The Bamboo Sword

by Margi Preus

  As Kitsune struggled to rise, Yoshi took off running, the other boy with him.

  The forest was a green blur as they skidded and skittered down slopes, dodging trees and roots, skirting boulders, racing through lush ferns and among giant trees, up and down hillocks, over rocky ground and soft moss.

  Shouts echoed through the forest. Glancing over his shoulder, Jack saw not one or two but five angry warriors bearing down on them. “Jack Sullivan,” his mother had always said, “trouble follows you.” Here comes trouble, he thought.

  Looking ahead, he noticed a grove of thickly growing bamboo, and he watched as the Japanese boy slid between the slender trunks, then wove among them until he disappeared from view. I’d better follow, Jack thought, before I lose track of the boy.

  It was a strange and eerie place to be, among these tall, thin trunks. Jack kept his eyes on the Japanese boy and tried to keep up. Any sound they made was covered by the clattering of the stalks in the wind and the rustling of leaves. But after a time, these sounds were overpowered by the roar of a river or maybe a waterfall. A sound that grew louder and louder as they made their way through the bamboo. Now, Jack was quite sure, he and the other boy could not be seen or heard.

  But when they stepped out of the bamboo forest, it only took a heartbeat to see they were not out of danger. To the sides were impenetrable thickets, a tangle of brambles. Ahead of them lay a deep chasm. And below them surged a river, roiling and foaming. Over the roar of the water drifted the sharp voices of the angry samurai, who were making their way through the bamboo. It was either turn around and go back toward the shouting warriors or—somehow—go forward.

  32

  OVER THE PRECIPICE

  Not far from where they stood, Jack noticed that a large tree had fallen in such a way that it spanned the canyon. The distance from it to the river below was no greater than that of the upper topsail to the deck, he judged, and it was wider and thicker than a yard.

  There was no point in hesitating, and Jack dashed out onto it. He was nearly across when he thought to look back. The Japanese boy stood as if paralyzed at the edge of the ravine, having taken not one step out onto the fallen tree. He had a stricken look on his face that Jack recognized. In fact, Jack was quite sure he had worn the same expression the first time he’d been told to run aloft and loose the topgallants.

  Behind the boy, crashing through the bamboo, came the warriors.

  Jack gestured to the boy to come toward him, but in spite of the approaching warriors, the boy seemed rooted to the spot. Reminding himself that he’d done this a hundred times on skinnier timbers, Jack turned carefully around, made his way back to the frightened boy, and held out his hand.

  Yoshi wondered—did the red-hair want him to walk out on that fallen tree? When he hesitated, the boy grabbed hold of his hand and started walking backward on the log, feeling with his feet, while pulling Yoshi along with him.

  Yoshi kept his eyes on the red-haired boy’s face, making sure not to look down. It didn’t matter whether he could see or not, though; he could hear the roar of the river below and sense the void beneath him.

  When he finally stepped off the log onto solid earth, Yoshi would have liked to collapse in a heap on the ground. But the foreign boy was chattering, urging Yoshi to help as he pushed and shoved at the tree trunk. When Yoshi finally understood what the boy was trying to do, he, too, put his back against the heavy trunk and pushed. The log creaked, groaned, and, just as their pursuers reached the edge of the ravine, let go.

  As he watched the tree plunge down and down to the river below, Yoshi’s stomach flipped and turned. The American boy was already running, and Yoshi intended to follow. But something shiny in the dirt caught his eye. Button, he remembered Manjiro calling it, as he tucked the small item into his sleeve. Then he scrambled after the red-haired boy, glancing only once behind him to see the startled and angry faces of the samurai standing on the other side, at the cliff’s edge.

  Down they flew, under the tall trees, with the foaming river crashing and booming below, then over a wooden bridge and through the green mist into forests fragrant with pale white blossoms.

  Soon Yoshi began to catch tantalizing glimpses of the glittering bay through the trees. And in the bay, the Black Ships.

