Jade Palace Vendetta (12 page)

A
fter a breakfast of miso soup and rice, Kaze went back into Kamakura. During his previous day’s visit, he had asked about the forge of Kannemori, the swordsmith, and learned that it was in the hills in the opposite direction from Hishigawa’s villa.

Kaze had met Kannemori during his first visit to Kamakura with his Sensei. Kaze was impressed by the Sensei’s respect and affection for Kannemori, which had prompted Kaze to refer to Kannemori as a Sensei, in this case meaning a master of his craft instead of a teacher.

Kannemori’s forge was tucked into a small valley high above Kamakura. The narrow mountain path to the forge gave Kaze an ideal opportunity to make sure he wasn’t being followed by the assassins of the previous night. He had not yet decided why these assassins had been hired, but he knew that once he discovered why they were hired, he would know who had hired them.

Before Kaze saw the forge, he heard it. A rhythmic
clang-clang-clang-clang
sound of hammers striking hot metal drifted up from the valley.

During his first visit, Kaze had been allowed to witness part of the forging process for a katana. This was a rare honor, because each
swordsmith jealously guarded the way he formed a sword, sometimes by drastic means.

Kaze knew the story of the master swordsmith Masamune, who had once been tempering a blade in the presence of another swordsmith. This involved taking the heated blade and plunging it into a vat of water. The blade was usually heated to a degree that matched the color of the moon when it started its nightly journey in June or July. The water was described as the temperature of water in February or August. In fact, blades were often dated February or August, regardless of the month they were actually manufactured.

Masamune’s blades were of such superior quality that other smiths were convinced that he had some secret in their manufacture that he was hiding. The visiting smith surreptitiously stuck his hand into the water to see the exact temperature Masamune used when tempering his blades. Without hesitation, Masamune took the red-hot blade, still unfinished and held with pincers, and used it to strike off the offending hand of the visiting swordsmith.

Mindful of this and similar stories, the young Kaze kept his hands carefully in his lap as he sat silently next to the Sensei, watching Kannemori Sensei work on a blade.

Some blades were mass-produced for common soldiers and samurai, but Kannemori’s blades were made for samurai who treasured fine swords. It could take weeks or even months to finish a particular blade, and many craftsmen became involved before the sword was completed. A special artisan created and fitted the tsuba, the sword guard. Another created the
tsuka
, or hilt, a complex assembly of wood, ray skin, pommel and hilt decorations, and silk, leather, or cotton tapes and cords. Another artisan created and custom-fitted the
saya
, or scabbard, to each individual blade.

At the heart of all this effort was the blade itself, the creation of the swordsmith and an object heavy with mystical, religious, and practical significance. The sword was one of the great symbols of Shinto, and the religious significance of the blade was marked by the ritual the smith went through before working on the sword.

As the young Kaze watched, Kannemori sat on a mat in his fundoshi and poured a bucket of water over himself in a ritual act of purification. Assisted by his
sakite
, his aides, Kannemori donned ceremonial dress, including a small, black lacquered hat that was tied under his chin with cord. He then prayed to the shrine shelf, dedicated to the God of the forge, which occupied a corner of his workshop.

His spirit in the proper mode, Kannemori then commenced to work on the sword, first heating bits of iron on a metal spatula. The iron was repeatedly heated and pounded until it fused into one piece, with Kannemori’s assistants handling the heavy metal mallets as the master manipulated the iron using pincers. When the metal was one piece of the proper consistency, the process of folding and refolding the hot metal began. Care was taken to assure that no air or impurities were between the layers of metal, because this weakened the final product. Over and over again the metal was heated, folded, and pounded together, forming layer upon layer of fused steel. It was hard for Kaze to sit through this repetitious process, but he drew strength from the presence of the Sensei, who seemed to have an inexhaustible wellspring of patience.

The entire sword could not be constructed in one day, but Kannemori showed Kaze the grooved block of copper he used to correct the curvature of the blade, as well as the special files he used to shape it. He also showed Kaze the clay used to cover the blade before tempering. To Kaze, the clay looked like any clay, but Kannemori rubbed a bit between his fingers and even placed a tiny bit on his tongue to taste it, pronouncing it exceptionally suitable for the exacting work of sword creation.

Kaze marveled at the degree of subtlety in touch, sight, sensitivity, and even taste that the swordsmith must develop to help him properly gauge all the materials used in his art.

Now, two decades later, Kaze had not been invited to watch Kannemori at work, so he knew to hang back and not approach the forge while he was working. A master might be willing to reveal secrets to a
young boy that he would keep hidden from a grown man. Kaze found a convenient tree limb and sat on it, balancing himself in the lotus position. He thought about the secrets of a master and the last long conversation he had had with his Sensei.

Kaze had been with his Sensei for several years, training hard and trying earnestly to learn. One day his Sensei said to him, “Have you heard that a master keeps one secret, one important secret, away from his pupils?”

“Yes, Sensei, I have.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

Kaze thought a moment. “I suppose it might be, or how could a master stay superior to his student?”

Sensei sighed. “What do you think is the supreme joy for a true master?” he asked.

Kaze shook his head. “I don’t know, Sensei.”

“The supreme joy for a true master is to have a pupil who surpasses him, so a true master would not withhold an important secret from a pupil. What do you think would be the effect of doing this? If a master did withhold a key secret from each generation of pupils?”

“Then I suppose, over time, that school of swordsmanship would get weaker and weaker as each succeeding generation of pupils knew less and less of the true essence of the art of the sword.”

“Precisely,” the Sensei said. “But now I think it is time for me to tell you the final secret in the art of the sword and, indeed, in the art of life.”

“What is that, Sensei?” Kaze said eagerly.

“The secret is, there is no secret.”

