He looked at his master, who appeared relaxed, his thoughts far away. Ono remembered one of the few times in his life when he had seen his master truly angry. It was shortly after he had arrived at the school, himself a child. The Itto Ryu was visited by Japan’s legendary swordsman, Miyamoto Musashi. Ono had been supremely disappointed, for this legend had matted hair and wore soiled robes, was unwashed, ungroomed, and left a trail of sour odor everywhere he went. Musashi and Ittosai had sake on this very veranda, while Ono hid under the porch listening. His discovery would have meant at the very least a severe beating, and at worst expulsion, an unthinkable dishonor. Yet he found he could not stay away, risking everything to lie motionless in the dark and the dirt, peeking up through the wooden slats of the veranda at Japan’s greatest hero.
Ono remembered how they had argued. Their discussion was of spiritual matters, none of it comprehensible to the boy, and the debate had grown heated. Ono was fearful that the exchange would come to blows, but just when it seemed violence would erupt, both men simply laughed and continued their argument at a more subdued pace. It wasn’t until years later that Ono had the courage to ask Itto about the hero’s appearance. It turned out Ittosai had known of the boy’s presence under the veranda all along, but had said nothing. He explained that Musashi was so slovenly because his devotion to his art left no time for trivialities such as hygiene. And the fact that Musashi subsequently gave up the sword to pursue a solitary, spiritual life attested to this. That his master could carry on enlightened conversations with such a person said much for Ittosai’s spirit.
I desire one more thing for myself, Ono thought. I desire to serve you, Itto Ittosai. Ono would be forever grateful that the old man had shown him the true path of life. Without being able to put it into conscious thought, he knew he would obey any request, any demand, without hesitation. Ittosai would have slyly pointed out that this was the true embodiment of the perfect samurai.
Ono had seen the Shogun’s emissary too, but it was of small importance to him. Itto either would or would not agree to teach the Shogun’s son. There was no shame in refusing, except perhaps for the Shogun. What made Ono curious was the other visitor to the school. A Buddhist monk had spoken with Itto for most of the day, and this was quickly becoming a regular visit, the holy man showing up several times each month. Ittosai was a spiritual man who spoke often of the need to follow Buddha’s teachings, but the frequency of the visits was unusual. Was Itto thinking of making the monk a regular part of the school? Or perhaps weighing whether or not to use some of his considerable wealth to build a temple?
His musings were broken by Zenki’s voice. “Ono-san, this morning you appeared distressed. Was it the beating?” Typical Zenki, Ono thought. Just couldn’t let it lie.
“Why do you ask?”
Zenki laughed. “Your thoughts are always on your face. You must understand that we are not training farmers here. He was in error, and such an error in combat means death and the dishonor of failing your liege.”
“There is no dishonor in dying in battle,” said Ono.
“If you are killed before your obligation to your lord is fulfilled, there is great shame.”
Ono shook his head. “There is only shame if one does not do his best. That is the center of the matter. Victory, death, they are inconsequential. Certainly victory is more desirable, but it is secondary to the mind and spirit.”
“Very poetic, Ono-san, but not something I would say to my lord before entering battle. And unrealistic in these times. Our master has taught us we must be able to adapt.”
“That is not what he meant,” said Ono, his eyes hard. Both men looked to their sensei for confirmation, but he remained silent, sipping his sake and staring into the cool night.
It was quiet for a long while, and then Itto spoke softly. “You are both honorable men, neh?” An answer would have been impolite, and none was expected. “Neither of you would dishonor me by refusing a gift?”
Both samurai shook their heads. Unthinkable.
Itto nodded, a decision made. He rose slowly, bowed, and bid his senior students a pleasant evening before going into the house. Both men bowed until he left, then sat with their own thoughts, wrestling with a mixture of excitement and confusion. It was one of the things which bound them to the old man, the attraction of peeling away the mystery of his words like the skin of a fruit, working towards the sweetness of the truth beneath.
