The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai by Barbara Lazar

than Akio did us younger children. I thought that rather odd.
    Akio came to me. ‘Hold these for me. Only hold them.’ A bow, a tsuru , a bowstring, and an arrow, with the feathers of the fierce wild hawk, lay in my hands.
    My hands shook from the force pouring out of them. Such power held in my small hands.
    Rattan bindings reinforced the bow. I touched the loose bowstring. Hemp, coated with wax to make a hard, smooth surface.
    Akio had told me to hold them. Perhaps I could string his bow for him. Surprise him with my strength. I had seen many people string bows. First I placed the bottom loop, bound with white silk ribbon, on the bow. I already knew the top loop from the bottom one: red on top, white at the bottom. Like Master Isamu, I stuck the top loop’s silk flap between my teeth, then grabbed for the other end of the bow with both hands. I would not have to wait until tomorrow to show Akio my learning.
    I reached – high – on my toes – stretched – jumped. Again.
    My hands did not reach halfway to the other end. I could not string Akio’s bow. I hated being short.
    ‘Kozaishō, I did not say anything about placing the tsuru on my bow.’ A shadow darkened my sky. Akio.
    ‘I humbly beg your forgiveness.’ I did not bow low because my hands were full.
    ‘If you disobey again there will be consequences.’ He grew closer, like spring thunder. ‘If anyone disobeys a second time, they are no longer allowed to work with us.’
    He took his weapons from me.
    ‘Yes, Master Akio.’ I made a five-point bow.
    ‘No, no, little one. Master Isamu is Master Isamu, and Proprietor Chiba is Proprietor Chiba. I am merely Akio, your tutor.’
    ‘Yes . . . honourable Akio.’
    For all that, I promised myself that some day my arrows, with hawk feathers, would stand in my shining lacquered quiver next to my fully strung bow.
    Remembering Akio’s directions, I returned to study the boys’ archery. Closer, each movement, the little mysteries I had watched from far away, resolved themselves. They did not just grab the arrow or the string. They positioned the arrow to the right of the bow. They hooked their thumbs under the arrows, placing the first two fingers on the thumb, which I copied, pressing my lips together. Left arm straight, right hand near the right ear. They relaxed the two fingers and at the same time turned the bow until the string went outside the arm.
    Unsuccessful the first few times, I copied and watched, watched and copied, imagining how amazed Akio would be after he had given me my bow and I could shoot well.
    Mid-morning, the Hour of the Dragon, servants came on to the field with water, rice and pickled vegetables. The boys stopped archery and took practice swords made of oak, bokken , from the selection laid out. They worked in pairs.
    I was not allowed to string the smallest bow. I began with a rubber practice bow, a gomuyumi , and practised the eight movements of hassetsu : footing, correct posture, readying the bow, raising the bow, drawing the bow, completing the draw, release and continuation. Each movement had to be perfected, as with dancing. So, repetition and more drills.
    In the time that followed, Akio could not find a bokken for me. A standard one was too long. When I held a child’s bokken I could barely look down at the top. I hated being short. I lifted the weapon and needed both hands. The follow-through of every stroke threw me off balance, causing me to stumble and fall, usually on my partner. When I noticed this, I chose Uba. On my second attempt, he noticed it, too, and kicked me. I kicked him back, as I had fought my brothers. The only difference was that my sisters were not there to cheer me on.
    ‘Kozaishō! Uba!’ Akio bellowed. A big hand grabbed my shoulder. ‘Stop!’ He gave me a glance that reminded me of father, a testy, troubled look, which meant that if I kicked Uba again, I would be punished.
    At least Akio had his other hand on Uba.
    ‘Kozaishō, stand over there.