The fall leaves crackled under Mas’s feet as he made his way to his punching rock. The path was familiar to him. Each day for a year and a half, he had made his way to the same spot. At first he had punched his hands into wet sand, then pebbles. Then he found a fallen log and used that for a few months. The skin on his knuckles and palm had hardened and calloused. The nerves had died. And Mas’s hands, when formed into fists, had come to look like heavy clubs.
Tucking his hair behind his ears, Mas knelt before the smooth flat rock. He liked to think that if he looked hard enough, he could see the indentations where his fists had pounded over and over into the surface. Breathing, relaxing, he began striking the rock. Steadily he punched. Harder. Harder. Harder. Crackle. Mas stopped. In the center of the rock, a small crack had formed. Mas took a deep breath and punched. His fist broke the surface, and the rock split into two even pieces.
Standing, Mas made his way back along the path. He stopped at the clearing, tied his hair back in a ponytail, gathered his pack, and started down the mountain.
Mas and his friends stood on the edge of the ring, watching two fighters compete. The first All-Japan Karate Tournament looked as though it was going to be a resounding success. Karateka from all over Japan awaited their turn to compete. Mas ran his hand over his head. He had kept the long hair and had just oiled it and pulled it back for the tournament. His friends joked that it made him look like one of the old samurai. He figured he’d cut it soon. But somehow it just didn’t seem time yet.
As Mas waited for his turn, he watched some of the most skillful karateka he’d ever seen. He was not the only one in the auditorium who was in good shape. He hoped his training would be enough.
From the front table, Mas heard his name being called. He reported to the front table and learned which ring he was to fight in. He reported to the ring and began his warm-up.
The official strode into the ring. Standing opposite his opponent, Mas bowed, and on signal took a fighting stance. The other fighter did so as well. Mas saw the hole in his defense immediately. Seizing the opportunity, he faked high, then punched hard to the man’s solar plexus. The man sagged, and Mas caught his chin with an uppercut. The fight was over mere seconds after it had started.
Mas’s friends crowded around him, slapping him on the back. “I think I blinked,” Mas said.
“What?” a friend asked.
“I think I blinked, when I threw the uppercut, I might have had my eyes closed for a second. I shouldn’t have closed my eyes.”
“Who cares?” the friend said, slapping him on the back again. “It was a great uppercut. It was an incredible fight.”
The crowd gathered around the mat where Mas was scheduled to fight his last fight. None of the opponents he had fought had lasted longer than a couple of minutes. Word had spread through the arena that a strong twenty-four-year-old fighter was defeating every opponent he fought. The ring where the final fight was to be held was surrounded by people eight or ten deep.
Mas stepped into the ring. He bowed to his opponent. He bowed to the referee. He took his fighting stance, and again immediately saw the opening. His opponent’s defense was weak. He could blast right through it. When the man moved to attack, Mas hooked over his arm and punched him solidly in the chest. The man staggered back. Mas followed. His opponent tried to get his guard back up, but Mas punched through it, around it, past it, landing several short sharp blows to the man’s ribs. The power knocked him over. On the floor, clutching his ribs, he tried to stand, but grimaced at the pain. The referee called the fight and declared Mas the winner.
“I think my concentration could have been better,” Mas said to his friend later outside the arena.
“I don’t see how,” the friend answered. “It looked great to me.”
“The focus was there,” Mas said. “It was a good fight. I’m glad I won. All I’m saying it that I think I could have done better. There was something I should have learned out there on the mountain that I don’t think I’ve gotten yet.”
“Mas,” his friend replied. “Stop worrying about it. Don’t you understand that after this tournament, you’ll have people from all over the country wanting to study with you? Even if it wasn’t a perfect fight, it was still the best one at the tournament. You are the best fighter in the country.”
“Maybe so,” Mas replied.
“Definitely so,” his friend replied. “Now, we have some celebrating to do. You’re going to meet us at the restaurant in an hour, right?”
“Right,” agreed Mas, running his fingers through his hair. “I’ll meet you there. I have a few things to take care of first.”
A small crowd gathered at the restaurant. Mas’s friends were telling stories of how they had trained for their black belts together. Now and then they would shoot a glance at the door, wondering where Mas was. It wasn’t like him to be late.
It was nearly nine o’clock when he finally came through the door. He sat down at the table and removed his cap.
“I like the haircut, Mas,” a friend said. “It makes you look like an egg. You’re going up the mountain again?”
Mas nodded. “One more time.”
Chatan Yara grew up in the village of Chatan in Okinawa in the late eighteenth century. When he was a boy, his parents began considering what would be a good career for him. Because he was large for his age and strong, they sent him to China to learn martial arts. He lived there for twenty years, studying withWong Chung-Yoh. When he returned to Okinawa he made his living as a Chinese translator, teaching martial arts in the evenings.
Though Yara studied bo and broadsword in China, when he returned to Okinawa, he began practicing with sai, the short-handled trident. Soon he achieved a reputation for being one of the finest sai artists in the country.
