We form a tight circle around Yoshi. We’re lucky. We’re all in the right place, whatever the time, as long as we’re with one another. If Gaiya had walked with friends, I’m sure he would have made it through the mountain, too.
“I told Niya this story when we went down to the village together,” Yoshi starts softly. “Now I’m ready to tell it again.”
I listen as he repeats the tale of the boy who rolled down the cliff side. The one who, unlike me, he couldn’t bring back. Gaiya isn’t the only one to find peace in the mountain. Nezume walks with a light heart, and now Yoshi has left his troubles here in the tunnel.
Kyoko hugs him tight. The rest of us don’t need to. She hugs hard enough for all of us, and Yoshi knows how we feel.
“We need to get going. The light won’t last much longer.” Mikko points at the candle, now nothing but a dirty puddle of wax.
“We’re almost at the end,” Nezume says.
Before I have a chance to breathe a sigh of relief, the candle splutters and fades. The last glow of light is just enough to illuminate the grin on Taji’s face. I don’t know what he’s got to be pleased about. What if there’s another deep hole right in front of the tunnel mouth? Then Gaiya won’t be alone anymore. He’ll have our bones to keep him company.
“I don’t need to see to find my way out,” Taji says. “Follow me.”
As he leads us forward, the soft sound of wings fills the cavern. There’s nothing ghostly about it. I can feel the warmth of Gaiya’s smile on my back. The Golden Bat leads us through the darkness, toward the stars and the tunnel’s end.
“We made it.” Nezume’s voice ricochets across the moonlit mountains.
It’s a short drop to the ground and we’re safe. Even the taunts and teasing of the Games can’t take this victory away from me.
“Chi!” Taji yells, grabbing a vine and swinging down to the ground.
“Jin!” Yoshi pulls Kyoko and me with him.
“Yu!” Mikko bellows as he and Nezume jump together.
We’re muddy, wet, and smelly. It’s a badge of honor, not bright and shiny like a medal, but we wear it like a uniform. One look at us and you can see we’re a team.
Chi, jin, yu.
Wisdom, benevolence, and courage.
And something even more powerful than a samurai sword.
Friendship.
“Wake up, lazybones. It’s lunchtime.”
Yoshi pulls my pack from underneath my head. Dragging my blurry eyes open, I squint into the sun, already high overhead. My stomach immediately complains about missed breakfast.
“Thanks to Nezume’s directions and strong shoulders, we have made good progress,” says Yoshi. “We’ll still be at the Games on time.”
Rat Boy beams. Mud brown, he’s a Cockroach now.
“I know another shortcut,” he announces. Nezume knows the mountain inside out.
We eat lunch fast. If there was a speed-eating event at the Games, we would be sure to win. Mikko is the first to finish. He rises slowly and leans his weight on his injured ankle, a smile spreading across his face.
“I’m two-legged again!” he shouts.
“Good, because we need Nezume to go first.” Yoshi motions Rat Boy to the front of our line. No longer a stranger, he is our friend and guide.
“You never know where you will find a friend,” Sensei told us. “Once I found one under my bed.”
That’s where Sensei discovered the samurai who gave him Uma. The samurai was hiding from three men who wanted to kill him. Our master never told us why.
“You do not need to know everything. Sometimes it is better not to know.”
I looked under my bed every day for a month, but I never found anyone.
“What do you expect to find?” asked Mikko. “Ants for friends?”
“None of your business,” I said. “You do not need to know everything.”
Half an hour later, the temple appears beneath the late afternoon mist. The jewel of Mount Tsurugidake is made of polished white stone. Six gleaming turrets stretch skyward. Directly behind the temple are the tournament rings for wrestling and sword fighting, the river for swimming, and fields where the horses graze.
On the main steps, the four eldest Komusu wait to greet the arriving teams. One hundred priests live and serve at the temple, but only these four are allowed to speak. After the Games are over, they won’t talk again for another year.
Number One, the Master of the Games, stands in front of Number Two, Number Three, and Number Four. The Komusu don’t waste words on names. The Games Master’s curly white beard reaches to the hem of his long pink robe. The other three wear yellow, orange, and red, to symbolize the rising and setting of the sun.
