I blanked out. All I could think of was my dead boyfriend holding a Superman comic. “T-truth, j-justice and the American Way?”
Fortunately, no one heard me above the hammering rain. Rory might have heard me, but he didn’t get it. The dead man leaned close and I could feel how cold he was. “Your name,” he said. “What place do you champion?”
I wanted to say everywhere. Instead, I called out, “Iowa!”
Every member of the Choir Invisible chanted three times, “Iowa is risen. Iowa is found. As Iowa goes, so goes the world. We are the Choir. We stand our ground.”
Manhattan nodded. “Step forward, candidate.”
I stared and Rory chuckled. “Go on, then. Take your medicine. I’ll walk with you and talk you through it.”
I walked toward Manhattan through mud. Or maybe that was just my legs not wanting to work.
“Three is the power number!” Manny called. “Do I have three defenders?”
Everyone in the courtyard raised their swords. Manny pointed to three singers and the rest retreated to the far side of the field of training pads.
Manny motioned for me to come closer and dipped into a big trunk at her side that looked much like the steamer trunks we’d left in my apartment.
I thought of my tiny, warm apartment with an espresso machine on the counter and chicken noodle soup on the stove. The Fault in Our Stars was still spread upside down on my bed. I was pissed at Manny, and myself, too. I should have stayed home.
Manny pulled out a couple of gloves with long, hard gauntlets to protect my forearms. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s no big deal. Every military organization has a ritual. This is ours.”
“What do I do? They aren’t going to ask me to dance, will they? I look weird when I dance.” But I already knew what was going to happen. I was going to get my ass kicked.
“Relax. I’m pretty sure you can take two of the three singers I picked.”
“Two of three?”
“It’s a game,” Manhattan said.
“Oh, it’s no game,” Rory said. “Monopoly is a game. I’ve never seen anyone lose teeth or break a wrist in a parlor game of any sort.”
“Teeth?”
“Teeth can be replaced. Did I mention you should relax?” Manny asked. “I probably did.”
I looked to the three swordsmen with whom I was about to do battle. All three wore helmets which obscured their faces and each helmet’s mask was a face. They were not human faces. Their protective masks were all scary demon faces.
The first opponent looked lean and quick. The second was big and brawny. The last, near the center of the clutch of circles, slid one hand across his neck in the universal sign for “You’re buzzard meat.”
I was out of sorts so, whether or not there actually are buzzards throughout the universe, you get the idea. I could hear the pulse in my ears already. “I’m in the wrong place,” I said.
Manhattan grabbed my head with both hands and forced me to look in her eyes and yelled for everyone’s benefit, maybe even my own, “Iowa, Castrator of Demons, live up to your name!”
“Ah,” I said. “Okay.”
Manny whispered, “You don’t have to win. You just have to fight. This is for real.”
“This is happening,” I said.
Manny looked fierce. “If you can’t face us, you can’t face the Darkness Visible. If you can’t sing with the Choir, you’re right. You are in the wrong place. What’s it going to be? Are you a girl named Tammy or are you a soprano named Iowa?”
I turned to face the trio of defenders, mostly because I was pissed at Manny. She handed me a wooden sword painted black. It was a bokken. I was more used to using a shinai sword, a loose bundle of bamboo tied together in such a way that, even if swung hard, the weapon didn’t really hurt. Bokkens are solid wood. They hurt.
Lesson 65: Whether you’re joining the PTA, the Choir Invisible or a knitting club, inquire ahead of time about initiation rites. Know what to expect. I wish I had. However, not knowing what I was getting into was probably part of the test.
Manhattan tied a thick cloth belt around my middle and cinched it tight over my anteater armor. I felt something heavy at my waist. When I looked down, I expected to find a dagger. Instead, I found a taser. “For if you get up close,” Manny said.
“If?”
“Sometimes this ends really quickly. Good luck.”
“If you donned your helmet now, m’lady,” Rory said, “that would not be amiss.”
