Legends of the Martial Arts Masters

by Susan Lynn Peterson

  “Yes, no doubt, no doubt,” Tamo replied. “But if I could find a way for your monks to meditate better and do their work better, would you be interested?”

  “Certainly,” said the abbot, “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll let you know when I have all the details worked out,” Tamo replied.

  The next day out the scriptorium window, the monks saw Tamo on the hill again. This time, however, he was moving around outside the mouth of his cave. The movements were strange, like dance, but not like dance.

  “He looks like a snake,” said one of the monks.

  “Perhaps he has been possessed by the spirit of a snake,” said another. “That’s silly,” said a third, a tall monk who was able to see over the top of the others. “I can see it better than you can. It’s just a dance, a snake dance maybe.”

  “It doesn’t look like a dance to me,” said the first. “It doesn’t have the rhythm of a dance.”

  “Sure it does,” said the tall monk. “It’s you who have no rhythm.” The only thing the monks could agree on was that Tamo’s movement seemed full of life. Something about it—the grace, the energy, maybe the power—drew them in and made them want to be able to do the same thing themselves.

  A few months later, the abbot called the monks together. Tamo had something he wanted to present.

  “It’s called ‘The Eighteen Hands of the Lohan,’” he said. “Another name is ‘Those Who Subdue or Attain Victory over Foes.’ I learned something like it in my youth. My father wanted me to be a soldier, and so I trained in the weaponless combat arts in India.”

  “Wait,” said the abbot. “You didn’t say anything about training my monks to be soldiers.”

  “I have no intention of making them into soldiers,” Tamo replied. “It would be a shame to waste such fine translators and scholars on war, just as it would be a waste of good soldiers to put them behind a desk.” He smiled at the monks, who smiled warily back at him. “The enemy in this case is weakness and sickness. A weak and sick translator cannot do his job. A weak and sick monk cannot stay awake to meditate. To fight weakness, we must grow the chi within you. Let me show you.”

  Tamo stepped out to an open space in the midst of the group. His face grew quiet. Slowly he began to move. His legs became snakes. Then his fingers made a bird’s beak. His hands struck the air fast and hard like the paws of a leopard, then whipped through the air like the wings of a dragon. Right there, in the courtyard of the monastery, Tamo was transformed into animal energy.

  “Do you ever see the animals fall asleep during their work?” Tamo asked. “Have you ever seen a snake coil to strike its prey and then suddenly drift off into a nap?” The monks chuckled. It is because the animals know how to gather, store, and use chi, the energy of the universe. Once you learn the same thing, you too will move with the power of the tiger. You will be able to remain alert while standing motionless like the crane. Come,” he said, “Let me show you.”

  That was hundreds of years ago. Several years after Tamo left the monastery, he traveled all the way to Japan teaching Zen and the Eighteen Hands. His students taught other students, and they in turn taught other students. Soon people all over East Asia were doing the Eighteen Hands. Today, more than fifteen hundred years later, people all over the world still practice martial arts that can be traced back to Tamo.

  Miyamoto Musashi at his death was considered the greatest sword fighter in the history of Japan. He never lost a fight in a contest with another sword fighter. He also authored the Book of Five Rings, a strategy manual still widely read today.

  The Mind Is a Sword

  The young Miyamoto Musashi was a good swordsman, no doubt about that. But on the day he met Seijuro, Musashi was still young and largely untested. Seijuro, on the other hand, was one of the greatest sword masters in the entire country. His reputation as both a teacher and a ruthless fighter had grown in the more than twenty years he had been fighting.

  Musashi, who was only nineteen years old, had issued a challenge and was going to fight him at sunrise.

  As Musashi roamed the town the day before the fight, he went over in his mind everything he knew of Seijuro, his personality, and his strategy. He knew that Seijuro had a fiery temperament and the fast, hard techniques to match it. He easily maimed or killed opponents in the past. Yet Musashi believed he could win. If he could keep his wits about him, he could win.

