He appeared like smoke. One minute the dais was empty, the next he was there.
Kita had long shoulder-length black hair, shot with gray, that swept back from a wide forehead. His eyes were dark and glittered in the light. His mouth was held in a tight line as he looked with a dramatic intensity at the audience. He held his hands together in the traditional gesture and bowed in respect to the Rinpoche and his monks. They responded in turn. Then Kita slowly turned his gaze toward the seated sensei.
There is a type of energy projection that can be done, even without much physical movement. It’s usually associated with a shout—the famous kiai. The projection of ki is an elusive skill at the best of times, and it’s rare to experience it in stillness and complete silence. But the energy poured out of Kita with an odd concussive force that was startling.
Yamashita sat stock still. He must have felt it, but he gave no sign. I saw a few of the other sensei turn to look at each other significantly: they had sensed something as well. Kita continued to stare at the teachers with that fierce, predatory look. Then he slowly bowed in the direction of the other instructors. They bowed back with equal precision, careful to match the degree of his courtesy. But only that. These were proud men.
It was a carefully orchestrated ceremony. Kita welcomed all the participants formally, acknowledged the presence of the master sensei participating, and beamed with pleasure at the presence of Chanpga and the other lamas. I wondered why he was so happy.
It
was odd to see him smile, because even when he was being pleasant, I experienced the disquieting sensation of an underlying power that pushed against you.
“We are honored to have the presence of these holy men,” Kita told us all, gesturing at the monks. “So often, the martial path is seen as a way of force alone…” He sounded regretful. “We must remember that we are in the service of a higher purpose and that the ferocity of our training should be matched only by our diligence in pursuing spiritual ends. These seekers remind us that, while the Way is often difficult and presents us with challenge, we persevere in the belief that we serve something greater than ourselves.”
It sounded great, but I had seen Kita’s fake inka. I kept my face immobile as I listened. You may think it odd, but I was worried that this man, like Changpa, could sense something of my inner thoughts.
Kita spoke of his time in Tibet and of the lamas he had studied with. Of their remarkable insight and even more remarkable powers. It seemed vaguely familiar, and then I realized with a start that it mirrored in large part Kim’s notes. Even the list of lama sounded familiar in some way I couldn’t immediately place. It nagged at me, but I was being buffeted by many things. And I was on the lookout for Han. Most other things tended to fade into the background.
I remembered snippets of the rest of his speech. There was a pattern to it, a subtle intensification that progressed through the mundane to the more exotic, obviously designed to keep his martial arts audience in thrall.
“I have traveled through many lands seeking the secret ways to unlock human potential. Generations of masters have passed these skills on to select students in mountain refuges…” His English was polished and now there was a singsong cadence to his delivery. His followers sat, bright-eyed and rapt with attention. “I stand before you as a link in a chain that stretches back into the glorious past…” He held up his arms and the fine silk sleeves of his black kimono top fell back to reveal powerful forearms. “I am a conduit of wisdom that can lead the worthy to higher knowledge…”
I snickered mentally. Sort of an opportunity to kick butt with the Buddha. Or at least be an understudy. I glanced over at the group of lamas. Changpa’s face was rigidly immobile, his eyes hard to read. But some of the other monks were clearly upset at the import of Kita’s claims. The general audience seemed to be lapping it up, however.
At that point one of his acolytes began softly tolling a small, resonant handbell. The bell wove in and out of the background, and his words were fading in and out with the rhythm of the bell’s clapper. The pulse drove the words home, deep down into the mind where they swirled and resonated, drawing energy and growing in force.
He spoke then of the
tanren
. The forging of the spirit that lies at the heart of the warrior’s art. His disciples were subject to this ritual: a passage in pain and effort that brought them to new heights. To a spiritual home on the mountaintop. To the Yamaji…
Eventually he encouraged those present to see whether any were brave enough to endure the ritual. It was part exhortation and part challenge, an invitation to join his mystic inner circle. I thought this would have a real impact on his audience: the hunger for the esoteric lies buried deep in the heart of many martial artists. And I knew with a cold certainty what would happen next.
