Helm

by Steven Gould

  Leland ran another bucket of water, gritted his teeth, and poured it over his head.

  “Aaaaaaagh!”

  He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked quickly into the common room, to stand by the stove.

  Charly was draining the soapy water from their clothes in one of the laundry tubs.

  Without turning around, she said, “Go ahead. It’s not quite hot, but it’s warm.”

  He hung his towel on a peg and awkwardly climbed over the edge and sank down to his chin, pushing his feet out toward the iron heat exchange fins projecting from the stove. He groaned with pleasure. “I’m never moving again. I’m just going to stay in this tub forever.”

  “Ewwwww. Guide soup. Almost half the people here at Red Rock are vegetarians. I don’t think it’d go over very big.” She replugged the wash basin and ran clean water in. She wrung the clothes, piece by piece, and piled them on the drain board. When she was done, she drained the basin and went into the women’s wash room.

  Leland listened, and, though he heard the splash of the water and the sounds of washing, he didn’t hear her gasp, or curse from the cold water.

  She came back in a moment, a towel carried casually in front of her. She hung the towel and, naked, put another split log in the stove.

  Leland closed his eyes and leaned back. He felt the water rise as she stepped into the tub and shifted up to keep his mouth out of it. She was probably twice as old as he was but her body didn’t seem old at all.

  “That”—Charly sighed—”is a bit of all right. I don’t usually take a soak in the middle of the day, but then I don’t usually get such a workout.” She was silent for a moment and Leland opened his eyes. Charly was opposite him, sunk to her chin, but she was regarding him thoughtfully.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “You meant it, right? About never practicing before?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you read about it? Did you observe classes?”

  “Not aikido. Only the unarmed combat classes they teach the militia. Karate and a few throws and chokes.”

  She shook her head. “It takes years to develop ukemi to your level. I’ve been doing aikido for twenty-two years and I’m not sure my ukemi is as good as yours.”

  Leland said, “If I’m so good—”

  YOU’RE NOT.

  “—then why does my body hurt so much?”

  “Maybe because you’re a tulku?” she muttered, then shook her head.

  “What’s a tulku?”

  “Never mind.”

  Leland tried not to watch when Charly climbed out of the tub, but he wasn’t completely successful. At least it moved his attention from his aching joints and muscles to a different part of his body.

  The stiffening (both kinds) had lessened by the time they went back to the cottage. Leland was able to carry some of the laundry and to help hang it in the afternoon sun, but then he went inside and collapsed on his pallet.

  At noon and supper, Charly cajoled him into stumbling stiffly down the road to the hall, but his appetite was low. He tried to participate in the dinner conversation but dropped out gratefully when Charly started a long conversation with a woman about flax and hemp fibers.

  Back at the cottage she boiled water. “I think you’d better drink this.” She handed him a cup of bitter-smelling liquid.

  “Willow bark. Yuck. Got any honey?”

  “It’s sweetened.”

  “When I was a kid, we got honey and milk.”

  “You’re still a kid. But if you want milk, you’ll have to go back to the hall for it. They’ve got goat’s milk in the cellar.” She damped the stove and began winding a new set of warp strings on her loom. “Drink it or don’t. It’s your body.”

  He did. As before, he fell asleep to the sound of Charly’s loom.

  She woke him midmorning, after returning from the dojo. “Did you go to breakfast?”

  He shook his head and groaned.

  “Well, get up. You’re probably stiff as a board.”

  He used the toilet with difficulty, then hobbled outside to sit in the sun. From inside the cottage, Charly’s voice said, “Go beg some food from the hall. If I give you any more willow bark on an empty stomach you’ll get sick.”

  The act of walking loosened his muscles and, after some minor coaxing, the kitchen staff gave him some bread, honey, and one quarter of a greenhouse cantaloupe. His appetite was better but the muscles groaned.

  Back at the cottage he drank his bitter dose of willow bark tea, then sat in the open doorway and carded llama wool while Charly worked at the loom. He had trouble standing, and limped when they walked down to the hall for a light lunch.

