On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 200, of 240 so far.

Shuhari

I survey my opponent, and consider the battle before me.

Only he and I are here. The field is green under the noon sky, and the breeze is light. There are trees not far away, and birds perch in their branches, but no creatures intrude upon the field itself. It is as if nature herself knows that a conflict will soon begin.

And begin it does. My opponent comes forward, and his style is familiar to me. He has clearly practiced well, and for many years. His movements are fluid, and his stance is impeccable.

This is shu — the learning of the forms by training and repetition.

He has clearly enjoyed the teachings of a capable master, and he has absorbed those teachings well. He is upon me in moments, crossing the grass silently and in an instant, and a fist comes for my cheek, parting the wind with its speed and single-minded intent.

I have stepped to one side, turning with the blow, and I do not counterattack yet, because he will expect it. He maintains his balance, using his momentum to prepare a deflection which he does not need, and a moment later he also turns, his leg whipping around with the aim of striking my midsection. I avoid it easily.

I see it all clearly, even though he is very close and moving so quickly as to blur before me. I see it like igo, its black and white stones rearranging themselves on the board in all possible permutations. And as in that game, I see not only the current move, but also the next, and the next again.

My opponent restores some distance between us. I have not yet raised a limb, but I remain light on my feet, holding my position. I know that he is about to attack once more. I see it in his eyes, and his stance, and I hear it in the grass beneath his feet. Sure enough, he comes.

This time, I see a change. His approach is as expected, but he shifts his stance, feinting for a moment before pulling himself around to attempt a sudden kick to my thigh. It is a deviation from the forms, intended to confuse and surprise.

This is ha — the breaking with tradition.

His innovation is admirable and would surely be effective against any other opponent, and I silently congratulate him on it with a nod of respect. But I also shift my weight, avoiding his heel without exertion.

I see the note of frustration on his face, and also his own respect for my response. Neither of us allow ourselves to hesitate, however, and I anticipate the follow-up lunge and pair of high-low strikes with his fists. The low strike will be unavoidable, and so I bring my opposite arm across as I turn, allowing his forearm to make contact instead, and then roll away without imparting any significant force.

This time, I counter, in deference to his wish to engage. My elbow collides with his ribs, though I moderate the impact, and he stumbles away by one step before regaining his stance. As a gesture of sportsmanship, I also take one step back, allowing my opponent to more readily survey our situation.

His next strategy will be to attempt to come at me from the side — his left, my right — because he has realised that my defences cannot be penetrated with a frontal approach. His blows will be less effortful now, as he conserves energy in expectation of an extended confrontation, seeking small opportunities wherever they might be found.

His assessment is reasonable, but he has neglected to consider that I, too, will exert very little energy, and that it is his own determination to attack, and to succeed, and to end the battle, which will be his undoing. He is younger than I, and he has not yet acquired the skill of releasing himself from his own expectations. Thus, he is destined to fail. I can attain victory by allowing him to fight alone. This wisdom is lost upon the young.

My opponent approaches again, more carefully now, moving like a stalking animal in the grass. His eyes watch my entire body, and again I find myself admiring his knowledge of the forms. He crosses to one side, turning around, and the motion is unexpected in the context. Both shu and ha in the same move. I allow him to proceed at an oblique angle, and it is the air itself that warns me of the incoming knife-strike of his hand to my neck. The blow does not land, because my body is as water, and he knows nothing of my knee until it strikes his abdomen with three-quarters force. My elbow to his upper back finishes the engagement, and he lies with his face in the grass.

My opponent’s grasp of the forms, and his innovation, are impressive — but he has failed to understand an underlying truth. The mind directs the body, but it is the body that learns. In time, it is the body that will teach the mind the truth.

I open my eyes, and my opponent has vanished. He never existed; the battle a product of my own mind, as I stand in the dojo. I will fight again soon, and then again, a new challenger each time, with different styles and in different forms.

This is ri — transcendence, where all movements are one with the spirit.

It is here that battles are won, within the self, before they have ever been fought.

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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