The sun cast long shadows across the village as Jabari sat alone by the river's edge, rubbing the clubbed foot that had marked him different since birth. At twelve years old, he had grown accustomed to the pain that came with walking, but never to the words his brothers hurled at him like stones.
"There he is, the little dreamer!" A voice boomed from behind.
Jabari's stomach tightened. He didn't need to turn around to know. It was his eldest brother, Makinde, who's spear skills had earned him acceptance into Warrior training at only sixteen years old.
"Show us your warrior stance! Or can you even stand without toppling over?" Adeben, his middle brother, laughed, the sound high and nervous as if seeking Makinde's approval. Always the shadow, always eager to please.
Jabari's hands trembled as he gripped the walking stick beside him. He had carved it himself from ironwood during the long, lonely hours when other boys his age trained with wooden weapons. The smooth grain beneath his fingers was the only comfort he had now.
"Leave me alone," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the water's gentle current. He wished he could slip into it, become fluid and graceful like the river itself.
"What was that?" Makinde stepped closer. Jabari could feel his brother's shadow fall over him, blocking the late afternoon sun. "A warrior speaks with strength, not whispers. But you'll never be a warrior, will you?"
A foot nudged his impaired one, and pain shot up Jabari's leg. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. Showing pain would only make things worse.
Adeben moved to his other side, blocking the path back to the village. "Father says every man must serve the kingdom as either warrior or worker. What will you be, the village burden?"
Jabari felt trapped between his brothers, the river, and a foot that never did what he asked. He clutched his walking stick tighter, imagining for a moment it was a sword in his hands, imagining his foot was straight, imagining fear in his brothers' eyes instead of mockery.
But imagination wouldn't save him now. It never did.
His brothers got bored eventually, like they always did, and wandered off still tossing insults over their shoulders. Only then did the tears begin to drip from his chin.
After a while, a strange sound began to drift on the wind—a sound that had followed the village for the past few days. Strings being gently plucked, accompanied by a low, beautiful hum.
The sound came from a strange man. He was unnaturally skinny, but his scarred chest bore muscles that spoke of strength and danger. When the man spotted Jabari staring, he stopped playing. Jabari quickly looked away, hoping he hadn't offended him. He braced for the insults, the berating.
Instead, the man sat beside him. "What's got you down, kid?"
Jabari stared at the ground, his fingers twitching against the walking stick. "Nothing. I'm okay..."
Instead of pressing further, the stranger reached for something nearby. Jabari couldn't help but look up, watching wide-eyed as the man lifted a gourd larger than his torso. He drank from it like it weighed nothing, his thin arms like stone.The man sighed deeply when he was done, then strummed the instrument again.
"This here is Hibiki," he said. "She's been with me a long time."
"It's beautiful."
"She's beautiful," the man corrected gently. He held the shamisen across his lap and strummed once more—three notes, sharp and low.
"She's got her moods, like any good woman," he said with a wink, then turned serious. "Here. Come closer."
Jabari hesitated, glancing down at his foot, then back at the path where his brothers had vanished. No one was watching, so he scooted closer.
The man shifted the shamisen slightly, holding the neck out toward him. "Try this. Just brush your fingers here."
Jabari reached out cautiously, his fingers hovering uncertainly. The wood felt warm beneath his touch. When he strummed, the note came out uneven, a jangle more than a tone.
He flinched. "I'm sorry—"
"There's no reason to apologize, she is very easy-going. Do it again."
Jabari tried. Again and again. Until eventually, a cleaner note slipped out, soft and round.
He blinked.
The man nodded. "There. Did you feel it?"
Jabari nodded slowly.
"Good, you've got ears. That's the part most people fail at."
They passed the instrument back and forth, the man demonstrating little three-note runs, letting Jabari echo them. The notes felt strange under his fingers—foreign but not impossible. Each one that rang true brought a flicker of something Jabari hadn't felt in a long time.
Pride.
"So what's your name anyway?"
"Jabari."
The man leaned back against the tree trunk, arms crossed. "You're doing well, Jabari."
"I didn't do much," Jabari said, though a small smile tugged at his mouth.
"You didn't quit. That's more than half the fight." The man's gaze softened. "Besides, every Warrior starts somewhere. Some start with swords. Others with strings."
