Legend of the White Sword (Books 1 - 3)

by P. D. Kalnay

  “Up you get,” Mr. Ryan said. “We aren’t here to nap.”

  I pushed myself to my feet, ready to try again.

  “Remember the forms you’ve been practising,” Mr. Ryan said helpfully. Less helpfully he added, “Unless they aren’t appropriate; then do what feels right. Keep your sword in the ready position.”

  I brought the tip of my bamboo sword back up. Mr. Ryan gave no warning, attacking me again. Before I knew it, the sun was in my eyes, and Mr. Ryan’s foot was behind my heel. With a firm shove of his sword against mine, I lay flat on my back again. The whole morning followed that general trend. Mr. Ryan gave me permission to go all-out, and do whatever I could to hit him. I didn’t come close. He also interspersed the sparring with tidbits of wisdom, hammered home with his sword. Helpful things like, “There are two kinds of people on the field after a battle, the victorious and the dead.” and “Study the enemy and the ground, then decide if you should fight.” The only thing he said that stuck was, “Keep your bloody sword up!” He said that a lot. As the morning wore on, it got harder and harder to do.

  “That’s it for this morning,” he finally said. “You need to build up more stamina.”

  “OK,” I said. I was flat on my back, enjoying another view of the sky.

  I sat up and pulled off my sweaty, and now stinky, helmet, tossing it to the grass beside me. That’s when I realised Ivy was out back with us. Somewhere in the instruction, Mr. Ryan had mentioned remaining aware of my surroundings. That’s easier said than done. Ivy sent arrow after arrow to the target I’d set up. I peeled off my armour, piece by piece, dropping it where I stood. Then I went to watch Ivy. I sat behind her, not wanting to throw off her concentration. Ivy hadn’t exaggerated about being good with a bow. She could have kicked Robin Hood’s butt, and held her own with Legolas, on any day of the week. Ivy shot from twice as far as we’d done at summer camp. She put every arrow in the gold. That became more impressive when I realised she was intentionally spacing them an inch apart. A few arrows might have been coincidence, but there was nothing random about her pattern. Only when the last arrow quivered an inch from its neighbours, did she set her longbow in the grass.

  “You’re amazing,” I said.

  Ivy jumped.

  “Jack, you startled me.”

  I pushed myself to my feet.

  “Were you up all night making a bowstring?” I asked. She’d obviously finished one.

  “No. It didn’t take long. I’ve made many before.”

  I picked up the bow and examined her handiwork. The string didn’t look like the ones on the bows at summer camp. Ivy’s bowstring was a complex braid with no obvious beginning or end. The loops were seamlessly part of the greater pattern.

  “This looks well made,” I said. The pattern looked more complicated the longer I examined it.

  “It’s no great feat,” Ivy said, “Anyone could have made it.”

  She walked off toward the target, and I had a try at drawing the bow. The draw weight was far heavier than I’d have guessed after watching Ivy shoot it. Then I followed her to the target and saw that her arrow spacing was perfect. I have an excellent eye for detail and measurement (if I do say so myself) and I’d have bet my life that a ruler would have shown Ivy’s placement to be flawless.

  “I bet you could split an arrow like Robin Hood,” I said.

  Ivy stopped pulling arrows free and gave me a questioning look.

  “Why would one wish to split arrows? Making arrows is tedious.”

  I didn’t have any answer better than, “Because it’s cool.”

  ***

  Usually, I sleep like the dead. I’d always set two alarm clocks for school and sometimes that wasn’t enough to wake me. That night, I must have woken ten times. A nightmare kept ripping me from sleep in a cold sweat. I couldn’t remember what it was about, but it involved howling, snarling, and glowing red eyes. A few times, I was sure I still heard the noises after waking. You can laugh if you want, but I missed the cat. I hadn’t given it much thought over the past weeks, but Gran’s quiet black cat had made me feel inexplicably safe. Yes, I knew it was just a cat—I didn’t say it made sense. Dreams can feel incredibly real, and that night was anything but restful.

