Making a Difference in the World
If it looks like wisdom,
but is unkind rather than loving,
it is not wisdom.
– Lama Surya Das
The samurai tradition provides a foundation for justice by empowering each of us to contribute, by our actions, born of our own personal development, to creating a better world.
Masanari had lived a long and glorious life as a respected samurai. Even in old age, he was kept in the employ of his lord. However, Masanari lived far longer than most people at that time were accustomed to, and he decided to find a place where he could still be of use.
He was hired as a guard at a Buddhist monastery near a quiet lake. He was happy living among the monks, who kept him company in his old age while he protected them.
One day, a rowdy drunk appeared outside the gates of the monastery, brandishing his sword and chasing visitors away. He kicked at the gates, he slashed trees with his sword, and he threatened to burn down the monastery if the monks didn’t come out. The monks were terrified.
Suddenly the temple gate flew open and out hobbled Masanari, supporting himself with a cane.
“You’re dressed as a samurai,” the drunken man said. “But where are your swords, old man?”
“I’m too old to carry them. They’re too heavy for me,” he smiled. Was he mocking the younger man or was he serious?
The drunk, obviously a former samurai himself, could not stop laughing. “This is the best that the monks can do – hire an old man who can no longer hold a sword to guard their monastery? This place deserves to be burned down!”
He lifted his sword to cut down the old man, but as the sword swept down, the old man dodged and grabbed the drunk’s arm. The old samurai twisted so hard that the attacker dropped his sword, just as the old man swept his feet out from under him. The old samurai threw the sword in the lake and slowly hobbled back inside. The monks watched in awe as the old warrior returned to his room to rest.
At eighty years old, he had just defeated, without weapons, an attacker with a sword. Only then did the monks muster their courage and come out and carry the unconscious man away.
A man of few words, Masanari never told his son this story. Yet nothing in his life was more astonishing than this incident from his old age.
Passing on the Samurai Spirit
The samurai Arai Hakuseki (1657-1725) attained the position of chief counselor to the shogun. He was a very learned man who wrote a well-known book, a lively portrait of his samurai father, Masanari.
It is interesting that often we know little about the lives of our fathers or mothers until they are dead and others tell us about them. Hakuseki writes beautifully about how he regretted not knowing his father better before he succumbed to illness and death. He writes that, many years after his father’s death, a Buddhist monk told him this story about his father.
“I didn’t have a chance to see your father when he was young,” said the monk. “When he was past eighty, however, I had occasion to see him in action right in front of my eyes.” Hakuseki’s father was a warrior who lost neither his strength nor his ideals. Even at eighty, even after his death, he still had a lesson or two to pass on to his learned son.
Shichiri Kojun was seated in evening meditation at his small house on the outskirts of town. The house was dark, for Shichiri had no need of light during meditation, or for the martial arts practice he had just finished. For over fifty years, he had practiced the martial arts diligently. Even now, no longer in the prime of his life, he never missed a day of training.
Seeing no light and hearing no noise from within, a passing robber thought that the house was an ideal place to finish his lucrative evening’s work. He unsheathed his long sword and crept into the house.
“You are making too much noise,” a voice called out. “My money is in a silk purse uder the tatami mat.”
Through the darkness, the thief saw a man seated motionless on a cushion in the adjacent room. He found the purse, and in it was a small pile of money. “Don’t take it all. I have to pay my bills tomorrow,” the seated man called out. “And ask politely when you want something.”
“May I have some money?” the thief asked, surprising himself.
“Yes,” Shichiri replied.
The thief took half the coins and put the rest back. “Thank a person when he gives you a gift,” the voice called out again. Without understanding why he was doing so, the thief obeyed the man and thanked him, then bowed, and quickly ran out of the house and down the street leading to the woods outside of town.
Later that night, the thief was caught. The authorities made every attempt to return the stolen items to their owners and to collect statements concerning the guilt of their prisoner. Shichiri was the last to be consulted, since all that was stolen from him was money, and it was difficult to tell from whom it had been taken. A neighbor said he had seen a man running from Shichiri’s house that evening. The authorities knocked at the samurai’s door, explaining that they had his stolen money.
