by Ben Stevens
‘That is why, in all seriousness, I say that the whole of Japan is at risk from this man,’ said Koyama then. ‘In becoming daimyo of his own area, he has only just begun his quest for power. He has bided his time, letting his army swell in size and power, and so forth – but now he is ready to strike.’
My master was silent for a few moments; then he said –
‘I am already aware that the three of you are good and just daimyo, else I would not have attended this meeting in the first place. Similarly, I have my own sources of information to inform me that the Demon King constitutes a very real threat to the whole of Japan.
‘For this reason,’ continued my master, ‘I say to you that I will do what I can to thwart Jubei’s quest for power. In fact, without further delay I and my servant Kukai will head for the area he governs.’
‘Of course, any expenses you may in–’ began Nakamura, before my master interrupted –
‘If I am successful, I will return this way, and receive my fee from you then.’
The three daimyo nodded, and we took our leave.
‘…Tell me, Kukai – are you familiar with the legend concerning China’s Shaolin Temple?’ asked my master a short while later, as we trudged along a narrow path which cut through a rice-field.
‘I have never even heard of the temple’s name, master,’ I replied, looking curiously at him.
‘It is a place where the monks train from morning to night in a fighting style known as gongfu, until their hands and feet become as hard as rocks, and their bodies can withstand any blow – even that given by a wooden staff.
‘The legend says that many hundreds of years ago, a wandering Indian Buddhist monk by the name of Bodhidharma visited the Shaolin Temple to find that the monks there had become fat and physically lazy, too absorbed in their spiritual studies to take adequate care of their health. And as the country was infested by bandits and robbers, this meant that their lives were very much at risk, as they were clearly unable to defend themselves – or the temple – in the event of an attack.
‘And so Bodhidharma taught them a series of exercises designed to toughen the body, and develop formidable fighting skill.’
‘I see,’ I muttered, although in truth I had no idea why my master was telling me all of this.
But then he said –
‘The temple which the Demon King had burnt to the ground was run along a similar principle. That the monks within it should train their bodies as well as their minds to the limits of perfection. But still, the fifty or so monks could hardly hope to defeat the Demon King’s forces, that freezing, snowy night those many soldiers stole through the forest to the temple and set it on fire, before butchering most of the monks who’d managed to escape the flames…’
My master’s voice had taken on a somber tone (hardly surprising, given that which he was talking about) and as I glanced at him, I saw that his gaze was distant.
Then what he said next shook me to the core –
‘I was not one of those monks – but I was staying at the temple when it was torched. As you know, Kukai, despite my Buddhist training as a young man in China’ – (something first described in the account I entitled The Cursed Temple) – ‘I am hardly what you might call a ‘spiritual’ person. And yet I was reasonably friendly with the head abbot of the Yamabushi sect at the temple, and used to visit on occasion.
‘…In any case, one moment I was asleep – and the next all was flames, smoke and chaos. A small group of us managed to get out, but there in the flickering darkness we were set upon by a mass of soldiers, and separated as we fought for our lives – and only a few of us even had weapons.
‘I was wounded by a sword – I still carry the scar on my upper right arm – and yet I survived. The temple abbot did not, and for him, along with all those other monks murdered that night, I made a vow that I would one day exact vengeance against the Demon King. Perhaps, finally, that day is now coming.’
My master fell silent, as we continued our progress towards that large region governed by the Demon King. Concerning exactly what my master would do then, or just how he intended to exact this vengeance for what happened to those martial monks – the Yamabushi – I had no idea…
‘But,’ said my master then, ‘I began by talking about the Shaolin Temple, and those monks whose training has for so long included strenuous physical training, for fear that their bodies might otherwise become soft and flabby…
‘For in truth, I have these past few years felt myself neglecting my physical side, honed to a certain extent during my younger years. Always my challenges are cerebral in nature; and yet here, perhaps, is the chance to see if my body is still what it once was, for all my advancing years.’
‘Master?’ I returned, once again bewildered by his words. ‘What is this ‘chance’ you speak of – this way of testing your body?’
‘The Demon King’s martial arts’ tournament, of course. I intend to enter it, as a competitor.’
I turned my head sharply, to stare at my master in amazement. But something in his eyes then caused me to look just as hurriedly away.
There was danger in his gaze – a darkness I had never seen before.
We were steadily approaching the territory governed by the Demon King, a sense of foreboding now growing ever stronger in my stomach.
2
The martial arts’ tournament was to be held within the Demon King’s own castle, in what was called the ‘Great Hall’. Everywhere there seemed to be posters advertising this fact, now that we had entered his sizeable domain. The tournament would last over three days, a number of fights taking place at the same time as the several hundred competitors were quickly whittled down to only the strongest and toughest.