The world is a strange place when the wisest and holiest of priests is an old man in a pink dress. Wisdom must be color-blind, with no fashion sense.
The priests bob and nod their heads in welcome. They say NOTHING. It’s the Zen thing, but it’s probably easier just to nod when you wear a basket from head to shoulder.
“The Komusu are wise beyond speech,” Sensei told us. “It is a privilege to hear their words. You must show great respect.”
The Master of the Games opens his mouth. We bow low, scraping the ground with appreciation for what he is about to say. What difference can a little more dirt make to our dirty faces? Sometimes it’s easy to be respectful.
“Welcome. I see Ki-Yaga teaches his students well. Your master is waiting for you in the eastern wing.”
Number Three leads us through the temple entrance, into the large foyer where the indoor events take place. He points to the eastern wing, bows, and leaves. Pausing, we admire the huge golden gong, which will call us together for the Opening Ceremony.
Other teams are already wandering around. They stare, whispering about our odd appearance. We looked strange before, but now we’re covered in mud and smell like swamp monsters. Kyoko has leaves in her hair, and my ears are caked with slime.
Squish. Squelch. Our sandals drip as we walk.
“The frog made it out of the pond,” someone sneers, pointing at me.
“Looks like he brought the pond with him,” another says, and snickers.
“Hey, freak girl’s hair is almost the right color.”
“There’s a mole man.”
Everywhere kids hoot with laughter.
“They’ve got a drowned rat with them,” says a Dragon Boy, recognizing Nezume.
Nezume winks. “What’s that smell? I think I smell smoke. Maybe a Dragon belch.”
“Bur-urp,” Kyoko says loudly. There’s nothing ladylike about Kyoko.
“No, it’s worse than that. Must be a Dragon fart,” I say, remembering Onaku’s joke about the Dragon Master.
We can’t hear their taunts anymore. Our laughter is too loud.
When we reach our quarters, Sensei is waiting. Seven beds form a ring around the room. Sensei knew we’d bring Rat Boy. A bronze kimono lies folded on the extra pillow. Mr. and Mrs. Onaku knew, too.
Sensei studies our filthy faces.
“Very good. I see you did extra wrestling practice on the way. In an hour we gather for the Opening Ceremony, so you need to bathe. Niya, you are the muddiest. You can go first.”
“Yes, Sensei.” I gather up my towel and head down the corridor to the bathroom.
“Off for a swim, little frog?” says a passing Snake boy with a giggle.
Saying nothing, I clutch my towel against my chest. Teams are not allowed to fight except in Games events. If it were up to me, I’d swing my crutch and smack him around the ears. Sensei is right. A true samurai doesn’t need a sword. A bamboo crutch will do fine.
The bath is filled with cool, mountain spring water. I sink until, like a frog, only my eyes are visible. Fear of failure floats away with the mud. There is nothing wrong with being a frog. Maybe, when I am Sensei, I will build the Frog Ryu.
“Maybe you will,” the wizard says inside my head. “But now it is time to hop out and let som
eone else bathe.”
When I return to the room, Mikko heads off to the bath. I hear the jeers follow him down the hallway. Mikko’s voice echoes back to me, “If I draw you in the sword-fighting match, I will chop off both your arms. Then it will be my turn to laugh when the wolf drags his snout in the dirt.”
Sensei is listening, too.
“Insults make us strong. They bind us together and separate us from the false samurai, the ones who do not follow Bushido. Many men have called me names,” Sensei pauses to smile, “but they are without voices now.”
Only a fool would insult Sensei’s honor. Soon we are clean and wrapped in towels. Sensei looks at the sun. “Time to dress.”
Shaking the traveling creases from my new kimono, I watch Sensei unroll his pack. Mrs. Onaku has made him a kimono, too. A ragtag line of brown cockroaches runs across the sash. Some cockroaches have missing legs and arms. One is much bigger than the others. The one in the middle has no eyes. Another has a white head, and on the end is a little one, with a long tail.
