Legends of the Martial Arts Masters (2 page)

S
okon Matsumura
was one of Okinawa’s greatest
martial artists. When he was a child, he
studied Te, an Okinawan martial art.
His
Te teacher, Tode Sakugawa, noticed his
courage and gave him the nic
kname Bushi, which means “warrior.” As
an adult Matsumura served the king of Okinawa by leading both the a
rmy and the king’s personal bodyguards. He developed the Shur
i-te style of karate to help him train the king
’s soldiers. Matsumura served the king of Okinawa so well that after
many years, the king formally
changed Matsumura’s name to Bushi in rec
ognition of his courage and service.

 
The General Fights a Bull

“Isn’t he magnificent?” King Sho asked Matsumura. “He’s too aggressive for most bull fights. He’s already killed several other bulls in the arena.”

Before them in a pen of the royal stables, a huge bull pawed at the ground. Its shoulder muscles, which were almost at Matsumura’s eye level, strained as the powerful animal thrashed its head.

“Yes, your highness,” Matsumura answered. “He is a magnificent beast.” “You will kill him,” the king responded.

Matsumura was silent. He looked at the animal, the huge pointed horns, the massive head. The power. The majesty.

“Your highness?” he said, “I’m not sure what you are asking from me.”

“At the festival tomorrow,” the king said. “In the ring, at the festival. You will kill him with your bare hands. Everyone will see that the commander of my bodyguards, the great Matsumura, is the most powerful man in the land.”

“Sir, I have never used my Te against an animal before. It’s a defensive art, your majesty, not for slaughtering animals. Could I not serve you in another way?”

The king shot him a look of anger. “You presume to tell me how you should serve me? I bought this bull for you. I bought this bull to honor your skills as a martial artist before the festival. You will fight the bull. Do you understand?”

“Your Majesty . . .” Matsumura began.

“You will fight the bull, and you will win, or I will throw you into prison. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I will fight the bull.”

After sunset, Matsumura sat alone at the edge of the palace courtyard. He thought of the bull. It was a beautiful animal, strong and powerful. It would not be easy to break its neck, but he could do it. He could do it, but he did not want to.

“Use your Te only in defense,” his teacher had taught him. “Use it to defend yourself, your family, your king, and your country. Use it to defend the defenseless innocent, but never provoke a fight. Never use your art simply to show off.”

Killing a bull seemed like showing off to him. But he didn’t want to go to prison. He began to walk the grounds. Perhaps the king would change his mind. No, that wasn’t likely.

Matsumura walked through the garden, his mind on his problem. Absentmindedly he dragged his hand through the flower vines at the edge of the path. He felt their soft petals brush his fingers as he walked and thought. Suddenly a piercing pain shot through his hand. He jumped back. Out of his finger stuck a one-inch thorn from one of the king’s Chinese flower bushes overhanging the path. Gingerly, Matsumura pulled the thorn from his finger. He tasted blood on his throbbing finger as he sucked the wound. It was amazing something so small could cause so much pain. Suddenly he had an idea. He dashed across the garden to the stables.

Pausing for a moment to straighten his uniform, he stepped through the stable door.

The workers jumped to their feet, surprised to see the captain of the guard, the great Matsumura in the stables.

“I am the keeper of the stables,” an older man said, as he stepped forward. “How may I serve you, sir?”

“Take me to the bull,” Matsumura commanded. “I must look my adversary in the eye, learn his ways, if I am to fight him.”

“Certainly, Lord Matsumura,” the stable keeper motioned to a pen in the back of the stables. “After you, sir.”

Matsumura walked to the pen, his eyes locked on the bull. “Tie him,” he commanded. “Tie him so he cannot move.”

“Yes, sir.” The stable keeper scrambled for two lengths of rope. One at a time, he looped them over the animal’s head and tied them securely to the solid wood beams of the pen.

“Now leave,” Matsumura commanded. “All of you leave.” The stable hands scrambled to the doors.

Matsumura climbed into the pen. The bull strained against the ropes. “The ropes don’t seem very strong,” Matsumura thought to himself. “If he breaks free, he’ll trap me against the rails of the pen.” The fear rose inside him, gripped his stomach like a hand, and twisted. Matsumura took a deep breath and faced the bull, faced his fear.

“The king says I must defeat you. But you are not my enemy.” He reached up to his topknot, the tight bundle of hair he wore on top of his head. He pulled out a hairpin, and tested its point on his finger next to the thorn mark. A second tiny dot of blood rose. Matsumura had heard of martial arts masters who could kill with a hairpin. He hoped to save a life with one.

He assumed a sturdy fighting stance in front of the bull. The bull watched him curiously. “Forgive me, my friend,” Matsumura said. Then from deep within his center, he let out a bloodcurdling shout, known as a kiai, and like lightning pricked the bull’s nose with his hairpin.

The bull bellowed and strained against the ropes, his eyes wild. He thrashed his head tried to reach Matsumura with his horns. Matsumura watched the ropes. They held. Barely. Matsumura waited as calmly as he could. Eventually, the animal quieted. Again Matsumura let out a powerful kiai and again pricked the animal lightly with his pin. Again the bull struggled and tried to charge. Again Matsumura waited for the animal to stop struggling. Again, and again, and again—kiai, prick, kiai, prick. Several minutes later he walked out of the stables into the cool night air.

The next day at the festival, Matsumura, head of the king’s bodyguards, walked around the edges of the arena. He checked the guards at the entrances, and posted an extra two in the back of the arena to watch for troublemakers. With his experienced eye, he scanned the crowd for anyone who might want to do the king harm. He saw none. The people of Okinawa were in a party mood. Colorful banners decorated the arena, and the smell of spicy roasted fish and other foods filled the air. These festivals were one of the high points of the year. The people loved the horseback-riding demonstrations, the fights, and the chance to eat and celebrate.

