“Why do you still call us Little Cockroaches?” I ask. “We have grown older today.”
“Do you feel any bigger?” asks Sensei.
“No,” I admit.
“That’s because you are still little.” Bacon grease dribbles down Sensei’s chin, and he wipes it with his cloak. “But you are much wiser. What is it you have learned?”
Teacher sits cross-legged, waiting for pearls of wisdom to drop in his lap.
“If you are chased by a boar, run fast,” says Yoshi. Clink. The first pearl.
“Run very fast,” Taji elaborates.
Kyoko grins. “A true samurai doesn’t need a sword.”
“Not if he can yell loud.” I think of Sensei, weaponless as he screeched in to attack the boar.
“The point of the sword is very sharp,” Mikko says.
Clink, clink, clink. Sensei’s lap is full.
“I am such a good teacher. I think I deserve a nap.” Leaning back against his tree, our master closes his eyes.
Onaku looks at us and winks. “Let’s go fishing. Maybe I can poach some fish out of your river before Ki-Yaga catches me.”
We leave Sensei to snore and Mrs. Onaku to clear away the lunch. Grinning, the Sword Master produces a fishing rod from under his ceremonial cloak. He planned this all along!
As we pass the kitchen, I sneak a dollop of pudding for Uma. Our horse gallops to meet me, licking my fingers until every honeyed rice grain is gone. Then he walks beside us to the river.
“Do you think we should have left Sensei behind?” I ask.
“Do you think he would have let us, if he did not want us to go?” answers Onaku.
He’s right. Even asleep, Sensei is wide awake.
Kyoko pulls at the pin in my topknot. “How long have you known our teacher?” she asks Onaku, ducking behind Uma so I can’t retaliate.
“Since I was a boy.”
“What was Sensei like as a boy?” Taji wants to know.
The swordsmith shakes his head. “Ki-Yaga wasn’t a boy. He was old even then. He chooses his students carefully. Few are chosen. In the years when he had no students, he came to the village to teach and tell stories. I always pushed my way to the front, to sit and listen at his feet. As I grew older, we became friends. I helped him build the ryu.”
“But the ryu is very old,” Mikko says.
“Only the trees. Your teacher planted trees long before the school was built. He doesn’t care to look after the buildings, but he cares about trees. Ki-Yaga is older than the forest and wiser than the mountain.”
“Why didn’t you become a samurai?” I ask. “I’m sure Sensei would have taught you.”
“Did you ever want to become a swordsmith?”
“No. I’ve always wanted to be a samurai. It’s in my heart.”
“It was like that for me. The swords were calling, even when I was a boy. But now”— Onaku grins —“the fish are yelling.”
I like fish. Even the goldfish in Mother’s bowls that flop out to trip me. Even the ones that swim in my stomach when I am nervous. Best of all, I like raw fish on my dinner plate, wrapped in seaweed and dipped in soy sauce. Sushi. Yum. My mouth waters, and the White Crane snaps its beak.
But catching fish is boring. Leaning against Sensei’s tree, Onaku doesn’t notice. He sleeps while the fish gobble his bait.
“Let’s practice,” suggests Taji. We can use our new swords.”
Now that we’ve come of age, we’re allowed to practice with real swords. Sensei still prefers us to use our wooden ones. But we have to use the new ones at the Samurai Trainee Games this year. It can’t hurt to try them out now. “I’ll go first,” I say. I want to test mine and Taji is easy to beat.
“I see you,” he calls as he raises his blade.
I’m sure he can’t. I’m standing very still. There’s nothing for Taji to hear.
You should never underestimate the ears of a blind samurai kid. The flat part of Taji’s blade whacks me across the nose and squashes it flat as a sheet of rice paper. Again.
“Sorry, Ni,” he apologizes.
“Good shot,” I snort. “I’ll get you later.”
I was wrong. It does hurt to use our new swords. Yoshi’s loud chuckle echoes across the mountains.
Onaku wakes with a jolt and surveys my bloody face.
“Not the first time that’s happened, Niya?” he asks me.
Rolling my eyes, I shake my head.
“We’ll go back and get Ki-Yaga to look at it,” Onaku decides.
