Chapter 12

CLARIFICATIONS

Max listened to the click of the iron wheels on the rails beneath him. The rhythms of the homeward train lent him something helpful. His thoughts collected, but then dispersed again as he tried to think them. The confrontation with Gilbert Lavisham had been as intense as it had been confusing. As far as the score went, he had lost the duel, but at the same time he was left feeling that he had won something greater. Certainly, he was relieved, surprised even, to have not been humiliated. But deeper than that was a sense that he had stood close to Lavisham's anger and come away relatively unharmed.

Relative, Max felt, to the dead boy in Dickie's story.

Although the events of his first fencing class were now two days past, their ill effect on him lingered. The train and the company of his friends within it provided a security that was important. Although there was never any guarantee that the three friends would get seats together, nor that their timetables would place them in The Canteen at similar times. And so it had been that they had seen little of each other since Max's run in with Gilbert.

Max turned his thoughts away from himself and fixed Wang with a hard stare.

“What do you know about this Jasmine?”

Wang moved his eyes very slowly from the view outside the window to look back at Max.

“Next to nothing,” he answered, somewhat stiffly. Then trying to sound disinterested, he added; “She arrived late last year with a shipment of miners from Australia. I think she has a job working for a relative in one of the Chinatown businesses.” Having finished his short report Wang went back to looking out of the window. Max let his eyes follow, he didn't mind, the view was of the Addingtown rail-yards and the Leith Engineering buildings.

“What is it?” asked Wiremu, watching Wang closely.

Wang knew he was cornered, yet he didn’t give.

“Nothing.”

“I don’t think that is entirely true,” said Wiremu clicking his tongue. “We talk about girls all the time… well Max does…”

“I do not!”

“…but you are coming across just a little too reluctant right now.” He gave Max a quick wink. “And I’m sorry to say; that only makes us all more interested”.

Wang continued staring out of the window.

“Oh I don't know,” he sighed turning back, his attempt at appearing relaxed having failed. “I understand why you two and every other boy on campus is fascinated by her. I mean a blind man can see she is beautiful!”

“But?”

Wang sighed again, clearly not wanting to go where he was being pushed.

“But there is something about her that I don't trust... there is a hardness to her... or...”

“Or?” probed Max.

“I don’t know... a hiddenness.”

“I wondered if that was just a Chinese thing,” reflected Max. Wang shrugged and returned to the window.

“How would I know.”

“No you don't” challenged Wiremu , taking up the scent. “It's not hard to see that you've got more to say.”

Wang glared at Max and Wiremu.

“Your tight lips are only making us yet more intrigued,” added Max leaning forward in his seat.

Wang sighed again.

“I don't know. Grandfather, he is a real watcher of people, he has only seen her once, but he is convinced that she has a martial art.”

“How so?” asked Max.

“There are telltale signs that are hard to hide, even once a discipline has been mastered."

Max found this news a little hard to believe. But he had to concede that he hadn't picked Wang for a fighter either. Still aspects of what Wang was saying did fit with his own brief observations. "Grandfather isn't sure which training she has taken. But he can see that she is trying to keep it hidden.”

“So not marriage material then,” teased Wiremu, apparently losing interest and deciding to make trouble.

“Not for me,” said Wang flatly, not taking the bait. “Anyway, it’s Max showing all the interest!”

“Indeed,” agreed Wiremu. “Another one for you aye Max?! But hey enough of your love life and a little more about your martial art. You didn't finish telling us about the sword fighting.”

“What!? Love life? What are you talking about?” sputtered Max, taken off guard by the sudden change of direction.

“Oh you know,” continued Wiremu with a cheeky grin. “Harriet Leigh, this goth Rowan and now oriental Jasmine!”

“Come on!” cried Max pretending offence. “I was only asking about the Chinese woman because she is in my Archaeology class. And Rowan and the goths only made an appearance because the bully was Sampson Rumbold. It was an architecture thing! I told you that.”

“Sure,” said Wiremu nonchalantly. “They came out a little late though didn't they? The Classic boys had already been beaten.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Anyway... your fencing class. So, Sampson Rumbold gave you a whipping around the legs with his sword...”

