Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  "You feel it," Tao said.

  "I feel it." I shook my head. "But what do I feel?"

  "The spirit of the weapon."

  At another time I would have disparaged this as fantasy. Now I could not.

  "Is it a malignant spirit?" he asked me gently. "Do you have the urge to kill, to destroy?"

  "No," I said, at a loss to analyze it. "I only—I only want to to experience it. As well as I can."

  He moved to stand squarely before me. "Kill me."

  I hefted the quando again. I was amazed at the sensations within me. He was offering me escape, but the weapon resisted as though enchanted. "No, I can't do that. This is, this is not for killing."

  "You have taken a step," he said, smiling. "A weapon is for training, not killing. You know that now. For building up the body, not destroying it. Each weapon emphasizes a slightly different aspect of the user's body." He took the quando again. "This builds strength, a living, moving power, all in perfect proportion. It develops the elbows along with the biceps, so that neither will be injured when ultimate force is assayed."

  "Yes, I understand, now," I said, realizing the truth of his words as he spoke them. The weapon was a bit like a ouija board, in which the subject's smallest inner motives were translated into physical motion that in turn offered clues about the person. And perfect control of the weapon led to control of the man, for he could not make the weapon perform properly unless the inner being of the man was proper. The men who spoke of beating a sword into a plowshare failed to comprehend the true nature of the weapons.

  "You are very quick to comprehend," Tao said. "Some never do."

  "I pity them," I said. And I meant it.

  "Would you like to watch the other weapons?"

  I could only nod affirmatively. Tao had opened a horizon to me that was miraculous in its implications. In all my life I had never understood the fundamental nature of weapons, until now.

  And there was so much more to learn.

  The bigger they come, it is said, the harder they fall. My ignorance had been enormous, and the implications of its dissipation were staggering. I had thought I had known something about martial art, and I had known considerably less than I suspected. The man who recognizes his ignorance may be better off than the one who doesn't realize his limits.

  That day I went to the head monk, Yee Chuen, and begged to become a student of the Shaolin art. I was ready to sweep the floor and wash the pots and grub in the earth like any novice, and practice the horse-stance until I could maintain it indefinitely, no matter how great the pain in my cramped legs became. Better that than keeping a cramped awareness. There were mysteries here that it was worth a lifetime to learn; I knew that now. The revelation of the quando...

  But even in these expectations, I was naive. "We do not spend years on difficult positions," Yee said. "Southern Shaolin monks do, but there we differ with our brothers. If a man can move, he can stand still. It is motion we teach, and it is pointless to delay it. We do not understand the style of the South; here we concentrate on what is important, without hindrance or pain. Those who master the weapons, the motions, also achieve a powerful stance."

  So I proceeded directly to practice with the weapons, to my joy. First I worked by myself, because I was a complete novice. There was no discrimination against me; in fact the Shaolin monks went out of their way to assist me. But it would have been a waste of time for me to attempt the paired exercises too soon.

  I worked on the staff first. This was nothing more than a pole. In fact, I made my own implement by going out into the forest and cutting a sapling. I could have run for my freedom right then, but the head monk had known what he was talking about. I remained of my own accord. No physical bonds could have been as effective as the emotional ones that held me. I had to master this unique non-violent science of weapons.

  My homemade staff was not straight, strong or well-balanced, but in fashioning it myself I came to understand it better. Slowly the ungainly thing became a part of me, and I a part of it, for the sweat of my effort was in it. I practiced the forms, and the staff was a good teacher, because it magnified my errors. If one of my hands was a fraction out of place, the tip of the staff could be a foot off course. My whole body had to be just right, or the forms were impossible to complete. Even the slight misalignment of one leg, which I did not notice, became critical with the staff.

  This was discipline: not harsh but exacting. I worked a week on the staff, many hours a day, before I had confidence to try another weapon. It was some of the most intensive training I had ever had. I learned to breathe the way of the true martial artist: into my lower abdomen, displacing my diaphragm. I emulated the life of the monks, going out to labor in the fields, for I felt that only thus could I assimilate the full spirit of the weapon. Weapon, Shaolin, and hard work, all were facets of this way of life.

