire the blade and listen to its song.”
“Thank you,” I say, bending as deeply as I can.
Some things are really important, and this is one of them. A samurai kid never forgets his first sword. Even when he grows old enough to carry a longer, sharper blade by his side, he still keeps the memory of his first sword in his heart.
“Why didn’t you return to the ryu to study with us?” asks Kyoko.
“I was greatly honored when Ki-Yaga offered to instruct me, but I was called elsewhere.” Riaze grins. “It seems Sensei has come to teach me anyway. Before he begins, I must do some teaching of my own.”
Riaze unstraps a bag from his back. Crouching, he empties the contents onto the ground and we drop to our haunches beside him.
First, he hands each of us a ninja-blue jacket and baggy trousers.
“Put these over your clothes. Brown is easy to see in the shadows, but blue will make you invisible.”
Now the ronin has two pairs of trousers when this afternoon he had none.
“Are you coming with us?” Yoshi asks him.
“I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Why else would I wait around for three days outside the castle wall?” His teeth gleam bright through the shadows.
“You are much appreciated,” says Sensei. “We need all the help we can gather.”
The ronin bows. “It is always an honor to wait for you, Teacher.”
“That’s not what you used to say.” Sensei laughs. “I believe you once called me a slow old turtle, and I had to cha
se you with a stick to prove it wasn’t true.”
It’s hard to imagine Sensei chasing this great bear around. Before we can ask for the whole story, Riaze holds up a metal bar with straps and spikes.
“With these ninja climbing claws on your hands and feet, you will be able to scale the wall like monkeys.” He winks at Kyoko.
Kyoko slips a hand claw on, adjusting the straps and making room for her extra finger.
“Have you worn these before?” Nezume asks.
She shakes her head, flexing her knuckles. “It’s easy to see how they go.”
Not for me. I turn the metal band over and over. It won’t fit my hand at all.
“That’s a foot claw,” says Riaze. “I’ll show you how to put it on.”
My leg is soon a lethal weapon, metal prongs protruding from the bottom of my toes. I imagine kicking an opponent. I wouldn’t need two feet to fight if I had a spiky slipper.
Not a bad idea, for a ninja, Sensei teases inside my head.
I’m used to hearing his voice there now, and I like it. It’s a special bond between us.
Before I have one handpiece in place, Sensei is ready. He’s worn this climbing equipment before! And so has the ronin. He’s already dressed and helping Taji with the buckles.
From the smaller bag hanging on his belt, Riaze removes a bundle of bamboo tubes. He gives us one each.
“We’ll use these to cross the moat underwater. For many months my ninja clan has been piling stones in the ditch here to build a ridge across the bottom. If we walk along it, the water will flow just above our heads.”
Riaze demonstrates how to use the bamboo tubes. “One end of the tube goes in your mouth, and the other sits above the waterline. If any water splashes into the tube, blow hard and it will clear.”
Now I know why Sensei came to this section of the wall. And I know it’s not coincidence that the ronin was waiting in the same place. They came to meet at the underwater bridge.
“This is how the ninja move across a river unseen. We do not splash and splutter like the swimming samurai.” Riaze chuckles.
“I thought the ninja could walk on water,” Taji says.
I’ve heard that, too. My father believes they have special shoes that glide across the surface, as if by magic. My grandfather says it is a good story and repeats it whenever he can.
Riaze laughs even louder. “That’s just a myth. But words are powerful weapons. With each telling of the story, our imagined supernatural powers grow more believable. It’s easy to fool a superstitious man, even a samurai or an emperor. Some men think we can vanish into thin air.”
That sounds reasonable to me. Riaze disappeared when he was climbing down the wall. I saw it with my own eyes.
“It is hard to fight or track an opponent you can’t see,” Taji agrees. “You have to listen very hard.”
The ronin slaps his hand against his leg. “I don’t like listening anytime. If you can’t beat them, join them, I say.”
“Is that what we’re doing, Sensei?” Yoshi asks.
Our teacher nods. “The way of the warrior has many paths to be walked many different ways. To silence the war drum, we must also creep on ninja feet.”
Or in my case, hop on a ninja foot. Preferably with spikes on it.
“I will walk in samurai sandals,” says Riaze. “I’m proud to carry Izuru by my side, and all my friends are envious. No ninja weapon compares to a samurai sword.”
Sensei was right. We have much to learn from one another. We won the Annual Trainee Games because we worked together as a team. Inside the castle wall, a greater challenge is waiting. We must convince the Emperor to stop the war before he chops off Sensei’s head. But this time our team is even stronger. We have two new members. Izuru chose Riaze many months ago, and I suspect Sensei chose the ronin long before that.
Riaze is looking in his belt bag again. Ninja might not wear magic shoes, but the bags they carry are full of tricks. What else could he possibly have in there?
He extracts a small bamboo cylinder. “You will like this best of all.”
“What’s it do?” Kyoko asks.
“It warms your heart. More than any kiss ever will.”
As Kyoko reaches to take the cylinder, Riaze brushes her clawed hand against his lips.
Kyoko giggles, and my glare slices through the darkness between them.
“The tube is warm,” she says, surprised.
“We pack embers inside layers of bamboo. It will generate heat for hours,” Riaze promises. “And it’s useful if you want to burn down a building.”