“Foil,” corrected Max.

“Right,” continued Wiremu. “Then Lavisham polished off all the parts Rumbold missed?”

“You enjoying yourself Wiremu?”

“At a level. Then what? Lavisham marched off in a huff”?

“Pretty much. Von Tempsky had the class make two lines and practice sparring for the last half hour, whites training blacks.”

“And Miss Leigh?” asked Wang, glad to be out of the spotlight.

“Harriet excused herself not long after Lavisham,” answered Max, recalling how she had left the fencing hall a few moments after her boyfriend. Then with some dismay at that particular memory he added; “Oh I do fail to understand what she sees in him!”

“Could just be business,” said Wang. Max blinked at him.

“Pardon.”

“I mean there would be a certain symmetry in him owning the railways and her the locomotives,” reflected Wang. There was a long silence.

“Isn't that just tidy!” hissed Max. “Do you Chinese go in for that whole arranged marriage thing?”

“Not really the point, is it?” said Wang, casually flicking some lint off his trousers. “According to you we aren't talking about love lives, yours or mine.”

“Fine.”

Max was not feeling pleased at where this had ended up. Now he would be forced to spend the night pondering the fact that a Lavisham Leigh union would indeed make very good business sense.

“Well go on then,” demanded Wiremu. “Your fencing class?”

Max recalled the end of his class and his hope rekindled.

“Right. So, when the class was finished and people were making for the door, von Tempsky called me over...”

“Mr Skilton. A verd,” said Captain von Tempsky, half leaning, half sitting on the edge of the front table. Max who had just slid his practice foil away in one of the barrel holders and was making his way to the door, retraced his steps to the Captain.

“Yes Sir?”

Von Tempsky waited until the stragglers had left the room before speaking.

“You handled yourself vell today Mr Skilton.”

“Thank you Sir.”

“Your... how shall ve say? Flair for vell placed language... certainly enriched ze entertainment value of you performance.”

“Sir?”

“And covered over a little of your rather rudimentary fencing style.”

“I see. Yes of course Sir.”

The Captain pulled on his grey chin beard for a moment, watching Max.

“Mr Skilton here are a couple of things I like about you. First, you didn't cry when Lavisham beat you.”

“No Sir, of course not Sir.”

“Actually, first you didn't cry when Rumbold beat you!”

“Sir? You saw that!?” Max was most surprised by this revelation. The Captain dropped his hand from his moustache and fixed Max with his cold slate eyes.

“Mr Skilton, zis is my classroom, do you not expect me to know of everything zat goes on within it? Especially when I myself am present?”

Max didn't answer. For, as it was, he had expected von Tempsky to be like most other teachers and know very little of what went on in their classrooms. Especially when their backs are turned.

“So you have endured two attacks.... maybe more importantly two injustices, without shedding a tear. This may surprise you, but it is more than most can manage.”

Max felt it best to remain silent and let this go where it would.

“Second, or maybe third, depending on how you are counting it, you did not protest just now when I judged your style as rudimentary. You could have been vell justified in going on about having never fenced before, being just a beginner, quack, quack, quack.” The Captain actually made a little duck-bill shape with his hand as he finished the sentence. It had been close; Max had been very near to making these very same points in his defence.

“Those things being true Sir, I expect my style is even less than rudimentary. To hear you describing it as kindly is almost as much a surprise as the fact that I actually landed a point on Mr Lavisham.”

“I remind you that you made more than one point.”

Max nodded his head solemnly. Von Tempsky watched him again for a moment, toying once more with his moustache.

“Mr Skilton, let us speak together.”

Again Max remained quiet. He thought they had been speaking together.

“Tell me vhy is it you vant to fight, or fence as I should say. And please not for something to do on a Vednesday, look inside, as they say, for your real answer.”

Max understood what the Captain was asking at once. The critical question was how much he should disclose. He saw the look in the Captain's eye and knew, as he had said, that he wasn't looking for some casual 'passing the time of day' answer. Max decided he would meet him in that and trust that the reason for the Captain's question would soon reveal itself.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“When I was a boy my Father took me to Lord Nelson's Hotel and Public House to see two travelling swordsmen fight. It was an exhibition, for entertainment. I believe the duellists were Frenchmen.”

