White Crane Read Free Page A

terrified chicken dodges sideways. Taji dives toward the sound but misses and skids face-first through a row of cabbages.
    “You didn’t catch the chicken, but you scared it eggless.” Yoshi picks up a warm new egg.
    Kyoko giggles. “Well done. You caught an egg instead of a chicken.” She takes the egg from Yoshi and puts it in her pocket.
    Boom, boom,
the drum insists. We run to see what our master wants.
    Sensei waits, dozing cross-legged beneath the cherry tree. The drum and two traveling hats rest in his lap. When a samurai goes into a village or town, he wears a big, wide bamboo hat to cover his face.
    “Why does the samurai hide his face?” Mikko asked the first time Sensei showed us the hats.
    “It is tradition to hide the face, in case of accidental dishonor. Or rain. A samurai does not like to be embarrassed, and he hates to get wet.”
    It makes good sense to me. There’s nothing worse than a soggy kimono lapping at your ankles. And the village is a busy, confusing place where anything could happen. It’s full of strange things and something we rarely see — other kids. Samurai training
ryu
regularly visit each other to play friendly tournaments. But not us. Sensei says no.
    “Why can’t we travel to another
ryu
?” I ask.
    “There is nothing to learn there, and I have already taught you nothing.”
    “Couldn’t we visit the Mountain Eagles? It’s not very far,” Taji cajoles. The Mountain Eagle Ryu is closest to us, on the other side of Mount Tateyama. Eagle trainees are famous for their flying acrobatic kicks.
    Sensei shakes his head. “Sparrows. Puny birdseed eaters.”
    “What about the Snakes?” asks Mikko. “They’re strong wrestlers and eat raw meat.”
    “Wriggling worms. Raw meat makes smelly droppings.” Sensei wrinkles his nose.
    They couldn’t smell worse than
dokudami
in the morning sun. But in Sensei’s closed eyes, no one is good enough for the mighty Cockroaches. Still, I wish we could practice against normal kids. Just sometimes.
    The wizard Ki-Yaga reads my mind. “What is normal?” he asks.
    It’s a Zen question. Sensei is a Zen Master and teaches us to study questions so we can become wise samurai. The hardest question is: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”
    Mikko knows the answer to that one. Clapping with one hand is what a kid with one arm does all the time.
    Zen questions are easy for me because I know the secret. It’s NOTHING. The answer to every question is some sort of NOTHING. If you say nothing, you are wise because you already know the answer and don’t need to speak it. If you jump up and yell NOTHING, you are wise and generous with your knowledge.
    This morning I feel noisy, generous, and wise. I know what is normal.
    “NOTHING!” I shout.
    “Very good, Niya. Now, sit down and listen,” Sensei instructs.
    We sit in a half circle, and I try to concentrate. It’s not a story this time. The White Crane’s head droops in the heat, but Sensei’s stern glance snaps it upright.
    “I have ordered many things in the village, and they need to be collected today,” he says.
    Crossing my fingers, I hope I can go. Every month two of us trek partway down the mountain path to pick up supplies the villagers leave on the big, flat halfway rock, but we rarely go all the way to the village.
    The White Crane crosses its clawed feet while I hold my breath.
    “Yoshi will go because he is strong and there is much to carry. Niya will go because he is quick to calculate and remembers everything I tell him.”
    Aaa-aah.
I can breathe again. My master doesn’t look at weaknesses, only strengths. One leg and a clumsy crutch don’t matter. I am going because my mind can outrun other two-legged brains.
    “Rice cakes, arrowheads, string, wrestling oil, dried fish . . .” Sensei recites a list of things I have to remember, provisions for our journey to the Trainee Games. As each item is named, I catch it with my mind. When there are no more words, Sensei