Kaze looked puzzled.

“The final secret is that after you’ve learned all the techniques, there is still something else that will make a difference. That thing will allow a pupil to excel beyond his master, and it is something within the pupil.”

“What is that thing, Sensei?”

The Sensei smiled. It was one of the rare times that Kaze had seen the Sensei smile.

“That’s the secret that is not a secret. I don’t know what it is. It is some quality within yourself that may allow you to surpass me in some way and in some dimension. Now you have been with me several years. Despite your stupidity and slowness, you have learned the techniques of my school of the sword. In fact, you are now at the point where you are very close to being a novice.”

Kaze was confused. He knew he had made progress with the sword. “Why do you compare me with a novice?” Kaze asked, slightly hurt.

“Because being close to a novice is being close to perfection in the use of a sword.”

“What do you mean by that, Sensei?”

“When you were totally without knowledge of the sword and you picked it up, you might not have even been holding it in the proper grip. But if someone attacked you, you would instinctively parry their thrusts and try to use the sword to defend yourself. You would do this even if you knew no technique and had not been initiated into the secrets of the sword. In this, you would be using the sword in a Zen manner.

“Zen says there must be no space between thought and action. A space so much as to allow a hair is not desirable. It is the same with a flint and steel. When the flint strikes the steel, there is no hesitation before the production of the spark. The same is true in the use of the sword. When you are a complete novice, there is no thought or hesitation in how you instinctively use the weapon.

“As you start learning the technique of the sword, you start practicing. At first you are very clumsy and have a hard time putting together combinations of moves so that you can both defend yourself and then attack your opponent. As your skill with the sword increases, you become increasingly confident in your abilities, and you no longer have to think about each of the movements, so they can be executed smoothly and correctly in turn.

“Eventually you can get to the point where you no longer have to think about technique at all. You are simply imbued with a sense of Zen so that you are instinctively on the alert at all times, in the state of mind we call
zanshin
. When you are attacked, you parry and defend and eventually attack your opponent without thinking about which technique you use or hesitating between each movement.

“In other words, when you have achieved mastery of the sword, you are using the sword much like a total novice uses a sword, based truly on instinct and not based on conscious thought of one move with the sword or the next. That’s why, when I say you are close to being a novice with the sword, it is, in fact, high praise. It means you’ve come the full circle from someone very inexperienced to someone whose mastery of the weapon now rivals mine.”

“But Sensei, how can I achieve this last step? This use of something inside me to gain more skills?”

“Perhaps you can’t achieve this step. Most people go through all their lives without understanding what is inside themselves—that core, that essence that makes them themselves. Some few achieve this consciousness late in life, as their years of study and meditation bear fruit. You had something from the first time I met you that let me know that you had an inner core wtih great possibilities.”

“But Sensei, you’re always criticizing me!”

“Yes. I am. And those criticisms are always true. But that doesn’t mean that the greatness is not still inside you. It simply means that my expectation for you is merely perfection. When you’re not achieving perfection, that’s when I’m criticizing.

“Let me explain to you the final secret of the
Yagyu
school of fencing. After a student has mastered all its secrets, he is told one final secret and asked to meditate on its meaning. The student is asked the meaning of ‘the moon in the water.’ Do you know its meaning?”

“That the moon is so lofty that we can only capture a watery image of it here on Earth?”

The Sensei shook his head and sighed. “Perhaps I was wrong about your progress. That answer is neither Zen nor accurate.”

Kaze thought furiously and said, “It means that it is the nature of water to reflect the image of the moon, just as it is the nature of the moon to be reflected. All bodies of water have this ability to reflect in their nature, from the great sea to a lowly mud puddle. Yet the water has no conscious desire to reflect the moon. It is simply inherent in every body of water. By the same token, the moon has no desire to be reflected by countless bodies of water, it is simply inherent in its nature, too. Thus it is with men. Some are destined to be reflected, and others have it in their nature to reflect.”

The Sensei nodded. “You always surprise me, which is why you are my favorite pupil. A teacher is always happy to be pleasantly surprised by a student. That is the proper answer and, if you were a Yagyu student, you would receive a fancy piece of paper attesting to your skill and the completion of your training. As my student, you will receive no such paper. Instead, your life will be the testament of the training you have received from me. It’s time to leave me and return to your parents.”

“But, Sensei!” Kaze protested. “I still have so much to learn from you! Surely my training could not be finished.”

“
Baka!
Fool! I don’t know why I’ve bothered with you all these years. You are so exasperating!
Urusai!
”

Kaze cringed but was determined to stand his ground. He didn’t want to leave the Sensei.

More kindly, the Sensei said, “There is really no more I can teach you. It is time for you to teach yourself. Your life with me was just a temporary dream, just as all of life is an ephemeral moment. It’s now time for you to leave this dreamlike existence and return to your life and your karma. You must go down from our mountain retreat and enter the world of men and women again. You’re still young, and it is time for you to see what kind of man you will become.”

Kaze was heartbroken and thought of a thousand stratagems to stay. But the Sensei was insistent, and Kaze knew he must follow his orders. He had to return to his family and the life that was laid out for him.

The next day, as Kaze was about to go, the Sensei stood, his eyes
watery as he fought to control his emotions. The Sensei’s white mane framed his weathered face. His back was as straight as a fine spear’s shaft, and he refused to let his thick shoulders sag, despite the emotional burden they were bearing. The power of the Sensei’s suppressed emotions washed over Kaze. Despite the lack of outward reaction, it made Kaze realize the bond he had with this old man who had been educating him for many years and the debt he owed him. Kaze gave one final, formal bow to his beloved teacher.

“Go!” the old man said, his voice husky. “And look only forward. Look neither to the side nor behind. Simply advance, as I have taught you to do.”