Summertime of the Dead (7 page)

The swords were wrapped in a red kimono, and pulling it out I took it to my room. After the war the Americans said that all samurai swords had to be
handed over because they were lethal weapons. But Grandmother would sooner melt them down than give them to her enemy and so she hid them away. And there they would have stayed had the twins not died.

I slid the long sword from its mounting. It was a typical machine-made katana, curved and slender with a single-edged blade. But it was shorter than its mounting by at least a couple of inches. You could tell when you put them together. The blade was blunt and the steel was dull, but when I took it in both hands I knew it could do damage. Then I took up the short sword. It was used by the samurai to commit ‘seppuku', what the Westerners call ‘hara-kiri'. I held it in both hands like a dagger and imagined what it would be like to thrust it into my stomach. I have to admit I found it scary.

I put the long sword in the black nylon bag that my father had used for his fishing rods. And I put the short sword in my sports bag. Then leaving the house I cut through the backstreets and headed up to the Sword Museum, which was only ten minutes from where I lived. I entered the main building, which looked like a big white apartment block, and
running up a flight of steps I bought a ticket from a woman.

‘You have to leave your bags outside,' said the old security guard, indicating some shelves.

I put my bags on a shelf and took out the swords.

He shook his head. ‘You can't bring them in here.'

‘I can't bring swords into the Sword Museum?'

He had a think. ‘No.'

‘Why do you want to bring them in?' asked the woman who took the money.

‘I want Mr Sato to look at them.'

‘Is he expecting you?' she asked.

‘No, but he was a friend of my father's.'

‘What's your name?' asked the security guard.

‘Yukio Takeda.'

‘Wait here,' he said, and went into the museum. A minute later he came back. ‘Follow me.'

I followed him into a large dimly lit room where we passed dozens of cabinets lit up by spotlights. The lower cabinets held only parts of swords that looked like they'd been dug up from the ground. But the wall cabinets contained full swords, some of which were hundreds of years old. Some belonged to famous samurai warriors. Others had been used to behead captives, defend castles and slaughter
Mongols. I'll bet there wasn't a sword in the collection that hadn't drawn blood.

The guard opened a door at the back of the building and I was shown into a room where Mr Sato was working. ‘Yukio Takeda,' said the security guard, and closing the door he left. But Mr Sato never even looked up. He was surveying a sword on a glass table, lit up by its own light, and he was lost in his own little world. He was a balding man in his eighties and he had liver spots on his hands and forehead, which smoothed out or wrinkled with the curves of the sword. But his eyes were still sharp and he was almost smiling as he went about his work. A minute passed and then another. I thought he was never going to speak, but then he did. ‘You know, when I see craftsmanship like this it makes my heart sing. People think that sword making is a thing of the past, but this sword was made at the Nittoho Forge just one month ago. It's reminiscent of the Rai school and yet there is something of the old Shinto masterpiece about it. Would you like to hold it?'

I put my swords on the table and held his in both hands. It was heavier than my sword and a lot longer. The double-handed grip was bound in leather cord and the circular guard had the design
of a sea monster. And when I turned it to the light it gleamed like a laser.

‘Look at the mounting,' said Mr Sato.

I put down the sword and picked up the mounting. It was black lacquered wood, beautifully decorated with golden dragons.

‘They're real gold, Yukio,' said Mr Sato. ‘They brought a smith down from Sapporo to design them. He did an excellent job. You know, every year we have a competition for a newly made sword, and such is the level of the craftsmanship that this may not even be the winner.' He slid the sword into its mounting and locked it in a steel cabinet. ‘Now, what have we here?' He took the long sword from its mounting and scrutinized it without speaking. I was glad he was quiet then, because I knew my sword was getting the same intense treatment. He held it out, and putting it close to his face he looked along its back. He looked at the grip and the guard before concentrating on the blade. Then he laid it down. ‘Yes, well, it's seen better days. It needs a good polish, the binding on the grip needs replacing and it's rather blunt. But that said, the blade is still in good condition.'