  Musashi stopped at a noodle shop. Bowing politely to the shopkeeper, he asked for a bowl of soba. Leaning against a narrow counter, he ate the noodles. When he finished, he handed to bowl back to the shopkeeper.

  “Come see me fight,” he said. “I will be fighting Seijuro Sensei tomorrow morning in the field on the north end of town. Come watch. And tell your friends.”

  All afternoon he roamed the village, asking people what they knew about Seijuro, inviting them to the duel. “Come watch me fight Seijuro Sensei,” he said to the innkeeper from whom he purchased an empty sake bottle, “tomorrow morning in the field on the north end of town.” The next morning Musashi rose well before dawn, paid his bill at the inn, and left for the field on the north end of town.

  Seijuro, too, was busy readying himself. At his dojo, accompanied by his students, he checked his equipment. Carefully he inspected his sword, handling the blade with a polishing cloth. In a straight line before him, his students knelt, watching their master’s every move. Seijuro sheathed his sword and tied it carefully to his belt. Bowing to his senior student, Seijuro appointed him “second,” his assistant, the man who would help end his life should he be mortally wounded.

  When all was ready, he turned his attention to his students. “A duel is not a mere matter of fighting,” he said to them. “It is a matter of honor. A true warrior meets an enemy with quiet courage. The way he conducts himself on the field of battle is the measure of his worth as an honorable human being.” With those words, he strode out the door to meet Musashi.

  Seijuro, followed by his second and his students, made his way across the village to the edge of town. The sun had been up for almost an hour. Seijuro figured that it was proper that the young upstart Musashi wait for him. As he rounded a corner and looked out over the field, he saw that a crowd had gathered.

  “Musashi,” he thought disgustedly. “He doesn’t even have the decency to realize that a duel is not a circus.” The crowd cheered Seijuro as he entered their midst. Seijuro raised his chin and tried to ignore them. He looked around. Musashi was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he?” he whispered gruffly to his second, who had arranged the time and place.

  “I don’t know, Sensei,” his second replied. “He said he would be here at sunrise.”

  “Well, I don’t see him. Do you?” Seijuro’s voice rose almost to a shout. His students took a few steps back. They all knew their teacher’s anger far too well.

  People in the crowd began to whisper between themselves. A laugh rose from somewhere near the back. Seijuro’s face was red with anger.

  “I’m not waiting for some young upstart who thinks he can arrive anytime he wants to,” Seijuro bellowed. “He has insulted me by his tardiness.” He turned to leave.

  “Seijuro,” a voice rose from the middle of the crowd. “Seijuro, where have you been? I’ve been here since before sunrise.” A man swaggered forward, elbowing his way through the crowd, tossing aside an empty sake bottle. It was Musashi.

  Seijuro turned to face him. Musashi’s clothes were damp and wrinkled. In his belt was not a katana, but a bokken, a wooden practice sword.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Musashi said, brushing some dry grass from his lapel. I didn’t want to miss the fight, so I slept out here last night.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and grinned. “You ready?” Seijuro’s eyes flared with anger. “You insult me with your dirty clothes and your poor attitude.”

  “Then pe
rhaps you would like to challenge me to a duel,” Musashi replied, still grinning.

  “Back up,” Seijuro ordered the crowd, swinging his arm in a wide arc. “Back up, I said!”

  Musashi moved in close, his hand on the handle of his bokken. His eyes were calm, steady. The noise of the crowd seemed to drop away as Musashi brought his mind to focus on Seijuro and Seijuro alone.

  With a roar Seijuro drew his sword. The anger shot from his eyes. Musashi saw that his plan had worked. Seijuro had let his anger get the best of him. His anger was making him tense, and his tenseness was making him slow. That small decrease in speed would give Musashi the edge he needed. He drew his bokken. Seijuro sliced at him furiously. Musashi slipped the attack and brought his bokken up under the older man’s chin. The wood cracked into his jaw, and the great Seijuro fell to the ground.

