Slinging the package over his shoulder, the Dragon Master steps back. His face twisting in anger, he knows he can’t win this battle.
“May your blades bend and snap in two,” he says. “The Dragon Ryu will purchase its swords elsewhere in the future.”
The words slice through the air, but Onaku is as steely as his swords.
“May your flames fizzle and fart,” he responds.
I clamp my hand over my mouth to catch my laughter before it escapes.
“Out of my way, roaches.” The Dragon pushes past us.
At the doorway, he turns. Dark reptilian eyes glitter, and his tongue flicks over his lips.
I hold my breath.
“I will see you two at the Samurai Trainee Games,” he snarls through white, pointed teeth. “Perhaps I will find you squashed on the sole of my sandal.”
“Grrrr.” Beside me, the Tiger growls. The White Crane snaps its beak, and I’m ready to peck out the Dragon’s eyes.
With a rustle of red silk and a threatening wave of his sword, the Dragon Master is gone.
Swish. Chop. Yoshi draws a line across his neck using his finger as a blade. “Those Dragons won’t know what hit them when they meet us at the Games,” he says.
I imagine the Dragon Master’s helmet rolling on the floor and give it a good kick with my one, strong leg.
Master Onaku’s ruined sword skids across the dirt and lands in the trash heap. Now the Sword Master is ready to talk.
“Welcome, Niya. Welcome, Yoshi. I apologize for the rudeness of my customer.” He bows low.
We bow lower, smudging our foreheads with dirt.
“You are brave. The Dragon Master is a powerful man,” I say. Yoshi nods.
The Sword Master laughs — a warm, honey-filled sound that drips down the back of our throats.
Master Onaku is a familiar face. Twice a year he comes to the ryu to visit Sensei. To cleanse his soul and get away from his wife, he says. Onaku is short and broad like a tree stump. He has a round, red face, a big nose, and the most beautiful wife in the world. Sensei says he built his ryu in the Tateyama Mountains so he could be close to Onaku’s swords. Onaku Cays he built his smithy in the village so he could be close to the ryu’s wine.
“I am not afraid of him,” the Sword Master says. “He huffs and blows nothing but smoke rings that stink in the air. No sword will sing for the Dragon Master. There’s no skill in bullying others. Now, if your master yelled at me, I would hide under the table. Ki-Yaga would not allow his trainees to fight with swords that mutter and mumble.”
I look at Yoshi. We have an advantage over the Dragons! Their swords are weak, and ours are strong.
“Now, boys,” Onaku says, “I must begin a new sword. Would you like to stay for lunch and watch me work?”
“Yes, Master,” we chorus. “It is a great honor to be invited.” Our stomachs want to stay, too.
Yoshi and I sit back down. Behind us, a screen door slides open and Mrs. Onaku places trays of food on our mat — sticky rice wrapped in bamboo leaves and sugar soy cake.
Mrs. Onaku smells like cherry blossoms, and when she smiles, goldfish turn somersaults in my stomach. At the spring cherry blossom celebrations, the old men begin with a saying, “The food is better than the flower.” When I look at Mrs. Onaku, I know they’ve got it wrong. She’s a great cook and a beautiful flower. One is not better than the other at all.
“I thought I heard the sound of Ki-Yaga’s boys. I hope you’re hungry,” she says.
“Yes, Mrs. Onaku. Thank you.” The food smell tickles and teases my nostrils. I try not to drool.
“Tell your master he needs to send his students to visit more often.” She smiles, and the goldfish in my stomach do backflips.
My face pink like the blossom, I bow low to hide my embarrassment. When Mrs. Onaku is gone, I lift my face off the mat.
“There’s straw in your hair and egg on your chin.” Yoshi grins as he stuffs his mouth with cake.
I’d like to give him a shove, but I don’t want to disturb the swordsmith.
“I’ll get you later,” I whisper.
Cake melts on my tongue and trickles, warm and sweet, down to the goldfish.
“She’s a good cook.” Rubbing his round belly, Master Onaku nods approvingly at our mouths crammed with food. “You know how I can tell I’m a smart man?” he asks.
We shake our heads. Our mouths are too full to make words.
“I married her. Smartest thing I ever did. Have you seen the Dragon Master’s wife?”
