Tales Of The Tiger

By Mark Peckett

Martial arts stories are usually about fighting, punching and kicking, but these stories are about how lives can be changed for better or worse, about how not all training is physical and not all of it takes place inside the dojo, dojang or kwoon, and how sometimes it doesn't even look like martial arts training at all!  These stories are about the dangers and difficulties posed by martial arts and about the pleasures which keep people practising them for a lifetime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Books
• Release date: Nov 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223850731

Book preview

TALES

OF THE

TIGER

Mark Peckett

APS BOOKS

Yorkshire

APS Books,

The Stables Field Lane,

Aberford,

West Yorkshire,

LS25 3AE

APS Books is a subsidiary of the APS Publications imprint

www.andrewsparke.com

©2023 Mark Peckett

All rights reserved.

Mark Peckett has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

Cover painting by kind permission of Jo Cursley

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of the publisher except that brief selections may be quoted or copied without permission, provided that full credit is given.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Contents

Parting the Wild Horse’s Mane

The Truth of Si-Fan Chu

In the Belly of the Beast

A Brief History of Zokudo

The Purple Sand Pot

East is East

The Way of No Way

A Day in the Park

The Way of the Warrior

The Hungry Ghost

Wind or Water Carry Us Away

Tengu

Sensei Says

The Red Room

The Nature of the Beast

Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting

Introduction

Martial arts stories have always tended to be about fighting, punching and kicking, although anyone who practises them knows that they are so much more.  I suppose because the focus of fiction is entertainment, writers tend to focus on the external aspects of the martial arts.  However, it is the internal aspects that draw us back to training week after week and year after year.

In these stories I have tried to touch on those things which often get ignored – the esoteric side of the arts, how they can change lives for better or worse, how not all of our training is physical and not all of it takes place inside the dojo, dojang or kwoon, and how some things don’t look like martial arts training at all!

Alongside the dangers and difficulties of the martial arts, I’ve also tried to highlight the pleasures which keep us practising them for a lifetime,  and I hope that in reading them you get some small pleasure too.

Mark Peckett

Parting the Wild Horse’s Mane

Jack did not want to go to school.  He didn’t want to come home again either.  At school, Billy McCann was waiting for him, and this evening the man who was replacing his father would be sitting in his father’s chair.

"You will be home early, won’t you? his mother told him, bending to kiss him on the cheek and wiping the greasy lipstick off with a wetted thumb.  Mr. Fortescue is coming for tea tonight." She straightened his tie and her perfume, sweet and cloying, filled his nostrils.  It gave him a headache and he breathed through his mouth so as not to be sick.

Avoiding her eyes, he didn’t answer, dashing out of the door clutching his satchel.  He did not stop running until he turned the corner at the end of his street.

He dawdled across the bombsite, taking the shine off his shoes scuffing for buried shrapnel, but all of that had gone a long time ago.

He crossed the High Street into the park.  The closer to school he got, the slower he walked.  In a corner of the park he liked to go to, near a fountain with green, scummy water around its base, under some trees, he saw an old man waving his arms and dancing slowly.  Jack thought he was off his head.  Since the war, a lot of men had gone off their heads, his mother said.

As the old man slowly spun round, Jack realised he wasn’t English.  He stared and the old man stopped.  Their eyes locked, Jack with his hands in his pockets and the old man with his in the air. 

Are you a Jap? Jack asked belligerently.

The old man’s face darkened.  I am from Nanjing, he said, in China.

The old man pivoted away.  He took a step and his hands swept up and down.  When he turned back the boy was still there.

What you want?

What’re you doing?

It’s called Tai Chi Chuan.

What’s it for?

Self-defence.

Doesn’t look like fighting.

Good for self-defence then.

Jack pulled a face.  More like dancing, he said, and the old man frowned. 

I show, he said.  Move this hand this way, and that hand like that.

Jack tried to copy him, and the old man frowned again.  What your name?

Jack.  Jack Higgins.

Why you so bad, Jack Jack Higgins.  You too much football.

Suddenly, he grabbed Jack’s wrists.  Jack was shocked.  No one touched him except his mother and Billy McCann.  He tried to jerk his hands free, but the old man clung to him like the smell of his mother’s perfume and he couldn’t shake him off, so at last, he gave up and stood, with his arms hanging limply by his sides.  This was how he offered himself up to Billy McCann.

At first, the old man worked him like a puppet, moving his arms up and down, but slowly, as the movements entered into his body, Jack started to do them for himself and the old man let go.  Good, he said.  And breathe – in, out, in, out.

