by Derry Sandy
Rohan executed a quick shuffle and struck a fourth time, faster and harder than the previous three slashes. Voss ducked under the attack and came up inside Rohan’s guard. Rohan felt a moment of panic. Voss struck and Rohan parried, the hardwood blades slamming into each other. Voss’ blade struck so powerfully that Rohan almost lost his grip. Instead of striking again Voss moved his full weight behind the sword by placing one palm behind the blade and pressing forward with all his strength. Rohan slid backwards as Voss ploughed forward, the bare soles of his feet getting friction burns from the sparring mat. Rohan was eventually crushed against the bamboo wall of the room with Voss’ maniacal grin inches away from his nose.
“Yield,” Voss commanded through clenched teeth as he applied more of his considerable strength behind the painful sword press. Rohan would choose unconsciousness before he yielded to Voss, and if he could have drawn a breath he would have expressed this. With superhuman effort Rohan brought his knee up into Voss’ solar plexus. The man grunted and loosened the pressure on Rohan’s neck slightly. Rohan pivoted and swept Voss’ feet from under him with his instep. Voss’ body was completely horizontal in midair and Rohan brought the bokken down in a two-handed grip as Voss fell.
Nowhere for you to escape this time, Rohan thought.
But Rohan had once again underestimated his opponent. Voss flexed his spine like a falling cat’s and, changing direction in midair he moved just outside the reach Rohan’s descending blade. Rohan’s bokken struck the padded mat with a dull thud and Voss landed in an ungraceful heap an inch outside of the danger zone.
The two men stared at each other. They were completely out of breath. Rohan broke the silence first, “I’m willing to call it a draw if you are.”
Voss used the sword like a crutch and got to his feet. “I must be a bit rusty,” he responded grudgingly. “I guess we could call it a tie, except for that part where you almost went unconscious.”
“Hey, I call that the rope-a-dope, I was lulling you into a false sense of security,” Rohan said between gasps.
“Yes, yes of course. Another round then?”
“Best of three?” Rohan asked. That phrase, which he and his Ordermen brothers had often used to settle sparring disputes triggered grief that he was not yet ready to address fully. His grandfather had always advised them to mentally address matters that were emotionally distressing, and Rohan was sufficiently self-aware to recognize that he was willfully suppressing his sadness.
“Deal. This first one doesn’t count though,” Voss replied, interrupting Rohan’s thoughts.
“Your funeral, buddy.” Rohan assumed a Kogan-ryu pose. His arms were already tired, but there was no way he would admit exhaustion to his bodyguard. Voss faced him with another unfamiliar stance and they began once more.
***
Kamara woke slowly. Sleep was like an ocean and she was a diver clawing her way back to the surface from an unassisted dive to an extraterrestrial depth. The darkness and the cold of the unfathomable hemmed her in on all sides. A thousand bloodthirsty behemoths pursued her to the surface. Her heart pounded, her lungs were either about to collapse for want of air or she would suck down a mouthful of cold brine. But suddenly, she was fully awake and the nightmare dissipated like old gossamer before a brisk wind, forgotten even in the act of opening her eyes. Who am I? I am Kamara.
She certainly did not feel like herself. She felt wired, animated, as if she was plugged directly into the source of whatever powered life itself. She experienced no sleepy transition into wakefulness, she was already running full throttle. The world around seemed sharp, the edges of the table looked as if they could cut her finger, and she could make out the individual weaves in the fabric of the sheets. She smelled the faint scent of man that Rohan had left. On the windowsill a Siamese fighting fish swam in a five-gallon tank and Kamara felt that she could count every scale on its scarlet body from where she sat on the bed. She looked at the tattoos. Is this their effect? she wondered.
She got out of bed and stretched. Barbs of electricity danced down her spine. Then she heard it, a faint clatter like staves being bashed together. Someone was sparring, and from the sound, they were using bokken rather than the safer hollow bamboo swords. Now that she was tuned in she could tell that, whoever they were, they fought at a frenetic pace. At some points the parries came so quickly that it sounded like staccato fire from an automatic pistol. That could only mean that it was Voss and Rohan letting their testosterone and competitiveness get the better of them. She put on shorts and left the room, bound for the practice mats. The door to the room where Lisa had slept was open. The blankets were folded, the bed had been meticulously made, and the woman was nowhere to be seen.