We haven’t, but Onaku’s laughter tells us all we need to know.
The swordsmith sings while he works. Luckily, Onaku’s barking voice is soon lost under the sound of his hammer smashing against steel. A samurai sword is made of two different layers of metal, folded and pummeled over and over again. Magic fills the smithy as Onaku’s big hands twist and turn the metal and the battering rises to an almost unbearable crescendo. Sometimes magic is very loud.
When the hammering is finished, Onaku covers the raw blade with wet clay. Using long tongs, he holds it over the fire to bake. Then he lays the sword on a narrow bench. His strong arms swing a heavy mallet high above the blade. It’s time for the clay to be broken open, to reveal the sword within. The Dragon Master’s words hang in the air. I forget to breathe. Will the sword bend and break?
Crash.
A cloud of clay dust puffs skyward. Steam hisses as Onaku plunges the new blade into warm water. The Sword Master holds the finished sword aloft for us to see.
It sings to our samurai hearts. The Tiger purrs, and the White Crane stretches its wings. Secretly I hope the new sword is mine, but a samurai never sees his sword before it is presented at his Coming-of-Age Ceremony. Maybe this one is for Taji, or Mikko. Or Kyoko.
“It’s beautiful,” Yoshi says. I can only nod. It’s more wonderful than words.
“Thank you.” Onaku bows. “You need to leave now, so you reach the ryu before dark.”
Yoshi unties the last bottle of wine from the harness and hands it to Onaku. “Our master sends you a gift.”
Grinning, the swordsmith opens the flask and takes a big sniff.
I can’t help asking. “Doesn’t that smell awful?”
“Yes. It smells like being smacked in the nose with a rotten fish.” He smiles and pats his ample belly. “But in my stomach it fizzes and tickles. Now boys, I will see you at the Ceremony.”
“We look forward to your visit.” I bow.
“Do you have a message for our master?” Yoshi asks, bowing too.
“No message,” Onaku says.
We take our leave and begin the long walk home, racing the sun up the mountain. We’ll be home by sunset.
When we reach the ryu, Sensei, Kyoko, Taji, and Mikko are waiting for us. Kyoko has something cupped in her hands.
Arms outstretched toward Yoshi, six fingers unfold like lotus blossom petals. The Dragon kids are wrong when they make fun of her. White hair and pink eyes aren’t strange at all. Kyoko is a lotus flower girl.
In her palm sits a paper tiger.
“Thanks,” says Yoshi, beaming. “How did you know I needed one of those?”
Kyoko grins and points at Sensei, who grins even wider.
Our family is complete. The Tiger, the Snow Monkey, the Golden Bat, the Striped Gecko, and me. I am the White Crane, and I wrap my wings around them all. Working together, our spirit totems are strong. Maybe even powerful enough to defeat a Dragon.
“Did you bring me a message from Onaku?” asks Sensei.
“No,” I answer.
Sensei doesn’t move. He’s waiting. Yoshi raises his eyebrow at me, and I shrug.
“It’s true. The Sword Master said, ‘No message,’” Yoshi says.
“Aaaah. Now the message has been delivered. Nothing is an answer. Have you already forgotten what I taught you, Niya?” asks Sensei.
I grin because I can see the trick. I am still the expert at this Zen stuff.
“I reme
mber NOTHING,” I declare.
Sensei is pleased.
“Good. Come, Little Cockroaches. Let us make tea.” He strides off, laughing.
Groan. Double moan. Triple groan. There’s nothing funny about the tea ceremony. Who wants to sit quietly and sip green tea when they’ve just returned from an exciting adventure? I want to laugh and chatter and tell everything we saw and did. I want to show off. Just a bit.
Kyoko giggles.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
She points. The teahouse is nothing but a pile of rubble. “The earthquake didn’t like the tea ceremony, either.”
Yoshi whistles. “Was anything else damaged?”
“Nothing except Sensei’s favorite cherry tree. Its leaves are planted in the ground, and the roots are waving in the air. But he’s not worried. Look.” Mikko gestures with his one arm. Sensei is already curled up under an old, stooped plum tree, waiting for us to join him.
“Even without tea, we can still have cake,” Sensei calls. “Where are those cakes you brought?”
