Legends of the Martial Arts Masters

by Susan Lynn Peterson

  “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.

  Tsukahara Bokuden was a master of the sword. According to legend, he was never once defeated in a sword 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 remembered 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.

  Yasutsune “Ankoh” Itosu was an Okinawan 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 that 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 but 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 average-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 was 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.

  The first time Kojo saw Ankoh Itosu was one of those weekends. He and his friends had gone down to the waterfront to meet a ship that had just come in. An old man was standing on the dock talking to one of the sailors.

  “If you want a challenge, try him,” Kojo’s friend said to him, pointing to the old man.

  “Why?” Kojo asked. “He doesn’t look so tough to me.” “That’s Itosu,” his friend said.

  “Itosu the karate master?” Kojo could hardly believe his ears. The man had a long gray beard and deep wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. He was at least thirty years older than the oldest of Kojo’s gang, and he was several inches shorter and several pounds lighter than Kojo himself. “He doesn’t look so tough,” Kojo said.

  “Try him,” the friend said, a dare in his eyes.

  “It would be good for bragging rights,” Kojo thought, for at that time he was still thinking like a bully. “I could say that I beat the great Ankoh Itosu. Even if I couldn’t beat him, if I could just get one good punch in on him, it would make me respected, admired among my friends.” The bully watched Itosu point to a nearby restaurant and bow to the person he had been talking to.

  “Wait over there,” Kojo said to his friends, motioning to a spot across the street. “Watch closely. You may learn something.” They grinned and trotted off.

  The bully figured that his best bet was to catch Itosu by surprise. He walked quietly around the corner of the restaurant, flattened himself against the front of the building, waited for Itosu to come around to the entrance. Soon he heard footsteps on the gravel. Itosu was going to walk right past Kojo’s corner. Kojo rubbed his knuckles and smiled to himself.

  Itosu rounded the corner. Without warning, the bully sprang out from the shadows. With a loud cry, he wound up and threw his best punch. Itosu’s head snapped around as he saw the punch coming. But rather than block he just let out a noise that sounded a little like “Ummph.” The bully had his full weight behind the punch and landed it on Itosu’s ribs just in front of his left arm. It landed hard, but simply bounced off. With a movement so quick he didn’t even see it, Itosu grabbed the bully’s punching hand and tucked it under his left arm. The pain shot up the bully’s arm like a lightning bolt.

  “And who might you be?” Itosu asked.

  “I’m—I’m Kojo,” the bully replied, gasping for breath against the pain. “Actually, Kojiro. My friends call me Kojo.” His friends. Where were his friends? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them across the street watching everything. They made no move to come to Kojo’s rescue.

  “Well, Kojo,” Itosu said, “why don’t you join me? I think we have a few things to talk about.”

  Kojo was in no position to say no. Itosu had his arm tucked under his. He tweaked the wrist every now and then just to let the young man know who was in charge. Yet most of the persuasion came from his grip. Kojo felt like his hand was in a vise. It throbbed to the beat of his pulse.

  The two of them, Itosu and the bully, walked into the restaurant like that, to all appearances two good friends walking arm in arm. Itosu pulled up two chairs with his other hand, and they sat, the bully’s hand still in the vise. His fingers were going numb.

  “So, Kojo,” Itosu said as the server brought sake and two cups, “do I know you? Why is it you felt that you needed to attack me?” He sipped his sake casually with his unoccupied arm.

  “Well, sir,” Kojo said, “it was a dare. My friends dared me. And I thought . . .” He paused. Given a few moments to reflect, he wasn’t really sure what he had been thinking.

  “I see,” Itosu replied. “Your friends were the young men I saw across the street?”

  He’d seen them! It was pretty clear that Itosu didn’t miss much. “Yes,” Kojo said. “Sometimes we come into town, go down to the docks or to the restaurant district. We, um, we fight, sir. We practice our karate.” Kojo suddenly realized how silly that sounded.

  “I see,” Itosu said. He tweaked Kojo’s wrist again as he reached to refill his sake cup. The pain streaked from the wrist up through the elbow to the shoulder. “And what does your karate teacher say about this?”

