Chapter 2
New Sword, New Life
Aisle 12 of Pentathlon, the local sports warehouse, feels more like home than our new house.
Radiant white jackets line the shelves, white breeches, and gloves for your sword hand. There’s masks with meshed metal fronts. And next to all these, the sword rack. They hang point downwards: foil, epée, sabre.
I stare at them wide-eyed for a moment before reaching up and taking a foil. It’s all bright metal and leather. No battle scars like my old one, no character...yet. I hold it up to my eye and look down the blade before dropping into the en-garde position.
Dad puts his hands on his hips. “What news from the kingdom Sir Atkins? Didst thou slay The Beast of Bodmin Moor?”
“I hacked off its head and hung it as a trophy on my wall,” I tell him.
He laughs and winks at me.
“Hello. Excuse me…Mr Atkins?”
A lady in a red dress stands behind us. She’s got short, curly hair and eyes that flit about constantly, like she’s searching for something lost. Next to her is a girl with warm brown skin and piercing blue eyes. The girl’s hair is braided into tight lines, each one decorated at the end with black and white beads. She stands, hands on hips, her chin tilted upwards.
We stare at each other.
“I’m Patrice Werdun” the lady says, extending her hand towards dad. She pronounces the W like a V.
They shake hands and Dad busts out his best smile. “Sean Atkins. Pleased to meet you. You live…” He trails off, still smiling.
“Number 53,” the lady says. “We’re just next door.”
Dad runs a hand through his hair. “Ah. Fantastic. Pleased to meet you, Patrice.”
Mrs Werdun turns to me and smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “And who’s this?”
Dad gestures to me. “This is Brad.”
The skin on my cheek’s prickles and I manage half a wave. “Hi.”
“Nice to meet you Brad,” she says, putting an arm around the girl’s shoulder. “This is Alice. I’m guessing you’ll be going to Bledgley Academy in a couple of weeks’ time? Alice is really looking forward to it.”
Alice’s mouth twists and she rolls her eyes. Her mother doesn’t notice. Laughter bubbles up through me but I clamp my mouth shut to stop it escaping.
Dad ruffles my hair like I’m five years old. “Brad too.”
I duck away from him and raise my eyebrows at Alice, but she turns away and starts looking through the fencing gloves.
I wander over, leaving Dad to make boring adult chat with Mrs Werdun.
Alice stares at the foil in my hand. “You fence?”
“Yeah. Dad’s getting me this. He’s trying to make up for ruining my life.”
Her gaze drops. I’ve said something wrong. “How about you?” I ask quickly.
Her fingers move over the leather of the glove. “Can I have this one Mum?”
Her mum holds up a hand. “Sorry Sean.” She turns. “What’s that, Ali?”
“Can I have this glove?”
Mrs Werdun takes it and checks the tag. “Ok. I’ll go buy this then I’m heading off to Auntie Janie’s.” She waves the glove at Alice. “And don’t lose this one!” She turns to my dad. “It was lovely to meet you. We should arrange drinks sometime.”
“That’d be great! We’re free most weekends at the moment.”
“Well, you’re only next door so I’m sure we’ll be seeing lots of each other.”
We walk down towards the till together where Mrs Werdun buys Alice’s glove and Dad gets my foil.
Outside the wind whips down the street, bending the trees almost sideways. I hold my new foil tightly while we say goodbye to Mrs Werdun. She jumps in her car, a beat-up Ford Fiesta, and drives off leaving me and Alice staring awkwardly at one another.
“You heading home, Alice?” Dad asks.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Great then we can all walk back together.”
I’m not sure what Dad meant by together cause as we start walking, he drops back leaving me and Alice side by side.
The wind gusts, blowing both sides of my coat apart and I shiver as the cold cuts through me. I fumble with the zip but holding my new foil means I can’t get it fastened.
We stop for a moment while I struggle.
“Pass it here,” Alice says. I hand her my foil and she holds it expertly, moving her wrist around in a perfect circular parry.
“Nice,” I say, finally getting my coat fastened.
“Cool, eh? Sir De Silva taught me.”
She carries on talking but at the sound of De Silva’s name I’m back in the tomb, and the world is muted once more.
Then Alice’s voice cuts through the silence. “...flair can be as useful as skill sometimes but is no replacement for it.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what Sir De Silva says.” She hands me back my foil. “Are you coming? To the fencing class I mean, on Tuesday.”
I nod.
She scratches her cheek and stares at me. “We can walk up together. I’ll show you the way.” A pause. “If you want?”
Me and Josh used to go to fencing class together.
I kick at a weed growing out of a crack in the pavement. I’m jumbled up inside. It’s like someone took me by the leg and shook me; like my heart and lungs and kidneys are still there, still working, but they’re in the wrong place.
