At a brutal martial arts tournament, Darius struggles with the intoxicating glory and the dangerous darkness of violence.

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Halfway Civilized

The morning of the tournament I woke before dawn in my corner beneath the bridge, my body wrapped in two wool blankets, my back pressed against the cold stones of the ancient bridge. As always, my hand went to my back, confirming that my dao was still there. As for my belongings, everything I owned was in my travel pack, which was under the blanket with me, tucked against my belly like a cat.

Not ten paces away, a cargo ship slipped by in the darkness. Two silhouetted men stood silently in the pilot house, then were gone, passing out of my view. Lives that I would never know about. Only Allah knew them all, subhanahu. Waves lapped against the river’s stone embankment. A family of rats scurried past, seeking their morning meal, and a cat came out of the darkness as quietly as a fish, stalking the rodents. One of them would be his breakfast.

Today mattered. I did not fully understand why, only that it did.

Among the bridge dwellers was a young woman named Teardrop who watched people’s belongings for a small fee. I left my pack and blankets with her and went to Salat al-Fajr, and after that to a barber for the first time in my life. The old barber clucked disapprovingly at the state of my hair before taking shears to it. Long black strands fell around me in heaps while customers drank tea and argued about politics and grain prices. When he finished, my hair no longer hung down my back but rested near my ears, neat and light.

“You look halfway civilized,” the barber declared.

I walked to the tournament grounds. Along the way I stopped at a general store and bought a pair of black cloth shoes with padded soles that gripped the ground silently.

Archery and Comedy

The city square had been transformed overnight. Great red banners fluttered from poles surrounding a massive raised platform built of dark wood. Musicians played drums and flutes while vendors shouted over one another, selling roasted chestnuts, noodles, sweet buns and tea. Thousands of spectators crowded the square and surrounding rooftops, packed shoulder to shoulder beneath colorful awnings.

I had never seen so many people gathered in one place.

They began with the archery competition, which proved surprisingly entertaining. Targets were set at varying distances, some stationary and others swinging from ropes in the breeze. Most competitors were men, but women participated as well, drawing loud cheers whenever they struck the bullseye. One elderly archer split his own arrow cleanly in half, eliciting gasps from the audience. Another competitor attempted a flashy trick shot while spinning and accidentally loosed his arrow into a cabbage vendor’s stall, causing a riot of laughter and furious shouting.

The clear favorite, however, was a teenage girl named Deng Weili. Calm and expressionless, she struck the center of the target again and again with almost eerie precision, as though the arrows were simply returning home.

When it came to the open sparring event, there were many more competitors than I expected, most of them older than me. Many clearly belonged to established schools. Some wore matching uniforms with embroidered symbols on the chest. Others carried expensive training weapons polished to mirror brightness. Some eyed me curiously. Others ignored me entirely.

I knew I would not win. I was here for the experience, and perhaps to sharpen my skills for next time.

One man laughed openly when he saw my plain tunic and dockworker’s trousers. “Which school are you from?” he asked mockingly.

“The school of the docks,” I replied.

Shah Suliman was there as a judge, but the tournament manager was a thick-bodied, ruddy faced man they called Sergeant Karim, who looked like he could lift a young bull. I left my dao with him for safekeeping.

Bridge Boy!

The sparring contests were simple. Victory came by rendering the opponent unconscious or forcing him to submit, whether by strikes, throws or chokes. Strikes to the eyes, throat, groin and back of head were forbidden. One loss, and you were out. Because of the multitude of competitors, a participant would have to fight and win multiple rounds to win the competition. At least six, maybe more. Six fights in a single day. That was crazy.

When my turn came, I removed my boots and slipped on the cotton kung fu shoes. My first opponent was broad shouldered and aggressive. He rushed me recklessly the instant the signal drum sounded. He snarled as if he genuinely wanted to kill me, and indeed his first blow was a massive overhand punch thrown with everything he had. If it connected, it might kill me. This was street fighting, not martial arts. Luckily for me, I was skilled at both. I ducked under the punch, seized his sleeve and belt, and threw him cleanly off his feet. He struck the platform hard enough to shake the stage, and my own palm strike was an instant behind, driving into his chin and knocking him out cold. The match had lasted perhaps three heartbeats.

I stood back, thinking, “What was that about?” The man had seemed to genuinely hate me.

The crowd fell silent for a moment, then roared. I heard some chanting, “Bridge Boy!” I rolled my eyes. That was not really how I wanted to be known.

I dismounted the stage as others took their turns. This would take all day, but I didn’t mind. I watched the other matches with great interest. There were so many different styles of fighting. The one common factor was that they fought ferociously. No one ever submitted, even when being choked, or when a limb was about to break.

