Jason Willow: Face Your Demons

by G Mottram

  ‘This time you pull the energy from the air. This time…’

  Their fists began pulling back together for the hundredth time.

  ‘… slowly pull now… pull the energy into your stomach… feel it being drawn through your arm…’

  Jason pulled his hand back, closing his fingers into a fist. He imagined easing a hand full of clinging seaweed strands from a rock.

  The sphere in his stomach whirled like a turbine firing up. A single pulse of heat surged up through his arm and was sucked into the sphere. All around his fist, the air shimmered in a solid cast.

  ‘Punch,’ Schmidt barked and Jason snapped his fist forward. The energy surged back out along his arm and the air-fist shot forward. A blink later, the punch bag creased in its exact centre and flew back, almost swinging to the ceiling.

  Jason dropped his hands and stared, open mouthed, at the wildly swinging punch bag. He glanced at Schmidt and for the first time saw a look of surprise, almost uncertainty, crease those chiselled features.

  Their eyes met and Schmidt’s surprise vanished. ‘We have not finished yet - keep with me,’ he barked and Jason snapped back around to face the punch bag. Schmidt began to repeat the punch and Jason came back in synch with the master.

  For the next half hour they did it over and over again, speeding up the move until Jason could draw back and throw the ‘fist’ as fast as he could punch with his own hands. This impossible power came easily now, as if he’d been doing it all his life… as if he’d been born to it.

  Schmidt never praised him but pushed him to move faster and hit harder with the flying opaque air. Then they moved on – changing hands, punching with two fists, then on to chops, slaps, finger and thumb jabs, all with hardened, sculpted air, all with tremendous power that battered time and again into the punch bag. Each new move came more and more quickly to Jason. His head swam and his arms pulsed with the energy sucked in and pumped out by the flaring Catherine Wheel in his stomach.

  Finally they stopped.

  Jason knelt at Schmidt’s signal. ‘Thank you, Master – I… I can’t believe I can do all that… after just an hour.’

  ‘Your training is overdue and this is natural for us, a part of who we are. We are loosely linked when close to another Gifted - you would have learned even more quickly had your father consented to teach you – the link is many times stronger between family members.’

  Schmidt’s mouth tightened a fraction as if he was deciding on something. ‘However, you should know that you have mastered the fist much quicker than anyone I have ever taught and your strength at this early stage is almost unprecedented. We do not discuss our generation so the Brethren have no clue who to target but you must be highly Gifted… you should keep your development secret.’

  Jason dropped his eyes. Such power… Dad could have taught him this weeks, months ago. If he could have done this when the agent attacked in Mawn or when Mum was killed…

  Schmidt’s voice cut into his thoughts. ‘This rapid progress is, of course, good for us but it is also very dangerous. You have not had the months of struggle to become used to your power, to develop slowly and control your actions. You could kill the moment you leave this room today.’

  Jason let Schmidt’s words sink in as his energy-fuelled elation drained away. How would it feel if he did actually kill someone, took their life, stared down at their dead face, no breath in their body? Had he been able to do this that night in Abbeywell Park when the Skins ambushed him… it could easily have happened.

  ‘So,’ Schmidt said, ‘you have much to learn yet – we have just scratched the surface. We will begin with control.’

  And so they continued for the rest of the day, with a short break for a lunch of pesto pasta and bacon brought in to them by a smiling Myers. The butler ordered Jason to eat the energy boosting pasta if he wanted to survive the afternoon session with Master Schmidt.

  Jason’s appetite to learn was insatiable however, and he didn’t seem to tire. Schmidt told him that was because he was using outside energy for his punches and blows and very little of his own – it was, he said, very unusual to do this so efficiently for an experienced Gift wielder let alone for someone so early in their training. The exertion would, however, catch up with him soon.