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It was always me and Josh.
“Mum wants to drive me,” I say. “Want a lift?”
###
Two nights later Mum drops me and Alice in front of the Manor House. “Text me when you’re done,” she says as I climb out. “And have fun!”
A large gravel path snakes up to the house, lined by trees that look like they’ve been dead for a thousand years. Old gnarly hands trying to reach up and pull the Manor House down.
My kit bag suddenly seems heavier, and I shift it to the other shoulder.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Alice says.
Our shoes crunch on the stones as we head up the path. Light spills from a large downstairs window to our right, throwing long shadows across the garden. The left side of the house is in darkness, totally boarded up. It’s like the building itself is winking at me.
Maybe it knows something I don’t.
Through the window I see a man with jet black hair. He’s wearing fencing whites. The same man I saw through my telescope. At least I think so. His face is younger than I expected - a lot younger. Josh has an older brother, Pete, who’s at university. This guy looks about the same age. An uneasy excitement bubbles in my stomach. The gravestone said 621-642. That would’ve made the relative about twenty-one when he died…
“There’s Sir De Silva,” Alice says.
Here lies Sir Darren De Silva.
I’m desperate to tell Alice what I saw at the tomb, to share my crazy secret with her. It almost bubbles out of me. Then I realise how stupid it’ll sound, and my excitement spins out of control and crash lands in my stomach.
“Let’s go say hello,” Alice says. “You’ll love Sir De Silva. He talks like he’s about a zillion years old but he’s really cool.”
Hunching forwards under the weight of my kit bag I follow Alice up a sloping concrete ramp, through the wedged open front door and into a high-ceilinged hallway. In front of us, dark wooden stairs lead upwards, cracked and shiny in the light of a single unshaded bulb. To the right a corridor runs towards the back of the house.
From here comes the squeak of trainers on mats, the clash and scrape of foil on foil and the shouts of the fencers themselves.
“It’s this way,” Alice says.
I follow her down the corridor past the stairs, running my hand over the wall, feeling all the bumps and cracks. The paint was probably white a hundred years ago. It’s dirty yellow now.
“Ready?” she says as we pass through a door and into a large hall.
I take a deep breath and nod.
De Silva is at the far end, barking orders at two boys who are dragging blue mats and placing them around the room. “Come on, chop, chop! You’re like a bunch of geriatric snails suffering from gout.” His voice is posh but ragged around the edges, and although his words sound harsh his tone is light.
To my left, two fencers are sparring. Their foils flick through the air; scrape against one another. One fencer is much taller, skilled and brutal. He hits harder than necessary. Fencing is a subtle and controllable art my old teacher, Mr Fletcher used to say. Any enemy can be overcome if you stay calm, stay focused, stay strong.
“That’s Graeme Bamfrees,” Alice says, secretly pointing to the taller one. “He’s a total dweeb.”
“Why’s he a dweeb?”
She puts a finger to her lips, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll tell you later.”
A hand slaps down on my shoulder and I jump, my heart leaping with me. It’s De Silva. He steps back and leans lightly on his foil, bending it under his weight. “Well met, brave knights. How are we today?”
“Ok Sir, thank you,” Alice says, beaming up at him.
“And Mrs Werdun?”
Her smile falters for a second before coming back stronger. “She’s alright.”
“Good. I’m glad you both enjoyed my hog and apple pie. It’s an old family recipe.” He turns to me. His eyes are such a pale green they’re almost colourless. “I hear you are Askwith Junior Fencing Champion, Mr Atkins.”
Was, I think. I was Askwith Junior Fencing Champion.
“If that’s the case,” he continues, “you have little to worry about except from Sir Werdun here.”
Alice shoots me a look. “You never said you were champ!”
I shrug.
De Silva tucks his foil under his arm. “Looks like we have a dark horse here.”
Alice nudges me gently with her elbow. The contact surprises me. Me and Josh were always slapping each other on the back, bumping into one another or trying to trip each other up. It’s a feeling from another life, a missing piece of the puzzle I didn’t even know was gone until now.
De Silva claps his hands, a thunder-crack explosion that pulls my thoughts back into the room. “Go get changed and get ready for line-up.”
Alice leads me towards a bench in the far corner and we sling our bags down.
I’m helping her do her collar up when Bamfrees takes off his helmet. He’s got sandy-coloured hair, and thick rimmed glasses that remind me of Josh’s.
“Don’t stare at him,” Alice whispers.
“Why?”
“Crapsticks, he’s coming over.” She busies herself with her kit bag.
He must be two years older, judging by his size, and has a massive zit on his cheek I can’t help staring at. His eyes drip poison. “Well, well,” he hisses. “If it isn’t A Weirdun.” He turns to me. “Are you weird too?” He laughs to himself. Alice rolls her eyes. “Do you get it freaks? Weird One and Weird Two.”