Shichiri responded. “As far as I am concerned, this man is no thief. He came into my house and politely asked for money. I gave it to him. He thanked me for it. If he were indeed a thief, he would have taken the rest of my money.” Shichiri drew the string on the silk purse and showed the coins still in it. “He is an unfortunate man, poorer than I. I wish I could have given him something more. I wish I could have taught him how to appreciate the beauty of the moon.” Shichiri motioned toward the sky where the full moon was glowing.
Several years later, when the thief had finished his prison term, he sought out Shichiri. “I see you want to learn how to appreciate the beauty of the moon,” the old man said when he saw the former thief He looked not the least bit surprised or disturbed – no more than he had that first night when the man broke into his house.
The man who had been a burglar studied devotedly with Shichiri until the day that the master died.
The money Shichiri gave the burglar could not be stolen, because it was a gift. The samurai was so generous that he wanted to give the thief an even greater gift, the ability to appreciate the beauty of the moon, the wonder of the things we see around us everyday that have a value beyond money.
Ideals in an Imperfect World
Musashi Miyamoto became wise, turning his back on the shallow ambition of defeating others and concentrating on improving himself But he knew that the world was a dangerous place, full of wars and famine, and that even in peacetime rogues exist. Peace and relative prosperity had arrived in Japan many years before, but it was still necessary to train just as hard as in war, in order to live in peace.
Musashi hoped that his own life would inspire others to train hard and pursue the arts in order to develop themselves and create a better world. He knew a better world comes not just from high ideals, but also the personal power to pursue these ideals.
Maturity is the ability to make a decision and stand by it.
The immature spend their lives exploring endless possibilities;
then they do nothing.
– Anonymous
A samurai felt he could do nothing more with his son, who showed neither interest nor aptitude for learning swordsmanship. He sent the young man to be an apprentice to a well-known samurai who lived alone on a remote mountain.
“How long do I have to stay here?” the young man asked as soon as he arrived.
“Let me ask you a question,” the samurai replied. “How long do you think you need to learn how to grasp the art of the sword?”
“I don’t know, maybe two to three years? What do you think?”
“I would say ten to twenty years.”
“That’s too long.” The young man was shocked. “I am anxious to return to my father to show him how great a samurai I can be. What if I study really hard?”
“Thirty years!”
“What? What if I study night and day without ever leaving, even for vacations?”
“That doesn’t make sense. The harder I study, the more time it takes?”
“The more impatient you are, the harder it is to learn anything quickly. Now let’s forget about this. Get unpacked and we will start. I promised your father that I would try to teach you something. No more talk about swordsmanship or martial arts. Let’s get to work.”
The young man unpacked and prepared himself for his first fencing lesson, laying out his training outfit and all his equipment.
“Come down for supper,” the master called out.
The master was getting the pot and the utensils ready. “Wash the rice in the stream,” he said. After the rice was washed, the master told his student to go to the well to get some fresh water to cook the rice in. “Now set the table.” After supper, the master quickly started clearing the table. “Wash the dishes,” he said. After the dishes were all washed and the room cleaned, the master gave his student a futon. “Make your bed and go to sleep.”
Early the next morning, the master woke the young man and told him to prepare quickly for breakfast. “Wash the rice,” he instructed. “Now draw fresh water from the well, then set the table.” After breakfast, the master told him to wash the dishes. When the young man finished that, he was given a broom and told to sweep up the house and the outside courtyard. Then the master told him it was time for lunch. “Wash the rice,” he said. After cleanup, the student was given a hoe and told to work in the garden. A few hours later, he was again told to wash the rice for supper. After that, it was cleanup and time for bed.
The next morning, the young man was once again awakened at an early hour and told to wash the rice … and the day went exactly as the day before. After breakfast he was given the broom, and then a few hours later told to wash the rice for lunch. After cleanup, he was given the hoe for the vegetable garden, until he was told to wash the rice for supper. After cleanup, he did not need to be told to go to bed. He fell into bed himself and into an immediate deep sleep.