  Maybe his head was a little light from the exertion, because for a moment he imagined himself on the deck of one of those ships. He imagined how it would feel to be pushed along by sails or steam, the mighty ship cleaving the water with such force and speed that it left a foaming wake behind. His heart lifted to think of it. He could imagine the coastline of Japan receding, becoming smaller and smaller, while the vast ocean loomed ahead.

  But no. That could never happen. Here is where they would part, Yoshi knew. He was grateful to the boy for saving his life, but now he would be happy to be rid of him. The boy would go back to the treaty grounds, and from there to the boats that would take him to his ship.

  As for Yoshi, he planned to stay hidden in the forest until dark and then cautiously make his way back to Edo. And then his life would go back to the way it had been before.

  The boys lurched to a halt at the wooded edge of the farmer’s-field-turned-treaty-area, with Jack grabbing a tree to stop himself. Beyond the trees and past the field, he could see the makeshift buildings, and beyond that the sparkling water in the bay, and in the bay the ships. What he did not see were the crowds, the rows of blue-jacketed sailors, or the boats lined up along the shore. His heart, already pounding from the hard run, throbbed. There must be at least one boat still ashore—mustn’t there? One they couldn’t see, perhaps?

  Yoshi also took in the scene. Maybe, he thought, there would be a Japanese boatman who would take the boy to his ship. He peeked out from the trees, looking behind and all around them. Seeing no one, he signaled to the American to follow him, and the two of them darted out from the forest and streaked across the field until they reached the water’s edge.

  What they found was not only that the American boats had departed but that the ferryboats were gone, too. The last one was just disappearing into the twilight haze.

  An old man stood staring out at the Black Ships, watching as the lanterns were lit, one by one, so the ships began to twinkle with light. An occasional strain of music drifted over the water.

  “Grandfather,” Yoshi addressed him. “Do you know if there is a boatman?”

  “All gone,” the old man answered, trying hard not to stare at the red-haired boy.

  The two boys continued along the shore until they came to a group of fishermen huddled around a small bonfire on the beach, their boats pulled up on shore nearby.

  “The barbarians left one of their people behind,” Yoshi told the fishermen. “Will one of you take him back to the ships?” He pointed out to the bay, which was growing darker.

  Boats in the bay. (Ando Hiroshige)

  The fishermen looked at the ground, their feet, anywhere but at the boys. No one said anything. One of the fishermen stuck a straw into the fire and touched the burning straw to his pipe and puffed. “It is forbidden to approach the ships,” he said, drawing on his pipe, “unless you are an official boat with official permission.”

  Even if it wasn’t forbidden, another one said, who knew what the barbarians would do to you if you drew too close?

  “They’ll send someone from the Black Ships for him once they know he’s missing,” suggested the fisherman. “He should just wait here on the waterfront.” He reached into his boat and pulled out a basket full of oranges and held it out to the boys. “Dozo,” he said. “Please, help yourself.”

  Yoshi thanked the man and took a handful of oranges, wondering if he should leave the boy at the waterfront, as the fisherman suggested. But what would those bushi do to the boy if they laid hands on him? Would they dare to harm him? Yoshi wasn’t sure about the others, but he felt certain that, given the chance, Kitsune wouldn’t hesitate to lop off a head or two. If it was an American head, so much the better. That
’s probably what that group of bushi had been plotting to do anyway, before Yoshi had crawled under the treaty house floor and disrupted their plans.

  While Yoshi was thus in thought, he glanced at the boy. Jack had helped himself to some oranges, and now the fishermen were clustered around him, examining the buttons on his jacket. Yoshi’s eyes traveled beyond them and up into the hills, where he noticed movement—and then, suddenly, like a flock of crows, their kimono sleeves flapping like wings, the five bushi swept down out of the hills.

  Yoshi grabbed the boy’s arm and ran, first down the beach and then, as soon as he could, plunging off into the forest and once again into the hills. When the boys stopped to catch their breath, they crouched behind a big boulder and looked back toward the waterfront. For a moment, there was no sign of their pursuers, but then they appeared from behind the trees, approaching the same fishermen, who waved their arms vaguely toward the forest.

  The five samurai all turned and squinted into the trees, then fanned out, moving up the hill toward the boys.

