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.
Tsukahara Bokuden was a master of the sword. According to legend, he was never once defeated in a sword fight in his life. As a rich Japanese nobleman, Bokuden didn’t hold a regular job, but traveled the countryside looking for adventure and chances to do good. He also taught students. One of the things he is remembered for is developing the bokken, a wooden practice sword still used today. The bokken gave his students the opportunity to practice without getting cut by a live sword.
The Style of No Sword
Bokuden learned back against a pile of rice sacks. It was a beautiful, warm, summer day, a perfect day for a boat ride. He looked around at the other passengers on the ferry that was taking him across the lake. A young mother clutched at the belt of her five-year-old as he leaned over the side, dragging his hand in the water. An old woman sat properly upon a keg near the gangplank, her parcels at her feet. In the bow of the boat a scruffy-looking young samurai was talking to an older man.
“Then I cut him down with a single stroke,” the young samurai boasted.
“Why?” asked the old man.
“Because he looked like he wanted to challenge me,” the samurai said. “Nobody challenges me and lives.”
“Um-hum,” said the old man turning to survey the scenery.
“Are you questioning what I’m saying?” the young samurai snapped. “I’m just looking at the scenery,” the old man replied.
“You sound like you’re challenging what I’m saying,” the samurai said, standing.
“Sir,” the old man replied, “I am old. I have no weapons. Even if I didn’t believe you, why would I challenge you? It doesn’t matter to me how good you are. Whether you are the greatest swordsman in the country or just some guy with a blade, you are obviously better than I am. That’s all that matters, and I am quite willing to admit that.”
“Are you mocking me?” the samurai shouted, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’m not just ‘some guy with a blade.’ I am the greatest swordsman in the country.”
“I am,” he said to the young mother, who was watching him with fearful eyes. Then he turned to the old woman. “I am!”
Bokuden cleared his throat loudly. The samurai spun around and for the first time noticed him lying back against the rice sacks. The samurai’s eyes looked Bokuden up and down and came to rest on the two swords Bokuden wore on his belt.
“My name is Tsukahara Bokuden,” Bokuden said, hoping his reputation as a sword master would be enough to quiet the loudmouth.
“Never heard of you,” the young samurai replied. “What style of sword art do you practice?”
“The style of no sword,” Bokuden answered continuing to relax against the sacks. “It’s very popular. I’m sure you as a great swordsman have heard of it.”
“The style of no sword?” the samurai replied. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no such style!”
“Sure there is,” Bokuden said. “It’s the style that says that a swordsman’s skill isn’t measured by how many men he’s killed. A swordsman’s skill is measured by how many fights he can walk away from undefeated.”
The young samurai looked puzzled.
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