The night air was growing cold now, and both samurai rose to leave. They said a perfunctory good night to one another, then returned to their homes.
The sun was barely upon the courtyard when Itto walked out onto the veranda. Every student was gathered before him in ranks, kneeling in respect. Zenki and Ono knelt in front of them, closest to the veranda. This was how school began each day, and sometimes Itto would have some small words of inspiration, but more often than not would simply nod and give them over to their teachers for the day’s training. This morning, Itto Ittosai had something to say.
He knelt on a mat and looked out over the young faces, seeing the future before him. The future of his teachings. “I am in my seventieth year,” he began, his voice reaching even to the last rank of students. “I have seen much of the world, have participated in historic events. Yet nothing I have done is as important as what I do now. The time has come for me to leave the world of normal men, to devote the remainder of my life to Buddha. I will join the monks in Kyoto, where I will live out my days serving my master.”
His words were startling, yet none showed it.
“The school I have founded,” he continued, “the Itto Ryu, must be passed to the next generation. It must go into capable hands.” He extended his palms. “Zenki-san, please stand.”
The older samurai stood, flushing with pride.
“And Ono-san,” the old man said, gesturing that the younger man should also stand. Ono did so, slowly, not seeing his fellow sempai’s flush turn from pride to rage.
“My two finest students,” Itto said, “are skilled and capable, spiritual men worthy of being my successor, of leading the Itto Ryu. So it shall be. Only one, however, may be headmaster. The other must not face the humiliation of service to the first. I will not choose between them. Their spirits will decide.”
Itto paused, looking into the eyes of both samurai. “This morning, we three will go to the field which overlooks the sea. There, Zenki-san and Ono-san will face each other with the sword. He who falls will leave this world an honorable man, destined for the mysteries of the next life. He who lives will receive my scroll, which contains the secrets of my teachings. He will receive my sword, which is alive with the souls of over three hundred years of samurai. He will receive the Itto Ryu.”
Zenki, Ono and the rest of the students bowed deeply in unquestioning acceptance of their master’s will. The winds of change were upon them all.
It was just after eleven, and a sea wind blew across the high meadow, scenting the air with the tang of salt. The murmur of waves lapping against rocks far below was in harmony with the buzzing of bees among the wildflowers. It was warm and peaceful. Itto had chosen his spot well.
Zenki and Ono faced each other, six feet between them. Their swords were bared, held low in their right hands with the edges facing up. Neither man moved. Ittosai knelt in the high grass some distance away, his bare head warmed by the sun, his eyes narrowed in meditation. At his side lay his sword, and before him was a simple wooden box containing his scroll.
The two samurai had been this way for over an hour, neither man moving, each watching the eyes of the other. Time unspooled between them, but actual contact was certain to be quick and final.
Zenki wore a loose-fitting cotton kimono, tied at the waist. The wind stirred his baggy skirt and a bee buzzed past his eyes, but he did not stir. His mind was in motion, however. At last he would receive the recognition he truly deserved, for as headmaster he would realize an undreamt-of ambition. Better than Daimyo – those lords would come to him. Now he wou
ld become indispensable to the Tokugawas, sought out for wise counsel, molding the policies and philosophies of the Shogunate just as he molded their sons into samurai. Strengthening Japan. As headmaster he would shape the Itto Ryu into something for the new century.
First, Ono had to die.
Making that happen should not be difficult. Ono, for all his pretending, was spiritually weak, lacking the fire needed to lead the school, to train young samurai for war. Pretty words and poetry was fine, but meant little compared to the need for unstoppable, obedient warriors. Ono lacked confidence and desire, thinking he followed Ittosai’s teaching, but missing the true messages.
Another hour passed without movement, the sun making Zenki uncomfortable under the kimono. Sweat trickled from his forehead into one eye, but he did not blink, did not notice the distraction. Itto’s voice was in his head. Even if one has a strong body but his mind is weak – because he is scared or unsure – then he is weak. If one has a weak body but a strong mind, he is strong. Zenki had both a strong mind and body. He would kill Ono.