The winner would receive a sizeable reward – yet all those who made it to the final stages knew that they stood a chance of entering into well-paid military service for Jubei. After all, it was from holding such tournaments that the Demon King had been able to build such a feared military force…
I still couldn’t believe that my master actually intended to enter this contest. Had he taken leave of his wits? Although he was unnaturally strong, and in excellent health, I still severely doubted he’d be a match for many of the fighters looking to compete in this tournament.
There was also the matter of his age – something about which he was curiously coy. After all the adventures we’d had together, and the dangers we’d faced, I could claim with some justification to be the person who knew him best – and yet even I did not know exactly how old he was. With his strikingly bald skull, and that thick-lipped face with the high cheekbones, it was hard even to try and gauge his age. I would perhaps have placed him as being at least five years older than me – and I had lately turned thirty-six…
Besides which – how, exactly, was competing in this tournament going to stop the Demon King from invading the territory belonging to the three other daimyo? And avenge the terrible deaths suffered by the Yamabushi temple abbot – my master’s friend – and so many of those monks who’d been under the abbot’s authority…?
Still, there was no turning my master’s will once it was decided upon something. As was normal, I had only to accompany him and see how events transpired.
And despite my fears for his safety in this tournament, I actually already knew how well he could fight. For I had been a first-hand witness to that, once.
At the Demon King’s castle, my master registered his name and declined the offer to sleep in the cavernous hall with many of the several hundred other men who’d also arrived to compete in the forthcoming tournament.
Instead, we succeeded in finding a room at a nearby inn (and such rooms were becoming scarce, despite the offer of free accommodation at the castle) and prepared for my master’s first scheduled fight in two days’ time.
I say ‘prepared’ – in reality, my master seemed mainly to eat, drink and sleep. He spoke little, apparently absorbed with some intense inner thought. I, of course, en
sured that I did not disturb him in anyway. And so the time passed slowly.
On the morning of the start of the tournament, when my master and who knew how many other men were scheduled to fight each other in the castle’s so-called ‘Great Hall’, we left the inn and walked the short distance to the Demon King’s towering base of stone.
Once inside the hall, my master stripped off to the waist, exposing a lean, strong, sinewy body that would have done justice to a man twenty years younger. Any number of men were gathered around the edge of the hall, eyeing each other dangerously. My heart again grew heavy as I took notice of some of them. Fighters, brawlers, with fists like great hams and murderous expressions.
How, I asked myself again, could my master possibly hope to fight such people? I could only hope that this mad moment of folly of his would not result in him being too gravely injured.
In any case, the tournament was being heavily policed by the Demon King’s menacing samurai. They ceaselessly patrolled around the Great Hall, confiscating alcohol, immediately intervening in any ‘disputes’, and generally ensuring that any violence occurred only in the centre of the Great Hall.
For it was in this area that the fights were taking place. Five at a time, the contestants called out by name. Samurai acting as judges watched those fights taking place, declaring one man the winner and the other the loser. The winner got to fight again, as soon as one hour later – a maximum of five fights in one day.
As for the loser, they got to nurse their lumps, cuts and bruises on their way back to wherever it was they had come from – for there were no second chances. Just one defeat meant that you were out of the tournament.
My master’s name was called, and I felt a chill as I saw his opponent march over to stand facing him. Yes, I knew already that my master was strong, and that he could fight. Yet this opponent was a great hairy brute, a head taller than my master (who stood at just over six foot tall himself), an arrogant smirk on his face as he massaged his colossal right fist with his equally outsized left hand.
The samurai judge shouted for them to begin, and with startling speed the hairy brute threw his right fist full-force at my master’s face and –
My master was simply no longer there – that is, where he’d been stood just a split-second before. He was instead now stood to one side of his opponent, facing the man at an angle of ninety degrees. And it was his fist that moved like lightening and impacted into the brute’s granite-like jaw.
Had it been me who’d thrown the punch, I imagine that I would merely have succeeded in breaking my own hand, so strong did that jaw appear. Yet the moment my master’s punch connected, the brute’s eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed onto the wooden floor. The startled samurai watching declared my master the winner, while two servants carried (with obvious difficulty) the unconscious loser off somewhere.
My master returned to sit down beside me, our backs against the stone wall on one side of the Great Hall. He was not even out of breath; he showed not the slightest sign of his recent exertion. But I noticed now that he was receiving a number of curious glances. Also, I saw as one man discreetly pointed at him, while mouthing the word Ennin to another man stood beside him, on the opposite side of the hall.
My master’s identity had been revealed. Soon, everyone would know that the man who’d once saved the life of the Japanese Empress herself had decided to come here and brawl like some common hoodlum.
