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Samurai Wisdom Stories
Tales from the Golden Age of Bushido
By Pascal Fauliot, Sherab Chödzin Kohn Shambhala Publications, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Éditions du Seuil
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-61180-413-3
CHAPTER 1
Making the Cuckoo Sing
One day the three great men who had reunified Japan at the end of the sixteenth century were sitting in a garden. They were Oda Nobunaga, the lord of the province of Owari; Toyotomi Hideyoshi, one of his generals; and Tokugawa Ieyasu, his powerful ally. A hototogisu, a bird of the cuckoo family, landed on the branch of a cherry tree. Someone proposed to the three great strategist that they engage in a poetry contest on the theme of "how to make a bird sing" Each of them replied with a haiku that revealed his true nature and presaged the future.
Nobunaga came out with his verse first:
Hototogisu
If you won't sing
I will wring your neck!
The daimyo of Owari was known for his hot-headed temperament. He was called the Demon King. A tactician who slaughtered his enemies mercilessly, he had succeeded in conquering several provinces. He was betrayed by one of his vassals and had to commit hara-kiri before he was able to finish reunifying Japan.
Then Hideyoshi, with a malicious smile, recited the following:
Hototogisu,
I will find a way
To make you sing!
Hideyoshi had the nickname saru, the monkey, and he was as sly and ugly as a macaque. Despite being the son of a poor farmer, he rose to an exceptional position in a Japan that was entirely based on class hierarchy. He was cunning and intrepid, a gifted speaker, and a politician of subtlety. It was he who finished reuniting Japan and obtained the supreme power for himself.
Finally, Ieyasu recited his poem:
Hototogisu
I will wait
Until you feel like singing.
And in fact this young lord of high lineage proved very capable of waiting for his moment to arrive. He was a man of patience, shrewdness, and caution. His nickname was furu tanuki, the Japanese equivalent of "old fox." In the end, he took power from Hideyoshi's son and completed the pacification of Japan. He founded the dynasty of the Tokugawa shoguns, which ruled the country for more than two centuries.
CHAPTER 2
The Duel on the Gojo Bridge
In Kyoto, on the Gojo Bridge, the formidable monk-warrior Benkei stood waiting. He was a formidable figure, as big and broad as a sumo wrestler. Each night, brandishing his battle pike, his naginata, he barred the way over the wooden span to any samurai who might be bold enough to try to cross it. His custom was to provoke the samurai he met on the bridge into duels, and when he defeated them he confiscated their swords, or katanas — for Benkei had sworn an oath to take one thousand katanas from warriors of the Heike clan, a clan that had seized political power and was making abusive use of it. Benkei planned to sell the swords to pay for the reconstruction of a certain temple. Being a past master of the martial arts, possessed of colossal strength and amazing speed, he had already disarmed nine hundred and ninety-nine samurai. He only had to confiscate one more sword to fulfill his oath.
That night, at the hour of the cow, a tuneful sound was heard from the far side of the bridge. Amid the curling wisps of mist rising from the river, Benkei saw a slender figure approaching, playing a flute. The flute player was wrapped in folds of richly decorated silken kimonos, and the face was hidden beneath the veils of a wide-brimmed hat. The monk-warrior stood aside to permit the passage of this personage, whom he took to be a woman. But when out of politeness he discreetly lowered his gaze, he saw, protruding from the passing figure's obi, the handle of a sword of very great value.
"Who are you?" Benkei called out in a gruff voice.
The figure continued its graceful progress across the bridge without answering and without ceasing to bring forth melodious music from the bamboo flute. With mind-boggling dexterity, using the butt end of his naginata, the fearsome monk lifted the veils of the wide-brimmed hat. The mysterious person whirled about and regarded him with fury in his eyes.
"What insolence, boor! What manners are these for dealing with a gentleman!? Beg forgiveness at once!"
Benkei saw that, despite its feminine air, the figure standing before him was a young man.
"I asked you a question," Benkei said, "but you did not show me the courtesy of a reply. I can see clearly enough now that you are one of those pretentious pages who serves at the Heike court!"
"Really now, arrogant monk, you are becoming more offensive by the second. It seems I might have to teach you a lesson!
"Goodness me, imagine that! The little lion cub bares its claws. It considers itself the equal of the warrior called the Demon of Mount Hiei. But I won't trouble myself with squashing a mere gnat. Come then, give me your sword and I'll let you pass."
With humor in his eye and mockery in his smile, the young man issued a challenge: "Take it yourself, if you can!"
The burly monk struck out at the offender with lightning speed, only to find his arm flailing in the void. The youth had sidestepped with the agility of a cat. With his next attack, Benkei was able to grab the flute, which he angrily threw down onto the bridge. With a dry rattling sound, it rolled along the planks. The youth set his hand on the hilt of his sword and said, "I don't know what is keeping me from ending your life! That flute was the only keepsake I had left from my mother."