I turned to a man beside me, an elderly fellow munching a corn on the cob. “Why do they fight so hard?”

He eyed me incredulously. “Aren’t you a competitor? Silly boy, you don’t know what you got yourself into. Five Star guards are exempt from military service. They are fighting for their lives.”

Sifu Lu

One fighter impressed me deeply. He was older, perhaps in his thirties, with powerful shoulders and calm eyes. His braided queue hung nearly to his waist, and unlike the others he showed his opponent respect immediately, bowing deeply before the match began. When the fight began his hands and feet flashed. He had his opponent on the ground in almost no time. He was clearly a martial arts master. He cranked the opponent’s meaty arm behind his back, threatening to tear the shoulder. When the man did not submit, however, the master switched to an arm triangle choke, and rendered the man unconscious in seconds.

I understood. He hadn’t wanted to break the man’s arm, even though it would have won him the match; so he’d switched to a less damaging option. It was an expression of weakness, but at the same time a sign of great confidence and compassion. I was moved by that. But I could not force the thought to coalesce into anything more concrete.

People chanted the master’s name: “Sifu Lu! Sifu Lu!” I realized I had heard his name before, in the form of comments like, “Don’t mess with Sifu Lu’s students, they’ll wreck you.” And, “I wish I could afford to study with Sifu Lu.”

My second opponent threw a high kick to my head, slipped on a splash of blood left behind by previous fighters, and struck the back of his head on the stage, knocking himself out. The crowd laughed uproariously. After that, the tournament organizers sent cleaners up to mop the stage regularly.

My third and fourth opponents were inconsequential youths hardly older than me. They wore black sashes from a local school, indicating mastery, but I finished them quickly. One wept afterward, saying that he didn’t want to go to the army. I thought I should feel sympathy, but my heart plodded along undisturbed. No one wanted to go to the army, but my own father had volunteered and died. Such is life.

I didn’t feel good about these fights. These competitors were not at my level. The violence felt pointless.

Emotional Exhaustion

Chewing on my upper life, I watched the others. Sifu Lu defeated his opponents as quickly as I had mine, and with more finesse. With his physique, focus and powerful movement, he reminded me of a lion. Actually, he reminded me of my father. I stayed close to the stage, because people pressed forward, wanting to talk to me. Many women seemed to want simply to touch me. But the event had guards around the stage, and they held the crowd back.

The crowd chanted the names of the top fighters. Sifu Lu! Rhino! Thunderfoot! Bridge Boy!

Many fighters were carried out on stretchers. Even some winners were unable to continue to the next round. Occasionally I found myself diagnosing their injuries, and thinking of what balms I would use to treat them, and how I would splint their limbs. Whenever I caught myself doing that I clucked my tongue in annoyance.

My fifth opponent was Thunderfoot. He was in his mid twenties and flexible, and from the start he nailed me with a whiplike kick to my chest that lifted me off my feet. Rather than pouncing, he waited for me to stand. His feet darted and flew. I tried slipping into River Flow, but it eluded me. My mind was foggy, my emotions turbulent. Maybe I didn’t know for sure why I was doing this. Maybe, even with all these people cheering for me, I was lonely. A moment of emotional exhaustion hit, and I dropped my arms. I stood straight, with my hands at my sides. Thunderfoot thought I was taunting him. His eyes blazed, and he leaped into a flying kick. Idly, I caught the kicking leg under my arm and threw him down hard. He rolled to his knees and elbows, winded. I slipped an arm under his neck and lazily choked him out.

“Bridge Boy!” they chanted. I waved a hand for them to stop that nonsense, but they thought I was asking for more, and chanted louder. I shook my head and exited the stage.

I realized that I was desperately hungry. I had not eaten anything all day. I bought a steamed bun and a bag of popcorn, drank coconut water, and waited for my next match. The food revived me physically, but emotionally I still felt disconnected from all this.

Eight men remained. My sixth opponent was Rhino. He was short and bulging with muscle, with a neck like a chimney. He was apparently the Deep Harbor grappling champion. When he saw an opening he dove for my legs. I sidestepped, but he caught my ankle and took me down. He sat atop me and drove his shoulder into my jaw, pinning me. The pain was intense. Yet I just lay there. I did not struggle. He drove a punch into my spleen, then gave me a blow to the top of the skull that made my ears ring. Stars swam before my eyes.

“Fight, damn you!” Rhino snarled. “Useless bridge trash.”

