by Collin Earl
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bokken
“Yo, Hero!” said Casey, greeting Monson the second he walked into the gym. Casey looked at him curiously. “Dude, what the flying flip took ya so long? Coach Able has already called roll.”
“I couldn’t find the dumb place! Who puts a huge brand-spanking-new stadium in the middle of the freaking forest? Seriously?” demanded Monson.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Casey, with a knowing look on his face. “But you have to admit that though the location sucks, a dedicated stadium is pretty sick.”
“Yeah, you got me there,” admitted Monson. “If this is the Training Ground, I can’t imagine what the Battlefield looks like.”
The “Training Ground” was more akin to a multi-sport complex than a typical high school gym, and Monson could have sworn that most of the school was here. Students were scattered all over the place engaged in various activities. Some played volleyball or basketball. Several others were dressed in karate gi or fencing attire. It was quite the sight.
“The Battleground, Monson! It’s called the Battleground and it’s where Coren plays its football games. Everything else is The Training Ground. You’re standing in one of the most advanced indoor stadiums in the world. More than five billion dollars, dude, I kid you not.”
It didn’t surprise Monson; the place felt like it was chiseled from pure gold. Monson looked around and notice a lot of people staring at him.
“Come on bro-has. We’d better get you a locker and inform one of the coaches that you're here.”
As they started off, Monson looked around. “How was your fifth period?”
Casey glanced in either direction. “I didn’t go.”
Monson turned to him. “Why not?”
Casey put his finger to his mouth, which plainly indicated he didn’t want to talk about it right now.
Monson cocked the eyebrow. OK, Magnum, P.I., I’ll play along.
They walked in silence as they made their way across the gym, through a large pair of doors marked “Men.”
“Where’s Artorius?” asked Monson.
“Over yonder somewhere talking to some chickadees,” said Casey. “We need to find that boy a woman. I think he may lose it soon.”
“Whatever that means,” Monson chuckled. Then, remembering Kylie, Monson asked, “Speaking of women, Casey, when are you going to tell me what happened between you and Kylie?”
“We’d better hurry before we get busted.” Casey sounded stressed as he quickened his pace.
“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Monson, rushing after him. The fact had not been lost on him that Casey was doing his best to blow him off, which made him even more curious.
Monson attempted to catch up with Casey, whose smile was more like a grimace, as if he was in pain. They arrived at the double steel doors at the same time that a group of boys dressed in dark blue gym shorts and plain white t-shirts came stumbling out, pushing one another around.
The last boy saw Casey walking towards them and apparently without thinking, held the door open while standing to one side. Casey acknowledged this gesture with a simple nod of the head. He passed the boy, entering the locker room without a backwards glance. A few steps behind Casey, Monson, too, was about to slide through the door.
He had just made it over the threshold when a sharp pain erupted in his head, neck, and upper back. A blow from the door hit him with enough force to make him stagger and drop to one knee. The ringing in his aching head echoed as he turned around to see what had happened: The boy stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame and laughing with his friends.
“You need to be more aware of your surroundings,” said the boy as his friend patted him on the back. “If you aren’t, bad things might happen. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“You’re right.” Monson glared at him, his voice very quiet. “We wouldn’t want bad things to happen, as we might be held responsible for those bad things. And that would be even worse.”
The boy looked shocked at Monson's words and his tone. Suddenly angry, he knelt down to Monson’s level. He spoke equally softly.
“You’d better be careful, peasant. Your kind isn’t wanted here. You should know your place and be aware of whom you are talking to before you get mouthy. Or didn’t I hit you hard enough?”
Anger pulsed through Monson as he attempted to shake the pain from his head. His suspicions were confirmed; the strike from the door was on purpose. This should have thrown him into a state of confusion. Questions should have been erupting from within him as these unexplainable events unfolded.
This did not happen.
