The movement in the hut stopped, but the door remained closed. In a few minutes the light from under the door was extinguished.
“Do you think he knows we’re here?” one boy asked.
“He wouldn’t be much of a Sensei if he didn’t.”
“Do you think he’ll let us in?”
“I guess not. Maybe he wants us to stay out all night to show how determined we are.”
“It’s an insult to leave an Okubo out here this long!”
“Are you going to knock at his door?”
“Of course not. I have my pride to think of. I’d lose face if I did something like that. Why don’t you knock?”
“I have pride, too.”
“But you should-”
Okubo’s comment was cut short by a strange sound. It was a whipping sound that in the silent mountain night echoed very loud.
“What’s-”
“Yakamashii! Shut up! Listen.”
The swish, swish sound continued.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know. It sounds a little like a riding crop moving through the air before it strikes the horse.”
“Where’s it coming from?”
Two of the boys got up from their bow and looked around. Suddenly, with a shaking finger and an equally shaky voice, one of them pointed and said, “Lllooook!”
All the boys, including Kaze, looked in the direction the boy was pointing. There, in the darkness of the woods, they could barely make out a white shape in the faint starlight. It was at a level more than twice as high as a man’s head, it was the size of a large bird, and it flitted between two trees with alarming speed. A swishing noise accompanied its movement.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen-”
“It’s a ghost! I know it’s a ghost! Lord Buddha protect me! It’s some kind of mountain spirit that will kill us all! Those weren’t dragon tracks, they were demon tracks!” The boy who made this identification jumped to his feet and rushed to the door of the hut. Two others were right behind him, panic lending both speed and strength to their cold-numbed legs. They started pounding on the door.
“Let us in!”
“Open the damn door!”
“Lord Buddha protect me! Please, Sensei, let us in!”
The pounding had no effect, and the door remained solidly closed.
“Look, the way to the trail is open! Let’s run!”
The three boys started rushing pell-mell toward the trail that brought them to the hut, which was in the opposite direction from the apparition.
Kaze, still on his knees, glanced over at Okubo. The older boy’s face was so pale that he looked like a ghost himself. But he made no move to run. Whether this was caused by bravery, fear, or pride, Kaze couldn’t tell. For Kaze, it was simple caution. He wanted to see more before he went running into the night in terror.
Instead of seeing more, he heard more.
“BLOOD!” A deep, hollow voice came from the woods where the boys had seen the spirit. It reverberated in the mountain air with an unnatural resonance. “I want blood! Give me blood!”
Kaze stood up. He wasn’t ready to run yet, but he wanted to prepare to run if he had to. Okubo misinterpreted Kaze’s action. As soon as he saw Kaze move, Okubo jumped to his feet and bolted with the rest. Kaze risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see Okubo flying down the trail, then he returned his attention to the woods.
“I want your blood! Give me your blood!” the booming voice said, but Kaze saw no signs that the owner of that strange voice was doing anything to collect on its demand. He stood there, straining every sense he had to see, hear, or smell something from the woods, but now in the darkness it was silent. Kaze didn’t return to his bowing position, but he didn’t run, either.
The rest of the night was spent in silence, save for the rustling of an owl’s wings as it flew above the hut with the night’s prey in its claws. Kaze had never experienced a night where silence could build so much tension. He had sometimes been given mock guard duty on maneuvers and had once been caught sleeping at his post. He still remembered the beating he got for that transgression, administered by the hands of his own father. He never fell asleep again at his post as guard, but he had always found himself fighting the tug of dark sleep while he stayed awake. That night the cold and the terror and potential for new terrors to come drove all thoughts of sleep from his body, and when the dawn came the next morning, Kaze was relieved to see the surrounding woods turn from black to gray to colors with the increasing light.
A few minutes after the sun was finally in the sky, the door of the hut opened and a spry old man came out. His hair was long, white, and shaggy, and his clothes were like a simple peasant’s, except for the two swords stuck in his sash. His eyes were sharp and arresting, like the eyes of a hunting hawk. His hands were large and powerful, and despite the man’s age Kaze could see he still had tremendous strength in his arms and shoulders. Kaze dropped to his knees and bowed.
The man walked over to Kaze and stared down at him. “I suppose you want to be a student?”
Kaze wanted to ask if the old man had heard or seen the ghostly happenings of the night before, but decided to stifle his questions, at least for now. “Hai! Yes, Sensei!”
“Do you know how to use an ax to chop firewood?”
“Yes, Sensei!”
“Then come on. You might as well make yourself useful while I decide if I want a student.”
CHAPTER 8
The past calls to the
present. A memory of
the young bird’s first song.
Kaze spent an hour chopping firewood. The full-sized ax was heavy and clumsy, but he kept at it gamely despite his fatigue and the difficulty. He was proud of the pile of firewood he had managed to create when the Sensei returned. The Sensei looked at the pile of wood but made no comment. All he said was, “I suppose you’ll want some breakfast?”
“Yes, Sensei!”
“Then follow me.” The Sensei led Kaze into his hut, where a big pot of okayu, rice porridge, was bubbling over the fire. The hut was sparsely furnished and almost devoid of personal possessions. The major exception was a sword stand in one corner, where a long katana and a shorter wakizashi were stored. Like every boy of his age in the warrior class, Kaze fancied himself a judge of fine swords. These were exceptionally fine. They were swords much finer than the everyday swords worn by the Sensei and even finer than the swords Kaze’s father kept to wear on very special occasions.
The Sensei walked over to a corner of the room, and Kaze thought he was going to get a bowl for the okayu. Instead, the old man picked up a piece of firewood. Turning suddenly, he threw it at Kaze.
Shocked, Kaze nimbly stepped to one side as the firewood bounced against the wall behind him and clattered to the floor. The Sensei looked at Kaze for a moment, then calmly proceeded to pick up a wooden bowl and a pair of hashi, as if flying pieces of firewood were the prelude to every meal. “Here,” he said, handing the implements to Kaze. “Help yourself.”
Kaze warily took the bowl and hashi from the Sensei, but the Sensei made no additional aggressive moves. “Find me when you’re done eating and I’ll give you a kendo lesson. You’re not my student yet, but it won’t hurt to see how stupid you are at learning.” Glancing at the piece of firewood that had been thrown at him, Kaze sat down to breakfast wondering what kind of teacher he had sought out.