Yamashita put my name forward as representing one ready for the ordeal. His eyes locked with Kita’s, and the flash of mutual awareness and challenge was instantaneous. A few other sensei nominated students as well. I saw a look of relief on some faces when they weren’t selected. There is wisdom in knowing when to pass on something.
Yamashita had then been invited to speak with Kita individually. As they sat on the dais it was hard to get a sense of what was transpiring. The words they spoke were quiet ones, and while both men seeped energy even while still, they kept their real thoughts and emotions hidden from the world. But they understood each other perfectly.
When the ceremony was over, I shuffled out with Sensei. The days when I would have simply and mutely obeyed him were gone. I asked him directly why he had put my name forward. Yamashita steered me firmly out of the hall and we walked on the grass in the waning wash of the dying sun. “Burke,” he said quietly. “Kita fears us for some reason. And the danger is growing. But as yet we have not seen the other…”
“Han, the Mongol,” I supplied.
“Just so. The weapon of choice.” Half my teacher’s face was washed with light and his left eye squinted slightly. He was looking north into the blue hills that churned off to the horizon. “Your brother has not come back yet?” I shook my head. “So,” my teacher acknowledged, “we must wait and see what happens. And be ready.”
“So we’re trying to draw him out somehow through this… thing?” I asked. I didn’t mean to sound unwilling. But I’ve been through an ordeal or two. Real ones. I don’t have a burning need to subject myself to these things unnecessarily. You’ve only got so many of these types of experiences in you.
“Indulge me, Professor,” my teacher said. We moved off toward the trees, into the long shadows and further away from the people milling around the conference center. “I am confident,” my teacher continued, “that you are capable of this thing, this tanren. Kita does not believe so, and part of me wishes to see him humbled.”
“We don’t have anything to prove to anyone,” I told him. It was a realization I’d been a while coming to. And it was the difference, I felt, between people like Stark and myself.
Yamashita nodded slowly.
“Honto.”
True. “But there is a value in demonstrating this for the others here. You must think more as a teacher now, Burke. The things we do are not always for ourselves.” And he sounded sad for a moment.
Yamashita moved along the tree line. He placed a wide palm against the white, papery bark of a silver birch and stood there for a moment, as if he were feeling vibrations from deep within the tree.
“Something will happen soon, Burke. I have been closely watched during my time here. The fight you had with Stark… perhaps it was merely rivalry, but perhaps in some way he is being manipulated. They meant to disable you and isolate me. They are afraid of us.”
“For what we know about the inka?” I asked.
“Yes. And no. It is not just the forgery, or what it reveals… there is more to this than we understand.”
“Look, it’s only a matter of time before Micky and the cops get up here,” I began, but Yamashita waved me down.
“They would find nothing. And they are… limited… by the constraints of your laws, yes? Better we remain and permit Kita’s people to show their hand. For I think they will attack soon. And then we will know…”
When I hear Yamashita talk about attacks, I worry. He doesn’t use words like that lightly. “We could walk right into a trap,” I observed.
“Professor,” he sighed. “We are here. On a mountain. In a compound where access is tightly controlled. Surrounded by highly trained disciples of a man we suspect of great crimes. I would say that we are already in a trap.”
He looked contentedly across a field that ran down behind the conference center. On the fringes, the grass was high and going to seed, the straw-colored heads moving faintly in the light air like soldiers stirring for battle. A hawk high above us whistled in the deep blue of a waning summer day. Yamashita seemed content.
“A trap is most effective only when the victim is unaware, Burke. It is as I have taught you: a distant interval is safest. But when confronted with an attacker…” He looked at me expectantly.
“… move in toward the blade,” I finished.
His eyes crinkled with pleasure. “So… Kita wishes us to experience the tanren. We will do so.”
I still don’t know what all that
we
stuff was about.
