Forging the Blade, Part II: Kithe and Kin, Chapter 2, 1/3
kageorge (kageorge@EROLS.COM)
Wed, 26 Sep 2001 14:49:08 -0400
Forging the Blade, Part II
Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
Acknowledgements and disclaimers in Part 0, previously posted
Rating: PG 13
Chapter Two
The first full day at Connor’s croft dawned bright and clear, the world
washed clean from the driving rain of the previous day. Connor woke and
stood and stretched, letting the wind blow away the last of the tendrils
of sleep from his mind. He wrapped his kilt around his waist, not
bothering with a shirt on what promised to be, for Scotland at least, a
warm day. During his search for Duncan, he had finally shed the
obsessive and, in this land, futile search for that real warmth he had
enjoyed during his travels in Italy, Spain and France, and now hardly
noticed that, even in high summer, his homeland’s mornings and evenings
were brisk. He strode to the top of the rise and watched the sun break
the horizon in sharp shards of light, and smiled. Sometime in the
night, he had found his peace with this place. It was, after all, home,
and always would be.
He turned in a circle, scanning the landscape. Across, on a hilltop on
the other side of the glen, was Heather’s grave. He would visit there
later and sometime during his stay here put a more permanent marker at
the site. Their old house was just a tumble of rocks, now, a burned-out
shell, long since overgrown with moss and low shrubs. It would take
some work to make it habitable, but he was having thatch delivered in a
fortnight. Between his efforts and Duncan’s strong back, they ought to
be able to get the necessary work done in time.
Duncan was still asleep in the shadows of the ruins of the tower,
huddled in his cloak. No doubt he had not gotten much rest last night
after their shared, painful revelations about their past lost loves.
Well, it was time to get busy, to think about the future instead of the
past. There would be no room for self-pity or bitterness now. There
was too much work to do.
“Duncan!” he bellowed across the glen, and was pleased to see the dark
head immediately jerk up and look around. Connor loped down the hill.
“Get your lazy arse out of bed, and get the fire started,” he called.
“I’m going for some breakfast.
Actually, he was going for a run along the loch. It had a long, sandy
beach perfect for stretching his legs and he had been sitting in a
saddle for too many days. He had always loved to run, the feel of wind
moving against his skin, the burn of muscles, the rush of air into his
chest. When he was a lad, he was frequently used to run messages
between the villages because he was fast and tireless, his lean frame
built to cut the wind.
He grabbed a short spear from his pack and followed the valley around
the knobby hill towards the water, trotting along for a half a mile or
so until he reached a flat rock that jutted out over the dark, still
lake. Unlike many lochs, this one fed from the mountains directly into
the sea, and was teaming with fish. He lay flat on the cold stone,
stretched out, his upper body hanging over the still, smooth water. He
could see his reflection, and the wavering face that looked back at him
was an anachronism – that of someone just on the verge of full manhood,
light brown hair dangling to his shoulders, his fair skin barely touched
with the kind of coarse fuzz that decorated Duncan’s broader chest, and
he would never be able to grow a respectable beard. He had long ago
reconciled himself to his perpetual youth, but he could not but envy
that Duncan had been allowed to mature to his physical peak before his
first death.
Ah, well, there were many things he could not change, and his lanky
18-year-old body was the least on the list. Now, unless the habits of
the local trout population had changed, there was usually one or more
hiding in the shadows just…ah…breakfast.
~~~~~~~
Connor deliberately drove Duncan from dawn to dusk, piling stones,
clearing brush, hauling water, gathering wood. When he wasn’t laboring
to ready the stone house for occupancy, or building a pen and a shelter
for the horse, Connor had him doing drills with his sword over and over
and over again, or running long distances over steep terrain to build up
his endurance and wind. Of course, all that effort required food, and
Connor was hard pressed to provide enough for his ever-hungry student.
