Legends of the Martial Arts Masters (13 page)

Taking a small whisk in one hand and the cup in the other, the tea master stirred the tea until it foamed. Then bowing with complete calmness of spirit, he handed the cup to the samurai.

The samurai drank. When he handed the cup back, the tea master’s hands were completely steady, the look in his eyes utterly relaxed but aware.

“Thank you,” said the tea master after the two had risen to leave. “I will go with you now to your home for our duel.”

“Perhaps that won’t be necessary,” said the samurai. “I have never seen a man so calm and self-possessed before a duel. Today even I was excited and fearful, though I am sure I could kill you. But you were not only calm, you brought a calmness to me as well.”

The tea master looked into the samurai’s eyes, smiled, and bowed. The samurai returned the bow even more deeply.

“Master,” the samurai said. “I cannot kill a man like you. The only thing I could honorably do to a man like you is to ask him to teach me. Will you instruct me in the ways of the tea ceremony?”

“Of course,” said the tea master. “I will meet you in front of your home tomorrow at sunset.”

G
ogenYama
guchi was the founder of the Goju-ryu style of
karate. His nickname, “The Cat” refer
red not only to his long mane of
hai
r, but to the way he was a
ble to fight with the power and instincts of
the big cats. DuringWorld W
ar II, Yamaguchi worked for the Japanese
government, which sent him into China on
a special mission. While there, he was captured and
put into a labor camp.

 
The Cat

Yamaguchi was not like the other prisoners. He kept to himself. He did his work without complaining, was respectful to the guards, and did everything he was told. But when he had finished his work for the day, rather than spending time with the other prisoners, he would retreat to his cell. There he would stand motionless and begin to breathe. The guards and other prisoners would gradually gather at the window of his cell. What they saw inside was not a prisoner, beaten down and tired, but the face of a powerful, ancient warrior.

He began the kata he performed every day. The muscles of his arms tightened like thick ropes as he pulled them across the front of his chest. His legs were like the gnarled roots of a tree grabbing powerfully at the ground. His breath came from his mouth in a low, powerful “hhwoooh” that sent shivers up the spines of everyone in the cell block. And on his face was a look of total fierceness and perfect concentration.

The guards hated Yamaguchi. Maintaining order in a labor camp where the prisoners outnumbered the guards twenty to one was not easy. It involved the efficient use of force and terror. A frightened prisoner was easy to handle. And Yamaguchi seemed never to be frightened. That is why one day the commander of the prison camp gave the order, “Break him.”

The guards knew their job well. They had broken many other prisoners before. They began by depriving Yamaguchi of his sleep. Every ten minutes all night long they would walk by his cell and wake him up. But each day, Yamaguchi would work like a man fully rested. And each evening he would return to his cell and do kata.

It’s the kata, the guards decided. If they could deprive him of his evening exercise, they would be able to break him. So they put him in the solitary confinement box. The box was small, barely tall enough for Yamaguchi to sit upright, too short to lie down, and so narrow that when he sat cross-legged his knees touched both sides. The guards handed in brown bread and water twice a day, but mostly they just let Yamaguchi sit.

In the box Yamaguchi sat quietly. He closed his eyes, stilled his breathing, watched it come into his body through his nose and leave his body through his mouth. He emptied his mind of thought, of pain, of anxiety and emotion. For hours each day he sat and meditated. When he wasn’t meditating, he would sleep. Or he would do breathing and energy exercises. At all hours of the day and night, the guards would hear Yamaguchi’s powerful “hhwoooh” filling the compound.

After several weeks, they let him out. Two guards stood ready to carry him back to his cell. Prisoners who had been in the box were always too stiff and weak to walk. But when they opened the door of the box, Yamaguchi crawled out under his own power, stood, bowed to the guards, and walked back to his cell. His color was good. And except for a little stiffness in his walk, he looked strong.

“He’s a strong man,” the guards said to each other. “But even a strong man can be broken.”That night they draggedYamaguchi from his cell and beat him. Though any normal man would have broken at their hands, Yamaguchi didn’t even cry out in pain. His face was still, like the surface of a calm lake. His breathing was deep and regular. The look in his eyes was far away. When the guards finished, they had to bring him out of some kind of trancelike state to get him to walk back to his cell.

The beating went on for days. But each time, Yamaguchi would retreat inside himself, leaving the blows to fall on a hollow shell. Finally, the guards decided the beatings were not working. Sleep deprivation hadn’t worked. The solitary box hadn’t worked. The man was a warrior like they had never seen before. Perhaps they would be able to use that fact.

Several days after the beatings stopped, a truck rolled into the labor camp. On it was a large cage. In the cage was a tiger. A dozen guards unloaded the cage from the truck and placed it in the center of the compound.

The commander came out of his office to inspect the beast. The tiger was huge, full grown, not young, but certainly not too old to dispose of a puny human being. The commandant ordered that the tiger not be given anything to eat for the next three days. After that, the whole camp would watch as Yamaguchi became the tiger’s breakfast.

The tiger paced his cage, clearly in a bad mood. The prisoners stood in tight lines along one side of the compound. The guards brought Yamaguchi out of his cell.

“Strip him,” the commander ordered. The guards removed all Yamaguchi’s clothes.

