White Ninja

by Tiffiny Hall

  ‘Taekwondo copied Karate,’ the boy says.

  ‘Not possible. Karate is Japanese.’

  ‘So?’ the boy says.

  ‘Taekwondo is Korean,’ Salvatore says, taking back the flyer he just handed the boy. Obviously, he doesn’t think he deserves one after those comments.

  The sound of a skateboard roars towards us and I turn just in time to see Hero skid to a stop in front of me. He’s holding a monster green slurpee in his right hand. He grabs a handful of flyers, throws them on the ground and rolls his skateboard back and forth over them.

  Everything seems to sag around me: the sausages slip out of their bread at the sausage sizzle, the jumping castle collapses in on itself, the trestle tables droop with the weight of leftover fundraiser carrot cakes. How did Hero know I was here? I clench my teeth. Has he told anyone about me skipping school?

  ‘So, you’ve made friends with him?’ He points to Jackson, then runs a finger over a picture of Sabomin posing with somebody dressed up in an Easter Bunny suit. ‘These guys are real scary,’ he jeers. He rips a pin from the corner of the board and stabs it through every person’s eyes on the A3 laminated team photo. I launch at him, but he steps back and chucks his chlorine-coloured slurpee at me — just as Sabomin steps between us. In an instant, Sabomin’s pristine white uniform flashes snot green.

  ‘This little display of yours is a waste of time,’ Hero sneers at Sabomin. ‘I’ll find him first.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask.

  ‘Stop pretending,’ Hero sneers. ‘You’re a liar, just like your mother.’

  I can’t believe he said that! I clench my fists, but before I can react, he’s roared off on his skateboard.

  Sabomin puts a hand on my shoulder and examines the vandalised photo of the demo team. Their pricked-out eyes make them all look like ghosts in their white uniforms.

  ‘Sure hope you didn’t sign that kid up,’ he says.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, looking at the slurpee dripping from his uniform.

  ‘It’ll wash out.’ He smiles. ‘The problem is his, not mine. It’s an important life lesson to learn.’

  Jackson comes over. ‘Was that Hero?’ he says, looking at Sabomin’s uniform.

  ‘How do you know him?’ I ask.

  ‘We used to go to the same martial arts school,’ Jackson says. ‘Now we compete against each other in comp.’

  ‘And who is he talking about?’

  Jackson’s eyebrows thread together in frustration. ‘The White Warrior,’ he says.

  Sabo interrupts. ‘May I talk to you in the trailer?’

  EIGHT

  Jackson and I take a seat on the kick pads in the trailer. Sabomin stands in front of a pile of vertically stacked practice mats that looks like a giant wafer biscuit. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t expect to be spending my afternoon in a sweltering trailer with martial arts experts. But nothing about today has been normal.

  ‘You killed that board,’ Sabomin says.

  My heart beats near my tonsils. I can’t speak.

  ‘So,’ Sabomin says, ‘tell me if any of this sounds familiar. Dizziness, hot flushes, nausea, your hands and torso start flashing invisible and suddenly you can fight like Jackie Chan?’

  The air sucks out of the trailer, my stomach squelches, my hands slide down to my knees with sweat. Nervousness creeps all over me as panic climbs in my chest. ‘Um,’ I stutter, my cheeks stinging with a vicious blush. Jackson will think I’m a freak, a total weirdo, if I admit to flashes of invisibility.

  ‘You, my girl, have the symptoms of ninja,’ Sabomin says.

  Jackson slaps the back of his hand on his palm. ‘Textbook,’ he says. ‘Let’s take her down to the dojang and see what she can do!’

  His excitement is almost more than I can take. Instead of wanting to hide, I feel like running. But I stay where I am, for fear of leaving a sweat patch on the kick pad I’m sitting on.

  Sabomin points the tip of his belt out the door of the trailer. ‘To the dojang!’ he cries theatrically.

  Squeezed next to Jackson in the front of the van, I relish every bump in the road that pushes our knees together. My senses are brimming with his scent. I know I shouldn’t be in a van with a stranger — Mum would kill me. But Jackson makes me feel safe. Protected.

  Sabo pulls up in the forecourt of a service station. ‘We’re here,’ he says.