Jack lost all track of time, as the old man taught him, by example and word, by a pull here and a push there.  He forgot about his mother and Mr. Fortescue, about Billy McCann and his gang, and his father, and shrapnel and the war.  Everything slowed down.  The sway of the branches, the rustle of the leaves, his breathing, his heart. 

At last, the old man stopped and nodded.  It’s called Parting the Wild Horse’s Mane, he said.  If you do right, someone come to hit or grab you, you trap their arm and trip them over.

Talk of hitting and grabbing made Jack think of Billy McCann, and Billy McCann made him think of school and suddenly time came rushing in.  The branches swayed, the leaves rustled, the fountain gushed.  His breath and his heart quickened.

What time is it? he said.

The old man looked at his wristwatch.  Ten past nine, he said.

Jack snatched up his satchel.  Oh no!  I’m late.  I’ve got to go.  Sorry. At the gates he called back, Will you be here tomorrow? and the old man inclined his head.

Jack ran all the way to school, his satchel bumping on his back.  He arrived sweaty and dishevelled, the tie his mother had straightened under his left ear and his shirt hanging out.  He tidied himself up and went to his lessons.

Billy McCann caught up with him at last outside the school gates.  Jack’s shoulders slumped.  He thought he’d got away with it.  He’d spent all day hiding – outside the staffroom, in the sick bay, in the canteen and the library, until the librarian threw him out.  Jack didn’t know why Billy hated him.  Billy had everything.  A Mum and a Dad, and his Dad had a car – a Humber Hawk.  He had friends, and a racing bike.  He boxed at the youth club and he played football for the school.  But still, Billy hated Jack.  He pushed him, he punched him, he tripped him and kicked him.  He called him names, he stole his dinner money and threw his school cap over a fence. 

Jack didn’t run – Billy relished the chase with a savage delight.  He didn’t speak.  That just made Billy angry.  He just waited for it to happen.

Then Billy tried to push him and time stretched like elastic.  Slowly, Jack’s left hand floated up and caught Billy’s arm inside the left elbow and it drifted past his left shoulder and, carried on by his momentum, Billy started to take a step and slowly Jack stepped forward with his left leg and it jammed against Billy’s knee and Billy stumbled and a look of surprise passed across his face.  And then the elastic snapped back, and Billy’s left fist flashed up and cracked into Jack’s cheek.

Stars exploded behind his eyes and pain lanced through his body.  He felt himself falling and he felt his head hit the pavement.  There were more stars, but this time, no pain.  Everything went red and then black.  When he opened his eyes everything was monochrome and on its side.  The grey and dusty pavement, Billy’s black shoes, his light grey socks and his dark grey trousers.

He moved his head and his mouth filled with blood.  He swallowed and it was thick and salty.  Now he could see Billy standing over him, his clenched fist and his face pinched with hate.

Do you want some more?

Jack could not understand how the words were coming out from behind the wall of Billy’s teeth.

A step forward.  Do you want some more?

Jack shook his head.  Tears welled up in his eyes and he tried to blink them back.  Snot dribbled from his nose and he sniffed.  He wanted to curl up and cry like a baby.  He wanted his mother to cuddle him and his father to fetch Billy a fourpenny one, but he knew if he started he would never stop.  It would be all over school tomorrow that Jack Higgins piped his eyes out, so he fought back all his tears of pain and anger and shame.

I know where there’s a Jap. The words were out before he was aware his mouth had formed them, but now they hung in the air between them and he knew that at this moment, everything could go one way or another.  It all depended on what he said next.

What?

A Jap.  I know where there’s a Jap. After that, the words came faster and easier.

You’re lying.

I’m not.  Meet me in the park tomorrow morning and I’ll show you.

Where?

By the fountain.  Eight o’clock.

And that was that.  Billy McCann took a step back and Jack got slowly to his feet.  He felt blood trickle from his nose and he wiped it with the back of his hand.  Billy jabbed a finger from his fist.

You better turn up.  You know what you’ll get if you don’t.

Jack nodded and Billy stalked off.  Jack picked up his satchel and his cap and dragged himself home.  Outside his back door he paused and tried to tidy himself up.  He tugged at his tie and scrubbed at the blood on his shirt front with spit and his thumb, but all he did was make a dirty smear so he pulled his jersey up to hide it, and then he turned the door knob.

The kitchen was dark and warm and full of steam, and smelled of boiling vegetables and roasting meat.  The smell wrapped around him like a blanket and comforted him until he remembered that it was for Mr. Fortescue.  His face darkened and he tried to sneak upstairs before his Mum caught him, but halfway up the creaking staircase she flung the door of the parlour open.