They had brought lots of grain, but maintaining and monitoring the
snares and doing the necessary hunting and fishing to keep them fed kept
Connor almost as occupied as he tried to keep his student.
Connor had expected resentment and reluctance from Duncan, but the lad
seemed to relish every assignment, then challenged Connor to come up
with another. It was as though Duncan had something to prove, to
himself or to his teacher – that he could endure anything, overcome any
obstacle, achieve any goal his teacher set, although he clearly resented
the more humble, menial tasks Connor always delegated to his student –
caring for the horse, mucking out the pen they had built for him,
cleaning Connor’s saddlebags, mending both their clothes, gathering
herbs and edible greens for their meals, then hours of boring,
repetitive drills with the sword as dusk closed in.
Towards the end of the first month, Connor arrived back at their camp at
sunset with enough meat to last them at least a few days. He could see
Duncan at the top of the far rise, near Heather’s gravesite. His feet
were braced far apart and he had on just his kilt. Even from so far
away, his body gleamed with sweat as he swung and parried and thrust the
heavy claymore again and again and again. Connor urged his stallion
forward, across the glen, and Duncan’s concentration broke briefly as he
felt Connor’s presence and then he returned to his task. Connor drew
near and watched for a moment. It was time for Duncan to move to his
next level of training.
“You display great strength, cousin,” Connor said. “But sword work is
not just about strength. It is about flexibility and quickness, about
defense as well as offense, about the mind at least as much as about the
body.”
The blade whipped through the air and landed, point down, in the earth
between Duncan’s feet. “So you have said, but you’ve yet to prove it,
cousin,” his student answered breathlessly. His eyes were gleaming with
a blatant challenge. “I’ve told you I’ve been taking care of myself for
awhile. Perhaps it is time I proved it.”
“Really?” Connor studied the horizon thoughtfully. “You have a very
high opinion of yourself, Duncan MacLeod.”
“I was a chieftain’s son and was given a blade as soon as my hand was
large enough to hold one,” Duncan announced. Connor had to hide his
smile. In the last weeks, his clansman had quickly shed the morose
distrust and bitterness he had shown in their initial confrontations.
Eager for acceptance, and reveling in having a purpose and an identity
that included even the small “clan” the two of them had formed, Duncan
MacLeod’s true nature was quickly revealing itself: Proud, stubborn,
embarrassingly affectionate, sometimes even exuberant, the lad was like
a great overgrown puppy who didn’t yet realized his own strength and
size.
Connor curled his right leg up over the saddle and slipped down to the
ground, then pulled his katana from its sheath. “All right, oh great
chieftain’s son,” Connor smiled and bowed elaborately, “overwhelm me
with the brilliance of your technique.”
Duncan’s eyes gleamed and he readied himself as Connor slapped the
stallion’s rump to send it back to the comfort of the pen they had built
for him and the fresh oats awaiting him there.
Without preamble, Duncan’s heavy sword swung, and Connor dodged, then
deflected the next blow, angling his lighter blade to slide the claymore
away from his body. Again the huge claymore chopped at him, and he
easily moved out of its path, backpedaling across the stony ground at
the top of the hill. As he dodged and weaved, and his opponent’s sword
kept meeting air, Duncan began to frown with frustration, and the
strength of the blows increased. The few times Connor blocked the
blade, his arm stung with the power of his student’s swing.
Connor danced away again, watching how Duncan moved. He had agility and
strength, but he was not anticipating, not thinking ahead, and was
letting his frustration affect his actions, wasting enormous energy on
attack, and not even really considering his defense. Well, Connor
decided, the lesson would have to be learned eventually, and it was best
done without an audience.
As Duncan was raising his blade for another hard blow, Connor darted in
and nicked his student in the thigh, drawing blood in a bright red gash
against pale skin. Duncan jerked and stumbled, and Connor leapt,
shoving the larger man back with a hard kick to the chest. Duncan
swirled his arms, his blade flying away into the grass, then fell down
the hill, tumbling over and over and landing in a heap at the bottom of
the slope.
