The following is a chapter/short story from a book I have self-published:
1612 - THE DUEL
FUEDAL JAPAN
A gently rocking
motion and the distant sound of waves were the first things his mind became
aware of. And the creaking of wood. He was in a small wooden boat, that much he
could tell. The hot sun was beating upon his back, he felt it gently baking his
flesh. Beads of sweat formed on his neck. A voice drifted in from the edges of
his resting subconscious. It sounded irritated and urgent. Sharp syllables,
harshly accented consonants followed by single vowel sounds. Phonetic building
blocks of a language he at first did not recognize. Urgent word sounds, and one
other word, repeated briskly. It sounded like it could be a name.
“Sensei!
Sensei! Okiru, Sensei! Musashi-sama! Musashi-sama!”
Then a stick
made of very hard wood poked him in the back.
He opened his
eyes. Since there was no one else in the boat, that must be his name. After a
few more sharp repetitions of the phrase, he determined that the man was
prodding him, trying to goad him into alertness.
It became clear
what the man was saying. He was speaking Japanese. “Sensei” meant teacher, or master. “Okiru” was a common, informal command meaning
“wake up”. The “-sama”
suffix also meant “master” or “lord”, indicating respect or admiration for a
superior. And “Musashi”
must be his name. Yes, that had to be his name… his name was Musashi.
He had not been
asleep, he was merely resting silently in a sort of meditation. He opened his
eyes and instantly became alert.
He was sitting
cross-legged on the bottom of a small wooden rowboat. He looked down at his
chiseled, muscular legs. He was barefoot. He was sitting in what he recognized
as the Lotus position; he must have been deeply entranced in a state of
Buddhist meditation. The younger man behind him with the stern edge to his
voice was one of his pupils, a servant and student to his master. He now
understood what the man was saying. He thought he had been asleep, and was
poking him with a short bamboo stick, trying to wake him up. He now understood
perfectly; he was once more firmly rooted in his own body, and in time as well
as place.
He was a greatly
respected Samurai warrior, and was in his own rowboat on the way to another
honor duel arranged by his Daimyo, in
an attempt to conquer a rival clan and obtain more land to add to his feif. It looked like the open sea, for land was
not visible. However they were in a strait between two provinces of Japan,
called Honshū and Kyūshū. He could see a small green island up ahead; they were
slowly approaching the shore. It was a hot day and there was a light blue haze
that faded into the distance. The sky was cloudless, and pristine blue.
The island he
saw before him was Funajima, otherwise known as “Ganryu island.” It belonged to
his biggest rivals, the Ganryu clan. It was a place that had been appointed for
today’s match with a rival samurai; a powerful warrior named Sasaki Kojiro,
otherwise known as the “Demon of the Western Provinces.” Rumor had it that he
was a savage man who fought with an oversized three-foot-long sword known as a nodachi
and had not yet lost a
single match. Well, Musashi knew that was about to change.
Musashi was
roughly thirty years old. He did not know his exact date of birth. Both his
parents had died by the time he was seven years of age, and he was raised by
his uncle Dorinbo. His father Munisai had taught him some ways of the sword,
but then his own father was killed in a duel. He was adopted by his uncle and
brought up around a Buddhist shrine, and he accepted that as his faith,
rejecting the traditional and much older Shinto. He praised the fighting style
of the Shintoist monks, but thought the religion itself was too…rustic. Too obsessed with nature. He felt that
Shinto monks devoted far more time to hugging trees, worshipping rocks and
arranging flowers than they did to fighting. Travelers from the West had
brought Buddhism to Japan, and it was already deeply rooted in his culture.
From seven years
of age onward, young Musashi was trained in the arts of war. He had learned to
pick up a sword as soon as he could hold a pair of chopsticks. He had studied
the Samurai arts at a renowned school and learned bushido, the Way of the Warrior. He was a very
fast learner, and even as a boy, he was undefeated.
His first duel at been at the age of
thirteen, against a man more than twice his age. He defeated the man without
hardly a fight. His second duel was at sixteen, with a man from Kyoto province. That man he had also defeated
effortlessly. Then when he was twenty-one, he fought and killed several more
famous swordsmen from rival schools. He then later returned to his own school
and defeated his old master and all his fellow pupils. Surpassing and often
defeating one’s master, and one’s rivals, was the way of a warrior. It was a
way of showing one’s strength. The legend was that Musashi had won duels
against sixty opponents by the time he was thirty years of age.