“Not again,” Sensei says as he packs my nose in ice. Later he binds it with yellow tape. The White Crane looks like a vulture.
We wait in a line while Sensei inspects our packing for the journey. It’ll take us two days to walk to the Games, and we have to carry everything we need — food, clothing, and our equipment.
“Good. Almost complete,” he says.
“What have we missed?” I memorized the list and checked it twice. I’m sure I haven’t forgotten anything.
“You need rain cloaks.”
Mikko raises his eyebrows at me. The sky is clear and blue. It’s been cloudless for weeks.
“Are you sure it’s going to rain, Sensei?” Taji asks.
“If we had a boat, I would suggest you take it.”
We rush off to get our cloaks. When we return, Sensei is standing in the drizzle, drops falling from his pointy nose to form puddles around his sandals. Uma is waiting also, his tail flicking water at anyone who stands too close.
“This year you are warrior students, and your Games’ team needs a captain. I have chosen Yoshi,” Sensei announces.
Yoshi was born to lead. He’s always carried more on his shoulders than the rest of us, and I’m not talking about harnesses and packages. Ever since that day on the mountain, I’d follow Yoshi anywhere. Even to the Games and back.
We leave together, but Sensei and Uma travel a different way. Sensei says it’s good for us to travel without him. He says it makes us think instead of using his brain. We’ll take a shortcut through the tunnel between this peak and the next. Horses don’t like tunnels, so Sensei and Uma will go the long way around, down one mountain and up the other. But Sensei will still get there first.
It’s not because he rides. He doesn’t. Sensei has a pack strapped to his back.
“Uma is a warrior, not a packhorse,” he says.
Sensei is stronger than a horse anyway. Our master will get there first because he walks very fast, with long, spidery wizard steps with which only Uma can keep up.
“I will give you a half day’s head start,” Sensei decides. “I don’t want to be waiting too long at the other end. I might fall asleep.”
I’m sure he will. Anywhere he can find a cherry tree.
The old village woman’s words seep through my thoughts. Maybe Sensei doesn’t walk. Maybe he flies. A black tengu crow wings across my imagination and off into the distance. As I shake the image from my head, my topknot unravels and I slap myself in the face with my soggy ponytail. That’ll teach me to daydream.
Waving to Sensei, we begin the trek to the tunnel mouth. Our mountain is named Oyama. The mountain we are walking to is called Tsurugidake, “Sword Mountain,” because it’s shaped like a sword. At the top of Mount Tsurugidake is the Temple of the Komusu, the Priests of Emptiness and Nothingness. And some of the best swordsmen in the world!
Komusu priests were samurai in their younger days, but now they have set aside their blades for flutes, which are just as lethal. They are carved from the root of a bamboo, and their tapered ends are as sharp as swords and capable of killing an opponent. The point of the flute is very sharp. Sensei’s words twist and turn in my brain.
Old people, like my grandfather, say the Komusu flute bewitches the soul with its ghostly Zen tones. It’s difficult to play, but when Kyoko’s six fingers dance over five holes, my soul soars and the White Crane flies higher than ever.
The Komusu are as old as Sensei. They wear baskets over their h
eads to show that they’re separate from the world they no longer want to see. The priests rarely speak, except for the four eldest, when they oversee the Games. Even then, their sentences are short and their voices raspy from a year of wordlessness.
“I’m going to join the Komusu when I get old. I like the idea of sitting in silence. You might like it too, Kyoko. You’re good with a flute,” Taji says.
“What? Wear a basket on my head? Still, it might be an improvement for you,” she says with a laugh.
We work our way down the familiar path. This is our third Games. We know the way well enough to walk it in the dark. Like Taji does.
The path is muddy and slippery, and the sky grows gloomier with each step. By the middle of the afternoon, day looks like night.
“We should tell stories,” says Mikko. “It’ll give us something to do.”
I agree. The Komusu might like the sound of silence, but I prefer the chatter of conversation. It’s miserable walking in the rain. My sandals are wet and uncomfortable, and we have a long way to go.