Ono wore the same, simple gray kimono he had worn during the daily lessons nearly every day since becoming sempai. Unsure and up against a more experienced swordsman, he was unable to control his thoughts. Visions of his children and his wife came to him, and he struggled to banish them. He had to win, if for no other reason than to keep the school out of Zenki’s hands, to preserve the Itto Ryu. Yet the responsibilities of a headmaster were tremendous, and he knew he was not the man Ittosai was. How could he lead generations down Itto’s path, when he himself did not truly understand the man’s philosophy? And what of the obligation he would have to the Shoguns? Zenki was far more qualified for such duties. His doubts confused him, and for a terrifying moment he was certain they were revealed on his face – just as Zenki said – a clear sign for the other man to strike a blow which Ono could not hope to parry. But the moment passed without a strike, and Ono’s spirit calmed itself a little.
Itto’s voice spoke to him as well. A fox can run very fast to escape. Yet if a dog attacks him and the fox thinks too much about how to escape, he will not. Don’t use too much thinking, as it causes doubt. Ono tried to close his mind to the random thoughts assailing it.
Hours passed, still without a single movement from either man. The sun crossed the sky, heedless to the confrontation below.
For a brief instant, Zenki had the urge to strike, but he resisted the impulse. The passage of time meant nothing, only the outcome. The moment had to be right, and Ittosai had explained when that moment was. If one can find the opponent’s mind and control it, then victory will be easy. Zenki searched for Ono’s state of mind through his eyes for over an hour, but it was in shadow. Instead of further struggle, he sank into himself, concealing his mind in its own shadows.
The pain of standing still, anticipating for hours, was a dull sensation in the background of Ono’s mind. This was not war, full of movement and noise and endless exertion. This would be decided in a single cut, and if it was not timed with absolute precision and executed with perfection, then failure and death would instantly follow the error.
Ono considered the central point in Itto’s philosophy, aiuchi, mutual destruction. It was the acceptance that death was inevitable, and the resolution to strike a killing blow even while receiving one. This was what made Itto Ryu samurai so deadly. It was aiuchi that Ono now pursued, mentally eliminating the weak points in his mind, his fears for the future, thoughts of his family, worry or failure or dishonor, belief that he was strong, even a desire to win. Nothing mattered, only that he strike true regardless of his own death. Finally, the younger samurai slipped into mushin, a state of no-mind, free of emotion and conscious thought, a virtual dead man with every sense aware, yet seeing nothing.
Zenki achieved an identical mental nothingness at the same time, and at that moment, there were no two more dangerous samurai in Japan.
Seven hours had passed since Ittosai led them onto the field, and the sun was setting, a dying orange blossom over a flat yellow sea.
Then the tense of a muscle.
A glimmer of lowering sun on steel.
A flicker of dead eyes.
The lethal blur of two swords in motion, a ring as metal kissed, a soft whisper of parting cloth and parting flesh.
One man remained standing, as motionless as before, his sword now held aloft where it had finished its arc, stained red. There was the slow snap of a wrist to clear the blade of blood, then a respectful bow to the fallen man. The victor approached Ittosai wordlessly and knelt, bowing. The bow was returned, and the master presented his ancient sword and scroll, bowing again. Then the old man rose, breathed deeply, and slowly walked from the field.
The new headmaster secured Itto’s sword in his belt, tucked the box under one arm, and began the long walk home.
Three days later, the students of the Itto Ryu were once more assembled before the veranda, two newly-promoted sempai at the front of the ranks. An honored guest was present, the Shogun’s emissary kneeling beside the new master of the Itto Ryu.
“Honorable Headmaster,” the emissary said, “my lord the Shogun has been informed of the recent events, and he is satisfied. He instructs me to ask if you will be sensei to his eldest son, and honor the House of Tokugawa by teaching him the mysteries of the sword.”
After an appropriate pause, Ono bowed slightly. “I will.”
