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  The moon was full that night, so many years before. The sea was merciless. Wave after wave rose and fell, some fifty feet tall. Far off, the wind howled. Its urgent voice was joined only by the sound of the sea and a simple, beautiful melody.

  A Japanese woman with thick jet-black hair sat on the bow of a small fishing boat. In her hands she held a shamisen. The shamisen had been part of Japan’s culture for centuries. The instrument had three strings and a long neck, and it was played with a wide pick—a bachi. The woman brought the bachi down across its strings, striking a sweet, soulful chord.

  As she played, a massive wave came toward the vessel. She stood up, letting the rain strike her face. The wave must have been fifty or sixty feet tall. It came closer, threatening to crush the small wooden boat.

  The woman raised her hand, then brought the bachi down across the strings. A clear, pure note filled the air. Ahead of her, the giant wave parted, letting the boat pass through to calmer waters.

  She could see the shore ahead now. The journey was almost over, and she was relieved, thinking of dry land. She clutched the straps of the woven bag she’d carried for hundreds of miles. The cloth had a small black beetle embroidered onto it. As the boat neared the beach, she smiled, relieved to be close.

  She was so happy that she didn’t feel the water pulling back beneath the boat. She didn’t see the next wave, bigger than the one before, coming toward the beach. Before she could look over her shoulder, it was upon her, tossing her from the bow. She plunged into the cold, clear water, twisting in the ocean’s undercurrents.

  The wild sea raged beneath the boat. She tumbled over and over again toward the shore, finally landing on the rocky beach. Her head struck something hard. For a moment everything was black. When she finally opened her eyes, her hair was tangled in front of her face, covering a fresh wound.

  Somewhere down the beach, she heard a familiar sound. A baby’s cry. She spotted the woven bag a few yards away. It took all her strength to crawl toward it, inch by inch. When she unfolded the thick cloth, she saw that the baby was scared but unharmed. The bandage was still wrapped tightly around his head, covering his missing left eye.

  “Kubo,” she whispered softly, hugging her son to her heart.

  The village streets were packed. A small crowd gathered around a puppeteer, watching as he dangled marionettes over giggling children. Artisans sold carved lanterns. The fishmongers had carted in their latest catch: beautiful red shrimp crawling over heaps of shimmering fish. An old woman bartered for the finest silk kimono.

  It was the second day of the Obon Festival. The annual festival had been celebrated in Japan for more than five hundred years as a way to honor one’s ancestors. Families returned to their ancestors’ graves to clean them, and the ancestors’ spirits would visit to consult on household affairs. The three-day festival was a time of love and celebration.

  Beside the main road, beggars and street performers held out small bamboo bowls, hoping for coins. Two old men played shogi, a Japanese board game, with a few friends looking on. As the village bustled with activity, a voice cried out over the noise.

  “If you must blink, do it now!”

  The crowd fell silent. A twelve-year-old boy had appeared in the middle of the square. A black patch covered his missing left eye. He held his shamisen in one hand, and his other was raised in the air, clutching his bachi. He brought it down over the strings, filling the square with sweet music.

  “Pay careful attention to everything you see and hear,” the boy said as the crowd circled him. “No matter how unusual it may seem!”

  Whispers spread through the streets. They’d seen the boy—Kubo—perform before, but each time he was more hypnotizing. He paced around, looking into his audience’s eyes. “And please be warned. If you fidget, if you look away, if you forget any part of what I tell you, even for an instant”— he pointed to a random woman in the crowd, speaking slowly and dramatically—“then our hero will surely perish!”

  Kubo leaned back, strumming his shamisen with his eye closed. He was playing a happy tune when suddenly something red burst out of the woven bag on his back. It flew through the air in a blur, somersaulting the length of the crowd before landing right in front of him.

  The origami warrior stood just six inches tall. He was a simple man, made of cherry-red paper. Kubo held up his hand to silence everyone. “Hanzo was a mighty samurai,” he started. “But he was alone; his family had been taken from him, his kingdom in ruins, and his army destroyed by the dreaded Moon King. You may recall, Hanzo was roaming the distant Far Lands in search of a magical suit of armor: the only weapon in the whole world that could protect him from the power of the Moon King. This armor was made up of three pieces. The first…”

  Kubo scanned the crowd, waiting for an answer.

  Akihiro pushed through. “Oh, oh, oh! I know! The Sword Unbreakable!”

  Kubo lifted his hand and plucked the first string on the shamisen. A piece of cherry-red paper flew out of his bag and folded in midair, forming the famous sword. Hanzo grabbed it and swung it around his head while the crowd cheered.

  Kubo ran to the other side of the circle, kneeling down beside a little girl named Mari. “The second?”

  “The Breastplate Im…” Mari tried to sound out the word. “Im-pen-uh-truh-ble!”

  Kubo struck the second string on the shamisen and another piece of paper came out of his bag, magically folding into a breastplate. It sat on little Hanzo’s chest, protecting his heart.

  “And, finally, the third weapon,” Kubo said. “The final piece of the armor…”

  His friend, Kameyo, a local beggar woman, sat at the edge of the circle. Her tattered blue kimono was patched in places, and her white hair was pulled into a bun. She raised her hand.

