The Initiate Brother Duology (4 page)

The instructor moved slowly and with perfect grace before the rows of pupils. They had come to the end of the sixth closure now and most of the students were faltering, though an untrained eye would never have been aware of this. Shuyun was in the second row, conspicuous for his small size and for his confidence. The boy’s movements were precise and flowing, executed without hesitation.

Sotura-sum had not exaggerated. The senior Neophyte’s form made the more advanced students look clumsy; indeed, he rivaled the instructor in his control. The Supreme Master watched, fascinated by the spectacle.

“Never before have I seen such a sight,” he whispered. “Who could this child have been?”

Beyond the courtyard wall, of white plaster and wood, he could see Sister Morima being escorted down to the waiting ship. She moved with a light step for one so large of frame. The woman was far more clever than he had given her credit for. He would have to be more careful in the future—far more careful.

He had no intention of letting her, or anyone else, see the scrolls. Not now, not in a hundred years. The matter was no longer within his control. He felt his body slump, ever so slightly, and he fought this sign of resignation. How could this have happened? he wondered for the ten thousandth time. Every precaution had been taken. Every precaution! But it didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered. The scrolls were gone. Stolen from under the sleepless eye of the Sacred Guard of Jinjoh Monastery.

*   *   *

The twenty junior Initiates, including one senior Neophyte, came to the end of the seventh closure and stopped, absolutely motionless, in the ready position. The senior chi quan instructor stood looking at the students before him, all of them barefoot and stripped to the waist. When none of them wavered in their stance, he nodded, satisfied.

“Take a partner,” he said quietly. “We will spar.”

The boys broke into pairs and resumed the ready position.

“Shuyun-sum,” the instructor beckoned. “You have never sparred?”

“No, Brother Sotura, senior Neophytes only push-hands.”

The instructor seemed to consider for a moment. “You will learn soon enough. Today we will both watch. Begin!”

Sotura walked among the combatants, stopping to watch each pair. The sparring started slowly, following the stylized movements of the form and then gained momentum until all movements became a blur, as each student sought a point of resistance against which he could push or to which he could deliver a blow.

Shuyun began to stretch his time sense, practicing chi ten to allow him to analyze the sparring as it increased in speed. The motions of the combatants became fluid and endless, each movement leading into the next without hesitation.

Brother Sotura held up his hands suddenly. “Cease!” he ordered, and walked to a position in front of the class. The silence was perfect.

“I see that some of you still believe that you can gain an advantage by using bone and muscle. Perhaps you secretly wish to be kick boxers?

“To move within the form is not enough. You must become insubstantial. No one can kick the wind. No one can push water. It is of no value to make even the most perfect soft-fist if, at the moment of impact, you tighten the muscles. Chi is the source of all of your strength—direct it into your hand as it is needed. Remember that you hold a caterpillar in your curled fist. Its hairs tickle your palm.” The monk paused as a tiny, blue butterfly drifted by and settled on Shuyun’s shoulder. The instructor smiled. “I will demonstrate.”

He took a step forward and reached out to Shuyun, gently removing the butterfly from his shoulder. Closing his hand over the insect, the instructor moved to the wooden gate that led into a walled garden. Pausing for a split second to take a stance, the monk suddenly drove his hand through one of the gate’s thick planks, which splintered and broke with a loud
crack.
Pivoting gracefully, Brother Sotura held his hand out to the class—a perfect soft-fist—and then released the butterfly, unharmed, into the air. All of the class knelt and touched their heads to the stones.

“That will be enough for now. Go and meditate upon chi. Try to become a breeze so soft that even a butterfly would be unable to perch on your will.”

Shuyun opened the gate with its broken board and went into the large garden beyond, a garden known for its many paths and private bowers overlooking the island and the sea. He found a nook formed by flowering rhododendrons and settled cross-legged onto a flat stone. For a moment he contemplated the display of his chi quan instructor—basking in the perfection of it.