  By the end of that first day, Jason had indeed learned some control. All the energy drawn in for a punch didn’t have to be used in a single blow, it could be stored in what Schmidt called chi – the Catherine Wheel-like ball of energy Jason both imagined and felt whirling in his stomach. In fact, lots of energy could be built up for a massive attack or for astounding physical feats but, Schmidt said, they were weeks away from that yet. Learning to save some of the drawn-in energy at this stage did mean that Jason could tone down his air-punches to a light tap… sometimes.

  As well as gaining a measure of control and practicing how to air-strike in every conceivable fashion, Jason also began to block with his Gift – forming the solid air not around his fist but stretching out his fingers to form a plate sized shield before his open hand.

  ‘Adequate - that shield could perhaps stop a knife blade.’ Schmidt told him after hurling air-strike after strike at Jason who stopped every one with shields in both hands. ‘When you improve, you will be able to tighten the shield enough to stop a bullet and expand it to cover your whole body or even more.’

  When they finally stopped it was early evening. Jason had been training for almost the whole day but was eager to carry on. Schmidt however, began warm down stretches and motioned for Jason to do the same.

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ Jason began, sinking into the splits, ‘I can’t believe what you’ve taught me to do… I feel invincible.’

  Schmidt glanced up from his own full splits and flicked out one hand to the side. Jason’s right leg flew out from under him and he fell flat on his face.

  A memory from the fight in the Abbot and Lashing flashed through Jason’s mind - something unseen had sent him sprawling that night as well, just as he was rushing to save Erin Brock from having her head bashed in. He shook his head and climbed back into the splits position. That was stupid - one of the semi-conscious bodies on the floor must have just managed to catch him.

  ‘No one is invincible, Jason – never think that you are. You will face highly trained agents with the latest weaponry, invisible assassins, turned Gifted, Touched and worst of all, their possessed masters with the strength to crush your skull between their hands. The weakest Brethren informant can still kill you with a single bullet through the back of your head.’

  Jason bowed his head and changed to side splits. ‘Of course, Master – it was a stupid thing to say. I’m just so stunned by all of this. What will I learn tomorrow?’

  ‘We have planned your training very carefully to produce the maximum results. Each day will bring something new for you as well as improving the things you have learned already. In two weeks, perhaps less, you should be able to confidently survive against any normal agent the Brethren send after you.’

  Jason allowed himself a small smile. He’d never be as defenceless as that day on Mawn ever again.

  Schmidt straightened up from his cool down. ‘You would develop even faster if you were staying in the abbey – we could start earlier, finish later and you would not lose your focus.’

  Jason dropped his eyes. Dad had said see how the first few days go before staying over. Besides, he wanted to get home to see if there was any news from Mawn. ‘I should be allowed to stay over the half-term holiday.’

  Schmidt was as impassive as always. ‘That is something, I suppose. Go to shower in the student house now - someone will meet you there to take you home to your father.’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ Jason said. He made a deep respect and left quickly.

  The student quarters were deserted when he eased open the huge door into the entrance hall. Jason wasn’t surprised as there had been plenty of chat and crockery clashing in the refectory as he’d followed the river back from the train
ing hall. Schmidt had not suggested he go in there to eat with the other trainees – perhaps he was making a point about Jason choosing not to fully integrate with abbey life yet.

  Once back in his room, Jason quickly showered and changed back into the jeans and black tee shirt he’d taken off that morning. Was it really only a few hours ago that he didn’t have the first clue how to use his Gift?

  Lance Van Garde was waiting for him in front of the guest house when he stepped outside.

  ‘I can do it, I can use my Gift,’ Jason shouted, jumping down the steps.

  Lance smiled. ‘My, it sounds like someone has had fun today.’

  Jason leapt inside the car, a black Porsche 911 this evening, and began telling Lance all about his training from the first punch to the last double shield block against Schmidt’s storm of air-strikes. He didn’t draw breath until they were heading out of Drunken Abbot.

  ‘You’ve learned a hell of a lot in just a day.’ Lance whistled. ‘I don’t recall any novice here taking to it so fast. You should stay over - the things you learn when you’re a real part of this place – training from dawn ‘til dusk, then chewing it over with your buddies half the night.’

