The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes (The King Henry Tapes)

by Richard Raley

  “Ooooh-kay!” a voice called from the front as Fines Samson stood from his seat opposite the driver. “Listen up! Ears forward, mouths closed, minds open! I’m only saying this one time—there will be no questions. If there is a question, the person who asked the question will win the enjoyable experience of hauling not only their own backpack but mine as well; do you all understand this punishment dangling over your heads like the proverbial Sword of Damocles?”

  There were some nods and a few ‘yes, sirs’ from the thirty kids of Ultra Class ’09.

  They’d given us free choice on where to sit. Pocket and I found a spot near the back. Not at the exact back, being as Jason Jackson had barred the way for just Welf and his gang of Old-Mancy kids. How a guy raised by a single mom on the wrong side of the tracks in Memphis ended up with Welf’s crew I’ll never know. I could have put it down to money changing hands, but it actually seemed like Jason and Welf got along really well . . .

  “This trip is tradition,” Samson continued, his voice sure and just a little threatening, “it goes back over fifty years. As always with the Institution of Elements there is a purpose behind tradition and that tradition is to see how you prosper or fail during a weekend away from the structured class setting of the school itself.”

  The bus wasn’t like any bus I’d ever seen beyond the motor too. Pocket told me it’s the same kind you were transported into the Asylum from Tahoe with. Having been brought in and stabbed with a giant needle by Ceinwyn, I never experienced it. It wasn’t a school bus, wasn’t a city bus, wasn’t even a charter bus. It had no windows at all. I’m pretty sure that even prison buses have windows . . . at least they do in the movies . . .

  “You’ve had four weeks of classes and you’ve survived. Be proud of this accomplishment. Consider this trip a vacation. Enjoy it. Play in the lake. Poke wild animals with sticks. Eat smores. Undertake activities common to camping trips. You have three days to relax, enjoy every minute of it.”

  No televisions to entertain us, no iPads, no cell-phones, no books even. The backpacks Samson mentioned were pre-packed by Asylum servants. We had no clue what was inside them. Miranda Daniels tried to bring a sketchpad and some pencils to draw the wildlife but both had been confiscated by our student-advisor before she stepped on the bus.

  Curt Chambers did get to keep his inhaler though . . . good thing too, I didn’t want his wheezy ass keeping me up at night.

  “But remember . . . you are not normal children. Every one of you is a mancer. Don’t forget it. Keep the magnetism of your Elementalism under control. There are no nurses or doctors or fire extinguishers here to save the day. Only trees and leaves to burn away.” Samson stared at Valentine Ward for this bit.

  Largely over accidental discharges, she winked and six-shootered back at him.

  Nothing to entertain kids brought up especially for ADHD, video games and DVDs for every minute of the day. We almost went insane with boredom. Some slept. Others tried to talk. The Asylum didn’t have news services outside of a weekly sheet for world events the teachers passed out on Sundays. We didn’t have new reality TV shows to discuss or sports to argue about, so instead gossip was king.

  More a king than even me.

  “There will be rules.”

  A month and we’d been stuffing ourselves silly on rumors and gossip. The other years were only interested in who dated who and stuff like you’d expect in a girly magazine. For us Singles we had the Mancy piled on top.

  What could you do? What couldn’t you do?

  “Do not go anywhere alone.”

  Who had themselves an accidental discharge? What had Teacher A meant when they said this particular hint about the Mancy?

  “Do not litter.”

  Then you had the structure, questions about the teachers. How old was the Lady really? Did Mordecai Root really keep Bonegrinder constructs in his house? Did Ceinwyn Dale really get her own boyfriend killed on assignment once? Are Russell Quilt and Audrey Foster really dating?

  “Do not cause me problems.”

  The rumors and gossip irked me. A month . . . a fucking month and still we didn’t know anything. Didn’t know a damned thing about the Mancy or how it worked. Nothing but guesses. The worst of it was that since Welf and his groupies grew up around the Mancy they loved lording their knowledge over the rest of us, dispensing it like scraps to dogs.

  I ain’t no man’s dog, neither bull nor bitch.

  “Do as I command.”

