Whispers of Yamabiko: The Discipline of Still Waters

Whispers of Yamabiko: The Discipline of Still Waters

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

When the moon good old Tsukikage hung low like a silver coin tossed across the sky, the sleepy rooftops of Kagetsu-no-Sato soaked in its hush. Tucked deep in the indigo folds of Mount Shishikami, where plum blossoms had the nerve to bloom out of season and rivers hummed songs older than memory, whispers told of Yamabiko the mountain’s echo spirit who bounced back not just sound, but your true nature.

And in that misty cradle of pine and quiet faith, Miyako Naruhito was born a boy with the stillness of stone and fire in his veins. He came from the long shadow of Black samurai who sailed across sea and fate, not for conquest but for purpose. His grandmother, the straight-talking, tea-sipping storyteller Obaa Nyoka, liked to say, “We weren’t dropped into this land to take we were stirred in like miso. We brought the soul umami.”

At first, the village folks weren’t sure what to do with the Naruhito clan. Their skin was like roasted chestnuts and their laughter didn’t quite match the local pitch. But people started noticing. These outsiders knew how to bow deeper than most, how to walk like they were listening to the ground, and how to stay silent without being uncomfortable. That kind of presence speaks louder than any scroll.

Most kids were out swatting at air with toy swords. Miyako? He sat under the Willow of Silence, barely blinking, like he was trying to hear the earth breathe. Right beside him was an old stone etched with a saying he couldn’t quite grasp as a kid but would later carry in his bones:

“Kiritsu to Shizukesa wa ken yori mo tsuyoshi Discipline and Tranquility are stronger than even the sharpest blade.”

Now, Master Hirotaka Seijuro, his teacher, wasn’t exactly the cuddly type. He stood like a shrine statue, spoke like a thunderclap, and always smelled faintly of ink and iron. “Swordsmanship isn’t just about fighting,” he’d say. “It’s about not needing to.” Hirotaka didn’t just train him in the katana he handed him a pair of nunchaku one morning with a grin and said, “These’ll teach you quicker. Especially when you hit yourself. Which you will.”

Every lesson, no matter how bruised Miyako felt, ended with the same line, carved into his memory like calligraphy:

“Nanakorobi Yaoki. Fall seven times, get up eight.”

Miyako once grumbled, “But what if I fall ten?”

Hirotaka raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, “Then get up eleven. Unless you’ve decided to be a radish.”

The days rolled by, and Miyako learned the samurai customs like second breath: always bow before entering a room, keep your blade clean not just for the fight but as a sign of mental clarity and never draw steel without reason. The sword wasn’t for ego. It was a responsibility. As they’d say back then, 「刃を抜かずに勝つこそ、真の武士道なり」(Ha o nukazu ni katsu koso, shin no bushidō nari) “To win without drawing your blade, now that’s true Bushidō.”

Tea ceremonies weren’t just about sipping hot water. They were lessons in patience and attention how to notice steam, how to honor silence. Even folding his hakama became a ritual in mindfulness. Everything mattered. Nothing was rushed.

But peace, like good mochi, never lasts long.

When autumn came, the leaves dropped like forgotten promises, and something shifted. Yamabiko, that playful echo, vanished. No sounds came back from the cliffs. No giggles in the wind. Hunters whispered about hearing their own thoughts scream.

Then came the Kuronami Clan once noble, now rotten. Led by Takeru no Gaku, a man who’d traded Bushidō for bluster. He was after the Mirror Blossom, a blade said to carry the breath of Yamabiko. Sounded like marketing to Miyako, but Gaku wasn’t the type to care about accuracy.

Elders huddled in quiet panic. Master Hirotaka stood up, scratched his beard, and said, “Don’t send thunder. Send the rain.”

That rain was Miyako.

He walked the Spirit Path, barefoot, fasting, and a little cranky. On the fourth night, the silence broke like a bowl dropped in a shrine.

“Do you seek glory or peace?” a voice whispered, clear as morning frost.

Miyako bowed. “Peace,” he answered. “But if glory wants to tag along, who am I to be rude?”

He slipped into the Kuronami camp like a ghost that smelled faintly of rice. One by one, guards dropped not harmed, just peacefully unconscious. Nunchaku hummed like jazz through a forest.

At sunrise, he stepped into Gaku’s tent. They bowed. No words wasted.

Gaku, all arrogance and cologne, scoffed:

“You came a long way just to find nothing.”

Miyako shrugged, brushed off his knees.

“Nah. I found out your guards have the reaction speed of old tofu.”

The fight was fire. Blades clanged. Sparks danced. Gaku swung with rage. Miyako moved like water dodging stones.

Then, Miyako did something no one expected. He dropped his weapons.

“Strike,” he said calmly. “But this won’t be your win. This is your karmic invoice.”

And just as Gaku lunged, the mountain roared back. Yamabiko returned not a whisper but a soul-quaking boom. Gaku’s blade shattered. So did his ego.

He crumpled to his knees. Not defeated humbled.

Miyako knelt beside him, patched his wounds, and walked him back to the village like a man walking his own shadow home.

That evening, under paper lanterns and grilled sweet potato, a little boy named Kairo ran up, rice still stuck to his cheek.

“Master Miyako! Can you teach me how to be great?”

Miyako chuckled, tousled his hair.

“Great?” he repeated. “I don’t even know what that means. I just try to outgrow yesterday’s version of myself.”

Kairo stuck to Miyako like mochi on a sleeve. He was messy, loud, full of questions and utterly relentless. His nunchaku form? Let’s just say the bruises taught him faster than words could. Still, every time he messed up, he got back up.

“That’s the trick,” Miyako told him. “Samurai tradition isn’t about never falling. It’s about getting back up so many times, even the gods lose count.”

They trained in the forest, where wind whispered through cedar and spirits hid behind leaves. Kairo once swore a tree scolded him for slouching. “Straighten thy spine, young noodle!” it squeaked.

Miyako didn’t even blink. “Sounds like the Kodama. If they’re teasing you, they probably like you.”

Seasons changed. Kairo learned not just how to fight, but how to breathe. How to bow. How to walk into a room with stillness instead of swagger.

He learned that tradition wasn’t about stiff robes or perfect calligraphy. It was about heart. Consistency. Knowing when to speak and when to let silence do the talking.

The villagers began telling stories. Miyako was the mountain still, strong, silent. Kairo was the flame flickering, bright, full of spirit.

Then, one day, they vanished.

No farewell. No footprints.

Just a story left behind.

Some say they became part of the mountain. Others say they became Yamabiko and Kodama themselves echo and whisper.

So if you’re ever up near Mount Shishikami, and you send a joke or prayer into the wind, and the breeze laughs back… well.

You’re probably ready.

Ready to fall seven times, and rise the eighth.

Ready to live with humble laughter, sharpened spirit, and a soul quieter than any blade.

Please share 🙏