It was the perfect plan. If Yamaguchi wanted to avoid the pain of being ripped to shreds, he would have to enter a trance. But if he entered a trance, he wouldn’t be facing death like a warrior. Either way, the other prisoners would see that any man, even a man likeYamaguchi, could be broken.

Two guards prodded the tiger with sticks, backing it into the rear of its cage. Another guard undid the latch and opened the door. The guards on either side of Yamaguchi made ready to shove him through the door. But Yamaguchi shook loose from their grip, straightened his shoulders, and walked through the door of the cage on his own.

The look on Yamaguchi’s face was the same intense concentration and fierceness as he displayed so many times before in his katas. He stood before the tiger without a sign of fear. For a moment, the tiger froze. Was it afraid?

The tiger pounced. Yamaguchi sidestepped and tapped the tiger square on the nose with a kick. The tiger shook his head and sneezed, giving Yamaguchi the split second he needed to get around the side. He landed an elbow on the tiger’s ear, then climbed onto its back. The tiger twisted its body, trying to sink its teeth into the man who clung to its back like a tick. ButYamaguchi held tight, gripping the tiger’s back with his knees, squeezing the tiger’s throat tight against his forearm. The tiger’s eyes went wild with alarm. It threw its head back and swiped at the air with its claws, but Yamaguchi stuck to it like a second skin.

Gradually, the tiger’s movements became less sharp. Then its eyes glazed over, and it sunk like an empty sack to the floor of the cage. Yamaguchi clung to it still, waiting, listening. Finally he let go, climbed off the tiger’s back, and stood.

A guard moved to unlatch the cage. Yamaguchi turned to look at him. The guard looked deep into the warrior’s eyes and spun on his heel and ran. Yamaguchi turned to scan the crowd of prisoners. As his eyes fell upon them, they moved back in fear. In his eyes they could still see the fight, the energy, the power. The guards ordered everyone back to their cells while six of them removed Yamaguchi at gunpoint from the unconscious tiger’s cage.

Less than a week later, a truck drove into the compound. The Japanese government had arranged for a prisoner exchange. Yamaguchi was going home. As the guards escorted him onto the truck and watched it drive out of the compound, they knew that they had met one of the rarest creatures on earth, a man who could not be broken.

T
hough tae kwon do
is a relatively modern martial
art, the roots of Korean martial arts
extend hundreds of years into the past. The
old-style Korean martial art was called T
aekyon. Duk Ki Song was one of the last people
to study Taekyon. But through his student,
Han Il Dong, elements of the ancient Korean way
of fighting were passed to Hong Hi Choi, the “
father of modern tae kwon do.”

 
How Loyalty Saved Korean Martial Arts

“Taekyon is dead,” Hue Lim sighed. He was in one of his dark moods. “Children think it’s just a game to play at youth festivals. Thugs learn just enough to beat on their victims. But nobody practices the true art anymore.”

“We do, master,” Duk replied quietly. “You and I do.”

“Yes,” his teacher replied. “You and I do. But sometimes I feel like we’re the only ones.”

“But so long as we do, the art will continue to live, right?”

Duk’s teacher looked into his young face. His new student was thirteen and eager to learn. But more than that he had an aptitude for the martial arts that was rare. Hue Lim nodded his head.

“You’re right. So long as one person is willing to teach, and another person is willing to learn, Taekyon isn’t dead yet.”

“Are the rumors true?” Duk asked his teacher. “A boy at school said the Japanese are going to outlaw all martial arts in Korea.”

“It’s true,” Hue Lim said.

“But they can’t do that,” Duk complained. “I haven’t learned the advanced kicks yet.”

Hue Lim smiled at his student. In the last two years, Duk had become a very capable young student. At fifteen years old, he was almost as tall as his teacher. Hue Lim knew that with Duk’s focus and selfdiscipline he could be a great Taekyon artist.

“Do you really think the Japanese government cares about your ability to kick?” Hue Lim replied.

“No,” Duk replied. He hung his head. “But can’t we do something? Can’t you keep teaching me secretly? We could practice at night.”

“And if the police come by and look over the fence, they will see us. Or hear us. Or someone will tell them. And they will come and lock us up.” Hue Lim looked his student in the eye. “I can’t do that to you,” he said. “I can’t do something that would put you in jail.”

“I’m not afraid to go to jail,” Duk protested. “I’m willing to take the risk.”

“Duk,” Hue Lim replied. “I am your teacher. It’s my choice.”

“I’m sorry, teacher,” Duk said quietly. “Of course that is your choice. I’m sorry. But if you stop teaching, and I stop learning, then Taekyon really will be dead, won’t it?”

Hue Lim did not reply. He sighed deeply. “Go home, Duk. There is nothing we can do.”

Duk turned to leave, tears in his eyes.

Now and then, Hue Lim and Duk would meet. Hue Lim would show his student a few moves from a Korean Youth Festival game. Duk recognized the moves as Taekyon in disguise. He practiced them every day. Sometimes he would even find a quiet place where no one could see him, and he would throw punches and kicks until he could hardly stand. He would take out his anger against the ban on a sack filled with sand, honing his technique in secret. But he knew that without a teacher, his skill would never fully develop. He longed for the day when he could study Taekyon in the open again.