by the great Ki-Yaga.
I peer down the valley path. “There are a lot of them, at least ten.” With excellent eyesight, the White Crane can spot a beetle from the air.
Yoshi leans so far over the edge, he makes us all nervous. “They’re carrying something. Someone on a stretcher,” he reports.
“I’ll go and get Sensei.” Taji sprints back toward the classroom, where our master is preparing the afternoon lessons.
By the time Taji returns with Sensei, the band of villagers has almost reached the
ryu.
“Mikko, Niya. Go and greet our visitors. Yoshi, help with the stretcher. Kyoko, come with me to ready the healing table.” Sensei’s arms wave wildly, like a squid kite in the wind.
Yoshi rushes ahead to meet the stretcher, with Mikko and I hurrying behind him. The front bearer is a small woman, her expression blank with worry and exhaustion. She nods gratefully when Yoshi takes her corner.
“What can we do to help you?” I ask.
“My son needs Master Ki-Yaga’s aid.” She points to the young boy lying on the stretcher, his face white with pain. “Not much longer, Riaze,” his mother comforts him. “The Master will make it right.”
Riaze’s face is familiar. It’s the boy Yoshi and I spoke to in the village. He made fun of me then, but he’s not laughing now. His leg lies askew, and I can see it’s badly broken.
“Don’t worry,” I say to his mother. “Ki-Yaga is a master of healing medicine. He set my broken arm, and now it is stronger than the other one.”
The boy recognizes me, too. “Sorry,” he whispers.
“It doesn’t matter.” I touch his shoulder gently to let him know I mean it.
He tries to smile, but it hurts too much.
“You’re safe now,” Mikko says. “Sensei is a wizard with broken bones. Soon your leg will be so strong, you’ll think it was magic.”
“That’s right. Sensei is so good, I trust him with my leg and I haven’t got a spare one like you,” I joke.
Laughter between friends is the best medicine. Sensei teaches us to brew herbs and set bones, but he also teaches us that humor heals the spirit. A samurai needs to be able to mend wounds of the body and mind. That’s why a samurai does calligraphy and writes haiku as well as practices sword fighting and wrestling. The spirit needs exercise to stay healthy and happy.
Yoshi guides the stretcher bearers into the Healing Room. It’s the same room where Sensei sleeps at night. In the middle is the healing table, crafted from the wood of the
ryu
’s first cherry tree. Bunches of herbs hang drying from the roof. Against the west wall is Sensei’s hard bed with its thin cotton blanket.
“If my bed is too comfortable, I might never wake up,” Sensei says. “I prefer to nap under a tree surrounded by the noise of practice. There, if I do not wake up in time, Niya will trip over me.”
It’s true. I fall over Sensei’s long spidery legs all the time. They’re more lethal than my mother’s goldfish bowls.
Kyoko and Sensei have dragged the table into the sun. Sensei believes in the healing power of sunlight. I do too. When the sun is warm against my back, my spirit soars and I am the White Crane, flying through summer.
The three villagers and Yoshi place the stretcher on the table. Riaze closes his eyes against the sun. He looks more peaceful already.
Sensei motions for everyone to leave, except the five of us and the boy’s mother. He moves his hand gently along the broken leg, searching for fractures. His hands pause twice — two breaks need mending. The boy moans beneath the gentle pressure.
Taji sings a song about brave villagers defending their families from a dragon. Yoshi joins in, his deep, hypnotic voice weaving through the melody. Sensei hums.
Om. Om. Om.
Riaze’s whimpering softens, then stops. Kyoko takes a bamboo
shakuhachi,
a kind of flute, from her pocket and starts to play. Her notes pour over us in a cool waterfall of sound. Music takes you somewhere else, and it takes Riaze away
I peer down the valley path. “There are a lot of them, at least ten.” With excellent eyesight, the White Crane can spot a beetle from the air.
Yoshi leans so far over the edge, he makes us all nervous. “They’re carrying something. Someone on a stretcher,” he reports.
“I’ll go and get Sensei.” Taji sprints back toward the classroom, where our master is preparing the afternoon lessons.
By the time Taji returns with Sensei, the band of villagers has almost reached the
ryu.
“Mikko, Niya. Go and greet our visitors. Yoshi, help with the stretcher. Kyoko, come with me to ready the healing table.” Sensei’s arms wave wildly, like a squid kite in the wind.
Yoshi rushes ahead to meet the stretcher, with Mikko and I hurrying behind him. The front bearer is a small woman, her expression blank with worry and exhaustion. She nods gratefully when Yoshi takes her corner.
“What can we do to help you?” I ask.
“My son needs Master Ki-Yaga’s aid.” She points to the young boy lying on the stretcher, his face white with pain. “Not much longer, Riaze,” his mother comforts him. “The Master will make it right.”
Riaze’s face is familiar. It’s the boy Yoshi and I spoke to in the village. He made fun of me then, but he’s not laughing now. His leg lies askew, and I can see it’s badly broken.
“Don’t worry,” I say to his mother. “Ki-Yaga is a master of healing medicine. He set my broken arm, and now it is stronger than the other one.”
The boy recognizes me, too. “Sorry,” he whispers.
“It doesn’t matter.” I touch his shoulder gently to let him know I mean it.
He tries to smile, but it hurts too much.
“You’re safe now,” Mikko says. “Sensei is a wizard with broken bones. Soon your leg will be so strong, you’ll think it was magic.”
“That’s right. Sensei is so good, I trust him with my leg and I haven’t got a spare one like you,” I joke.
Laughter between friends is the best medicine. Sensei teaches us to brew herbs and set bones, but he also teaches us that humor heals the spirit. A samurai needs to be able to mend wounds of the body and mind. That’s why a samurai does calligraphy and writes haiku as well as practices sword fighting and wrestling. The spirit needs exercise to stay healthy and happy.
Yoshi guides the stretcher bearers into the Healing Room. It’s the same room where Sensei sleeps at night. In the middle is the healing table, crafted from the wood of the
ryu
’s first cherry tree. Bunches of herbs hang drying from the roof. Against the west wall is Sensei’s hard bed with its thin cotton blanket.
“If my bed is too comfortable, I might never wake up,” Sensei says. “I prefer to nap under a tree surrounded by the noise of practice. There, if I do not wake up in time, Niya will trip over me.”
It’s true. I fall over Sensei’s long spidery legs all the time. They’re more lethal than my mother’s goldfish bowls.
Kyoko and Sensei have dragged the table into the sun. Sensei believes in the healing power of sunlight. I do too. When the sun is warm against my back, my spirit soars and I am the White Crane, flying through summer.
The three villagers and Yoshi place the stretcher on the table. Riaze closes his eyes against the sun. He looks more peaceful already.
Sensei motions for everyone to leave, except the five of us and the boy’s mother. He moves his hand gently along the broken leg, searching for fractures. His hands pause twice — two breaks need mending. The boy moans beneath the gentle pressure.
Taji sings a song about brave villagers defending their families from a dragon. Yoshi joins in, his deep, hypnotic voice weaving through the melody. Sensei hums.
Om. Om. Om.
Riaze’s whimpering softens, then stops. Kyoko takes a bamboo
shakuhachi,
a kind of flute, from her pocket and starts to play. Her notes pour over us in a cool waterfall of sound. Music takes you somewhere else, and it takes Riaze away
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