  A whole month and I’d learned a lot about geography and history and read a few books and done a few math problems, but the Mancy?

  History of Elementalism? We’d spent a month on ancient uses of the Mancy and how it evolved itself from mysticism under Neolithic societies into religion under the Egyptians. Greeks were up next; apparently they finally started figuring things out and doled out some real names to what was going on.

  Basic Elementalism? A month of breathing exercises, relaxation Buddha shit, and mind problems. Mr. Gullick liked to put us into groups and let us play with these 3D puzzles. Where’s the Mancy in that?

  Survival and Defense? Not a bit of Mancy in sight, but at least we’re being taught how to protect ourselves. Knots, herb-lore, even CPR. My favorite class by far.

  The teacher?

  Fines Samson.

  “Here is a step by step plan of action for you to follow: you are going to orderly exit the bus, you are going to wait near the luggage catch down below, I will read out nametags and hand them on over, then—as one group—we will trek to our camp site. There and only there you will be given further instructions. Any questions?”

  “It’s a trap,” Pocket mumbled under his breath and before we could stop it we were laughing so hard we covered our mouths to keep the sound down.

  Samson nodded into silence. “Good . . . now get the hell out of my bus.”

  [CLICK]

  What does Fines Samson look like?

  No, this ain’t more of the rhetorical crap I just fed you about the Mancy. In the famous words of the crazy Irish guy from Braveheart, ‘answer the fuckin’ question.’

  What does Fines Samson look like?

  Think about it for a bit instead of moving on.

  Here’s some silence . . .

  .

  .

  .

  Got a mental image?

  .

  .

  .

  Wrong mental image, little asshole.

  Fines Samson is ninety years old. The hair he’s got is white, he has glasses thick as hell, and he don’t even got any teeth left. He wears dentures. But he stands straight. He could outrun any kid in my class. He could also kill any kid in my class and almost anyone else on this Earth.

  He’s a Bad Ass Mother Fucker, Grade-Triple-A BAMF certified. A sciomancer, Ultra, a Shadeshifter. He fought in WW2, Korea, AND Vietnam, doing awesome that’s still classified. In the 70s he started teaching at the Asylum, a living legend, only retiring at the age of seventy-five. Class ’09 was the only other class he taught after that retirement, a special service for the Lady. Guess she knew what a handful we were going to be.

  [CLICK]

  “How can you like this?” I asked Pocket.

  “What’s not to like?” He gave me his best I-can’t-believe-you expression. “Fresh air, birds singing, trees rattling, and a nice bit of exercise. The only thing better than a hike is catching waves on a board.”

  “That, Pocket, is the wisdom of a man who has never even kissed a girl.”

  He blushed. “I never should have admitted it to you.”

  “Nope.”

  “You’ll never let it go . . .”

  “Well . . . eventually you’ll kiss a girl, right?”

  “Yeah . . . eventually . . .”

  “Just ask Isabel.”

  He hit me on the shoulder and almost knocked me over. The trail wasn’t so bad but the backpack had to weigh as much as I did.

  Class ’09 strung out in a line, following Fines Samson
at the same pace that we had for three hours. Apparently, the man had never heard of the word ‘break’ in his ninety years . . . unless it was to break the bones of students who dared to ask him questions.

  “That’s not funny, dude.” Pocket shook his head. He was already working towards six-foot and didn’t have a single problem with the backpack. If anything, he played with the straps, pulling it up and letting it slide back down, like the pace bored him. “I’m going to have nightmares about kissing Isabel now . . . about missing her mouth and tonguing her wart.”

  I would have laughed if I had the breath for it. Fourteen-year-old-me realized for the first time that there are different kinds of exercise than getting into fist fights. Whatever you needed for hikes through the woods, Visalia hadn’t supplied me with.

  If only I didn’t have the stupid backpack, I thought.

  “What do you think is in these things?” I asked aloud.

  “The backpacks?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Clothes.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Extra pair of shoes.”

  “Probably some socks too.”

  “Right . . . then they probably divvied up camping supplies through the class.”

  “Like . . . what?”

  “You’re hopeless in the outdoors, King Henry.”