The chanting beat like waves against the room, my breath rising and falling with a rhythm driven by the thud of a wooden bell, pulsing amid dancing candlelight and faint threads of incense. We had been at it for hours now, and the brain’s rhythms had shifted. Even if you hadn’t known the process, the culminating effect would have been the same. It’s an autohypnotic experience.
I had done things like this before, however, and knew to surrender quickly to the pull of the meditation. Otherwise your joints begin to hurt too much. You’re supposed to think of nothing, of course. Your eyes are half closed and unfocused. The breath is regulated. Thoughts are supposed to come and go, to bubble away until the surface of the mind is unruffled by conscious thought. But my mind has an unruly owner. The ancients used to compare the process of taming the mind to that of herding a large, stubborn ox. It takes a lot to make the beast of the mind move the way you want. And deep down, I did not want to go in the direction Kita was leading me.
I slipped in and out of the meditative state. Fragments of conversations replayed themselves in my head, then nothing. Then more conversations. It was analogous to the series of experiences a dreamer has during a long night of restless sleep. But I was, in a curious way, awake. Kita’s recital of his Tibetan experiences echoed in my head and I sensed something significant, but every time I tried to focus, the sensation of importance faded.
The chanting droned on and I slipped away. My eyelids fluttered faintly.
The candles were burning lower in the meditation hall. A slight breeze wafted the smell of burning incense into my consciousness. Like all sensations during the meditative state, you don’t focus on it, merely accept it. It is the images the mind throws up that seem more important.
Even through half-closed eyes, I could sense the coming of dawn. My body was way down in the ebb that comes before a new day. Soon, the candlelight would weaken as its strength was leached away by the gray wash of morning. I was caught in the swirl of the tanren’s current. Dawn would bring the ritual’s culmination.
When we finally stood after the long night of meditation, it was painful. It was dark, but birds high up in the trees had started to stir. I moved stiffly, trying to get my heart going and the blood circulating. I’d need it.
They had told us about the tanren. Before the meditation session, we had a few hours working with the wooden
yari
of Kita’s initiates. Using any new weapon induces muscle strain—you don’t know how to wield it, so you tend to over-compensate with strength. After hours of it, my shoulders and wrists and forearms burned. Then, the night of meditation. And now, in the dark before morning, the true ordeal began.
They called it the Warrior’s Path.
Michi no bushi.
When they spoke of it, I had to smile a bit. But Kita’s disciples didn’t see the humor. They were a melodramatic bunch.
Each aspirant was to run up a trail on different hills surrounding the Yamaji. Alone. And, along the way, each would be tested. Until the summit, where the mere act of completion served as a kind of validation.
The other victims nodded sagely when they were told. I looked around and thought they were being way too docile.
“How long’s the run?” I asked the guy in charge.
“Different slopes. Different trails. Each path varies,” he said evasively. “It’ll take a while, I can tell you that. And it’s uphill.” He was extremely somber. I was beginning to catch the mood.
The sponsoring sensei arrived to see us off. There was some food in a bowl for each of us. Yamashita looked at it. “The vegetables are pickled, Burke. Salty. Leave them and drink the
cha
.”
The green tea was bitter and rapidly growing tepid in the cool of morning. But I would need the fluids and I did as Yamashita directed.
I changed into the gi he had brought me. It was made of heavy canvas. I figured a hakama would not be the thing to wear while running up the side of a mountain. The gi would be more practical and, I hoped, would offer some protection.
When he handed me the bundle of clothing, I felt a hard shape buried in the folds. Yamashita looked significantly at me, but said nothing. And when I dressed, I slipped the short knife he had smuggled to me into my waistband at the small of my back. The gi’s long jacket and the black belt hid the weapon from view. I felt equal measures of reassurance and alarm. I was comforted that I had a weapon, but worried that Yamashita thought I might need one.
Each path was marked by colored tapes, tied to trees and bushes. My path was red. I was rolling my head around to loosen the neck muscles. The oak shaft of the yari they had given me was smooth to the touch. I could smell the deep dampness of the woods. Yamashita came close and whispered.