Rage rose inside me. No one treated me this way! I had grappling skills but it was not my area of expertise. I could not play Rhino’s game. I struck both his temples simultaneously, then clapped his ears. When he reared up in shock I bridged my hips, threw him off me, and followed with a massive knee strike to his liver. He groaned and rolled into a ball. The match was over.

What Your Father Taught You

Descending from the stage, I marched to the judging table and confronted Sergeant Karim. “Give me back my dao,” I said. “I quit.”

He stood, his black eyes concerned. “Are you injured?”

I looked away. “It’s not that. I just feel that this is pointless.”

“The prize is three gold coins. People are chanting your name.”

“No, they’re chanting nonsense. My name is Darius Lee.”

“Let me talk to him,” Shah Suliman said. He took my elbow, and pulled me aside. “What’s wrong? Are you scared?”

I snorted. The only thing that had ever scared me was the prospect of losing my family, and that had come to pass. Physical violence was nothing.

He studied me. “Who taught you to fight?”

“I told you last time. My father.”

“Show us what your father taught you. Honor him. Don’t hold back.”

The words echoed in my chest like a distant drum. I nodded. “Okay.”

I mounted the stage. My seventh opponent was a lithe striker with enlarged knuckles. His punches whistled past my ears.

I fell into River Flow, and the world went silent. I was not on a stage, performing for thousands. I was back on the run-down farm, practicing in the dirt with my father. He expected my utmost effort at all times, and would punish me if I held back. He showed no mercy, and expected none.

I had wanted to follow Sifu Lu’ s example and defeat my opponents non-violently, but that seemed silly now. Street fighting techniques forgotten, I embraced my roots: Five Animals. My opponent’s punch was surely fast, but in my eyes he moved like a sloth. I ducked a wide hook, then leaped into a backward somersault, in the process kicking the man beneath the chin. He came off the ground and flew clear off the stage. People screamed. The medics carried him away.

The Final Match

I stayed close to the stage and watched Sifu Lu defeat a huge man that I recognized as a dock worker, and who apparently had a background either as a soldier or a criminal, because he threw every blow as if he wanted to murder someone. Sifu Lu took a few hits, but put the man down.

This was it then. Me versus Sifu Lu for the win.

We were given ten minutes to rest. The crowd had grown, packing more people into a space I thought was already full. The ground was slippery with fruit peels and spit. I saw money passing hands as bookies took bets. Fights broke out between those who supported me – mostly impoverished dock workers – and the uniformed, merchant-class martial artists who supported Lu.

We were called up. I was still in River Flow. In my mind, my father was gone and I was a boy alone on the farm, with Lady Two and Far Away as companions. I practiced in the dirt as Far Away watched, throwing myself into it, my movements acrobatic and operatic. My chest ached and my jaw was sore – I might have cracked a tooth – but all that was nothing.

Sifu Lu – his face bruised, and favoring one leg – must have seen something of my state of mind, because I saw him swallow hard. He bowed to me, and I bowed back. Again the roar of the crowd faded. The pain in my jaw, my aching knuckles – all that disappeared. Lu launched a blindingly fast attack. I parried, sidestepped, and ducked. He could not touch me. He paused and stood back, reassessing. I saw the fine worry lines around his eyes, and the way his tongue flicked out to taste the blood on his lip. His limbs were powerful, his chest wide.

Again I dropped my hands and stood watching, not out of apathy this time, but curiosity. It was as if I were outside myself, watching.

Sifu Lu set his jaw and surged forward aggressively, committing to a heavy strike. I slipped the blow and stepped past him. Before he could recover I seized his long braided ponytail with both hands and yanked backward and down sharply. He crashed onto his back, and I kicked him in the jaw, knocking him out.

For half a second there was stunned silence. Then the square exploded with cheers. A healer rushed onto the stage and revived Sifu Lu. The master stood slowly and glared at me. “Dirty tactic,” he said.

Instead of replying, I gave a deep bow. “Master Lu,” I said. “It was an honor. You are a great fighter and a great man.”

His anger faded. He grinned and shook his head. “Come to my school sometime.” He held up a hand to forestall my reply. “As a teacher, not a student.”

An Exception to the Rules

The competition moved on to the weapons demonstrations.

Competitors performed spear routines, staff forms, paired sword sequences and elaborate flourishes meant to impress the judges and crowd alike.

I picked up my dao from Sergeant Karim. When I unsheathed it, he frowned immediately.

“You may not use a sharpened weapon,” he declared. “Training blades only.”

He pointed toward a rack of dulled practice weapons beside the stage.

“No,” I said calmly. “I know my dao. I have trained with it for years.”

“That is irrelevant.”

Before the argument could continue, Shah Suliman said, “We will make an exception this once.”

