Kiai! & Mistress of Death Page 8

  Filo whirled and came at me, trying to dazzle me with superfluous motions. But I watched his legs and the thrust of his body, and when his next kick came I was ready. It was another roundhouse to my side. I scooped up the foot with one hand while simultaneously sweeping at his other foot, throwing him backwards. He wriggled like a snake and tried to score with his free foot, but I would not let go. We fell together, and I landed on top. I had him immobilized with one arm behind his neck. Then I used my own legs to pry his open, twisting mine around his, so that I could apply a leglock on both his knees.

  It was a submission hold, and I saw the judges nodding even as Filo yielded. The Aikido judge was probably familiar with this grip. If Aikido can be said to specialize, it is in arm and wrist locks, finger holds and arm throws, but the man surely recognized a good leglock too.

  I let go. Filo got up, smiled, bowed, and shook hands. He was a pleasant person and a good loser, but had one of his business kicks scored, he would have been just as good a winner.

  At least I had vindicated myself with a victory. Takao, watching, only nodded, as though it were the least I could have done.

  My next match, according to the chart, would be in two days against Kung-fu. I made it a point to attend the Aikido—Kung-fu match scheduled the same afternoon. These two martial arts are not well known in the United States, apart from recent and somewhat distorted motion pictures and television exposure. But they are well established worldwide as ranking disciplines.

  Kung-fu wusu—the full name meaning "disciplined technique, Chinese martial arts"—was the ancient Chinese art of self-defense, going back longer than any other martial art. It might have been practiced as long ago as 2,000 B.C., and a number of other disciplines, notably karate, were said to have been derived from it. Originally secret, it had in the past twenty years expanded broadly, now being practiced by people of Mongoloid descent around the world. But only very recently had it been taught to other races.

  Kung-fu was a very effective discipline, but dangerous. No sport exhibitions were held, because its practitioners did not consider it a sport. Rankings were not established, and little was known about comparative skills. But I knew that there was no more deadly a man than a competent kung-fu boxer. It stressed circular motions, in contrast to karate's linear ones, using the points of the fingers together rather than the side of the hand. Those fingers could strike like knives, cutting through a sack of rice—and sometimes human flesh—seemingly without resistance. The hand was not open as the motion started; only at the last instant before contact did the fist spring into the stiff-finger tool. A very neat gesture, and disquieting.

  There were said to be five major forms of kung-fu, deriving from the motions of five fighting animals: the leopard's paw knuckle strike, the two-fingered thrust of the snake's fangs, the hand techniques of the thrashing tail of the dragon, the clenched fingers of the crane's beak, and the raking stroke of the tiger's claws. The motions were, ideally, shadowless: the victim never saw the hand until it struck.

  The kung-fu sifu—equivalent to the judo sensei, or instructor was Wang Hsu, a rotund middle-aged Chinese from Singapore. He was about five-and-a-half feet tall, weighing perhaps two hundred pounds, and had a deceptively jolly expression. But I looked at his hands and saw the extremely long, sharp fingernails, surely soaked and hardened. Tiger claws.

  His Aikido opponent was Sato Shinomakii, a young Japanese of about the same height but fifty pounds lighter. I had heard he came from a martial family and had learned both ninja and jiujitsu tactics from his father. There was a lot of potential in him, but I had the feeling the sifu, twice his age, had tricks that would bring him down. The man counts more than the art, when it comes to the finish.

  Yet Aikido was not without its points. Much more recent, and known for its arm and wrist locks, it also encompassed both body throws and the striking palm and fist. Many practitioners were known for their ki, a special kind of force that made them much more effective in combat than rational analysis would suggest. I regarded aikido as a gentler discipline than karate or kung-fu, and one more likely to prevail without breaking bones. I was right about this match. The fight was brief and not pretty. The smiling old Chinese Wang Hsu moved about with astonishing agility, kicking and leaping and even somersaulting with dazzling speed and precision. Like my partner Takao, he was all muscle under that seeming corpulence. The young Aikido player took evasive action, watching for his chance; but most of the sifu's motions were only feints. As Sato tried to close, Wang gave him the tiger's claws to the forehead. Those razorsharp fingernails ripped open the younger man's eyelids, blinding him with blood. Sato did not give up; he was ready to continue the fight by feel. But all three judges were on their feet, calling an end before the hapless man was permanently mutilated.

