Sensei calls. “When in the water, a samurai needs to keep an eye on what is below as well as what is above. There might be a river snake. Or worse, there might be a samurai girl.”
Grumbling, I swim back to the edge with Kyoko. Next it’s Mikko’s turn to fight Taji.
Sensei’s chest rises and falls with each snore.
“Shh.” Kyoko puts her fingers to her lips. She pulls a bamboo ball of twine from her pocket, winks, and throws it at Taji’s head. Taji’s arm shoots straight out and catches it. Did he hear the ball in the air or Kyoko’s wink? You can’t sneak anything past the ears of a blind kid.
Laughing, Mikko ducks into the water, feet waving in the air. Taji times his throw perfectly.
Thwack.
Wet bamboo clunks Mikko on the foot. Taji roars and dives aside as Mikko aims at him.
Eventually we tire of being splatted in the head, feet, and backside.
“I’m hungry,” I say, throwing my armor onto the riverbank beside Sensei. The others follow. Taji’s armor lands with a wet thump in Sensei’s lap. Teacher opens both eyes.
“I see I have been swimming too,” he says, moving Taji’s dripping armor aside. “Excellent. It must be time for lunch.”
Inside the picnic basket I find fish and cucumber rolls, pickled ginger, and peaches. Yum. My stomach growls louder than Yoshi’s Tiger.
We lie on the bank munching happily. Kyoko takes a napkin and twists and turns it. She’s trying to make a cockroach again.
“If I can do this, I’ll win an origami point at the Games.”
But making a cockroach is hard. Only Sensei can do it.
“It’s impossible,” she complains.
“It is difficult,” Sensei agrees. “Poor wretched me. I have five Little Cockroaches to finish.”
He means us.
“If we are not finished, then what are we?” I ask.
“Bug bits. Cockroaches with pieces missing.” Old eyes twinkle.
“Maybe I could slice off Kyoko’s extra finger. That would be one bug finished,” says Mikko, pretending to unsheathe his sword.
Kyoko throws a ball of paper at him. He dodges, and the ball flies into Sensei’s hands. Twisting and folding, Sensei transforms the wrinkled imperfect page into a cockroach.
“It is amazing what I can make from things other people throw aside,” he says.
He’s talking about us again. I smile wider than my face. Lying in the sun, with a full stomach, I’m proud to be one of Sensei’s bug bits.
Bang, Bang. Bang.
Sensei strides around our room banging his drum like a crazy man. He is crazy. Most mornings it’s like this. We wake before the sun, and it’s a struggle to open our eyes. It’s easy for Sensei to get up in the morning, because he spends all day sleeping.
Still banging his drum, our master heads out the door toward the kitchen.
Today is a special day. Today we come of age. Instead of a boy’s ponytail, we’ll bind our long hair up like samurai men. I’ll have two new blades: my
katana
and my
wakizashi.
When the Gembuku Ceremony is over, I’ll be a warrior student.
I jump out of bed and stab at the bedclothes with an imaginary sword. The White Crane screeches to the others to wake. We throw on our kimonos, jackets, and trousers as fast as three layers of clothing will let us.
Summer mornings in the Tateyama Mountains are freezing cold. Steaming rice warms our bellies; breakfast readies us for the day ahead.
“Lots of work to do,” Sensei announces. “We need to prepare for Gembuku.”
Time has rushed through the
ryu
. With only two days until the tournament, we are still cockroaches fit for squashing.
“Today we paint our school,” says Sensei.
“Ooooooh,” I groan.
Once I helped Father paint. My arms ached; my leg ached. Painting isn’t good practice for anything.
“We should be doing something special today, not yard work,” I complain.
Sensei strokes his beard. “Niya has a good idea. We will do haiku.”
Now everyone groans and glares at me. There’s something worse than painting. Poetry! That’s what haiku is. Haiku
Grumbling, I swim back to the edge with Kyoko. Next it’s Mikko’s turn to fight Taji.
Sensei’s chest rises and falls with each snore.
“Shh.” Kyoko puts her fingers to her lips. She pulls a bamboo ball of twine from her pocket, winks, and throws it at Taji’s head. Taji’s arm shoots straight out and catches it. Did he hear the ball in the air or Kyoko’s wink? You can’t sneak anything past the ears of a blind kid.
Laughing, Mikko ducks into the water, feet waving in the air. Taji times his throw perfectly.
Thwack.
Wet bamboo clunks Mikko on the foot. Taji roars and dives aside as Mikko aims at him.
Eventually we tire of being splatted in the head, feet, and backside.
“I’m hungry,” I say, throwing my armor onto the riverbank beside Sensei. The others follow. Taji’s armor lands with a wet thump in Sensei’s lap. Teacher opens both eyes.
“I see I have been swimming too,” he says, moving Taji’s dripping armor aside. “Excellent. It must be time for lunch.”
Inside the picnic basket I find fish and cucumber rolls, pickled ginger, and peaches. Yum. My stomach growls louder than Yoshi’s Tiger.
We lie on the bank munching happily. Kyoko takes a napkin and twists and turns it. She’s trying to make a cockroach again.
“If I can do this, I’ll win an origami point at the Games.”
But making a cockroach is hard. Only Sensei can do it.
“It’s impossible,” she complains.
“It is difficult,” Sensei agrees. “Poor wretched me. I have five Little Cockroaches to finish.”
He means us.
“If we are not finished, then what are we?” I ask.
“Bug bits. Cockroaches with pieces missing.” Old eyes twinkle.
“Maybe I could slice off Kyoko’s extra finger. That would be one bug finished,” says Mikko, pretending to unsheathe his sword.
Kyoko throws a ball of paper at him. He dodges, and the ball flies into Sensei’s hands. Twisting and folding, Sensei transforms the wrinkled imperfect page into a cockroach.
“It is amazing what I can make from things other people throw aside,” he says.
He’s talking about us again. I smile wider than my face. Lying in the sun, with a full stomach, I’m proud to be one of Sensei’s bug bits.
Bang, Bang. Bang.
Sensei strides around our room banging his drum like a crazy man. He is crazy. Most mornings it’s like this. We wake before the sun, and it’s a struggle to open our eyes. It’s easy for Sensei to get up in the morning, because he spends all day sleeping.
Still banging his drum, our master heads out the door toward the kitchen.
Today is a special day. Today we come of age. Instead of a boy’s ponytail, we’ll bind our long hair up like samurai men. I’ll have two new blades: my
katana
and my
wakizashi.
When the Gembuku Ceremony is over, I’ll be a warrior student.
I jump out of bed and stab at the bedclothes with an imaginary sword. The White Crane screeches to the others to wake. We throw on our kimonos, jackets, and trousers as fast as three layers of clothing will let us.
Summer mornings in the Tateyama Mountains are freezing cold. Steaming rice warms our bellies; breakfast readies us for the day ahead.
“Lots of work to do,” Sensei announces. “We need to prepare for Gembuku.”
Time has rushed through the
ryu
. With only two days until the tournament, we are still cockroaches fit for squashing.
“Today we paint our school,” says Sensei.
“Ooooooh,” I groan.
Once I helped Father paint. My arms ached; my leg ached. Painting isn’t good practice for anything.
“We should be doing something special today, not yard work,” I complain.
Sensei strokes his beard. “Niya has a good idea. We will do haiku.”
Now everyone groans and glares at me. There’s something worse than painting. Poetry! That’s what haiku is. Haiku
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