The House of Grey- Volume 1 (20 page)

Casey stopped Monson in front of the giant steel door. “OK, so here is the thing about Coach Hawke before we go in.”

Monson cocked the eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Casey rubbed his face contemplatively. “Coach Hawke is…different. Just go with it.”

Monson’s eyebrow rose higher. “On that enigmatic note….”

Coach Hawke’s office looked like a converted storage room. Large blackboards filled with potential plays and training schedules competed for space with piles of sports paraphernalia. Despite the room’s contents, the boys felt like they were entering a club: Jazz music, played at high volume, reverberated in the enclosed space.

The man himself was sitting at a small desk,
tapping lightly on
his computer keyboard. He was a beast, large and rugged.

“Hey Coach Hawke,” Casey yelled so he could be heard over the music. “I wanted to introduce you to the—”

Coach Hawke raised one massive finger to silence him. Eyes closed, the giant of a man sat in his chair, humming tunelessly to the jazz blaring from the music player. 

Monson laughed while Casey gawked. Monson spoke quietly, “That’s not something you see every day.” 

“Yeah, he’s a bit of an eccentric,” agreed Casey, not quite as softly.

“Should we come back later?”

“Maybe,” Casey looked back towards the door. “Come on, you can just use my locker.”

“At-ten-tion!”

They both jumped as the husky voice echoed threateningly around the small office. Coach Hawke, apparently finished with his meditation or whatever it was, now towered over them, his hard eyes leveled at Monson.

The boys quailed underneath the man’s stare. They shot concerned looks at each other.

“This must be our new
Horum Vir
.” Coach Hawke smiled. He sounded sincere, almost kind.

“Monson Grey,” said Monson, stepping forward and offering his hand. “I am very happy to meet—” He was cut off when the huge man took him in his arms and squeezed him like a teddy bear.      

“I am so happy to finally meet you.” Monson thought the man was crying, although he could not be sure of this, as his own breathing suddenly became a far more pressing issue.

“This is a truly momentous occasion. A time when we can meet and greet one another like brothers and forge ahead in the style of my Germanic ancestors
—
”
“Co…ach Hawke,” wheezed Monson through stabs of pain.

“We, like they once did, shall push forward, experience being our guide—“

“Coach….”

“I shall act as shepherd and you as sheep—”.

“COACH!”

Coach Hawke stopped talking, but maintained his iron hold on Monson.

“Did you say something, Grey?”

“I…can’t…breathe.”

“Oh, sorry, Grey,” said Coach Hawke. He let go of Monson, who dropped to the ground hard, crumpling as he landed next to Casey. Coach Hawke grabbed Monson by his collar and hoisted him back up, suspending him a few inches above the ground before gently lowering him to the floor.

“Hey Coach,” grinned Casey in amusement, “we need to get Monson a locker. Mind helping us out?”

“I would be overjoyed to help you out,” replied Coach Hawke enthusiastically. “Follow me, boys.”

Coach Hawke gave Monson a quick tour of the locker room, pointing out the showers, lockers, spa, and different therapy areas. Lastly, he showed Monson a strange sort of dispenser unit.

“And now,” he began with a flourish “may I present to you, the clothing unit.  This is where you pick up your gym clothes each day. You can put your dirty clothes in one of the bins over there." He pointed towards large blue bins on the opposite wall. “They’ll be washed and returned to the dispenser. Any questions?”

Monson and Casey shook their heads.

“Then, until we meet again, I bid you farewell.” He left whistling his jazz song from earlier.

Monson changed into the gym clothes and then he and Casey emerged from the boys locker room, Casey still chuckling about their encounter with Coach Hawke.

“He’s an interesting one, isn’t he?” said Monson as he strolled casually towards a large dark blue mat. Monson rubbed his rib cage almost instinctively. “I think he broke one of my ribs.” 

Casey renewed his laughter, trying to speak through gasps of air, “Crazy, huh? Not what you’d expect from an ex-professional football player,”

“Not at all. Wait —ex- professional football player?”

“Oh yeah, he used to play professionally until he got hurt. He was really good, too.”

“Unexpected.”

Casey nodded. “I know, right?”

“Hey, Casey, Monson!” Artorius came into view, closely followed by a small group of girls who all looked about their age.

“What took you guys so long?” inquired Artorius, when he was finally close enough to them that he did not have to yell.

“Got lost,” said Monson simply. Then, making a slight nod in their direction, “I see what you’ve been up to, Artorius. Who are your friends?”

“
Indigo
Harrison,” replied a cute brunette with thick brown hair. Monson recognized her; she was the same girl Artorius had been so interested in earlier that day.

“Monson Grey.” He smiled at her, his mind racing. “And who are your friends?”

Indigo turned and pointed while naming each girl. 

“Christy Wayne,” an asset-heavy blonde girl in a stretched tight shirt who was not at all shy about her particular gifts.

“And Ignacio Anderson,” a pale, skinny girl with very large, tawny-colored eyes.

Monson smiled and nodded at each girl. Their reactions to his appearance confused him. They looked disgusted, that much was sure, but also intrigued. Was he missing something?

Monson glanced at Artorius, who looked
like a kid in a candy store
— a really
big
candy store. He was eyeing Indigo expectantly, while she tried to avoid his gaze. Awkward silence settled after the introductions, not helped by Casey, who was trying desperately not to laugh.

Monson decided he had enough. “Well, ladies, it was nice meeting you all. I’m just going to go over here now.”

He moved rather quickly to get away from the stares of Artorius’
friends, whose eyes he could feel on his back.

