The Path Read Free

older man’s approval. The need
     was less obvious than it had once been and manifested less frequently, but it was there. So he returned to the dojo a few
     hours later determined to persuade MacLeod to come with him to the peace rally.
    He arrived at the martial arts school just as one group of members was leaving. The dojo would be empty now for a couple of
     hours. Plenty of time.
    MacLeod was back in his office again. Richie waved at him as he hung his jacket on a peg, then walked over and drew one of
     the practice
katanas
off the wall. This, he knew, was one sure way to draw MacLeod onto the floor. He would pretend not to watch at first, but
     soon he would be out here correcting something in Richie’s form, showing him how a slight variation in balance or swing could
     make it more effective—and help him keep his head.
    A few stretches to wake up his muscles and get the blood flowing, then Richie began moving through the basic motions he had
     been taught: guard, slice, thrust, upward cut, downward cut, diagonal left, right, different angles, entries, and parries,
     keeping his balance on the balls of his feet, imagining an opponent’s sword, his body, his head.
    Soon Richie was sweating; his taut muscles warmed andloosened. He almost forgot about MacLeod as he tightened his focus on what he was doing.
Make the sword a part of yourself, an extension of your arm;
in the past few years these words had become as familiar to him as the sound of his own name.
Extend your energy, your ch’i, to the tip of the blade. Let the sword do the work
.
    “You dropped your left shoulder on that one,” said the familiar voice behind him. “It left your guard open. I could have disarmed
     you and taken your head.”
    Richie nearly smiled. MacLeod was just the right kind of predictable. He turned to face his teacher. Duncan stood there with
     a sword in his hand. It was not his own
katana
—he never drew that lightly—it was the other practice sword from the wall.
    Without further discussion, MacLeod saluted Richie, one swordsman to another, then dropped into his favorite stance with the
     graceful ease of a big cat stretching. His movements were always so precise they inspired, and slightly intimidated, Richie.
     He did his best to match MacLeod’s position.
    A few seconds later the dojo rang with the clash of blade upon blade. The sound echoed off the walls, filling the space like
     a miniature thunderstorm. Richie pressed his advantage every time MacLeod gave him an opening, and each time Duncan forced
     him back. Whenever Richie dropped his shoulder, MacLeod’s blade would come up and slap him. Through it all, the older man
     kept smiling. It was infuriating.
    Finally, shoulders sore and forearm aching, Richie stepped back and saluted, signaling a halt.
    “You’re improving,” MacLeod said, still smiling.
    “Yeah, right. Then why do I still come out of these encounters with my shoulders bruised?”
    “Because you keep dropping your guard. Don’t worry, Richie—another couple centuries of practice and maybe you’ll beat me.”
    “I doubt it.”
    MacLeod smiled over his shoulder as he walked to the wall and returned the
katana
to its holder. “So how did your search for a date go?”
    Richie shook his head. “It seems that listening to the Dalai Lama isn’t what most girls think of as a fun way to spend a Fridaynight. I guess I’ll just have to eat the cost of these tickets. Unless—”
    MacLeod turned and leaned back against the wall, casually folding his arms across his chest. He was still smiling his same
     infuriating I-know-what-you’re-going-to-do-before-you-do-it smile.
    “Unless what?” he said.
    “Unless you go with me.”
    “I already said no.”
    “I know, Mac, but I’ve been thinking. I know I said these are good seats—and don’t get me wrong, they are—but there’ll be
     hundreds of people there. You’ll see the Dalai Lama okay from where you’re sitting, clear as a bell, but