Von Tempsky nodded, his eyes sparkling.

“Vas it good?”

“Oh yes. The taproom was cleared, and a stage set up in the middle of the crowd. We watched from the second-floor balcony. The pair fought with rapiers, then sabres, then big old heavy broadswords, and finally hooked Cossack sabres. During this last they sang and danced, bobbed and drunk, spun and fought! It was magnificent.”

“Go on,” encouraged the Captain.

“Even in the more traditional displays they included somersaults and cheeky back slaps. I can still hear the roar of amuse... appreciation from the crowd.”

The Captain nodded in understanding.

“But still not real fighting?”

“No,” agreed Max. “But fencing.”

The Captain laughed at that and unfolded his arms.

“Yes, you have me there. So it vas a good show, but vot? Why does vot you saw zer have you standing here now, all zese years later? Vot did you see that you vant?”

Again Max knew the answer. But worried about the sound of his own vanity in voicing it out loud. He decided to trust the Captain with that particular frailty also. After all something had propelled him to learn the art of the sword also.

“What did I see that I want?” repeated Max, as he thought it over. “These fencers had pluck. They entertained; they even drew a laugh. But they had martial prowess. They weren't clowns. Nor were they playboys or dandies, I have seen that. They gained respect... gained respect through the display of their art, not the blunt use of it, not like they were simple weapons, ships or cannons. I realise I'm going on a bit Sir.”

“Please continue,” shrugged the Captain, seeming not to mind in the least.

“I guess I can identify with that ancient, romantic image of the warrior hero. But it's something I think I have personally only really ever seen in those two French fencers... and the other day when Wiremu Marino used his taiaha during the first-year welcoming ceremony.”

“Indeed,” reflected von Tempsky, appearing momentarily lost in memory. “But a carpenter can gain respect through the display of his art. A draftsman or a steam engineer could do the same.”

“Not nearly as romantic,” shot back Max with a wry smile, confident that the Captain agreed with him. “Well maybe a steam engineer, a little.” An image of Harriet flashed into Max's mind, and he was sure he blushed red at his sudden parapraxis. But the Captain didn't seem to notice any unintended double meaning.

“Yes quite, boys and trains,” Von Tempsky agreed before continuing. “I can understand Max. I think about my own life... I thought to myself who do I vant to be? Or more who do I vant to be seen to be? And I formed an image of myself, and like you zay it vas a romantic image. Zen I bought this image into being; I taught myself to paint and to vrite poetry, to even play ze guitar. I travelled the vorld and fought in vors. Crossed deserts and jungles. I met and bested ze savage in his own habitat, many times. I speak four languages, have vitten a couple of books. And of course, I learnt ze art of ze sword. And also to understand the fashions of both men and vomen. I hunted for gold, farmed ze land, married ze woman I loved and fathered three children.” The Captain got that distant look again then before snapping out of it and concluding by saying; “But our time is well over, and you have better things to do than to stand here listening to an old soldier.”

Max imagined he was supposed to say that he didn't have anything better to do. He remained quiet. “So, I think in some vays you and I are a little ze same. You vant to think of yourself in heroic terms. Am I wrong?”

“No, I guess not. I certainly don't want to think of myself as normal,” Max confessed with a little passion, borrowed it would seem from the Captain's own spirited monologue.

“Ah! And zere it is. The terror of ze normal. Just remember one thing my young friend, if you can even conceive of it. Nearly everyone who vas in zis room today vill one day come to a place where zey vould gladly give a great deal for ze very things you already possess... And I see you don't even know vat I mean.” Max didn't. “You have your health, two parents who love you and express zis by making zeir time available to you. And you have an older brother who respects you as both a peer and a friend.”

“You know all this about me!?” Again, Max was more than a little surprised.

“Don't let your surprise at zat fact cause you to miss za point I'm making. For simply I vould be a fool not to know about zose whom I am to train in ze art of killing.”

Max didn't break eye contact with the Captain. Was it possible that he really knew this level of information about the lives of all his fencing students? He had missed the point.

