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His anger was making him tense, and his tenseness was making him slow. That small decrease in speed would give Musashi the edge he needed. He drew his bokken. Seijuro sliced at him furiously. Musashi slipped the attack and brought his bokken up under the older man’s chin. The wood cracked into his jaw, and the great Seijuro fell to the ground.
     
    Musashi checked to make sure his opponent would not soon rise. He slid his bokken into his belt and brushed the dust and grass from his clothes. He bowed deeply, bowed politely to Seijuro’s second, and bowed again to his students. He straightened his shoulders and walked with dignity through the crowd.

 
    A ccording to legend, Hisamori Takenouchi founded the martial art of jujitsu. He was a samurai master of the bokken (wooden sw ord) and the jo (short staff). Before founding the first known jujitsu school in 1532, he w as a soldier, serving a daimyo (lord) in feudal Japan.
     
     
      
     The Gentle Way
     
     
    Takenouchi lay on the now-quiet battlefield, drifting in and out of consciousness. All around him wounded soldiers moaned in pain. A dead samurai lay mere inches from his face. Takenouchi’s shoulder throbbed, and his head pounded. Blood streamed down his face.
    He knew that if he stayed on the battlefield much longer he could be killed by wild animals or by treasure hunters picking through the casualties for something of value. He struggled to his feet, fighting the nausea that washed over him in waves. If he could make it to the forest, he could hide in the underbrush. He might even find some moss to stop the bleeding in his shoulder when he removed the arrow sticking out of it.
    Moving carefully around bodies of men and horses, Takenouchi made his way to the edge of the field. Blood and pain clouded his vision. Just a few more feet, and he would be under cover. Just a few more feet.
     
    Takenouchi awoke. He was lying on a mat covered by warm animal skins. An old man squatted by an open fire, stirring something in a large pot.
    “Where am I?” Takenouchi asked.
    “You’re awake,” said the old man. He stood and went to Takenouchi’s mat in the corner of the room. “How do you feel?”
    “Well enough, considering the injuries,” Takenouchi replied, trying to sit. The room went dark for a moment, and he fell back onto the mat. “Rest,” the old man said. “Your head is healing. Somebody clubbed you pretty hard. And you lost a lot of blood when I removed the arrow from your shoulder. All day yesterday, I thought I was going to lose you.” Takenouchi reached up to where the arrow had been. A thick bandage covered the spot. “You removed it?” he asked.
    “Yes,” said the old man. “I’ve fought my share of battles. I know a thing or two about treating injuries like yours.” He returned to his pot and spooned a dark liquid into a bowl. “Drink this,” he said. “You need to rebuild your blood.”
    Takenouchi gingerly propped himself up and accepted the bowl. He tasted the dark liquid. It was faintly bitter but warm and comforting.
    “You can call me Sato,” said the old man. “This is my house, and you are welcome to it.”
    “My name is Takenouchi.” He looked around. Sato’s house was tiny, a single room, barely enough space for a couple of sleeping mats and a cooking fire. “Do you live here alone?” he asked. “It’s a long way to the nearest town.”
    “Alone?” the old man said. “Yes, in a way I guess you could say I live here alone.” He took a tattered cape from a hook and wrapped it around his shoulders. “But I like to think that I live with the trees, and the sky, and the animals. And occasionally a visitor like you. I meditate, I do some exercises, and I live off what the forest and my garden provide. It’s a good life.”
    “But you were a soldier, a samurai?”
    “I was,” Sato said. “Until I tired of the killing.” A look crossed the old man’s face, a look Takenouchi had seen on old soldiers before, a look