Far from clouding his thoughts, the boy’s words helped Monson to channel his anger. His mind became clear and his focus sharp. Bloody images flashed past his eyes as his disgust and outrage infused him. He glared murderously. Even more frightening than his fear, confusion or anger was the new feeling starting to emerge. It felt foreign and…dangerous. Monson tried to control it but it filled him up, bringing him to the brink of rage. Slowly, painfully, something like a dam inside broke and the sensation consumed him. Monson rose to his feet, tears of anger and repulsion flowing freely, as much from his internal struggle as his external injures. He fought to keep the anger at bay.
The boys watched him. Monson witnessed arrogance give way to confusion, apprehension, then fear. Monson glared with the newfound fire within him. He walked towards the boys filled with propose, yet without knowing what he was going to do nor caring about the consequences.
“MONSON!” A hand pulled at his shoulder and Monson spun around to look Casey straight in the eye. “Snap out of it!”
Monson awoke; at least that’s what it felt like. His energy slipped away from him, as if he had just run a marathon. He did not say anything but turned quickly back towards the boys in time to see the locker room doors slam shut. They were nowhere to be found. Monson slowly faced Casey, who just stood there gazing at him.
“What’d you do?” Casey looked at Monson apprehensively.
“Nothing,” replied Monson defensively. “I asked them if they wanted to dance but they said I wasn’t good enough. Made me kind of angry.”
“Grey!” Casey’s voiced sounded strained. “Now is not the time for joking. Why were you shaking? And why did those guys look like they were going to piss their pants?”
“Oh, don’t exaggerate,” said Monson dismissively. “I must have offended them somehow, so they thought they would give me some special treatment. I just wasn’t in the mood.”
Casey eyed Monson suspiciously; he was clearly skeptical of Monson’s account.
Monson stopped and took a step closer to Casey. “Why are you getting on my case? I mean, I get whacked in the back of the head with a metal door and you’re acting like I just killed someone.”
“Whacked in the head? What do you mean whacked in the head?”
Monson didn’t answer.
“Sorry, dude.” He sounded like he meant it. “Didn’t mean to accuse you. It’s just not very often that a group of five guys take off running right after they haze a younger student.” He looked at Monson thoughtfully. “I don’t know what happened, but something made them tuck tail and run.”
“They probably saw a teacher or something,” Monson shrugged. “Come on, we need to get out there before Artorius takes all the ladies.”
“You mean before Artorius gets smacked.”
They both laughed and returned to normal conversation, though Monson was preoccupied.
He had almost lost control to something so, powerful and dangerous. Very dangerous—Monson thought back to the feeling and shook his head. That feeling, whatever it was, did not feel like him, but nonetheless was a part of him; it was something familiar, but at the same time foreign. Regardless of what it was, he hoped he didn’t experience it again.
Casey stopped Monson in front of the giant steel door. “OK, so
here is the thing about Coach Hawke before we go in.”
Monson cocked the eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Casey rubbed his face contemplatively. “Coach Hawke is…different. Just go with it.”
Monson’s eyebrow rose higher. “On that enigmatic note….”
Coach Hawke’s office looked like a converted storage room. Large blackboards filled with potential plays and training schedules competed for space with piles of sports paraphernalia. Despite the room’s contents, the boys felt like they were entering a club: Jazz music, played at high volume, reverberated in the enclosed space.
The man himself was sitting at a small desk, tapping lightly on his computer keyboard. He was a beast, large and rugged.
“Hey Coach Hawke,” Casey yelled so he could be heard over the music. “I wanted to introduce you to the—”
Coach Hawke raised one massive finger to silence him. Eyes closed, the giant of a man sat in his chair, humming tunelessly to the jazz blaring from the music player.
Monson laughed while Casey gawked. Monson spoke quietly, “That’s not something you see every day.”
“Yeah, he’s a bit of an eccentric,” agreed Casey, not quite as softly.
“Should we come back later?”
“Maybe,” Casey looked back towards the door. “Come on, you can just use my locker.”
“At-ten-tion!”
They both jumped as the husky voice echoed threateningly around the small office. Coach Hawke, apparently finished with his meditation or whatever it was, now towered over them, his hard eyes leveled at Monson.
The boys quailed underneath the man’s stare. They shot concerned looks at each other.
“This must be our new Horum Vir.” Coach Hawke smiled. He sounded sincere, almost kind.