When Kamara arrived at the practice area the competing men had an audience. Lisa sat on a prostrate punching bag eating a bowl of what appeared to be plain shredded wheat, the breakfast she had skipped that morning in her exhaustion. Agrippa and Tarik sat next to each other on the padded border of the sparring area and Jonah and Imelda stood off to one side.
The spectators were so focused on the two men in the center that none noticed her arrival. Rohan and Voss were dressed in baggy hakama sparring pants, Rohan wore traditional black and Voss wore red. Their bare, unprotected torsos were covered in sweat, welts, and bruises. The pair engaged each other with such speed, ferocity, and grace that the effort looked choreographed. She knew however that it was serious. Back and forth they went, neither gaining an advantage, then each simultaneously spotting some weakness in the other and attacking it with equal viciousness. The match ended in a draw.
“Another tie, fellas,” Jonah said. “What is that? Five in a row?”
Voss wore a bemused look. “I really must be out of practice, let’s do one more.”
“If you like being battered with a stick then who am I to deny you that joy?” Rohan retorted, twirling the bokken so that it blurred, never one to decline a challenge. Kamara knew Rohan would fight until he collapsed or until Voss conceded, whichever came first. His stubbornness was simultaneously admirable and frustrating.
She felt a surge of adventurousness that seemed to be a continuation of the new vitality she had felt upon waking. She stepped forward. “I want to try.”
Everyone turned to look, noticing her presence for the first time.
“Jonah, you can referee the match,” she continued.
Rohan spoke up. “Do you feel well, love? Why are you suddenly interested in sparring? You never liked my lessons before.” He came forward and theatrically placed the back of his palm against her forehead as if checking for a fever. She shoved him away playfully then wiped his sweat from her hands on the seat of her shorts.
“I feel just fine and seeing as you taught me all that I know I would like to try against Voss.”
Rohan grew serious. “That may not be such a good idea, Voss is a sadist.” He held up a hand to display a pair of dislocated fingers.
“She’ll be fine,” Voss said. “I like her a lot more than I like you Rohan. Grab her a men, a pair of kote, and a shinai,” Voss continued, asking for the helmet, gloves, and the bamboo sword designed for sparring safety, gear he and Rohan had not used.
“Bokken not shinai, and I won’t be needing any of the other equipment. One match don’t hold back,” Kamara said, a little shocked at her own confidence.
“Kam, you really must be ill. At least take the helmet,” Rohan coaxed, beginning to look concerned.
“It’s just one match, Ro. How bad could it be?” Kamara responded. Rohan spent the next few minutes attempting to convince her to abandon the idea of facing Voss without the padded gear, but Kamara remained firm and eventually he gave up in the face of her stubbornness.
Rohan walked over to Voss and they shared a quick word. Voss nodded solemnly and Rohan clapped him on the shoulder, then walked back to Kamara, handing her the dented bokken he had been using. Mildly annoyed by the cautionary exchange he had obviously had with Voss, she accepted Rohan’s bokken b
ut walked over to the wall rack. She set down the oak bokken he had been given her and selected a pale one made of ash.
“Picky, picky,” Rohan teased.
Voss kept the wooden blade he had been using in his matches against Rohan and adopted the stance he had used against Rohan in their first match. Kamara mirrored Rohan’s semi-crouching batto-jitsu stance, the wooden sword sheathed in her waistband in lieu of a scabbard. Her hand was poised over the bokken’s handle midway up its length. Voss moved, pressing the attack. Kamara did not move fast enough to step out of the way of the descending blade, but instead of trying to sidestep and draw like Rohan had, Kamara just drew.