I want to tell him to get lost, to stick his foil where the sun doesn’t shine, but it’s probably best not to make an enemy before starting school, especially one that’s a head taller than me.
Alice makes a show of zipping up her kit bag.
“I wouldn’t hang with her,” Bamfrees says. “Weirdness is highly contagious.”
Alice turns on him so fast that I step back. “Oh, get stuffed Graeme.” Her voice is sharp as a razor.
“Up yours Werdun.” Bamfrees winks at me and walks off.
“He’s not a dweeb,” I say to Alice when he’s gone. “He’s a mega moron.”
She checks my collar, straightens it, steps back and studies me. “Come on champ. Line up and inspection.”
Together we head over to where the rest of the class have gathered, then stand like soldiers while De Silva walks the line dishing out comments:
“Do your breeches up properly, Maynard.”
“That glove has more holes in it than Swiss Cheese, Chiltern.”
“What did you come as Farrell? Runner up in a best dressed scarecrow competition?”
Despite his words I can see they all love him. Even Bamfrees. And Alice most of all. She seems to glow when he compliments her. “Well done Sir Werdun. As knightly as ever.”
And then it’s my turn. “Very good Mr Atkins. Ah! By Jove!! A new foil.”
Alice was right. This guy talks like my grandad. But he seems cool. A dude and a nutcase – a full on dudecase.
De Silva holds out his hand and I pass him my foil. He admires it for what seems like ages before handing it back. “A sword starts its life unblemished but gets its character from going forth into adventure. Have you named it yet?”
I have. But with Bamfrees staring at me I’m not going there.
“Named it?” I ask. “Like in stories you mean?”
He grins, showing crooked yellow teeth. “Just so. A sword needs a name, otherwise how can it know its place in the world?” He stares down at me, his fingers tapping on the handle of his foil before raising it into the air. “Meet Ërlosung.”
I stare up at it. The guard may be scratched, the foil slightly chipped but as the fluorescent light above blurs around it, softening its edges, it seems to glow. It must have so many stories to tell. “Ërlosung. What does it mean?”
“Salvation.”
“Redémarrer,” I say. “My foil. It means reboot in French. I looked it up on Google Translate.” I shoot a sidelong glance at Bamfrees expecting him to be sneering at me, at my stupidness. But like the others his gaze is fixed to De Silva, his eyes full of admiration. I breathe out. Looks like I got away with it.
De Silva nods. “Redémarrer. Yes. A new beginning if you like. Anyway, ‘tis a fine name for a fine sword. You have chosen well Mr Atkins.” He nods once more then steps away.
I grip my foil tightly. It’s brand new, the guard shiny. Not a scratch on it. A blank page. My heart inflates inside my chest as I wonder what stories it will tell one day.
De Silva leans lightly on his foil and lets his eyes travel across the line of us. “Today we’ll start with some basic techniques. For our newest members, a little recap. A ‘Lunge’ is how we attack. Like so.” De Silva drops his left arm and pushes off with his left foot propelling himself forwards. His foil arm extends outwards and his right foot stamps down on the wooden floor. He holds the pose for a moment, perfectly still except for his foil which vibrates slightly in the air. He waits another moment then stands. “A ‘Parry’ is to defend yourself against your opponent’s attack.” Keeping his sword level, he shifts his wrist first left then right, again and again as if blocking imaginary swords. “And a ‘Riposte’…” After the last parry he darts forward, lunging at his imaginary attacker. “A ‘Riposte’ is to attack back after you have parried.” He swishes his foil through the air. “Any questions?”
“No, sir!” the class shouts as one.
My whole-body thrums with anticipation.
De Silva nods. “Good. Get into pairs. One will attack, the other parry. Remember, defence is the foundation on which attack is built.”
A boy with light brown skin and dark hair wanders over. He’s balancing his mask in one hand, carrying his foil in the other. “Hey Alice, this your new neighbour?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Brad.”
“Ishaan. Alice’s fencing partner and founder member of The Odd Squad.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “The what?”
“It’s what Bamfrees calls us,” Alice says. “But we kind of like it which irritates the cack out of him so gotta be worth it just for that.”
“Come on then partner,” Ishaan says to Alice. “Show me what you got.”
Alice looks sidelong at me, her grin gone, replaced now by a small, tight smile.
I watch her and Ishaan head towards an empty mat and wonder who my partner will be. The rest of the class are pairing off quickly, slapping each other on the back and laughing. I’m going to be that person, the last one left to be picked – it was never like this before. My heart sinks. If only Josh was here.
“Mr Atkins!” De Silva calls from across the room. “With me please.”
My stomach back flips.
Looks like I’m going to fence with Sir Darren De Silva.