“Monson Grey,” said Monson, stepping forward and offering his hand. “I am very happy to meet—” He was cut off when the huge man took him in his arms and squeezed him like a teddy bear.
“I am so happy to finally meet you.” Monson thought the man was crying, although he could not be sure of this, as his own breathing suddenly became a far more pressing issue.
“This is a truly momentous occasion. A time when we can meet and greet one another like brothers and forge ahead in the style of my Germanic ancestors—”
“Co…ach Hawke,” wheezed Monson through stabs of pain.
“We, like they once did, shall push forward, experience being our guide—“
“Coach….”
“I shall act as shepherd and you as sheep—”.
“COACH!”
Coach Hawke stopped talking, but maintained his iron hold on Monson.
“Did you say something, Grey?”
“I…can’t…breathe.”
“Oh, sorry, Grey,” said Coach Hawke. He let go of Monson, who dropped to the ground hard, crumpling as he landed next to Casey. Coach Hawke grabbed Monson by his collar and hoisted him back up, suspending him a few inches above the ground before gently lowering him to the floor.
“Hey Coach,” grinned Casey in amusement, “we need to get Monson a locker. Mind helping us out?”
“I would be overjoyed to help you out,” replied Coach Hawke enthusiastically. “Follow me, boys.”
Coach Hawke gave Monson a quick tour of the locker room, pointing out the showers, lockers, spa, and different therapy areas. Lastly, he showed Monson a strange sort of dispenser unit.
“And now,” he began with a flourish “may I present to you, the clothing unit. This is where you pick up your gym clothes each day. You can put your dirty clothes in one of the bins over there." He pointed towards large blue bins on the opposite wall. “They’ll be washed and returned to the dispenser. Any questions?”
Monson and Casey shook their heads.
“Then, until we meet again, I bid you farewell.” He left whistling his jazz song from earlier.
Monson changed into the gym clothes and then he and Casey emerged from the boys locker room, Casey still chuckling about their encounter with Coach Hawke.
“He’s an interesting one, isn’t he?” said Monson as he strolled casually towards a large dark blue mat. Monson rubbed his rib cage almost instinctively. “I think he broke one of my ribs.”
Casey renewed his laughter, trying to speak through gasps of air, “Crazy, huh? Not what you’d expect from an ex-professional football player,”
“Not at all. Wait —ex- professional football player?”
“Oh yeah, he used to play professionally until he got hurt. He was really good, too.”
“Unexpected.”
Casey nodded. “I know, right?”
“Hey, Casey, Monson!” Artorius came into view, closely followed by a small group of girls who all looked about their age.
“What took you guys so long?” inquired Artorius, when he was finally close enough to them that he did not have to yell.
“Got lost,” said Monson simply. Then, making a slight nod in their direction, “I see what you’ve been up to, Artorius. Who are your friends?”
“Indigo Harrison,” replied a cute brunette with thick brown hair. Monson recognized her; she was the same girl Artorius had been so interested in earlier that day.
“Monson Grey.” He smiled at her, his mind racing. “And who are your friends?”
Indigo turned and pointed while naming each girl.
“Christy Wayne,” an asset-heavy blonde girl in a stretched tight shirt who was not at all shy about her particular gifts.
“And Ignacio Anderson,” a pale, skinny girl with very large, tawny-colored eyes.
Monson smiled and nodded at each girl. Their reactions to his appearance confused him. They looked disgusted, that much was sure, but also intrigued. Was he missing something?
Monson glanced at Artorius, who looked like a kid in a candy store — a really big candy store. He was eyeing Indigo expectantly, while she tried to avoid his gaze. Awkward silence settled after the introductions, not helped by Casey, who was trying desperately not to laugh.
Monson decided he had enough. “Well, ladies, it was nice meeting you all. I’m just going to go over here now.”
He moved rather quickly to get away from the stares of Artorius’ friends, whose eyes he could feel on his back.
