Legends of the Martial Arts Masters (4 page)

 
The Three Sons

Once there was a great sword master. Among his pupils were his three sons. The sons were proud of their father and enjoyed studying with him. They put in long, hard hours mastering his art.

One day an old friend and training partner from the master’s younger years came to visit. He too was known throughout the land as a great sword master. The two men sat together in the master’s front room, drinking tea and telling stories.

“My friend,” said the guest to the master, “I would like very much to meet your three sons and to have them show me how they have progressed in the way of the sword.”

“Certainly,” said the master. “I will call them.”

The master walked to a mantel where several large, heavy vases stood. He took one of the vases from its place and balanced it on top of the door so it would fall when the door opened. He then called the name of one of his sons.

“In a minute, Father,” the son called back from the garden, where he was practicing with his sword. He was in the middle of a difficult move. With a few more tries he would get it right. Five minutes later he looked up from his practice and remembered that his father wanted him. Sheathing his sword, he dashed through the house.

The two men waited in the front room. They saw the knob of the door turn quickly and the door fly open. The vase on top of the door fell and hit the son squarely on top of his head. The son let out a roar and drew his sword. Before the vase even hit the floor, he had sliced through it, shattering it into a hundred pieces. Only then did he see that his “attacker” had been one of his father’s vases. He sheathed his sword, smiled sheepishly, bowed to his father and his guest, and began cleaning up the pieces of the vase.

“He is fast,” the guest said.

“Yes, and strong,” the father replied.

“Do you think that someday he could become adept with a sword?” “Yes,” the father said smiling at his son, motioning for him to sit and join them for tea. “Someday, perhaps.”

The three sat together talking for a few minutes before the father rose, took a second vase from the mantel, and balanced it over the door. He called the name of his second son.

“Yes, Father,” the second son called from the garden, where he had been practicing with a few friends. “Excuse me, guys,” he said, bowing to the students he had been practicing with. Then he sheathed his sword and walked down the hallway to the front room.

The master, the guest, and the first son saw the knob turn and the door open. The vase fell from its place. The second son spun out of the way, his hand on the hilt of his sword and ready to draw. Only then did he see that it was his father’s vase that had fallen. He dove and caught it before it hit the ground. The vase still in his arms, he bowed to his father and his guest. He then walked over to the mantel and replaced the vase exactly where his father always kept it.

“He has very good reflexes,” the guest said.

“Yes, and a good memory. He has developed most of the essential skills,” the father replied.

“Do you think that someday he could become adept with a sword?” “Yes,” the father said smiling at his son, motioning for him sit and join them for tea. “Someday, perhaps.”

The four sat together for a few minutes. Again the father rose, took a vase from the mantel, and placed it atop the door. He called the name of his third son.

His third son was in the garden practicing cuts with his sword. His blade sliced easily through the practice mats he had prepared for the purpose. When he heard his father’s voice, he stopped his practice, carefully wiped his sword, sheathed it, and walked to the front room.

The master, the guest, and the two sons saw the doorknob turn slightly, then pause. For a few seconds there was no movement in the door at all. Then slowly it opened. The third son’s hand appeared over the top. Carefully holding the vase in place, he pivoted gracefully under it into the room. He closed the door without ever having moved the vase.

“You must be proud,” the guest said to the master. The master nodded.

“Well,” said the guest after the five of them had sat and talked for several hours, “I must go.” He motioned to the first son to come to him. The son knelt before him and bowed deeply. “My boy,” the guest said, handing him a fine watch. “Always be aware of where you are at any given time. A person must master his own awareness before mastering any art.”

He then motioned to the second son, who knelt before him and bowed. The guest handed him a fine handmade book. The son paged through it to see that each of the beautifully crafted pages was empty. “My boy,” he said, “a collection of finely honed skills is like a blank book. The pages of your life as a martial artist are now ready for you to write whatever you wish in them. Write well.”

He then motioned to the third son, who knelt before him and bowed. The guest handed him a small piece of jewelry, a simple pin with a small diamond in the center. The guest looked into the son’s eyes as he handed him the pin. The son looked back and smiled with understanding. Neither said a word.

The master walked to the front gate with his guest. The two bowed with a lifetime’s respect for each other. The guest turned and walked out the gate into the city.

T
sukahara Bokuden was
a master of the sword. According to legend, he
was never once defeated in a s
word fight in his life. As a
rich
Japanese nobleman, Bokuden didn’t hold a regular
job, but traveled the countryside looking for
adventure and chances to do good. He also
taught students. One of the things he is remembe
red for is developing the bokken, a wooden
practice sword still used today. The bokken
gave his students the opportunity to practice without getting cut by a live sword.

 
The Style of No Sword

Bokuden learned back against a pile of rice sacks. It was a beautiful, warm, summer day, a perfect day for a boat ride. He looked around at the other passengers on the ferry that was taking him across the lake. A young mother clutched at the belt of her five-year-old as he leaned over the side, dragging his hand in the water. An old woman sat properly upon a keg near the gangplank, her parcels at her feet. In the bow of the boat a scruffy-looking young samurai was talking to an older man.

