by Ken Brosky
The crowd cheered.
Last Chapter – For Real!
OK, one more ending. Just one more! I know I’ve got a whole Lord of the Rings thing going here with so many different endings, but there’s still one thing we have to wrap up.
The fencing tournament.
So let me set the scene: an arena, its bleachers filled with family and friends cheering like crazy. Four fencing matches going on at once, each one taking place on a red rectangle in one section of the arena floor. Blinding hot lights shining down from overhead, lights normally used for basketball and hockey games. An incredibly dull-sounding announcer who definitely spoiled the whole Karate Kid mood.
And an invisible rabbit, watching quietly from the rafters.
Sweat dripped down my forehead, gathering above my eyebrows. I held my breath, watching my opponent step forward. I tried to anticipate her next move, but she surprised me by going inside, stabbing at my stomach. My hot breath bounced off the mesh mask. I parried with my saber, stepping back, feeling my opponent’s blade slip through and tap against my chest plate. The electronic bell sounded, signaling a point.
I bent the blade of my saber, trying to straighten it as best I could. It had already dished out a lot of points for me and had begun to lose its straight shape.
“Come on, Alice,” I whispered into the mask.
“Remember the whale!” Chase shouted from behind the judges’ desk. Lots of people were shouting—there were four matches going on at once in the massive arena, after all, and the stands were jam-packed. The noise level reached a crescendo anytime anyone scored a point.
“The whale,” I muttered, stepping back onto the mat. I wished I’d never told him the full story of that whole experience. All day, every point I gave up was a “Remember the whale” moment.
“Killer instinct,” I whispered, checking my stance and holding out my saber. The referee—also known as the “Director,” as he proudly informed us—shouted “En garde!”
I stepped forward quickly, advancing on my opponent’s position, stabbing quickly; my blade grazed hers, sending her off-balance. She tried to regain her footing, counter-riposting by extending her blade high. This was my moment. Sweat dripped from my eyebrows. The muscles in my right arm burned but I fought through, initiating a stop-cut, preventing my opponent from making another attack. Her blade bounced away from her body and for a split second, just a fraction of a breath, I saw my opening plain as day. My blade was already in position. I stepped forward, stabbing her in the chest.
The tip of the blade bounced off her protective plate. The bell chimed. Seth and Clyde and all the entire boys’ fencing team stood up, cheering. My parents screamed at the top of their lungs.
I’d won. I’d taken first place in the women’s saber event. I shook my opponent’s hand, then the hand of the Director. He gave me a quick nod, a sign of respect. I looked up, toward the rafters. Briar was there, leaning on one of the big spotlights. He gave a little wave with his bandage-free paw.
“We’re not done yet,” I told Chase, pulling off my mask. He smiled, tossing me a hairband so I could tie my hair back.
We hurried behind the line judges’ tables, making our way to the other side of the arena where Rachel was playing for third place in the foil round. Jasmine had taken second place with the foil. Margaret had taken third place with the epee, which was the strongest of the three types of blades. We were doing better than the boys despite having two fewer fencers to compete. No other team had as many fencers finishing in the top three. We could take first place overall with Rachel’s points.
If she won.
“Beautiful!” Mr. Whitmann called out. We followed his voice, moving around another judges’ table to the other side of the arena floor. Mr. Whitmann was standing beside the judges’ table, moving so that the Director didn’t obstruct his view of the two fencers dancing on the platform that stood about a foot higher than the floor of the arena.
Behind them, Margaret and Jasmine stood cheering our teammate on.
The bell chimed. Rachel’s opponent cheered, stepping back and bending the blade of her foil back into place.
“Shrug it off!” Mr. Whitmann said gruffly. His blue collared shirt was stained dark under the armpits. “That’s an order, by the way!”
Rachel’s shoulders slumped. I looked at the score and realized why: one more point, and she lost.
But it was close. She only needed two consecutive points to win.
“Stop thinking about your feet so much,” Mr. Whitmann said. “You always think about your feet too much!”