Taking his battle pike in both hands, the monk took the en garde position and roared, "All right, that's it! Draw your sword and let's get it over with! Since you want to play the samurai, I'll give you a taste of my naginata!"
The youth let go of the handle of his sword and drew his fan from his belt.
"This little accessory will do the job," he replied.
Insulted to the core, fearsome Benkei decided to give the brat a spanking with the flat of his blade. The young page dodged the blade of the pike, leapt over its shaft, and struck the giant on the forehead with his fan. Furious, the mountain of muscle began twirling his weapon in such a way that cut followed thrust with the speed of the paddles of a mill wheel in a rapid current.
Like a graceful butterfly on wings of silk, the page fluttered and swirled, as ungraspable as the reflections of the moon taking a thousand forms on the waves of the river. The boastful monk, his skull now dripping with sweat, his breath coming short, was being forced to change his tactics. One by one, he tried all his secret moves — in vain. For a moment, he thought he was fighting a yokai (a phantom), a tengu (a spirit that takes different forms), or a kitsune (a fox spirit).
The monk muttered a mantra under his breath. For a moment he put his hands together in prayer, then he resumed the fight. Finally, believing he had trapped his opponent against the railing of the bridge, he called up all his remaining strength to deliver a final vicious blow.
At the last instant, the youth dodged away. The blade of the naginata buried itself in the wood of the railing. It stuck so deep that the huge man was unable to pull it out. While he was laboring at the shaft, the young man, with a blow of his delicate foot, sent him sprawling over the planks. Benkei got to his feet, staggering with fatigue, and tried to draw his sword. He let out a yell — his scabbard was empty! Dumbfounded, he saw that the young devil was holding his katana. The monk-warrior went down on his knees and spoke words that were bitter in his mouth.
"Me, who has never been beaten, to be disarmed by a mere novice — what shame! I beg of you, use my sword to take my life! Wash away this insult with my blood and let my dishonor be short-lived!"
The page lowered the sword and replied, "I shall spare you. I shall content myself with having given you this little lesson, which I actually found quite entertaining. And so now, go back to your monastery and meditate on the mysteries of this world of illusion."
"O, noble youth, magnanimous conqueror, be so kind as to let me know your name."
"I am called Ushiwakamaru, but my real name is Minamoto no Yoshitsune."
"So you are the youngest son of the great Yoshitomo who was so traitorously murdered by those accursed Heike! O, young lord, I owe you my life and I offer it to you. Do me the honor of taking me into your service."
"Granted," replied Yoshitsune, giving him back his sword.
"And grant me also the favor of telling me who did such a good job of teaching you the art of fighting."
"Know that it was Sojobo, the king of the tengu of Mount Kumara!"
There you have it. This is how generations of storytellers have shaped and polished the story of this famous first encounter. There are many versions of the tale, and some of them recount that the famous king of the tengu was none other than the head of the Yamabushi brotherhood of Mount Kumara. In Japanese folklore, the tengu are supernatural spirits, winged genies with long noses. They wear the clothing and ornaments of the Yamabushi mountain hermits, who devote themselves to ascetic practices and, some say, develop magical powers.
So it was in this way that Benkei became the faithful companion of Yoshitsune, the finest flower of samurai culture, a model of chivalry whose virtues have been sung down through the centuries by blind bards and monastic storytellers accompanying themselves on the biwa, the customary instrument of bards recounting epic tales. The monk-warrior served his master until his death. Together Yoshitsune and Benkei, master and servant, went from victory to victory. The young strategist was able to destroy the Heike and return political power to his elder brother, the head of the Genji clan. The two warriors also experienced exile: for due to the jealousy of his brother, who became the first Kamakura shogun, Yoshitsune was forced to take refuge in a distant province. And it was Benkei, who when all was lost, made a rampart of his own body to give his lord the time to complete his ritual suicide. The storytellers recount that the huge man, riddled with arrows, died on his feet, leaning on his famous naginata. Even when he was dead, the enemy dared not approach him, so greatly were they in awe of him. It was not until a gust of wind blew the giant over that they finally dared to pass.
And we are told that the last conversation between Benkei and Yoshitsune, which took place in the court of the castle that had just fallen to the enemy, was this poetic dialog that celebrated their legendary friendship:
"O, my lord, if you are the one who must depart first, Wait for me at the fork of the road to hell!"
"We will remain together, dear companion, In the other world and in the lives to come Until on a crimson cloud We ascend to paradise!
CHAPTER 3
The Samurai and the Zen Cat
In spite of all his prowess as a master of the martial arts, a certain samurai found himself incapable of getting rid of a large rat that had set up housekeeping in his home and was making a continual nuisance of itself. The rodent was very alert and extremely cunning. It could dodge any sword blow and was too smart for any trap. So the master of the house was finally driven to his last resort. He went to the marketplace to buy a cat. He found a merchant who seemed to have what he was looking for and returned home with a young and vigorous male cat. After a week of meowing, pouncing, and frantic chases around the house, the spirited young tom remained without a catch.