This routine continued for several weeks. Finally the young man could contain himself no longer and spoke up to the master: “What about the fencing lessons that I was sent here to receive?”
“I never saw any real interest or enthusiasm in you to learn martial arts.”
“Anything beats this,” the young man answered.
“Is that so?” responded the master, throwing him the broom.
As the young student was sweeping up, annoyed at having his wishes and questions ignored, out of nowhere the master swept his feet right out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. By the time he got up, the master was gone. He wasn’t sure that he had seen the master at all, but somebody obviously had swept his legs out from under him. Who else could it have been? They were miles from anywhere.
Later, while he was washing the rice, he felt a strong blow to his upper back. It sent him flying. The rice spilled on the ground. When he turned around, no one was there. While he was washing the dishes, someone slapped him with a bamboo stick in between his shoulder blades. He turned to see the master quietly putting the clean dishes away.
The next day, the sweep, the blow, the stick – it all happened again. The student had no doubt it was his master, but he never actually saw the samurai do anything. By the time he turned around, he was alone, or the master was there busily doing something else. This continued for weeks. He regretted that he had ever come to talk to the master about learning martial arts. The only thing that resulted from that conversation was that he was continually getting beaten up. Some martial arts training that was! He spoke once again to the master, but the attacks only got worse. He was constantly struck, knocked off his feet, or sent sprawling to the ground.
One day, the student came into the house unexpectedly to get a garden tool. He saw the master, with his back turned, stirring something in the big dinner pot. His heart soared. He grabbed the bamboo training sword leaning against the wall and silently crept up behind the master. Ah, it was so pleasant to turn the tables!
He lifted the sword and brought it down as hard and fast as he could on the master’s left shoulder. Quick as lightning, the master lifted a pot cover over his shoulder, effectively blocking the blow. Then, without even turning around, he gently placed the cover back on the big pot.
The young man crept from the room astounded at what had just happened. Did the master consciously block the blow? Was it humanly possible for anyone to move so fast? The master did not say anything or even turn around. He showed no anger, as if to say, “Why would I be the least bit upset about that young man trying to smash me from behind with a bamboo sword? That’s no threat for me!”
The apprentice decided to learn to emulate the master. He would try to be aware at every moment of what was happening around him, so that he would be prepared to block a blow, right out of the blue.
At first, nothing much changed. Yet with time he found himself imitating the master’s constant mindfulness. Sometimes he succeeded in moving aside at the moment of the sweep or in dodging the blows at his back. After several months, he was successful almost half the time. He tried harder. He observed the master, relentlessly trying to imitate every detail of each of his actions, of his very being. He would get up early and watch the master practicing his martial arts, and then quietly slip off into the woods and imitate the master’s movements.
The years passed, and the apprentice improved. His heightened awareness made him focus on each moment. He began to enjoy his gardening, his cooking, and even his sweeping and rice washing. Every moment counted to him as his awareness of the world around him deepened.
He also became more effective in his blocks and dodges, so effective that the master began to teach him how to improve. The apprentice grew to appreciate the master’s words and attention, and soon began to show it, saying “Thank you, sir,” after being taught something. The master in turn complimented his apprentice on his growing abilities and his heightened consciousness.
One day the master came into his student’s room and told him that it was time for him to leave. His father was ill and needed him at home. The apprentice was now a true samurai and, with pride, could take over his father’s activities. Reluctantly he prepared to leave and said his heartfelt farewells to his master.
Where at first he hadn’t wanted to come, now he didn’t want to go.
Confronting the constant attacks from his master, the young man came to realize that his master’s ability to so effectively block even surprise attacks was based upon his serenity, his mindfulness, and his lack of fear. The master’s attitude seemed to say, “Whatever happens to me in life, I am ready, and I am strong enough to face it.” The samurai was not simply a master of the martial arts. Being that made him truly a master of life.
There is something to be learned from a rainstorm.
When meeting with a sudden shower, you try not to get wet
and run quickly along the road.
By doing such things as passing under the eaves of houses,
you still get wet.
When you are resolved from the beginning,
you will not be perplexed, though you will
still get the same soaking.