Matsumura made his way to the king’s seat. He checked with the guards. All was well. As Matsumura turned to leave, the king noticed him and waved him over. Matsumura bowed deeply. Still munching the pear he had been snacking on, the king said, “I assume you are ready to meet the bull?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Matsumura replied.

“I knew you would be,” the king said, choosing a bunch of grapes from a bowl. “You have never disappointed me yet.”

“I hope this won’t be the first time,” Matsumura thought to himself as he bowed and left the box. Disappointing a king was not good for one’s health.

Matsumura heard his name called. He strode to the center of the arena amidst the cheers of the crowd. He felt the fear inside him rise. He took a deep breath and nudged the fear to the back of his mind. He wanted to meet the bull with his emotions and mind clear. He heard several dull thuds as the bull in its pen banged the rails with its shoulders. Matsumura watched it and wondered if his plan would work. If it didn’t, he would be fighting for his life in a matter of moments.

He nodded to the stable keeper, who untied the rope holding the gate closed. The bull threw his weight against it and it popped open with a force that made the crowd gasp. Matsumura took a fighting stance. The bull spotted him and began moving forward. Matsumura waited. The bull picked up his speed to a trot. Matsumura waited. The bull bore down, almost upon him.

Quickly Matsumura shifted to let the bull pass. As he did, he shouted. Matsumura’s kiai rang through the air like a shock wave. The crowd fell silent. The bull spun to look at Matsumura. For a moment time stood still. The crowd held its breath. The bull and Matsumura stood looking deep into each other’s eyes. Matsumura kiaied again. A look of recognition crossed the bull’s face. He turned and bolted for the far side of the arena. Matsumura followed. He kiaied. Again the bull ran. Matsumura gave chase. The crowd broke into cheers. “Bushi! Bushi! Bushi!” they cried. “Warrior, warrior, warrior!”

The king finally stood. He raised a hand, and the crowd gradually fell silent.

“Matsumura,” he shouted. “Come stand before me.”

Matsumura backed away from the bull as the stable keeper and his assistants stepped out with ropes and prods to bring the animal back to his pen. He strode to the far side of the arena where the king stood and bowed deeply.

“Matsumura,” the king said, “your power is great. Even the most powerful bull in the land does not dare do battle with you. From this day forward you will be known as ‘Bushi Matsumura.’ For you are indeed a great warrior.”

S
umo is a tr
aditional style of Japanese wrestling. Huge men,
some of them weighing as much as 450 pounds,
enter a packed-clay ring covered b
y a large roof that looks like a
Shinto shrine. The ring is known as a
dohyo, the wrestlers as rikishi. From a
crouching position, the rikishi, wearing nothing but
silk loincloths, crash into each other. To win
the match, one of them has to tip the
other over or push
him out of the rin
g.

 
The Great Wave

Onami stood across from his opponent in the dohyo, the sumo ring. He estimated the opponent to be a good seventy-five pounds lighter than he. Size didn’t guarantee him a victory, but it would certainly help. Onami looked into his opponent’s eyes. They were cool, steady. Onami hoped his looked just as steady, but he doubted it. There was something about wrestling in a ring before a huge, cheering crowd that made him nervous.

Onami took a wide straddle stance, slowly rocked up on one foot, then dropped the other with a force he hoped would make the ground shake. Across the ring, his opponent was doing the same. Stamping the ground this way drove out any evil that may be lurking in the ring. Onami hoped it would also shake loose some of the growing fear rumbling in his belly. He picked up a handful of salt from a basket in the corner and scattered it in the ring, saying a quick prayer for safety. Then he moved to his side of the ring and squatted, arms stretched wide. The gyoji in charge of the match signaled with the colorful fan he held in his hand. The two wrestlers moved to the center and crouched, their knuckles in the sand that covered the clay ring.

Onami knew he had to win this match. He hadn’t had a victory in a long time, a fact that caused him great shame among the wrestlers of his stable. “I can’t lose this match,” he told himself. “I can’t lose. I have to win.” His opponent charged, interrupting Onami’s inner pep talk. Onami charged back. Quickly, almost automatically, he reached for the band around his opponent’s waist. He felt it in his hand, but then his fingers slipped as his opponent shifted his weight. “I have to move,” he thought as he felt his opponent’s leg hook behind his own. He shifted ever so slightly, and that was all his opponent needed. Onami felt his feet go out from under him. A huge cheer went up for his opponent as Onami hit the hard clay of the ring.

“I don’t know what the problem is,” Onami said to his friend Takagawa the next day at practice. “I do fine here at the school. But when I get into the ring, I can be dumped by rikishi half my size.”

“All you can do is keep working,” his friend said. “It’s only a bad case of jitters. If you practice hard enough, it’s bound to go away sooner or later.”

“I thought so, too,” Onami said. “But that was over twenty losses ago. If I don’t get a win soon, the Master is going to dismiss me from the stable.”

“That kind of thinking is going to get you into trouble,” Takagawa replied. “You can’t do anything about yesterday or tomorrow. Let’s just practice today.”

The two friends squared off in the ring. Onami charged and easily pushed his friend from the circle. Other students climbed into the ring with him, and he pushed them out as well. Finally Onami’s teacher stepped into the ring. Onami bowed low in respect. But when the opportunity presented itself, he twisted his teacher off balance and dumped him on the ground.

“Why can’t I wrestle this well in the ring?” Onami muttered to himself as he returned to his room after practice. “Why can I defeat anyone, including my teacher, in training, but the moment I step into the ring, I can be defeated by any beginner who steps in with me?”