Rachel, armored head to toe, simply shrugged.
“Use your strength!” Mr. Whitmann urged, crushing his hand into a fist.
Her masked face turned to Chase. He held up three fingers.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Chase didn’t answer. He simply nodded to Rachel, who nodded back, lifting her shoulders.
She got back into position inside the carefully marked red rectangle. She was definitely bigger than the other girl. Not just bulkier, either—taller. She had the reach, that was for sure. Her opponent was winning because she could dance like someone running across hot coals. Rachel needed to turn that into a disadvantage somehow.
“En garde!” the mustachioed Dictator called out.
Rachel took two big steps, closing the gap before her opponent could do any fancy footwork. They locked blades, and Rachel used her strength to push her opponent back.
“Yes!” Mr. Whitmann called out, nearly ecstatic.
Rachel stepped forward again, closing the distance between them. She parried, lifting her sword up to deflect a blow, then another then took another step …
Thump!
She brought her foot down hard, and her opponent—thinking she was going to attack—stopped her own advance, hesitating. Rachel took advantage of the opportunity, going on the offense, the blade of her foil sliding left and right, the sound of their blades clanging together again and again and again, so fast it was impossible to know what was happening.
The bell chimed. The little light on Rachel’s helmet lit up. Everyone cheered.
“An appel?” I asked Chase. “A foot stomp?”
He shrugged. When she looked at him, he held up one finger.
Rachel closed the distance between them again, no longer hesitant. She stabbed wildly, keeping her opponent off-balance, overpowering her with sheer strength and willpower.
“Yes!” Mr. Whitmann yelled. “Yesssss!”
The crowd behind the judges’ table cheered louder. Rachel had her opponent on the ropes, their foils crossing and clanging together in a flurry of attacks and counter-ripostes. Rachel’s strokes had no pattern—zero pattern. It was as if she and Chase had planned it that way, as if it was a carefully designed series of attacks. A series of attacks so furious that her opponent could only defend, stepping back again and again while her foil went up, down, left, right. Rachel’s foil slid left, slid right, then very gently poked her opponent’s ribs.
The bell went off again. The light on Rachel’s helmet lit up.
Mr. Whitmann screamed at the top of his lungs. Rachel tore off her helmet, a big grin plastered across her face. She shook hands with her opponent, then stepped off the stage. I gave her the first hug. Then everyone else from our team was pushing me aside to get theirs in, too.
“We won!” Chase said, laughing hysterically. We’d placed first overall in the girls’ tournament and second overall in the boys’ tournament.
I grabbed him by the shoulders. We looked each other in the eyes. Before I knew it, I was falling into him. Our lips touched. Opened just a bit. His hand clutched mine. White-hot dragon’s fire coursed through my body.
I wish I could say this was a totally awesome, absolutely one hundred percent happy ending. But this is the real world, not a fairy tale.
“Everyone settle down, settle down,” Mr. Whitmann announced in our locker room once we’d all reconvened and packed up our gear.
He grunted, examining us, kicking aside one of the duffel bags after tripping on it. “You did a fine, fine job. I’m proud of you all. But we’re not done.”
We looked at each other, confused. The tournament was over.
Mr. Whitmann smiled. “I just received word that we’ve been invited to the International Fencing Tournament in Romania!”
“Woah!” said Bobby, pulling back his blond hair. “That’s where Dracula lives!”
“He’s not real,” Jasmine snapped.
Mr. Whitmann held up his hands, quieting us down. “We’re going during winter break. Two weeks. And here’s the best part. We have a sponsor, which means everything will be paid for.”
Chase smiled, glancing at me. “Free trip to Europe? I’ll take it.”
“This sounds too good to be true!” Margaret exclaimed, her eyes fluttering.
A sharp pain stabbed me in the gut, warning me of danger.
“I’d like you to meet our sponsor,” Mr. Whitmann said. “And give him a round of applause before he rethinks his kind gesture. Mr. Sam Grayle!”