Connor took his time getting down the hill, letting Duncan struggle to
his feet and brush the grass off his kilt and out of his beard, although
a few thistles were still incongruously stuck in his hair. Connor
reached out and plucked them away, to his student’s annoyance. “I
slipped!” Duncan snapped, pushing Connor’s hand away.
“Oh, aye,” Connor agreed. “I could see that.”
Duncan’s face blushed a ruddy hue, and he stomped over to find his
blade. Connor decided to say nothing, and waited to find out whether
Duncan’s pride was going to be such an obstacle that it would have to be
deliberately and painfully broken. Duncan picked up his sword, still in
the grass halfway up the hill, then stood there a minute, staring off at
the horizon before he came back down. His face was a thundercloud of
tension and anger and Connor feared the worst. “I would normally have
used wooden blades for a spar, but nothing helps the correction of error
like a little loss of blood,” Connor explained, but his student did not
appear to be mollified.
“Show me,” Duncan growled.
“Show you?” Connor repeated, uncertain exactly what his student was
asking.
“What I did wrong. Show me, dammit!”
The two men stood in silence for a moment, while Connor carefully
controlled his reactions and thought about his response. He was both
relieved and troubled. Duncan’s outrage was at himself, and while that
was a better response than being angry at his teacher, it still carried
with it the seeds of a problem.
“You are young, yet, Duncan,” Connor said gently. “You have much to
learn. Knowing how much you don’t know is perhaps one of the most
important lessons I can teach you. Now…” and he began, talking about
how to stand, how to defend, how to observe an opponent. Duncan’s
attitude was hostile at first, but after a while the anger faded,
replaced by intense concentration, and before either of them realized
it, the sun was all the way down and nothing had been done about their
dinner.
Duncan shifted uneasily throughout their late meal, clearly suffering
from the countless falls, direct hits and hard bruises he had endured in
spite of his remarkable healing capacities.
“Sore?” Connor finally asked.
“Aye,” Duncan admitted ruefully. “I never knew there was so much to
know and remember all at the same time.”
“Oh, we have only touched on what you will eventually need to know.
Whole books have been written about the art of sword fighting,” Connor
observed.
“Books? You mean someone actually sat down and copied all of that out?
Why would they do that? If it were all written out, what need would
there be of a teacher? They could just teach them to read, and hand
them a book.”
“There are many reasons to write it down, but mostly so their knowledge
could be known beyond the sound of their voice, and into the next
generations. There will always be a need for teachers,” Connor added.
“After all, it is hard to spar with a book.” He judged the moment
right, and went to the chest he had built to hold his things, pulling
out a parcel wrapped in oilcloth. He reverently unfolded it, and inside
were several leather-bound volumes. He started to hand one to Duncan,
but stopped and admonished him to wipe his hands. Once he was satisfied
that his student’s hands were relatively clean he passed it over.
“It’s all right,” he assured his student. “Just open it carefully and
try to keep your fingers off the ink. It is by Camillo Agrippa, one of
the great masters from Italy. I studied with him before I went to the
Orient.”
Duncan didn’t react to his words, just scooted closer to the fire, his
eyes wide with wonder at the pages and pages of writing and the many
illustrations. “Do they fight naked in Italy?” he asked in amazement.
“No wonder their language is all high and chattery.”
Connor laughed aloud, both amused and amazed that Duncan had remembered
that he had been speaking Italian to the soldiers on the day they had
first met. The boy was much smarter than his barbarian manners and
upbringing would indicate.
“No, the illustrations are done that way so you can see exactly how to
stand, and understand the way the blade is moved and used most
effectively,” he answered at last.
“Well, I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a good thing,” Duncan’s eyes gleamed
at him mischievously. “It would make battles in Scotland much shorter,
or everyone would freeze their balls off.”
~~~~~~~
Continued in part 2