  I awoke early the next morning and couldn’t fall back asleep. After an hour of lying in bed, I decided to just get up. Breakfast was still hours away and nobody else would be awake. The sun barely crested the horizon, the sky was clear, and the last stars of night were rapidly fading. After dressing for the run and workout that would follow breakfast, I went downstairs and out back to enjoy the crisp morning air. From the patio doors, I saw something at the base of Ivy’s archery target. I couldn’t tell what it was until I’d walked most of the way across the dewy lawn. Even when I got close, my brain refused to accept what my eyes saw.

  Scattered around the legs of the target, lay the remains of assorted woodland creatures. There was a racoon, missing its head and one hind leg, just the head of a red fox, and three horribly mangled rabbits. A dozen small birds and three partial squirrels completed the grizzly collection. It was like someone had tossed a mile of interstate roadkill at the target. I stood staring down at the little bodies for few minutes before Ms. Mopat arrived. She didn’t make a sound, and as usual, didn’t say a word. When she walked silently past me to the target, I almost jumped out of my skin. She was carrying an empty burlap sack. Without as much as an acknowledging nod, she gathered the bits and pieces of bird and animal, filling the sack. Ms. Mopat wasn’t squeamish—she had no gloves. As I watched her fingers sink into the gooey insides of a rabbit, I desperately hoped she washed her hands before preparing meals.

  “Do you think Gran’s cat brought these here?” I asked. Cats sometimes bring home dead birds they’ve caught for their masters, but a fox and a raccoon?

  Ms. Mopat only shook her head before stuffing in the last squirrel and going back to the house. Weird didn’t seem like a strong enough word. I couldn’t decide if the strangest thing I’d seen that morning was the dismembered animals, or Ms. Mopat. One thing I did know… I wasn’t hungry for breakfast anymore.

  Chapter 12 – New Doors

  That afternoon the weather was perfect—sunny and there was no noticeable wind. When the gardening was finished, I ran back up to my room for the plane. It was delicate, so I returned more carefully with plane, fuel, and remote control. I wasted no time gassing it up and doing the miniature pre-flight check. Everything was good to go, and Ivy looked almost as excited as I felt. I’d watched a bunch of YouTube videos and practiced flying with flight simulators on my computer.

  The plane sped away from me, and I succeeded brilliantly with the takeoff portion of the flight. I even circled the back yard twice, slowly gaining altitude. Things went downhill from there. My plane… it just went down. There must have been more wind higher up because the plane suddenly blew sideways out over the forest’s closest treetops. I had a brief moment of panic and overcompensated on the controls. The plane flipped upside down and shot straight away from me deeper into the woods. It was far enough away that I didn’t hear it crash, but I really didn’t need to.

  “I’m sorry, Jack.” Ivy said.

  “It can’t be far,” I said. “I’m going to go and get it.”

  “You will not,” Gran said behind me.

  She must have snuck up on me while I was watching the plane.

  “It’ll be close,” I said. “Two minutes away, tops.”

  “You will not.”

  Gran had spoken.

  I stared at her for a minute before backing down. It wasn’t worth the confrontation. Having seen plenty of videos of model planes crashing, I knew mine was almost certainly damaged beyond repair. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with the remote control. It had been pretty expensive, and I wasn’t planning on building any more planes. After all, the one I’d made had worked.

  ***

  Weeks of glorious routine and perfect weather followed. I can honestly say it was the
happiest time of my life. Most of the prior fourteen years had been lonely, and even at school with classmates around me, I’d felt alone. Were Mr. Ryan and Ivy my friends? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to ask. Jinxing things seemed like a real possibility; I continued my lifelong policy of going with the flow. With well over half of my summer holidays behind me, I determined to make the most of what remained. All things come to an end, and the perfect weather was no exception. Ivy and I were in the middle of another afternoon movie when thunder boomed outside. It sounded close, and the windows rattled. A second later, the film ended prematurely as the power went out. I pulled the curtains back to discover the day had turned grey. The sky was as dark as late evening. Lighting flashed in the distance, followed by more thunder, and heavy rain came shortly thereafter.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve got a flashlight.”

  “I don’t think we need it,” Ivy said. “There’s still more than enough light by which to see.”