The Bright Young Man
Yara returned from his daily walk. In front of his house stood a young man holding a pair of sai. The young man’s shoulders and chest were broad, and he was a good three inches taller than Yara, whom most people considered huge.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the young man called to Yara. “Are you Chatan Yara?”
“I am,” Yara replied.
“I am Shiroma,” the young man said bowing deeply. “I am from the island of Hama Higa.”
Yara glanced at the young man’s sai. They were beautifully crafted, as were all the sai made on Hama Higa. But they were badly banged and rusted in places. Shiroma had obviously been using them much more than he had been caring for them. “What brings you to my home, Shiroma?” Yara asked.
“I am looking for a teacher,” Shiroma replied. “I have heard you are one of the best. I am already a very capable sai fighter. Most of the teachers I’ve talked to couldn’t teach me much. So I’ve come to you.”
Yara smiled. The young man reminded him of himself when he was that age. He was strong, sure of himself, perhaps a little too sure of himself. He might make a good student, but Yara had no time for new
students. His translating work and the students he already had kept him constantly busy.
“I’m sorry,” Yara replied. “I only take students who have been referred to me.”
“What kind of referral do I need? Perhaps I can get it.”
“Please don’t bother yourself,” Yara replied. “I’m not taking new students at this time. Good afternoon.”Yara turned to unlatch his front gate. “Wait a minute!” the young man shouted, then realized he was shouting. “Pardon me,” he said more quietly. “I haven’t come all this way just to be told that you aren’t taking students. Let me prove that I’m as good as I say I am.”
“I’m not taking new students, even ‘good’ ones,” Yara said patiently. “Then why don’t you prove to me how good you are?” The young man’s eyes locked onto Yara’s. Yara looked into them, and saw the challenge there. Perhaps this young buck needed at least a
lesson in manners. “All right,” Yara said. “I will fight you. Meet me just before sunset on the top the hill just outside town.”
The young man bowed again. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I have been working on sai technique and strategy all my life. I think you will find me a good challenge.”
That evening, Yara walked slowly and steadily up the path to the top of the hill. He was typically able to spar with his young students without actually hurting them. His skill and size allowed him to dominate the fight, and his students rarely received more than bruises and sprains at his hands. But it would be difficult to fight someone as strong as Shiroma without seriously hurting him. Yara knew all too well how much damage a sai could cause. He hoped he wouldn’t have to maim Shiroma to humble him.
When Yara crested the top of the hill, Shiroma was waiting for him. The beads of sweat on Shiroma’s brow said that he had been practicing and warming up.
“Hello,” Shiroma called. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Yara squinted into the sun to see Shiroma coming toward him. “Would you like some time to warm up?” Shiroma asked.
Yara shielded his eyes with his free hand. “No,” he said. “I’m quite warm from the climb.” He pulled his sai from their carrying bag, and took out a cloth to wipe the oil from them. His master had always taught him to respect and care for his weapons. He checked the surface and grip of his sai, then put away the cloth.
“Are you ready?” Shiroma asked. Yara nodded. The two bowed formally to each other. Shiroma transferred a sai to his left hand and flipped both blades open. Yara also transferred one sai, but kept his closed, the blades tight against his arms for blocking. The two circled, sizing each other up.
Gradually, Shiroma worked his way around Yara, positioning himself so the sun was at his back and in Yara’s eyes. Yara quickly sidestepped, clearing his view. It was a time-honored strategy that Shiroma was using—take advantage of the sun to blind your attacker momentarily, then strike before his vision clears. Yara himself might have used such a strategy at that age. Shiroma faked high and tried to punch low, but Yara slipped the attack. Shiroma was punching hard, with all his muscles tight. Yara would have to block him hard, perhaps even break his arm just to stay safe.
Again Shiroma began circling. The strategy had worked for him in the past. He hoped it would work again. Yara squinted as the sun came into his field of vision. Shiroma smiled and shifted slightly so the sun was directly at his back. He saw Yara blink and took the opportunity to attack. Suddenly, everything went bright. A powerful flash filled his vision. Instinctively, he pulled his attack and tried to move backward out of range. But it was two late. He felt the cool point of Yara’s sai at his throat.
“Enough,” Shiroma said, blinking to clear his vision. “You win.”Yara took a couple of steps back and bowed.
“What happened?” Shiroma asked.
Yara held up a sai. It caught the light of the setting sun. Yara directed the reflection first onto Shiroma’s chest, then up into his eyes.
Shiroma bowed. “I’ll be leaving now.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Yara replied. “Thank you for the fight.” “Thank you for the lesson,” Shiroma said. “I see I still have a few things to learn.”
In Japan, the tea ceremony, called the cha no yu, is an ancient tradition. To perform the tea ceremony well, one must be completely focused and aware but completely relaxed. Each movement is done with beauty but also simplicity of movement. In that way, the cha no yu is much like the martial arts. As in the martial arts, if people want to learn the tea ceremony, they go to a tea master. The tea master teaches not only the techniques of serving tea, but the art and self-control needed to perform the ceremony with poise and focus.