  Jason shot a look across at Lance. Had Schmidt put him up to this? What was it with these people, what was the rush for him to progress so quickly? Surely they could see how keen he was – he was going to keep on coming back. What difference would a few nights break from training make?

  Lance glanced back at him good naturedly. It hadn’t seemed like a loaded statement.

  ‘I promised my dad that I’d come home each night until the holidays.’

  ‘D’ya think he’ll really let you stay over the vacation – he isn’t just trying to put this off?’ Lance asked, raising one eyebrow. He turned back to his driving – already flying along the main street out of Drunken Abbot.

  ‘No – Dad isn’t like that. Another three nights and then I’ll be staying over for a week.’

  Lance shrugged. ‘If that’s how it’s gotta be, I guess I’ll have to keep fetchin’ and carryin’ ya ‘till then. Still, not such a bad deal if we get to play in these little beauties,’ he stroked the Porsche’s black leather steering wheel and swung a left into the little forest road to Darkston Wick.

  Several heart-stopping minutes of forest road driving later, Lance skidded the Porsche to a halt in the Old Mill’s driveway.

  ‘I guess I’ll be seeing ya in the morning then, huh?’ Lance asked.

  ‘Early as you like,’ Jason said, grinning, ‘I’ll probably learn to fly tomorrow.’

  He climbed out of the car and leaping up the steps into the porch.

  It was only when he turned to watch Lance speed away that he remembered Schmidt had told him to keep quiet about his rapid progress.

  Chapter 18

  Dinner wasn’t as awkward as Jason had expected. Dad chatted easily enough over his speciality meal of shepherd’s pie with double cheese topping and Miranda must have had special instructions not to pester him about what had happened at the abbey.

  Jason was desperate to talk about learning his Gift however - the things he’d learned to do already and ask just how powerful did it get. It was obvious after only a few minutes, however, that although Miranda was fascinated, Dad was finding it difficult, so Jason played down his excitement as much as he could and reluctantly moved on to other things.

  They discussed going back to school after half term and how Jason was going to keep out of trouble and stop fighting for the Brash in the Pit now he’d moved on to proper training in the abbey. Although the majority of the Skins held no fear for him now, Jason still balked at the thought of leaving the magnificent abbey for the grey granite menace of Silent Hill.

  ‘Any letter from Grandfather yet?’ Jason asked over the washing up.

  Dad shook his head and the conversation stopped there. It looked like Dad was going to make the trip up to Mawn after all. For the first time, Jason started to worry about what Dad would find up there.

  Finally Jason said goodnight and went for a soak in the bath. Just as Schmidt had warned, the hours of training finally caught up with him. Exhaustion washed over him with the hot water and he had to virtually crawl into bed.

  The next morning, the Wednesday before half term, Lance picked him up at about seven and he was back under the scornful eye of Cadaveril in the main training hall by eight. There must have been fifty or more students training that morning, ranging in age from late teens to perhaps early forties. They were spread out across the three training squares, along the wall bags and blockers and in both the building simulations at either end of the hall.

  Jason was grouped with the students he’d fought on his first day at the abbey – Anna Smith; the lanky, thin-nosed Marshall brothers and Carl Slattery, the heavily muscled, black spikey-haired, twenty year old.

  Cadaveril worked them all hard for two hours before Schmidt emerged from the ‘training pub’ and signalled for Jason to follow him into the side training rooms. Anna winked at him as he turned to follow Schmidt although she was careful that Cadaveril didn’t see her momentary lack of attention. Carl, who had beaten him in two out of their three non-Gift Jakra bouts that morning, sneered with a particularly effective curled lip. Cadaveril, for once, seemed to ignore one of his students being distracted.

  Once in the side room with Schmidt, however, everything but the Gift was swept from his mind. He learned to strike with fist, chop and finger from point blank range up to six or seven metres away and with more power than any punch or kick he could deliver physically.