He had also
fought in a clan war under the Toyotomi shogunate, roughly twelve years ago,
defending Gifu castle against the armies of Tokugawa. His side lost, and, in a
way blaming himself for the defeat; he retreated into the mountains to live a
lonely life of solitude for several years and refine his technique. During this
time he had become somewhat of a hermit; still respected and feared by his
enemies, but thought of as rather eccentric.
Particularly, he
was legendary for refusing to bathe for long periods of time.
Since he was
undefeated, he was constantly being sought out by new opponents who wished to
challenge and best him in duels, and his only real fear was being caught
unaware and vulnerable. He slept fully clothed with his swords every night. He
simply did not undress to cleanse himself unless he was forced to, or he had to
be in the presence of a feudal lord. It was sometimes said that none but the
Shogun himself could persuade Musashi to clean himself up and look presentable.
Unkemptness was his trademark. And it often worked to his advantage. His lowly,
haggard appearance threw many of his opponents off guard, and made them
underestimate both his strength and his sword prowess. He often traveled and
fought barefoot, presenting himself as a mere pauper who was too poor to afford
his own wood sandals. He had no real earthly possessions, aside from the robes
on his back and his sword. He chose a life of absolute poverty.
In the years
following his time as a soldier, Musashi went back to his old dueling ways and
established his own school for training new warriors. He wandered the
countryside looking for haughty arrogant old Samurai, or young and surly
fighters so he could teach them all a single lesson: one did not meddle with
Musashi and live to tell the tale. He was now widely regarded in Japan as the
deadliest man alive with a sword in his hand.
By Western
reckoning it was the year 1612 anno domine, and the date by the Gregorian calendar was the thirteenth
of April; and the surly young samurai that Musashi was sent out to duel on this
day was Sasaki Kojiro.
And, if for no
reason other than to insult his challenger, he was very unfashionably late.
Over three hours
late in fact. His young student, aiding his travel to the island, was calling
his attention to this:
“Wake up,
master! Kojiro is waiting for us. Ah, alas in the name of Buddha, we are so
late. Why did you not rise earlier so we could leave on time?”
His master did
not reply. He merely stretched, yawned and turned around, and grimacing with a
face of stone and a look of ice in his fierce eyes, glared sternly at the young
pupil and said; “Row faster.”
His servant
looked frustrated. Sweat was running down his face. His scrawny arms were
flexing with strain. He complained with an urgent whine to his voice.
“I am going as
fast as our little boat can travel, Musashi-sama! I have but only one oar…why
did you take my other oar and start whittling away at it? You realize that
thing you made is utterly useless to propel this vessel now, master.”
He looked down.
His sword was laid out carefully on the floor of the boat at his feet, its case
wrapped in its silk cloth and resting on his straw tatami mat, the same one he had overslept on
that morning. And next to it, in a pile of wood shavings, was what remained of
the oar in question. He had been carefully and deliberately hacking away at it
with his wakizashi, his
smaller weapon that was halfway between a sword and a knife.
“I am merely
trying to pass the time while you plod your way toward this island, you young
idiot. You must row faster!”
He was
deliberately intimidating his pupil. He had not told him that what he was
actually doing was carving it into a bokken, a wooden staff that was longer than his
sword. The wood was dry, strong and hard, yet lightweight enough that he could
wield it easily. He was going to face this man and defeat him without even
using his sword at all. The bokken was
mainly a training weapon. Such a tactic was used on younger, lesser Samurai and
students in training, typically whom one did not wish to seriously hurt; and in
this way Musashi planned to humiliate his opponent by showing that Kojiro was a
mere student, and an inferior; also that Musashi didn’t feel particularly
threatened by him.
This, coupled
with the fact he was showing up very late to his duel on purpose, would be the
ultimate insult.
They slowly
trundled toward the island, the boat wobbling and wavering on its course. This
was because the unfortunate man rowing the boat had only one oar to propel it
with; he had lashed it to the rear of the tiny vessel and was wagging it back
and forth like the tail of a fish, doubling as both a means of propulsion and
as a rudder. It must have been a comical sight to those silent and angry eyes
watching it like hawks from the shore.
