Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

by J Jordan

“We could show you more traditional stances and methods. They reduce stress, increase strength and flexibility, improve balance.”

  She fired off a combo on an unsuspecting yet cheery Romney. Tykeso didn’t flinch.

  “I’m not into any of that ‘inner peace’ crap. I just want to train.”

  “Give it a try,” he said. “If you don’t like it, then you can go back to your own methods.”

  “I’m letting off steam right now,” she said, jabbing Romney in a place best described as his stomach. “I’m not balanced or whatever you call it.”

  “Balanced is correct,” said Tykeso, “but you don’t need to be. That’s the point of stances. They ready the body and the mind.”

  “You won’t leave me alone, will you?”

  She looked at him, then around his shoulder at Mrs. Ransmith. Tykeso didn’t see Helen smile and nod at the new student.

  “Do I get a robe with the belt?”

  “I’m sure we have one for you in the back somewhere, if you can finish the routine.”

  Tykeso had expected her to falter in places. This was standing, not fighting. But there was more effort involved. One needs a balance and a good foothold to keep it. These were the core of every stance. Kendal had mastered the first one, which was Apt Pupil. The Learned Initiate was a slight variation, a repositioning of hands.

  But during the second stance, a master begins the balance test, a light shove to see if the stance will hold. This test continues with each successive stance. In this case, he allowed Mrs. Ransmith the honors. With a light tap, Kendal was on the padded floor and cursing. She was fuming after the third failed attempt.

  “Stop pushing me!”

  “Stay calm,” said Tykeso. “You can get it right.”

  “You have your feet wrong again,” added Mrs. Ransmith. “If you get your feet right, then the balance comes with it. Remember what I said, Kendal? Take a step sideways, then take a step back. Weight balanced on each. Fifty and fifty.”

  She demonstrated for Kendal.

  “I want to go punch the dummy,” said Kendal, getting slowly to her feet.

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Ransmith. “You’re doing fine, but you need to fix your beginning. Start with your feet together.”

  Kendal watched alongside her, then reluctantly followed along. Mrs. Ransmith watched from her own stance.

  “Left foot a little bit closer. Now get your hands up. Remember, Learned Initiate. Wise hand out, wild hand in. Your dominant hand is the wise one, the one that knows control.”

  Kendal held her right hand out and kept her left hand up by her chin. Tykeso kept the smirk to himself. She was boxing again.

  “No fists,” he said. “Straight hands. You are maintaining a stance, not punching someone.”

  “Isn’t that the point of martial arts?”

  “We must learn the art first.”

  Tykeso stepped in and adjusted Kendal’s wise hand. Her fingers unraveled from their ball and became a straight edge, the one typically seen in the movies. Her wild hand could stay a fist, but he pushed it to her side, knuckles facing the ceiling. And with these adjustments, the Learned Initiate was complete. Until Mrs. Ransmith shoved her. Kendal stumbled sideways, but kept her footing. She advanced quickly.

  “I wasn’t ready!”

  Mrs. Ransmith smiled at her.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Only five more stances to complete the set,” said Tykeso.

  He looked briefly to the clock. This was going to take a little longer than he anticipated. There were other things he needed to do.

  “We will have to finish this later. I’m afraid I’ve left some things unattended in the office. The other instructor will be here any minute if you wish to continue.”

  He smiled and bowed to Mrs. Ransmith.

  “Or we could let Helen pick up the lesson. I think it’s time you started teaching our initiates.”

  Mrs. Ransmith returned the bow.

  “I would be honored.”

  “Actually,” said Kendal, “I wanted to ask you something.”

  Kendal reached into a pocket with two fingers and fished out a photograph. It had been folded many times into a small, shabby rectangle. She held it in her hands, unsure at first. She seemed conflicted, as if she wasn’t sure she trusted them enough. Tykeso watched her ponder the photo before offering it.

  “It’s about my friend’s kid. He went missing on this side of town, about a week back. Nobody’s seen him since. He’s a good kid too. Never missed a day of school. And my friend’s a bundle of nerves right now. You guys seem like good people, so I figure I’d ask you.”

