by Maya Snow
“Thank you,” we both said together.
Then Tatsuya gazed at us again, this time shaking his head in disbelief. “Girls,” he marveled. “I still can’t believe it. You know, I’ve never seen any girl who can fight with the skill that you two have.”
“Not skilled enough, though,” I said. “We must train harder.” Quickly I told him my plan to win the tournament and challenge Uncle openly.
“And if I win the tournament, I will challenge the Jito on your and Hana’s behalf,” Tatsuya said, looking at me intently.
Hana looked surprised. “No, Tatsuya,” she said quietly. “This is our fight. We are so grateful for your friendship, but we cannot drag you into this.”
I nodded in agreement. “But will you keep sparring with us?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Anything you need, just ask.”
As the tournament drew closer, the air of excitement in the dojo intensified. The gardens and courtyards echoed with the clash of swords and jo. Students worked until late in the evening, calling for servants to relight the lanterns among the trees as they burned themselves out.
Choji noticed our renewed efforts and complimented us both on our improved weapons skill. “We’ll make warriors of you skinny boys yet,” he quipped in his gruff voice.
And every day that passed, I saw that Ken-ichi was training with the same intensity I was.
He’d taken over one of the courtyards on the far side of the school from the servants’ quarters and kitchens, so at first I wasn’t aware of what he was doing. But one evening, just as the sun dipped behind the curving roof of the main practice hall, Tatsuya led Hana and me along a series of walkways, through an ornamental garden to a wooden archway. As we approached, we could hear the sounds of combat—the grunts, the swiftly exhaled breaths, the impact of a fist.
“Look through the archway,” Tatsuya said quietly. “This is what you’re going to be up against in two days’ time.”
I looked, and my heart squeezed tight. Ken-ichi and his opponent, a brown-sash student called Genta, were both stripped to the waist. Their wiry bodies glistened with sweat. Surrounding them were a group of about eight or ten other students, including Ken-ichi’s two friends. All eyes were fixed on Ken-ichi and Genta.
Genta circled Ken-ichi warily. One of his hands was curled loosely in front of his stomach, the other held straight out in front of him. He seemed tense, uncertain of his next move, and I could see a red mark along one of his cheekbones where Ken-ichi’s fist had already struck.
My cousin, by contrast, was relaxed and alert. A half smile played around his mouth. He stepped forward and without warning unleashed a powerful punch that almost connected with Genta’s jawbone. Genta quickly bent backward, swaying slightly, rolling his weight on his heels. Ken-ichi didn’t wait for his recovery. He shot straight in with a hard kick, power channeling through his leg into his foot. The impact was sudden and brutal, a blow that resounded around the courtyard. I cringed as the boy’s head snapped to one side, and all at once Genta was down, his face in the sand.
I saw one of Ken-ichi’s friends punch the air with his fist in triumph.
Ken-ichi lowered his hands and bowed in Genta’s direction—a supreme display of arrogance, for Genta was dazed and thus unable to acknowledge the supposed respect. Then, without the usual etiquette of waiting for an opponent to get up again, Ken-ichi turned to the other students. “Who’s next?”
No one moved. For a moment, I thought of launching myself forward. But I stopped myself. Now was not the right time. I was beginning to learn patience.
“What, none of you?” Ken-ichi said with a sneer. “All right then, let’s make it fair. I’ll take on three of you. Three against one! Come on, you peasants. Who’s man enough to challenge me?”
A few of the students shuffled and glanced at one another. One of Ken-ichi’s friends, big and brawny, stepped forward and volunteered himself before turning and dragging forward the two students nearest to him.
Ken-ichi grinned as all three came to face him, their bare feet making tracks in the sandy floor of the courtyard. They bowed to one another as custom demanded, but Ken-ichi breached etiquette again, coming up from his bow before the others had finished. They had barely gathered their wits when he launched into a punishing attack.
He is his father’s son, I thought. Ken-ichi will trample over any sacred rule in the pursuit of triumph. I resolved to remember this fact, to know my enemy.