  “Near the windows, maybe. What about in the basement and the attic?”

  “Why would we go to either place?”

  I shined the flashlight under my chin to up-light my face and make it look terrifying.

  “To explore the haunted mansion,” I said with a cheesy Dracula accent. “Unless, little girl… you are too afraid. Mo ha ha.”

  To be honest, Ivy’s expression spoke more of me being a moron than fear. I’d wanted to properly explore the rest of Gran’s house for over a month, but my highly scheduled days and general exhaustion had delayed the epic adventure. Without power, computer lessons were cancelled, and it was too wet to go outside, meaning… the time had finally come to unveil the mysteries of Castle Gran!

  “I may take a nap,” Ivy said.

  “What kind of trusty side-kick are you? Would Robin nap when Batman’s out fighting crime?” Ivy hadn’t liked Batman, so I changed tack. “Would Sam abandon Frodo on a quest?”

  Ivy rolled her eyes and stood.

  “If anything,” she said, “you’re my side-kick. Though, I think of you as more of a lackey. Clearly, you wish to explore the house, but are too frightened to go alone. I will accompany you to assuage your timidity.” Ivy walked to my door as she spoke and turned back when she opened it. “Don’t try to use this as an excuse to hold my hand in the dark corners of the house.”

  “You wish,” I said, clicking off the flashlight. We really didn’t need it yet.

  “Where shall we begin?”

  “I say basement, we’ve already seen at least half of it. The power could come back on at any moment and drive away the ghosts!”

  Gran’s basement had so far offered up: an old-fashioned kitchen (filled with assorted junk), the gymnasium, and most impressively (and disgustingly) a pool. Admittedly, the pool had no water, but still. By my estimation, a good third of the square footage remained unaccounted for. Who knew what incredible mysteries or treasures awaited us? The flashlight became essential at the foot of the basement stairs. The long, windowless hallway was pitch-black.

  “I bet you’re wishing I would hold your hand now,” I said. “It’s too late to beg. Come along, Dr. Watson.”

  I turned left and headed into uncharted territory. The first door we reached was on the left-hand side and mirrored the position of the gymnasium door at the other end of the hallway. Fearlessly, I turned the handle, pushing in to discover… the house’s mechanical room, complete with an ancient looking boiler. Ivy was a good deal more impressed than me. The boiler was a big hulking metal monstrosity with pipes running in and out of it. Gauges, tanks, and parts I didn’t recognise made it look like something from the age of steam. A state-of-the-art, computer-controlled furnace it was not. The grated door on the front grinned at us with dull metal teeth, waiting for its next mouthful of coal.

  “What is that thing?” Ivy asked.

  “That’s where Gran disposes of the bodies.”

  A sharp little elbow dug into my side.

  “It’s the house’s boiler,” I corrected myself. “It heats the water that runs through those pipes, and they go to the radiators. I’d guess you feed it coal or wood, through that door. I’ve never seen anything like this in real life. It must be a million years old. I’m surprised nobody upgraded to oil or gas. I wonder who feeds this thing all winter?”

  “The Mopat,” Ivy said.

  “Ms. Mopat? How would you know?”

  “The Mopat is your grandmother’s servant. Who else would do it?”

  I certainly couldn’t picture my grandmother shovelling coal, or carrying firewood. The mechanical room was as large as the gymnasium. It also had far newer-looking motors, pumps, and a filter system for the well water. All that only took up a third of the room. The rest contained a workshop. Benches and cupboards ran down two of the walls, below pegboards, containing hundreds of tools. I didn’t know what half of them might be for, but it was almost as exciting as seeing the smithy for the first time. I felt sure—given enough time—that with all those tools a person could make anything. The place had a very dated quality, and although there were electric tools, drills and saws and such, they looked like Edison might have invented them (or stolen them from some other guy). I couldn’t get a proper look around with the flashlight, but determined to return later when the lights were working.

  “Shall we move on?” I asked Ivy.

  “If you want to.”