I fumbled with my helmet. I hadn’t paid attention to it before. It was a New York Giants football helmet with a visor to protect my eyes. I noticed it would not protect my teeth.
“The goal,” Rory explained, “is to get to the center circle.”
“What if I just run for it?”
“Then all three will come at you at once.”
“So I have to take them on one at a time?”
“That would be my advice, yes,” Rory said.
“What if I don’t get past the first one?”
“Once you’re down, I am almost sure they will stop fairly soon.” His chuckle sounded like a stone bumping down a long pipe into a well. “Once you step on the pad, you must stay on the pad or you lose. You don’t have to win. You just have to try. No one expects you to win.”
No one expects you to win. That really pissed me off. I took the sword handle in both hands. “I don’t have to win? That’s not how I play. Not since Shibboleth.”
“That’s fine,” Rory said, “I would advise against gritting your teeth like that. It makes your lovely smile more…vulnerable. Gritted teeth are more easily chipped.”
With a dead man by my side, I took on the my first opponent in the Choir Invisible.
Lesson 66: If possible and for a greater chance of success, advance on your enemy with lots of live, well-armed men and women by your side.
I went into the first test alone, of course. In the end, when we face our greatest tests, we’re always alone.
34
The first pad was not just a solid black pad. As I came closer, I realized it was a trampoline.
I assumed the first swordsman would have the wisdom to feel me out a bit to test my tactics before launching into an all-out attack. Instead, the tall and stringy fighter jumped and came at me off a high bounce. He screamed a war cry.
Lesson 67: Aggression and striking first often wins, but rushing at an unknown enemy is foolish. The way he attacked, I was sure he not only wanted to win, but he was showing off, as well. Mama would have called his problem, “testosterone poisoning.”
Mr. Chang taught me what he called the Economy of the Sword. You keep your sword out in front, the pointy end toward the opponent at a forty-five degree angle. You do not reach to block an attack because a miss is as good as a mile. If you reach to block, you may lose your center of balance and you can be pushed or pulled into a vulnerable position.
There’s another law of physics that applies the next time somebody comes at you off a trampoline with a sword. When the attacker jumps off a trampoline at an opponent, he can’t change course in mid-air. I dodged left, ducked and swept my bokken into his shins.
Crack!
His scream turned from a war cry into a simple cry. My attacker’s momentum carried him off the pad and he landed on his face hard. He rolled around in the mud rubbing his shins. When he pulled up his helmet’s visor, I saw I’d been fighting a boy. He might have been fifteen. He squinted up at me and cursed at me in his pain.
Lesson 68: Research studies have shown that cursing lessens pain. Indulge in cursing if you’re in a lot of pain. If you’re the one causing the pain instead of suffering it, victory helps you get past any hurt feelings. Smile. Bow. It annoys the shit out of the loser.
The Choir chanted, “Delaware has fallen. Delaware has failed. Delaware is lost.”
Ouch. No wonder the kid felt he had something to prove. I bounced across the trampoline pad. As I made my way from pad to pad, I had to admit, the C
hoir’s training area was impressive. One pad was made entirely of steps in concentric circles. Another was a shallow pit which would drive the combatants together. Then came a pad that was a forest of thin steel poles.
The bulky and brawny fighter awaited me on a concrete pad that was raised in the middle. As I got closer, the swordsman raised his visor. It wasn’t a he. I faced a smiling, freckle faced black woman.
“Hi,” I said.
“I’m Wilmington,” she said. “Wilmington, Vermont. I don’t fall.” She brought her visor down and in one smooth motion, swung her sword at mine, trying to knock it from my hands. I felt the wind of the wooden blade’s arc as I circled left.
Wilmington was a canny fighter. She stayed to the center of the pad. Keeping the high ground to place me at a disadvantage. She attacked with strong, overhead strikes that drove me back. In refusing to give up her advantage, she would not stray from the center of the pad to press her attack.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
I blocked her bokken and waited and watched as she shuffled forward and back, always returning to the center. She was strong and confident, but she only thought with her weapon and she repeated the same attack too often.