‘I was hoping to get it sharpened. I'll be willing to pay.'

He sighed in a disappointed way. ‘We are a museum, Yukio, not a business. Besides, it will be a joy to work on such a piece. But if you ever decide to sell it, please remember us.'

‘But it's machine-made.'

‘No,' he said, giving it another look. ‘Lots of katanas were, around the time of the war, but this one is handmade …'

I felt so uplifted then. I don't know why.

‘… although it has suffered some damage. The end has been broken and the sword has been shortened to compensate. But even that was done by a craftsman. Some expert smith long dead no doubt.

‘How could it have happened?'

He looked exasperated. ‘In battle, of course! How else does a sword get broken?'

I was amazed. For some reason I'd never imagined that the sword had seen action.

‘Come back this evening and I'll have them ready.'

‘Thank you, Mr Sato.' I bowed deeply and headed to the door.

‘You look more like your father every time I see you. He was a good man, Yukio. Honour his name.'

‘I will,' I said. And bowing again I left.

I ran up the main road, and making my way
into the massive Shinjuku station I weaved my way through the crowd. I took the escalator down to the packed platform and waited in line for the train. A handmade sword broken in battle! It filled me with such fire I couldn't wait to get in the dojo. And then the train came and we crammed on board like cattle. There wasn't enough room to raise a hand, but I didn't care. I only cared about kendo. I could already see myself warming up and doing the katas. Then, when I changed trains at Ikebukuro, I watched myself block my opponent's blows. And on the final leg of the journey I was striking my opponent's head and throat. When I reached my stop I sprinted from the subway to the Kyumeikan dojo in a matter of minutes.

I slipped off my shoes and bowed to the flag and the shrine. I bowed to the photograph of my father. And then to Sensei Kubo who I'd only just seen, and who was giving me a look that told me I was late. I scurried up the stairs and into the changing rooms, and looked for a place to change. I put my bag between the big-bellied American, who we call G.I. Joe, and Akeno, who was the star pupil of the dojo. He was slim and muscular and as cool as ice. He was the opposite of the American, who was always
sweating as if someone had poured a watering can over his head. But the Yank was no fool when it came to kendo. He might have looked like he ate all the burgers, and he must have been about forty, but he was highly skilled and he could move like lightening when he had to. He gave me a tough look and pushed past me. He was always kidding around, but I wasn't in the mood.

‘You were not here for your birthday,' said Akeno. ‘Many happy returns.'

‘Thank you, Akeno.'

I was happy then, if only for a second. You see, Akeno was like my hero. Him and Dad used to train together, or rather my dad used to train him. And he always remembered my birthday and Dad's death. And I felt like we were really good friends, even though we rarely spoke.

I saw a ponytail pass by the changing rooms. It belonged to Anna. She was not only the best kendo girl in the dojo, but she was also the prettiest. But she's leaving next month to learn English in London, and we're all going to miss her. Especially Akeno, because from what I heard they've just started dating.

I changed into my body armour as quick as I
could, and then trotted downstairs to the dojo. It mightn't have been the largest dojo in Japan, but it was one of the oldest, and there are some great swordsmen here. And everybody tries to help everyone else. I swear, we're like a family, and as soon as I was in there I started to feel better.

I was just in time to bow to the Japanese flag with the others. Then we warmed up by doing katas, which is going through the motions of striking an opponent with a shinai. But let me explain something about the shinai. Kendo came about because the heavy wooden swords used by the samurai in training could cause severe injury. And no shogun wanted his soldiers injured. And so the shinai was developed. It's just four bamboo sticks joined together with a rubber tip and a handle. But with it the swordsman could train without fear of being injured and so he could concentrate on his skill.

I moved across the wooden floor in my bare feet, taking firm strides and striking with the shinai like I was striking an opponent's head. I scream as I strike because it releases energy, what the Chinese call chi. Chi comes from the cosmos and flows through your body. The kendo scream is supposed to be this chi
energy being expelled. I know it sounds silly, and I'm not saying I believe it myself, but sometimes I think I can feel it.