“I’ll start,” begins Kyoko. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess growing inside a bamboo stalk. Bamboo Spirit found her and looked after her. Then one day the princess disappeared. The bamboo was so sad that it grew and grew until it filled the forests with sorrow. That’s why you find bamboo growing everywhere.”
“What a terrible story. Bor-ring,” Mikko moans.
Taji makes kissy noises. “Girls’ stuff.”
“Have you got a better one?” Kyoko retorts.
Mikko nods. “I’ll tell you about my favorite monster.”
“Which one?” asks Yoshi.
“Guess. It’s huge, fanged, and horned like a bull. Capable of dark magic. If you chop its arm off, it grows another one.”
“No wonder you like it,” Kyoko says with a giggle. “You need another arm.”
Mikko’s one arm is doubly strong. He swings it hard at Kyoko. But it’s not easy to scare a samurai girl. Dodging, Kyoko makes a face, and Mikko smiles.
“Shh. I want to hear,” I say. “Monster stories are better than tales about princesses.”
Sticking out her tongue, Kyoko pokes me in the arm. It hurts.
“The oni carries a large, spiky iron bar. It walks the earth from hell”— Mikko’s voice drops to an ominous whisper —“and it eats human flesh.”
Lightning splits the sky and illuminates our frightened faces. We trudge through the rain and imagine monsters waiting to jump out and eat us. Another sword thrust of lightning strikes the earth in front of Yoshi, forcing us to shelter in a rock alcove.
“I’ll tell a story now. About the kappa, the water spirit, a giant deformed turtle,” Taji says. “Like me, it likes to wrestle. If you lose when it challenges you, it will steal your stomach.”
“Watch out, Niya.” Yoshi chortles. “You could never survive without your stomach.” Everyone laughs. Friendly laughter, not like the ridicule waiting for me at the Games.
“The kappa is very strong,” Taji continues, “but it needs to keep its head wet or it’ll die. It likes rain. The kappa is out walking this path tonight.” He pauses. “Maybe it’s sneaking up now. . . .”
I shiver. I think I can hear something.
“Raa!” Taji yells. We all jump up screaming.
Taji shakes with mirth until Kyoko gives him a shove. In the slap of rain on rock, his ears miss the cue and he goes sprawling out into the mud. Taji grabs at Kyoko as he falls and she catches her foot in mine. I stumble headfirst into Yoshi. Only Mikko escapes.
“Make room for me.” He grins and slides into the sludge. We roll around, throwing handfuls at each other until we look like swamp monsters.
“Time to go,” Yoshi says, wiping his eyes and smearing dirt across his cheeks.
We form a muddy, soaked line to follow our leader through the rain. An hour passes slowly.
Splat! A wet branch smacks me in the face. I’m tired of tramping though the dripping forest. The rain has stopped, but droplets of water still plop from the trees onto my head. My sandals squelch, and my toes squish. Wet trousers slap at my ankles.
The White Crane’s feathers are sodden clumps. Striped Gecko wants a rock in the sun, and the Golden Bat and Snow Monkey huddle against each other. The Tiger is a drowned kitten. With each saturated step, our spirits sink lower. One foot after another, we follow Yoshi through the sludge.
He stops suddenly. I smack into the back of him, and Taji falls over me. Down go Kyoko and Mikko. Into the mud we tumble, again.
Yoshi’s Tiger nose sniffs the air. “I smell a rat.”
“How big?” Mikko’s one hand is on his sword as he searches the undergrowth.
“Monster big,” says Yoshi.
“Can you see anything, Taji?” Kyoko asks.
It’s not a stupid question. Sometimes Taji sees better than all of us, especially when we don’t know what we are looking for.
“Two eyes are a great handicap when you are searching for something,” Sensei says. “It is hard to see past all the distractions. But the blind man sees with his nose and ears. He sees much clearer.”
“It’s over there.” Taji indicates, pointing to a thick bamboo clump.
Yoshi sniffs and nods.
Sword drawn, Mikko rushes over. He pokes through the stalks but finds nothing.
“It’s gone,” he says.
“Well, I’m starving. Let’s stop and eat,” suggests Yoshi.