Jabari looked down at his hands, still buzzing faintly from the vibration of the shamisen. For a moment, the ache in his foot dulled, overtaken by the memory of that one clean note.
"Can I try again?"
* * *
That night when Jabari walked home, he did so with his chin held high and his chest pushed as far out as he could manage on his uneven gait. The setting sun painted the village in amber light that seemed to glow with newfound promise. His walking stick felt smoother beneath his calloused palm. Even the air tasted sweeter, carrying the scent of cooking fires and possibility. Each step sent familiar ripples of pain through his leg, but for once, he barely noticed. This was it—a goal to strive for, a skill that he could master. A way to become a Warrior.
But as he rounded the corner to his family's home, his buoyant spirit began to falter, and reality settled back on his shoulders. He knew his brothers wouldn't believe him, if they bothered to listen at all.
And his mother wasn't any help either.
She barely stood against his brothers' taunts. "Don't be mad at the world," she had once told him while applying a poultice to his inflamed ankle. Her hands had been gentle but her words firm. "It was my job to grow you into someone worthy of being a Warrior. If you're going to be mad at anyone, be mad at me."
Jabari clutched the memory of the shamisen's vibration in his fingers as he walked into the yard, his brothers already outside and yelling.
"Hey tiny's home!" Makinde yelled after knocking Adeben over with his shield. "How was hobbling home?"
"Shut up, idiot," Jabari mumbled as he made his way inside.
"Get back here and say it to my face!" But Jabari only ignored him, pushing through the doorway and into the cool shadows of their home. The smell of cooking stew guided him to the kitchen where his father would undoubtedly be hard at work—the only person who truly understood what it meant to live in a world that valued Warriors above all else.
His father was once a Warrior, but he had lost an eye and his dominant hand in battle. The only thing that kept him from becoming Outcast was moving to this small village and becoming the shopkeeper—a fate both merciful and cruel for a man who once commanded respect with his spear.
"Ah, Jabari!" His father looked up from the cooking pot, his remaining eye crinkling at the corners. He was a short, bald man who had slimmed down much since his time as a Warrior, his once-imposing frame now wiry and lean. "I hope your brothers aren't being too much for you today?"
"I'm okay..." Jabari said, the excitement he'd been holding back suddenly bubbling to the surface. "I met Noboru today!"
"Ah, that swordsman who has been staying with Tunde?" His father nodded, stirring the stew with practiced movements. "I hear he's quite the character."
"He taught me to play the shamisen," Jabari said, reaching for a knife to help chop tomatoes. His fingers still tingled with the memory of the strings. "Her name is Hibiki."
"Hibiki?" His father paused, his ladle hovering above the pot.
"His shamisen. He says she's like a person, with moods and everything." Jabari sliced through a tomato, imagining each cut as precise as the notes he'd played earlier. "He said I was really good and maybe I could become a Warrior someday!"
"Jabari..." His father set down the ladle, his shoulders sagging slightly as he turned. He rubbed the back of his neck with his remaining hand. "I'm really happy for you. Music is one of the few worthy paths for a man in our kingdom, and the Warriors with musical talents are among the most respected."
He knelt down to Jabari's level, and the boy could see the constellation of tiny scars around his father's eye patch, marks from the battle that had forever changed his path. There was kindness in his gaze, but also a sadness that Jabari recognized all too well.
"I know you want to be a Warrior," his father continued, his voice softer now. "I wanted that for you too, once. But..." he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Let's say you do make it into one of the Branches, and they send you to battle. That would be…The people out there..." He reached for his missing eye with a hand that wasn't there. "They are strong beyond belief, and merciless to those they perceive as weak."
Jabari's fingers stilled on the cutting board, the tomato forgotten.
"Be a musician if you're good at it," his father said, placing his hand gently on Jabari's shoulder. "It's an honorable path, one of the few that could give you standing. Or if not..." he brightened his tone, squeezing Jabari's shoulder. "You can take over the shop! We make a great team, you and I. Either way, you would avoid becoming an Outcast…"
He gave Jabari a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eye. The boy recognized it—the same smile his father wore when elders spoke of his "honorable sacrifice" or when children pointed at his empty sleeve.
"Okay, Dad," Jabari said, swallowing the lump in his throat. The shamisen's notes seemed fainter now, drowned out by reality's persistent drumbeat. "I'm sorry. Is the stew almost ready for the tomatoes?"