One of the students—quicker than the others—met him with a high block, while another moved in with a sliding foot which almost swept Ken-ichi’s feet from under him. But my cousin moved fast, fists and feet flying in a blur, one move following hard on another. He caught his first attacker in the ribs, sending him toward the third attacker, who almost tripped over him. Then he ducked down to ram a shoulder into his big, brawny friend, throwing him abruptly to the ground.
The brawny boy lay flat on his back, gasping like a landed fish, while the other two students sat looking dazed.
One of the boys on the ground recovered quickly, however. He scrambled to his feet, twisted his hips, and sent a flying thrust kick at Ken-ichi’s stomach. The small crowd in the courtyard winced as they heard the contact.
For a moment it looked as if Ken-ichi had met his match. He gasped and backed off for a moment, his hands clutched hard across his muscular stomach. But then he shook himself off and darted in again with a double-handed punch. His opponent ducked away at the last minute and launched into another devastating kick.
But Ken-ichi was expecting it this time. He caught the kick in midair before it had time to connect, trapping the ankle between his arm and his ribs. He twisted his body, forcing his opponent off balance. Instantly the boy collapsed to the ground, locked into an awkward position by Ken-ichi’s painful control over his leg.
“Stop!” the boy yelped.
“Do you yield?” Ken-ichi demanded through gritted teeth.
“Yes…I yield,” the boy gasped in pain.
“Then I declare myself the champion!” Abruptly Ken-ichi let go and the boy fell to the ground, clutching his ankle. A couple of other students ran to help him up, and he limped across the courtyard.
“Can’t you walk away like a true warrior?” Ken-ichi sneered at him. “A twisted ankle is hardly a major injury. I was holding back—if I’d wanted to, I could have snapped your leg like a twig!”
The boy flushed red with shame.
Out of sight of Ken-ichi, as the boy limped passed, I asked, “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” the boy replied, but he was breathing hard.
“Choji has some medical supplies in the kitchen,” I told him. “Why don’t you go and have your ankle bandaged?”
As his friends helped the injured boy away, I stood up and looked at Tatsuya.
“Seen enough?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” I said.
I had seen enough. I knew now that my cousin was a deadly opponent, skilled and ruthless.
I also knew that if this had been a full-contact bout instead of a practice, then it was almost certain that Ken-ichi’s opponent would never have walked again.
The night before the tournament, everyone gathered in the main practice hall for one last formal tea ceremony. The period of intensive kenshu training was over.
“This evening,” Master Goku said, “I would like every student to take a turn at pouring tea for the cha no yoriai.”
Ken-ichi was chosen to go first, and he approached the low lacquered table with his usual confidence. He wore a crisp fresh kimono and neat black hakama trousers, his hair greased and folded on top of his head. With his handsome face and calm self-assurance, he looked every inch the noble samurai, and Master Goku acknowledged him with a bow. He bowed, kneeled, and ladled out the tea perfectly.
“Your technique is excellent, Ken-ichi,” the Master said. “You are a credit to your father.”
Ken-ichi walked back to his place, looking at
his classmates as if they were already his subjects. One by one, the other students followed him. Each one bowed, kneeled, poured.
When it was Tatsuya’s turn, Hana and I watched apprehensively. Tatsuya had worked so hard to improve, but what if, as he feared, his nerves took over when he was under pressure?
We needn’t have worried. Tatsuya was perfection itself. Poised and calm, his movements spare and precise, he could have served cha to the Emperor himself and been praised for it.
Master Goku bowed to Tatsuya. “You have particularly pleased me,” the Master said. “You have not only shown great improvement, but also the unshakeable will to be the best. And the best is what you have become tonight, Tatsuya.”
Tatsuya blushed and bowed low. Master Goku smiled. “You have the focus and passion of a true samurai, my son.”
I felt my heart swell with pride that Tatsuya had reached his goal. I knew that I still had my own challenge to fulfill. I still had to kick down the willow tree.
