Читать книгу The Ninja and Their Secret Fighting Art - Stephen K. Hayes - Страница 12

SEARCH FOR THE NINJA

I arrived in Noda City, Chiba Prefecture, on a warm June evening in 197 5. It had not been easy finding the place, its small railroad depot now busy with commuters hurrying home for supper. Gnomelike farm women tottered out, bent under massive crates of vegetables tied to their backs. A group of schoolgirls in dour blue uniforms spotted the foreigner and tittered behind hands raised to their mouths. Wearily, knowing no one, I looked about the tiny train station and asked in rather shaky Japanese how to get to the hotel. There was polite laughter, as such towns have only ryokan (small, old-fashioned inns) for travelers. A phone call was made for me, and someone kindly allowed me to ride along to the inn.

Many years of reading about the ninja had brought me to this small town on the Edo River. To pursue my interest I had crossed the sea from America to Iga, ancient home of the ninja, only to find that the only ninjutsu left there was a few tattered black suits, swords, and scrolls locked in museum display-cases. A historian had suggested that I might try seeking a ninja master named Hatsumi, who ran perhaps the last remaining school of ninjutsu, somewhere near Tokyo. Taking trains to catch other trains, I had finally arrived in Noda City to ask if he would accept me in his training program.

At the Atsusa Ryokan, when told there was a call for me, I felt awkward moving down the narrow little hallways to the telephone. I was indeed the first American ever to have stayed at the inn. The tiny landlady scampered down the hall ahead of me and handed me the phone.

“Mr. Hayes?” The voice on the telephone was deep and articulate. “We have been waiting for you. Hatsumi Sensei received your letter.”

I had gotten no answer to my letter asking permission to view the ninja training school. When I asked about this, I was told that there had been no need for a reply. Hatsumi Sensei had •’’seen” that I would be coming regardless. They simply waited for my arrival.

“I am one of the teachers at the ninja school. Hatsumi Sensei would like to meet you and speak with you. May we visit you this evening?”

The meeting had come a little sooner than I had expected. I hurriedly changed from dusty blue jeans to a suit and tie that I had brought along specifically for the purpose of making a favorable impression on the last master of the ninja tradition. I mentally rehearsed a formal greeting that I had memorized for the occasion.

The darkness surrounding the inn soon produced the two men. The master’s assistant appeared first, dressed casually in knit trousers and a golf sweater. We exchanged brief greetings and bows, and then he reached out and shook my hand in Western fashion. He had a warm smile, but he moved with quiet precision and I saw a look of cool, intense appraisal in his eyes. Hatsumi Sensei, the master, followed him into the light with a jaunty, relaxed gait, his hands tucked in the back pockets of off-white jeans. He had short graying hair and wore a maroon polo shirt. He didn’t bow, but gave a sort of chopping salute and shook my hand, then motioned us all back into the inn. His manner was casual, almost uninterested.

I later learned that it was most unusual for Hatsumi Sensei to leave his house to visit others. This master of the silent art prefers anonymity. He remains at home, and those who wish to see him must seek him out. This man who was born five hundred years too late leaves his dwelling for walks through the streets and countryside at night, moving with the shadows to perfect his art.

We sat on tatami (woven mats) around a low square table, sipping delicately flavored green tea and munching rice crackers. We talked till midnight, the master asking about my life and motivations, my travels, places in which I had lived, things and people I had known.

“How many languages do you speak?”

I wondered what that had to do with ninja training. “Three, sir. English, German, and Japanese.” He looked as though he were pleased with my answer.

“You graduated from a university? What did you study there?’’

I wished I could tell him that I had studied law, or history, or medicine-something that might have sounded more impressive. “I studied acting and theater direction.”

“Ah, very good. These approach the true skills of the ninja. When a man can disguise his true intent, and has the sensitivity to recognize the hidden motives of others, he is capable of becoming a shrewd fighter and a difficult adversary.”

I tried to ask Hatsumi Sensei specific questions about the fighting aspects of ninjutsu, and his school’s training methods. He would answer briefly and then counter with questions about my interests and background. It was surprising to me that my previous martial arts experience was of little interest to these men. Explanations of my past training in the Oriental self-defense methods, into which I was prepared to go at great length, were noted perfunctorily by the master and his assistant. Personal questions, the answers to which I had never really thought through before, seemed to be much more important to them.

At one point I was describing a difficult kata of preset movements that I had learned in order to qualify for my latest blackbelt promotion, when the master shocked me by interrupting my discourse with an imitation of the movements of the kata. His movements were technically perfect, and yet they somehow looked awkward and out of place. The masters I had seen perform the kata series before had made the precise, rigid motions seem dynamic and impressive. The master made them look robot-like and comical. I then realized that the stiff moves did not fit Hatsumi Sensei’s relaxed and natural bearing, and the contrast had produced the ludicrous effect. For a man who was constantly rigid and controlled, however, the stylized moves would fit his personality and appear appropriate. The master merely commented that the system I was describing had been a stage through which he, too, had passed in his youth.

Hatsumi Sensei did the little imitation again, and laughed pleasantly with his assistant. I smiled politely, not really knowing how to handle the situation. This master of the ninja was not acting anything like I had thought he would. I had been expecting someone slightly sinister, formal, and reserved. Instead, here he was casually laughing and treating me as though we had been acquaintances for years. I was a little confused and uncomfortable.

He took a sip of tea and asked when I had been born.

“September 9, 1949, by our calendar.”

Hatsumi Sensei raised his eyebrows slightly and his mouth turned down at the corners in an odd smile. “Born on the ninth day of the ninth month of the forty-ninth year of the century you call the nineteen hundreds. That is interesting. According to our ancient traditions, nine represents the highest level of personal growth.”

I must have looked a little perplexed. The master paused a moment and tried to explain again. “There are nine levels or steps to personal development, from base physicality to highest spirituality. The ninja knew how to reach and utilize the power of any level-that is why they were so advanced. They were not supermen. They were merely completely developed natural men. Not all ninja were equally skilled at attaining all nine levels. Each man has his own inherent limitations, you know.”

15. Masaaki Hatsumi, master of the Togakure-ryu, strikes a fighting pose.