  When they returned, Charly gave him more willow bark and said, “Take off your clothes and lie down on your pallet.”

  He blinked. “Pardon?”

  She went into the bathroom. “Go on. Lie facedown.”

  He did as she directed, lying down as she came into his room. “It’s your lower back, isn’t it? On the left side? Spasming?”

  “Yes—that’s the worst place.”

  She sat a small ceramic bottle on the tatami and removed its wooden stopper.

  “This is oil of peppermint. You ever use it?”

  “Only in candy.”

  “It’ll feel cool at first, but after a while it’ll produce heat and will reduce the pain. This, and a bit of massage, will help loosen those muscles.” She poured some of the fluid onto her hands and spread it onto Leland’s back. Then she dug her thumbs into the knotted muscles on the sides of his spine.

  He tensed.

  “Try to relax into it,” she said. She worked over his entire back, then his shoulders and upper arms. “You are tight everywhere. Relax a little. Does this hurt? Does it feel good?”

  “It feels good.” Very good. He was blushing and hoped she didn’t notice. His body was reacting to her touch in more ways than one.

  “Well, groan a little. Relax. It’s okay to acknowledge pleasure. Turn over and let me work on your quadriceps.”

  “Uh, that’s okay. Really.” He tried to think cold, withering thoughts but it didn’t seem to be doing any good.

  She must’ve sensed what was troubling him for she took a towel from the shelf and draped it across his buttocks. “Here—go ahead, turn over.”

  He twisted over, moving carefully to avoid dislodging the towel, and stared studiously at the ceiling. She dug her thumbs into his thighs, working from the towel’s edge to the knees, then working on the muscles and tendons around the knees. If she noticed the bulge under the towel, she didn’t say anything.

  She stopped when the smell of mint filled the room and covered him with a thin sheet. “Relax—rest. Sleep if you can. I’ll wake you before supper.”

  An intense wave of sorrow swept over Leland and he felt his eyes began to water. It must be the mint. Where were you when I was being beaten every day?

  “Thank you, Charly.”

  Leland was still sore the next morning, but he swung his arms briskly on the walk up the hill and, by the time class started, he was feeling something approaching normalcy.

  Charly led them through warmup, then started the class with Ikkyo, a basic immobilization.

  The woman who paired with Leland was nage first, the one who throws or pins, and she performed the technique with vigor, straining Leland’s sore muscles.

  SHE’S CHALLENGING YOU, said the voice.

  When it was Leland’s turn, he hesitated for a second. He’d never performed these techniques. NOT IN THIS BODY. RELAX. He extended his arm for her to grab. She took it and his fingers spread, alive. He moved, performing the technique with precision and just enough force. As he sank down for the pin, he felt her start to resist, but the arm with which he held her elbow was extended, and the wrist of the same arm was held above that, giving her no leverage. He let his center drop and she slapped hard with her other arm to break the fall. He completed the pin and stood.

  She came back even stronger,
but he didn’t fight force with force. He just performed the technique with precision, working no harder than necessary—never pushing against her force—working across it or blending with it.

  When it was her turn to pin again, he went with her, blending, moving as fast but no faster than she did. When she moved her knee into his ribs, he simply moved with it, so that, at most, it merely brushed his side. When she came down with all her weight on his elbow, he slapped hard with his free hand, arched his back, and dove his captured shoulder for the mat, keeping the stresses off it.

  As he stood up, he saw Charly watching them with a smile on her face, but she didn’t say anything. When it was his turn to be nage, he continued to use good technique and minimal force.

  Charly stopped them. “Prudence,” she said, to the woman. “Is your ukemi up to more kokyu?”

  The woman looked surprised. “Yes, Sensei.”

  “Very well. Leland, more kokyu.”

  Leland bowed. “Hai.”

  Prudence moved to take his arm and, as she made contact, he moved abruptly to the side, cutting down into her elbow and dropping his center. She fell forward so fast that she was forced to take a forward break-fall, but she scrambled to get back up, still holding his wrist. As she rose he took her elbow over and straight down, into the tatami. She tried to slap, but the side of her head and shoulder hit the mat first with an unpleasant thud.