As Tatsuya returned to his seat, threading a pathway through the other students, I saw Ken-ichi roll his eyes. But Tatsuya was oblivious, smiling happily. Although he could not publicly acknowledge our help in his perfect tea-pouring skills, he bowed slightly to Hana and me as he passed.
Later that night, the three of us meditated together in the rock garden. We didn’t want to spar, preferring instead to save our energies for the next day’s tournament. I felt as if our time at the dojo had all been leading up to this.
Tatsuya sat in tranquil isolation in a far corner of the garden, his dark hair made silver by the moonlight. Hana was kneeling, eyes closed, face serene.
I kneeled motionless in a pool of light shed by a nearby lantern. My spirit felt calm, my whole inner being focused. For a moment I gazed across the rock garden to where the willow’s sad dead branches swept low to the ground. The moment had come.
A breeze stirred my hair. I got up and slowly walked across the moonlit garden to the willow tree. I positioned myself carefully, adjusting my balance as I took a wide-legged stance. My knees were soft, my hands curled one in front of the other near my stomach.
Standing very still, I closed my eyes.
Count your breaths, Kimi…, Master Goku’s voice seemed to echo inside my mind. Breathe in, two, three, four…breathe out, two, three, four…
I focused on my breathing and let conscious thought slip away. Memories faded.
Something happened then. A great emptiness seemed to fill me, abruptly replaced by a vital force that pushed up from the depths of my soul. Power surged through me. My limbs hummed with energy.
Eyes flashing open, I unleashed a fierce yokogeri kick, channeling every ounce of vigor and weight through my leg and into my foot. My heel hit the trunk of the willow like a blacksmith’s hammer. A loud crack! echoed through the night—
I leaped back just in time as the trunk snapped. And then the tree was falling! Branches whipped the air and at last the dead willow tree went crashing to the ground.
Hana and Tatsuya came running across the rock garden, bursting with excitement and exclamations of wonder. “You did it! You really did it!”
I stared at the toppled tree and smiled. “I think I’m ready.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At last the day of the tournament dawned. The first day of Seimei, true to the weather prophets, was clear and bright. I could hardly believe how long Hana and I had been at the dojo. I stood at the gap in the screens of our tiny bedroom and gazed out across the gardens and courtyards, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I thought about Mother and Moriyasu. Had Goku found them? He hadn’t said anything, but I knew that if anyone could find them, Goku could.
The air was warmer now. Spring was really here and the cherry blossom trees were in glorious full bloom. I could see across the walkways and low walls to the main gates of the school. They had been opened wide and even this early in the day there was a steady stream of people arriving for the tournament—farmers from the neighboring villages rubbed shoulders with merchants and craftsmen, local samurai families hurried in the wake of powerful lords carried on gilded palanquins.
By midmorning there was a festival atmosphere around the fight arena, which had been set up in the main courtyard. Those without the privilege of shaded seats laughed and joked as they jostled for places on long wooden benches. Snack sellers hawked their wares and a few peasants in ragged jackets sold tiny wooden figures that had been painted to look as though they were wearing the brown kimono and black hakama trousers of the dojo. “Buy your champions!” the woodcarvers cried. “Buy your champions here!”
“Are you nervous, Kimi?” Hana asked, as we helped each other to dress for combat, lacing on shoulder guards and leather sleeve armor.
“A little.” I slung my sword from my sash, beside Moriyasu’s little wooden bokken, which I was wearing as a good-luck charm. “Are you?”
She shook her head. “We’ve worked hard and done all we can to prepare. Winning or losing is out of our hands now.”
“I just hope I’ve done enough,” I said grimly, but my words were drowned out by the sudden blare of conch-shell trumpets announcing the arrival of the Jito.
“He’s here,” Hana whispered.
“Tatsuya says Uncle will be the one to judge each round of the tournament and choose the champion,” I told her. “I can’t help thinking that gives Kenichi an unfair advantage.”