  The trail was definitely outdoors. I had a feeling deer and bears got more use out of it than humans did. Trees, bushes, all kinds of crap in the way. You couldn’t see a damned thing. You smelt everything.

  My nose itched. I didn’t like it.

  I grew up in a valley, I liked my world flat. Sure, the Asylum was in the mountains, but it was clear cut mountains. All the trees around you? I hated it. Getting down into you with their roots, covering up, working to turn stone into dirt . . . the geomancer in me was offended.

  “This is why I didn’t join the Camping Club.”

  “You didn’t join any club.”

  I was the only kid in the class who hadn’t. Cuz I’m not stupid. “So, what kind of camping supplies?”

  “Matches, the tents, insect repellants, trail mix, pots and pans . . . hopefully some toilet paper,” Pocket explained.

  “I get it.” I stopped long enough to shake my backpack. There was a clanking noise. “That bastard gave me all the heavy stuff, what you bet?”

  “I doubt he even packed it,” Pocket decided.

  “It’s Samson, he’s a control freak.”

  “Why would he hate on you? You’ve got the second best grade in his class. If Eva wasn’t so awesome at the non-fighting stuff you’d be number one.”

  “I always assume a person is trying to screw me over, helps to ready me for when the shit hits the fan.”

  “Relax, dude, it’s just a camping trip.”

  Only . . . it’s the Institution of Elements, Learning Academy and Nature Camp . . . so not really . . .

  [CLICK]

  After another hour the trail ended and Samson called a halt. We’d arrived at the campsite.

  The campsite had a kickstand.

  Half the class was oohing and awwing over the lake the place butted up against. Asa Kayode, our resident hydromancer, had already dipped her completely-black hand in the water and gave a completely-white smile back to the crowd. Good water, I guess. You wouldn’t see me in it.

  Fuck trees.

  Double fuck lakes.

  The lake reminded me of a month ago, the trip to the Asylum. A lot like Silver Lake. Only . . . no road behind us. Only . . . no cars making noises. Only . . . no cabins around it. Ass end of nowhere. The armpit of the galaxy but no inbred Sand People in sight. Thirty kids and Fines Samson to watch over us.

  Half of the class couldn’t care less about the lake. First thing they did when we hit the opening in the trees was to throw off their backpacks and crumble onto a trio of park benches that had been set up. There was also a fire-pit, lined in stone. Maybe the Camping Club came up here all the time, I had no clue, but I took the signs of civilization as a plus. The smell of evergreen wasn’t quite as bad either.

  “See, dude, nothing to worry about,” Pocket told me.

  Somehow I stripped myself out of my backpack without falling to the ground. “Have you not been in the same class I’ve been in or something?”

  “That’s class, we aren’t in class. It’s only Samson.”

  “The most badass guy at the school.”

  “Don’t know about that.”

  “Who else is more badass?”

  “Miss Dale?”

  “She’s a softie on the inside.” I hadn’t seen Ceinwyn in the month at school; maybe lack of exposure downgraded her in my mind.

  “Mordecai Root?”

  “Douchebag necromancer, he’s disqualified.”

  “What about Naomi’s dad? I wouldn’t want to mess with him.”

  “Mr. Gullick? Are you kidding me?”

  “What?”

  “He’s a floromancer . . . floromancers can’t be badasses. What’s he going to do? Throw a fern at me?”

  Pocket happened to be a floromancer and he glared. “I’m going to ignore you blasting my entire Mancy discipline.”

  “I know you are . . . there aren’t any ferns around for you to fight me with.”

  “Dude, Samson’s like one-hundred. He could drop dead at any moment. There’s no way he’s going to screw with us too much. Quit being paranoid and enjoy the break. Remember the Clubs Fair? You were paranoid about it and nothing happened.”

  Nothing except the Asylum managing to trick every student to give up more free time. I kept the thought to myself. “Just wait for it . . .”

  The first whiff of moldy-shit came five minutes later.

  “Very well,” Samson said, “Everyone get your eyes on me. I’m not repeating this.”

  The whole class did so, some innocent, some bored, some wanting to go back to the lake or benches, and one lonely King Henry waiting for that pre-mentioned Sword of Damocles to go all guillotine on our pretty young necks.