My master fought twice more that day. Neither of these fights lasted any longer than the first one had. He moved like the wind, easily evading the punch or kick delivered by his opponent, before striking with absolute accuracy and force at a critical point of the head – a temple, the jaw…
When we arrived back at the Great Hall the following day, we could see that there were now far fewer men present than there had been previously. The fights were longer now, more vicious; the servants were frequently required to carry out the bleeding, unconscious bodies of the losers…
My master’s first fight of that day was called. I noticed that the samurai now respectfully addressed him as sensei (which was after all his usual title – although not a teacher, he was still obviously considered a man of some eminence, due to the work he’d done for the Empress and others) and seemed rather confused as to why he should even be here. Also, the men selected to be his opponent no longer smirked, even if they were bigger than him. For my master had quickly proved just what a formidable fighter he truly was.
Really, my heart no longer pounded nor did I feel the least anxiety as my master squared off against another opponent. He seemed invincible. And so another man went crashing down towards the floor, knocked out cold within the space of one or two seconds. This was in stark contrast to some of the desperate, drawn-out, bloody battles taking place elsewhere in the Great Hall, two or more samurai at times required to drag apart the gore-covered fighters. After a fight had finished, a few of the overworked servants rushed out with zokin, cleaning cloths, to quickly wipe the blood, sweat, vomit and such from the wooden floor.
My master had the full quota of five fights that day. There is no real need to describe any of them. None lasted a second longer than his very first fight had. Only a fraction of the several hundred men who’d come to the Demon King’s castle to compete now remained. The final competitions would be held tomorrow – with the Demon King watching. Now, even those who lost their fight might still be offered a place in his military, if they could prove that they had sufficient combative spirit.
But there would be only one winner; and now, I truly realized that this might well be my master. Not for the first time, I felt ashamed at how I’d doubted him before. But what, exactly, was he intending to achieve through this possible winning…?
My master and I were about to leave, my master having put on his kimono top (he fought bare-chested), when a burly samurai approached us. He addressed my master respectfully –
‘My lord Jubei would like to see you, Ennin-sensei, if you permit.’
This was more-or-less an order, of course, in spite of the flowery language, and so my master replied –
‘But of course. Now?’
‘If this is convenient for you, Ennin-sensei.’
Those other fighters remaining in the Great Hall watched curiously as we left, following the young, tough-looking samurai out of the hall and then along corridors and up several winding stone flights of stairs.
We entered into a long room with numerous windows, lit by the still-light summer evening outside. Low wooden tables were set out with food and drink upon them, a number of blue cushions placed along either side and one man already sat at the furthest end.
‘My lord Jubei,’ announced the samurai.
I immediately followed my master by getting down to my knees and bowing my head.
Jubei emitted a burst of laughter, and said loudly –
‘No, no; please rise, Ennin-sensei. And your servant, too, who I gather has also become almost your biographer.’
This was evidently a jocular reference to the fact that I had ‘written up’ several of the adventures my master and I had had, which had since gained a certain popularity.
‘Please, come and sit near me. Others will be arriving soon, and we will commence dining. You must surely have worked up something of an appetite today, eh?’
This final question was again said with a laugh, and so convivial was the Demon King’s attitude towards my master that I almost found myself questioning the fearsome reputation he had.
And yet… I realized that those narrow eyes which currently flickered with amusement could in a moment become black, cruel and hard as stone. And my master had experienced first-hand the type of terror the Demon King was capable of unleashing without a second’s hesitation…
The young, distinctly tough-looking samurai had already seated himself to one side of the Demon King – I realized that this must be none other than Jubei’s personal bodyguard. My master and I sat on the opposite side of the low
table, although here there was a space of several feet left between Jubei and the first cushion. A safeguard against the (admittedly remote) possibility of a lunged attack with a concealed dagger or something of the kind against the Demon King…
‘Thank you for your invitation, my lord,’ said my master, addressing Jubei with equal courtesy.
But now the Demon King’s smiling eyes momentarily flashed suspicion.
‘When I first received word that the great Ennin-sensei himself had arrived to take part in my modest tournament,’ said Jubei, ‘I could hardly believe my ears. And yet now I see that it is true. So I ask myself – why?’
The smile remained in place, although an answer was clearly being demanded.
‘The reason is quite simple, my lord,’ returned my master firmly. ‘I wished to see if my aging body was still capable of doing what it could when I was a younger man.’
‘Ah yes, perhaps using some of what you learnt during your stay in… China?’ inquired the Demon King with deceptive gentleness, his eyes glittering.
‘China,’ returned my master, staring steadily back at Jubei, ‘and elsewhere.’
The atmosphere was becoming rather uncomfortable – for all the surface smiling and general politeness, there seemed already to be some source of underlying tension between the Demon King and my master. So I was relieved when the other guests began arriving – senior castle officials, samurai, and the like. They glanced at my master and whispered among themselves, then knelt with bowed heads, facing in the direction of their lord Jubei.
He gave the usual sort of address for such an occasion, thanking them for their recent hard work and declaring that now was a time to relax, eat and drink. As cruelly taxed as the poorer inhabitants of the region governed by the Demon King undoubtedly were – the farmers and such – still those who enjoyed positions of power and influence, here in this castle, undoubtedly fared very well.