So the disappointed samurai went back to the market to return the cat to the merchant. The latter at once began touting the merits of his latest acquisition, a striped male cat in the prime of life. If you went by what the merchant said, a better rat hunter would never be found.
And in truth, the new arrival quickly showed itself to be both more experienced and more subtle than his predecessor. It waited in ambush behind pieces of furniture for hours at a time. It stole furtively about close to the walls, creeping slowly so as not to arouse attention. But after a week, the rat was still running free. Furious, the sword-bearing householder returned the cat to the merchant and demanded his money back.
The samurai was in the habit of paying regular visits to a Zen monk from a nearby temple. He found himself telling the monk about his problem.
"Well," the monk responded, "you should borrow our old cat for a while. Thanks to him, we have no rodents here." And he took the samurai into the doj o, where asleep on a zafu, a meditation cushion, lay a somewhat decrepit, plump old tomcat, with a half bald head that looked as though it had been tonsured. The warrior brought the old puss back home and deposited it, still asleep, on a tatami mat, where it continued snoozing away, giving not the slightest sign of knowing it had changed residences.
The attitude of the monastic feline was extremely irritating. It spent its time sleeping on the tatami, always in the same place near the fire, without getting up except to eat its food or see to its basic needs. You could believe that it had taken on the worse habits of certain monks, who after filling their bellies, sit zazen for hours while picking their noses!
Not a week had passed before the samurai carried this useless creature with a mouth not worth feeding back to the temple.
"Don't be so impatient," the monk exclaimed. "Keep him a little while longer. Trust me. I'm positive that in the end he will provide you with complete satisfaction."
Skeptical, the gentleman took the old tom back home. One day followed another without any change in the cat's attitude. And as the proverb says, "When the cat sleeps, the mice dance." In this case, the rat made itself more and more comfortable. It even became so bold as to sample the food waiting to be stewed over the fire, frightening the daylights out of the maid. Since the old tomcat still showed no sign of moving, the rodent now paid it no more heed than it would to a stuffed animal. And one day, as the rat was trotting by in paw range, with a sudden move, the Zen cat seized it. In a flash, it was a dead rat!
The samurai, who had witnessed the scene from a distance, could hardly believe his eyes. He at once recalled one of the principles of Chinese strategy: numb the vigilance of the enemy. He returned the old tom and made a gift to the temple. Then he meditated on the lesson he had learned and, it is said, made considerable progress in his practice of swordsmanship.
CHAPTER 4
The Three Bonsai
One day during the Kamakura period, a monk was making his way toward an isolated hamlet in the province of Kazuke. His head was covered by a hood and over that he wore a straw hat. His body was bent over and the rings on his walking stick jangled as he walked along. Snowflakes flew about in the air, blown by an icy wind — the vanguard of the army of General Winter. The monk knocked on the door of the first hut he came to. A woman, whose elegant mien contrasted sharply with her rustic surroundings, came to the door.
"Venerable one, to what do we owe the honor of your visit? Have you lost your way? We would gladly give you alms, but we are ashamed of how little we have to give you"
"Thank you so much for your kindness. I just wanted to know if perhaps there was a temple or an inn somewhere in the area where I might spend the night"
A graying man who was sitting by the fire got up and took a few steps toward the traveler. The monk noted his martial bearing and saw that he wore a wakizashi, the short sword of a samurai, in his belt.
"You will neither find an inn nor a temple within ten leagues of here. Night would fall on you before you got there, and it would do a body no good to spend the night outdoors in such a snowstorm. It would be better if you slept here."
"I wouldn't want to impose on you."
"Allow me to insist. Helping one another is a duty, and the presence of a holy man is a blessing. You can get back on the road tomorrow morning."
The monk shook the snow off his clothes and took off his hat and his straw boots before going in. His face was partially hidden by his monk's haircut. He took a seat near the fire with his hosts. The woman of the house, with a sad air, served nothing but a bowl of millet soup for the evening meal.
"It embarrasses me," she said, "that I have nothing more to serve you. We have fallen on hard times of late. I would never have imagined we would come to live in such poverty."
"Don't be upset," the monk replied, "this suits me perfectly. This is just what we usually eat in the monasteries. Forgive my indiscretion, but how did it come to pass that such distinguished people as yourselves ended up in a remote corner like this?"
"We are in exile. A tragic family event has forced us to leave our lands and go into hiding here."
The fire was beginning to die down. There was nothing left of it but a few embers that glowed red every now and then when a draft blew in through the cracks in the hovel's walls. The winds of the blizzard were moaning in the rafters. The host got up from his seat, saying, "We don't have any firewood left. Winter came upon us before I had time to get more from the forest. So be it. I'll sacrifice the last of our three little friends who still keep us company."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Samurai Wisdom Stories by Pascal Fauliot, Sherab Chödzin Kohn. Copyright © 2011 Éditions du Seuil. Excerpted by permission of Shambhala Publications, Inc..
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