"Yeah," his father nodded, turning back to the pot. "Throw em in."
As Jabari scraped the tomatoes into the bubbling stew, he couldn't help but hold onto the memory of that one clean note he'd struck on Hibiki—a note that had rung true, despite his limp.
The next morning, Jabari woke before dawn. Sleep had come fitfully, his dreams filled with strange melodies that his fingers couldn't quite grasp. He slipped out of the hut before his brothers stirred, making his way toward the riverbank.
To his surprise, Noboru was there, sitting cross-legged with various materials spread before him on a woven mat.
"I wondered if you'd come," the swordsman said without looking up, his nimble fingers working a piece of wood with a small knife.
Jabari approached cautiously. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" Noboru gestured to the assortment of materials—strips of cured hide and pieces of polished wood. "We're building you a shamisen."
Jabari's heart leaped. "For me? But—"
"No buts," Noboru cut him off. "Every musician needs their own instrument."
Throughout the morning, they worked together under Noboru's precise instruction. Jabari's hands, usually clumsy and hesitant, found purpose in the careful tasks. Noboru showed him how to stretch the hide over the hollowed wood, how to secure it with tiny wooden pegs, how to shape the neck just so.
"The neck must be straight," Noboru explained, guiding Jabari's hands as they sanded the wood. "But not too rigid. It needs to give, to bend just enough with the tension of the strings."
Jabari felt the smooth grain beneath his fingers, thinking of his own twisted body. "Like people," he murmured.
Noboru's eyes flickered to him. "Yes. Like people."
When it came time to attach the strings, Noboru pulled three delicate strands from a small pouch.
"What are these made of?" Jabari asked, touching one reverently.
"Silk from Brownrock." Noboru handed him the first string. "Strong, but with soul. Now, watch carefully."
By midday, they had finished. It wasn't as beautiful as Hibiki—the body was slightly lopsided, the neck not quite perfectly aligned—but when Noboru plucked the strings, it sang with a voice all its own.
"It's alive," Jabari whispered, awestruck.
Noboru nodded, then handed the instrument to him. "What will you name her?"
Jabari thought for a moment, cradling the shamisen in his arms as he remembered the one person who never looked at him with pity. "Imani," he finally said. "My grandmother's name."
"A good name, now practice. I'll return in three days to see your progress."
For the next two days, Jabari spent every free moment with Imani by the riverbank. The village children sometimes gathered to watch from a distance, giggling when he hit a sour note, falling silent when he occasionally strung together a melody that sounded almost right.
On the third day, he arrived at his usual spot earlier than normal, determined to master a simple tune before Noboru returned. The morning mist still hung over the water as he settled against his favorite tree and began to play.
Time dissolved into the rhythm of his fingers on the strings, the subtle adjustments, the growing confidence in each note. He didn't notice the sun climbing higher, didn't hear the approaching footsteps until a shadow fell across him.
"So this is what you've been up to."
Jabari's hands froze on the strings as he looked up to see Makinde and Adeben standing over him.
His heart sank.
"Is that a girl's instrument?" Makinde snickered, nudging Adeben with his elbow.
Adeben stepped closer, studying the shamisen with narrowed eyes. He reached down and plucked one string, the note vibrating in the air between them.
"How did you even get this?" he asked, and Jabari was surprised to hear genuine curiosity in his voice.
"I made it," Jabari said, instinctively pulling Imani closer to his chest. "With Noboru's help."
"The drunk?" Adeben's expression darkened. "Mother says he's dangerous. That he killed men before coming here."
"He's teaching me to play," Jabari said, finding courage in the smooth wood beneath his fingers. "I'm going to be a musical Warrior."
He expected laughter. Instead, Adeben was strangely quiet, studying him with an unreadable expression. It was Makinde who broke the silence.
"Let me see it," Makinde demanded, reaching for the shamisen.
"No." Jabari clutched it tighter.
"Come on, I just want to try—"
"I said no!" Jabari tried to scoot backward, but his foot caught on a root, sending a shock of pain up his leg.
Makinde lunged forward, grabbing one end of the shamisen. "Don't be selfish!"
"Let go!"
Adeben stepped forward. "Both of you, stop—"
With a sickening crack, the neck of the shamisen snapped. The strings went slack, the tension released in an ugly, discordant twang.