GIRL ON A PLATFORM
Denny Pellet had the stairway to himself, and his shoes scuffed over the cement steps as he left the street above and descended into a subterranean subway world. It was a place of graffiti-marred tiled walls and advertisements, the echoing voice of a P.A. and a vague odor of urine.
The laptop bag over one shoulder was heavy enough to make him sag slightly to the right as he made his way slowly through the corridors. His brown suit was rumpled from a long work day, and he didn’t move with the frantic briskness of the commuters at earlier hours. There was no need, for it was just before midnight, another sixteen hour day.
As he approached the turnstiles he glanced left to where the musicians usually sat, finding their customary place against the wall vacant. Musicians was a generous term. Vagrants in dreadlocks hammering out beats on overturned, white pickle buckets, coffee cans set out to collect bills and change. But even those guys were smart enough to go back to whatever passed for home this late hour.
A rush of distant air and a squeal of metal on metal announced the arrival of a train pulling in beyond the jail-bar partition. He checked his watch. He’d missed it again, seemed to always miss it, and knew he’d have to wait another ten minutes for the next one. He swiped his MetroCard, pushing against the rotating bar, but it didn’t move. The green digits on the reader reported $0.00. With a sigh, Denny backtracked to the card venders against the wall and used his debit card to get a new pass, looking around carefully before pulling out his wallet to be certain no one was watching. He needn’t have worried. There was only an old black man in a blue MTA jumpsuit pushing a rumbling trash bin, and he paid Denny no mind.
He passed through the turnstiles and reached the platform, the long day pulling down on him like the laptop bag, wanting a shower and shave but knowing he’d be too tired for either by the time he got home. He eyed the two benches against the wall opposite the tracks. One looked sticky, the other was occupied by a snoring lump of stained coat and soiled jeans, hugging a backpack behind which was tucked a bearded face.
Denny decided to stand, thought about leaning against one of the tiled pillars near the tracks, but didn’t want the grime to rub off on his suit, even though it was long overdue for dry-cleaning. Instead he shoved his hands in his pockets, slumped a little further and looked up the black tunnel. He wondered how long it would take before the ghost appeared.
Down the platform to his right stood an older Puerto Rican woman with a long coat buttoned up to the neck. She was gripping the handle of a collapsible shopping cart as if it might suddenly try to get away. Farth
er beyond her, a young man with a shaved head and a Yankee jacket was shaking a cell phone, yelling, “Can you hear me?” and then shaking it some more. The platform on the far side of the cement trench was vacant.
Denny was a practical man. His job as a mid-level facilities manager at the Garden kept him firmly grounded in the realities of maintenance, electrical and HVAC systems and personnel issues, and didn’t leave much room for entertaining fantasies about the supernatural. He didn’t believe in those things, or at least he hadn’t. But when it was right there in front of you, with no other explanation, what else was there to think? He’d been seeing her for weeks now, right at midnight. Work had been keeping him consistently late, and it seemed he never managed to catch the 11:50, so he was always here when she made her appearance. At first he decided it was fatigue from the long days, and to some extent that was right. The routine was starting to get blurry, his ride to and from Queens barely-remembered, the grind of work, the exhaustion at the end of the day. It was making him clumsy and distracted, and tonight he had almost stepped off the curb in front of a racing cab. Wouldn’t that be a stupid way to buy it, he thought? Living and working in the city his entire life, developing the necessary alertness and survival skills, then getting smashed like a stray tourist looking up at the tall buildings.
Fatigue wasn’t the answer, though. Every night he dragged himself down those steps from the street, his laptop just a bit heavier than the evening before, and every night he saw her on the platform down to the left, right where the tunnel emerged from the wall. She wore tattered jeans tucked into black boots, a leather jacket and a messenger bag across her chest, decorated with silver studs in the shape of a skull. She had a lot of piercings, and her jet black hair hung in her eyes. She looked about twenty, and Denny could tell she was very pretty behind all the Goth. Actually, he thought she was beautiful.
In The Falling Light Page 15