She felt as if she was having an out of body experience. She had never practiced what she was about to do, yet her body seemed to know what technique to apply to the situation. Her draw was fast but it was a feint, meant to give the illusion that she was slightly out of range. Mid swing she adjusted her grip and allowed her hand to slide down the handle of the sword so that she barely grasped the last inch or so of handle as it sped through the air.
The modified grip brought Voss well within the cutting arc of the rapidly travelling business end of the bokken. Kamara saw a brief look of shock cross Voss’ face. He changed the direction of his own downward swing and placed his sword where it would parry Kamara’s blow. Kamara’s ash blade struck the side of Voss’ sword with a crack like shattering bone. Her bokken broke right through and continued onward to strike Voss across the temple. Voss stumbled backward clutching the broken handle of his sword. Unable to keep his balance he fell onto the mat, blood already seeping from a gash in his forehead. There was absolute silence. Kamara dropped her sword in shock.
“Where did you learn that?” Voss groaned, clutching his head, blood welling between his fingers.
“I’m so sorry, Voss,” Kamara said as she rushed over to check on her fallen opponent. “I made that up on the fly. I didn’t think I would hit you with it.”
“Nah, it’s not your fault. Obviously I’m tired from a long day, and this bokken has obviously been weakened by the previous matches. Obviously…” Voss slowly attempted to regain his feet but ended up deciding to remain seated.
“You want to go best of three, Voss?” Rohan said, attempting to lighten the mood. Voss snarled something unintelligible in response. He had finally managed to get back to his feet with Kamara’s assistance. Jonah examined the wound, but Voss was already well on his way to being fully healed.
Kamara faced Rohan. “What is going on?” she asked.
Rohan replied in a thoughtful semi-whisper, “As you know every Orderman’s mark has a different purpose. Even the same marks on two different people may manifest differently. I’m not familiar with the marks that Kat’s creature gave you. Maybe we can find some information in the archives. But even if your marks are described in the archives, the exact effect on you will only be determinable through observation. So far it looks like strength and speed are part of your package. Also, one day after you have practiced more you will understand the significance of what you just did. Breaking a bokken and almost beheading Voss with one hand with a transition from batto-jitsu into nagare-boshi is genius-level swordsmanship. We will have to monitor you closely as the marks take hold.”
Kamara turned towards the door of the training room. “I think she’s here,” she said in a half whisper.
“Who’s here?” Rohan asked, just as Katharine sauntered into the room. How did Kamara know? Was this an additional aspect of her marks?
The soucouyant looked stunning in black skinny jeans, a black silky blouse with the top three pearl buttons undone, and a pair of white crocodile skin stilettos with heels that looked like stainless steel. Her outfit was cinched at the waist with a slim crocodile skin belt that matched the shoes. Rohan wondered if she had killed the crocodile herself.
“How did you get in,” Rohan asked.
Kat did not respond directly. “I promised I would be here after sunset and here I am. We have much to discuss. Additionally, it’s a fine night for the ladies to go clubbing, specifically at the Kings and Commoners.” Rohan and Voss shared a look.
Jonah, sensing the building tension in the room spoke up. “Imelda and I will prepare some refreshments. You folks get clean. We can all circle-up in about fifteen minutes in the second floor living room.”
“Sounds good.” Kat beamed, her even white teeth framed by lips made blood-red by lipstick.
“Fifteen minutes it is then. Thank you, Jonah,” Rohan said. “Voss, you can take two extra minutes.” Rohan was enjoying needling the man. Voss growled a response again.
Kamara sidled up next to him and took his arm. “I’m really sorry about Voss, I didn’t mean to.” She really felt guilty about hurting the bodyguard.
“You’re fine and he’ll be fine. It’s mostly his pride that’s bruised,” Rohan replied. “We’ll have to determine exactly what effect the marks will have on you, in the meantime just be very careful. I certainly won’t be sparring with you,” he finished playfully.
They all filed out of the room. Rohan wondered what the soucouyant had up her couture sleeves.
Chapter 13
“Is it not a horrible travesty that man does not remember the experiences of his past incarnations? This state dooms him to repeat his mistakes life after life, turn after turn. Because of this, mankind’s progress to nirvana is incrementally slow.”