The boy, Shuyun, had emerged from his Seclusion that morning and felt both a vast sense of freedom and at the same time a loss of freedom like none other he had known. Perhaps at no other time in his life would Shuyun have the opportunity to spend so much time totally alone. The Supreme Master had been right; six months could be a lifetime. A lifetime alone to meditate upon the Word of the Perfect Master.

The routine of his Seclusion had been relentless. Rise with the sun and practice chi quan on the pattern set into the floor of his one-room house. At midday he took his only meal and was allowed to meditate or compose poetry in the enclosed garden. Then came an afternoon of chi ten. Sitting within the Septima, concentrating all his being upon the Fifth Concurrence where the sand glass sat. Then, again in the afternoon, chi quan practiced before his wall-shadow until dark, followed by meditation on the Seven Paths. He was allowed three hours’ sleep before sunrise.

Each afternoon Shuyun had sat, as he was sitting now, on the pattern and practiced the discipline of chi ten. Controlling his breathing, feeling chi drop to his
Ooma,
the center of being, he had reached
out
with his chi, sending it into the lines of power in the pattern. And each day the sand ran more slowly in the glass as Shuyun learned to alter his subjective time.

The ability to alter one’s perception of time was not unknown beyond the walls of Jinjoh Monastery. The kick boxers could do it, to a degree, and some of the best tumblers and dancers spoke of it. Shuyun wondered if perhaps everyone experienced the stretching of time in brief moments of complete concentration. But only the Botahist Orders had discovered the keys to its mastery: chi quan and chi ten, the disciplines of movement and meditation represented in the pattern of the Septima, the Form which taught perfection of motion and total concentration.

“Entering the mind through the body,” Lord Botahara had called this. Shuyun was beginning to understand. It was as though he had finally begun to do that which he had only understood before in words.

Sitting on the rock overlooking the sea, Shuyun felt chi drop and he began
to push it out from his body, imagining that it rushed out into the infinite space around him to slow all motion.

A leaf fell from a ginkyo tree and spiraled endlessly downward. Anxiety touched the young monk and he felt his focus waver, but the leaf kept falling ever so slowly and Shuyun’s confidence returned. He was able to concentrate on the play of sunlight on the planes of the leaf’s surface as it fell against the background depths of a blue sky. Finally it touched the surface of a small pond and sent ripples out in perfect circles. Shuyun counted the tiny waves and named each one after a flower as it died at the pond’s edge. A poem came to him:

Shuyun released a long breath. Relief swept through him and it felt like an endless, powerful wave. Twice during his Seclusion he had lost control, or so he thought. Twice his altered time sense had seemed to distort and he had found himself somewhere…somewhere he could not describe. And when he had returned to the usual perception of time, it was with a crash which he knew indicated loss of all control. His teacher had never warned him of this and the young monk felt a strong fear that he was failing to learn what he must learn to become a senior of his Order.

He had intended to speak of this with senior Brother Sotura but did not, deciding it would be better to wait. And he felt now that he was gaining control. There had been no reoccurrence of this strange experience in several months.

A memory of the time before his Seclusion came to him: kneeling before his teacher, listening.

“You must always move within the pattern, you must even breathe within the pattern. Chi will strengthen in you, but you must never try to become its master. Offer it no resistance, only allow its flow. Chi can never be controlled. You can only make your will synonymous with it.”

If his master had not said this, Shuyun would not have believed it possible. But now that his Seclusion was complete, he began to understand. He also began to see the wisdom of his teachers.

I must meditate upon chi, Shuyun thought. I must become a breeze so soft that even a butterfly cannot push against me.

After a timeless time a bell rang and Shuyun brought himself out of his meditation. He rose and walked calmly through the garden. It was time to bathe in the hot spring and then partake of the evening meal.

He paused at the gate to look again at the splintered board and his earlier joy at his teacher’s demonstration became complete. The shattered board had been replaced and into the new board a monk had carefully cut a hole the shape and size of a butterfly. From his position, Shuyun could see the blue sky through this hole. With a last look, the young Neophyte hurried off. All the senior Neophytes would want to hear about the butterfly-punch which he alone among them had seen.

