Читать книгу Tengu - John Donohue - Страница 14

7 HAMON

He’s not talkative even at the best of times. Yamashita has spent a lifetime following the path of an art that prizes efficiency: the slamming precision of a strike or the smooth, pivoting projection as you find and take hold of the fulcrum that’s present whenever two bodies meet in attack. So when I told him of Baker’s proposition he didn’t react. My teacher prizes timing as well as technique: he would comment when it suited him.

I was worried about his reaction. Yamashita seemed preoccupied lately. I was doing much of the instruction and, although he was present like a predator gliding around the edges of the class of straining trainees, he sometimes seemed focused on an interior reality the nature of which I could not fathom.

I didn’t know what was going on with him. But I rarely did. Part of the warrior’s art was to give away as little of yourself as possible to the world. You remained always watchful, guarded. And even after all this time and all that we had been through, in many ways my teacher was still a mystery to me.

I had waited until the last of the students had left the dojo and the lights were turned down low in the cavernous training hall. Yamashita drifted up the stairs to the loft area and beckoned for me to follow. I ascended into the soft lighting and simple décor of his living area. It was a familiar view; there were a few easy chairs and lamps. The walls were white and dotted with framed sumi-e paintings—the stark and elegant ink drawings of Japan, and resting on a table in pride of place, his swords.

The daisho, the two swords of the old samurai, are emblematic in many ways of the art Yamashita follows. They are a melding of esthetics and functionality, highly refined products of master artisans whose ultimate purpose is savage beyond description. I’ve seen their use firsthand, and wondered how such danger can be contained—or justified. Once I had asked my teacher this question. His eyes narrowed and the answer was brief. “Discipline,” Yamashita told me. “And wisdom.”

It’s a hard path to walk.

Sensei lifted his swords out of their rack and set them down on a table. He brought out a small wooden box, slid back the lid, and removed sheets of fine, soft paper, a small vial of oil, and a stick with a round fabric ball at the end. Yamashita knelt by the table and, bowing to the blades, began to inspect them.

When handling swords, there is an unyielding etiquette. Any time a sword is unsheathed, the potential for danger is released as well. For this reason, Yamashita held the long sword horizontally in front of him and slowly drew the blade from the scabbard with his left hand, pausing after a few inches of steel was revealed and then slowly continuing. The katana, the long sword that people typically think of as a “samurai sword,” is usually drawn with the right hand. By using the left, and removing it slowly from the glistening black scabbard, Yamashita was symbolically demonstrating a lack of offensive intent.

Once the sword was fully drawn, he set the sheath down and raised the blade to the vertical. The handle was wrapped in sharkskin and silk cords and the metal fittings were simple and balanced. The blade itself was an arc of deep silver, wrought centuries ago by skilled sword-smiths laboring in an atmosphere made dense by heat and Shinto prayer. A delicate wave of shadow ran in undulating lines along the single, razor-sharp cutting edge. The pattern, known as a hamon, was created in the forging process itself. It was a subtle mark of distinction, of personality. For the Japanese, all things have a spiritual essence. And the power and beauty of swords make them a locus of strange energy. Folktales tell of swords that hum to warn their masters of danger, that leap of their own accord to battle. Of swords that can make a warrior great or that can drive the bearer mad.

Yamashita worked quietly, precisely, on his swords. His eyes concentrated as he regarded the blade he held before us. He slowly oiled the surface, wiping the metal gently with soft polishing paper made expressly for the purpose. Then he took up the stick and ball and tapped the fabric end of the implement all along the edge of the sword. It absorbed excess oil that was left from the polishing.

Yamashita stretched the sword between his hands, one hand on the handle, the other cradling the blade in a folded sheet of the paper. A sword should never touch skin except in the instant of attack. He focused on the handle, checking the bamboo pin that held the sword firmly in place within the handle.

“The mekugi is sound,” he said quietly to me, referring to the pin. “Even the finest blade depends for its utility on the most simple of things . . . ” It was a commonplace observation, but his tone implied a deeper meaning.

Sensei slid the sword back in its scabbard with a fluid, gliding, almost magical motion that took my breath away. He did it with the grace of nature. I work every day of my life to try to emulate it.

Yamashita stood and placed the swords back in their rack. “So . . . ” he said, “it appears as if you will be traveling, neh?” He wandered into the kitchen and I followed him.

“Sensei,” I started, but he waved me to silence.

“Your brother has spoken of this to me, Burke,” Yamashita said. He let out a small, hiss of breath. “Coffee?” he asked.

“If you’re going to have some,” I answered.

He made a small grimace. “Tonight, I think not.” It wasn’t like him: This was the second time he had given up this indulgence. Yamashita has been a coffee connoisseur for as long as I’ve known him. Before I could say anything he switched gears, asking “What of the new students?”

“That’s for you to decide,” I told him. “You’re the sensei.”

The lighting in the kitchen was muted, but I thought I detected a twinkle in his eyes. “Ah, but it is you who teach them their lessons, Professor.” There was a playful tone in his voice. He was walking back out to the sitting area as he said that, but I could pick up the nuance anyway. Sensei sat down and beckoned me to a seat beside him.

“I’ll only be gone for a week,” I explained. “Ken or one of the other senior people can help you. Then I’ll be back.”

Yamashita smiled tightly, as if he didn’t quite believe me. But he said nothing.

“I need the money,” I added lamely.