White Crane (17 page)

“See how magnificent his cloak is,” the Wolf Master sighs in admiration.

“Yes,” Sensei agrees. “There is a lot of hot air blowing out from undeneath.”

His whispers echo loudly in the silence. A giggle flows through the crowd, gathering momentum until it reaches the Dragon Master. He turns and fixes Sensei with his fiery gaze. Sensei smiles and waves.

Dong-ong-ong.

A decision has been made.

“The
ryu
captains will determine a tie-breaker event,” Number One announces.

Poor Yoshi. It’s all up to him, and he can’t even ask Sensei for help.

But Yoshi doesn’t look concerned. He looks like the Cockroach that swallowed the Dragon.

“The Cockroaches will suggest the event, but the final decision will rest with the Dragons, who are the current champions,” Number One continues.

The Dragon Master’s face is a smug grin. He thinks it’s all over, but Sensei is smiling. That means there’s hope for us yet. A smile is the best disguise for an assassin. A samurai smiles when he has decided how many pieces to chop from his enemy. The Dragon Master is big and strong. It will take a lot of chopping to bring him down, but Sensei is an expert swordsman and his blade is the best Onaku ever made.

Number One motions for Yoshi to speak.

“I suggest one event, in which three selected team members will compete.” Yoshi’s voice booms loud and clear. It’s the voice of a leader, a chopper of Dragons. “The event should be fought according to the Samurai Code so that Bushido determines the winner. The Dragons may choose the event.”

My heart sinks. I can’t believe my ears. Yoshi is letting the Dragons decide. They’ll pick sword fighting. They’ve never lost a match.

The Dragon captain can’t believe his ears either.

“I accept the Cockroach’s suggestion. I choose sword fighting,” he says.

The priests nod and bob in agreement. Number One claps his hands to seal our fate. We don’t stand a chance of winning now. We’re dead fish. We’ll stink like
dokudami.

But when I look at Sensei, he’s grinning wider than his face. The Dragon Master is watching Sensei, too. He senses danger, but he can’t see it. Neither can I. Sensei is really ancient, and the trek to the temple was difficult. Maybe he’s gone crazy with old age. Maybe that’s why he’s smiling like a lunatic.

“Choose your competitors,” Number Two instructs.

“I choose Mikko, Niya, and Taji,” says Yoshi, pointing to each of us in turn.

I shake my head in disbelief. Yoshi is crazy, too.

Smirking, the Dragon captain nominates his team members. Big, strong kids with huge Cockroach-stomping feet. We haven’t got a hope, so why are Sensei and Yoshi grinning like idiots? I look at Mikko, but he shrugs. I look at Kyoko, and she raises her eyebrows.

“Before we begin, there will be a reading of the Samurai Code.” Number One takes his seat as Number Three rises, pulling a scroll from under his basket.

On and on the Komusu priest drones, but I’ve stopped listening. No eyes. No legs. No arms.

Finally, I understand. Now a big grin spreads across my face. Who can fight best without arms, legs, and eyes? Us. We were born to fight with parts missing.

Number Three finishes reading and sits down.

“What does it mean?” the Snake Master wonders aloud.

His face like a storm cloud, the Dragon Master understands. The smiling samurai assassin knows where to place his sword, and Yoshi has placed it hard against the Dragon’s throat. He’s left them no room to move at all.

Number Four places a blindfold over Taji’s eyes. The Dragon boy is blindfolded too. Unlike Taji, he looks confused and wary. Taji stands serene and still. In his heart the Golden Bat has woken from sleep and is listening carefully. Number Two sounds the gong. Neither boy moves, until the Dragon twitches his left foot. Taji strikes fast. Blind eyes like lightning. His sword point slices the Dragon’s kimono sash.

The first tie-breaker point is ours!

Next, Number Four binds up a Dragon’s leg. It’s my turn in the ring. The Dragon boy hops forward, falling flat on his face at my foot. I don’t laugh. I know how it feels. Instead, I offer my hand to help him up, to let him know it doesn’t matter. His face red with anger and embarrassment, he shoves my arm aside. As soon as he is on his feet, he swipes recklessly at my face. It’s an easy block for me. One clash and he falls over. I make an easy strike.