  Meanwhile, my body healed. These martial monks practiced yoga to limber the body, and I went through these gentle exercises too. The ravages of my imprisonment by the Cong faded; not only was I whole again, I was a better man than I had been. Not merely physically.

  I worked on the quando, the trident fork, the chain, the double hook axes, the tonfas and the other weapons of the monastery. I also sparred with the sturdy monks bare-handed, using my judo and karate techniques. Here I was competent; I could take down most of the monks, and knew some techniques they didn't. They had things to teach me too, however. One was the ability to draw the gonads up into the body cavity, so that they could not be injured by a blow or kick. This sort of thing does not occur to most Western fighters, as the groin is a forbidden target. But elsewhere in the world this is not so, and any street fighter will go for the groin too. So I practiced gonad control, especially during the yoga sessions, and trained myself to do this whenever I took on a living opponent. It became an almost automatic reaction; I did it without conscious control. One could never tell when such an ability would come in handy.

  But my surpassing interest was the weapons. I had never had use for a double-edged sword before; now I handled it with an almost spiritual reverence. It no longer seemed strange that monks should be martial artists; weapons and religion were highly compatible.

  I had, however, some unfinished business with the Cong. I told the head monk, that I needed to take a couple days off, and he merely waved his hand amenably. "You are our guest," he said. "You may go as you wish, without consulting any of us." No one questioned me, and no one followed me; I retained enough caution to check on that. I really was free to go.

  I made my way to the place where my party had been ambushed. Sure enough, the Cong had ransacked our supplies, removed all our food and money, and thrown away what they couldn't use or didn't understand, including two of the tiny sensors. Not surprising, since these were disguised as spent explosive shells. I carried both kinds, regular and camouflaged, so the Cong would not realize how many I had. In case of capture.

  I didn't know whether these two were still operative after weeks of exposure to the rigors of the jungle, but I couldn't leave them there. If any knowledgeable Cong happened across them, one of our prime military secrets would be exposed.

  I did what I had to, but my heart was no longer in it, if it had ever been. This war had never appealed to me, and now it sickened me. All I wanted to do was get back to the Shaolin monastery. Oh, I was not about to betray any secrets; I just wanted to get quit of destruction and return to positive things, like yoga and weapons discipline. I couldn't just hide the two sensors; the Cong might have metal-detecting equipment. I couldn't bury them or throw them in the river; they might corrode into "ON" position and summon a useless bombing raid. I couldn't even destroy them; they were designed to be tough. I simply had to keep them with me until I could either use them, which I had no intention of doing, or return them.

  So I fastened them in my trousers and forgot about them. The monks would not pry; they had strict covenants regarding personal privacy.

  I returned and
resumed training. And one day Yee summoned me and gave me a remarkable gift: a weapon of my own. This was no casual gesture; I was free to use and keep any weapon in the monastery's considerable arsenal. But such acquisition would not have been proper. I needed that particular weapon that was right for me, for my physique, mentality, and future. For my fighting soul, though the weapon was really a symbol of my peace of soul. That no longer seemed paradoxical. The head monk had spent months studying me, as he studied all his flock, and now he had decided on the appropriate weapon.

  "You have done well, Jason Striker," he began. "Never before has a man progressed so rapidly from novice to trainee. You have considerable natural talent and an unusual devotion, and your mind is responsive."

  I bowed my head. "There is so much more to be done, Venerable."

  "You will do it with your ideal weapon."

  I nodded my head affirmatively, eager to know which instrument he had chosen. The fierce doublebladed sword? The mighty trident? The staid tonfa? How had he judged my character?

  "The nunchaku," he said.

  This fell somewhat flat. I had never heard of it.

