Читать книгу Legends of the Martial Arts Masters - Susan Lynn Peterson - Страница 12

The Three Sons” is a traditional legend. No one is sure where it originated or whether it is a true story. People in many countries and from many cultures tell it.

The Three Sons

Once there was a great sword master. Among his pupils were his three sons. The sons were proud of their father and enjoyed studying with him. They put in long, hard hours mastering his art.

One day an old friend and training partner from the master’s younger years came to visit. He too was known throughout the land as a great sword master. The two men sat together in the master’s front room, drinking tea and telling stories.

“My friend,” said the guest to the master, “I would like very much to meet your three sons and to have them show me how they have progressed in the way of the sword.”

“Certainly,” said the master. “I will call them.”

The master walked to a mantel where several large, heavy vases stood. He took one of the vases from its place and balanced it on top of the door so it would fall when the door opened. He then called the name of one of his sons.

“In a minute, Father,” the son called back from the garden, where he was practicing with his sword. He was in the middle of a difficult move. With a few more tries he would get it right. Five minutes later he looked up from his practice and remembered that his father wanted him. Sheathing his sword, he dashed through the house.

The two men waited in the front room. They saw the knob of the door turn quickly and the door fly open. The vase on top of the door fell and hit the son squarely on top of his head. The son let out a roar and drew his sword. Before the vase even hit the floor, he had sliced through it, shattering it into a hundred pieces. Only then did he see that his “attacker” had been one of his father’s vases. He sheathed his sword, smiled sheepishly, bowed to his father and his guest, and began cleaning up the pieces of the vase.

“He is fast,” the guest said.

“Yes, and strong,” the father replied.

“Do you think that someday he could become adept with a sword?” “Yes,” the father said smiling at his son, motioning for him to sit and join them for tea. “Someday, perhaps.”

The three sat together talking for a few minutes before the father rose, took a second vase from the mantel, and balanced it over the door. He called the name of his second son.

“Yes, Father,” the second son called from the garden, where he had been practicing with a few friends. “Excuse me, guys,” he said, bowing to the students he had been practicing with. Then he sheathed his sword and walked down the hallway to the front room.

The master, the guest, and the first son saw the knob turn and the door open. The vase fell from its place. The second son spun out of the way, his hand on the hilt of his sword and ready to draw. Only then did he see that it was his father’s vase that had fallen. He dove and caught it before it hit the ground. The vase still in his arms, he bowed to his father and his guest. He then walked over to the mantel and replaced the vase exactly where his father always kept it.

“He has very good reflexes,” the guest said.

“Yes, and a good memory. He has developed most of the essential skills,” the father replied.

“Do you think that someday he could become adept with a sword?” “Yes,” the father said smiling at his son, motioning for him sit and join them for tea. “Someday, perhaps.”

The four sat together for a few minutes. Again the father rose, took a vase from the mantel, and placed it atop the door. He called the name of his third son.

His third son was in the garden practicing cuts with his sword. His blade sliced easily through the practice mats he had prepared for the purpose. When he heard his father’s voice, he stopped his practice, carefully wiped his sword, sheathed it, and walked to the front room.

The master, the guest, and the two sons saw the doorknob turn slightly, then pause. For a few seconds there was no movement in the door at all. Then slowly it opened. The third son’s hand appeared over the top. Carefully holding the vase in place, he pivoted gracefully under it into the room. He closed the door without ever having moved the vase.

“You must be proud,” the guest said to the master. The master nodded.

“Well,” said the guest after the five of them had sat and talked for several hours, “I must go.” He motioned to the first son to come to him. The son knelt before him and bowed deeply. “My boy,” the guest said, handing him a fine watch. “Always be aware of where you are at any given time. A person must master his own awareness before mastering any art.”

He then motioned to the second son, who knelt before him and bowed. The guest handed him a fine handmade book. The son paged through it to see that each of the beautifully crafted pages was empty. “My boy,” he said, “a collection of finely honed skills is like a blank book. The pages of your life as a martial artist are now ready for you to write whatever you wish in them. Write well.”

He then motioned to the third son, who knelt before him and bowed. The guest handed him a small piece of jewelry, a simple pin with a small diamond in the center. The guest looked into the son’s eyes as he handed him the pin. The son looked back and smiled with understanding. Neither said a word.

The master walked to the front gate with his guest. The two bowed with a lifetime’s respect for each other. The guest turned and walked out the gate into the city.