Another point!

The priest ties back a Dragon’s arm. It’s one of the boys who injured Mikko years ago, when he studied at the Dragon Ryu. Mikko points his sword straight at the boy’s neck. When Sensei coughs, Mikko lowers his blade.

It’s hard to swing a sword with one arm, but Mikko’s weapon was specially crafted by Master Onaku. It sings as it slices across the dragon head on his opponent’s vest.

The gong sounds for the final time. We’ve won every point!

“Yah!” Nezume yells, jumping into the air.

“Yah, yah!” I mimic. We all jump high. No one is laughing at us now. Everyone is cheering. Everyone except the Dragons.

The Dragon Master is livid. He storms onto the dais. He takes the trophy from beside Number One and raises it high.

“This belongs to the Dragon Ryu!” he shouts. “The Cockroach Ryu cheated. They tricked us into fighting an unfair battle.”

Sensei steps forward. “Was the battle any different from the one my students have always fought? Have my students cried ‘Unfair!’ when they fought against two arms, two legs, and two eyes? Bushido has been honored.”

“I say it has not!” shouts the Dragon.

“Is the Dragon Master calling Ki-Yaga a cheat?” Sensei’s voice is soft, more menacing than any bellow.

“I am.” The Dragon places his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Sensei looks toward Number One. A samurai must defend his name. His sword and his name are his most valuable possessions. I wish there was another way, but the Komusu are nodding. It’s too late to go back.

“Do you challenge the Cockroach Master?” Number One asks the Dragon.

“I do.” The Dragon Master bows. “When I win, I will take the trophy, which never rightfully belonged to the Cockroach, and I will claim back the boy Nezume. No Dragon will study at the Cockroach Ryu ever again.” He glares at Mikko.

“I accept the challenge terms.” Sensei bows too, barely bending at the middle. A samurai is always polite, even when there is no respect. “Sometimes a samurai must fight, even if he does not want to,” Sensei says, looking at Yoshi. Even now, Ki-Yaga is teaching.

A fight between samurai masters is a fight to the death. Sensei is a skinny old man with chopstick legs and arms. The Dragon Master is younger, and strong. It’s going to be a massacre; the Dragon Master doesn’t stand a chance.

At the end of the dais is a large ceremonial drum. Led by Number One, the priests begin to beat it with large sticks. An ominous rhythm.

Suddenly, the drum stops. The goldfish in my stomach flop once and die of fright.

“Choose your weapon,” instructs Number One.

The Dragon Master unsheathes his
katana.
The blade glitters, cruel like the eyes of a snake. This master’s sword doesn’t sing; it screams for blood.

“Bring me my staff,” Sensei calls. Yoshi passes the long, thick bamboo pole Sensei carries everywhere. It’s not much of a weapon. He pokes it in the mud when walking and waves it in our faces when we are not listening.

“You’re going to fight with that?” sneers the Dragon Master.

“A true samurai doesn’t need a sword,” Sensei says.

The Dragon Master laughs, and the crowd explodes in noisy guffaws.

“The Dragon will snap Ki-Yaga like that piece of old, useless bamboo,” says the Wolf Master with a smirk.

Only the Eagle Master shakes his head. “Cockroaches are very hard to kill, and bamboo is very strong,” he says.

Sensei smiles. He knows where to chop, even with a bamboo pole.

The drum beats again. Loud and slow. The countdown begins. Three long pounding stokes.
Boom. Boom. Boom.

On the third boom, Sensei twirls. His long staff swings around and around. At first the Dragon Master is amused. Then frustrated. He can’t touch Sensei. If he uses his sword, it will fly out of his hands. Sensei is a human hurricane.

Abruptly, he stops. We wait in the silence before the storm. The eye of the hurricane enfolds us all.

“Banzai!” Sensei whoops as he brandishes his staff.

“Ai-yah!” The Dragon Master roars as he raises his sword.

They collide with a clash of wood against steel. The ground rumbles, but there’s no earthquake this time. Sensei holds his staff strong against the sword. A stalemate. The two men break apart, their eyes still locked.