The dwarf walked into the locker room, greeted by thunderous applause. He grinned, giving everyone an obligatory wave, unbuttoning his shiny gray suit coat and taking a bow.
I felt my stomach drop.
Sam Grayle turned to me, grinning wider.
To be continued!
Legacy of Red
A special Grimm Chronicles mini-story, featuring Alice Goodenough …
(This story first appeared on abackwardsstory.blogspot.com)
Every dream for the past week has been the same: someone running through the forest. Running from something.
Emphasis on the “thing” part.
He was a wolf at some point. Or, to be more specific, he was one of the Big, Bad Wolves.
Yup, there were two of them. Read “Little Red Riding Hood.” The first one is supposedly killed by a hunter. The second supposedly drowned. But neither of them died. I have no idea why … maybe it was the words the Brothers Grimm used when they wrote the story. The first one was skinned. The second one was drowned. They didn’t write anywhere that the wolves died.
So now, 200 years later, one of them is skulking around the state of Wisconsin, hunting human beings.
And here I am, walking through a forest fifty miles north of Milwaukee, wearing a red cloak with the hood drawn tight. Red Riding Hood. Or, to be more accurate, disguised as Red Riding Hood. The cloak covers my body. And my weapon.
My feet step carefully around the dry leaves that have fallen to the ground. No sounds. Maybe I can catch the wolf unawares. Maybe he’ll make this easy.
The trees shudder. No birds calling out from the bare branches of the oak and pine trees. No one else anywhere.
The air is cold. A sweatshirt would be more appropriate for this autumn weather. But with the red hood on, the wolf will be drawn to me. He’ll think I can lead him to my delicious grandmother, just like in the fairy tale. He’ll do this because he was written this way by the Brothers Grimm. It’s part of his personality.
Suddenly, I feel him. I smell him. The dry, crisp air brings with it the intense smell of mud-caked fur. He smells like kind of like a wet dog.
But he probably doesn’t want to hear that.
“Whither away so early, Red Riding Hood?”
I turn around slowly. How did he sneak up on me? If I hadn’t been wearing the red hood … I stifle a shudder. He’s tall. He stands on his hind legs, like a werewolf. His mane is furry and he has a long snout. His hair is a patchy, mangy brown. The Corruption has positively ruined his teeth, causing them to twist and crack and bend awkwardly. Along his belly are long, ragged scars.
“To grandmother’s house,” I reply nonchalantly. In the story, Red Riding Hood is calm, despite facing a wolf. She was obviously near-sighted, because the beast in front of me is about as terrifying as any Corrupted I’ve come across. Also? Probably not a great idea to tell a hungry wolf where your grandmother is.
“Would you rather not pick some flowers for your grandmother?” he asks.
“No.” I tear away the cloak, revealing my fencing saber clutched tightly in my right hand. “I’d much rather stay here.”
He growls. “The hero! Why, you’ll taste best of all!”
He lunges forward. I dodge, swiping at him with my saber and running the blade across his belly. His body lands hard on the forest floor, kicking up dirt and fallen fiery orange leaves.
“Well,” I say. “That was easier than expected.”
The wolf groans, rolling over. There’s a burning black mark across his belly but it doesn’t spread. It doesn’t consume him!
“Come on!” I shout. “Burn away already! That’s how it works. I cut you, you burn away. Everyone is happy. Except you.”
The wolf stands and shakes his massive head slowly. His ears prick up at the sound of wind sliding between the bare branches above us. He runs one claw across the cut again and again. Little black stitches appear, as if he’s sewing the wound closed.
“Magic!” I hiss. “Who taught you that?”
The wolf shrugs.
“Oh that is so not fair!” I shout, taking a step back. He lunges at me again. This time, I circle around a fat tree trunk, hopping onto a fallen log and pushing off with all my might, leaping over a prickly bush.
The wolf follows effortlessly, closing the distance between us. I grab the trunk of a maple sapling, using my momentum to spin around, stabbing at him with the saber. He dodges with a grunt, then howls as the tip of the blade scrapes across his shoulder. He steps back, splitting a fallen branch in half with his long foot.