As she came at me again, I broke the rhythm that she had fallen into with an attack of my own. She blocked me and I tried to lure her out. As soon as she realized she had strayed from the pad’s high center, she began to retreat. Her momentum was already going backward and I switched to a ferocious attack that kept her in retreat.
When her rear heel hit the edge of the pad she stopped just in time and threw herself forward. I switched tactics, stepped to her right and smashed my right gauntlet into her visor with the back of my gloved fist.
Wilmington’s head rocked back but, true to her word, she did not fall. Off balance, she raised her sword high to bring it down on my head. I dropped to the ground and swept my right heel under her feet. She pinwheeled backward off the pad to land on her back.
The Choir chanted, “Wilmington has fallen. Wilmington has failed. Wilmington is lost.” But our audience applauded, too.
“Iowa! Iowa! Iowa!”
When I looked up, I saw a friendly face I recognized. It was St. Charles, clapping and cheering for me from his high window up in the library.
I gave him a thumbs up and bowed to Wilmington. She raised her visor and gave me a smile. “Good one.”
I made my way around the pad, taking my time so I could catch my breath.
The second to last pad was flat, but as small as a large elevator. My opponent was dressed head to toe in ornate red armor that looked like it was made of shiny enamel. His throat was exposed, but that was all.
“I am so screwed,” I told him.
He nodded and took up his sword. Unlike the others, he waited for me to attack. Stepping on the small pad, the tips of our swords already touched.
I tried circling his sword with mine to close the distance. He batted my bokken away with a strong stroke and I nearly dropped it.
Lesson 69: This, I learned from Mr. Chang. It’s about fire and water. He may or may not have picked it up from reading about Bruce Lee. He claimed he couldn’t remember.
In a water attack, you flow around your opponent’s advances and strike at him without engaging his defenses. With the fire strategy, you do not attack his head or torso, but instead, you burn whatever he uses to reach you. If he kicks, you don’t simply block. You try to shatter his ankle with your weapon or your elbows. If he comes at you with a sword, smash and cut at his hands.
I tried the fire approach. My opponent used the water attack to put me out.
Lesson 70: when your opponent knows your moves, you have to come up with new moves very quickly.
I was driven to my knees. I wasn’t holding my sword anymore and my left arm was throbbing at the bicep. The flat of his sword came down hard on my shoulder and I cried out as I fell to my hands and knees. I was in perfect beheading position, though I hoped that wasn’t the end goal of my initiation into the Choir.
I tried to roll under his feet to bowl him over. He laughed as he leapt over me. When I sat up, my opponent was holding his bokken and mine, too, one in each hand.
He took a step closer and put the tip of his sword under my exposed throat to tilt my head back.
“This is the time when I’m supposed to give up, right?”
My silent opponent gave me a slow, sage nod.
Rory appeared at the edge of the pad. “Well done, girl. No shame in this performance.”
The man in the enamel armor nodded to the dead man and lowered the tip of my bokken an inch from my throat. I wrapped my ankles around my attacker’s forward foot, grabbed the wooden blade with one hand and pulled my opponent into the crackle of my taser.
Just before the electric blue arc could touch his throat, he swept my weapon away. It landed in a mud puddle, far from my reach.
My attacker pulled me to my feet, laughing at me again. The more he laughed, the more my rage built. He was clearly the superior fighter.
He backed away and stuck the tips of my bokken and his in the mud at the edge of the pad. He was still chuckling when he came back to face me empty-handed.
I grabbed his helmet with both hands and tried to twist, but before I could throw him, he threw me to the pad. Fast and sure, he locked down on my wrist so hard that, even through my gauntlet, I thought he might break bone.
“Did I mention you’ve already done well?” Rory asked, louder this time. “It’s time to surrender, girl! Do not be embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I whispered. “I’m fighting.”
My opponent finally spoke. “But do you know when to give up?”
I knew that voice. He eased his grip as he lifted his visor and I stared up into Mr. Chang’s face. He smiled and pulled me up. I stood before my teacher.