  Musashi checked to make sure his opponent would not soon rise. He slid his bokken into his belt and brushed the dust and grass from his clothes. He bowed deeply, bowed politely to Seijuro’s second, and bowed again to his students. He straightened his shoulders and walked with dignity through the crowd.

  According to legend, Hisamori Takenouchi founded the martial art of jujitsu. He was a samurai master of the bokken (wooden sword) and the jo (short staff). Before founding the first known jujitsu school in 1532, he was a soldier, serving a daimyo (lord) in feudal Japan.

  The Gentle Way

  Takenouchi lay on the now-quiet battlefield, drifting in and out of consciousness. All around him wounded soldiers moaned in pain. A dead samurai lay mere inches from his face. Takenouchi’s shoulder throbbed, and his head pounded. Blood streamed down his face.

  He knew that if he stayed on the battlefield much longer he could be killed by wild animals or by treasure hunters picking through the casualties for something of value. He struggled to his feet, fighting the nausea that washed over him in waves. If he could make it to the forest, he could hide in the underbrush. He might even find some moss to stop the bleeding in his shoulder when he removed the arrow sticking out of it.

  Moving carefully around bodies of men and horses, Takenouchi made his way to the edge of the field. Blood and pain clouded his vision. Just a few more feet, and he would be under cover. Just a few more feet.

  Takenouchi awoke. He was lying on a mat covered by warm animal skins. An old man squatted by an open fire, stirring something in a large pot.

  “Where am I?” Takenouchi asked.

  “You’re awake,” said the old man. He stood and went to Takenouchi’s mat in the corner of the room. “How do you feel?”

  “Well enough, considering the injuries,” Takenouchi replied, trying to sit. The room went dark for a moment, and he fell back onto the mat. “Rest,” the old man said. “Your head is healing. Somebody clubbed you pretty hard. And you lost a lot of blood when I removed the arrow from your shoulder. All day yesterday, I thought I was going to lose you.” Takenouchi reached up to where the arrow had been. A thick bandage covered the spot. “You removed it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the old man. “I’ve fought my share of battles. I know a thing or two about treating injuries like yours.” He returned to his pot and spooned a dark liquid into a bowl. “Drink this,” he said. “You need to rebuild your blood.”

  Takenouchi gingerly propped himself up and accepted the bowl. He tasted the dark liquid. It was faintly bitter but warm and comforting.

  “You can call me Sato,” said the old man. “This is my house, and you are welcome to it.”

  “My name is Takenouchi.” He looked around. Sato’s house was tiny, a single room, barely enough space for a couple of sleeping mats and a cooking fire. “Do you live here alone?” he asked. “It’s a long way to the nearest town.”

  “Alone?” the old man said. “Yes, in a way I guess you could say I live here alone.” He took a tattered cape from a hook and wrapped it around his shoulders. “But I like to think that I live with the trees, and the sky, and the animals. And occasionally a visitor like you. I meditate, I do some exercises, and I live off what the forest and my garden provide. It’s a good life.”

  “But you were a soldier, a samurai?”

  “I was,” Sato said. “Until I tired of the killing.” A look crossed the old man’s face, a look Takenouchi had seen on old soldiers before, a look of both strength and deep sadness. Takenouchi’s mind wandered to the battlefield he had just left. He understood how the old man felt.

  Days passed, then weeks. Each day, Takenouchi spent more and more time working in Sato’s garden and walking in the forest that surrounded his house. Gradually his strength returned. The pain in his head eased.

  One day while walking, he found a long, straight oak branch. He cut it down and brought it back to Sato’s cottage. Sitting cross-legged beside the garden, he whittled away the excess until he had a bokken, a wooden practice sword. Carefully, he checked the balance and then smoothed the surface by rubbing it with sand. That night he slept with his weapon beside his mat the way that soldiers usually did.

  The next morning, cautiously at first, Takenouchi began his practice. His shoulder ached, but the ache was an old pain, the pain of a limb that was healing, not the pain of a limb being newly injured. He found an old tree stump and dropped a stroke down onto its center. He had a lot of work to do to build the strength in that arm again. A soldier with a weak side didn’t last long in battle.

