Kage (40 page)

hands flew to her cheeks in horrified surprise. There’s a dark beast

in al of us, and it’s never pleasant when it breaks the surface.

“Can I see her?” I asked.

Deborah shook her head. “She’s very fragile, Burke. I can’t

imagine what she’s been through.” She paused. “It might be best

to wait awhile.”

I stood up. “Deborah, I’m sorry.” I went to touch her, but

she backed away. The look in her eyes told me that she held

me responsible for the abduction and the assault, the trauma.

But there was more. She knew what I had done and approved

of it some way; in that she was complicit and it frightened her.

Her face was stiff with anger and concern and confusion. Blam-

ing me wasn’t a completely rational reaction on her part, but I

understood it. She lived a tidy life and now it was as if I’d yanked

back a curtain and the wild forces that churned just out of sight

were brought into shocking view. She had to blame someone.

Might as wel be me.

“What can I do to help?’ I asked her.

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Kage

Deborah swal owed. “Leave,” she told me. You can leave.”

“Burke,” Yamashita said. I focused once again on the broad,

wooden floor of the
dojo
, students bowing out, racking weapons.

I was stil in
seiza
, the formal seated posture. My
sensei
loomed

above me like an angry god. “You are not focusing.”

I felt a deep surge of anger. “I am focusing,” I answered. “Just

not on what you want me to.”

I didn’t know what to expect from Yamashita when I

answered like that. He doesn’t show anger; the most you notice

is a faint narrowing of the eyes, an unnerving stil ness. A warrior

who leaks emotion is not much of a warrior.

Surprisingly, my teacher sighed audibly and sank down next

to me. He sat sideways, gazing across the front of my body, look-

ing intently at something only he could see. In the West, direct

eye contact is often a sign that something important is being

said. For the Japanese, it is just the opposite. I waited as the stu-

dents unobtrusively, but quickly, left us alone, my eyes lowered

to the floor.

“I know that Ms. Klein occupies your mind,” he said qui-

etly. He cocked his head to one side as if examining a complex

object from a different angle. “She has suggested some things

about you that you find troubling.” He nodded to himself, but

whether it was in agreement with Sarah or for some other reason

I couldn’t tel .

“I worry I’l lose her,” I told him.

“It is a real fear,” he agreed. He held up a hand, finger point-

ing in the air. “But is this the thing that bothers you most?”

I took a deep breath. “I worry…” I began. But I paused.

“Yes?”

“I worry some of what she says about me is true.”

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John Donohue

He dropped his hand to his thigh and shifted slightly, the

type of centering move a swordsman makes before starting a

technique. “So. There is this strange conflict always with you,

Burke. You tread the Way and value it. But it is the Way of the

Sword
. You know this in some sense, but…”

“Am I a violent man?” I interrupted. My voice trembled

slightly with emotion.

Yamashita grunted. “You are a man. A good man. It should

be enough. You Americans—why this fixation on violence as

something good or bad? It is a tool. Nothing more.” He paused

and rocked slightly on his heels, thinking. “The world is full

of violence. It is the way of nature.” He gestured with his hand

around the
dojo
. “Here we see the world for what it is. We take

the chaos of the violent act and channel it. We forge ourselves

into people who can bend violence for better purposes.”

I sighed. “How do we know what is better?”

For the first time, Yamashita’s voice grew cold and hard.

“Burke. It is a child’s question. It is why I wished to shield you

from the world beyond these wal s. At least for a time, until you

grew stronger. But the world comes upon us when it wil .” His

voice was reflective and sad. Then, he seemed to push down

an emotion deep and away from himself, sat up and waved his

hand in annoyance. “Al this speculation—it is pointless now.

Was there another way to deal with that man Martín?”

“Maybe,” I began.

“Do not be a fool. If you had gone to the police, Ms. Klein

would be dead. If they arrested Martín, he would bide his time

or simply send someone else. The evil would live on.”

“Is that how you see it,” I asked, my eyes rising to look at

him, “some battle between good and evil, peace and violence?”