I spit in his eye and slammed my New York Giants football helmet into his nose. He reeled back and stood holding his nose as blood poured out. But Mr. Chang was still on the pad. And still smiling.
I ripped off my helmet. I gave Mr. Chang a big, cheery smile and stepped toward him, offering my hand to shake. “Mr. Chang! It’s so good to see you! I’m so glad you’re in New York! Do you miss Iowa at all yet?” Before he could answer, I whispered, “you will.”
He dropped his guard for a split second. That’s all it takes. I swung my helmet at his head as hard as I could and it clanged off the side of his fancy helmet. I knocked Mr. Chang off the edge of the pad.
He didn’t go down so I didn’t accept that I’d won until my teacher bowed. “You had a good teacher,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Though I’ve learned a little more ruthlessness since. You shouldn’t have let Mama send me to that mental hospital, sir.”
Mr. Chang bowed again, deeper this time. As apologies go, it wasn’t an iTunes gift certificate and a spa day, but it would have to do.
The Choir stood in stunned silence and incomprehension as they watched our exchange, though one member was clapping madly and laughing. St. Charles waved to me from his perch in the high library window.
I took up my black bokken and strode to the smallest pad at the center of all the circles. I raised my sword high. “My name is Iowa, Castrator of Demons, and I’m too dumb to know when to quit!”
St. Charles hooted his approval and the singers raised their swords, laughing and cheering. This time, the Choir’s chant was a roar as they repeated three times, “Iowa has risen. Iowa has won. Iowa is among the Choir Invisible. Her battle is done!”
Lesson 71: Sometimes (okay, rarely) superior force can be defeated by being sneaky and too stupid to quit. I recommend being the superior force. Overwhelm the enemy with your genius and strength. If you don’t have those advantages, that doesn’t necessarily mean the fight is over.
The last time I had spoken to Mr. Chang, I was still in Medicament. After meeting the evil Dr. Moorely, losing meant much more to me than simply admitting I’d failed. Losing meant submiss
ion. Submitting meant nullification. Losing meant I counted for nothing. I wasn’t the same person as I’d been in Medicament. I couldn’t be. People change, either under very good circumstances or facing horror.
Standing in the center of the Keep’s courtyard, holding my sword high, I felt I’d endured tragedy, but triumph and exhilaration rushed through my blood, too.
For a brief moment, Brad was not with me. I had no grief to carry. In victory, just for a moment, it was okay to forget him. I didn’t have to mourn not being part of a pair, anymore. I didn’t have to face the world alone, either. I had an army of outcasts and freaks just like me on my side. We could see ghosts and we fought evil demons and we’d do it all together. And, I was sure, we would win.
The Choir rushed to the center of the courtyard, shouting and laughing, to welcome me to their number. Theirs was a music only new comrades united against a common enemy could make.
But the enemy composes symphonies of anguish and destruction. War cries that were not our own filled the air, thicker than the streaming rain, as the library exploded.
35
St. Charles was blown out of the library window. He fell into the courtyard, lifeless and aflame.
It wasn’t exactly an explosion. The demons tore a rift between dimensions. A dozen came pouring out of the crack they’d made in the membrane between their hellscape and our world. I don’t know magic, but whatever they did worked.
I saw St. Charles hit the ground, loose jointed and head first. I cringed as his neck snapped and his head bent over to one shoulder at a crazy angle. The sight made my stomach flip.
I wondered what his real name had been. After we die, whatever names we took on and whatever we pretend to be, goes away. We are reduced. It was a strange battlefield reaction, but I stood frozen a moment as the boy burned.
What got me moving was the sight of the demons. The one in Carl Brooks’ basement had been as black and shiny as onyx. The warriors that dropped to the courtyard grounds had skin as red as cartoon devils. They looked like they should carry pitchforks. Instead, swords hung sheathed at their waists and they held long spears with three cruel points.
The Haunting Lessons: 1, 2, 3, 4, I Declare a Demon War (The Ghosts & Demons Series) Page 17