At a comfortable distance, the crack of wood caught his attention. On a mat not far away, surrounded by students, two people were engaged in heated mock combat using large sticks crudely formed in the shape of swords. They resembled the ones that Casey and Artorius used the day before. Masked and covered in a weird kind of body armor, the two combatants strove against each other to gain dominance. The contest was short-lived: The shorter of the two fighters was far more skilled. His movements were small and sharp and almost totally defensive in nature; he took very few opportunities to counterattack. More often than not, he defended with a one-handed style, leaving the other hand draped to one side. This explained why he was using a shorter stick — a longer one would make this style of fighting difficult. The heavier opponent managed to land a few blows before an incredibly fast counter from the short combatant effectively disarmed his opponent. Weaponless, the larger foe, a boy with a face like a pug, bowed his head and pulled off his helmet. He walked off the mat looking embarrassed.
“He’s good,” said Casey, eyeing the two fighters critically. “Interesting. You don’t usually see kendo in American schools.”
“Kendo?” asked Monson, turning his attention to Casey. “What's that?” The term sounded vaguely familiar; he wondered where he had heard it.
“Japanese fencing.” Casey peered past Monson towards the shorter fighter. “Kendo, or competitive fencing, is popular in Japanese schools, but most private schools in the States only do rapier fencing. I wonder who he is. Japanese sword fighting in the style of the Kodachi is really rare—”
Casey stopped as if something suddenly occurred to him. “You don’t know what kendo is? How can that be? Don’
t you have a bokken?”
Monson did not have any idea what Casey was talking about. He racked his brain and came to a realization. “Oh, is that what that shiny stick is? I wondered what it was called. So it’s like for fencing, right?”
“Are you messing with me? You must fence. You move like a fencer.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Grey, you remember how we met, right?”
“Of course, but what does that have to do with fencing?”
“I’m a martial arts student,” said Casey, smiling. “And I took up rapier fencing in elementary school and not long after that, kendo. After a while, you can just tell the people that have trained. I would have bet Arthur’s weight in gold you were a fencer. The way you blocked his attack was perfect. You aren’t just pulling my leg, are you? You really haven’t fenced before?”
Monson struggled to answer Casey’s question. Fencing. He really liked the sound of that. The mere thought made his fingers suddenly tense, but he could not remember ever fencing, and it wasn’t something that struck a chord within him. They were quickly coming to the topic that Monson wanted to avoid. He thought a diversionary tactic was probably his best bet.
“So you can tell things about fighters just by observing them?” he asked casually. “What can you tell me about our vertically challenged friend over there?”
Monson pointed at the boy, who was furiously fighting a new opponent.
If Casey was aware of Monson’s redirection, he did not let it show. “First a little background. The kodachi is a smaller blade than the katana, the Japanese long sword — that’s made for defense. The fighting style developed for the kodachi is augmented by an aggressive hand-to-hand combat, usually kempo or some kind of jujutsu. This one, however…” He paused for moment as he watched. “This guy doesn’t seem to exhibit any of that type of tactic or style.”
Casey’s eyes narrowed as if he were considering something.
“Well, of course he doesn’t.” He sounded like he was scolding himself. ”This isn’t an actual battle; it’s a match. He would be disqualified if he struck him with his hands. Then again, they aren’t using shinai." `
“What’s a shinai?”
Casey brought his hands up stretching them as he watched the fighter. He looked back at Monson.
“A shinai is a bamboo sword that’s used in official kendo matches. They don’t use bokkens; they’re too dangerous. You can break some bones or even kill someone if you aren’t careful.”
“Yeah," agreed Monson, returning his attention to the match. “Now that you mention it, this doesn’t really look like a match, but actual combat. Not that I would really know the difference.”
“Totally,” Casey nodded agreement. “They don’t even have a referee. I think I’m going to talk to him. I want to know where he trained.”
“Why bother?” asked Monson, who could not think of anything less practical.
Casey answered, “How could I not want to know? I mean how cool is that, seriously?”
Monson chuckled. He had a point. “Casey, what kind of martial art do you do?”
Casey's eyes lit up. “You know, that’s a very interesting question. Honestly, I have no idea what it’s called.”