Silence fell. Jabari stared at the broken instrument in his hands, his vision blurring with tears.
Makinde's face flushed. "I—I didn't mean to—"
"You broke her," Jabari whispered. His fingers traced the splintered wood, the torn strings. "You broke Imani."
Adeben grabbed Makinde's arm. "Come on. We need to go."
"He's just—"
"Makinde, seriously."
As they walked away, Jabari thought he saw Adeben glance back, something like regret flickering across his face. But it might have been a trick of the light through his tears.
Alone again, Jabari cradled the broken shamisen against his chest. All his progress, all his hope—shattered like the instrument in his hands. The pain in his foot seemed to pulse in time with his grief.
Time passed—he couldn't tell how much—and a shadow fell across him. He didn't need to look up to know who it was.
"Your brothers?" Noboru asked.
Jabari nodded, still staring at the splintered neck of Imani. One string still clung to the body, but the others had snapped, curling like dying vines.
"I thought..." he began, his voice catching. "I thought I could become something. Someone different." He finally looked up at Noboru, unable to hide the despair in his eyes. "But what's the point? I'll never be strong like you. Not with this." He gestured bitterly at his foot.
Noboru crouched beside him, setting down his gourd. The strong smell of alcohol wafted through the air as he moved. He looked at the broken instrument, then at Jabari's tear-stained face. For a long moment, he said nothing.
"Do you know what I see when I look at your brothers?" he finally asked, his words clear despite the amount he'd clearly been drinking.
Jabari shook his head.
"I see boys playing at being men. Strong on the outside, perhaps, but hollow within." Noboru picked up a piece of the broken shamisen, turning it over in his scarred hands. "True strength begins here." He tapped Jabari's chest, right above his heart. "And you are strong."
"What good is strength inside?" Jabari burst out, frustration overwhelming his voice. "I can't fight. I can't run. I can't even walk without pain. My brothers are right… I'm just a burden."
"Your brothers are fools," Noboru said flatly, taking another drink. "And you will be too if you believe them."
He stood suddenly, swaying slightly before finding his balance. "Get up," he commanded, offering his hand to Jabari.
Hesitantly, Jabari took the offered hand. As he struggled to his feet, pain shot through his bad leg as it always did. He winced, automatically reaching for his walking stick—only to see it in Noboru's grip.
"My foot—" he began.
"Yes, your foot," Noboru interrupted, his voice sharp. "It's twisted. It hurts. It will always be twisted, and it will always hurt." His voice was matter-of-fact, without pity. "Now, what will you do about it?"
Jabari stared at him, confused by the harshness in the man's tone.
"You think balance comes from perfect feet?" Noboru continued. He took another swig from his gourd, then set it down with deliberate care. "Watch."
To Jabari's astonishment, Noboru began to move. Despite the alcohol flowing through him, his movements were fluid, controlled. He unsheathed his katana in one smooth motion, the blade catching the sunlight as he twirled it between his fingers. With a laugh, he began hopping on one foot, tossing his katana high above him. As the sword descended, he caught it directly in the sheath with a satisfying click. Then, with exaggerated care, he bowed deeply, still standing on one foot.
"Balance doesn't come from a perfect body. It comes from knowing your center. Not in your feet. Not in your legs. Here." He placed his hand on his lower belly. "Your center remains true even when the world spins around you."
"But that's different," Jabari protested. "Being drunk isn't the same as—"
"Isn't it? My body betrays me every moment. My mind clouds. My reflexes slow. Yet I find my center. Your foot betrays you. Different weakness, same challenge."
Jabari was mesmerized by the grace of the man before him.
"Now you try," Noboru instructed. "Forget your foot. Find your center."
Feeling foolish but desperate for something to believe in, Jabari attempted to mimic Noboru's stance. Immediately, pain flared, and he stumbled.
"No," Noboru corrected, steadying him with surprisingly firm hands. "You're still thinking about your foot. Feel your center. The ground beneath you. The air around you."
Again and again, Jabari tried. Each time, Noboru adjusted his posture, guiding him toward an understanding that seemed just beyond his grasp. The sun inched back toward the horizon, painting the riverbank in gold and amber as they worked.
"How can you teach so well when you're..." Jabari hesitated, not wanting to offend.
