No Geek Rapture for Me_I'm Old School

by Jonelle Renald

  “Same here.” Michael nodded. “I was happy to hear about fencing at Edgestow when the iCon recruiter mentioned it. Fencing’s a great sport, it’s as much mental as it is physical.”

  “Yes! Whackers don’t win!”

  Michael laughed, “Haha! Or at least not always. Sometimes they do.”

  The women who had completed their ritual chant were exiting the arena. Carrying his saber and mask, dressed in his white fencing gear, Chase Amunson encountered them at the entrance to the venue. His auburn-haired head towered nearly two feet above some of the women, his body nearly as wide as two of them put together. The image of it made Mia think of a bull crossing through a flock of noisy geese. She also noticed that he was so tall that his saber looked like it was designed for a child, his torso so broad the two meter wide fencing strip looked too narrow in comparison.

  Michael leaned over to Mia and said quietly, “I’d think twice before throwing down with him. I bet when he extends his arm in a lunge, his saber can reach the center line with his back foot still planted at the en garde line.”

  Nodding in agreement, Mia added, “Too true. Oh, and he must have gotten that glove custom-made.”

  “Yes, they won’t have anything off the shelf to accommodate the size of his hand, let alone something with six fingers,” Michael replied.

  Without putting his mask on, Amunson started bouting, taking on all three of his bodyguards (masked and dressed in white fencing uniforms) at the same time. Michael and Mia watched the exhibition with interest. For his size (anyone’s size), Amunson was quick. The contrast between his huge size and his speed and agility using the saber was remarkable. Always on the offensive, he was very aggressive and dominated the three dueling against him. Mia wondered how much of his success was because he was better and how much of it was because his guards didn’t want to show him up. Probably a combination of both things was the right answer.

  “Amunson is great, isn’t he?” Michael said. “I looked him up online to check on his fencing accomplishments. Not too much listed, but I did see where someone with the same name won a gold medal in fencing in the original 1896 Olympics. I wondered if it was his grandfather or something. The man shown in the old photo looked exactly like him, even to being such a gigantic size.”

  Mia said, “Hmm, so he has a family history of fencing then, like I do? Interesting. Too bad there isn’t a coach for us. I’d love to have this be a place where we can learn to fence better, improve our technique.”

  Michael said, “Haven’t you heard? Amunson is going to step up and act as coach. Although, I have to tell you, that idea scares me a little. He’s a pretty fierce fencer and has no mercy on beginners. Or anybody else for that matter. But I’m sure there’s a lot to be learned from him. He’ll start today’s coaching session in about five minutes.”

  Just then Amunson began making a series of big movements against one of his bodyguards — using his straightened arm, he made a series of downward, diagonal cuts, treating the flexible blade of the saber as if it was a whip, striking the legs of his bodyguard over and over. Which was off-target for a touch in sabre fencing, but perfect for continuing to torture your opponent since a sabre duel isn’t called to a stop for misdirected blows.

  “Wow!” Michael said. “The Zornhau in a saber duel!”

  “What’s that?” Mia asked.

  “A technique normally used with a German longsword. It’s a diagonal blow, the blade striking down, right to left. Zornhau means the ‘Wrathful Strike.’ It’s not really used in fencing.”

  Michael watched Amunson continue to thrash his opponent for a moment. “Unless you’re seven feet tall, and can do whatever you want, I guess. Looks like its perfectly adapted to techniques the giants could have used battling knights in armor. Yeah, the Zornhau was part of historical swordplay, perfected in medieval single combat. I learned about it when I went to Germany for a month over the summer, at a camp, trying out all the different modes of swordplay.”

  “Frack! Oh great,” Mia said. “We’ll be standing up against the Wrathful Strike. Oh joy.”

  Michael grimaced and shut his eyes to avoid seeing the beating Amunson was giving out, then turned to Mia. “Wow. That name isn’t a lie, is it. I don’t have that one figured out, but my college coach always told us, ‘If you’re in trouble, it’s because you’re playing defense. In sabre fencing, it’s always easier to attack than to defend. So get back to playing offense as soon as you can.’ That’s assuming, of course, that you’re not too rattled and you can find a way out of constantly defending.”