“Uncle is not interested in what is fair,” Hana agreed. “And neither is our cousin.”
As we made our way along the walkway, my heart began to pound with excitement and anticipation. At last, the time had come for Hana and me to put our hard work and practice to the test. I could hear the excitement of the crowd as I neared the main courtyard, and as I turned the corner I saw rows and rows of eager faces.
The whole school had gathered, along with half the province, it seemed. Hundreds of people filled the wooden benches that lined the huge square fight arena. The competing students were kneeling in rows near the first fight area. Among them were servants and peasants from the village, all treated as equals today.
Some of the boys looked anxious; others were lost in quiet contemplation as they prepared their minds for the combat ahead. One of the young masters was walking around the edge of the fight arena, checking that the ground was even and that the white raked underfoot had been neatly swept.
Uncle was sitting up on a high wooden platform, shaded by a lacquered paper parasol. He was wearing formal dress, his red and gold robes arranged around him in flowing folds. Two swords glimmered at his waist. Beside him sat Master Goku, his face impassive.
Tatsuya joined us as Hana and I made our way toward the rows of competitors. He was dressed for combat in leather armor, his jo in his hand. He seemed to have gained a new confidence since the cha no yoriai last night. He walked with his head held high, drawing glances of admiration from people in the crowd.
As we moved between the rows of merchants and farm workers, I realized I could hear them whispering about the new Jito.
“I hear he’s gathering weapons,” muttered a skinny man.
“Breaking alliances across the kingdom,” said another.
“He’s half the man his brother was,” agreed a wrinkled old woman, cooling herself with a painted paper fan.
I took strength from the knowledge that the people hadn’t forgotten my father.
The crowd shifted around us, murmuring, and we came to an area that was roped off with lengths of silk. Men and women in expensive-looking kimonos were seated under a long billowing canopy, which shaded them from the sun. Servants in plain blue jackets and trousers served them tea in beautiful porcelain bowls, and I even recognized a few of them as visitors in my father’s household. These were important local families, friends of the Jito.
As I passed by with Hana and Tatsuya, a hand suddenly reached out and touched my sleeve.
Surprised, I turned around—and found myself looking directly into the face of Miura no Megumi, one
of my mother’s oldest friends. She was as tall and elegant as a willow tree in her green silk kimono, her red-painted lips curved in a friendly smile.
My heart began to pound with fear.
“Don’t I know you, child?” she asked me.
“N-no,” I stuttered, trying to deepen my voice to sound more boyish.
“Oh, but we have met before,” she insisted, her dark eyes twinkling with good humor. “I just can’t remember where…wait, it will come to me in a moment….”
All at once, Tatsuya stepped forward. “Forgive me, dear lady,” he said in a pompous voice that sounded remarkably like Ken-ichi. “This boy is my servant. He’s a lowly peasant from a northern province. I am sure a lady of your standing cannot have met him before.”
He bowed deeply and respectfully, and then smiled up at her. “I, however, am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He puffed himself up importantly, looking more and more like Ken-ichi with every moment. “May I introduce myself? I am Lord Fujiwara….”
As he uttered the word Lord, Tatsuya shot me a look that seemed to say, Get out of here, now! My mother’s friend, meanwhile, seemed impressed at finding herself face to face with such a young lord. As she bowed low to Tatsuya, Hana and I hurriedly slipped away through the crowd.
“Thank goodness Tatsuya’s mind is as fast as the arrows he fires,” Hana whispered.
“We should have been prepared for something like that to happen,” I said, biting my lip in frustration. “We could have ruined everything just then. No more mistakes. This is the chance we’ve been waiting for!”
At last we reached the area where the other competing students and servants were kneeling. We saw Ko sitting with Sato, Genta, and the boy who’d injured his ankle during the bout with Ken-ichi. Farther away sat my cousin himself, oozing confidence and flanked by his two friends. He sneered as he saw Tatsuya hurry to join us.