“Why are you here?” he asks. “Did you see me in a dream, hero? You wouldn’t be the first. Your predecessors have all seen me once or twice. Some have tried hunting me down. None were so smart as to disguise themselves.”
“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” I mutter, watching him stitch up the wound on his shoulder. The burning blackness is still there, though, underneath the stitches. It’s a continuous stitch—I can tell because I’ve had the same suture on my arm. I remember thinking it was so cool, watching the doctor stitch up my cut, and I watched it all happen while my mom looked away. If I can just unstitch the wolf’s suture, somehow …
The wolf side-steps, his tail thrashing side to side. He sniffs in through his nose. “You reek of experience, hero. How many Corrupted have you killed?”
“Tons,” I say. “Hundreds. Millions.”
He comes at me again, moving quicker than I expect, his feet deftly avoiding the fallen branches and little shrubs in the way only an animal can. I throw myself behind a tree, tearing my shirt on the rough bark. He tries to cut me off, but I duck low, rolling under the swipe of his claws. My feet push me forward and I somersault between two pine trees, rolling onto my back. The wolf is coming down on me, claws extended. I draw my feet close to my body, letting the wolf land awkwardly on them. I cut at one of his stitched wounds, then block a swipe of his claws with my forearm and push his heavy weight off.
The muscles in my legs burn. My heart races. My lungs gasp for air.
“Come on, Alice,” I whisper. Think! You’re so good at thinking. Avoiding giant ferocious wolves? Not so much. And you’re getting tired.
The wolf jumps to his feet, glaring at me through yellow eyes. Our hot breaths escape in clouds of steam. He’s reckless. He knows he can outlast me, stitching himself up and waiting for me to make a mistake.
Then I see it: the magical stitch I took a swipe at, to the right of his stomach. He hasn’t repaired it. It’s just hanging there. I can grab it.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask. “An invitation?”
The wolf howls, lunging at me again. I step back and deflect one set of claws with my saber, reaching out with my free hand and grabbing the loose stitch. His heavy weight knocks us both over, and his warm drool lands on my face.
“Gross!” I shout, pushing off of him.
He grabs my foot before I
can get away, his claws digging into my calf. A smile creeps across his muzzle.
I return the smile, holding up the stitch I’m clutching.
His smile fades. He looks at his stomach. The open wound, now free of stitching, has already begun spreading, the burning blackness quickly consuming his body.
Black ashes fall to the forest floor. The smell of burnt paper tickles my nostrils.
I grab my red cloak. In the Brothers Grimm story, Red Riding Hood had cake and wine. I’m too young for wine, but I think a little victory cake is definitely in order.
* * *
[i] THE MISER IN THE BUSH
By the Brothers Grimm
A farmer had a faithful and diligent servant, who had worked hard for him three years, without having been paid any wages. At last it came into the man's head that he would not go on thus without pay any longer; so he went to his master, and said, “I have worked hard for you a long time, I will trust to you to give me what I deserve to have for my trouble.” The farmer was a sad miser, and knew that his man was very simple-hearted; so he took out threepence, and gave him for every year's service a penny. The poor fellow thought it was a great deal of money to have, and said to himself, “Why should I work hard, and live here on bad fare any longer? I can now travel into the wide world, and make myself merry.” With that he put his money into his purse, and set out, roaming over hill and valley.
As he jogged along over the fields, singing and dancing, a little dwarf met him, and asked him what made him so merry. “Why, what should make me down-hearted?” said he; “I am sound in health and rich in purse, what should I care for? I have saved up my three years' earnings and have it all safe in my pocket.”
“How much may it come to?” said the little man.
“Full threepence,” replied the countryman.
“I wish you would give them to me,” said the other; “I am very poor.” Then the man pitied him, and gave him all he had; and the little dwarf said in return, “As you have such a kind honest heart, I will grant you three wishes—one for every penny; so choose whatever you like.”