  Samson had a soft voice, even when he raised it for us to hear. In his prime he must have looked soft too. You could see it in his bone structure. Where the black hair would curl around his face, where the soft needle thin mustache would sit over his top lip. Softness hiding the inner edge. Now, only the edge was left, out in the sun, worn down, in need of some sharpening. Rough wrinkled skin hung loose over boney arms and legs, with pieces of muscles stretched tight around them. When you got old, I guess all the extra unneeded parts of you died before you did.

  After ninety years, only the voice was left soft. “The backpacks you hauled with you will have everything you require.” Pocket dared to look smug. “Scattered between your four teammates will be the pieces of a tent, four bowls, utensils, a small spade for dirt work, and other necessities. Since they’re packed with this purpose in mind, this means you do not get to choose your teams . . . I do.”

  Yep . . . shit already starting to stink.

  “Team Number One: Price, Landry, Jackson, and von Welf.”

  Thirty assholes collectively tightened.

  “Yes,” Samson continued with some glee, “I selected the teams solely for my entertainment.”

  You couldn’t have picked a team more guaranteed to fight with each other. If it had just been me with Jason and Welf I’d have been outgunned. Just Welf with me and Pocket and Welf wouldn’t have done nothing but make snide comments. The four of us together? I didn’t know how we’d get through the weekend without fists flying.

  “Team Number Two: Ward, Daniels, Kayode, and Hunting.”

  I take it back . . . you could pick a team more guaranteed to fight with each other . . .

  Teams kept coming out. I hardly paid attention to them. Welf had sauntered over to us, Jason carrying a backpack under each arm like he’s the Hulk or something. “Don’t start any problems, little Foul Mouth.”

  “Me? You’re the one who throws the shit, Nazi!”

  “Guys, come on, just cool it
for a few days,” Pocket tried to play councilor. He didn’t exactly like Welf either but Pocket didn’t hate the guy like I did. Of course, Pocket’s a normal looking kid who hadn’t been called a child before he could even give his name to the class.

  “I said I wasn’t repeating myself,” Samson’s voice carried from where he stood surrounded by school kids mouthing threats or jokes at each out. “So put the bickering on hold for a moment.” When he was sure he had our attention, he continued, “This weekend is considered a graded assignment. Do have fun.”

  There were groans.

  “Please get your tents built before sundown. I won’t be helping you.”

  Welf and I glared daggers and machineguns and probably even smart-bombs at each other. “Three day truce, Price,” he decided. “You listen to me, I’m in charge, and we get a good grade. It should be the only one you’ve gotten so far, yes?”

  If I’d had hackles, I would have raised them. Almost raised a certain finger, that’s for sure. “Fuck that.”

  “Be reasonable, man,” Jason said with a shake of his head, “you could use the grade and this ain’t the place for me to be breaking your bones.”

  Pocket shrugged.

  “You ever camped, Welf?” I could read his disgusted expression as my answer. “Me neither. What about you, Jackson?”

  Jason shook his head again.

  “Right . . . so Pocket is the only one who has a clue, which means we listen to him.”

  Seemed fair. I didn’t get to smack Welf’s face like I wanted and Welf didn’t get to play leader like he wanted.

  It was Jason’s turn to shrug. “Good with me.”

  Welf gave a sigh. “Only until he screws up.”

  I figured that’s as good a concession as we’d get out of him.

  Nazi asshole . . .

  Session 115

  Tyson Bonnie fidgeted, waiting by the counter as I closed down my register. If you need a reminder due to early-onset-dementia, Tyson Bonnie is my most loyal customer, an Ultra like me, an electromancer or by the Ultra title, a Stormcaller.

  Physically he’s about six-foot-four, weighed in at three-hundred pounds, and happened to have black skin. He wore khakis and polo-shirts and had the latest iWhateverthefuck in his pocket. He scared the racist little old ladies who frequented my shop but was about as middle-class as you get. I guess he counted as my friend, making him part of a pretty small club. As he was about to find out in the next few days . . . membership doesn’t have many perks.