Fudebakublog

Miyamoto Musashi was probably the most famous swordsman in all of Japan, and he created the ni-to ryu, or two-swords, school of fighting. As readers of Fudebakudo know, there are several versions of the story of how this came about (the book mischievously contains two contradictory accounts), but one of the most enduring is that the secrets of this new, radical way of fighting were revealed to him by a mountain tengu. 

Tengu is usually translated as "goblin," which of course loses something cultural in the translation (see this Wikipedia entry on the topic for more detail). But generally it is accepted that the tengu were reclusive mountain goblins with big noses who had unsurpassed and alien skills in swordmanship.

The cheaty nature (fighting with two swords when everybody else was doing the decent thing following convention and using just the one, in the right hand), the big noses and — most subtle of all — the red and black colours that are frequently seen in contemporary woodcuts showing tengu, all point to the presence of European Fudebakudo. Rather than sacred goblins in mountain hideaways, might these not have been gaijin, Western devils teaching methods outside the box (or, as Fudebakudo scholars put it, "outside the lacquered box")? Could it be that, in this way, foreigners introduced underhand Fudebakudo tactics into hitherto honourable Japanese sword-fighting? They were reclusive because, as outsiders, they had no position in Japan's rigid social hierarchy. In fact, Japan actively rejected foreigners such as these when it adopted the sakoku policy of closing itself off from the world, which was instigated within Musashi's lifetime. It's possible that this was as a direct result of the samurai classes seeing (or suspecting) the influence such foreigners had had on him — he'd started beating them with these new strategies, after all.

Certainly it is known that Fudebakudo principles were at work in European fencing schools at the time (see this previous blog entry), and that a similar reintroduction of an Eastern military concept from the West had occurred just half a century earlier, when the Portugese began trading firearms with Japan's gunless rulers.

Of course, the truth is that we will probably never really know, because so few tengu survive today, and those that can be approached (such as the isolated captive specimens in the restricted-access area of Tokyo's Ueno Zoo) are invariably vague and elusive when questioned on the topic. So the reintroduction of Fudebakudo to Japan via European hideaways remains a controversial and perhaps taboo explanation of Musashi's brilliance and, in consequence, an overlooked influence on Japanese sword-fighting.

Most people familiar with Fudebakudo know it as an oriental martial art. Its history — traced right back to its introduction to China some time around 500AD — is described in a little more detail in the book. But its spread into the West, probably following the spice routes overland through Constantinople, is not so well understood. Part of the problem, of course, is that historical records rarely if ever openly mention Fudebakudo because it was (and still is) a secret martial art. In fact, the absence of explicit reference to Fudebakudo in the illuminated manuscripts of the middle ages pretty much proves what a total secret it was. When Fudebakudo does occur, it is always in a covert or coded fashion. Because many historians are not aware of the subtlety of this, clear references can often be overlooked.

A case in point can be found in old instruction books from medieval European sword fighting schools. In this case, I need to remind you that one aspect of Fudebakudo is the traditional use of three colours — namely, black, white, and red. This long-standing triumvirate is explained in this FAQ question ("Why is everything black, white, and red?").

With that in mind, it is telling to read on the website of the Association for Renaissance Martial Arts (about half-way down the page, on the right) the following:

 . . .many of the old Fechtbuchs (fighting books) in fact wrote in red and black ink. Theory was described in red while the explanation was black.

Today, the ARMA actually wear Fudebakudo colours as a tacit acknowledgment of the importance of Fudebakudo's role in the development of Western sword fighting. Nonetheless, presumably to respect the secret nature of the art, nowhere on their website do they openly admit to the connection. To a trained eye, of course, that implicit denial proves that the ARMA, behind oak-pannelled, iron-studded doors, is — even as you read this — studying the secret techniques of historical Fudebakudo. Well done them.

Last month I went with my friend Mr Wolf (yes, he is probably the same one who's in all the fairy tales) to visit bowyer Pip Bickerstaffe of Bickerstaffe Bows in Kegworth (to be cheesy, that's not terribly far from Sherwood Forest). It was a fascinating trip and Pip was generous with his time — he's a busy man not least because of the increasing popularity of shooting with traditional bows, and obviously making longbows is a labour-intensive process.

Standing listening to Pip talk in his workshop, accompanied by the overriding and reassuring smell of dusty woodwork, it's clear that here is a man who lives and breathes not only the historical connection of his work but also the materials of his craft. In fact, when he lost one of his fingers on the circular saw a few years ago, you wonder if actually he bled sap instead of blood. He told us the tale with the unnerving, genuine nonchalance of a veteran — presumably bowyers have suffered equivalent injuries through the ages and it's only the electricity and the two packs of frozen peas (for the trip to hospital, bowyer and bowyer's finger) that made this accident any different. As they couldn't guarantee it would have complete feeling if they sewed it back on, he elected for them not to bother, since the idea of such an imperfect finger seemed to him worse than none at all. I want to stress that he told us this not as an affectation, but with the matter-of-factness of a craftsman. Cartoonists rarely lose their fingers in moments of indiscretion, so it was in a way both humbling and bracing to meet someone for whom such things are a reality.