  “I know this one! The Helmet Invulnerable!” she shouted.

  Kubo plucked the third string, and another piece of cherry-red paper shot out of his bag, folding into Hanzo’s helmet. It fit perfectly on his tiny head. The crowd clapped and cheered. A little boy in the front row kept pointing at the tiny warrior and squealing in delight.

  Kubo went on, pacing around the audience, playing notes on the shamisen. “But before Hanzo could claim the armor and unite the pieces to reveal their true power, he was attacked by the Moon King’s beasts.…”

  He played a dark, moody chord, and the crowd fell silent again. He spun around, and a black piece of paper flew into the air, reforming into a giant spider. It crept toward the hero. Hanzo raised his sword, slashing at its legs.

  The show continued. A ferocious shark swallowed Hanzo whole, so the hero had to fight his way out from the inside, turning the shark into confetti. A fire-breathing chicken belched flames at Hanzo. He ran toward it, coming just inches from the fire, when he folded back into a flat piece of paper. He slid below the chicken, reforming on the other side of him.

  Furious, the chicken shot paper eggs at Hanzo. Hanzo sprang into action. He took a few steps and leaped into the air, somersaulting over the chicken with his sword outstretched. In one swift motion, he chopped off the chicken’s head. A man in the f
ront of the crowd covered his daughter’s eyes, not wanting her to see.

  Kubo kept the show going all day, telling stories of his hero, Hanzo. He struck another chord on his shamisen.

  “Hanzo was filled with rage,” he said, “his soul tormented by the grief of a family stolen from him.”

  Kubo played a slower, more ominous tune, and a blue piece of paper rose from his pack. It folded into a dark, terrifying silhouette.

  “At last, our hero was face-to-face with his nemesis, the Moon King!”

  The two figures flew into the air, ready for battle. Kubo raised his bachi, ready to play another tune, when the sound of the town bell interrupted him. The clangs rang high above the village, signaling the setting sun. Kubo lowered his hand, and the figures unfolded, the sheets of colorful paper slipping back into his bag.

  “Be sure to come back tomorrow!” he called out as he gathered up a few coins people had left for him.

  The crowd groaned. One annoyed woman shook her fist in the air.

  “What?”Akihiro, said. “Oh, come on! People like an ending, please? Where are you going? No… you can’t leave!”

  But Kubo did just that, hurrying through the packed square and down the road, not stopping until he was home.

  Kubo walked up the steep path just as the bell finished chiming, approaching a cave nestled on top of a jagged cliff overlooking the sea. His mother was sitting where he’d left her that morning, at the back of it, staring out at the setting sun. He sat down next to her, resting his hand on her arm.

  “Kubo,” she whispered, suddenly realizing he was there.

  “Yes, Mother, I’m here,” he said. “Hungry?”

  She nodded, so he went to work on dinner. He lit the fire and set rice and fish in a pot to cook. They ate slowly, and often Kubo had to catch the rice that had fallen down her chin. She’d been sick for years now. Sometimes she would be clear and calm and know exactly who he was. But other times she would have trouble talking or even eating, and she would forget where she was and who was with her. Kubo used the money he made in the square each day for their clothes and food.

  When they finished dinner, he assembled his origami samurai warrior and his monkey charm beside him. He’d had the charm ever since he could remember. Standing only three inches high, it was supposed to be a good luck charm for protection. The three sat around the fire, listening as his mother told a story.

  “Even though he could barely see his own hand in front of his face, Hanzo and his army of loyal samurai pressed on through the blizzard.” His mother was her best self tonight, now energized by their meal. She pretended to step through deep snow. “And suddenly, as quickly as it had started, the storm cleared before him. Hanzo breathed a sigh of relief, for he was home.”

  Kubo straightened up. “His fortress? The Beetle Clan castle?”

  “Yes,” his mother said. “At the very edge of The Far Lands. Hidden from the Moon King by powerful magic…”

  “And then what happened?” Kubo asked. “When he got to the castle?”

  His mother took a long pause. She stared at her feet, losing her train of thought. “When who got to the castle?”

  “Hanzo, my father,” he reminded her.

  “Hanzo was at the castle?” She rubbed her head, trying to remember what she’d said. “Just give me a second… I’m sorry, Kubo. I can’t. Perhaps I could recall a different story?”

  Kubo smiled, taking his mother’s hand. He tried to make her feel comfortable and safe whenever she couldn’t remember. She was sick—he knew she was—and it was getting worse each day. Sometimes at dawn she could barely speak. Sometimes she couldn’t even remember his name. He worried what would happen when things got worse, and there was only him to take care of her. Would he be able to?

  “Why don’t you tell me what father was like?” Kubo asked.

  “Oh, this one is easy.” His mother laughed, beginning her tale again. “Hanzo was a mighty warrior, skilled with sword and bow.”

  “No,” Kubo said. “What was he really like? When he wasn’t fighting. When he was with us?”

  She leaned down and looked into Kubo’s eye. “He was just like you. Strong and clever and funny. And oh-so-handsome.” She pinched his cheek playfully.

  “Ugh! Mother!” Kubo giggled.