A Tea Master Faces Death
A tea master, carrying a tray of cups and powdered tea, was walking down the street one day. Suddenly, out of a nearby noodle shop, an angry samurai burst into the street. The tea master was startled and jumped back. But the samurai, who wasn’t watching where he was going, ran right into him. The tea master’s tray overturned. The cups fell to the ground, and the powdered tea spilled all over the samurai’s sleeve.
“Watch where you’re going,” the samurai growled.
“My apologies, sir,” the tea master replied, quickly trying to brush the green powder from the samurai’s sleeve.
“Stay away from me,” said the samurai, pulling his sleeve away. The tea master quickly withdrew his hand, but bumped the samurai’s katana handle in the process.
“You touched my sword!” The samurai’s eyes blazed with anger. “My apologies, sir.” The tea master bowed his head.
“You touched my sword! If you wanted to offend me, why didn’t you just slap my face? That would be less of an insult than bumping my sword.”
“But sir,” said the tea master, “I didn’t mean to touch your sword. It was an accident. The whole thing was just an unfortunate accident. I beg you to forgive me.”
“It’s too late for that now,” the samurai replied. “My name is Genji.
I challenge you to a duel. Tomorrow evening. I will meet you in front of my home. Bring a sword.”
The samurai and his retainer swaggered off. The tea master stooped to pick up his cups with shaking hands. He did not even own a sword.
The tea master returned home to clean his cups and refill the tea box. Then he headed out again to the home of his student for that day. When he arrived late, his student, a wealthy nobleman, asked him where he had been. The tea master described his encounter with the samurai.
“You say his name was Genji?” the nobleman asked. “Yes,” said the tea master.
“And you will fight him?” the nobleman asked. “I suppose I must,” replied the tea master.
“Then you will die,” said the nobleman, a look of sadness on his face. “Genji is a powerful fighter and not known for his mercy. If you fight him, he will kill you.”
“Then we had better get on with your lesson,” said the tea master. “It appears you will not get another one from me.”
That evening, the tea master stopped by the shop of his friend the sword maker. The two old friends sat together sipping sake like they had so many evening before.
“What’s troubling you, my friend?” asked the sword maker. “I need to buy one of your swords,” said the tea master.
The sword maker smiled. “My friend,” he said, “you could not afford one of my swords. Besides, since when do you need a sword?”
“Since this morning,” said the tea master, taking another sip of his sake. He explained the situation to his friend who listened, barely breathing. “So you see,” said the tea master, “I need a sword. I know it’s a lot to ask but perhaps I could borrow one from you. I will ask Genji’s retainers to make sure you get it back after the duel.”
The sword maker was silent for a long time. The finality of his friend’s words hung in the air between them.
“If you must die,” the sword maker finally said, “why would you want to die as a poor sword fighter? If you must die, why don’t you die as you have lived, as one of the greatest tea masters alive today?”
The tea master thought about this for a while. Then he rose, patted his friend on the shoulder, and without a word walked out into the night.
With a growing resolution in his heart, he walked across town to Genji’s house. At the gate he met one of Genji’s retainers.
“Would you give your lord a message for me?” he said. “Please tell him that I will meet him tomorrow evening here in front of his home for our duel. But please ask him if he will meet me tomorrow afternoon in my teahouse. I wish to give him a final gift.”
The next morning the tea master rose early to prepare for the samurai’s arrival. He swept the path and tended the garden outside his teahouse. He carefully cleaned the table and utens
ils, and arranged a simple but elegant flower arrangement. Then he mindfully brushed his best kimono and put it on. With everything in place, he went to his front gate to await the samurai’s arrival.
Around mid afternoon, the samurai and two retainers arrived. The tea master bowed to them.
“I’m so glad you could come,” he said.
“My retainer tells me you wish to offer me a present” the samurai said, a mocking smile on his face. “Could you be offering me a bribe to spare your life?”
“No, of course not, sir,” the tea master replied. “I would never think to insult you in such a way.” He led the samurai to the door of the teahouse and motioned to a bench in the garden where the retainers could wait.
“Then if it’s not to offer me a bribe, have you dragged me here to beg me to spare your life?”
“No,” said the tea master. “I understand that your honor must be satisfied. All I ask is that you allow my last act to be an honorable one as well.” He entered the teahouse and motioned for his guest to sit. “I am a tea master. The tea ceremony is not only what I do, but who I am. All I ask is that you allow me to perform it one last time for you.”
The samurai didn’t completely understand, but he kneeled and nodded to the tea master to begin.
Together they sat in the quiet simplicity of the teahouse. The rustle of the leaves on the trees outside was the only sound. The tea master opened his tea box, and the pungent smell of the green powder mingled with the smell of the flowers on the shelf.
Quietly, purposefully, the tea master scooped a small amount of tea into a cup. With a small ladle, he dipped hot water from a pot and poured it onto the tea. The samurai watched, caught up in the quiet intensity of the tea master’s movements.
Legends of the Martial Arts Masters Page 8