Like Haron, I loved our afternoon with the samurai swordsmen.
The master had an impressive presence. Short, calm, softly spoken – and unbelievably authoritative as he walked amidst the group, adjusting their posture, correcting the position in which they held their blades until they were just so. I’m looking forward to applying some of his techniques the next time I have a cane in my hand, as I’m sure they’ll cross over from one art to another…
One exercise had us repeating the practice movement that a samurai would have undertaken 2,000 times each morning – lifting the sword high, practicing a blow: “forward, cut, back, lift…” We only performed the routine 100 times, as did the girl in my post-workshop fantasies after I woke the following morning. See, the cutest of the young ladies in the class had shown quite an aptitude, and had returned to train alone with the master before dawn each morning. He had been unhappy with her attitude from the start of the session; she’d already earned one crisp slap across the face.
His discontent was evident as she performed the 100-cut warm-up, her routine ragged, her swordsmanship untidy. At the end, he left her standing, the heavy sword held high, uncomfortably above her head. A long, meaningful silence.
Eventually, she broke it: “Are you displeased with me, master?”
“Did I give you permission to speak?”
“No, master.”
Silence once more, broken eventually by his instruction to her to take her sword to the corner of the room, and bring back the cane in its place.
“I will not accept such ill-disciplined work.”
“No, master.”
“Nor can I comprehend how you could show such disrespect as to only perform 96 cuts, rather than the required 100.”
“I’m sorry, master.”
He’d untie her belt and open her kimono, pushing it back over her shoulders; it fell to the floor at her feet, leaving her naked in front of him. He’d order her to pick it up, to fold it neatly, then to bend over and grasp her ankles. “You will count – accurately, this time – to 100, whilst learning that I demand rather more application from my pupils than you have offered me this morning.”
“Yes, master.”
And so he’d punish her, quickly and rhythmically: no individual stroke too hard, but their cumulative effect quite agonising as she counted towards her tally.
Afterwards, he’d make the student stand. “Go and get dressed, and leave. There is nothing more I can teach you this morning.” And she would be dismissed, bowing low before him and thanking him for her lesson.
No one wants to tease Abel about being a Samurai Master in his dreams? It really seems like a lost opportunity to me.