  Wang Hsu, kung-fu sifu: this was the man I would meet in two days. I would be a blind fool—perhaps literally—to play gentle with him, or ever give those devastating claws an opening to my face. The forked fingers of the snake's fangs were no less dangerous, for they could poke out my eyeballs.

  The crane's beak was devastating wherever it struck, like a knife. Yes, my harsh lesson from the Korean karateka might well have prepared me to save more valuable assets than my pride. What if my opening match had been against kung-fu?

  As usual, I checked the tournament ladder. Karate had now assumed first place, 3-0. Judo was in a three way tie for second with Kung-fu and Aikido, all 2-1. Yes, I would have to watch myself with kung-fu, and with all the other martial arts. I was now ready to mix with the other contestants—but was distracted by another possibility. I went for another swim in the crystal pond, half hoping to see the pretty maiden again. She was not there, but after I had swum for a few minutes she appeared, undressing and entering the water with exactly the innocence of the prior day.

  I swam across and gave her a token splash "Do you speak English?" I inquired.

  She looked at me for a long moment, and I feared I had my answer already. "No, I do not," she replied, almost without accent. Then, with a perfectly serious face, she stroked away, her smooth bare legs scissoring delightfully.

  Takao's next bout was with the American wrestler. The man was monstrous in his tights: a good three hundred and twenty-five pounds, six-feet seven-inches tall, the largest man in the tournament. He was the "Whale"—but under the blubber was a powerful athlete. Whale had a reputation as a clown, a villain in the ring; but such a reputation was common to many professional American wrestlers, because of the showmanship demands of the unsophisticated television audience. But he could forget the slapstick and fight seriously when the money was attractive, and he was one of the current three world champions. Wrestling was like that; each major circuit had its own world champion.

  Each tournament contestant received five thousand dollars per victory, and only one thousand per loss, so Whale was here on business. This might not seem like a great amount of money, considering the very real risk to life and health, especially when compared to the million dollar guarantees one heard about in prize boxing. But the fact was that all these men were accustomed to physical risk, and normally did not earn more than five or six thousand dollars a year from their martial abilities. Here they could earn that much in a single match—and considerably more in the course of the tournament, for there were team-placement prizes in addition to the match-awards that became quite fat. Anyone who did halfway decently here would depart with a very nice nest egg. Besides, few were doing this purely for the money.

  Takao selected the Karate judge to represent him, and I hoped that wasn't giving away his strategy. I knew Whale was conversant with "dirty" wrestling—actually standard practice for the more serious arts—and would not hesitate to use it here. The neutral judge was from Boxing this time.

  Whale charged Takao with a bull roar—and was met by a blood-curdling kiai yell that set him back. Whale shook his head as though struck and began laughing, and even the judges had to join in. The television audience would
really go for this. The battle of the screaming beasts!

  They closed again, and Takao threw the wrestler to the mat with a uki goshi rising hip throw. Whale landed hard, slapping the tatami with his hands to make it sound louder, reverting automatically to his showman ways. Then he groaned and lay there a moment as if stunned—but Takao was not deceived by that ploy.

  The wrestler's most effective technique was on the mat, where his extra hundredweight of mass could work for him. Once he got a lock on Takao, Whale would be able to last until age told. Perhaps.

  Whale got up and charged again, this time omitting the roar. Takao threw him again with sukui-nage, the sweep throw, putting one arm between his legs, the other across his chest, making it look easy. Again the loud landing, the stunned-gambit, declined. Three more times they repeated this playlet. Takao used the ogoshi hip roll, the ippon-seoi nage shoulder throw, and the ushi-regoshi back lift throw. Whale seemed ready continue indefinitely, forcing the judoka to come to him after the throw. Takao was becoming annoyed—which was exactly what Whale wanted. I did not like the look of it, for the wrestler was obviously no dummy, but I kept my mouth shut. This was the old man's match.

