Each motion flowed into the next—step, turn, block, strike, block again, sweep low, rise high. His body moved with no wasted motion, no hesitation. The form was circular, bringing him back to where he had started, and when he finished, I could barely see him breathing.
“You will learn this form,” he said. “You will practice it until your body knows it without thought, until you can perform it blindfolded, in the dark, half asleep, until it becomes part of you.”
He gestured to us. “Begin.”
We spread out in the courtyard, each of us finding space. The master walked among us, demonstrating the first movements again, slowly this time.
Left foot forward. Weight shifts. Hands rise.
I moved with him, mimicking the stance.
But the form felt wrong.
It reminded me of thekataUncle Takeo had taught me. It was similar—but not the same. The hand positions were odd.The weight distribution was off. Where Takeo had taught me to pivot on the ball of my foot, this form required a heel pivot. Where Takeo had taught a rising block, this form used a circular deflection. It was close enough to be familiar but different enough to be nearly impossible. My body wanted to do what it had learned. My mind knew I needed to do what the master was showing. The two conflicted, and I stumbled.
Left foot forward—no, too far.
Weight shift—wrong direction. Hands—
Crack.
The reed struck the back of my thigh. Pain shot up my leg, so sharp I nearly cried out.
“Again.”
I took the stance and tried again.
Left foot forward. Weight shift—
Crack.Across my shoulders this time.
“You are still thinking,” the master said. “Calm your mind. There is only this.”
But Takeo’s voice was in my head, Takeo’s hands guiding mine, Takeo’skataburning into my muscles through hours of practice. It was the last thing I had of home, the last connection to my family. But I had to learn. I had to change. I had to grow beyond the lessons of my youth.
I tried again.
Fell into the old pattern again.
The reed struck—crack—across my forearm this time.
The tall, thin boy was glaring openly now. Each time the reed struck, each time the sharpcrackechoed across the courtyard, he flinched, as if sharing my pain, as if my failures were disrupting his concentration, as if I was making things harder for all of them.
The stocky boy with the scar was doing better. His movements were rough and unrefined, but he followed the form accurately.The reed still struck him—crack, crack—but less frequently than I realized.
The nervous small boy was struggling, too, his fear making him hesitant, but at least his movements were correct. When the reed struck him across the backs of his legs, he whimpered but did not stop moving.
The delicate-featured boy moved like he had been born to it. Every motion was precise, controlled, and fluid. He made it look effortless. The master barely touched him with the reed, and when he did, it was the gentlest tap, more reminder than correction.
And the tall, thin boy—he was good. Very good. His military bearing served him well here, as he performed the form with mechanical precision, each movement crisp and sure.
I tried again.
And again.
But each time, my body betrayed me, falling into Takeo’s patterns.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
