Free Sensei by John Donohue Page A

essence of people and things using methods we can only guess at. They call this ability hamgei. Yamashita has it. He can cross swords with a complete stranger and know the skill level of his opponent before they've begun. You can argue that it has to do with subtle physical clues people give off: a look in the eye, posture, breathing rates. The longer I train, the more I tend to agree. But there's also more to it than that.
    On days when he's really cooking, it seems as if Yamashita can actually read your mind. What's scary is not that he knows what you're going to do before you do, but that he does it by getting inside you somehow.
    I've experienced hints of it. The feeling is a weird, emotive certainty that washes up from the base of the neck and creeps over your scalp. It is often totally unexpected. And distracting.
    I knew my teacher too well to think that his mood that day was fueled by anything but this sensation. I had seen it before. It was something he did not speak about. But, of course, it was possible to call him back to the reality of heiho.
    I had been working with one of the more promising junior students. We had been going at it pretty hard and, although the late May morning wasn't actually hot yet, we were both sweating and constantly adjusting the grip on our weapons. He had a hokken. I was using a short staff known as a jo, which, at about fifty inches in length, gives you a bit of a reach over a sword. Sam was big and fast and good. He'd come to us from one of the better kendo schools in the area. As a result, he had amazing reflexes, so I needed all the help I could get. Which was why I was using the jo.
    Far off, just on the edge of my attention, you could hear the sounds of another Brooklyn Saturday starting. The day was shaping up to be a busy one for me, and contemplating the details made my attention wander, which can be bad. Like trying to figure out the meaning of the distant whoop of a car alarm, it's not going to prevent you from getting cracked across the skull with an oak sword. I caught myself drifting and refocused on the task at hand. I worked with Sam and evaded a number of strikes that came a bit too close. It takes a certain amount of patience to wait for an opening in a situation like this and I had to force myself to do it. It finally came, though, and when the opening appeared I
    simply reached out and tapped his wrist lightly and backed away. Which was when Yamashita blew in like a small tornado.
    "Burke," the sensei demanded, "what are you doing?"
    "I had him, Sensei."
    "You HAD him?" he asked incredulously.
    "Yes. "It was over."
    Yamashita took a glance at Sam, who was wisely not getting anywhere near this conversation.
    "Burke," my teacher said tightly, "look at Sam. Does he look like he has been, as you put it, had?" Sam looked like a large piece of granite in a martial arts uniform. When Yamashita turned to face me, Sam gave me a mocking grin behind the teacher's back.
    "No, Sensei," I answered.
    "You must take the opportunity when it comes. More focus, Burke. More spirit. Project. Like this."
    Yamashita suddenly jerked his whole body toward Sam. He didn't really do anything he wasn't carrying a weapon and didn't even raise his hands but the force of Yamashita's presence made Sam step back in alarm.
    "Hmm? So." He looked from me to Sam and back again, motioning us to continue.
    We began again while Yamashita glided across the floor, his callused feet rasping along the wood. As he headed toward some other trainees he called out to the ceiling, not even looking at me, "And CUT HIM
    DOWN!"
    It made the rest of that morning pretty interesting for both Sam and me.
    Afterward, Yamashita brought me up to the living quarters he had in the loft portion of the dojo. He wanted to talk.
    This is not a common thing with my teacher. The Japanese are suspicious of people who talk too much. But I had mentioned the fact that I was helping out Micky with the investigation of the Reilly murder. The