  On the sixth throw Takao put more into it, using a kubi-nage on head and arm, hurling the man farther than before. This was an unnecessary expenditure of energy, as Whale obviously knew how to take any fall harmlessly despite his mass. I saw Takao stiffen after that—only momentarily, but it electrified me unpleasantly. He had just suffered a partial blackout, and that probably meant irregular heart action. He was in trouble.

  The seventh time Takao used the ouchi-gari, or big inside clip, putting his right leg between the legs of the wrestler while sweeping with his left leg at the right leg of Whale and pushing to the rear. This was a dangerous throw, because it was possible to injure the other man severely by falling on top of him. It was also easy to injure yourself, trying not to hurt him. Takao had to strain to make Whale go down, and might not have succeeded if the man hadn't been expecting another forward throw. Or saw his opportunity to grapple on the mat, at last. Was Takao weakening?

  Down they went—and suddenly I knew Whale had observed Takao's blackout, and was going to keep the pressure on. But Takao, deliberately, fell on top. His knee landed in Whale's crotch, backed by the full weight of his body. All contestants wore protective padding there, but this was too much.

  Judo had won another match. But Karate still led, 4-0. More and more, I regretted my inept loss to Makato.

  Wang Hsu, the kung-fu sifu, faced me with his pleasant smile. But I remembered the tiger's claw. This was no cliche Chinaman laundryman, and this was one match where I meant to go all out to win in a hurry, if I could. But if I lost, I wanted it to be by a clean knockout blow, not by eyeball gouging.

  We fenced for a moment, circling each other without contact. I was on guard against those hands, not forgetting the other acrobatics Wang was capable of, but determined to stop his hands even at the cost of a leaping foot smash. The acrobatics I could handle, win or lose.

  It came suddenly: what looked like a straight punch, unusual for circular kung-fu, but what could be converted into tiger or snake. Primed for this, I caught the arm and spun into a sotoma-kikomi, a winding sacrifice throw that wrapped my body about his arm. I extended my right leg to the rear, as his whole body went over my leg. I dared not let go, even as we both fell to the floor. I went on to apply the kesaga-tame hishigi scarf hold neck lock, with one arm about his head and the other firmly gripping his left arm under my left armpit. Without pause I executed a neck hold ordinarily forbidden in judo, gripping the back of his neck with both arms and bending the head forward and to the right.

  The judges interceded then, before I snapped his neck. I had played rough—but I had learned the necessity right here in the Martial Open, when I fought Makato. This time I had been lucky: I had conquered the dangerous one without a wound.

  Wang Hsu got up and bowed formally to me. There was no sign of ire on his part, and possibly he felt none, for he had complete control. But I did not want to meet him again, for all his equanimity. The plain fact was that I was afraid of his weapons. I could not depend on my timing to trap him a second time.

  "Congratulations!" Takao cried with warmth as we returned to our room. "You handled him like a real judoka!"

  Was he trying to flatter me? He must have seen how shaky my victory had really been, however rapidly accomplished. "I trapped the snake because I had to," I said. "His fang was coming at me. Any other time I'd run from him."

  "So would I!" he admitted, surprisingly. "I don't have much callus on my eyeballs. Do you realize you are the first man ever to beat Wang Hsu in competition? He is the kung-fu master!" Now I was certain he had something on his mind, though Wang's status was news to me, making me shaky.

  We mounted the stair. "Aikido took Karate!" Takao exclaimed. "Do you know what that means?"

  Aikido took Karate! That was a surprise, for I knew it had been the turn of the young Japanese Sato, the man I had seen lose to the tiger's claw. The senior Aikido sensei was said to be a most remarkable man, possessed of ki and the leading figure of his discipline but his pupil Sato, though promising, was not of that caliber. I'd have to take a look at the films on that one.

  Then I realized. "It means we're tied for first place!" I said, gratified. "We've done it!"

  Takao sobered, though he obviously had caught the victory fever. "Not yet. It is three way—Judo, Karate, Aikido. And there is a problem."