  Tykeso took the photo gingerly and smiled at the small, white rectangle.

  “Any news is good news,” said Kendal nervously. “I just hope someone finds him.”

  He smiled, unfolded the photograph, and looked at the boy in the picture.

  Tykeso had trained for situations like these. His first move was to mute his reaction. He kept his face motionless, even as the shock chilled down his neck and into his back. His second was to scan the picture carefully and pretend to take in the features, trying to place the face. Tykeso pursed his lips and feigned the effort of careful scrutiny. But he knew the boy, and knew exactly where he was. The silver hair and amber eyes were giveaways.

  How old was he in this picture? And where did they get it?

  There were people who cleaned up these sorts of messes. Thorough to a fault. They never made mistakes like these. And yet he was staring at a color picture of Tykeso Vandesko, six years old. Posing for academy photos, most likely. Those records were scrubbed clean.

  No, no, he thought to himself. Think not of how the problem started. Think of how to solve it.

  “He’s big into martial arts,” said Kendal. “Maybe he would come to a place like this?”

  He took his next breath in a careful measure. Answer always with certainty. The tenants were proving useful in this situation.

  “He looks like a strong young man,” said Tykeso, “but I haven’t seen him here before.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Kendal wore her concern well, but Tykeso had seen through the best deceptions. Her mouth hung low in a genuine frown, but her eyes were two dark green hunters. They stalked his own, looking for anything to give him away. He met her gaze in earnest, though his smile was thin. There was another tenant for this.

  If a lie is the answer, then the lie is the truth. Answer always with certainty.

  “I’m afraid not, Kendal. I’m sorry.”

  He offered the picture to Mrs. Ransmith, never once breaking his gaze with Kendal. Or whatever her name was.

  “Oh, what a cutie. But I haven’t seen him either.”

  Mrs. Ransmith handed the photograph to Kendal. Kendal took it lightly.

  “You know,” said Mrs. Ransmith, “my husband was with the Lanvale Police for forty years. If the investigation isn’t making any progress, then I could talk to him about it. Sometimes you just need to throw some elbows down there to get something done.”

  Mrs. Ransmith was absolutely correct in this statement. Captain Martel Ransmith was one of the finest officers on the force, 1970 to 2013. In that time, he had thwarted fifteen bank robberies, jailed 109 pickpockets and 211 generalized thugs, returned 300 lost children to their respective families, and had served over 10,000 parking tickets. Martel Ransmith was the officer’s officer, a public servant extraordinaire, and a hero of the Modern era. If there was anyone who could find this lost boy, or find someone who could find him, then it was him.

  But these exploits didn’t enter the conversation, because it had taken an uncomfortable pause. Tykeso and the new student were staring at each other. They were reading each other like bad rap sheets.

  Kendal looked away first. She kept her dejected routine as she turned to Mrs. Ransmith.

  “He answers to Ty,” she said, giving a brief sideways glance at Tykeso.

  “I will pass this along to Marty and see what he f
inds.”

  “Thank you,” said Kendal.

  Without another word, and without another glance, the new student bowed to her instructors, picked up her gym bag, and left the dojo.

  The room remained humid.

  Romney Balvance and the Crown of Videra

  On a clear day in August 1903, Nicholas and Christopher Eamon decided to take a quick flying lesson. And everyone thought this was odd, because no one flew in 1903 ME. There was talk of an Azerran having done it in a small motorized glider, and there was supposed to be a photograph of the occurrence somewhere. The specifics behind Amma Kirna and her first flight through Azerran skies were lost to history, though her country stands by her to this day. As for the Eamon brothers, their day to fly was a humid yet breezy August day in 1903.

  They towed the odd contraption to a field in Cresdale, never exceeding ten miles an hour down the many intersecting gravel roads, taking each turn with one minor press of the accelerator at a time, ignoring the onlookers and the blaring horns. When they arrived, the two sons of a bicycle repairman were in a flop sweat. They unhooked their prized airplane from their father’s truck, the culmination of their combined studies and relentless effort, and they began to push it bit by bit up the hill. This was when the work began.