Sergeant Karim hesitated, clearly annoyed, then stepped aside. “If he cuts himself,” he said, “he loses automatically.”

Suliman nodded.

I stepped alone onto the platform. The square quieted. I knew what many of them were thinking. “The kid can fight, but is he any good with a sword?”

River Flow had still not left me. I closed my eyes briefly and breathed once. If the live blade would be used against me, then let me show the audience the true nature of my skill. I took two steps, pivoted rapidly and struck one of the narrow wooden pillars that held the awning above the stage. With a ringing sound, the blade cut cleanly through the wood. The awning tipped to one side, threatening to fall. People cried out in surprise. I faced the audience, the sword hanging at my side. Now they knew exactly what I wielded.

With that, I began to move. The blade whistled through the air in flashing arcs so fast that the audience gasped repeatedly. I flowed from Five Animals footwork into battlefield cuts my father had taught me, into improvised combinations born from thousands of hours of solo practice on my father’s farm and on Zihan Ma’s, and finally from the handful of deadly conflicts I’d been in. The edge passed so close to my own body at times that several spectators cried out in alarm.

When I finished, the square erupted into thunderous applause unlike anything I had ever experienced. People were standing now, shouting and stamping their feet against the wooden benches.

I stood breathing hard, sweat running down my neck, staring out over the sea of faces. River Flow left me, and I felt suddenly exhausted. All I wanted to do was sleep.

Disqualified

The judges withdrew for deliberation. It took a long time.

Finally the head judge handed a scroll to Sergeant Karim and he mounted the stage.

“The results are as follows,” he announced stiffly. “In the archery competition, the winner is Deng Weili.”

I smiled, remembering her. She deserved it.

“As for the sparring competition,” Karim went on, “competitor Darius Lee violated tournament rules by pulling an opponent’s hair. Sifu Lu is the winner. In the weapons demonstration, Darius Lee broke the rules by damaging the pillar. He is disqualified from that as well. Yu Dongyue is the winner.”

For a moment the square went completely silent. Then the crowd erupted in furious boos. Someone hurled a steamed bun at the judges. Others followed with nutshells, fruit peels and cups of tea. The judges recoiled while guards hurried forward uncertainly.

“Cowards!” someone shouted.

“He beat them fair!”

“Shame!”

The judges hastily retreated into a huddle while the crowd continued jeering loudly. I stood motionless below the platform, stunned. I had been so apathetic during the competition, but suddenly I wanted this. I’d fought and bled for it. I might even lose a tooth. I wanted something more than life under a bridge. I wanted this! And they’d taken it from me.

After several tense minutes the judges emerged again, visibly rattled. Sergeant Karim conferred with them, and returned to the stage. He cleared his throat nervously.

“After further discussion,” he announced, “the disqualification applies only to the sparring competition. Darius Lee remains the winner of the weapons demonstration.”

The crowd grumbled angrily but settled. Some even applauded again.

Master Lu, Deng Weili and myself mounted the stage. Suliman Shah hung medals around our necks, and gave each of us three gold coins. Master Lu took my hand and Weili’s and raised them in the air. Turning to me, he gave me a wink. I could not help smiling in return.

Offers, Legal and Not

Afterward several men approached me. One represented a wushu school and wanted to hire me to teach. Another offered underground matches, fighting for money. A third man, heavyset and richly dressed, asked bluntly whether I was interested in “more profitable opportunities.”

I knew exactly what he meant. Crime.

“No,” I told him.

Finally Shah Suliman approached. “On behalf of Five Star Trading Company, I extend to you an offer to train as a caravan guard. If you are hired full time, a salary offer will be made.”

“Didn’t you vote to disqualify me?”

“Rules are rules. But your skill is undeniable. I would have extended the offer anyway.”

“Alright. I accept.”

He gave me a slip of paper with an address on it. “Report tomorrow morning.”

“How about a ride home? I’m beat.”

Suliman nodded. “I can arrange that.”

On the way home, I stopped the wagon driver long enough to buy an entire basket of steamed beef buns. Back under the bridge, I distributed these among the river dwellers. Many of them had attended the tournament, and we sat in a big circle around a fire as they regaled the others with tales of my prowess. Teardrop smiled at me shyly, and a big veteran who went by Dragontop kept clapping me on the shoulder.

Later, under the blankets, I nursed my cracked tooth with my tongue and thought about the new life I would begin tomorrow. I wondered what Zihan Ma, Lee Ayi, Haaris, Far Away and Bao Bao were doing at that moment. Then I wondered if I would ever stop wondering that.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 14 – Five Star Trading Company

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

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