This understanding extends to all things.
– from the Hagakure
The samurai class of Japan saw in the ancient teaching of Buddha a powerful means of training their minds in order to perfect their physical technique and focus their concentration. They could thus increase the chances of their survival in battle and of finding happiness in their personal lives.
There was a further element of Buddha’s teaching that appealed to the samurai. It was a sense of responsibility – that each person had an important role in enhancing his or her own life, but also an obligation to use this personal strength to relieve the suffering of others. This gave great meaning to the life of a samurai, whose entire existence was based upon developing his strength and skill, as well as his readiness to die, in order to protect the community around him.
For Daruma, the Buddhist monk who was instrumental in the development of the martial arts, strength was the foundation of helping others. Daruma believed that it took more than high ideals to create a better world and alleviate suffering. Of course, they were necessary, but so was physical strength and spirit. A motto of this type of training developed in Japan several hundred years after Daruma: bunbu-ryodo, the combination of intellectual and martial training.
It is the battle within ourselves
that brings out our true worth.
– Samurai proverb
I had proudly volunteered to be in a martial arts demonstration with my sensei. I was going to have a school examination later that day, but it was going to be an easy one and I knew that my help was needed at the demonstration.
However, the night before the demonstration, I was feeling ill. I had eaten one slice of pizza too many, and was sick to my stomach. I called the dojo early the next morning, hoping that another student could take my place.
“You don’t have to speak,” said Sensei. “All I need is someone to assist me. I’m not asking you to do too much. I’m counting on you.”
Sensei had taught us the importance of always keeping our word. He had certainly chosen the right words to motivate me. No matter how I was feeling, I didn’t want to let him down.
I got changed and went to the dojo to meet Sensei. It was a big demonstration before an audience of about 500. Several junior students were there, but I was the only one at an advanced level. It was true; Sensei needed me. I said I would introduce my teacher and say a few words about martial arts. There was a microphone, so I didn’t have to speak too loudly. It wouldn’t be too hard. It might be all I could do, but it would be enough.
The audience was unexpectedly enthusiastic. As I briefly explained the history and philosophy of the martial arts, they listened attentively. The beginners did a very good job of demonstrating their skills. Sensei was, as usual, superb. Things were really cooking! We were all excited, catching the enthusiasm of the spectators.
Sensei set up some boards and bricks to demonstrate the power of karate kicks and punches. Then, instead of breaking them himself, he introduced me as one of his advanced and promising students who, even though not feeling well, would illustrate the spirit of a martial artist by breaking the board and bricks. I came forward and broke the boards, first with a kick and then with an elbow strike.
Then it was time to break the brick with a punch. I had never tried before and, my body still aching from last night’s pizza binge, I wasn’t prepared. I stood in front of the brick. I paused to concentrate, trying to focus my energy, but couldn’t. I looked at the audience, quiet in anticipation. My head throbbed, and my legs felt weak underneath me. I was unable to block out the 500 people watching me, the pounding in my head, the shaking of my legs.
I turned into the punch and thrust forward with my fist. The audience gasped. My knuckles smashed into the brick at tremendous velocity, and I felt a burning pain spread through my hand. The brick was still there, mocking me, victorious over my swollen hand and shattered spirit.
My friends tried to reassure me before Sensei came over. “It wasn’t fair,” they kept repeating. “He shouldn’t have made you do it. Why didn’t he just break them himself?” I was too exhausted to respond. Besides, I didn’t know the answer.
“What happened there?” asked Sensei firmly, looking straight into my eyes. “You can do it. You know you can. You are my student, and I taught you how to be a true samurai. Now get out there and break that brick!”
My friends glared at Sensei as I returned to the stage. Sensei held the brick. I took my stance, focused my energy, blocked out my throbbing head, breathed deeply from my lower abdomen, drew on the force of my legs, and thrust my fist right through the brick, turning it into powder. The audience cheered, but I didn’t hear them. I was still deep in concentration.
Slowly, my awareness of everything returned, and I saw Sensei smiling at me. He was right – he had taught me to be a true samurai, and I had not let him down.