  But then she got quiet, her face suddenly serious. “Never forget how much he loved you, Kubo. He died protecting us.”

  “Did the Moon King—”

  “Your grandfather,” his mother corrected.

  “Did Grandfather and your sisters really kill my father? It can’t be true, can it? They’re family.”

  His mother’s eyes widened. She grabbed his shoulders, bringing him close to her. “They’re monsters. Grandfather and my sisters stole your eye, Kubo. They must never find you again, ever. You must always stay hidden from the night sky, or they will find you and take you away from me. Promise me you’ll never let this happen.”

  Kubo’s eye filled with tears. It was in these moments that he felt the most alone. How could he promise his mother that? How did he know what the future held for either of them, or what would happen? He would try, of course he would try, to hide from them.… But could he hide forever?

  His mother must’ve noticed the fear in his eye, because she let go of him. She glanced down, picking up the tiny monkey charm. “Don’t be sad, Kubo,” she said, making the monkey speak in a silly voice. “Remember what you must do?”

  “Keep you with me at all times,” Kubo said, nodding.

  “And…?” his mother asked.

  “And keep my father’s robe on my back at all times.”

  “Yes, Kubo,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. The red robe was a little big for him, but he would grow into it. “And there’s one more thing. Never, ever, stay out after dark.”

  Kubo nodded, knowing that this was the most important thing his mother had ever told him. If he was out after dark, the Moon King would be able to see him far below and come for his other eye. It was why he ran home every night when the village bell rang. It was why they hid, alone in this cave, night after night.

  “Remember?” his mother repeated, pretending the monkey was speaking to him.

  “Yes, Mr. Monkey,” Kubo said, letting out a small laugh.

  Then they laughed together. They huddled beside the fire, keeping warm before bedtime.

  The next morning, the streets were alive again. Women in a line did an elaborate dance, sweeping their arms up into the air and spinning around as a crowd watched. Colorful lanterns decorated the buildings on the square. As Kubo walked through the festival, he spotted his good friend Kameyo sitting on a nearby curb.

  “Paper Boy!” She smiled, revealing her missing front teeth. “Come sit next to me. I got us a good spot here.”

  Kubo sat beside his friend, and together they watched the women spin and dance, the music swelling around them. “I do so love the festival,” Kameyo said. “A time to celebrate. You know, it’s a shame you never stay past sundown. There are fireworks and singing and dancing and feasting, of course. But the best part of all…”

  She pointed to the lanterns that hung outside each doorway. “Do you see those lamps and altars? We use those to speak to the loved ones that left us behind. We listen to their tales and guide their safe return to the blissful pure land.”

  Kubo had heard this all before, but somehow today it felt different. Was he old enough now, wise enough, to contact his father? If he lit a lantern in his honor, maybe he’d come back for him.

  “Really?” Kubo asked in surprise. “Did you speak to someone?”

  “Yes, I did. My husband. His voice was as clear and loud as the one you use for your stories. In seventy-two years he never had a thing to say. Now that he’s gone, I can’t shut him up!”

  Kubo couldn’t help but smile.

  “You have someone you’d like to talk to, huh?” Kameyo said, noticing his expression. “Well, what’s stopping you?”

  “Do I need
a lamp?” Kubo asked, looking at the ornate altars that lined the square.

  “I bet you could make a really nice one with that paper-folding thing you do.” She gave him a friendly nudge, pointing to the cemetery. “Now hurry along, go! There’s still time before dark!”

  Kubo stood, taking off through the square just as the dance ended. He turned back one last time, waving good-bye to his friend.

  Kubo kept walking, finally seeing a break in the forest ahead. The road opened up into a beautiful, lush cemetery, the sun low in the sky above it. Flowers bloomed. Tree branches twisted above him. On the grassy hills, dozens of families knelt with their unlit lanterns, waiting for their loved ones to visit.

  He found a clearing and dropped his bag and supplies. Using a big rock as an altar, he set to work on his lantern. He folded the ivory paper several times, creating an elaborate lantern with windows in its sides. He watched a family nearby, listening to the conversation to try to figure out what to do next. Asking the dead to visit didn’t come naturally to him.

  A man, Hosato, was just a few yards away. He directed his daughter to place the lamp on the altar. As the little girl did that, Kubo set his lantern on his altar, too. Then Hosato told his daughter to pray to their loved one, a grandmother. Kubo wasn’t quite sure what to say to his father, but he began anyway.

  “Hello, Father,” he said. “I hope you’re well. Uh… I mean, I know you’re dead, but I hope everything is… okay.”

  Kubo cringed, thinking of the spirit of his father somewhere listening to him bungle the prayer. He could do better. He’d start over—pretend as if it never even happened. Maybe his father hadn’t heard.…

  “Look, it’s your robe!” he said brightly, holding up the cloth covering his shoulders. “Mother says I’ll grow into it. She says you were a great leader who died protecting me. Saving one of my eyes. Two would’ve been ideal, but… thanks anyway.”

  Kubo let out a small laugh, hoping his dad got the joke. He waited, listening to the wind, but he couldn’t hear anything. He wondered if his dad even knew he was there.