  "No problem you can't solve!" I said. "You meet Aikido tomorrow."

  "I must talk to you, Jason," he said. It was the first time he had used my first name. Now I knew he was going to confess his heart weakness. Yet it was better that we have the truth out, before something serious happened.

  We entered our room and sat down in the pair of easy chairs there. "I did not come here expecting to fight," Takao said, after checking to make sure the intercom was off: a simple matter of disconnecting one of its wires. "You know I fear no man. But there is a complication. At my trial, after the war, I thought I was immune to punishment, because no one would testify against me, a Hachidan, eighth degree. But one did—and his stature in the martial arts was such that that alone was enough to convict me. I lost my right to compete, and I lost much face; that was the hardest thing to bear. Only one thing prevented me from following the Bushido code and committing seppuku—hara kiri to you Occidentals as they expected me to do. That was my determination to achieve vengeance. Twenty-five years ago I swore to kill the man who had betrayed me, and it was for that I kept myself in combat shape."

  This was not at all what I had anticipated. The bushido code literally, the way of the warrior—was an extremely strong force in the Orient. I did not know how to respond.

  "But I have long since realized that my sentence was just," Takao said with difficulty. "The man who testified so eloquently about my atrocities was not a traitor to the martial arts, but a man of such great integrity that he did what he knew was right, irrespective of national or martial loyalties. He was right and I wrong, and now I am glad he did what he did, and I repent my vow of vengeance. All I crave is that man's forgiveness. But I have lacked the courage to approach him."

  "Because he would reject you?" I asked.

  "No. He rejects no one."

  "Because he might think you came to kill him!" I said, thinking I had it now.

  "No. He never feared my vengeance. It is because I wronged him by my oath, and caused him also to lose face, and now I lack the means to make appropriate apology."

  I did not fully understand this, but chalked it up to my ignorance of the nuances of Japanese etiquette. "I am not certain how this relates to our present situation?"

  "The man is Hiroshi: the Aikido o-sensei I must meet tomorrow."

  At last it fell into place. Hiroshi, the senior aikidoist, who was also from Japan. With a history like that, Takao would be in trouble the moment he touched Hiroshi. If he fought to win, he risk
ed injuring or killing the sensei, and people would think he had made good on his long-standing vow of vengeance. If he lost, it could be said that he threw the match in a craven effort to find favor with his long-time enemy. If he refused to fight, he would be judged a coward, and would never obtain the forgiveness he so desired.

  "It occurs to me," I said carefully, "that my next turn will be against Karate, at the start of the second sequence. I lost to Karate before; but possibly you would have won. Do you think our chances would improve if we exchanged matches? It's a tactical decision, in the interest of team success."

  "A tactical decision!" Takao agreed, and there was something almost pitiful about his relief. I was no expert in Japanese protocol, but I had the impression I had done the appropriate thing.

  I had thought I would go swimming again, perhaps exchanging another word with the nymph of the pool, but this development forced a change in plan. I always tried to learn as much about the man and the martial art I was to meet as possible, so as to be prepared. I was very glad to have done so in the case of kung-fu; now it was necessary to bone up on Aikido.

  I ordered films of all the Aikido matches and settled down for a long evening of play, replay, and assessment. I started with today's match, in which Aikido had beaten Karate, because I was curious about that for more than one reason.

  Neither Makato nor Hiroshi were in this one. Instead it was the young Puerto Rican karateka, Jesus Granda, against the young Japanese, Sato Shinomakii. Jesus was perhaps the top karate fighter in America and Europe, the man who might one year replace Makato for world honors. Sato wore light bandages over his eyes that seemed to hamper his vision. He had real fighting spirit and was there to win, but I did not see how he could be a match for the karateka. Not at this time.

  The actual bout did not have much overt drama. Jesus attempted to pound Sato into submission with punches and kicks, but the aikidoist dodged with remarkable finesse, considering his condition. It began to look as though Wang the kung-fu sifu had had a lucky break, scoring early on this young man, for he was certainly hard to hit today. How many of these matches, including my own, were decided more by the breaks than by genuine superiority of technique?