  They arrived at the top of the hill and surveyed the land below. There wasn’t enough clearance between theirs and the hills beyond. They needed more room to land. So they began the long trek down, easing the plane along the descent one step at a time. And then back up, step by step, onto the next hilltop. This one was too low. Another slog through late summer sun put them on top of an adjoining hill, airplane attempting its own takeoff as they crested the summit. This was it. The land below was flat all the way to a dividing fence in the far distance. Plenty of room to land.

  Christopher took his seat in the passenger’s saddle as Nicholas engaged the large motor. It buzzed and burbled, ponderously moving the propeller one revolution at a time. He helped it along, pushing it down, ignoring the sudden whine from within the engine housing. Then he took his seat in the pilot’s saddle and affixed his goggles. The propeller became a blur of wooden paddles cutting the Cresdale scenery. Christopher gave the ground a kick and pushed the monstrosity forward, ever so slightly. The first airplane tumbled down the hill.

  With help from a friendly gust of wind, it lifted off the slope and came up level ten feet off the ground. They were flying. The concept of yaw was several prototypes away, but they did have pitch. Nicholas brought the nose down toward the ground and then yanked back on his makeshift joystick. The airplane went higher, over the dividing fence, and into the untamed lands of rural Cresdale. Their flight lasted twenty seconds and covered 400 feet of countryside. It took two hours to drag the airplane back.

  Nicholas would later recall that the wind had helped them lift it back over the fence and had nearly taken it away. They spent the rest of the day in their backyard, drinking straight from the well bucket and basking in the cool embrace of a makeshift swimming pool.

  Their feat was captured on photograph by Emily Truesaber, as she tried to get a perfect picture of a Cresdale summer. She could see the strange, birdlike thing moving into view as she snapped the picture. Truesaber would curse the flying devil and go about setting up the shot once again, grumbling that the lighting wouldn’t be the same. She didn’t know at the time that her ruined photo would become a part of history, and a part of the front page of every newspaper in Lanvale for months to come. She got a fifty-cent raise for that photograph. The original is still on display at the Lanvale Museum, in the Ontaran Heritage exhibit.

  But if you want to see the first airplane, then you would have to go to the Eamon Brothers’ Museum of Aviation in Cresdale.

  Maybe Romney just didn’t get the idea of history. He stood quietly beside Cora, trying to soak in whatever it was that made the first airplane so special. It looked shabby and smelled like burnt oil. He couldn’t see any landing gear and he knew that that was important in an airplane.

  Of course, he didn’t know that the lacquered wood on the bottom was meant for landing only in grassy fields. Romney looked to Cora. She was still watching the dangling monstrosity. It was as if she could see it gliding through the air on a hot summer day. Romney could only watch it gather more dust.

  “Can you imagine flying in this?”

  Romney looked to the small front seat affixed to the body. It looked like a banana-nose. He assumed that long rides were out of the question, and bumpy landings a lesson in pain.

  “It must have been extraordinary.”

  “They were essentially on a tandem bike with wings and an engine. Just this in the sky.”

  Cora motioned to the plane with her arms outstretched. She could imagine the Eamon brothers passing overhead, gripping the body of their plane. Nicholas would lean over the side and venture a glance at the ground passing beneath them. Again, Romney saw a tired airplane from a bygone era, a husk of wood and cables with a block of machined steel on the end. The world had moved on to bigger, better, and faster things.

  Like cell phones. You didn’t need massive phone booths with smelly headsets and questionable grease all over every surface. You had everything you needed to make a call, in one sleek package. Romney pondered this as he removed his buzzing cell phone from his pocket. The world had come a long way.

  “We need to talk,” he read aloud. “My office. One hour.”

  He looked to Cora, who still seemed lost in the old contraption.

  “That was Mila. We better go find Tykeso.”