At a comfortable distance, the crack of wood caught his attention. On a mat not far away, surrounded by students, two people were engaged in heated mock combat using large sticks crudely formed in the shape of swords. They resembled the ones that Casey and Artorius used the day before.  Masked and covered in a weird kind of body armor, the two combatants strove against each other to gain dominance. The contest was short-lived: The shorter of the two fighters was far more skilled. His movements were small and sharp and almost totally defensive in nature; he took very few opportunities to counterattack.  More often than not, he defended with a one-handed style, leaving the other hand draped to one side. This explained why he was using a shorter stick — a longer one would make this style of fighting difficult. The heavier opponent managed to land a few blows before an incredibly fast counter from the short combatant effectively disarmed his opponent. Weaponless, the larger foe, a boy with a face like a pug, bowed his head and pulled off his helmet. He walked off the mat looking embarrassed.

“He’s good,” said Casey, eyeing the two fighters critically. “Interesting. You don’t usually see kendo in American schools.”

“Kendo?” asked Monson, turning his attention to Casey. “What's that?” The term sounded vaguely familiar; he wondered where he had heard it.

“Japanese fencing.” Casey peered past Monson towards the shorter fighter. “Kendo, or competitive fencing, is popular in Japanese schools, but most private schools in the States only do rapier fencing. I wonder who he is. Japanese sword fighting in the style of the
Kodachi
is really rare—”  

Casey stopped as if something suddenly occurred to him. “You don’t know what kendo is? How can that be? Don’t you have a
bokken
?”  

Monson did not have any idea what Casey was talking about. He racked his brain and came to a realization. “Oh, is that what that shiny stick is? I wondered what it was called. So it’s like for fencing, right?”

“Are you messing with me? You must fence. You move like a fencer.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Grey, you remember how we met, right?” 

“Of course, but what does that have to do with fencing?”

“I’m a martial arts student,” said Casey, smiling. “And I took up rapier fencing in elementary school and not long after that, kendo. After a while, you can just tell the people that have trained. I would have bet Arthur’s weight in gold you were a fencer. The way you blocked his attack was perfect. You aren’t just pulling my leg, are you? You really haven’t fenced before?”

Monson struggled to answer Casey’s question. Fencing. He really liked the sound of that. The mere thought made his fingers suddenly tense, but he could not remember ever fencing, and it wasn’t something that struck a chord within him. They were quickly coming to the topic that Monson wanted to avoid.  He thought a diversionary tactic was probably his best bet.

“So you can tell things about fighters just by observing them?” he asked casually. “What can you tell me about our vertically challenged friend over there?”

Monson pointed at the boy, who was furiously fighting a new opponent. 

If Casey was aware of Monson’s redirection, he did not let it show. “First a little background. The
kodachi
is a smaller blade than the
katana
, the Japanese long sword — that’s made for defense. The fighting style developed for the kodachi is augmented by an aggressive hand-to-hand combat, usually kempo or some kind of jujutsu. This one, however…” He paused for moment as he watched. “This guy doesn’t seem to exhibit any of that type of tactic or style.”

Casey’s eyes narrowed as if he were considering something.  

“Well, of course he doesn’t.” He sounded like he was scolding himself. ”This isn’t an actual battle; it’s a match. He would be disqualified if he struck him with his hands. Then again, they aren’t using
shinai
." `

“What’s a
shinai
?”

Casey brought his hands up stretching them as he watched the fighter. He looked back at Monson.

“A
shinai
is a bamboo sword that’s used in official kendo matches. They don’t use
bokken
s; they’re too dangerous. You can break some bones or even kill someone if you aren’t careful.”

“Yeah," agreed Monson, returning his attention to the match. “Now that you mention it, this doesn’t really look like a match, but actual combat. Not that I would really know the difference.”

“Totally,” Casey nodded agreement. “They don’t even have a referee. I think I’m going to talk to him. I want to know where he trained.” 

“Why bother?” asked Monson, who could not think of anything less practical.

Casey answered, “How could I not want to know?  I mean how cool is that, seriously?”

Monson chuckled. He had a point. “Casey, what kind of martial art do you do?”

Casey's eyes lit up. “You know, that’s a very interesting question. Honestly, I have no idea what it’s called.”

Monson raised his eyebrow in his signature gesture. “That’s weird. How can you study something you don’t even know the name of? Who taught you?”

“It’s a family thing,” commented Casey. “My dad taught me when I was very young, then my uncle took over.”

“Why’d he do that?”

Casey looked uncomfortable. Apparently Monson wasn’t the only one who had things he didn’t want to discuss.

“Why wouldn’t your uncle tell you the name of your art? That seems weird to me.” 

“Yeah,” said Casey matter-of-factly. “It has something to do with mastery. I dunno I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“So you don’t know anything about its origins?” inquired Monson, now genuinely interested.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well?”

“I think it’s from somewhere in China, or Asia at least.”

“Wow,” Monson said laughing.  “Brilliant, Holmes, brilliant.  A martial art coming from Asia! Your powers of deduction are outstanding.”

Casey glared at him before stalking towards the opposite side of the mat.

“Where ya going?” asked Monson, moving after him. “Come on, it was just a joke."

“You’re funny. It’s totally not like that. I just don’t want to be overheard, and it’s kind of a long story.”

They sat down on a corner of mat away from the group still watching the fencers. Reclined in a comfortable position, Monson gave Casey the go-ahead. Casey was not paying attention, however, but was looking directly over Monson’s shoulder.

“What?” Monson turned to see what Casey was looking at. Artorius was standing with the same group of girls a short distance away.