The master said nothing. He simply corrected, his reed striking.
Again. And again. And again.
I lived in fear that one morning he would look at me and decide I was not worth the effort, that I would never be strong enough, fast enough, or skilled enough. I would be sent away, cast out, declared a failure.
And then what would I do? Where would I go? How would I help Kaneko? Or my sister? Or myself? Or anyone, really?
All I had left was this temple and the faint, desperate hope that somehow, someday, I might become skilled enough to survive, skilled enough to find Kaneko, but that hope grew thinner with each passing day.
Uncle Takeo still dined with me occasionally. Perhaps once every week or two, he would appear in the meal hall and gesture for me to join him at a table away from the others. We mostly ate in silence, though he would occasionally ask after my training with the same distant politeness one might use with a stranger.
“How are the forms progressing?”
“Slowly, Uncle.”
“And the obstacle course?”
“I am improving. A little.”
He would nod and make some noncommittal sound, then return to his meal. He didn’t believe me, not about the improving part. It was scrawled clearly across his face. I wanted to ask him for help, for advice, foranythingthat might make this easier, might strengthen me, but something in his bearing discouraged questions. He held himself apart, as if keeping a deliberate distance between us.
Perhaps the masters asked him to do so, to force me to stand on my own unstable legs, to figure things out in my own time and own way. Perhaps our newfound distance was part of some test or grand design aimed at forcing strength out of me—or into me. I could never be sure.
I didn’t understand, couldn’t fathom why he had brought me here if he meant to abandon me to solitude, but perhaps that was the point. Perhaps the monastery demanded isolation, demanded that we forge ourselves without leaning on others, without drawing from their reserve of strength.
The other boys in my cohort had clearly embraced that lesson. They kept to themselves with religious fervor. I tried to engage, tried to interact, but none showed the slightest interest in friendship. There were no conversations during meals, no acknowledgments of shared suffering during training, no comfort or camaraderie offered when one of us fell or failed.
We existed side by side, yet utterly alone.
The seasons changed. I marked them by the temperature in the courtyard, the angle of the sun, and the occasional glimpse offalling leaves or blooming flowers beyond the temple walls. A year had passed, perhaps more, perhaps less. It was hard to tell.
I still lagged behind the others, but the course was no longer a painful mystery. The master’s reed found me less and less, gentle words of encouragement or admonishment replacing red welts that now faded to memories written on skin. Even thekatabecame second nature, and our endless hours of running or dragging logs or other mindless exercises meant to steel our bodies no longer felt like death incarnate.
No longer death. I took that as progress.
One afternoon, rather than order us into the yard or training ring, the master led us to a different room, one we had never been allowed to enter. It was large but sparse with scrolls and intricate tapestries hanging from the walls—flowing calligraphy and stylized paintings of mountains and cherry blossoms. Low tables were arranged with inkstones, brushes, and paper. Shelves held rolled scrolls and books—hundreds, maybe more.
“Sit,” our master said.
I exchanged a glance with Teshi, but his expression was as confused as mine.
The master paced before us, hands clasped behind his back. “You have spent months learning the physical disciplines. You have made progress, though perfection remains the journey of each lifetime,” he said. “Forms, strikes, and meditation are the foundation, but they are not enough.” He stopped and turned to face us. “The Way of Bushido demands more than skill with a blade. It demands a cultivated mind and a refined spirit. A warrior must be learned, articulate, and skilled in the arts of the day. He must understand poetry and philosophy as well as he understands the taking of life. He must understandthe peoplehe protects and the masters he serves. He must strive to be both servant to and master of all things.”
He gestured to the materials before us.
“From this day forward, your training will expand. Mornings will remain as they have been—physical discipline, forms, and combat, but afternoons . . .” He picked up a brush, examined it. “In the hours of the waning sun, you will learn to be more than weapons; you will learn to become men of culture, men worthy of the title Samurai.”
He set the brush down.
“Today, we begin with calligraphy. You will learn to write with precision and grace, not the crude scrawl of peasants, but the elegant script of educated warriors.”
Daichi looked skeptical. Kenta looked bored. Teshi looked terrified—as he did with everything. What I felt was strange, a combination I had not experienced since leaving the shores of my home island: curiosity . . . and hope.
The master demonstrated the proper way to hold the brush, to grind the ink, to form each stroke with deliberate control, then he set us to practicing basic characters. It was harder than it looked. Much of my youth had been spent kneeling before tutors or my mother, holding a brush and perfecting this skill. Still, it had been many months since I held a brush, and it felt strange between my fingers.
But there was no reed here, nocrackof correction, and memories were funny things. They might flit and flee but could also return in unexpected moments. Halfway through our first afternoon, the muscles of my hand remembered what my brain had allowed to lapse.
“Better,” our master said once that afternoon, glancing at my work.