*   *   *

Brother Sotura, chi quan master of Jinjoh Monastery, mounted a stairway which ended in a hall leading to the Supreme Master’s rooms. He had bathed and changed into clean clothes, taking time to compose himself before meeting with the head of his Order. The instructor knew of the nun’s visit and was concerned.

He tapped lightly on the shoji of the Supreme Master’s study and waited.

“Please enter,” came the warm voice Brother Sotura was expecting. He slid the screen aside, knelt, and touched his forehead to the grass mats. The Supreme Master sat at his writing table, brush in hand. He nodded, as his rank required, and then began to clean his brush.

“Come in, my old friend, and sit with me. I have need of your counsel.”

“You honor me, Supreme Master, but I fear that in the matters you consider, my counsel will be of little value.”

“Take a cushion and dispense with this fear. I need you. That is that. Do you desire food?”

“Thank you, but I have eaten.”

“Cha, then?” He reached for the ivory hammer.

“Please, cha would be most welcome.”

The gong sounded and immediately there were footsteps in the hall.

“Please open,” the Supreme Master said before the knock came. “Cha for Sotura-sum and me. And please, see that we are not disturbed.” The boy bowed and slid the screen closed without a sound.

“Well, Sotura-sum, I had a most interesting visit this afternoon with the old cow.” He paused and smiled, then shook his head. “She very nearly
extracted a promise from me that certain members of her Order would be allowed to be present at our next examination of the scrolls.”

The chi quan master remained silent.

“Very nearly but not quite. I told her I must confer with the senior members of my Order, which is what I am doing now.”

Brother Sotura shifted uncomfortably. “It seems they will plague us until they have seen the hand of Botahara. I hesitate to suggest this, Supreme Master, but under the circumstances it may be wise to satisfy this curiosity. We have in our possession very ancient scrolls, perfect copies in fact. There are none living but perhaps four members of our own Order who could possibly know they are not real. I realize this is hardly an honorable path, but…” He shrugged.

“Honor is a luxury we may not be able to afford at this time, Brother.” The Supreme Master looked down at his hands, examining them as though they were mysteriously changed. “We dare not raise suspicions about the scrolls…not now. I will consider your counsel, Brother, I thank you.”

The server approached, though he had barely had time to go to the small kitchen and return. The Supreme Master cocked an eyebrow at the other monk.

“They have begun to anticipate me. Have I become old and predictable? That would be a danger. Do not answer, I shall meditate upon this.”

The cha was served, its bitter-sweet aroma filling the room.

“Do you still think it is possible that the Sisters have the scrolls, or did your visit with Morima-sum do away with that path?”

“I can’t say. Sister Morima may not be party to such knowledge. But if she is, and came here only to blow smoke in our eyes, she did admirably. I believe that she did indeed come to try again to gain access to the scrolls—but of course, one can never be sure. Sister Morima is an accomplished actress and no fool.”

“So, we have not eliminated a single possibility?”

The Supreme Master nodded and sipped his cha.

“Did Brother Hutto’s report offer anything?”

The old monk shook his head. “Robbers have begun to accost members of our Order on the highways of Wa. He recommends a
display
to curb this. Another Initiate has disappeared—Brother Hutto suggests that he is a victim of robbers. I can’t believe it! The new Emperor has consolidated his power almost entirely, with one curious lapse—he has allowed the old Shonto and his family to live.”

“How is this?” Brother Sotura rocked back on his cushion. “He cuts his own throat! What deal could those two possibly make? Shonto is absolutely loyal to the old Imperial line.”

“Yes, but the Hanama line is no more. It is true that there are others with a claim to the Throne at least equal to Lord Yamaku’s, but they failed to join against the Yamaku until it was too late. There is no help for them now. The old Shonto was betrayed and captured during a battle he may well have won. Lord Yamaku, or should I say Akantsu the First, Emperor of Wa, allowed him an honorable death—the two old foxes had fought side by side in the past. Lord Shonto composed his death poem, and when the Emperor heard it he relented and lifted his sentence on Shonto and his family!”