  Leland let go immediately and sank to his knees. “Are you all right?”

  Prudence was blushing and carefully prodding her shoulder. “Uh. Yes. I’m okay.”

  Charly’s face was neutral. “Perhaps you should both hold back a bit.” Prudence was less challenging after that.

  After a week of the morning classes, Leland started walking up the hill for the late-afternoon class with Denesse Sensei. Several people from the valley came up for this class, and the tatami was crowded, requiring constant awareness to avoid throwing one’s partner into other students.

  Denesse had a different teaching style than Charly. He’d laugh, cajole, roar, shout, and joke. When he threw people they flew hard, slamming into the tatami. He didn’t use the same uke for an entire class, calling up a different student each time he demonstrated a new technique.

  The students were different, too. There were some without hakama, like Leland, and others, with hakama, who were obviously more experienced than the uchideshi.

  Some of these reacted to Leland as Prudence had, throwing him hard and resisting when they were uke. He ignored them, simply blending with their motions and jumping right up. When they resisted his technique, he ignored this, too, depending on proper extension and kokyu to override their rejection of the technique.

  This caused their ukemi to be rougher than necessary.

  After one evening class Leland returned to the cottage and asked Charly about them.

  She laughed. “Nobody knows what to make of you. You’ve got better ukemi than any of them but you’re not wearing a hakama. I’ve been asked more than once where you studied and why you aren’t wearing a hakama.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told them to ask Denesse Sensei.”

  Leland remembered Denesse’s answer to Charly, when she asked. It’s not my place to explain it.

  Wednesday nights, Charly joined Leland for the advanced class. This was hakama wearers only. Leland felt awkward being the only one on the practice surface without one. He relaxed, though, and watched carefully, that dark part of him muttering things like THAT IS A DERIVATION—IT FOLLOWS FROM THE FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES, KIHON, BUT IT WASN’T TAUGHT IN MY TIME.

  The level of ukemi—the vigor of techniques—was higher in this class. He tried to take his partners to the edge of their ukemi but no farther. More than once he shook a higher belt’s complacency, as they expected his lack of hakama to indicate lack of technique.

  Slowly his body became used to the practice. He no longer ached through the night, and at the end of a practice he wasn’t drenched in sweat.

  But the inner voice was never satisfied. YOUR FEET WERE OFF THE LINE.

  YOU WERE TOO FAR AWAY FROM THEM. YOU WERE TOO CLOSE. YOU DIDN’T TAKE THEIR BALANCE SOON ENOUGH. YOU WERE THREE CENTIMETERS OFF THE ELBOW.

  The voice never criticized during a technique. But almost always afterward. During the days, between morning and afternoon practice, he began working at the hall, first cleaning dishes and washing tables. Later, after the school coordinator saw him working through a mechanical engineering text, he began tutoring older kids in math and elementary mechanics.

  He saw that they also didn’t know what to make of him. If they tried to treat him like a guide, he went back to doing menial chores. If they tried to treat him like one of their own, a piece of that other would slip out—a phrase of language, a piece of knowledge—and they couldn’t help but regard him as strange.

  He understood this. He didn’t know what to make of himself, either.

  A little over six weeks after he’d arrived, the heliogram came. The boy in the tower shouted and a cook fetched Leland from an algebra tutoring session in the hall. He walked outside and looked up.

  “Message for you, Warden,” said the boy. “From Laal Station.”

  “Okay.” Leland’s stomach felt odd. “Read it, please.”

  “To Warden Leland de Laal, Red Rock Station. From Guide Dulan de Laal, Laal Station. Return soonest. Escort at K. Pass. Advise ETA there.” The boy looked up from his message slate. “That’s it.”

  Leland stared at the dust by his feet. He could leave now and, if he walked well into the night, he could make it to the Khyber Pass by the following sunset, but he didn’t want to leave without making his good-byes at the dojo.

