I learned to tell them. To Rosina Lippi Green for her insights into the business of writing and her honesty and kind words.
And most especially to my husband, Gary, who has always believed in me.
Introduction
Most stories are either nonfiction or fiction, true or make-believe. But a legend is often both.
Most of the people in Legends of the Martial Arts Masters were real people. Tamo was a real monk who lived fifteen hundred years ago. Yet because he lived so long ago, we know almost nothing about what he was like as a person. The stories about what he could do have been told and retold so many times that we no longer know what is real and what is make-believe. On the other hand, Robert Trias died in 1989. Many of his students are still alive, still teaching karate, and still telling their students what they remember about Grandmaster Trias. But already Robert Trias is becoming a legend. Stories about him are told and retold, sometimes growing a little in the telling.
Did Ueshiba Osensei really disappear into thin air? Did Nai Khanom Tom really defeat twelve Burmese Bando fighters? Did Gogen Yamaguchi really fight a tiger? I don’t know. That’s the way I heard the stories, but maybe they had “grown” a little before I heard them.
Even if these aren’t true in every detail, they are great legends. Why? Because legends aren’t just about what happened. Legends are about how we feel when we hear stories about great people doing great things. Legends are about wondering whether people are really able to do such spectacular feats. Legends are about wondering if we could do great things, too.
Sokon Matsumura was one of Okinawa’s greatest martial artists. When he was a child, he studied Te, an Okinawan martial art. His Te teacher, Tode Sakugawa, noticed his courage and gave him the nickname Bushi, which means “warrior.” As an adult Matsumura served the king of Okinawa by leading both the army and the king’s personal bodyguards. He developed the Shuri-te style of karate to help him train the king’s soldiers. Matsumura served the king of Okinawa so well that after many years, the king formally changed Matsumura’s name to Bushi in recognition of his courage and service.
The General Fights a Bull
“Isn’t he magnificent?” King Sho asked Matsumura. “He’s too aggressive for most bull fights. He’s already killed several other bulls in the arena.”
Before them in a pen of the royal stables, a huge bull pawed at the ground. Its shoulder muscles, which were almost at Matsumura’s eye level, strained as the powerful animal thrashed its head.
“Yes, your highness,” Matsumura answered. “He is a magnificent beast.” “You will kill him,” the king responded.
Matsumura was silent. He looked at the animal, the huge pointed horns, the massive head. The power. The majesty.
“Your highness?” he said, “I’m not sure what you are asking from me.”
“At the festival tomorrow,” the king said. “In the ring, at the festival. You will kill him with your bare hands. Everyone will see that the commander of my bodyguards, the great Matsumura, is the most powerful man in the land.”
“Sir, I have never used my Te against an animal before. It’s a defensive art, your majesty, not for slaughtering animals. Could I not serve you in another way?”
The king shot him a look of anger. “You presume to tell me how you should serve me? I bought this bull for you. I bought this bull to honor your skills as a martial artist before the festival. You will fight the bull. Do you understand?”
“Your Majesty . . .” Matsumura began.
“You will fight the bull, and you will win, or I will throw you into prison. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I will fight the bull.”
After sunset, Matsumura sat alone at the edge of the palace courtyard. He thought of the bull. It was a beautiful animal, strong and powerful. It would not be easy to break its neck, but he could do it. He could do it, but he did not want to.
“Use your Te only in defense,” his teacher had taught him. “Use it to defend yourself, your family, your king, and your country. Use it to defend the defenseless innocent, but never provoke a fight. Never use your art simply to show off.”
Killing a bull seemed like showing off to him. But he didn’t want to go to prison. He began to walk the grounds. Perhaps the king would change his mind. No, that wasn’t likely.
Matsumura walked through the garden, his mind on his problem. Absentmindedly he dragged his hand through the flower vines at the edge of the path. He felt their soft petals brush his fingers as he walked and thought. Suddenly a piercing pain shot through his hand. He jumped back. Out of his finger stuck a one-inch thorn from one of the king’s Chinese flower bushes overhanging the path. Gingerly, Matsumura pulled the thorn from his finger. He tasted blood on his throbbing finger as he sucked the wound. It was amazing something so small could cause so much pain. Suddenly he had an idea. He dashed across the garden to the stables.
Pausing for a moment to straighten his uniform, he stepped through the stable door.
The workers jumped to their feet, surprised to see the captain of the guard, the great Matsumura in the stables.
“I am the keeper of the stables,” an older man said, as he stepped forward. “How may I serve you, sir?”
“Take me to the bull,” Matsumura commanded. “I must look my adversary in the eye, learn his ways, if I am to fight him.”
“Certainly, Lord Matsumura,” the stable keeper motioned to a pen in the back of the stables. “After you, sir.”
Matsumura walked to the pen, his eyes locked on the bull. “Tie him,” he commanded. “Tie him so he cannot move.”
“Yes, sir.” The stable keeper scrambled for two lengths of rope. One at a time, he looped them over the animal’s head and tied them securely to the solid wood beams of the pen.
“Now leave,” Matsumura commanded. “All of you leave.” The stable hands scrambled to the doors.
Matsumura climbed into the pen. The bull strained against the ropes. “The ropes don’t seem very strong,” Matsumura thought to himself. “If he breaks free, he’ll trap me against the rails of the pen.” The fear rose inside him, gripped his stomach like a hand, and twisted. Matsumura took a deep breath and faced the bull, faced his fear.
“The king says I must defeat you. But you are not my enemy.” He reached up to his topknot, the tight bundle of hair he wore on top of his head. He pulled out a hairpin, and tested its point on his finger next to the thorn mark. A second tiny dot of blood rose. Matsumura had heard of martial arts masters who could kill with a hairpin. He hoped to save a life with one.
He assumed a sturdy fighting stance in front of the bull. The bull watched him curiously. “Forgive me, my friend,” Matsumura said. Then from deep within his center, he let out a bloodcurdling shout, known as a kiai, and like lightning pricked the bull’s nose with his hairpin.
The bull bellowed and strained against the ropes, his eyes wild. He thrashed his head