Unstringing another package, Sensei reveals our hachimaki, traditional headbands. Symbols of honor and determination, they are embroidered with the same cockroaches that scurry across Sensei’s sash.
The headbands bind our foreheads and tie us together. Cockroach Ryu is a team. Things that make us different are no longer important. When we put our uniforms on, we’re ready to battle a whole world of Dragons.
“It’s not the individual parts that matter,” Sensei says. “It is what you create when you join the pieces.” He drapes his tattered brown cloak over his shining kimono, and the old and the new merge together before my eyes.
Only Nezume is not ready.
“Don’t you like your uniform?” Kyoko asks.
“I like it very much, but I’m not competing.”
“You’re still an important part of our team,” says Mikko. “You’re our cheerleader, and we desperately need one of those.”
“But I am not even a warrior student.” Hanging his head, Nezume stares at the ground.
“Close your eyes and kneel,” instructs Sensei.
He takes a razor from his pack and shaves two samurai stripes in Nezume’s hair. Then he twists the rat tail up into a topknot. Raising Nezume’s sword, he taps him on one shoulder.
“Rise, Nezume, warrior student of the Cockroach Ryu. Every samurai must come when he is called, and I am calling you now. Gembuku is not bound by time or place.”
On his feet again, Nezume opens his eyes and smiles. He drops his old kimono to the ground, revealing his back, criss-crossed with deep scars.
Sensei’s face darkens like thunder.
“Who did this?” he demands, but I can tell he already knows.
“The Dragon Master,” Nezume whispers.
“Why?” Sensei’s eyes flash like lightning. A terrible storm is gathering.
“I was ashamed of what happened to Mikko. I refused to say it was right. When three fight against one, there is no victory in winning. Only dishonor. The Dragon Master did not agree. He taught my lesson with a bamboo cane, but I did not listen.”
The White Crane wraps a protective wing around the Long-Tailed Rat. Nezume is safe now.
“You are a much greater and wiser samurai than your old master ever will be,” says Sensei. “Put on your new kimono, and wear it with great pride. Your Dragon days are over. I am your master now, Little Cockroach.”
Bong. Bong-ong-ong.
The gong sounds to call the ryu teams to the ceremony. I count seven teams in a sea of bright uniforms and headbands. It’s a good number.
“I feel lucky,” says Kyoko, showing me all six fingers crossed.
Number One speaks in a soft voice, furry from lack of speech.
“Boar Ryu,” he announces. Bong. The gong sounds a welcome note.
The students of the Boar line up in the front row, their master at the head of the line. They spread their muscled legs in a fighting stance and crouch down low. Boar samurai are famous for their strength and stamina.
“Uh-uh. Yah!” Bowing low to the Komusu elders, they pound out the traditional samurai battle cry.
Behind me, someone from the Dragon Ryu grunts and snuffles like a pig. They wouldn’t do that if they had ever been chased by a boar. Even a Dragon wouldn’t be brave facing Black Tusk. I lick my lips in memory.
Chance places us before the Dragons, but that won’t last long. They’ll soon be in front of us all, in the place where only winners stand.
“Cockroach Ryu.” Another strike of the gong.
We line up in the second row. Our bronze kimonos shine like gold in the afternoon sunlight flowing through the windows. It’s not easy to crouch on one leg, but Yoshi holds me steady. Sensei thumps his staff on the ground.
“Uh-uh. Yah!” We yell and punch the air with both hands. Except Mikko, of course, but he strikes twice as hard with his one fist. Our cry rings out loud and proud. Yoshi’s deep voice booms through the temple.
“Dragon Ryu.” The gong pounds.
Awed silence stalks the room. Compared to their red and gold kimonos blazing like fire, our bronze uniforms look brown again. The Dragon Master holds out his arm, and the line crouches. “Uh-uh. Yah! Yah-ahh!” Low and menacing. Victorious before the Games even begin.
We might as well go home. It’s already over. Beside me, Yoshi doesn’t agree. The Tiger growls to accept the challenge.
Roll call continues. “Eagle Ryu.”
The Eagles kick high. A soft whistle escapes from Mikko.
“Rabbit Ryu.” “Snake Ryu.” “Wolf Ryu.”