The ninja use fire to flush out their victims. Father once said that a ninja can shoot flames from the palm of his hand. But Grandfather said, “All fires begin with a little spark. There’s no magic in that.” He knew about the ember cylinders. I should have paid more attention to Grandfather’s stories. For years his wisdom was right under my nose and I never once breathed it in.
“There is a waterproof pocket inside your jacket,” Riaze informs us.
I place the cylinder in it carefully. Warmth spreads through the pocket, across my chest.
But Mikko has other worries on his mind than being wet and cold. He’s looking up anxiously. “It’s very high.”
“But not as difficult as it looks,” Sensei reassures us. “The wall is pitted with handholds.”
How does he know that? Maybe he can fly.
Or maybe he’s climbed it before.
“I have left a grappling hook at the top of the wall. It’s holding a rope ladder you can use,” says Riaze. “Stick close and flat against the wall. We call it lizard walking.”
Our Striped Gecko doesn’t look convinced.
“Don’t worry, Mikko. The ladder will help you climb like a ninja.” When Riaze came to the ryu, it was Mikko who held his hand and made him laugh to forget the pain. Now it is Riaze’s turn to help.
“You’ll be all right,” Nezume says, belting Mikko on the shoulder. “One arm never bothered you before. And it won’t this time.”
Mikko shakes his head. “It’s not that.” He pauses. “I’m afraid of heights.”
“But you stand on the edge of our mountain looking into the valley,” says Kyoko. “It makes me dizzy to watch.”
“That’s different. I feel safe because we’re all standing there. I know Yoshi would reach out and grab me.”
“Then I’ll go last,” says Yoshi. “And if you slip, I’ll catch you.”
Kyoko giggles. “Squashed Yoshi.”
“The biggest problem is owls,” Sensei says. “They have nests all over the wall and their beaks are sharp. If you put your finger in the wrong place, you might lose it.”
“I’ve got a spare finger, anyway.” Kyoko shrugs.
The White Crane isn’t scared of other birds either.
“I heard an owl calling earlier,” says Taji. “I listened hard but I couldn’t hear its wings.”
“That’s because it was me.” Riaze puffs with pride. “I am a member of the Owl Ninja Clan. Tu-whit. Tu-whoo.” He hoots, soft and familiar, into the night.
In my memory an owl answers. Grandfather’s tearoom scroll. The Crane, the Bat, the Lizard, the Tiger, the Rat, the Monkey. And the Owl. It’s not Sensei at all. It’s Riaze. Was Grandfather sending me a message?
“Time to go,” the ronin reminds us. “We need to reach the Owl Dojo before midnight.”
It’s easy to walk with a claw on my foot. We follow Riaze into the moat, gasping as the icy water clutches our throats. It crushes against my chest until the fire in my pocket forces it to let go. I hop as fast as I can.
The ridge across the bottom is narrow and uneven. I concentrate carefully. My thoughts hold my mind in place, but my foot slips. Cold water fills my breathing tube. I am gasping and sputtering; the world around me turns to bubbles. I want to scream, but I force myself not to panic. A boy who has faced a ghost is not afraid of drowning. It’s like I’m dreaming — I see the world through Taji’s eyes, all gray and black
.
Om-om, Sensei says inside my head. My waterlogged brain struggles to stay awake. Om-om, I force myself to answer.
The ronin’s strong bear arms lift me back onto the ridge. I try not to gulp as I blow out to clear the tube. My aching lungs stretch and snap back into shape. My friends are ahead of me and don’t even know what has happened. I’ll have a good story to tell tonight at the dojo.
Riaze and Sensei reach the wall first. Sensei climbs like a spindly-legged garden spider. Kyoko follows quickly, but Riaze stops to help Mikko onto the first rung of the ladder. I’m just behind Nezume, Taji, and Yoshi. And the ronin. Like a column of ants, we scrape a trail up the wall.
Sensei is first to the top. His arms are skinny but strong — thin strands of unbreakable bamboo. The ronin is last. His arms are short but strong — bolts of bamboo matting. Climbing is all about arms, and I’ve got two of those. But it’s hard with only one foot to rest against.
Like a sky ninja, the pale moon creeps from behind the clouds. I can see all the way to the castle keep. In the middle of the compound stands the main building where the Emperor sleeps. Four smaller buildings surround it, connected by passageways. Somewhere inside, Sensei will confront the Emperor and speak out against the drum.
The White Crane likes it up here. It shakes its feathers, itching to fly.
“Someone’s coming,” Taji whispers.
“Which direction?” asks Riaze.
“East.”
“Everyone flat against the top of the wall.” Dropping quickly, Riaze shows us how.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The sound of samurai boots draws closer. The White Crane huddles paralyzed with fear, and the goldfish in my stomach hold their breath. Ta-thum. Thum-thump. My heart beats a reminder: six days to war.
Directly below me, two soldiers stop to argue. They smell as if they’ve been drenched in sake and rolled in warm mouse droppings. It’s worse than the sulfur steam of Hell Valley.
In front of me, Nezume wriggles. He’s not good at keeping still. He’s usually the first to move when we practice statues.
Tsst. A small stone drops to the ground. Tsst. Another follows.
“What was that?” the first soldier asks.
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