"Drunk?" Noboru laughed, a sharp bark that startled a bird from a nearby tree. "I'm always drunk. Have been for years. It's how I survive the… memories." Something dark passed over his face, but it was gone in an instant. "But alcohol doesn't change who I am. Same with pain. Your foot doesn't make you weak. Find strength beyond the pain. Like I found clarity beyond the alcohol."
Finally, for just a moment, Jabari felt it—a perfect suspension between earth and sky, his weight distributed in a way that bypassed his foot entirely. He managed to hold the position for just a moment before pain tore through him.
"There," Noboru said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "You found it."
"But I lost it right away."
"Finding it once means you can find it again." Noboru retrieved his shamisen from where he'd set it down. "The same with music. Once you hear the true note, you can always find your way back to it."
He knelt and carefully gathered the broken pieces of Imani. "We will rebuild her. Stronger this time."
Jabari looked down at his hands, then at his foot. "Can you really teach me to move like you? To find balance even with... this?"
"I can teach you," Noboru said, his eyes holding Jabari's with surprising clarity. "But only if you're willing to see yourself as more than your brothers see you. More than your foot. More than weak."
Something shifted in Jabari's chest—a small but undeniable awakening. He thought of the perfect balance he'd felt for those three heartbeats, the clean note he'd struck on the shamisen days before. Small moments, perhaps, but real. Proof of possibilities he'd never allowed himself to imagine.
"I want to learn," he said finally. "Everything you can teach me."
* * *
Each morning, he practiced balance with Noboru until his legs trembled. Each afternoon, he rebuilt his strength through exercises that worked around his foot rather than fighting against it. And each evening, Imani—now reinforced with metal bindings where she had once broken—sang beneath his fingers, her voice growing stronger as his did.
"You're improving," Noboru told him one evening as the sun set over the river. "But remember, this is just the beginning."
Jabari nodded, carefully placing Imani in her cloth wrapping. "Will you stay? To teach me more?"
Noboru took a long drink from his gourd, his eyes distant. "For now."
That night Jabari was making his way home, walking stick in one hand, Imani strapped to his back. The sun was setting, painting the village in cool light. His body ached from the day's training, but it was a good ache—the kind that promised growth.
As he rounded the corner near the village square, he spotted his brothers. They were showing off for a group of village girls, demonstrating combat forms with wooden practice spears. Jabari hesitated, contemplating a different route home, but they had already seen him.
"Look who it is," Makinde called out, a familiar sneer forming on his face. "The musician returns."
Jabari took a steadying breath, remembering Noboru's words. Find your center. He continued walking, keeping his eyes forward.
"I heard you've been hanging around that drunk," Makinde continued, stepping into Jabari's path. The girls giggled nervously behind him. "What's he teaching you? How to beg for scraps?"
"Let me pass, Makinde."
"Or what?" His brother stepped closer. "You'll play me a sad song?"
Adeben hovered at the edge of the group, his expression uncomfortable but silent.
"I'm just trying to get home," Jabari said, maintaining his composure.
"You need this to do that, don't you?" In one swift motion, Makinde snatched Jabari's walking stick.
The girls fell silent, the teasing suddenly crossing into cruelty. Adeben stepped forward. "Makinde, that's enough—"
"Shut up," Makinde snapped, throwing the stick at Adeben, who caught it reflexively. "Go ahead tiny, show us what you can do."
For a moment, fear flashed through Jabari—the old, familiar fear that had been his constant companion. But then he felt it, his center, solid as the earth beneath him.
Without a word, without hesitation, Jabari adjusted his stance subtly. Then he began walking—still with a pronounced limp, but steady, deliberate, without stumbling.
The silence that fell was absolute. Makinde's mouth hung open slightly. The village girls stared. Even Adeben looked stunned, the walking stick limp in his hands.
"Wait," Makinde called, uncertainty etched in his voice. "How are you—"
Jabari didn't answer. He simply continued past them, maintaining perfect awareness of his center like Noboru had taught him.
"A true warrior," Jabari said, taking his walking stick back from Adeben, "finds strength beyond weakness." The words were Noboru's, but they felt like his own now.
He continued home, feeling their eyes on his back, but for the first time, he didn't care. Instead he unstrapped Imani and began to play. The melody that flowed was unlike anything he'd played before—fierce and beautiful at once, like a battle cry shaped into music.