A consequence of his years of experience as a bowyer gives Pip an almost uniquely qualified opinion on the history of the longbow. The perceived wisdom on the subject is that the English longbow was a formidable weapon, with an awesome draw-weight releasing armour-penetrating arrows up to 300 yards, at a staggering rate of fire. But actually the evidence in both archaeological finds and replica shoots doesn't back up what may be English propaganda — a formidable weapon, yes, but not to the extremes that are often claimed for it.

One of the interesting things about this is that although original longbows from the time do exist (most of which are from the Mary Rose, which we went to see the next day) none of them can be drawn — the wood simply wouldn't withstand being strung, let alone being drawn or releasing an arrow. But someone like Pip can (unlike your normal military historian) draw informed conclusions about likely performance based on examining physical details of original examples, such as the fineness of their grain, and their length and weight.

Pip's research on the historic English war bow is available in his small but rich little book Medieval War Bows: a Bowyer's Thoughts. His conclusion puts the realistic draw-weight of the English war bow at considerably less than 100lbs. This isn't because the bows couldn't be made more powerful (they could be) or that medieval archers couldn't draw more (they could). Instead, he asserts that the limiting factor was the string technology at the time. Although no bowstrings have survived from the middle ages, the maximum thickness of the strings can be known for certain because the nocks on the end of the arrows must have fitted them. Given that for a viable weapon the string would have to last at least for a handful of shots without breaking, it's likely that the working draw weight of standard military issue longbows (which were fundamentally a disposable weapon) was much lower than English historians have previously wanted to believe.

Pip's larger book, The Heritage of the Long Bow, discusses more detail than you can shake a bag of arrows at, including everything you could need to make a bow — except, of course, the years of experience that are required in order to do the job properly. Contact Bickerstaffe Bows directly if you want to get hold of either book . . . or one of his bows.

A few weeks back, someone I had trained with years and years ago turned up at one of the aikido dojo where I practice. It was interesting to work out with him again because now, as then, I can learn a lot from his thorough and powerful style. But he's also the person who stuffed up my shoulder in a pin over ten years ago. It hasn't made any difference that anyone in the real world would notice, but if you have the pleasure of cranking a submission arm lock on me (and if you do aikido, then of course you might) you'll discover (if you're sensitive enough . . . lots of people aren't) that one arm goes a fair bit further than the other.

This happened to me in ikkyo. That's the "first thing" of aikido, the basic immobilisation technique, and the pin usually works by holding the outstretched arm flat to the mat, at an angle in the region of 127 degrees to the side of the body. That's enough detail — either you know what I'm talking about or you don't. (I have to be careful because as soon as you make an assertion about any point of technique in aikido — or presumably fly-fishing, train-spotting, or day-dreaming — there will be plenty of people clamouring to differ). But the point is, the pin is the ending, and generally it's true to say that the victim (called in aikido parlance the uke) is, at this stage, passive — because they have been controlled by the technique. So if at this stage of the technique, you sustain an injury, there's very little you could have done to prevent it. Liken it, if you will, to slapping a child after you've tucked them gently into bed and read them a story.

Now the important thing to bear in mind is that in the context of an aikido class, I am only in that position because I agreed to let it happen to me. I don't mean because the technique works in an irresistible, unthwartable way — that's a "does aikido work?" question, which is a different matter entirely — but because the nature of aikido is that one of you has agreed to be the victim (although it's more common to say "receive the technique"). The bow before the attack is more or less us formally agreeing that I am coming at you to be victimised.  The philosophical angle on this is that aikido practice is co-operative rather than competitive, so that in fact I am volunteering to be your victim for your sake. I sacrifice myself to further your own development. I give you my arm so you can practice twisting it, so that you might become a better arm-twister.

Now you're thinking, wow, that's beautiful . . . or a bit weird, whatever. But it is why aikido people are such dears, bless them. But here's the rub — if, after all that, you hurt me, then you're an arse. Certainly that's what I thought at the time — and I was interested to see that, about 10 years later, on meeting said person my reaction was pretty much the same. He's still an arse, and he's still giving it out almost certainly without realising that he's known on the circuit (or part of the circuit) for such stupidity. I know this because when I said to one of the seniors after he'd gone, "ah yes, it's because of ______ that one of my shoulders doesn't work properly," he sighed and replied, "you and about ten others, I should think."

In some martial arts, someone like that would be smacked down into place and it would either stop, or he'd get a trophy and a tattoo for being such a full-on combat warrior. But remember this isn't about effectiveness, it's about hurting people when they are trying to help you. Put another way, it's like wounding people during the warm-up, since to all intents and purposes a submission done on someone who has given you their arm so you can practice your submission techniques is, at the end, really just a stretching exercise.

Anyway, aikido people, like I said, are such dears, that problems like this all too often go unaddressed. Bless them. Me, I'm not going to confront someone like this about it, because there are both simple and complex reasons why it's not worth it. Against ignorance the gods themselves contend in vain. I will (like everyone else who is mindful of this individual) avoid exposing myself to any more risk than is necessary, and write bitchy little comments about it in my blog, afterwards.

As a footnote: if he trained where I regularly trained, I would address this for the protection of all the other students. But, as I said, I hadn't seen the person concerned for 10 years, and probably won't do for as long again. And yes, if you were wondering, of course he gets it from his instructor (I know because I trained there too for a couple of years or so). I'm sure they think they are terribly tough, but what they haven't worked out  is that it's possible to be tough without being idiotic. But that, of course, only happens if you want it to.