The drumbeat begins again. A steady, threatening rhythm as the Dragon attempts to hypnotize its prey. Sensei sways inside the golden gaze. Then he shuts his eyes, raises one leg, and tucks his left arm behind his back. He doesn’t see the Dragon smirk. He doesn’t see his enemy’s eyes glitter with anticipation as he moves closer.

Beside me I feel Mikko touch his sword. Kyoko’s lashes flutter, and Yoshi growls. Taji stands perfectly still, and Nezume stares with bright black eyes. The White Crane calls to its brothers and sister. Our hearts join Sensei, and together we stand against the Dragon.

Sensei moves faster than a striking snake. He wraps his raised leg around the Dragon Master, who falls hard to the ground. In triumph, Sensei raises his bamboo staff, poised to crush his opponent’s skull.

The drum is silent, the crowd hushed. Sensei is a samurai of the old ways. The loser must die. Accepting defeat, the Dragon Master folds his arms across his chest and closes his eyes. I expect him to scream or beg for mercy, but he doesn’t. The Dragon Master is a samurai. In the end, he knows how to die.

“Some old ways need to change.” Sensei throws his staff down. “Words are not important enough to demand a life.”

The crowd sighs with relief. The Dragon Master has few friends, but no one wishes him dead. Baskets bobbing, the Komusu nod approval. Words have no value to priests who rarely speak. Sensei’s wisdom, like their own, is beyond words.

The Dragon Master opens his eyes. I’ve seen that look before. In the eyes of Black Tusk, the wild boar. It’s hate. Pure hate.

Standing up, the Dragon Master barely bows. “You silly old fool. I would not have done the same for you. Don’t expect such weakness from me next year.” His words spit. No thank-you. No gratitude. Just hate.

Sensei doesn’t care. He bows politely.

“I look forward to it. If the Dragon Master wishes to rub his scales in the dirt again, I will be honored to assist.”

The Dragon Master sheathes his
katana
and wrenches his cape from an outstretched hand in the crowd.

“Next year I will crush you like the insect you are.” With a flourish of red silk, he storms away. His students quickly follow.

Number One hands Sensei our trophy. The Komusu take their
shakuhachi
from under their basket-covered heads and begin to play. The Samurai Games have ended. We’ve won!

Nezume runs over and hugs Sensei. For once the old man is caught off balance. Except for Kyoko, we don’t hug each other at the
ryu.
But Sensei is right as always:sometimes old ways need to change. I lead the charge to drown Sensei with our hugs. The Dragon Master couldn’t knock him over, but we can. Sensei is lost under a sea of arms and legs.

When all the limbs are untangled, we sit waiting for our master to speak.

“I am very proud. You showed great honor and wisdom. You are truly a team. And next year Nezume will compete with us. But first I must ask Nezume an important question.” His eyes dance. “What have you learned that you need to forget?”

“I know NOTHING.” Nezume hangs his head in shame.

I grin. I’ve found a Zen friend.

Sensei claps his hands with pleasure. “Wonderful. You are way ahead on your lessons. It took me a year to teach my students nothing. Now we must pack and hurry home. We have much to do.”

Dismayed, I look at Sensei, hoping he’ll change his mind. For the first time ever, we’re winners, ready to bask in our glory. We want to strut and show off, to party and stuff our faces with rice cakes. “What could be so important that we need to rush away?” I ask.

“It does not matter if you do not know where you are going, as long as you know where you have been,” Sensei says.

I know where we’ve been, but I still I want to know what comes next.

“More practice!” Sensei yells, jumping up and waving his staff in the air. “Come. There is much to learn, and it cannot wait. I am a good teacher, but I am not a wizard or a magician. I cannot work miracles.”

I look around at my friends’ proud smiling faces and the trophy Mikko clutches tight against his chest. I remember the day we came to the
ryu.
Armless, legless, sightless, sad, and different. We’re not like that anymore. We’re Dragon slayers. Sensei can’t fool me. He’s a wizard, all right. And a magician, too. I know a miracle when I see one.