Yoshi and I haven’t mentioned the cakes Mrs. Onaku gave us. I give Yoshi a sideways glance.
“How did he know that?” I whisper.
“Mrs. Onaku always sends something,” says Yoshi.
“Why are you whispering?” Kyoko asks.
“Some old woman in the village said Sensei was a tengu mountain goblin, and Niya thinks she might be right.”
My friends laugh at me. Caw, caw. Running in a circle around me, Taji flaps his arms like wings.
“You think Sensei changes into a black crow when we’re not looking?” Mikko splutters through laughter. “I thought you were the smart one.”
“Well, he knows everything. Even when he’s asleep,” I protest.
Kyoko’s eyes dance with mischief. “We could give him a test to see if he can fly.”
“I don’t think pushing him off a cliff would work. Niya is the White Crane, and he couldn’t fly when he fell off the mountain,” says Yoshi.
“Niya fell off the mountain?” Taji looks concerned. His eyes might not see but they can still talk. They tell me he cares.
“It’s a long story,” I say. “It’s also the tale of how the Tiger caught Yoshi.”
My friends crowd around, eager to listen.
“If I thought my master was a tengu bird goblin, I would not make him wait for his cake,” Sensei shouts.
The White Crane believes in black crows. I decide not to take any risks. Storytelling and showing off can wait, but Sensei can’t. My fingers fumble with the harness ties.
“Let me do that.” Kyoko unravels the double-tied string as if it were a loose ribbon. An extra finger is great for undoing knots.
“Chop, chop,” Sensei calls. “How can I get enough sleep when my stomach rumbles louder than an earthquake?”
A smell drifts across from the kitchen. It jumps in the window and thumps me on the nose. I sit bolt upright in bed, and sniff. It’s pudding. Honey pudding. Not a whiff of rice pancakes. It’s pudding and . . . and chicken noodles. Have I have slept until dinner?
Looking around the room, I see my friends, still asleep. The paper walls vibrate gently in time with Mikko’s snoring. Behind the screen at the end of the room, Kyoko’s slumbering shadow rolls over. It looks and sounds like an ordinary morning but it smells different.
“Mikko, wake up.” I poke him in the belly. Grunting, he turns onto his stomach. “Yoshi, Kyoko, Taji. Wake up. Something strange is happening!” I shout.
One by one they open their eyes to stagger out of bed and sniff. Taji has the best nose. Without eyes, he uses his nose and his ears twice as hard as the rest of us. “It’s definitely dinner,” he announces.
Together we roll Mikko out of bed and onto the floor. His nose twitches. “What’s that smell? Where’s breakfast?”
“That’s what we’re trying to tell you!” Kyoko yells in his ear. Mikko’s wide awake now.
It’s not easy for a samurai kid to get dressed in a hurry. Lots of layers go over the cotton loincloth I sleep in. First, a kimono with a long sash to tie the folds together. Then a short jacket, with another sash. Finally, I drag on big, baggy trousers. Samurai are fashionable warriors. It’s not enough to die honorably. You have to look good, too.
“Let’s go.” My crutch flying, I race toward the kitchen. The others soon pass me. Taji veers in front of Kyoko in the lead, and we all fall in a heap, arms and legs flailing.
“Watch out where you’re running next time, Bat Boy.” Kyoko pins Taji in a playful headlock.
“How am I supposed to see where I’m going?” Taji is our best wrestler. He can hear a move before it’s made and easily flips Kyoko over, to hold her shoulders against the ground.
“I give in,” she pants. “But you’re still a lousy runner.”
“Oww. Who’s shoving their foot in my ear?” I yell. It’s not Taji or Kyoko, and it’s not big enough for Yoshi. It must be Mikko. I give his ankle a yank, and he moves his foot into my mouth. Remembering what Sensei said about teaching teeth, I take a small bite. Now Mikko will watch where he puts his feet!
“Yow-ow. Oww!” It’s Mikko’s turn to yell.
“Early morning wrestling practice. Excellent.” Sensei nods approvingly from the kitchen doorway. “Double dessert for everyone.”
Sensei has dinner bowls set out on the table — noodle bowls, little soy sauce dipping bowls, and, most important, bowls for pudding.
“Hurry, hurry,” he says. “We have much practicing to do. In three days you leave to journey to the Games. Eat quickly, for soon it will be lunch and then it will be breakfast. Today we eat backward.”