“It wasn’t for me that you did this,” he explained. “I could have done it myself You did this for you! Now, for the rest of your life, you will know what you are made of.
Sensei used this opportunity to help me see an important truth. He shared with me the demonstration that mattered – a demonstration of the nature of the samurai spirit.
I believe in mountains;
They are a practical reminder of how high I must reach.
– Anonymous
In the mountains outside of Kyoto lived Butsugai, a monk in a Zen Buddhist temple. Like the others in the monastery, Butsugai wore robes and had a shaved head. He was also good natured, like most monks. They all worked hard to live up to the traditions of Daruma. They gave up marriage and worldly possessions to live simple lives in the monastery. Their days were spent in study and labor in their vegetable gardens. Vegetarians, they ate simple but ample meals and always shared their food with those in need.
Butsugai was a true warrior. The son of a samurai, he practiced martial arts rigorously every day. He was lean and muscular, although this was well hidden under the loose robes and ready smile of the monk. Immensely strong, he could punch a hole in just about anything. That is how he earned his nickname, the Monk with a Punch.
In Butsugai’s time Japan suffered from civil strife and the rise of roving gangs who took power in certain districts. Kyoto was taken over by one such warrior gang of rowdy and violent swordsmen who terrorized the people.
Butsugai set out for Kyoto. The sensei at the monastery had warned him to learn what he could about the warriors, but to avoid confrontations with them. If any trouble developed, he should return to the monastery to seek help. With this advice clearly in mind, Butsugai entered the city and, by chance, passed directly in front of the gang’s headquarters. Attracted by the sounds of martial arts kiai and of bamboo swords clashing, Butsugai found a window and looked in.
The men saw that Butsugai was watching them. They demanded to know why he was spying. Butsugai apologized, explaining that he was only a Buddhist monk who had come out of the mountains. The men decided to have some fun with a hapless country monk.
“You must know something about the martial arts to be watching us like that. Come inside and duel with us.”
Butsugai tried to refuse, but they would not let go of the fun they were about to have with him. The men took up bamboo swords, ready to attack the ragged monk one after another. Without showing the slightest fear, Butsugai took his simple walking stick and effortlessly smashed down the sword of each attacker. All the gang members joined in and, in a matter of minutes, Butsugai had disposed of several dozen attackers.
Furious, the leader of the gang stepped up, carrying a long spear. “Your skills are too great for these youngsters,” he said, “but I, Kondo Isamu, challenge you to a fight.”
Butsugai fell to the ground in a position of utmost humility. He begged pardon for having to act in self-defence. “I have heard of you, Kondo Isamu. They call you the genius of the martial arts. How could a wandering monk like me be any match for someone like you? Please let me go. I am hardly worthy to be your opponent.”
Emboldened by the monk’s words, Kondo demanded that Butsugai choose a weapon. “I am a Buddhist monk,” Butsugai replied, “I will not pick up weapons. My walking stick will do to support me.” But still Kondo insisted that the monk choose a weapon.
Butsugai reached into the pockets of his robe and pulled out a pair of wooden rice bowls. Gripping one in each hand, he smiled. “I am ready.”
Infuriated, the fighter was determined to wipe out his opponent with a single thrust. Gripping his spear, he readied himself for the attack.
But Kondo could find no opening in Butsugai’s unusual defence. The minutes passed, without Kondo moving even an eyelid, as Butsugai slowly and deliberately waved his rice bowls in front of him. Butsugai’s movements were hypnotic, his smile unwavering, his stances graceful and controlled. Finally Kondo saw an opening. He thrust his spear at Butsugai with enough power to skewer the monk to the far wall.
Butsugai dodged the attack and trapped the spear between the two rice bowls. There it remained, held solidly in a viselike grip. Pulling and pushing with everything he had, Kondo could not wrest his spear free from the powerful grip of the monk’s bowls. Soon he was completely soaked in sweat. Butsugai, smiling broadly, effortlessly held fast to the spear.
