LITMIR.BIZ

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exert a type of mental force against my opponents, but now they were capable of pushing back. It meant that the pace of the matches was different: a wary circling, a flurry of attacks. Manipulation of the tips of the swords. Deflections, feints. And pushing against me like a force field, I felt the psychic pressure known as seme, communicated through posture and the weapon itself.

      After a time, you feel as if you inhabit a world where only heat, sweat, and the fury of the opponent exist. The rest of the world has fallen away. Which is what the sensei want. Total focus on the art. Nothing else. When my focus slipped, or I let fatigue begin to seep in, the sensei made the matches go longer. The message was clear: perfection was my only escape.

      At the end of this section of the contest, they let me take my helmet off. It was soaked by this time, with the white wavy patterns of dried sweat forming in spots. I sat formally, put the sword down, and removed my mitts. I was permitted a sip of water. Yamashita glided up to my side and sat down in one smooth, flowing motion. He picked up my sword and began to inspect it, not looking directly at me, but speaking quietly.

      “So Professor. I think that your technique is not completely orthodox by kendo standards but you have managed your opponents relatively well.”

      It was typical, the grudging compliment that hinted that you were still lacking. My response wasn’t immediate; I was intent on just breathing. When you get tired, or excited, the breathing is the first thing to go. You lose the rhythm and then everything else just collapses. So I sat there. A big bead of sweat shook loose from my nose. I wiped my face on my sleeve.

      Yamashita leaned his thick torso in across my front and picked up my gloves to examine them as well. “What is important about this exercise is the stress it creates and how you react to it. How well you maintain your…” he thought for a minute, “… composure. This is important. Now you will face a student Asa thinks has some promise… And… we will see.” He set the gloves down again, placing them palm down on the floor and resting the helmet carefully upon them.

      “So who’s being tested, him or me?” I said.

      His head swiveled slowly toward me. “It is enough that there is to be a test. I did not say of whom…” His voice was cold in dismissal.

      I don’t know whether he saw the annoyed look on my face. After a moment, Yamashita nodded, as if in response to some interior discussion. Oblivious to my feelings. “I think this should be most instructive for you. But remember,” he held up a thick finger, “in terms of pure kendo waza, sheer technique, this opponent will surely be superior to you.” I took a breath to say something, but he reached out. For a moment I thought he was going to touch me. It would be an unusual gesture for my teacher. Then he stopped, as if halted by a troubling thought. We looked at each other in silence. Then, with an effort, he went on. “Be aware, Burke. The man you will face has trained for years in just this narrow band of swordsmanship. He will be faster. And more accurate.” His head swiveled up to take in the students milling about. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular.

      “But you must move beyond a focus on technique. And this is where things of the heart come in, Burke. You must keep your spirit strong. And open to things… And, if you cannot best this one using kendo techniques you must use what you know.” I grunted in acknowledgement. My teacher looked at me. “The understanding is here,” he said forcefully, clapping his hand on his stomach. “Consider: every art specializes in something. Which means it neglects something else. This is like shikaku.”

      Shikaku. The dead angle. Just behind and to one side of an opponent. Out of the range of vision. In the blind spot. And, for a fighter, the dead angle. If you could get there, you dominated your enemy.

      A call from across the room notified us that the last match was about to begin. Yamashita gazed at me once, the look flat and without encouragement, and then flowed up and away like smoke. He was like an idol with dead eyes, demanding worship but giving little in return.

      If it was a familiar feeling, it was irrelevant. I pushed it down and away, checked the knots that fastened my armor to me. Put on my helmet and gloves. Picked up my sword and waded in.

      There really wasn’t time to think. I parried and evaded, counterattacked and tried to hold on to the center. But it was difficult. My teacher was right. This man was well on his way to mastering the art. He drove in relentlessly, seeking a gap in my concentration, waiting to lash out with a decisive stroke. My opponent used the small, snapping jerks designed to score points in kendo. It was blindingly fast and evading it made me sweat even more—if such a thing were possible.

      He was pressing me. I could feel it. Is this what Yamashita had wanted me to sense? The feints were designed to get me off guard, to break my posture. I used my sword to parry his gambits, watching for the telltale signs that warned of a lunging attack.

      Everyone telegraphs something of their intentions before they come at you. But the better they are, the more subtle it is. With novice swordsmen, you can see the attack forming in the tilt of the head, a rocking back as if gathering momentum. The tip of the sword dips slightly. For this man, there was none of that. That I could see. There was just a sensed pressure. The knowledge of imminent danger.

      The next attack didn’t explode at me so much as it flowed in an accelerating continuum, a smooth, highly compressed generation of force and intent. My hands rose up slightly to cover the unfolding technique. It wasn’t a conscious action on my part. But it was as if there were a wire linking his sword to mine: as his rose, mine rose with it. It made his strike less than perfect: he hit me, but not without the clattering of swords as I parried. Then he whipped his sword down, pushing mine with it. It was a subtle, tight force and it caught me by surprise. His sword tip made a small circle, and as it levered against my weapon, it broke my grasp. My sword went flying from my hands. I was unarmed and at his mercy.

      But here is where the killing fury comes in. You just never give up. Rationally, I was through. But I was operating with something else. I saw his sword wind up for the finishing blow and a strange part of me welcomed it. I shot in on a tangent. His attack took place simultaneously. We were moving so quickly that he was still focused on the mental image of me as a target. But he was focused on a place where I was no longer standing.

      Because I had slid into his dead angle. I grabbed his collar with my left hand. I had stretched my right hand across his throat. His forward momentum carried his legs forward; my arm jerked his chin back and to one side. I pivoted and sent him crashing to the floor. He lay there stunned for a second, and I stood above him, panting. The he scrambled to his feet and came at me. And I was ready.

      “Yame!” The order came to stop.

      We backed warily away from each other, but the sensei had seen enough. At the command, we all lined up again to bow out. I took my helmet off and I’ll bet you could see steam rising off my head. After the formal ending, I got to thank each person I had crossed swords with, sitting and bowing to everyone in turn. There was a faint roaring in my ears.

      With his helmet off, I saw that my last opponent was a young man. His blonde hair was dark with sweat, but he had the square jaw and pale eyes, the good looks that I associated with high school athletes and actors. He smiled, and his teeth looked even and white. But the expression didn’t touch his eyes. They were still burning with the desire to take the match to a real finish.

      The hold of discipline is strong, however. We bowed, hands flat on the floor, torsos lowered over them. “Burke,” I said.

      He sat up from his bow and looked at me silently for a few seconds, without expression. Then the smile came again. It had a hard edge to it, tinged with a curious type of self-satisfaction.

      “Stark,” he said. “Travis Stark.”

      I watched him get up and move away. Slowly, the room and its details began to swim back into my awareness. Students were tying up their armor and congratulating each other. Asa and Yamashita were inking promotion certificates at a table.

      By the door, two men entered and spoke to a student. They flashed police badges and looked around in that universally suspicious way policemen have. Both had bristly

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