The Tale of the Master of the Fly Swat

Baba Gene began:

As the sun rose over the rolling green terrain of the Eastern Islands, it caused glints of light to flash in welcome from the top of a hill, the highest for miles around. The empty grass slopes lead up to a rocky crest with a single large boulder. Upon this stood the mighty warrior, Anasoti. His shoulders rippled broad to the sides and his feet were rooted like a tree. His eyes were set in a determined glaze and before them he whirled a huge Samurai sword. The blade was almost half his towering height and spun in complex figures of eighty-eight, threading a lethal web of cutting edges around him.

The dawn flashed the red glow of success onto his stony features and he allowed the orb of life to fully surmount the East before he raised his blade to the sky and cried aloud in triumph. He had made it. After decades of fierce training he could finally be called a Master. He'd spun the sword around him since the setting of the sun the previous day and did not falter once. The weapon had become such an integral extension of his own limbs that he could finally trust it to arc close around him while his mind switched off into a steady trance.

His moment of triumph was one of such complete perfection that he was tempted to cut off his own head and immortalise himself right there in his moment of greatest glory. But then the words of his greatest inspiration, Master Mu, came back to him:

'It is far easier to die as a Master than to live as one'.

Anasoti smiled grimly and hoisted his sword onto its shoulder strap. He charged down the hill to the village in the next valley to eat a hearty breakfast fit for a warrior such as he. He strode along the river bank with the proud surety that there were now none to be found as great as he. But in the middle of his third bowl of pork and noodles he choked on a mushroom as he realized that he might still be only second best. There was still Master Mu.

Since he was a child, Anasoti had devoured the pages of the classic "The Way of the Warrior", written by Mu, which outlined the necessary steps to attaining martial perfection. He had memorised the entire work but could never afford the long voyage to see the Master himself, where he lived in the Southernmost tropical island.

Possessed by the desire to test himself against his mentor, Anasoti hired himself out as a mercenary on the most dangerous and lucrative contracts. Heads beyond counting rolled off his blade and each battle became simply a blur, just one step closer to attaining his dream. He lived cheaply on beef soup and goat's milk, sleeping rough in hay stacks where none dared disturb him.

Finally, he could afford the fare for transport and spent every waking hour of the passage in devoted practice. The other passengers didn't dare come up on deck. With his deep knowledge of the Ways of Strategy, it did not surprise him that Mu was already waiting at the port, somehow warned of his visit in advance. Mu was much smaller than he expected and apparently ageless. His simple white robes fluttered in the breeze as he gave his visitor a small bow, no deeper than courtesy demanded. They walked in silence through the rowdy marketplace and out of the town, up the valley to Mu's bamboo hut.

Anasoti sat impatiently upon a wicker chair while his host prepared the necessary tea. Then from the kitchen came a furious series of swishing noises, as though the Master was doing battle with the air itself. Unable to restrain his curiosity, the mighty warrior stepped round the silk brocade to behold Mu surrounded by walls of dead flies, swatter poised in his hand. Lizards crept greedily closer. Anasoti could not help but laugh as Mu carried the tea through.

"Is this how the famed master expends his energy? Killing flies?"

Mu paused with the tray in his hands.

"Can you," he said, speaking for the first time, "Kill a fly?"

He nodded towards a large bluebottle that curled its legs on the empty wooden table, low-down on the floor. Anasoti withdrew his sword and swung it down with an impressive crash.

"Well, you seem to have destroyed my table," Mu observed calmly, "But I don't see the dead body of your target anywhere."

"Enough. Who cares about killing flies?" His visitor roared, "I came all this way to fight you."

"In answer to your first question: I do. The smallest of flies may infect your food with a deadly disease to kill the largest of warriors. As for your second request," Mu said, setting down the tray and withdrawing his fly swat from his waistband, "I will fight you for as long as you like."

Anasoti charged forwards with whirling iron but was thwacked between the eyes just as he formed the intention to strike. Infuriated, he once again aimed to cleave the small man's skull in two but his swing was again pre-empted by a mere instant. His cheeks stung from the whip of the tiny bamboo flail.

An hour later, Anasoti was red in the face from the swishes and swats of his opponent, who was not even in a sweat. Humiliated, he had to admit defeat.

"I give in." He admitted, head hanging low in exhaustion and shame. "But tell me, what is your secret?"

Mu replied:

"It is simple. While you intend to strike me, I know I will hit you. There is no doubt in my mind that it has already happened. You broadcast your thoughts like a trumpet long before you act upon them - I simply step in first."

Anasoti nodded, defeated in spirit.

"I thought I was the best swordsman in the land." He moaned pitifully.

"Maybe you are,” Mu laughed, “But why waste your time with such thoughts? Swords are so heavy. Come drop your weapon and take up the noble art of hunting flies."

Anasoti threw his sword into the bushes and picked up the swat presented to him. He spent the rest of his days in study under Master Mu, learning how to combat the infinite enemies.

Chapter 15