On the beach of
Ganryu island, many people were growing restless, and silently fuming with
indignation. The feudal lord especially. He had come out to this tiny island
and sat on the beach in his finest dress for hours to witness this epic duel
between warlords, and he was becoming very impatient and aggravated. He sat
cross-legged on the beach, under the shelter of a tent his subjects had pitched
for the occasion. They were all in their finest garb. Behind him was a wide
banner which flapped idly, with the blue stripes on a white field and the eight
black circles arranged around the larger middle one, the standard of Kojiro’s
clan. The lord’s consorts and Samurai bodyguards were also in attendance; their
obi cloaks all
matching. They wore these odd conical hats that had to be held on with white
straps. These served no useful purpose, and were probably effective to guard
against the harsh afternoon sun but little else. Still, they made for an
imposing sight. The gaudy display made them look more like a diplomatic consulate
than a bunch of hardened warriors. They wore their richest robes today, if for
no other reason than to show off their power and wealth.
As they watched
the small rowboat approach, the high feudal lord turned to his son standing by
his side. He was a boy of perhaps twelve, he wore a ponytail and the top of his
head was shaved, as was the young Samurai custom. He spoke lowly to him: “My
son, if this man tries any silly business, I want you to give the signal for my
guards to attack him all at once. You know the secret word and hand gesture.”
The boy nodded, looking scared. He was trying very hard not to tremble. He knew
the man approaching was dangerous, much more so than other Samurai, and not to
be trusted.
Kojiro himself
had been kneeling silently on the beach, not moving for a very long time. His
long sword was planted blade first in the sand; one hand grasped the handle.
The other rested on his knee. His eyes were closed. He wore a white robe with a
light blue sash, and dark or black pants. His hair was pulled back and secured
by a white headband with a metal plate which protected his forehead. He was
slight of figure and more effeminate looking than Musashi; his eyes were thin
and slanted.
As he heard the
sound of the tiny boat approach over the crashing of the surf, his lord called
out: “Kojiro! Your enemy approaches.” His eyes snapped open. Slowly and very
deliberately, he rose from his resting position, retrieved his sword from the
sand, and began to walk forward. He stopped about ten feet away from where the
tide broke.
The boat was
almost ashore. Musashi quickly made himself ready for battle. Yet he did not
pick up his sword. Instead of tucking his katana into his sash, he rolled it up tightly
in the straw mat, and shoved it underneath the seat in the boat. His assistant
whispered to him. “Master, you have
gone mad! This man is dangerous. You cannot challenge him without your
sword!” Musashi ignored
him.
He picked up a
piece of rope he had cut, and tied one end around his left arm over the
shoulder; then, weaving it behind his back, tied the other end around his right
shoulder. It was a mystery to his assistant why he did this. His ways were odd
and not like that of most samurai. He then tied a dark, blood-colored cloth
around his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes. He made sure his hair
was tightly pulled in the back, but left many straggly locks coming off his
head, preserving his wandering homeless man’s appearance. At last, he bent down
quickly and picked up the roughly carved piece of wood, formerly a rowing oar.
He held it as tightly as he would his own sword. Musashi was ready. He stood
upright in the boat, unwavering despite its tipping and rocking motion. His
face was set sternly with a grave appearance, a solemn grimace. A fiery look of
anger was in his eyes.
The boat reached
the shore and ran aground, its pathetic means of locomotion propelling it no
further. Musashi leapt from the boat and landed with both feet firmly in the
sand. The imposing, white-dressed figure of Sasaki Kojiro was standing before
him, hand at his waist on his sword handle.
The two rivals
did not bow to one another; clearly there was no respect between them. Kojiro
simply growled, “Musashi…you are late.”
Kojiro looked
him over from head to toe, sizing him up. He was unimpressed by the man’s
appearance. He scowled as he caught a whiff of the grungy man’s odor. He then
fixed his attention on the odd implement that his adversary was clenching
tightly like a sword. Disdainfully, he snorted. “What is that? You cannot
defeat me with that wooden stick.” Musashi somehow betrayed the faintest hint
of a grin without changing his expression. “Watch.” His other hand grasped the
wood as he wielded it double handed; his fingers tightened and cracked faintly.
Kojiro was getting aggravated at Musashi’s sternness; he still thought it had
to be some kind of joke. He sneered and spat on the sand as his fist whitened
around the handle of his blade.