As each ryu team is introduced, the gong sounds. Each line assumes their position and shouts their battle cry. Finally all seven teams are in place. It’s time for the Opening Ceremonial Dance.
The drum beats. Punching the air, we kick high. I land on my foot every time, and I’m glad of the hours spent practicing. Then I hear a whispered snicker as my leg is kicked out from under me. I fall flat on my face. No one dares to laugh in front of the Komusu, but I can feel the mockery rippling through the room.
The White Crane hides its head beneath a wing. It’s worse than last year already, and my one leg wants to run home. My face is bright red as Sensei helps me to my feet.
The Komusu stand too. They expect an explanation.
“The boy tripped,” the Dragon Master says. “I saw it. I am standing right behind him. If he can’t stand up properly, he shouldn’t be here.”
The Komusu don’t nod. They wait for me to speak. How can I argue with the Dragon Master? Insults make us strong. A true samurai doesn’t need a sword. Follow Bushido. Sensei’s teachings come to my rescue. I feel sorry for the Dragon Master, who has forgotten what it means to be a samurai.
“Chi. Jin. Yu.” I bow my head.
The Komusu nod so hard I worry their baskets will fall off.
“Excellent,” Sensei whispers in my ear. “You have made a big impression. A loud thump followed by wise words. No one could miss that.”
The gong sounds again. The ceremony — and my humiliation — are over. We are free to wander the temple until the Games begin tomorrow morning.
“How do the Komusu judge what they can’t see?” Mikko asks.
“They know,” I answer. “When one is truly wise, he knows.”
Like Sensei. He knows everything.
“Let’s go for a walk in the gardens,” Sensei suggests. “Perhaps I can find a tree to sit and meditate under.”
He doesn’t fool us. Our master wants to sleep and dream.
Flowers grow everywhere. Cherry blossoms on the trees, lotus blossoms on the pond. While the others admire and sniff the blooms, I study the crow-claw imprints Sensei’s knobbly toes leave in the rain-soaked soil. Kyoko’s words echo inside my head. Sensei can’t be a tengu. He doesn’t make mistakes. He’s perfect.
“Have you ever made a mistake, Sensei?” I ask.
He looks at me with eyes that care. Sad eyes.
“Everyone makes mistak
es, little Niya. It’s how we become wise.”
Sensei’s wisdom is infinite. He must have made a very big mistake.
Sword fighting is the first event of the day. My opponent is a small, thin boy from the Eagle Ryu. He got lucky. He probably couldn’t beat anyone except me.
Yesterday’s rain has disappeared, and the early morning sun warms my back. No cloud would dare interrupt the Games. The Komusu priests would never allow it.
A big group has gathered in the temple grounds — Sensei and my friends, all the Eagle kids, some Dragons and Snakes, and a lone Wolf. They’ve all come to watch me. I’m the only one-legged samurai kid in Japan, famous for falling face-first in the dirt.
With arm raised, Number One stands beside the big circular gong where the names of past winners are inscribed. The dragon’s tail winds around so many times that I lose count. Not a single cockroach scuttles across the gold. We’re not winners, and my first match isn’t going to change that.
My opponent and I face each other, a sword length apart. I bow low — slowly and carefully, so I don’t tip over. The Eagle boy bows low too. When he straightens, I search his eyes for laughter. But the Eagle boy smiles at me, a big friendly grin.
Number One lets his arm fall. Dong-g-g. The gong echoes across the mountains.
“Chi,” I yell.
“Jin.” My opponent answers the challenge.
“Yu.” I check his sword thrust with a hard clash above our heads. I’m taller than him, so for a few seconds I have the advantage.
“Yay, Niya!” Nezume cheers from the sideline.
But my one leg eventually brings me down, with a hard crash into the dirt. My moment of glory is over. I can’t match the Eagle boy’s flying twists and kicks.
Beside me I hear someone croak, softly at first, then loud enough for everyone to hear. Laughter echoes through the crowd.
“Ignore them,” says the Eagle boy, helping me to my feet. He points to my nose. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. “It’s an old injury. I am the White Crane,” I say. “I am not a frog.”
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