  “Send ‘Arrive pass noon, Friday,’ “ he said.

  The boy nodded. “Anything else?”

  Leland gave a sour smile. “ ‘I hear and obey.’ “

  He watched the boy bend back to the heliograph, adjusting the mirror for the current angle of the sun, then flipping the shutter back and forth to send the Morse message. Leland shaded his eyes and looked to the west, to the ridgeline where the relay station was, but it was too far to make out the tower. After a minute, though, he saw the flashes of reflected sunlight: MSG. RCVD.

  The boy said, “It’s on its way.”

  “Thank you.”

  There were four relays between Red Rock and Laal Station, but the message would be there in less than ten minutes. Leland thought about his father reading the message—brought by runner from the heliograph platform on the Station’s northwest tower—and he felt the hair on his scalp tingle.

  He returned to the hall and finished the tutoring session.

  When it was time to go up the hill, for his last class, Charly opened a low chest in her room and took out a fresh gi and a hakama so dark and blue it resembled the last edge of the twilight sky. She put them in her bag and said, “Let’s go.”

  “But it’s not Wednesday.”

  She nodded. “That’s right.” She slipped on her sandals and walked outside. He gathered his gi and slipped on his boots, then hurried to catch up.

  They climbed in silence, but, at the last switchback before the dojo, Leland said, “I need to tell Denesse Sensei that I’m leaving.”

  She said, “You don’t have to. There were several heliograms received and answered today.”

  “Oh.”

  The changing rooms was packed with bodies. Leland dressed carefully, trying to avoid poking his elbows into those around him. LIKE DRESSING IN A PHONE BOOTH. Leland shook his head. What the hell is a phone booth?

  The mat was also crowded when he bowed in. Every student he’d seen over six weeks of classes was there and a few faces that were strange to him. There were so many people on the mat that they formed two lines instead of the usual one. So many bodies warmed the air that the skylights were tilted opened, for ventilation.

  Leland joined the line in back and concentrated on his breathing, eyes half closed, one hand cupping the othe
r in his lap. After a few minutes he heard a shifting sound, as those seated straightened their posture. He was on the end of one line so he could see Denesse Sensei, accompanied by Charly, bowing in. Charly sat beside Leland, at the end of the back line, and Denesse continued to the front.

  The class bowed in and Denesse led them through warmups. When they were done with the stretches and ukemi, he demonstrated the first technique—udegarami, an elbow throw. Practice was difficult on the mat since it was so crowded, but Leland took it in his stride, modifying his ukemi to avoid striking anyone, and, as nage, changing direction in midtechnique to find an empty place on the mat to throw his partner.

  Whenever it was time to change partners, he found people jumping to tap his shoulder or knee. He noticed the same was happening with Charly, the upper belts scrambling to be the first to choose one or the other.

  BE FLATTERED.

  If you say so.

  Substantially before the end of normal class, Denesse Sensei said, “Stretch your backs!”

  Leland was surprised. When they were seated again, to bow out, Denesse Sensei said, “A short break while the lamps are lit. Shall we say a quarter stick?” He turned on his knees and bowed to the kamiza, then to the class.

  After he’d left the mat and the students began bowing to their partners, Leland asked Prudence, the uchideshi who’d challenged him the first day, “What’s happening after the break?”

  Her jaw dropped. “You don’t know?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”

  “You’re testing. You and Charlina Sensei. I can’t believe they didn’t tell you. That’s why everyone is here.”

  I BELIEVE IT.

  “Oh,” said Leland. What’s testing?

  BETTER YOU SHOULDN’T ASK. YOU REALLY NEED MORE PRACTICE. DRINK SOME WATER.

  The uchideshi had lit and adjusted the wicks of the lamps and replaced their glass chimneys. There was still the dim glow of dusk coming through the skylights, but the lamps, set in beveled niches around the room, lent a yellow glow to the room. One of the seniors, watching the burning of a stick of incense at the front of the room, clapped his hands and they lined up.