  After looking back toward what Amunson was doing, he added, “On the other hand, maybe you could just voluntarily put your hand behind your back, say ‘Uncle,’ and let the bully twist your arm. The torture might be over faster, with less damage done.”

  Laughing, Mia said, “I double-dog dare you to do that, if he starts in on you.”

  “I might, Ralphie! I just might do that. Hahaha!” Michael laughed.

  After thoroughly vanquishing his bodyguards, Amunson called everyone over to begin the fencing lesson and drills. Giving his fencing history and credentials as an introduction to the class, it turned out he was a certified fencing master, which is one level above prevost (Edgestow’s previous coach Grant Hartwig’s level). Once everyone began drilling, Mia could see that there was a higher level of skills behind the exercises he was coaching everyone to do. And much greater demands to learn more, learn faster. If Amunson had to show you a second time how to perform a remise after a parry, you would get a fierce strike somewhere (which hurt a lot) along with the follow-up instruction — to emphasize that being shown once should be enough. This was one area that Grant had done much better as a coach. He had always been willing to teach people at the place where they were, and would adjust the speed of his blade, slowing each move down to help beginners who hadn’t developed an eye for following the point of the blade and couldn’t see the different wrist or forearm positions involved in how a stroke was made. Grant would often stand beside someone to show them footwork or a hand position.

  In contrast, no matter what the experience or skill level, Amunson taught by taking on the role of an opponent. A taller, wider, quicker, and much scarier opponent. So the student facing him was much more likely to be intimidated than learn something. And he never slowed down, not for anyone or anything. These were sink-or-swim lessons, with the instructor placing one foot in the middle of your back, keeping you under the water while you struggle to come up for air. To help the beginners, Mia started showing a few of the moves at a slower pace. She couldn’t stand to think they might not come back, that they might miss out on the fun of fencing simply because the lessons were not presented in a way that made it easy to learn. And it helped her to learn the moves better herself, since she had to analyze what was happening before she could demonstrate it to someone else.

  Mia hadn’t been helping the beginners to rattle Amunson’s cage, but he noticed what she was doing. And now that the class session was completed, he wanted to teach her a lesson about the folly of questioning the coach’s methods. But good. While everyone else was heading toward the locker room to change, he asked Mia if she’d like to bout. Having seen what had happened with his bodyguards, she was about to say no. But then he said, “If you’re worried that I will overmaster you, I can offer to fence with my left hand only.”

  She laughed and asked, “Are you left handed?” He shook his head no, showing that he was holding his saber in his right hand. Mia replied, “Well, thank you for offering to play with your non-dominant hand. But all kidding aside, a lot of people believe that there is an advantage to fencing left-handed. Whether that’s true or not, we both know there is a disproportionate number of left-handed champions in the list of the world’s top fencers. So I’ll pass on handing you any additional advantages in a bout.”

  Bowing his head briefly, Amunson
smiled. Mia paused to think, then offered one more condition. “If you agree that we quit when I say quit, sure. Otherwise, best of three touches.”

  Amunson nodded, then put on his mask. She put on her mask and whispered to herself, “You’re an idiot, you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot.”

  And things didn’t look any better seeing him standing behind his en garde line, four meters away. Mia thought, “I bet he’d still look too close with both of us standing at the end boundary lines, fourteen meters apart.” Too soon, the bout began. Amunson boomed “En garde!” extended his left arm, and lunged straight at her.

  Immediately, Mia felt rattled and intimidated, like a box elder bug being chased by a man with a yard long fly swatter. She realized he was trying to overpower her. “And it’s working!” She felt like he had grown another two feet taller (and a foot wider), which would make her opponent a giant nearly nine feet tall out for her blood. Which was very intimidating because it was bad enough with him being seven feet tall.