We’re all tired and hungry, glad to take our heavy bundles from our backs. Yoshi props the extra sword and dagger against the stand of bamboo. After rice cakes and plum juice, I close my eyes and pretend I am Sensei dozing against a cherry tree in the sun. But my students will not let me rest. Kyoko tickles my toes until I open my eyes. Yoshi’s nose is twitching again. Taji swings around, his blind eyes staring into the bamboo.
Suddenly a scrawny hand wraps around the spare katana handle. The remainder of the thief’s body is hidden behind the thick stalks.
Mikko unsheathes his blade.
“Put that down, or I’ll slice your hand off,” he threatens.
Slech. The katana drops with a sloppy thud.
“Come out,” commands Yoshi.
A thin, grubby boy edges out from behind the bamboo. His nose is long and narrow like a rat; his hands and feet are black with mud. He’s almost as dirty as us.
Silence falls like a guillotine. The boy touched a samurai sword. The penalty is death. We never questioned the rules in the classroom at the ryu. But here on the mountain, we don’t like them anymore. No one wants to kill this boy.
“What are we going to do?” whispers Kyoko.
Rat Boy says nothing. Black rodent eyes dart from one face to another.
“Maybe we could just teach him a lesson,” says Mikko.
Kyoko shakes her head. “The rules say he has to die.”
“We don’t have to obey the rules,” Yoshi declares. We all look surprised. Yoshi never breaks the rules. “Sensei taught us sometimes the old ways have to change,” he explains.
We’re all relieved with Yoshi’s decision. Especially Rat Boy. Sensei chose our leader well.
“He might be a samurai. How do we know he’s not a samurai?” I ask.
“He doesn’t look like one,” Mikko says.
“Do we look like samurai?” Taji laughs. Who ever heard of a swordsman with one arm or a warrior with one leg? Or an archer who is blind?
“Maybe it’s his,” I say. “Sensei was insistent about us bringing the extra sword. Maybe the boy is the rightful owner.”
Everyone likes my idea. Yoshi nods approval, and Mikko hands the sword to the Rat Boy.
He’s looking at Mikko. As if he recognizes him.
Mikko looks at Rat Boy. Now there’s recognition in his eyes, too.
“This is Nezume. He’s a samurai kid, all right,” Mikko says. “He’s a Dragon.”
Silence falls again. A Dragon! We just gave one of our swords to a Dragon kid.
; “He’s one of the boys who cut off my arm.”
You wouldn’t think the silence could get any bigger, but it does. We just gave one of Onaku’s prized swords to a cheat and bully.
“Maybe he should die,” says Mikko.
I know he doesn’t mean it. “A life for an arm seems unfair. Perhaps we should cut off his arm,” I suggest. “Then he’d be the same as you.”
“And he was only one of three. We would have to cut off one-third,” Kyoko calculates.
“Bushido is the answer,” I say. “Chi, jin, yu. Jin for benevolence and kindness.”
Everyone nods, including Mikko. We want to be benevolent. No one wants to hurt Nezume. Or cut off his arm. Not even his finger.
“Perhaps he should say something. He’s got his own tongue. Unless someone chopped that off. Would you like to say something?” Yoshi asks the Dragon boy.
“I want to tell Mikko I’m sorry,” says Nezume. “Because I was frightened, I did what the bigger boys told me. But after Mikko left, I ran away. I didn’t want to be a samurai kid anymore. For three years I have hidden in the forest. Each time I saw Mikko pass by, I wanted to apologize. But I was too ashamed to speak. I am not worthy of any sword.”
“Yes, you are,” decides Mikko. “Like me, you’re not a Dragon anymore.”
“A new sword has chosen you. You’re a Cockroach now. Would you like to come with us to the Games?” Yoshi asks.
“Please do,” pleads Kyoko.
It’s hard to refuse Kyoko, but Nezume looks at Mikko and hesitates.
“We want you to come with us. We all do.” Mikko smiles. Jin for benevolence and the beginning of a friendship.
“You have to come,” I say. “Our sensei is expecting you. Ki-Yaga chose you to join us. Why else would he have made us carry an extra sword and dagger across the Tateyama Mountains?”
“Then I have no choice . . .” Nezume’s voice trails off.
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