“Then I cut him down with a single stroke,” the young samurai boasted.

“Why?” asked the old man.

“Because he looked like he wanted to challenge me,” the samurai said. “Nobody challenges me and lives.”

“Um-hum,” said the old man turning to survey the scenery.

“Are you questioning what I’m saying?” the young samurai snapped. “I’m just looking at the scenery,” the old man replied.

“You sound like you’re challenging what I’m saying,” the samurai said, standing.

“Sir,” the old man replied, “I am old. I have no weapons. Even if I didn’t believe you, why would I challenge you? It doesn’t matter to me how good you are. Whether you are the greatest swordsman in the country or just some guy with a blade, you are obviously better than I am. That’s all that matters, and I am quite willing to admit that.”

“Are you mocking me?” the samurai shouted, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’m not just ‘some guy with a blade.’ I am the greatest swordsman in the country.”

“I am,” he said to the young mother, who was watching him with fearful eyes. Then he turned to the old woman. “I am!”

Bokuden cleared his throat loudly. The samurai spun around and for the first time noticed him lying back against the rice sacks. The samurai’s eyes looked Bokuden up and down and came to rest on the two swords Bokuden wore on his belt.

“My name is Tsukahara Bokuden,” Bokuden said, hoping his reputation as a sword master would be enough to quiet the loudmouth.

“Never heard of you,” the young samurai replied. “What style of sword art do you practice?”

“The style of no sword,” Bokuden answered continuing to relax against the sacks. “It’s very popular. I’m sure you as a great swordsman have heard of it.”

“The style of no sword?” the samurai replied. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no such style!”

“Sure there is,” Bokuden said. “It’s the style that says that a swordsman’s skill isn’t measured by how many men he’s killed. A swordsman’s skill is measured by how many fights he can walk away from undefeated.”

The young samurai looked puzzled.

“It may be a bit difficult for you to understand,” Bokuden said. “No matter. All you need to know is that it’s the style that will allow me to put an end to your foolish bragging without ever drawing my sword.”

The young samurai took a step back, almost tripping over the old woman’s parcels. He pulled his sword halfway out of the scabbard.

Bokuden held out a hand. “Not here, my foolish, young adversary,” he said. “We don’t want to injure any of these good people.” He scanned the lake, then called to the rower who was rowing them across. “I hate to inconvenience you sir,” he said, “but could you row us over to that island over there?” Bokuden motioned toward a small rocky island. “If you’ll just pull alongside those rocks, I can take care of this problem quickly. It won’t take long. I promise.” The rower nodded. The young samurai glared.

“Nobody insults me like that and lives to tell about it,” he hissed at Bokuden.

Bokuden smiled back. “Patience,” he said.

The rower pulled alongside a large rock. The young samurai pushed his way past the old woman and scrambled ashore.

“What are you waiting for?” he shouted to Bokuden, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Just a moment,” Bokuden replied. “Remember, mine is the style of no sword.” He pulled first his wakizashi, his short sword, from his belt. He handed in its sheath to the rower, who shifted his oar to his other hand to take it. He then removed his katana, his long sword, and handed that too to the rower. The rower set down his oar and took it.

“Now,” Bokuden said, “watch carefully, and you will see the swiftness and efficiency of the style of no sword.” He picked up the oar and pushed the boat away from the rock where the young samurai stood. He rowed the ferry out a few hundred feet, handed the oar back to the rower, and collected his swords.

Walking back to his rice sacks amidst the ever-fainter shouts of the samurai still on the island, Bokuden thought what a nice day it was for a boat ride.

Y
asutsune “Ankoh” Itosu was an Okina
wan martial artist. He worked as a
secretary to the king of Okinawa and
studied karate under Sokon Matsumura, the head of
the king’s bodyguards. When a new Okinawan
public school system was opened, Itosu suggested th
at karate be taught as a part of
physical education classes. He believed that
young students who study karate learn
not only how to defend themselves b
ut also how to stay healthy and
live peacefully in society.
In 1901, he
became the first teacher to teach karate in
the schools.

Itosu was an averag
e-sized man. He didn’t look like an athlete,
but had a muscular chest and arms and legs that were much stronger than they looked. He w
as known for his ability to take a punch
and for his powerful hands that could
crush a green bamboo stalk.

 
A Bully Changes His Ways

The bully was young and strong the day he picked a fight with Ankoh Itosu. Despite that strength, the fight was the stupidest (and last) street fight of his life.

As bullies often do, Kojo thought he was toughest guy in town. He practiced fighting with a group of young men every evening after work. Each evening they practiced techniques with one another, and then each weekend they went downtown to the waterfront district in Naha, the local port city. There they’d find sailors, dockworkers, and laborers who had come to town for a good time. Some of them would be drinking too much. None of them would need much of a nudge to fight. Kojo and his friends would pick a fight and try out their newest techniques. Sometimes they’d win. Sometimes they’d lose. Each time they’d take what they learned home, work on it to make it more effective, then go back to town the next weekend to try it out again.