  Cora nodded, but her eyes were still fixed upon the first airplane. Romney backed away from the display, but it was clear that Cora wouldn’t follow. So he returned to his spot and looked up with her. He tried imagining the plane in the air with its twin propellers whirling frantically around, the small engine revving to its peak. The image didn’t last. He looked down at his phone and pondered how to reply to Mila, when he heard Cora’s voice.

  It was softer than usual, which is to say it was softer than a brick hammer. But it also seemed to quaver, as if the hammer had struck iron.

  “My dad loved airplanes.”

  Romney nodded to this, still trying to think of how to reply. When Cora spoke again, she had regained her composure.

  “He said that there are always two things to understanding something. First, you must know how it works.”

  Romney looked up from the phone again. Cora’s head was tilted down. Her eyes were clamped shut and her mouth had become a thin, quivering line. He dropped the phone into his pocket and moved to her side. Cora drew in a deep breath, then let it out in a heavy sigh. She continued in a carefully measured tone.

  “The second thing is, you must know where it came from.”

  Romney nodded again. He looked up to the first airplane ever made and examined it carefully. The wires were still wires, and the wood still wooden, and there was still no special air to it. When he looked to Cora again, she was lost again in its history. Her eyes were puffy, and she had gained a minor sniffle.

  Romney was unsure what to do next. It didn’t seem right asking her about her father. That appeared to be a sore subject at the moment. But he needed to do something. He reached out and patted her on the back with two light pats on her right shoulder blade. Cora didn’t react to it, still lost in the Eamon brothers’ greatest invention. He immediately felt embarrassed by it.

  Great, he thought, now what? Romney went for his phone. He would text Tykeso and tell him about the meeting. A perfect getaway.

  But as he reached into his pocket, Cora turned and smiled at him.

  “Thank you.”

  Romney smiled back. He was in strange territory again, but he felt more comfortable this time.

  “Your dad sounds like a cool guy,” he ventured. “Was he an engineer?”

  “He was,” said Cora. “His other passion was Ontaran history. Specifically, Ontaran inventions. Like this one. He really admired the Eamon brothers.”r />
  Romney looked up once more and took in the marvel of it. A big honking piece of wood and wires, and a heavy engine, suspended from the ceiling by chains. But all of this stuff meant something to Cora.

  “Wow,” he said, “so he knew how this thing flew in the sky. He sounds pretty smart.”

  Cora nodded.

  “He was.”

  “Do you know how it flew?”

  “Aerodynamics,” she said. “If I remember right, the propellers push air across the wings, which creates a difference in air speed. And that creates lift that pulls the wings up. That’s how I remember it, anyway.”

  “Wow,” said Romney, once again, “interesting stuff.”

  There was a beat, where Romney had run out of things to say. He grasped wildly for something in the back of his mind.

  “Did you ever have an interest in engineering?”

  “No,” said Cora. “I fell in love with Queen Ingrid the first and Camerra. It was either Camerran history or nothing at all. I was always a problem child.”

  Her smiled faded. Romney grasped for something to say.

  “You turned out fine, though.”

  Her smile became a frown. Her brow furrowed.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m serious. You’re a doctor. You know all kinds of things, like things people don’t know anymore. I had no idea what a Jade Scar even was, but you knew right off the bat.”

  “I didn’t know what it was, but I knew where to look. That was another thing he used to say. If you know where to look, then you will always have the answer.”

  Romney nodded at this. Then, he felt self-conscious about nodding too much, so he placed his hand on his chin.

  “Wise words.”

  “He was full of wisdom. He was practically a walking library of thoughtful quotes and inspirational sayings. Sometimes I wonder what he would think of all of this.”

  Romney nodded again. The past few days must have been a real turning point for Cora Queldin. An out-of-work history professor turned bank robber. Those days didn’t seem like much to Romney. He had decided there was no choice in the matter. He would do the deed or someone else would do it. Then they would get the money. And he would be left with no lifeline to keep him afloat.