‘Make ready,' said Sensei Kubo.

Sensei Kubo was in his fifties, but he was as fit as a man half his age. His black hair had no grey and his face was as smooth as stone. They say that kendo practitioners live a long time, and seeing him I could believe it. And he had such a great knowledge of kendo. When he talked about it he was calm and wise and his words carried weight.

We knelt on the floor and put on our head towels, which keep the headsets secure. Then we put on our headsets, which we call
men
, and tied them tight. But when I picked up the
kote
my heart sank. They were the gloves the twins had bought me for a birthday present. And once again I heard Hiroshi's words: ‘We didn't want your hands to get hurt.' I could feel tears coming into my eyes.

‘You OK, Yukio?'

I looked up to see G.I. Joe.

‘Sure,' I said. When he wandered away I tried to straighten up. If I was going to avenge the twins I'd have to put them out of my mind, at least for now, and so that's what I did. I pulled on the
kote
and
picked up my shinai, which is just under four foot long. Then I faced my opponent, Alex the Austrian. He was ten years older than me and twice as broad and so I forced myself to focus. But then a train went past the dojo and hearing it I saw Hiroshi. This seething hatred flowed through me and my mind set like metal.

We lined up in two rows, facing our opponents, and we bowed to each other to show respect. It's important to show respect to your opponent, because it's through them that you will become a better swordsman. But the true purpose of kendo is to become a better person. You see, kendo is based on the bushido code because that's what the samurai lived by. They never used their skill as swordsmen for personal gain. It was used unselfishly to defend the community and protect the weak. And following this code, which revolves around the seven virtues, gives your life guidance. It helps you become a stronger person, and in some cases a warrior.

‘Begin.'

The dojo became noisy with screams and shouts and the crack of the shinai as it struck armour. Alex never made any unnecessary moves. But when he did move he was fast and accurate.

What was worse was that it was never a single strike. It was always a strike to the
do
, the piece of body armour that protects the torso, followed by a strike to the
men
, or head. And the speed of these double strikes showed how skilled he'd become. But he had two weaknesses. One was that he was slow on his feet, and the other was that he'd always look at the first place he was going to strike. And if I saw him doing it, which I often did, I'd block the blow and counter. I was having a lot of success hitting his right
kote
, which mightn't seem like much. But it scores points in competitions because a swordsman without a hand is done for.

I stepped up a gear. I snapped the shinai to his
men
in quick flicking movements. You see, it's better to flick the shinai than to strike with a heavy blow. A heavy blow allows you only one strike and it leaves you open to attack. It's always better to use less force and flick the shinai with a snap of the wrists. And with this strategy I struck Alex three times on the
men
. He was beaten and I bowed to him before switching opponents.

Then I got the muscle-bound Miyamoto, who we call the mammoth. He was a big guy, but kendo requires thought rather than physical strength
and so his size was no advantage. Besides, he was slow and I was the more experienced. Through the bars of my
men
I could see him readying himself like a rhino. Then raising his shinai he charged. I blocked his blow with ease and moved to a defensive stance.

There are three basic stances in kendo:
jodan
, an attacking stance where the shinai is held above the head;
chudan
, a middle stance where the shinai is held level, ready to attack or defend; and
gedan
, a defensive stance where the shinai is held down, making it difficult for the opponent to leap forward. But this meant nothing to the mammoth who kept wielding his shinai like a barbarian with a baseball bat. A dozen times I sidestepped him and struck him in the throat. I kept doing it over and over in the hope that he would do something different, but he didn't. The best he'd do was dodge my shinai, which would then strike his shoulder. And he seemed happy with this. But kendo is based on sword fighting! If you get hit on the shoulder with a samurai sword you're as good as dead. I was training for battle and they gave me this buffoon. I heard another train pass and I saw Hiroshi in my mind. Suddenly I sidestepped Miyamoto and struck him on the back
of the
men
. He fell to his knees and I raised the shinai … !