  “Well,” Kojo said through gritted teeth, “We don’t really have one.” “Ah,” Itosu said with a big smile. “So that’s the problem.” He released Kojo’s arm. The young man rubbed his hand trying to erase the dents Itosu’s finger had made. The hand throbbed and prickled as the blood returned to the fingers. Itosu filled a sake cup and pushed it toward his companion. “What you need is a teacher. You will study with me.”

  “Sir?” Kojo replied. “Study with you, sir?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Itosu finished his second cup of sake and pushed it and the pitcher away. “We need to work on your speed and your kiai. Your punch isn’t too bad, but you’ll have to relearn your hip movement to make it stronger. And of course, you’ll have to stop fighting down by the docks.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kojo said.

  “And you will have to stop trying to frighten old men.” Itosu grinned at the young man gingerly grasping a sake cup with his reddened hand. “You never know,” Itosu said, “when you do that sort of thing, someone could get hurt.”

  The story of Mu-lan comes from a poem written in northern China in the sixth century. It is probably not a true story. But it has been told over and over again for fourteen centuries because it reflects a courage and a devotion to family that inspires people no matter their time or place. Filmmakers in China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and the United States have all made movies about this remarkable young woman.

  The Ballad of Mu-lan

  Mu-lan was fifteen years old. She lived in a China that expected her to marry, to raise a family, and to care for her parents in their old age. It most certainly did not expect her become a soldier and march off to war. In fact, waging war would have been the last thing Mu-lan herself expected to do with her life—until the day the soldiers arrived.

  It was a quiet afternoon, and Mu-lan was weaving in the front room when the soldiers arrived with draft posters. Quietly, she left her work to look out the door and watch them trot into the yard atop their powerful horses. Her father stepped out into the courtyard to meet them. One of the soldiers handed him a rolled up scroll, a draft poster.

  “Your family,” the leader announced, “will be required to provide one man for the Khan’s army. The fight against the invaders in the north has grown much worse. We must have soldiers to repel them, or our homes will be overrun.”

  “I understand,” her father said. “Yet I have only three children, two girls who are seventeen and fifteen, and a son who is six years old. I would consider it an h
onor to serve the Khan myself, but I am no longer young, and my health is failing. I doubt I could serve well.”

  “That is not my concern,” the soldier said. “And it shouldn’t be yours either. Your duty is not to question the Khan’s orders. Your duty is simply to obey. Within three days, you must send a member of your family to the army camp near the Yellow River. When he has left, tack this poster to your front gate. It will tell us that you have done your duty.”

  “Of course,” Mu-lan’s father said. “It will be an honor to serve.” The soldiers wheeled their horses around and headed down the road to the next house. Mu-lan’s father turned slowly, clutching the poster in his hand. From her hiding place just inside the front door, Mu-lan could see his face. It was the color of ashes.

  All that night Mu-lan tossed and turned, sleeping fitfully, seeing her father’s ashen face in her dreams. When she awoke the next morning, she knew what she had to do. Her father was not well enough to join the army. He would not last even a month of riding hard, sleeping on the ground, eating the poor rations of a soldier. If she wanted to save her father’s life, she would have to go to war herself.

  So that morning, Mu-lan got up and put on her best clothes. Her mother, sister, and brother were outside feeding the animals. Her father was sitting on the front step staring into space. Quietly she lifted the floorboard under which Father kept his money. She pulled out the small sack and counted out a few coins. Gathering up some of her weaving, she told Mother she was going to go to the market to sell it.

  Mu-lan went to the East Market and sold the weaving. A man there was selling a horse, a beautiful, spirited chestnut mare. She was the perfect horse, but Mu-lan knew if she went to purchase her, the man would wonder why a young girl was buying a horse. Mu-lan wandered the market until she found one of the draft-age boys who had come up from the camp. She hired him to purchase the horse for her. The boy was suspicious too, but he didn’t turn down the pocket money she offered for his services.