Monson raised his eyebrow in his signature gesture. “That’s weird. How can you study something you don’t even know the name of? Who taught you?”
“It’s a family thing,” commented Casey. “My dad taught me when I was very young, then my uncle took over.”
“Why’d he do that?”
Casey looked uncomfortable. Apparently Monson wasn’t the only one who had things he didn’t want to discuss.
“Why wouldn’t your uncle tell you the name of your art? That seems weird to me.”
“Yeah,” said Casey matter-of-factly. “It has something to do with mastery. I dunno I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“So you don’t know anything about its origins?” inquired Monson, now genuinely interested.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well?”
“I think it’s from somewhere in China, or Asia at least.”
“Wow,” Monson said laughing. “Brilliant, Holmes, brilliant. A martial art coming from Asia! Your powers of deduction are outstanding.”
Casey glared at him before stalking towards the opposite side of the mat.
“Where ya going?” asked Monson, moving after him. “Come on, it was just a joke."
“You’re funny. It’s totally not like that. I just don’t want to be overheard, and it’s kind of a long story.”
They sat down on a corner of mat away from the group still watching the fencers. Reclined in a comfortable position, Monson gave Casey the go-ahead. Casey was not paying attention, however, but was looking directly over Monson’s shoulder.
“What?” Monson turned to see what Casey was looking at. Artorius was standing with the same group of girls a short distance away.
“He’s never going to learn,” said Casey, shaking his head and chuckling slightly. “I don’t know many times I’m going to have to say this before we need an intervention: We need to find that boy a lady.”
“Poor Artorius,” said Monson, smiling. He was proud he didn’t laugh.
“Anyway.” He returned his attention to Casey. “On with your story and make it snappy. I still need to check in with Coach Able.”
“OK, OK, I get it.” Casey settled back, looking thoughtful. His expression changed, becoming much more serious. “I think I came to the Asian conclusion when I was about ten.” His eyes screwed up in concentration. “The first and most obvious reason was all the references to life energies.”
“Life energies?”
Casey smiled. He looked like he was about to start laughing. ”Has anyone ever told you that you do that a lot?”
“Do what a lot?”
“That. Answer everything with a question!”
“I do not.”
“Sure you don’t.”
Before Monson could summon a retort, however, Casey continued. “We were talking about life energies. Chi, ki, chakra, prana: Different cultures have different names for them.”
“So, chakra or chi?” asked Monson. This time Casey cocked an eyebrow, copying Monson’s move. Monson grimaced. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Yeah.”
Monson scowled. “OK, tell me about chakra.”
The subject was long and drawn out, and Monson did not understand everything that Casey said, but thought he had managed to catch the main points.
“So, let me get this straight,” said Monson. “Through meditation and training you can focus the life energies in your body and use them to fight?”
“Yeah, well, it’s a bit more complicated than that, but you’re basically right.”
“No way.”
“Seriously, I use it all the time in training.”
“You’re so full of it.”
“I’ll prove it.” Casey stood up. “Come here.”
He guided Monson to the middle of another large wrestling mat a little farther away from the other students.
“Before we start, do you think you could help me warm up a bit?” asked Casey. "This takes some time, and it's dangerous if you use it without preparing yourself."
He paused.
“And…I have a little theory I would like to try out.”
“Sure,” said Monson, who was still skeptical. “What can I do to help?”
“You can defend yourself.”
“I’m sorry?”
Casey leaped at Monson, attacking with amazing speed. A low kick struck him mid-thigh, but to Monson’s amazement, his body reacted seemingly on its own, actually stepping into the blow and diminishing much of the force. Casey responded, and aiming for Monson’s face, he threw a monstrous cross-body blow a split second after his low kick. Monson deflected this with a smooth movement of the wrist, causing the punch to miss its mark a
nd pass harmlessly to the side. The boys held the position, giving Monson time to marvel at his actions. Casey smiled.
“You really are interesting, Grey. All right. Let’s try this.”
He stepped back and assumed a stance, body leaning forward, fists up and in front of him. Monson realized this was a more aggressive fighting stance — fist and elbow-oriented.