  Coming straight at her, he started using his saber like a whip again. The Zornhau! The same big, circular windup she had seen earlier, followed by great slashing arcs downward. He was so quick, and she didn’t know how to respond to his attack. She tried parrying his attacks, but more often or not, the clash of sabers didn’t completely block the effect of the blow that reached her legs. It hurt almost as bad as if she hadn’t been trying to defend herself at all. In a bout the action doesn’t stop for off-target strokes, so he continued to hit her over and over again even though none of the strokes counted as a touch since they all landed below the target area. And each one hurt like the resulting bruise was going to last for a couple of weeks. He whipped her legs and hips with the side of the sabre before getting a blow in to her rib cage. Which she was too distracted to adequately parry. She shouted, “Touché!” to make the beating stop. And then took her time walking back to the en garde line.

  She needed to collect her thoughts, take a couple of deep breaths. The practical side of her character told her she needed to call it quits. “If you had any sense, you’d put a stop to this bout. You need to quit. Now!” But her stubbornness wouldn’t let her give up.

  But after Amunson boomed “En garde” again, it was obvious that what she really needed was the Three Musketeers to come to her aid. With their muskets. Amunson came straight at her and because she was expecting more punishment from him, she was unprepared for the straight point thrust that came in like a line drive past her nonexistent defense. The same maneuver Darla Werner had used back in January. The same thing he had no doubt seen from his seat in the stands. If they had been using sabers with sharp edges and an unprotected point, she would have been run through the heart just like Basil Rathbone always was in the movies where he dueled against Errol Flynn, Danny Kaye, or Tyrone Powers. “But. I. Am. Not. The. Villain!” she thought. Then she told herself, “Better just turn around, put your hand behind your back, and start saying ‘Uncle, uncle, uncle’!”

  She walked very slowly back to the en garde line. Discouraged, she had no idea how she could even parry any of his strokes, let alone get the Right of Way back on her side so she could get a touch of her own. Just then she heard a voice in her inner ear, speaking in a thick German accent. Help from the Prussian cavalry?

  “Maria, you must take up your courage. Stand up to him, yes? These attempts to intimidate you, resist them. This exchange only should be your focus. Do not let what is past take you away from this moment. Focus on the battle before you. Call to mind what the young gentleman said to you, ‘Offense is easier than defense.’ You must present the fight to him, on your own terms. His scheme to put you on your hindermost foot you must resist. Be patient. Wait. His first rash stroke, you know it’s coming. He intends to rush in and frighten you. Let him advance too far beyond his reach. Bend and parry, that is what you must do. Look for what you know he wishes to do, and turn it aside. Then your attack, bring it to him directly.”

  Encouraged by this advice, Mia adjusted her mask, then stepped up to the en garde line. Amunson bellowed, “2–0! En garde!” He took three quick steps forward, then launched a flunge at her. Mia barely had time to think, “Michael was right! He can pretty much reach my en garde line from the center line,” when she heard the same little voice in her head say, “Bend! Step aside from his flying lunge!” So she took two quick steps back. Or that’s what she intended to do anyway. Instead, on the second step, the heel of her front foot tripped her, and she went down on two hands, saber still in hand, knees bent. She heard, “Look up! Look up!” and looked up to see Amunson completing a slashing move that would have hurt a lot had she still been standing. But his arm was no longer extended, and he no longer had RoW. And most importantly, he was out of position to parry a stroke, if she could make one while still kneeling on the ground. It was hard to tell through the wire mesh of the mask, but his head was turned in her direction as if he was looking at her. It was tempting to stare him down, but she wasn’t willing to lose sight of her target, not for a second. Even with such a massive target to keep her eye on. From her kneeling position, she brought her sword arm up. And centering the point of saber (three feet away) along the power axis of her arm, she drove her sword in and gave him a touch along his ribs on the right side, as the momentum from his flunge carried him past her.