  PART FOUR

  FIRE

  In selecting a position for yourself, we speak of “carrying the sun on your back,” that is, facing your enemy with the sun behind you.

  —Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings

  33

  CARRYING FIRE ON YOUR BACK

  The sun was low in the western sky, and shafts of golden light pierced the forest. Rather than sticking to the shadows, Yoshi guided the foreign boy along the corridors of brilliant light. They often had to hold a hand over their eyes to see their footing. Yoshi knew that their pursuers would also have a hard time seeing the two boys who ran ahead of them.

  Yoshi led them west, toward the setting sun but away from the bay. He knew that he should be thinking about how to get the boy back to his ship, but right now every fiber of his being was focused on staying out of the reach of those bushi.

  The twinkling lights of the ships receded behind them. The strains of fiddle music faded. Why, Jack wondered, were they moving farther and farther away from the bay? And they just kept moving away—crashing through brush, fording streams, clambering up and down hillsides.

  Finally the boys stopped for a moment and listened. They could not hear the sounds of pursuers. No thudding footfalls. No clatter of stones. No distant voices.

  Yoshi realized how raw his throat had become from breathing so hard. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out an orange.

  “Dozo,” he said, offering it to Jack.

  “No, thanks,” Jack said. His pockets bulged with his own oranges. But even though he knew he must be hungry, he didn’t think he could eat.

  In the still evening, a bird called out a single sad note. The bird seemed to echo Jack’s sad thoughts. Surely there’d be someone from the Susquehanna who would go ashore asking after him, wouldn’t there? Sailors were constantly going ashore to deliver this or that . . . but maybe not anymore. The treaty had been signed, the gifts had been delivered and received, the surveys had been conducted. Perhaps everything was finished and the fleet would weigh anchor and move to wherever the commodore said to go next.

  Jack’s empty stomach felt emptier. His whole insides felt empty. What if . . . what if the fleet just left without him? He was, after all, only a lowly cabin boy, a troublesome boy at that, who, for all his shipmates knew, might have just run way. He certainly wouldn’t be the first sailor to jump ship. Why should they wait or even look for him?

  He thought of how Toley would tell them that Jack had said “Good-bye and good riddance” before he stalked off into the forest. He squeezed his eyes shut. He supposed Toley would want to get back at him for the things he said. What better way than to see Jack abandoned in Japan?

  His stomach rumbled insistently, and he reached into his pocket for an orange, but there was such an ache in the back of his throat, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to swallow. He peeled the orange and bit into it, hoping it would be bitter, that its sourness would keep him from crying. But the first juicy burst of flavor was so sweet and delicious that he felt the tears come and his nose begin to run.

  Jack didn’t want to cry in front of the Japanese boy, and he reached into his other pocket for a handkerchief. Instead, his hand brushed against a piece of paper. He pulled it out and unfolded. It was the note Lieutenant Preble had given him back at the treaty grounds, the one he was supposed to deliver to Lieutenant Bent. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and squinted at it, but it was too dark to read Preble’s faint scrawl. Ah, but wait. Didn’t he also have the officer’s box of matches?

  Jack fished the matches out of another pocket and, holding the paper up where he could see it, struck a light.

  A gasp from the Japanese boy made Jack look up.

  That was a wonder, Yoshi thought, a stick that lit like that! If Yoshi had wanted to make fire, he would have needed flint and steel. The American boy handed the box to him, and Yoshi slid it open and examined the little sticks within, then squinted at the cover: a picture of three red stars in a row. He handed the box back to the American.

  A Three Stars matchbox.

  Jack could just make out the writing on the note by the light of the match: The message said all officers were to wear full-dress uniforms for the banquet to be given by the Japanese commissioners in their honor. That was to be in two days.

  Hope surged! A party on shore in two days! Jack leaped up and did a little jig. “Party!” he exclaimed. “On shore! Banquet. Bang-quet. You savvy?” He had to make the boy understand! He had to get back in time for the party! American boats were certain to be onshore then.

  Jack gathered up a few twigs and sticks and got a little campfire going. Then he stood up, and in the glow of the fire pointed to himself and said, “Jack.”

