White Crane (13 page)

“It’s my turn to help Mikko now,” Yoshi says.

Nezume shakes his head. “Thanks, but I can manage.” It’s a matter of honor, and Nezume will faint on his feet before he gives in. He helped to cut off Mikko’s arm, but now, for the length of this journey, he has the chance to replace it.

Still, Yoshi can see Nezume needs to rest. “I think we should stop for dinner.”

I agree. My stomach is growling louder than Yoshi’s Tiger, and says it’s long past dinnertime. If things were different, it would be fun to sit in the gloom with my friends. But our rice cakes are soggy and the dried fish is waterlogged. It’s so cold. I just want to escape from the tunnel.

We eat quickly, without talking, until Yoshi moves us on.

“Time to go,” he says, handing the candle to Kyoko to relight.

The slow tramp begins again.
Squish. Squelch.
Sandals slap and slosh. One saturated footstep after another.

“Did you hear that?” Taji whispers.

We shake our heads, but we know something is happening. Taji always hears things first. Nezume’s nose twitches. He can feel it.

Now I can hear and feel it, too. A low rumble and the ground trembles. There’s more mud coming.

“I know a different way out.” Nezume points to a hole in the wall ahead. “See? We can take the higher path. It’s longer, but it’s above the mud flow. I’ve never been that way, but I’m sure it leads outside. I can smell it.”

We trust Nezume’s rat-like nose as much as Taji’s bat ears. Yoshi waves us forward. One by one, we climb onto his shoulders, to be hoisted into the gap. Nezume scrambles through first. Struggling together, we drag our leader up last.

The new tunnel is warmer, with the promise of an end in sight. The passage immediately widens into a small cave. I can hop and twirl and swing my arms without bruising my knuckles. My friends copy my dance until, like a tangle of kite strings, we collapse in a heap together.

But we’re not the only ones there. A skeleton sits cross-legged in the middle of the cave.

Sensei says a samurai should be able to look death in the eye. I fix my stare on empty eye sockets and bow low. We all do. At first, no one says anything. It’s easy to respect the dead, but it’s hard to include them in conversation.

“Gaiya,” I finally mumble, bringing the ghost story to life.

Now we know what happened to him. In traditional times, when a samurai wanted to atone for dishonor, he committed
seppuku,
taking his sword and slicing open his belly. Only Gaiya’s bones remain, but his sword protrudes from where his stomach once was.

Kyoko eyes the skeleton with dismay. “I thought Sensei said Gaiya found peace.”

“He did,” Nezume says. “He found a way to restore his honor.” Nezume understands best of all. With Mikko needing help, Rat Boy’s honor is also returned. The heavier Mikko leans, the higher Nezume’s spirit soars.

“But Gaiya was a good sensei. Ki-Yaga said so. How could such a wise man fall from grace?” Taji wonders.

Yoshi sits down. He’s ready to share his burden. “I want to tell you why I won’t fight,” he says. “Sometimes dishonor falls like lightning. It strikes whoever stands in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

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 someone 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.