  As Mia got to her feet, she silently saluted the valor of the Prussian cavalry with her saber, and mouthed “Danke!” inside her mask. She glanced over at Amunson, but then did a double take because his mask and head seemed to be surrounded by a few swirls of smoke. Mia blinked and everything was back to normal again. Just her imagination, seeing things that weren’t there? Maybe.

  He didn’t say anything until he returned to the en garde line. “Lucky passata-sotto, Mia. Touché. 2-1. En garde.” This time there was no bellowing or extravagant sword flourishes coming toward Mia. So she took the opportunity and went on the offensive herself, left hand on her hip, as she quick stepped forward with deliberate and quick footwork while straightening her arm and obtaining RoW as she advanced toward him. She was creating a point-in-line attack directed at the low inside line, but her strategy never got much more developed than that. She thought, “Now what? With the target area this large, and this close up, how can I miss? What I really mean is — how can I get past those long arms!?”

  Then she thought, “Keep it simple, Mia.”

  Her strategy was to feint a high inside attack, avoid Amunson’s parry (somehow), and then lunge along the low inside line and hopefully score a touch.

  Amunson surprised her by reversing, stepping backward as he parried. A split second before she was going to launch a feint thrust, he struck the forte of her saber (the strongest part of the blade, nearest the hilt) with all his strength, coming up from below. The attack was so forceful that her saber was knocked out of her grip and went flying, twisting upward.

  Mia barely had time to register her surprise. “Disarms never fly up like that! What did he do to me?” She was able to grab the pommel as it descended from the zenith of its arc and fumbled to get a good grip. Amunson now had his sword extended, advancing forward with deliberation. He caught her blade in a coulé, sliding his saber up and down her blade, using leverage to keep her from moving back and away. This attack made her very angry because she had a mental image of his face inside the mask — mouth open, tongue extended like a 1980s rock star — while the edge of his saber glided up and down against her saber. Then she heard him sigh, “Ooooh,” and the lewd tone of his mocking pushed her over the edge. She lost her temper. Yanking her saber backward, she started a flurry of exchanges. But in her anger, she lost all sense of good defensive technique and didn’t retreat when she parried his cuts as she should have. As a result, she was standing too close to block Chase’s saber, and he made a leisurely touch on her extended sword arm.

  Pulling off her mask, she stepped back and acknowledged the touch by saying “To
uché.” She was extremely upset with herself for losing her temper. She had defeated herself, playing right into his strategy. She thought, “Too late be aware of that now.” The bout was over, and Chase had won 3-1. Mia was still surprised she had scored even one touch.

  Chase removed his mask, and saluted her. “Excellent bout, Mia. I admire anyone who is able to overcome a fall and then in addition, take advantage of that misfortune. Well done.”

  She also saluted him. “Most challenging bout ever. You really know how to scare a person with that saber.”

  His laughter boomed across the empty gym. “If they aren’t afraid of you without the saber, you can’t really say they are scared, now can you.”

  “Now what does that mean?” Mia thought.

  On his way to the locker room, Chase turned and said to her, “Wait for me so we can walk back to the HQ together. I have a favor to ask you.” Then as he walked down the hallway, he grabbed his cell phone out of his equipment bag and started making some calls.

  Mia thought, “This day keeps getting better and better. When will the surprises ever stop!”

  10 | Lie

  Following the bout after the fencing lesson (which Chase had won 3-1), Mia showered and changed, then left the locker room. The hallway was empty, so she took a seat on the bench between the men’s and women’s locker room and waited. And waited. And waited. She checked her cell phone — ten minutes of waiting. She thought, “I must have missed him,” and was standing up to leave when the door to the men’s locker room was flung open. Wearing a black wool topcoat, Chase was on his cell phone, saying, “Yes — Okay” at regular intervals. He crooked a finger with a large gold ring on it at Mia, beckoning her to fall in as he headed back to the iCon HQ. As she walked down the stairs next to him, excluded from the phone call, she thought, “Isn’t this special,” wondering what the favor was that he wanted.