  “Jack,” Yoshi repeated, and inclined his head in a little bow of acknowledgment. He pointed to himself and said, “Yoshitaro.” When Jack stumbled on the name, Yoshi offered his nickname, “Yoshi.”

  “Yoshi,” Jack repeated. He had made up his mind, though. He was not, under any circumstances, going to bow. So he stuck out his hand.

  Yoshi stared at the hand for a moment and then remembered that was how the barbarians greeted one another, so he extended his arm and they shook hands. It was a strange custom, Yoshi thought. Afterward he had to resist the impulse to wipe his hand off on his kimono.

  Then Jack handed Yoshi the note. Yoshi stared at it and was reminded of a poem he had heard about the way Dutchmen wrote:

  Dutch letters

  Running sideways

  Are like a line of wild geese

  Flying in the sky.

  That is what the English writing looked like, too, flapping its wings across the page. He gave the note back to Jack.

  Jack held up the paper, pointed at it, and began to pantomime things. He pointed in the direction they had come—toward the bay, Yoshi assumed. Then he pretended to eat. Then drink. Then he wove around loopily, like he’d had too much sake to drink. He leaped and hopped about. Maybe it was supposed to be dancing? In the flickering firelight, his antics took on a strange stop-and-go quality, fading in and out in a mesmerizing way. Yoshi leaned in, watching, laughing, and wondering what crazy thing that boy would do next.

  Jack juggled oranges; he did some funny dances; he stood on his head; and finally he sighed and plopped down, worn out.

  That kid had really been enjoying the show, Jack thought. His brown face glowed in the firelight, and he laughed a little too often, as far as Jack was concerned—what was so funny? Jack surely hoped Yoshi had understood his pantomime, because he did not want to live out his days in Japan, which, if those crazy warriors caught up with them, might not number very many!

  He threw a few more sticks on the fire and tried to make himself comfortable on the cold ground. He never thought he would long for his hammock in the stuffy tween decks, but he did now. He’d even happily share his hammock with Toley’s stinky boots and stockings, if only he could be back in the ship, safe a
nd sound.

  At first Yoshi sat, alert for any snap of twig, rustle of leaves, whisper of fabric. But the only sound was the crackling of their little fire, and beyond that, the trilling, ticking, buzzing, and humming of a million nighttime insects. And the heavy, sleeping breathing of the American boy named Jack.

  Yoshi could easily just walk away now. If he walked through the night, he would be back at the stables in time for work, and life would resume as before. Except that he knew it would not.

  He looked up at the small patches of sky he could see between the branches, where a few stars quivered in the darkness. Everything moved, he’d heard it said: The earth, the heavenly bodies in the vast sky—it all turned, slowly revolving. It made him dizzy to think of it. If even the stars could not stand still—if even the very earth must spin—then how did he expect anything, his life included, to remain in one place?

  His life—nobody’s life—would ever be the same again. He felt it the way he felt the trembling of the stars and the movement of the earth: in his very bones.

  He knew he would help the boy, Jack. But since he couldn’t risk waiting at the waterfront, he needed someone who could help Jack get back to his ship. But whom could he trust?

  Manjiro, he thought. Manjiro would know what to do, and he could speak the barbarian’s tongue. But that meant Yoshi would have to get Jack all the way to Edo. And Edo was a sacred city, forbidden to all outsiders. Hadn’t Ozawa told him how the officials had threatened to commit seppuku if Perry took his steamships there? If Yoshi were to take Jack to Edo, he would have to smuggle him in. If he was going to be smuggled, that meant Jack would need a disguise.

  Where and how was he going to get that? Yoshi had given all his money to Ozawa. He didn’t regret that, but now he had no money with which to buy clothes for Jack. In a pouch tied to his waist sash was the drawing kit and fine rice paper that Ozawa had given him. He could trade that, he supposed. But the thought of losing the gift from Ozawa so soon made him almost unbearably sad. Maybe, instead of selling it, he could draw some pictures to trade. That’s what he would do at first light, he decided. That is, Yoshi thought as he finally closed his eyes, if he was still alive.