– "An Immortal’s Musings" by an unidentified soucouyant
The hobo’s world is a whimsically cruel place. Samdeo remembered the night he had been drawn into a no-holds-barred brawl with a toothless vagabond over the rights to a discarded box containing mostly chicken bones. (Why a toothless man would fight over bones was a question that still baffled Sam.)
While they wrestled with each other in a rancid embrace of sweat and grime, a stray dog had made good the opportunity to slink off into the night with the prize. Samdeo caught a glimpse of the dog’s narrow, leathery backside as it loped off with the morsels over which he was fighting, cruel indeed.
That Samdeo was insane was a question that had been answered clinically. Every evaluating doctor at St. Ann’s agreed that something was mentally amiss. The real challenge was in diagnosing exactly what was amiss. A hundred theories were advanced and discarded; Schizophrenia perhaps? Split Personality Disorder maybe? No one was quite sure.
His psychological problems had a single source—the memories. Well, at least what he considered to be memories and what the doctors considered to be illusions manufactured by his, yet to be identified, mental disorder.
The memories had started six years prior, when he was about twelve. At the time Sam was an academically gifted student who teachers described as a ‘pleasure to educate.’ On the specific day in question he was on a class field trip to the Port-of-Spain museum. His group was chaperoned by a museum assistant who led them from exhibit to exhibit, delivering pre-programmed commentary about the artifacts on display.
Sam was deeply interested in Caribbean history and he already knew most of what the guide was saying. He was thus only subconsciously aware of the guide’s prepared drone. The group paused in front a painting of some Spanish conquistadors landing on a jungle beach, triumphant in shining armor. The painting also depicted native Amerindians in various subservient poses paying homage at the feet of white men with beatific faces. The tour guide confirmed the accuracy of the depicted scene in his monotonous buzz.
“This, boys and girls, is an oil painting showing the very first landing of the Spanish conquistadors on Trinidad’s shores,” he said and Sam was suddenly fully engrossed. A small voice in the back of his mind prompted Sam to speak, although at the time, he thought that the desire to speak was his own.
“That’s not what happened,” Sam said.
“What do you mean?” the guide replied, unenthusiastic about being contradicted.
“They were starving and weak when they got off their stinking boats, their armor was rusted, not gleaming like i
n the painting.” The words came out of Sam in a rush.
“That’s very interesting young man,” the guide responded dismissively and continued with his spiel. The tour group moved on, but Sam hung back, staring at the painting and growing more and more agitated the longer he stared. The painting was a bold-faced lie. Something had to be done. Something would be done.
Sam ducked under the velvet rope that was put in place to ensure that small boys did not get within arm’s length of the irreplaceable artifacts. He examined the painting up close. All lies, he thought. Suddenly his mind was filled with memories. Not just voices but sounds, smells, and sights, a complete immersion.
He remembered the first conquistadors vividly because he had been there. They had been lice ridden, afflicted with scurvy and dysentery. The stink of death and brokenness followed them in a putrid fog. His nose wrinkled at the alien stench.
The men had launched their worm-eaten longboat from their battered ship. It had taken the weakened lot close to six hours to row the two miles from where their large ship was anchored in the deeper waters of the bay heaving with the tide, its timbers and ropes groaning like some stricken behemoth. When the longboat beached, it was all the seventeen men could do to crawl off and lie prostrate in the sand. His people should have killed them then, cut their throats or drowned them or simply just left them to die on their own. But that was not his people’s way.
They had nursed the men, tended their blisters and their pus-filled sores, and fed them from the brink of starvation. Twelve of the original seventeen survived. When the men were strong enough his people gave them sufficient provisions to return to their distant home, a journey that his people all deemed impossible in their mildewed and rotted ship. But the white men had apparently made it back because they eventually returned to his people’s island with more men and still more men and with their rats and their swine and their goats, with their swords and their muskets, and with their diseases the deadliest of which was greed. This time their armor gleamed.