He grimaced. “You are losing your way in this. It is not a

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Kage

thing where you can choose either peace or violence.” He placed

his hands on the floor in front of him and pivoted to face me.

His spoke slowly, distinctly, concerned to drive home the import

of what he was revealing.

“The sword that gives life, Burke,
is
also the sword that takes

life. They are one and the same. Accept it. Accept yourself.”

I felt a great weariness then, but simultaneously I had the

sudden sensation of a yoke being lifted from around my neck. I

bowed in obedience to my teacher, wondering what dark places

this Way would take me to. “
Hai
,” I said.

A few days later, an envelope with Sarah’s handwriting on

it. A letter.

Dear Connor,

Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s you. Or us. I’m not sure any-

more. But it’s too much for me right now. I need time

and space to heal.

I’m not blaming you—I have so much to thank you for.

But I can’t stop thinking about what I saw and what I

did. What we both did.

It’s your world, Burke. I thought it was something dif-

ferent, but it’s not. I’m not sure I can be part of it. Time

will tell.

Some friends in the Berkshires need an office man-

ager and marketer. It’s a quiet place—part ashram,

part B&B. I’m leaving tonight.

I’ll need some space Burke, so please give it to me.

Write though.

Be careful.

Sarah

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John Donohue

Days later, we sat by twilight in Yamashita’s garden. Amid

the meticulously tended bonsai, sparrows and chickadees

fussed before bedding down for the night. A trickle of water ran

through a bamboo tube onto rocks and a bell chime sounded

faintly from a distant corner of the yard. Wood and water.

Earth and metal. The thickening air of night.

“Will she be back?” I asked Yamashita.

His head swiveled slightly in my direction. “Perhaps. With

time.”

My hands fidgeted in my lap. “She feels— I don’t know—

somehow responsible. Guilty almost.”

“It is not a logical thing,” he sighed, “but it is not uncom-

mon. Sarah Klein is a good woman, a compassionate person.

All that violence revolts her—the realization that the world is,

at heart, a dangerous place. It is a shock for someone as good

hearted as she. She takes on a sense of responsibility—it is per-

haps a last attempt at exerting control.”

“She feels guilty,” I repeated.

“Survivors often do,” he answered.

I stared off into the garden for a time. Yamashita stirred.

“Life is like the
katana,
Burke. A thing of beauty, certainly. But

at heart dangerous.”

“A weapon,” I answered.

“Indeed. And how a person sees the sword is a reflection not

so much of the thing itself as the state of mind of the viewer.

For now, Sarah can only see the blade and its sharpness.”

I turned my hands over and looked at them; thick things,

grown through the years in imitation of my teacher. “What can

I do?”

“She asked you to write,
neh?
So write her. Coax her into

seeing beauty again.”

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Kage

“It’s a tall order,” I said.

“The fact that you have grown to be a warrior does not

mean that you cannot also be a poet, Burke.” He smiled slightly.

“What was it I sometimes hear you say to trainees?” And then

he broke into a pitch perfect imitation of my voice, its accent

and cadence and tone: “Nobody said that the Way would be

easy…” he left the statement hanging in the air for me to finish.

Only that the journey is worth the effort.

I smiled back and bowed.

“Yes,
sensei
.”

We sat in silence together as night filled the world, two

rocks in a garden.

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About the Author

John Donohue is a nationally known expert on the culture

and practice of the martial arts and has been banging around

the
dojo
for more than 30 years. He has trained in the martial

disciplines of aikido, iaido, judo, karatedo, kendo, and taiji. He

has
dan
(black belt) ranks in both karatedo and kendo.

John has a Ph.D. in Anthropology from the State University

of New York at Stony Brook. His doctoral dissertation on the

cultural aspects of the Japanese martial arts formed the basis for

his first book,
The Forge of the Spirit
. Fiction became a way to

combine his interests and
Sensei
, the first Connor Burke thriller

was published in 2003. John Donohue resides in Hamden, CT.

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