  He brought out two thin clubs tied together by a short cord. The arrangement looked inefficient as hell. I tried to conceal my disappointment. Maybe he was testing me, before unveiling a real weapon.

  He smiled benignly. "Come to the practice court."

  At the court, he stripped to a white loincloth and took the awkward sticks. "Take any weapon," he told me.

  I had not before practiced with the head monk. He was doing me a signal honor, yet I did not know how to react. He was an old man, however well preserved, and much smaller than I. Yet I could not tell him no. He was the Master.

  So I chose the sword, intending to make a show of technique without really pressing the attack. Even the ritual motions can be dangerous, and this was not a ritual. I did not want to hurt him accidentally.

  We bowed and commenced.

  I jumped at Yee with my sword held high as I gave a kiai yell. Unfazed, he swung his linked sticks overhead and down in a figure eight, checking my thrust. I drew back, momentarily baffled by the intricate maneuver. He followed, maintaining the pattern, the heavy wood blurring with the speed of its motion. Daunted, I gave ground cautiously.

  Suddenly I lunged under his swing with the tip of my sword, like a fencer. But Yee swung aside nimbly and the tip of his weapon tapped me lightly on the head. Even that token contact had me reeling. The wood was solid, capable of smashing a skull, my skull; I had suddenly been made aware of that.

  Yee laughed ringingly. He was toying with me. I had never heard him laugh before, and it was annoying as hell. My head still stung from the blow; my brain had been jarred, and I did what I had thought was unthinkable: I got mad at the head monk.

  I screamed "Kiiii!" and started a furious series of overhead and downward cuts. I wanted to kill him!

  Yee gave ground, blocking each cut expertly. Suddenly he executed a taisa baki sidewise movement. The chain of the nunchaku wrapped around my sword. He heaved; the sword went flying through the air. I was disarmed.

  He put his feet on the blade, bent down, grabbed it, and threw it back to me. "Is that the best you can do, novice?" he demanded.

  I saw red. I stooped, gathered a handful of dirt from the garden, and threw it in Yee's face. He was momentarily blinded. I took the sword and charged him. But he continued to swing those linked clubs in a dazzling pattern, and I could not get close enough to strike effectively. I was astonished; he could not see me, yet he was impervious!

  Then one stick shot out, under my guard, and struck me in the stomach. The breath went out of me and I pitched forward. He clubbed me again on the head, not so gently this time. It hurt awfully, but did not knock me out, and I knew that was the way he had intended it. He had humiliated me.

  "My son, you need more patience," he said. "And more practice. Never let any man taunt you into carelessness; never allow anger to blind you." He put the devastating weapon, the nunchaku, into my hands and left me.

  It had been a most effective lesson.

  So I practiced with the nunchaku. It still seemed clumsy in comparison to the other weapons, but now I knew that this was not the fault of the sticks but of the man. After all, only a few weeks ago I had been clumsy with chopsticks, but now I was adept. What I could do with the little sticks, I should be able to accomplish with the big ones. It might take years to become proficient, but they would be worthwhile years.

  When I did master it, I would have one hell of a powerful weapon, suitable to counter sword or knife or even a crowd of armed men. Not that I would ever face such a thing, in my life here at the monastery.

  I did not have those years. Once more I was summoned to the presence of the head monk. "There is now opportunity to return you to your people," he said.

  I was stunned. "I want to stay here!" I blurted. "To master the weapon, master myself"

  He shook his head. "That is not your destiny, Jason Striker. This is our life, not yours. You belong in the great outside world, in America. It was for this that we saved you."

  It was foolish to argue, and extremely bad form, but I could not help myself. "What is there in America that's better than this?"

  "Nothing," he said. "But your mission is there."

  "What mission?" Even as, I spoke, I knew it was futile. The issue had been decided long before this interview, perhaps even before they rescued me.

  "We do not know. We have prepared you, as our vision directed. You will know when the occasion arises." There was nothing I could do but go. However politely couched, however sadly made, his decision was final. They would not force me out, any more than they had forced me to stay, but it was inconceivable that I should oppose my will to Yee's. I was not to be a celibate monk, whatever I might wish.