Finally Butsugai released the spear – at the precise moment that Kondo pulled back with all his might. Kondo fell back, his spear flying behind him. Kondo picked himself up from the floor and looked Butsugai in the eyes. “Who are you?” he asked, “to be able to do such things as I have never before seen?”
“I am the wandering monk called Butsugai,” the Zen man replied.
“Ah, so you are the famous Monk with a Punch!” exclaimed Kondo. “You should wear a sign, you know.”
“Wait until you see my students, who will be with me when I return tomorrow.”
Kondo and his gang of warriors quickly and quietly left Kyoto the next morning, allowing the people to live in peace.
When Butsugai finished his Zen studies at the monastery, he went to live in seclusion to meditate, practice, and study. Soon people sought him out for instruction in Zen or the martial arts. One day a renowned swordsman came to study with him.
“Why have you come here?” Butsugai asked.
“I have come to die at the teacher’s fists.”
Butsugai was so impressed with this answer that he allowed the young samurai to stay and study with him. Later Butsugai presented him with a verse:
Even the power of the Howling Spirit –
A single layer of mosquito netting.
Like all Japanese poems, this one has many possible meanings. One thing it reveals is the essence of the martial arts – its intrinsic gentleness. The Monk with a Punch taught the younger samurai that, if you have true samurai spirit, even the most ferocious of challenges can be as deftly handled as if it was simply a layer of mosquito netting.
At the heart of the samurai spirit is the ability to be flexible, not hard. In a windstorm, maple and oak trees will stand stiff and immovable, resisting the force of the wind – until they break. After the storm, the forest floor will be littered with their broken branches. A pine tree seems to be weaker than these hardwood trees, but its branches are flexible. They bend in the wind and do not break. The pine tree is an enduring symbol of the true samurai spirit, that of Butsugai and the many other wise warriors in the samurai tradition.
Zenkai, born of a samurai family, received his first position as a retainer to a high official in Tokyo. He was excited, not only about his position, but also to be in the big city, where he was sure great adventure awaited him.
Much to his disappointment, he found his duties to be mostly administrative and boring. They left him with little free time to get out into the city and make friends. Where was the exciting life he had dreamed of?
Being a high official, Zenkai’s employer had to travel, and Zenkai often found himself alone with the older samurai’s wife and baby. The woman was far younger than her husband, and Zenkai fell in love with her. One day her husband returned home unexpectedly and found them together. He drew his sword, but the younger and stronger samurai easily killed the furious husband in self-defence. Knowing he would be put to death for his act, Zenkai ran away with the wife.
Needless to say, Zenkai couldn’t get a good reference for new employment from his old employer. He became a thief and did very well at his new profession. But as his woman became increasingly greedy, Zenkai regretted taking her from her husband. Finally Zenkai left her, journeying to the far away province of Buzen.
After years of wandering and scavenging for food and shelter, he began to think about what had happened to his life. He had been born a samurai! How had he ended up like this, a common thief, living no better than an animal? Where were his high ideals in bushido, the code of ethics of the samurai?
The best thing, he thought, would be to kill himself – to save some other samurai the trouble of doing so, and to protect others from having to make his unfortunate acquaintance. He was worthless! He had already brought so much trouble into the world: killing one man, stealing his wife, robbing others. The sooner he could use his sword upon himself, the better off the world would be.
Just at that moment as he was walking, caught up in his thoughts, he found himself right at the edge of a high cliff. Looking down, he realized he didn’t need to use his sword to end his life – he didn’t deserve to die by its blade, anyway. He need only jump onto the jagged rocks far below. Looking down, he saw the remains of wagons and skeletons of horses and humans who had obviously fallen from the twisting, treacherous road he was traveling.
A young woman suddenly grabbed him in a powerful grip, and led him away from the edge of the cliff. “You mustn’t go so close,” she told him, “Enough people have already lost their lives to this road.”
“Isn’t there another path they can take?” Zenkai asked.
“No,” the woman answered. “This is the only way into or out of the village. This is our lifeline.”
Astonished, Zenkai looked up to see people, some with babies or children in their arms, trying to climb up the cliff. Some led animals loaded with goods. He feared that the very people he was watching would fall to their deaths, babies and animals and children and all. He wanted to cry.