“Why are we doing that?” I ask.
“So when we get to breakfast, there will still be plenty of time left to practice. Chop, chop, Little Cockroaches.”
“A master walks a fine line between wisdom and insanity,” Sensei once told me. I think he just fell headfirst over the line.
“A samurai must discipline himself so his body does not question what his mind decides,” Sensei continues.
I always think with my stomach. It never listens to my head, and nothing will change that.
Yoshi isn’t convinced, either. “What if it gets dark? We can’t practice in the dark.”
“Why not?” Taji grins. “Makes no difference to me. I’m always in the dark.”
If Taji can do it, then so can I. My head tells my gut to stop rumbling and rudely interrupting.
Sensei picks up a glass and drinks half the plum juice.
“Is the glass half empty or half full?” He holds it up for us to see.
My stomach knows this one. Before I was dying of hunger; now I’m dying of thirst.
“The glass is half full,” I say, wishing I was drinking the rest now.
“You could say the glass is half empty,” Kyoko muses. “If you wanted more.”
I do want more. She’s right, the glass is half empty. Suddenly it makes sense: I can choose.
“So is it dinner or breakfast?” Sensei asks. “Will the mind tell the body pudding or pancakes?”
It’s an easy choice. “Dinner,” we chorus.
We shovel down our food. Halfway through my second pudding, Sensei bangs on his drum. Dinner is over.
“Stop eating now. More practice!” Sensei waves us toward the door.
No way! I’m not leaving my dessert. I empty my soy sauce into a nearby bonsai plant, then wipe the bowl clean with the corner of my kimono. Then I tip the pudding into the bowl and gently place it in my pocket. I’ll finish my dessert outside.
But there’s no time to eat.
“This way.” With long spidery steps, Sensei strides toward the field behind the kitchen. Even Yoshi has to hurry to keep up.
Uma, the horse, grazes in the long grass. For once, I wish I was back in the classroom writing calligraphy. Some kids think horseback riding is fun. Not us. Not with Sensei’s crazy horse.
Uma is cranky and cantankerous. He’s really old, but he
throws tantrums like a two-year-old. Nostrils twitching, he’s staring at me now. I’m sure Uma knows what I’m thinking. Flicking his mane, he snorts in my direction, and a fine spray of nostril mist settles on my hand. Yeech! Horse snot. I wipe it on the grass.
Sensei smiles. “He likes you.”
He doesn’t. Uma turns away and swipes his tail across his backside. It’s a big insult, to be no more important than a fly on his rump.
Sensei’s horse hates being ridden. When Kyoko puts the saddle on him, he throws it off. When Mikko loops the reins over his neck, he tosses them away. And when we try to climb on, he throws us, too.
Many years ago, before I was born, a wounded samurai came to the Cockroach Ryu. Sensei cared for him, and when he left, he gave Sensei his only valuable possession. This crazy horse.
“In his glory days, Uma was a warrior steed.” Sensei strokes the horse’s thick mane. “He raced into battle and trampled on fallen swords. He doesn’t like teaching trainees to ride. Your bony knees make him grumpy.”
Sensei takes an apple from behind his beard and feeds it to Uma. If I did that, Uma would be crunching my fingers. He curls his lip in a toothy smile. Big yellow teaching teeth stare at me. Sensei looks, too. Together, the horse and its wizard read my mind.
“You can learn a lot from teeth,” Sensei says. “Especially when they bite.”
“That’s true.” Grinning at Mikko, I remember this morning’s wrestle.
“What does it mean, if he bites?” Kyoko asks.
Mikko knows. “It means stop.”
Sensei nods. “If you can ride a horse that does not want you, you can ride anything. Even a Dragon. First you have to find a weakness. What is Mikko’s weakness?”
I know because I practice with Mikko every day.
“Shoulder weight thrust off the back right foot.” It gets him all the time. Luckily for me, the right foot is the one I’ve still got.
“Is that how you beat me?” Mikko is really smart when he bothers to think. His lazy brain is ticking fast. Tomorrow I’ll have to find something new if I want to beat him again.
Sensei twists his beard around his finger. “Very good, Niya. But what would a Dragon think?”
White Crane Page 4