  After several weeks of training, Takenouchi’s shoulder was nearly back to normal. His headaches were almost gone, and he decided it was time to go back to work. He approached Sato in his garden.

  “I think the time has come for me to leave,” he said. He felt a lump in his throat. He had grown very fond of the old man.

  “Will you go back to being a soldier?” Sato asked. “It is what I do,” Takenouchi replied.

  “You will go back to killing and possibly being killed yourself?” “It is what a soldier does.”

  “Then may I ask something from you, as a soldier, before you leave?” “Certainly,” Takenouchi said, bowing to his old friend. “Anything. I owe you my life.”

  “Attack me,” said Sato stepping out of the garden. “What do you mean?”

  “Attack me. Try to grab me. As a favor.”

  Takenouchi didn’t understand, but as a favor to Sato, he walked up and tried to grab his arm.

  “No, no,” Sato said, “Attack me.”

  Takenouchi lunged for the man’s throat. But before he could grasp it, he felt his wrist being brushed away. His elbow locked out. His arm cranked over his head. Not sure what happened, Takenouchi picked himself up from the dust.

  “Attack me,” Sato commanded again.

  This time Takenouchi rushed him. Sato could obviously take care of himself. Takenouchi ducked low, thinking to knock the man over. But in midstride, he felt Sato’s foot knock his own feet out from under him. A quick twist of Sato’s hips propelled the young samurai again into the dust. Takenouchi scrambled to his feet and grabbed for his bokken. Sato stood calmly waiting for him. Takenouchi swung the sword, thinking to thump the old man on the head. But Sato was quickly inside the swing, locking up Takenouchi’s arms and stripping the sword from his hands.

  “Are you hurt?” Sato asked.

  “No,” said Takenouchi. “Of course not.”

  “But had you attacked a superior foe like that in battle, would you be hurt?”

  “Hurt, or dead,” replied Takenouchi.

  “But I was able to stop you without hurting you,” Sato pointed out. “Yes.” Takenouchi wasn’t sure what Sato’s point might be.

  “Come, sit,” said the old man walking to the doorway of his cottage. “Let me tell you what I have learned here in the forest these many years. A soldier sees an attack and says, ‘I must kill or be killed.’ I see an attack and I know that I must keep it from hurting me. But whether I choo
se to kill or even hurt my attacker is up to me.”

  Takenouchi sat for a moment, taking in what Sato had said.

  “You don’t have to kill,” Sato said. “If you know how to take your attacker’s center, each time, every time, you can keep yourself safe. Then you can choose to kill or not kill.”

  “Can you teach me?” Takenouchi asked.

  “I was hoping you’d ask,” the old man rose and headed back to his garden. “First, help me bring in enough cabbage for our supper.”

  Gichin Funakoshi is best known as the man who brought Okinawan karate to Japan. The style he founded there has become known as Shotokan karate. Funakoshi was a small man, but physically strong from his karate training and mentally strong from his studies. It is because of those strengths and his remarkable selfcontrol that he was chosen over men much more powerful than he was to bring karate to Japan.

  Great Power, Great Control

  Funakoshi wrestled with the tatami mat he was carrying. The long, narrow straw mat was several inches taller than he was and awkward to carry. When the storm blew against it, the mat bent like a bow. When the wind let up a little or changed direction, the mat sprang straight again, throwing Funakoshi off balance. It was going to be tricky getting the mat onto the roof. Especially tricky given that the rain seemed to be picking up, too.

  “Funakoshi-san,” a neighbor shouted over the howl of the wind. “What are you doing? Are you having trouble with your roof? Is it leaking? Maybe you should just let it leak. It’s not safe to be up patching your roof with a typhoon blowing in.”

  “The roof is fine, Hanasato-san. Thank you for asking,” Funakoshi called back. He laid the tatami flat against the tile of the roof and scrambled the rest of the way up.