“You insolent
peasant. You come to a duel on my island dressed like that and don’t even
bother to bring your sword. I will cut you down like a dry reed…MUSASHI!” Kojiro took a combat stance, legs spread
apart. He raised his sword still in its sheath, held horizontal before him, and
briskly pulled off its wood case with one hand and let go of it. It shot out
several feet to the side and landed in the surf. He glared at the lowly excuse
for a samurai that stood before him.
A look of bitter
anger took Musashi. He scowled even deeper with a fierce look in his eyes and
glared back with a riveting stare as if he were the ghost of a disapproving
ancestor. He said, “Sasaki Kojiro… you have already lost.”
“…Nani?” Kojiro appeared confused. Musashi spoke
in a low, gruff voice. “You threw away your sheath; now you cannot use it. I
will kill you before you can pick it up.”
“You cannot be
serious. Your piece of wood against my sword? How can you even have the nerve
to show up at a duel before my clan wearing your rattiest robe. And making us
wait on this beach for hours. What kind of samurai do you think you are?”
“…A better one
than you think you are, Sasaki Kojiro.”
Musashi made the
slightest move and Kojiro flinched. Holding his arms straight, he lifted his nodachi
high in the air and held
it up near his face, ready for his trademark “swallow cut” finishing move. It
began with the sword in a high position and was intended to swing downward,
then flip and swing back up, in a movement quick and sharp enough to chop
someone in half. Musashi had long studied this attack and knew how to counter
it. He held his improvised wood bokken level with his waist and parallel to the ground; his attack
would come upward from below.
The two warriors
stood like statues, each daring the other to move first. The foaming waves
lapped around their ankles. The harsh afternoon sun shone brightly on every
reflective surface. The sky was cloudless. The tide would be going out soon.
The conditions were perfect. Musashi knew all he had to do was get Kojiro in
the right position, and then strike.
They stood
steady as the rocks on the beach for a brief moment. Kojiro’s feet were dug
into the sand, Musashi’s bare feet were ankle deep in the water. Musashi
refused to budge, but just kept glaring. Furious and indignant from waiting
hours for the duel to start, and further humiliated by Musashi’s refusal to
give him a proper fight; Kojiro’s impatience won over. He roared in rage and he
sidestepped, ready to circle around him. Musashi lunged in the same direction
to foil his tactic, and the two ended up running sideways facing each other
down the beach for some distance. Kojiro stopped and feinted lunging at
Musashi. They both pointed their swords at each other gripped in both hands,
each looking ready to chop the other down. Kojiro’s eyes were fixed on
Musashi’s unusual weapon, not sure what he would do next. Musashi was paying
far more attention to his environment.
He noted the
position and angle of the sun. It was over his left shoulder. He still stood,
clutching his wooden oar that was little more than a club. He stood steady.
Kojiro, his sword still held high, was trembling. One eye twitched. He could
see it. His opponent was thoroughly unnerved. Musashi had all the while been
strategically wearing down his adversary, readying for the strike. Now he had
his rival in exactly the right position. Every move he made from this point
onward would have to be deliberate, if he wanted to end the fight with only a
single blow.
Now was the
time. Musashi lunged.
He threw himself
at Kojiro; Kojiro swung his long blade. Before he could recover, Musashi leapt
into the air with his strong legs, bokken held high above his head. Kojiro looked up, and for an
instant was blinded as he stared straight into the sun. He swung his nodachi
upward, and missed.
Musashi brought his stick down as hard as he could and simultaneously kicked
out with one foot.
Musashi’s feet
hit the sand half a second later. Kojiro still stood, sword held defensively
and ready for a second strike, glaring at him fiercely. Musashi stood and
stared back. It was another faceoff. Neither moved for a few moments.
Sasaki Kojiro
kept standing there silently, as if stunned. Then, his eyes grew wide.
A thin trickle
of blood ran down his nose from underneath his forehead protector. His eyes
rolled back in his head and he wheezed in his last breath. He dropped his sword
and fell over backward.
He was dead. The
front of his skull had been shattered; his lung had been punctured by the kick.
Just a single
strike, and the match was over.
Musashi leaned
over the body of his fallen rival, grimaced and gruffly grunted. “Humph!”
Then he turned
and walked down the beach back to his boat, ignoring the indignant elders, not
bowing to them for respect as was customary. He climbed in and pushed off
shore, and the receding tide carried him swiftly away from the island.
The Ganryu
elders were shocked and dumbfounded. No one dared to pursue him.
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