* * *
By the next afternoon, she realized what he meant.
“I don’t think I can do this much longer.”
The Master glanced at her, then resumed his stoic gaze at the far wall of the training room. The silence continued.
“How much longer are we going to do this?”
“Until the lesson is learned.”
She thought about that for a while. As well as she could think, as her legs, long past aching, burned with fatigue. She looked at the three other students, completely still in their deep fighting stances. The sweat streamed down her face, drenched her practice robe. Her left knee began to shake and she forced it to stop. She realized that in order to stop the shaking, she had to isolate the muscle that was fatigued, induce it to relax, and take the weight with the rest of her leg. It took some time and a great deal of concentration, but finally she managed it.
When she returned her attention to the rest of the room, she realized that considerable time had passed. She wondered if that was part of the lesson she was supposed to be learning
She couldn’t help but notice that the others, all considerably senior to her, had not spoken for the last half hour. So that was the way. Another lesson learned. I will not speak. I will not quit. She dropped her stance a fraction, deepened her concentration as well. The clock in the corner ticked its slow, steady pace. The sweat ran in her eyes, reminding her of long, fearful days with a heavy pack on dusty roads. She looked around at friendly faces. This is easy. Well, at least bearable.
“That is sufficient. Aleria, rise slowly. Make no sudden movements.”
She registered the Master’s voice, considered. It had been close to an hour that they had been standing, legs deeply bent. She wondered how much longer she could have stayed there. After a moment’s consideration, she decided that she could have gone on for some time. How long, she couldn’t guess. Maybe that was another lesson. For now, she had done enough. Slowly, she straightened.
She copied the others, moving gently, stretching and relaxing each muscle.
“Twenty laps, slow jog.”
They fell into line, Aleria at the end, and loped around the perimeter of the room. It felt good to be moving. She had always been a runner, and knew she could pass the others, but she held herself in check. Who knew what abilities these older students possessed? The last thing I want at this stage is to make a fool of myself.
They walked the last lap, stretching their legs again.
“I believe we have abused our lower bodies enough for today. Let us finish the practice with a thousand punches. Aleria, will you start the count?”
Aleria assumed the forward attack stance, not too deep, and began. She made her count slow and measured, with enough feeling in her voice to encourage her fellows, but not enough to show off. She finished her count, then followed the next leader through his. While keeping most of her attention on her technique, she allowed a small part of her mind to consider her progress and register satisfaction. She had learned several lessons today. Obviously, her body had the ability to do things she had never dreamed it could. I knew I was in decent physical shape, but to handle an hour of deep fighting stance on my first day of practice!
It was her turn to take the count again, and she focused on that task. She recalled her student days, when doing a thousand punches was considered a huge accomplishment. After the ordeal of the afternoon, the thousand punches went quickly and soon they were headed for the showers.
Correction. The shower. She had known that the Masters’ dressing room was not segregated, but it wasn’t until she walked through the door and the others started undressing that the import struck home. Another lesson to learn. Hoping no one had noticed her brief hesitation, she slipped out of her robe and strode to the nearest nozzle, trying to act as if showering with a group of men was something she did every day. Surprisingly enough, it seemed to work. Why wouldn’t it?
As she was dressing, the man next to her turned her way. “You had good spirit today, Aleria. It will be a pleasure to have you practice with us.”
She glanced at him. He was a stocky man of about thirty: dark hair, dark skin, work-roughened hands. She had been introduced to everyone by first names, and she struggled to remember.
“Rilke.” He grinned to take any censure away.
“Thanks, Rilke. I think my mind was too busy with keeping my spirit strong to worry about names.”
He nodded. “It is often that way.”
“Another lesson to be learned.”
He grinned. “The Master teaches us many lessons.”
“Don’t I know it,” she tossed her cloak over her shoulder, “and often not the one we think we’re getting.”
The others chuckled at that, and as she moved towards the door they all called farewells. Before leaving, she bowed to Master Ogima.
“Thank you for practice.”
“Thank you for your work. It would be best if you practise tomorrow.”
“Yes. I know I will need to work out my legs. I’ll see you then.”
“I will see you then.”
That was one lesson she had learned long ago. In order to maintain condition, two practices a week. To make progress, three. To make serious advances, four. Since she was working on both barehand and weapons techniques, she needed to make five practices a week. This meant leaving the wagon yard an hour early on three days, but it was unavoidable. She had started going in on Feastday mornings to make up the work.
25. Same Old Aleria
As the summer wore on, her hands and body hardened and her spirit, at least on the practice floor, strengthened as well. Now she thought nothing of an hour in any fighting stance. She could take punches and give them without a qualm.
One fall day when they were short of workers she surprised Spald, the yard foreman, by jumping in and helping to load a wagon train of lumber. The boards were not that heavy, and once she got the hang of it she swung them up without difficulty. As the last wagon cleared the gate, she flexed her shoulders.
“Not the kind of exercise I’m used to.”
The foreman glanced down at her. “I imagine not, Lady Aleria.”
“I’ll probably be stiff tomorrow.”
“Get one of the servants to give you a hot oil rubdown.”
“Huh! My father doesn’t believe in that kind of servants.”
“Too bad. My wife does it for me.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Spald. That’s the first good reason anybody has ever given me for getting married.”
As she strode back into the office, she wondered what the dignified foreman would think if he knew that she was going to get a rubdown tonight from a thirty-year-old tavern keeper. By now she was used to working with everyone in the barehand class, a rotating group of ten men and two women, all busy people who came to practice whenever they could. Having her body handled, battered, and treated by men who were neither servants nor doctors had taken some getting used to, but since they all regarded her and each other with a casual but unfailing respect, she had soon lost her reserve.
She found she enjoyed the weapons training the most. In spite of her growing confidence, she still had moments of unease in barehand practice, when one of the men had her in a submission hold or attacked too hard. There were times when she knew without a doubt that she was simply not strong enough to control the fight. With a sword in her hand she had no such feelings. Her mind and her skill counted much more with a weapon, and she worked hard and advanced rapidly as the winter passed.
Out of Mischief: World of Change Book 1 Page 10