  ‘To fill up?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’ Jackson leans over me to open the door and his hair brushes against my cheek. ‘To fight.’

  Nerves seize my stomach. I’ve already fought once today, but that was a total fluke. I couldn’t possibly do it again. I don’t know how.

  The service station is ancient: petrol pumps without hose nozzles; an out-of-service car wash; an empty shop; graffitied concrete walls. I follow Sabo and Jackson around the back and down a driveway that leads to a blue building with a single black door and a red sticker saying Get your kicks here.

  ‘You’re going to love this,’ Jackson says as he pulls the door open for me.

  I’m not so sure.

  I gasp as I enter the room. The floor is carpeted with spongy blue and red jigsaw mats. The walls are lined with sheets of white rice paper and etched with dark wooden beams that weave in intricate patterns up to the ceiling and spiral into a glass dome that infuses the room with a warm glow. The room contains every type of equipment you can imagine: kick bags hanging from the roof on chains, ladders, cones, bamboo sticks, swords, nunchucks and things I don’t recognise. I am in awe of this room. There is a peacefulness to it that makes you feel instantly serene.

  Jackson and Sabo bow as they enter.

  ‘Welcome to the dojang,’ Sabomin says. ‘Operation ninjathon by day, kids’ classes by night. Jacko here,’ he slaps Jackson on the back, ‘is one of my instructors.’

  Sabo and Jackson disappear into a side room. I walk along the wall of the dojang and look at some of the equipment. One wall is adorned with hundreds of silver rings that seem to have claws attached to them. I pick one off the wall and fit it to my middle finger. When I close my fist, the claw pops out.

  ‘Cool,’ I gasp.

  ‘Super cool,’ Sabomin says.

  I spin around, flustered, to see him wearing a fresh white Taekwondo uniform. Jackson is wearing a uniform too, but his is all black. He has a black hood wrapped around his head, leaving only his moss-green eyes visible.

  He performs an axe kick followed by a 540-degree spinning roundhouse kick, double side kick into a double knife hand, finishing with percussive strikes. His stances zip, and as he spins on his heels his uniform cracks as if the sleeves have been dipped in starch and he has a cat-o’-nine-tails attached to each wrist. I’m still watching his hair fly and the black belt flick as he says, ‘Cool, huh?’

  Still in a daze, I don’t respond.

  ‘Rox?’ he says.

  I snap out of it. ‘Awesome,’ I say.

  ‘This is the shinobi shozoku, secret uniform of the ninja,’ he says, running his hands down his chest. ‘This is a new model — there are compartments built into it for storing waste, so you can go without leaving any evidence when you’re in enemy territory.’

  ‘Like a wetsuit for surfers?’ I say.

  He laughs. ‘Exactly.’

  He begins explaining the parts of the uniform: the black jacket with its close-fitting sleeves and no cuffs or ties that could snag on any surfaces; the black pants that tuck into cloth gaiters wound around his calves; the soleless two-toed ninja slippers called tabi. ‘The cloth of the trousers can be used for heaps of stuff,’ he says. ‘As a flotation device, or a tent or hammock. They’re also reversible for camouflage — the reverse side is green for bush.’

  ‘I get it,’ I interrupt, becoming impatient. I don’t care about his ninja pants and what they can do, I want to know why Hero hates me. ‘Why am I here?’

  But Jackson’s so in love with his ninja suit he continues. ‘The hood, or zukin, has been soaked in
an antiseptic resin to be used as a bandage, or a filter to purify water for drinking. Cool, huh?’

  Maybe the hood also makes you deaf.

  ‘Jackson,’ I try again. ‘Why am I here?’

  He looks at me with those leafy-green eyes. ‘Okay, Roxy,’ he holds out his hand, ‘are you ready?’

  I take his hand, feeling the pulsating warmth as I brush past his wrist. ‘For what?’

  He twists my wrist and I fly into the air, spin three times and land on my knees before him.

  ‘To show us what you can do,’ Sabo says. ‘Jacko here has been ninjaing all on his own. Old man here,’ Sabo rubs his heart again, ‘is just a retired champion. Won myself a gold in the State championships of ’73.’ He takes a long, dragging breath and shakes his head. ‘But now isn’t the time to go on about the glory days. I know a special student when I train one, and Jackson, like you, was born special.’