He looked at the strong young woman who was gazing respectfully at him. Why, he asked himself, is she looking at me like that? Doesn’t she see how horrible I am? Then he looked down and saw that, despite the scruffy face and unkempt hair, he was still wearing the dress of a samurai and carrying his two swords.
He faced a choice. He could jump off the cliff and kill himself, saving humanity from further harm. But he would also be saving himself from the horror of having to reflect on what he had become. Or he could take a harder way out. He could do something to atone for his past. He could accomplish some good deed in his lifetime.
This cliff has cost the lives of hundreds of people, he said to himself. If I resolve to build a new path, cutting a tunnel through the mountain, I could save thousands of people. I could cause happiness instead of death and sorrow! I could more than make up for the one man I have killed and the many others I have robbed!
And so he did. Begging food in the daytime, Zenkai worked during the night. His swords lying by his side, he took up shovel and pick with the same enthusiasm with which he had performed the martial arts exercises of his youth. By the time thirty years had passed, his tunnel was almost a mile long, high and wide enough for several people to walk through it side-by-side. In another two years, Zenkai was certain, it would be finished.
One day, a man sat down near Zenkai and watched him dig away at the tunnel. Day after day, the man came to sit and watch patiently.
Finally one morning Zenkai approached the man and asked what he wanted, why he was there every day, watching silently. As soon as he got close to the man, however, Zenkai knew the answer. He saw anger in the man’s eyes, the same anger, the same eyes he had seen in the official’s bedroom that morning he was discovered with the man’s wife. This was the son of the samurai he had killed so many years ago.
“And I know who you are,” the man said when he saw that Zenkai had recognized him. He had his hands on his swords as he spoke.
“You must be a very good samurai to have tracked me so far from Tokyo. It is a miracle that you ever found me.”
“I was a babe in arms when you killed my father and ran away with my mother. My grandparents raised me as a good samurai. I was taught that when I grew up, I must search for my father’s killer and mete out justice according to samurai tradition. The elders of this province have assured me that I have both the legal and moral right, as well as responsibility, to kill you as punishment for what you did to my father and to our family. I am thirty-two years old, and I have trained my whole life for this day.”
The younger samurai slowly removed his sword from the scabbard. Zenkai instinctively reached for his own, but realized he had left it at the mouth of the tunnel. He knew he didn’t need it anyway. He was not going to fight the son of the man he had killed. He had long ago resigned himself to death. But why now, just when he was so close to finishing something so good? Why now?
Zenkai fell on his knees before the man. “I will give you my life freely, without struggle. You deserve your revenge. I deserve my punishment. Only please let me finish this work, which I have started in order to atone for what I did to your father. Let many others live because your father has died. Let that be a part of your justice. On the day the tunnel is finished, then you may kill me.”
The official’s son waited that day, and the next. He didn’t mind. He had waited thirty years. Months passed. Zenkai kept on digging. One day, the son grew tired of watching and began to help, in order to hasten the day of justice. With the two of them working, it went much faster than Zenkai had imagined and, after about a year, they were very close to completing the tunnel.
The official’s son had come to admire Zenkai’s strong will and character, his dedication to the task. “He has the same determination as I,” the son thought. “How odd that we should be so similar.”
Finally the tunnel was completed, and there was a great celebration. The townspeople honored Zenkai for his gift, conferred with thirty years of his life and labor.
Zenkai approached the young man. Bowing deeply, he said, “Now cut off my head. My work is done.” The younger samurai drew out his sword. He looked at the man lying prostrate before him. He hesitated.
“Hurry up,” Zenkai yelled. “I’m getting cold waiting for you!”
What should I do? the samurai asked himself. I am here to deliver justice, but what is most just? Do I kill the murderer as he deserves, as he himself demands? But this is not the same man as the one who killed my father. What will my killing him accomplish? What other wonderful things is he yet capable of doing to help others? Especially if I will be there to help him!
The samurai dropped to his knees beside Zenkai and lowered his sword. “How can I cut off my own teacher’s head?” asked the samurai with tears in his eyes.