  It all came so easily to him – he just modelled Schmidt’s actions, working in perfect time with him and almost always, he succeeded the first time he called on his Gift. The energy ball he’d felt in his stomach yesterday - his chi - felt larger somehow, sucking in the air’s energy quicker, rotating faster and pulsing out power more easily than ever. Schmidt told him that the more he practised, the more power he could pull in, store and push out up to a maximum that his level allowed. Without practise, that capacity shrunk. Just like a muscle – use it or lose it.

  Striking wasn’t all Jason worked on. He improved his shielding, using both hands to spar with Schmidt with ten feet between them. The shimmering air fists and fingers that punched, chopped and jabbed at him were now as clear as flesh to Jason’s eyes and he found it natural to block the casts of solid air with his own hazy hand-shields.

  Schmidt must have been satisfied with his sparring as, after another private lunch taken in the training room, they moved on to something very different.

  Schmidt pressed some of the buttons by the door and the metal disks Jason had seen when first entering the room hissed up from the floor on their thin silver rods.

  The master didn’t explain why, but simply told Jason to walk a particular route over the stepping stones. Luckily, with a lifetime of Dad’s balance “games” behind him, he stepped and jumped along the half-metre disks confidently, even five and six metres up.

  Schmidt made him repeat the route again and again, faster each time. Then he had to do it while dodging air-strikes from Schmidt. After half an hour, Schmidt hit more of the switches and the thin beams and trapeze bars hissed up all around Jason and they were added to his route.

  After perhaps an hour, just as Jason leapt for a bar, twisting to avoid an air-jab from Schmidt, he glimpsed Alan Brash standing at the open door.

  Jason flipped off the bar and landed on one of the disks. He wobbled slightly, six feet up, but then stabilised himself.

  ‘Enough. Come down now,’ Schmidt said and turned to make his respect to Brash. Jason dropped to the floor and did the same.

  ‘I hear it’s going extremely well, my boy, faster than any of us had expected,’ Brash said, stepping into the room.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jason said, glancing around the jungle of metal rods. ‘The Gift is amazing although I’m not sure what all this has to do with it,’

  ‘Oh, you’ll find out tomorrow if I’m
not very much mistaken.’ Brash answered. ‘There are so many things you can learn to do – it’s not all smash and block. The power must become second nature to you, like using your own hands or feet – just a thought and it happens. There is no time to prepare and concentrate when a demon is intent on ripping your throat out.’

  Brash pulled the door closed behind him and flashed his big generous grin. ‘Still, that will come in time. Now let’s see what you have picked up so far, shall we? Attack me from there.’

  The gleaming apparatus whispered back down into the floor and the covers slid into place.

  Jason swallowed hard and made his respect. He was desperate to show what he could do. Without warning he threw three rapid air-punches at Brash, instantly followed by flick kicks and chops. Brash easily blocked them all with Gift-shielded hands but that only made Jason try harder. He threw out more and more attacks, each one faster and harder than the one before. The ball of energy in his stomach span wildly, pulsing out energy quicker than ever.

  Brash blocked or dodged every attack but his easy smile hardened in concentration. Jason tried something else – an air sweep to Brash’s lower leg and ankle, one way then the other. Brash leapt over both sweeps but Jason threw pinpoint-accurate finger flicks to the knees and temples, simultaneous double punches and snap-kicks to three separate body areas. Brash’s smile dropped away but he blocked, side stepped and twisted his way out of each attack like a grand master half his age. The dodged and deflected air-strikes battered into the walls to hammer out stone chips and dust clouds.

  ‘Time.’ Brash said at last.

  Jason stopped immediately, made his respect and stood at rest, trying to calm his breathing. He felt drained. His attacks had been so intense that he’d used up more energy than he’d been able to pull in from the air. Also, all the air-strikes still required hard, fast movement and massive concentration – a little like shadow boxing. His legs began to tremble slightly and sweat trickled down his face and back.