Free The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai by Barbara Lazar

Akio had made himself absurd in my eyes. He knew I hated people to laugh at me. I wanted to return and destroy Uba.
    ‘First you must control your emotions, if you are to be a samurai.’
    I had become angry with someone else or myself – again. I took several deep breaths and let them out slowly, as he had taught me. ‘Yes, honourable Teacher.’
    ‘Use the energy of anger for your weapons.’
    This interested me. ‘Honourable Teacher, how can I do that?’
    ‘I will show you after the others have left. For now, let me show you and the others the weaker places between the feet and the waist.’
    We rejoined the group.
    ‘Even if armoured, your opponent will still have weak areas.’ Akio took his bokken , then pointed to and named the parts: ankles, wrists, back of knees, kneecaps, kidneys and, of course, phallus and testes. ‘Remember, fingers are not good targets. I have fought and won with broken fingers.’
    Fighting with broken fingers. I could not imagine it.
    That evening he showed me how he used anger. First he smiled at me and lifted his hands and shoulders. ‘See? I am relaxed and peaceful.’ He threw a spear. It landed straight in the target.
    Next he turned to me, gnashed his teeth, made an animal sound and brought his eyebrows between his eyes. ‘I . . . am . . . angry.’ He threw another spear. It landed in the target, ripping it and continuing through it. ‘I was still angry, but I took that power and put that force into my arm.’
    He made me do that.
    I pretended that the target bore Uba’s face.
    My problem with anger was resolved. Almost.
    Sword work frustrated me. Akio and I practised each of the weak body parts. He wore extra-heavy armour on all those places. ‘Do not laugh at me. I know I look a little – odd.’
    ‘You remind me of Proprietor Chiba.’ I could barely say the words.
    He looked down at his triple padded stomach, legs, feet and groin. ‘Am I that big?’
    ‘Almost.’
    He guffawed.
    He and I exchanged blows daily, month after month, until he saw I could at least hold my own within my group.
    After that, I surprised a few of the older boys too.
    My family – I could hardly remember their faces. I tried to find them in my mind. Often I could not. I awakened from dreams crying, throat tight, hands in fists pounding the futon . Tashiko held me until I stopped weeping. ‘Yes.’ She rubbed my head like Fourth Daughter had. ‘Yes, I know. I know.’
    Autumn came again, and a few samurai returned from a pilgrimage to the Takao temple, famous for its red maple trees. Each evening I listened to their poetry and clapped. The armoured men had taught me about poetry. I understood the verses and read many of them, yet I could not write the characters properly, no matter how I tried.
    Master Isamu played the biwa while the samurai recited. In the brisk autumn breezes words fluttered like butterflies drifting across my eyes:
    Red carp in the pond
    Slowly hidden by red leaves
    Fish search the waters
    The maple tree sheds its leaves
    Bent branches over red pond
    Master Isamu played and wept. Several others cried too. They held their long sleeves to their eyes and blotted them from time to time.
    ‘Why are you crying?’ I asked, because I had never seen these men cry.
    ‘For the beauty,’ Master Isamu answered. ‘Yet there is another reason. While the Gods were being born, so long ago, She-Who-Invites, one of the first Goddesses, gave birth to the God of Fire. Unfortunately, She-Who-Invites was burned greatly. She receded slowly and became no more. He-Who-Invites mourned Her with outrage. He wailed, and his tears created the God who lives at the foot of Mount Fragrant’s slopes. That is why it is good, especially for samurai, to shed tears in emulation of the Gods.’
    I thought about this. It was good for samurai to cry at beauty, but not at pain.
    The crying at beauty but not at pain confused me. However, Akio spoke to me often of the Eightfold Noble Path: right view, thinking,