Beneath an Opal Moon by Eric Van Lustbader Page B

you don’t know because we have never spoken of it. Koppo is nearly three-quarters mental. A gathering of internal energy, a focusing, an application derived through physical means.” He lifted his open hands up.
    â€œHave you ever been in a battle with another koppo adept?” Moichi asked. “I mean a real enemy, not working with a teacher.”
    Kossori smiled. “No. And I doubt I ever will be. There are extremely few koppo adepts in the world. Its tradition is ancient yet so shrouded in mystery that it is rare even to find an individual who knows of it, let alone one who practices it.”
    â€œBut what would happen,” Moichi persisted, “if you did come up against one—hypothetically, that is?” And as he asked the question, he wondered what it was that was making him pursue this line of thought.
    Kossori shrugged, concentrating. “I’m not sure, really. I doubt, however, that its outcome would be determined by force. Cunning is the key to victory against a koppo adept. And quickness, of course. Such battles, I would imagine, are quite brief, even among adepts. Shock is one of koppo ’s most potent traits; it’s over almost before it begins. But by cunning I mean that one would have to find a way of breaking one’s opponent’s concentration. A split instant would be sufficient. Unless one can manage that, there is little hope of surviving such an encounter. You see, the koppo ’s power is often called mizo-no-tsuki , or the moon on water. The surface of a river gathers up the moonlight as long as the sky is clear. But should a passing cloud slide across the moon’s face, then the light is gone and darkness prevails.” He laughed and clapped Moichi on his back. “But why be so serious, my friend? You need have no fear. The only koppo adept you will meet would never harm you.”
    But Moichi did not return the smile for his thoughts were elsewhere. Something Kossori had said, a word, or a phrase, he was not certain which, had triggered off a remembrance, up until now forgotten, from his recent dream.
    Light and shadows. It had something to do with—Then he had it and he exclaimed excitedly, gripping Kossori’s arms.
    â€œI have it!” he cried. “I have it, Kossori! The dream I had tonight. It was trying to tell me something. In it, I recreated the scene of the reallife discovery of that body. Never mind that one was during the day and the other, night. The light pattern was the same. That dappling was deep, disrupting perspective just enough so that I did not know what I was seeing.” He saw Kossori looking at him uncomprehendingly. “Don’t you see? My eyes and therefore my brain picked up all the detail, storing it away. It was only my conscious mind which was fooled. That’s why it came out in the dream!”
    â€œWhat came out in the dream?”
    â€œThat man from Kintai,” Moichi said excitedly. “I think he was killed by koppo .”

Circus of Souls
    It was a configuration of shabby tents; a five-pointed star. Once, no doubt, they had been gaily colored but over the years sun and sand and rain and snow had faded the patterns until now they were barely distinguishable.
    Circling the tents at irregular intervals were reed torches set into holes carved into the tops of wooden pilasters. These were quite old, their paint and lacquer worn away so that the natural wood grain showed through and this had been smoothed and polished until it shone. These pilasters depicted fierce warriors with great curling beards, glowering expressions and rings through their noses; mermaids with fish-scaled tails wrapped around their bodies, their upper torsos naked and very human, bits of seashells and periwinkles peeping through their long winding hair; or, again, maidens of war, replete with ornate breastplates and greaves, their calloused hands gripping long spears.
    In all, the place had the air of a rather