  We went down the river at night by boat, transferring from one boat to another as we left the monastery further behind. I wore the robes of a monk, so that my identity would not be evident. My head was shaved, I wore sandals, my skin was stained yellowish by dye and I carried a begging bowl. It was not a difficult impersonation, for if I had had my way it would have been no impersonation, but a way of life. Alas, I knew I would never again see these good men.

  A hundred miles down the Mekong I remembered the two sensors, sewn in my trousers back at the monastery. I should have brought them with me.

  Well, nothing could be done about it now. With luck they would never be discovered, and of course the monks did not understand the sensors' purpose. It galled me to have forgotten them like that, but it probably made no difference.

  How wrong I was!

  We passed the capital, Phnom Penh, then proceeded on through the monsoon-flooded plains down the swollen river, that overflowed its banks and covered the countryside in a sheet of brown water. It was dusk as we reached the frontier of South Vietnam, but we pushed on. Another hundred miles would bring us to the general vicinity of Saigon. We joined a convoy of five river barges and continued our leisurely pace. One was a bigger power boat towing a barge full of merchandise.

  In my guise as a monk, I had to play along with the deference shown me by the natives, who did not know my real identity. I suspected that Cong were among us now; they would have had my head, literally, if they had known. Instead I blessed them and comforted them in priestly fashion, and somewhat to my dismay found that they, too, were human beings, with human feelings and cares. They believed they were throwing out the invader, fighting the oppressor, righting great wrongs, and they gave me food in my begging bowl, though they hardly had enough for themselves. I supposed they were off-duty.

  Suddenly, at dusk, we were attacked by American or South Vietnamese gunboats. They were small fast launches carrying 20mm rapid-firing guns and .50 caliber machine guns. I had been dozing; I had not seen their approach. Evidently the engagement was a surprise to our people, that is, the native sailors, too. An ambush; no doubt the South Viets needed a bodycount, and we were it. Sev
eral people were killed before they could scramble for cover.

  I took cover too, such as was available. What did those trigger-happy bastards think they were doing, gunning down innocent natives? Tracer bullets passed right through the thin shell of my raft cabin. Every fifth bullet was a tracer, lighting the evening sky. In that moment I thoroughly sympathized with the Cong; this invader needed to be driven out!

  Then one of the barges exploded. I recognized the stigmata of an oil fire: the typical roiling smoke, the spreading slick on the surface of the water. Innocent natives? They had no business carrying hidden oil in such quantity. That was contraband!

  Ironic, that this illmotivated government massacre should actually strike a legitimate enemy shipment. Doubly ironic, that I should be in that convoy. But right now I had to worry less about irony and more about my own hide.

  Now there was answering fire from the boat towing the barge. Someone there carried a P-40 rocket launcher, no innocent native artifact. A rocket streamed toward the leading gunboat, hitting it in the bridge. There was a big explosion, and the twin 20mm gun was knocked out.

  The other gunboat concentrated its fire on this resistance. There was an exchange of automatic rifle fire, but it was obvious to me that the Cong were overmatched. They had hoped to sneak through; now they were fighting because they had no choice.

  A shell struck the barge, and there was a tremendous explosion as all of its smuggled load of fuel went up. A brilliant fireball appeared, glowing red and white; it lit the entire river. The thing was both awful and beautiful, an animate mushroom cloud rising into the sky. The towing boat was engulfed in the burning oil, the sailors shriveling like moths against a bright flame. Some tried to jump, but it was too late; they were burning torches.

  The gunboats fired at the flaming men; whether this was brutal sport or an act of mercy I could not tell. Both, perhaps. Then they began firing at the other boats of our little convoy, mine among them. A dum-dum bullet entered our guide's head from behind, and spread out to destroy the man's entire face as it emerged. Dum-dums were illegal, but both sides used them.