Albert John Higgins – where do you think you are going?  Come down here this instant.

He stopped and sighed, his head drooped and he trudged back downstairs.  She waited for him at the bottom, her arms folded, in her best dress, her hair permed and with a red slash of lipstick.

Didn’t I tell you to be home early - she started to scold him, but then she noticed the red welt swelling on his cheek.  She took his chin between her thumb and forefinger and turned his head from side to side.  What’s this?

Nothing, he mumbled.

Have you been fighting?

He shrugged and, looking down, he didn’t see Mr. Fortescue’s face appear at her shoulder.  It was shiny and freshly shaved, Brylcreemed hair with a razor-sharp parting and a pencil moustache.

What’s this?  Jack’s been fighting?  Did you win?

Does it look like he won? she snapped more sharply than she intended.  I’m going up that school tomorrow to sort it out.

If Mr. Fortescue noticed the sharpness of her words, he didn’t show it.  Now, now, Jeanie.  No need to involve the teachers.  What this boy needs is a few boxing lessons.  In the war I was the regiment’s middleweight champion two years running.

His mother looked doubtful.  She said to Jack, Is that what you want? Before he could reply, Mr. Fortescue draped his arms over their shoulders and answered for him.  of course, he does. He steered them towards the kitchen.  You see to the tea, Jeanie, and I’ll give Jack a few pointers out in the yard.

They didn’t resist as he guided them to the kitchen, pushed Jean in the direction of the sink and Jack into the yard.  Looking through the window, she saw Mr. Fortescue with his fists up, defending himself, encouraging Jack to try and hit him as he bobbed and weaved.  Ten minutes later, after she had laid the table, she went to the door to call them in.  Mr. Fortescue was red in the face and out of breath, and Jack followed behind, looking sullen.

That’s the stuff, panted Mr. Fortescue, slipping his jacket back on.  A few more lessons and we’ll have those bullies running for cover, eh, Jack?  Real men sort things out for themselves. He ruffled Jack’s hair, and Jack irritably  jerked his head away.

Tea was an uncomfortable affair of awkward silences and brittle conversation about rationing, Mr. Fortescue’s prospects as a door-to-door salesman and what Jack was going to do when he left school.  Jack kept his head down and picked at his food, speaking when spoken to, and then only to say Yes, No, and Don’t know.

Afterwards, his mother said she would do the washing up and the men of the house should go and sit in the parlour, exchanging a meaningful look with Mr. Fortescue.  Mr. Fortescue settled himself comfortably in Jack’s father’s chair by the cleaned and polished fireplace and Jack stood awkwardly by the door.

Well, now, Mr. Fortescue began, taking out a packet of Player’s and patting his pockets for a box of matches.  We’re both men of the world. He lit the cigarette and threw the match in the fireplace.  On the mantelpiece, Jack noticed that the silver-framed, blurry black-and-white photograph of his father in uniform was missing.  He took a deep drag and the words and smoke came out together.  He rambled on about how it hadn’t been easy for Jack’s mother since the war and how she needed a man about the house to lend a helping hand and pay the bills and how Jack was growing up into a fine young man and he would need someone to turn to for advice about ... things.  In the end, he stood up, tossed the dog end into the fireplace, and, holding his lapels like Churchill delivering a speech, said, Your mother has done me the honour of consenting to be my wife.  And, if you’ll have me, I’d like to be your father.  And he stuck out his hand.

Jack didn’t know what to do, so he shook it.  It was hot, dry and smooth.  His mother must have been listening outside the door because she slipped in and said, Well, have we all had a nice, little talk?

Mr. Fortescue said they had, and she slid an arm round his waist and he gave her a peck on the cheek.

Afterwards they listened to the wireless and Mr. Fortescue told them what he’d done in the war in the quartermaster’s stores in Aldershot.  If it hadn’t been for me, those men on the beaches at Normandy wouldn’t have rifles or bullets to shoot, let me tell you.  At nine o’clock he went back to his digs in Balham because his landlady locked the door at ten and Jack went up to bed.  From the foot of the stairs his mother called up to him, Hasn’t today been a lovely day? He didn’t answer.

Jack lay in bed, but he couldn’t sleep.  Behind his curtains, he watched as daylight faded into night.  He heard his mother come upstairs at half past ten, and he heard the last bus rumble back to the depot and thoughts about what to do tomorrow ran round and round in his head, but none of it was any good.  At last he fell asleep and dozed fitfully through the night, waking at six in the morning in the cold light of day to the rattle and hum of the milk float.

Billy wasn’t there when Jack arrived just after eight, and for an instant he hoped