I was sparring in the practice yard the day the new girl arrived.
Weak. She looked weak, and frail, and modest, and beautiful, and shocked at what she was seeing.
I blocked Masako’s next blow easily—she was as slow as a water buffalo and not much less clumsy—and took a moment to glance around the yard.
Kazuko had just fallen off the pole she was trying to balance on. Aki had graduated to the tightrope and was walking serenely ten feet above our heads. Her sister, Okiko, was scaling a wall, with one of the older girls showing her how to place her feet. The little ones were leaping over bundles of hay, an instructor standing by to smack their bare toes with a bamboo rod if they touched the obstacle.
No one’s toes were touching.
Two of the half-grown girls were trying to find Kiku in the grove of trees by the stream. They would have very little luck there, since she had hidden herself in the well. I hoped she wouldn’t need to empty her bladder before the bell rang to mark the end of this training session.
If she stayed hidden, each of her pursuers would have to give her a portion of rice at dinner. If they found her, she’d have to do the same. Nothing like the prospect of kneeling hungry and watching half your meal disappear into somebody else’s mouth to make you hide craftily or search inside every crack and under every stone.
Masako kicked. I dropped to one knee, seized her heel in one hand and her calf in the other, and flipped her over.
Then, like a fool, I glanced up to make sure the new girl was taking all of this in. If she were to stay, I wanted her to know who was the best in the practice yard.
In the moment when my gaze shifted, Masako surged up from the ground and tackled me, her arms around my waist. It was not an elegant move, but it was effective.
How many times had we been told? It doesn’t matter how you get your enemy down—just get her down. And be sure she stays there.
I rolled us both in the dirt, grabbed Masako’s hair with one hand, yanked her head back, and braced my forearm across her throat. Her eyes widened as her air was cut off, and an instructor’s voice came from behind me.
“Kata, stop.”
At the sound of his voice, I released the pressure on Masako’s throat, and I heard her breath rush out as we both climbed to our feet. Our teacher tapped me on the shoulder, giving me the victory. Masako bowed her head, swallowed with a slight wince, and silently took her penalty for losing, a single stroke to her back from a thin, flexible strip of bamboo.
She kept quiet. If she’d cried out, it would have been two.
Silence is your greatest ally. Silence and darkness.
I waited, breathing deeply and slowly. If I’d panted out loud, there might have been a stroke with the bamboo rod for me, too.
The girl had come to a stop inside the gate, her hands to her mouth. Her kimono was as blue as the sea, embroidered with black and silver waves. Her hair, glossy with camellia oil, swung all the way down her back. Her face was horrified.
I stood there, barefoot, my hair spilling out of its braid, in my undyed, ragged jacket and trousers, covered in dust and straw and with a bit of blood trickling from my nose, and thought, She won’t last a week.