  I led my assistant back out into the hallway. No doorway stood opposite the mechanical room’s door, but I wasn’t surprised. The kitchen had looked like it extended to the end of the house. What surprised me was the door at the very end of the hallway. By my mental reckoning, the doorway was set into the foundation wall at that end of the house. The door itself was fancy compared to the other basement doors; or the ones upstairs. It looked to be one solid piece of walnut. A stylised tree was carved into the face of the door. I didn’t recognise the species, but it had seven round fruits hanging from its branches, and two birds sat near the top of the tree. Ravens? Based on the depth of the carving, the door was thick with a heavy wrought iron handle begging to be pulled. I pulled harder and harder until I was giving it everything I had. The door didn’t budge.

  “It’s stuck,” I said, when I’d given up trying.

  “Perhaps, you’re not meant to go in there,” Ivy said.

  I wasn’t listening.

  “Given its location, it must be a cold cellar, or where stairs to outside used to be. Supplies and coal wouldn’t have been brought through the house, and there’s nothing outside, meaning that if there were stairs, they’ve been filled in. I’ll ask Gran later. That’s it for the basement… to the attic!”

  My plans were immediately foiled by the return of electricity. At least I can have a better look at the workshop, I thought, but Ivy interrupted my return to the mechanical room.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. “We’re in the middle of a movie!”

  Another day, I guess…

  ***

  Dinnertime brought a new boarder. I should tell you that most of the guests at Gran’s used her house like a hotel, staying only a single night. They’d be there for dinner and gone before breakfast the next day. Usually, I didn’t learn their names, or quickly forgot them if I did. There were men and women both and occasionally a couple. There was something off about most of them. I didn’t give it much thought, figuring a person would have to be a little quirky to travel the extra distance to stay at Gran’s instead of getting a room at a chain motel nearer the highway. The food was good, and Gran’s house was comfortable, but it wasn’t what you’d call exclusive, luxurious, or even quaint.

  As I said, there was usually something weird about each of Gran’s guests. Many were just eccentric like Mr. Smith, but others were full-on weirdos. The woman at the table, with my usual dinner companions, looked to be in the second category. I try not to judge people based on appearances, but the lady sitting between Ivy and Mr. Ryan looked like she’d stepped out of a booth at a c
arnival sideshow. The strange woman looked like every cheesy fortune-telling gypsy lady you’ve ever seen in a bad TV show or b-movie. She looked as old as my grandmother and was dressed in the scarves and bangles that any sideshow fortune-teller requires. Gran introduced me to Madame Gawina, and I was mostly unsurprised when she spoke with a thick eastern-European accent.

  “It is nice to make your acquaintance young Jack,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you too,” I said.

  “Such a handsome young man.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I’m not particularly good looking. I’m not ugly either (and I’m not complaining) but I have a face that’s both inoffensive and unmemorable. Not a lot of compliments had come my way, but Madame Gawina did have a hazy whitish coating over her eyes. Possibly, she had diminished vision.

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling uncomfortable.

  Mr. Ryan was smiling. I knew him well enough to know he was enjoying my discomfort. Ivy looked angry. I moved us onto a new topic.

  “Gran, what’s behind the door with the tree in the basement?” I asked. “The one at the end of the hallway.”

  “Why do you ask?” Gran gave me her look that feels like she can tell the colour (and cleanness) of your underwear at a glance.

  “Just curious. The door is stuck shut.”

  “Leave that door alone,” Gran said. “There’s an old root cellar back there. It was never properly shored up and isn’t safe. The frame settled crooked over time, and the door is stuck shut. Leave it be.”

  Gran’s tone said the topic had been fully discussed and was now permanently closed. Much like the door apparently.

  “Who used the big workshop in the boiler room?” I asked.

  “You’ve been exploring?” Gran asked.

  “We were looking around when the power went out. Not much else to do with it raining.”

  “Many people have used it over the years,” Gran said. “Back when the manor was built, most things were fixed by the staff, here on site. Countless hobbies have been practised down there over the last century. Your mother tried her hand at stained glass work as a girl, but she tired of it quickly. I had a lady who made jewellery staying here, twenty years back. She left her things behind when she passed. I believe there’s even a full set of watchmakers tools and goodness knows what else.”