The House of Grey- Volume 1

by Earl, Collin

  “If there are no questions, then we will move on to this.” Mr. Gatt pointed towards the picture behind him. “Who can tell me who this is?”

  Several hands shot in the air, including Taris'. Mr. Gatt looked surprised but then laughed.

  “OK, let me rephrase the question. Who can tell me who this is without referring to a certain popular children’s book we all know and love?”

  Everyone, including Taris, put their hand down. Monson raised an eyebrow at this. She crinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue at him. He laughed.

  Monson raised his hand. The portrait suddenly reminded him of something he saw while in the hospital. Mr. Gatt called on him, looking pleased.

  “Yes, Mr. Grey, do you have an answer for us?”

  Monson hesitated then said softly, “The Sword in the Stone.”

  This statement was met with a shocked silence. Mr. Gatt, however, seemed to understand. He gestured towards him as if to say, go on.

  Monson hesitated again, understanding how odd this probably sounded.

  “There was a movie made many years ago about a boy who had to pull a sword out of a stone to become the new King of England. The boy had a wizard helping him. His job was to guide the boy in becoming one of the greatest rulers of all time. The wizard’s name was Merlin."

  Comprehension was starting to dawn on the listeners, which caused whispers to erupt all over the classroom, drowning out the last of Monson’s words.

  “Well done, Mr. Grey, well done.”

  Students continued to whisper among themselves. Mr. Gatt held up a hand for silence and again spoke to Monson.

  “You must have watched a lot of T.V. when you were resting.”

  People were staring at him, literally turning in their seats so they could look at him. He dropped his eyes.

  “You could say that.” Monson hoped that Mr. Gatt would drop it.

  The teacher seemed to sense Monson’s hesitancy as he moved closer to the poster and pointed to the man in the picture.

  “What if I told all of you that this is Merlin?”

  People burst out laughing at this. The sense of foreboding as Mr. Gatt queried Monson vanished with this question. Even Monson laughed, knowing quite well that Merlin was a fictional character perpetuated by King Arthur legends.

  “I am quite serious.” Mr. Gatt’s words cut them off. Even their thoughts seem to skid to a halt. The silence started to build again. In a quiet voice Mr. Gatt continued.

  “Who was Merlin?” He was looking towards the painting, slightly glassy-eyed. “Was there a man who created a legend or a legend that created a man? You must ask these questions. What are the facts, what is the truth, and how does our belief affect our perception? There are facts, there is truth, there is belief. We just need to find what all of them are.”

  The statement hung in the air. Suddenly the bell rang, startling the students. It felt as if they just sat down, but sure enough, class was over. People roused themselves, gathering personal belongings and making their way out the door. Taris stood up and gathered her things very slowly, as if she was waiting for something. This changed, however, when Derek Dayton started in their direction and her pace sped up considerably.

  Taris lifted her bag and faced Monson, who had yet to move. The full weight of her gaze fell upon him as she tossed her hair and then turned, looking over her shoulder.

  “Later, pretty boy.”

  Monson just stared after her, as mystified by her behavior as ever. Derek gave him a really nasty look, and then gave chase. Finally, Monson grabbed his stuff and walked towards the front of the room. As he neared the door, Mr. Gatt spoke.

  “So what did you think, Mr. Grey?” His voice was pleasant but curious, as if he really wanted to know Monson’s opinion.

  “Interesting,” replied Monson. “I’m curious where you are going with all this.”

  Mr. Gatt smiled. “As you should be. Be prepared, Grey, this is gonna be one hell of a ride.” Monson’s jaw dropped at the expression.

  With that, he left, leaving Monson staring after him, and beginning to understand why so many people had signed up for this class. Mr. Gatt was like no one he had ever met.

  Chapter 12 – 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 wi
th 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.