  I feel myself blush so hard the warmth of my cheeks practically steams up into my eyes. No one’s ever called me special. Well, Elecktra has, but I don’t think it was meant as a compliment. And not only does Sabo think I’m special, he’s put me in the same category as Jackson — two special peas in a pod. Could this day get any weirder?

  Jackson takes a bamboo stick off the wall and begins to twirl it around his body at lightning speed. The bamboo whirs in front of his face, fanning his blond hair off his forehead. Sabo nods to the wall and I pick out my own bamboo stick. It feels warm, seared by the many hands that have fought with it. At first, the stick feels clumsy in my hands and my wrists are stiff, but after a while I find I can spin the stick around my body, copying Jackson. We stand mirroring each other’s movements. Jackson speeds up to challenge me. I’m up for it.

  ‘Why do you need me?’ I ask, spinning the stick.

  Sabo moves between us like a referee and we stop spinning the sticks when we see the black velvet case in his hands. My questions vanish as he opens the case to reveal a set of glittering silver stars.

  ‘Shuriken,’ says Jackson, ‘or throwing blades — a ninja’s number one weapon, used to paralyse an opponent from afar.’

  ‘The ninja star will show you who you are,’ Sabo says.

  I look down at the constellation of stars: they are all different, some with serrated edges, others with fat spikes, some with knife points, others with blunt points intended to maim rather than kill. I select a silver star with a serrated edge and an orchid symbol in the centre.

  I hold the star in my hands and close my eyes.

  A flash of shoulders, a scream, my mother’s ponytail in my face — she’s running, with me on her back. I’m a baby, no more than a year old. I clutch her neck for dear life. I feel something at my feet. I look down and see the head of a sword tucked into her black belt. There are men on horses charging after us, men in front of us. My mother is kicking and striking her way through the men, using her katana sword. Her sapphire-midnight hair gallops against her back as she spins. Her ninja shinobi shozoku and her porcelain cheeks are striped with warrior blood. She is panting white-hot breath into the night, her silver sword flashing light into her dark eyes.

  A man with a sword approaches, his eyes red with rage. He lifts his sword. Mum reaches her elbow back behind her ear, lifting the ninja star past my cheek. The star has serrated edges and in its heart is an orchid. Just like the ninja star I now hold in my hands.

  ‘Wow,’ I whisper, opening my eyes. ‘Mum’s ninja star.’

  I think back to the words my mother wrote yesterday on my hard-boiled egg: Reach for the stars. Maybe she meant ninja stars.

  Sabo nods. ‘Ninja is passed on strongest through the female line,’ he says.

  I’ve often wondered if there is any ninja in Elecktra or me. But Mum has always told me it’s impossible because of who our father was. And our father remains a mystery.

  I look at Jackson. He’s smiling at me. ‘And the White Warrior?’ I ask.

  ‘Legend has it, the White Warrior is born with the power to control the martial arts elements of wind, water, earth, fire and invisibility,’ he says. ‘He wears a white shinobi shozoku because of his amazing powers. Only one White Warrior is born every century — and they’re hunted by the samurai and ninja clans, because if you kill a White Warrior you get his powers.’ Jackson’s eyes are intense.

  ‘You want to kill the White Warrior?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ Sabo says, ‘I want him for the demo team. Earthquakes, storms and all that — it’ll be awesome!’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ I say.

  Jackson laughs. ‘Long ago, the ninjas swore to protect the White Warrior, and in return the White Warrior protects the ninjas.’

  ‘Against who?’ I ask.

  ‘The samurai, who still hunt the White Warrior. They want that power for themselves. As the Tiger Scrolls are the link to the White Warrior, Hero wants to find them first. If he succeeds, the ninja clan will lose all our protection and the samurai will become all-powerful.’

  My heart traps in my throat. My saliva turns to cement. ‘This must mean Hero is a samurai!’ I blurt. This takes his bullying to a whole new level. Hero is not just a bully; he’s my mortal enemy, I think as Jackson nods.

  ‘How do I fit into all this?’ I stammer.

  ‘There’re twice as many samurai as ninjas. Your ninjaism is just coming in and we need you on our side.’

  I realise why Mum would never have mentioned the White Warrior. She didn’t want me to be involved in this fight. She’s always wanted me to be a normal kid. Not a ninja.