He paused. Where did that come from? How the heck would he know what kind of stance this was?
Casey did not give him time to figure this out, but Monson’s instincts were correct. Quick powerful strikes with closed and open fists, augmented with various elbow strikes, poured down on him. Monson kept his hands close to his body, using small circular movements to block the attacks. He was quite successful and matched Casey blow for blow.
More than once, however, Casey’s attack patterns changed and Monson began to understand the flow of his style. It started with the base form, or starting position of his body; when he changed his starting form, he changed his entire attack style. In the course of their short bout, Monson counted five different forms, all of which were completely different in power, speed, and emphasis. It was as if Casey grew up learning not one fighting style but five. It was a bit scary.
I shouldn’t know this. The words echoed in Monson’s mind.
Monson shouldn’t, but he did. He could see the forms. He could see the change and flow of the different styles. It was a dangerous martial art and Casey was very good at it. Monson wasn’t sure what was more disconcerting: that he knew so much about fighting or that his new friend was so good at it. There was no explanation for this. None.
Monson did surprisingly well, but took more than a few blows. His body seemed to ache as he went through the movements, as if his muscles were remembering something painful and persistent. Monson did connect with a shot or two. Casey’s form-based style was as wild as his fencing. He had openings, plenty of them, but Monson just could not find the mindset or spirit he needed to take advantage of them. Their battle drove on for the better part of five minutes, until a particularly vicious spinning back kick based on a flowing-type form centered around the legs barely missed Monson’s head. Monson put his hand up.
“I think you're warmed up, Casey,” he said panting. “What are you trying to do? You're gonna kill me!”
“Hardly,” said Casey. “I wasn’t exactly going easy on you, and you’re still standing. Are you sure you've never studied any kind of martial arts?”
“I could have been a French kitchen maid for all I know,” said Monson without thinking. He clapped his hand over his mouth. Casey just stared at him, confusion on his face. He smiled keenly at Monson.
“We don’t have to talk about it now, Grey, but I expect an explanation later.”
Monson let out a sigh of relief. “Sure. Sometime.”
Casey beamed at him, looking very pleased.
“Well, regardless, you’re awfully good for not knowing anything. I think you and Jason Bourne might be related.”
“Who’s Jason Bourne?” inquired Monson.
“What!? Who’s Jason Bourne!? Are you kidding me?“
“Wait. First, chakra. Focus.”
“Oh yeah,” said Casey, grinning. “I almost forgot. I think I'm ready.” He paused. “But we are so watching that movie.”
Casey led Monson to the middle of the mat and showed him a defensive stance. Apparently you could easily get hurt with this...exercise. Then stepping away, Casey started to shake the different parts of his body vigorously.
“I want to make sure that everything is loose,” he said in answer to Monson's inquiring stare. “Don’t want to pull a hammy.”
Monson decided not to comment.
Casey finally took a position not far from where Monson was standing. He settled into a stationary stance and closing his eyes, started to breathe deeply and slowly. He looked rather serene.
“This may hurt a little bit,” he whispered. He raised his right hand opened-fisted, rested it on the palm of his left, and placed them both firmly in front of his body. Monson watched, intrigued but still a little skeptical. Events continued in this fashion until…until something changed. It was hard to describe this change. It was slight and unobtrusive but it was almost palpable. Something about the atmosphere surrounding his friend was different. He could feel an energy emerging and becoming stronger. This change was not all that Monson had to worry about; it also felt like someone was watching them, and with a rather intense focus. The hairs on the back of Monson’s neck stood up as he spoke calming words aloud to himself. He chided himself. He was being paranoid. He needed to calm down.
“Hey, Casey,” said Monson, his attention splintered between his friend and his search for the source of his uneasiness. “Don’t you think you should…”
Monson never finished his sentence, as the sight he was now witnessing left him speechless.
Thanks for reading! Join Monson and the crew in The House of Grey: Volume 2.
Tell your friends, your teachers, your family members,
and your hair stylist—this is one you won’t want to miss.
Oh, and don't miss Collin Earl and Chris Snelgrove's other titles:
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