  Jackson takes a star and throws it towards the ceiling. It flies up, past the beams, until it spears into the middle rafter, piercing it dead centre. Jackson turns and winks at me, causing my stomach to flutter. He is awesome at both art and ninja arts — what a legend.

  Now it’s my turn. I spin once, then let my star fly out of my hand. It circles us twice and returns to my hand. I try to throw it at the nearest wall, but again it circles us and returns to my hand. On my third try, the star slices through a punching bag, spraying sand across the mats, before rebounding to my hand.

  ‘You’ve got a boomerang one!’ Jackson says and slaps me hard on the back. I cough. ‘We’re really going to have some fun. Now put your hands like this, in the sign of water,’ he says.

  I place the star on the floor and copy the movement, making a fist with my right hand and pointing my left palm flat towards it, fingertips to my chin in a prayer position. My hands touch.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Like this.’ He makes the symbol again and this time I understand the microscopic distance between the two hands and copy him.

  ‘If you can harness the power of rock,’ he nods at his closed fist, ‘and water,’ he nods towards his open palm, ‘and control both as separate entities within you, where nothing else exists, then you’ll be able to control your invisibility.’

  ‘Powerful stuff,’ Sabo says. ‘Classic ninja material.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you need me,’ I say, picking my star up again carefully, scared that it might do to me what it just did to the punching bag.

  ‘Do you know the meaning of ninja?’ Jackson asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Stealth. We’re known as the shadow warriors.’

  Stealth. There’s nothing stealthy about Jackson. He’s only been at the school a few days and every girl knows his name. He can’t go anywhere without being noticed.

  ‘The samurai were the rich warrior caste, and the ninja clan developed as a reaction against them,’ he continues. ‘They came from the poor farming communities who were barely surviving under samurai rule. They started out as thieves and then became the best spies in Japan — achieving missions by any means. For thousands of years, the ninjas and the samurai have been enemies. We use stealth. They use swords.’

  I imagine Hero with a sword and my blood runs cold. Truly my mortal enemy.

  ‘Eighty-seven years ago the ninja and samurai clans declared peace,’ he says. ‘
Then a new White Warrior was born. The ninja clan kept their promise to protect the White Warrior, but the samurai still wanted to kill him to take his power. In order to protect her child from the samurai, the White Warrior’s mother had his powers extracted by a mystic monk and placed into some scrolls. The Tiger Scrolls.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say.

  Jackson narrows his brows and stares deep into my eyes. This must be serious, I tell myself.

  ‘We need to find the current White Warrior and the Tiger Scrolls before Hero does, to prevent him and the samurai from taking the White Warrior’s powers. We’re talking clan war here, Roxy. If Hero succeeds, everyone we love will die.’

  My heart throbs. Jackson’s words echo into its chambers, where my mother and Art live, and Elecktra. Cinnamon too.

  ‘Where do we start looking?’ I ask.

  ‘In the Cemetery of Warriors.’

  ‘But where’s that?’

  ‘It’s not of this world. You get transported there when the ancient warriors decide you’re ready.’

  ‘Transported to another world?’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I had no idea all this was going on around me. I have a different opinion of boring Lanternwood now — it’s getting more exciting by the minute.

  ‘The White Warrior bears a mark on his soul,’ Jackson goes on. ‘That’s how we’ll know it’s the right person.’

  How can you see a soul, let alone see a soul that’s got a mark on it? Do you look down someone’s throat to see a marked soul, or into their eyes? Or do you wait for them to cough? And why do Jackson and Sabo think I’ll be able to help them? I can’t even get through the school gates without being spat on. I have a hard enough time at school as it is, being harassed by Hero and his friends. Do I really need to take on all this ninja stuff as well?

  ‘If I do help you find this White Warrior person and get back the scrolls, what’s in it for me?’ I ask.

  ‘If you join us in this search, I’ll give you something you really want,’ Jackson says confidently.

  I try to think of something I really want, but nothing matches up to the danger Jackson is proposing. Not even the thought of again being alone with him in the gym. I can’t think of anything Jackson could give me to make me want to train night and day to track down some warrior. Then my palms become slippery and my crawling stomach tells me there is something I want more than anything, but I lack the guts to say it.