“One final thing Mr Skilton, vhich is really the first zing repeated; know vhy you fight.”

Max nodded.

“Sir. Why does Gilbert Lavisham fight?”

“Ah! A question of equal import! Vhy does your enemy fight?! Very well, an answer then...” A little light had sprung up in the captain's eyes. Max imagined him bent over some campaign map, fully alive to the task of planning a strategy for ambushing an enemy or assaulting a fort. “Master Lavisham fights from anger... anger born from fear.”

Max doubted that very much.

“What does Gilbert Lavisham have to fear?” he asked at once, barely hiding the disbelief from his voice.

“Why, everything. Ze loss of everything. You see Master Lavisham has everything. But in his inner-most heart he knows he did nothing to earn it, it all just came to him, vas given to him by his father. Zus he doubts zat he actually has any right to it all. He suspects that by some natural law it vill all be taken from him. Zerefore he becomes mean and greedy and fearful. He doesn't know how it vas all gained, what skills and disciplines were actioned and what sacrifices were made to amass it. Zus he fears that he doesn't know how to keep it, or for zat matter what decisions could result in him losing it. I'm not just talking about money here. To Gilbert ze next person he meets could be ze very person who vill take it all avay. Of course, I could be completely wrong. It's just a theory I have about people like him.”

Max became keenly aware that the 5:15 must be due to depart very soon. But still he couldn't finish the conversation.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked, at a loss to the real purpose of their talk.

“Because you asked. And because my dinner von't be on ze table until six. I enjoy to talk and have ze time. Consider it all part of ze lesson, although clearly not part of ze class. It is certainly all part of ze fight.”

“Thank you Sir. I myself must be away. But first allow me one final question.”

“Ask avay.”

Max momentarily flirted with the idea of asking if the Captain wrote his own penny dreadfuls, but it was trivia, not the key he was looking for.

“Why does Miss Leith fight?”

I smile flitted across the Captain's face.

“The ultimate question.” The Captain tapped his chin with his fingers. “I have never seen her fence. Master Fletcher did however inform me of her when he retired. It would be my guess zat she fights for love.”

“Love!?”

“Indeed,” confirmed the Captain.

“How so?” asked Max, his heart suddenly racing faster than the 5:15 on the Valley Line.

“Miss Leith it seems is a rare young lady, a rare person. She is one of ze few of us who has found what zey vant to do in life and is doing it. She knows who she is and vot she vas made for, and vhere she fits in ze world. Yes I am simply speaking about ze Steam Engineering. Zus because she has maybe answered the big question of life purpose... she is free. Free to have her main thing as her main thing and add to her life what she vill. If she is vise she vill add to her life only ze things she loves. She has no need to add things to make her secure, or famous, or safe, or respected, or to give her purpose, she has all these things already, from her main thing, from being who she was born to be. Zerefore she fences because she loves it, she enjoys it and has no need for it to bring anything to her but that. She has no fear, no room for fear, because it doesn't matter to her if she fails. One could say she is ze direct opposite of Master Lavisham.”

The train was pulling into Aorere Pā Station as Max finished retelling his after-class talk with Captain von Tempsky. He had left a number of details out, such as love and the like, and the other two had asked a number of clarifying questions. Naturally to them most of it was entertainment and only the parts around Sampson Rumbold touched on them personally. As the train slid to a halt and Wiremu stood to leave he asked;

“So you didn't have any trouble from Kingi and friends?”

“No, none at all. Not that I had time to fit him in between the other two,” answered Max. Then with a wink he added “I'll make a note in my diary for next week!”

Wiremu gave a weak smile and Max noticed for the first time, and too late, that something was bothering his friend.

“I guess he had other things on his mind,” stated Wiremu picking up his bag. "See you two tomorrow night."

“Wiremu, what's wrong?” asked Max, aware that their time was up. Wiremu looked down at them both, there was a pain around his eyes, something that he had been fighting to keep at bay.

“The dissolution of Grandfather's lands, the people’s lands, has begun. The old Pā site on Wapping Point, on the end of Gibbstown, at the mouth of our river... was the first to go. It was passed over today. It is to be Kingi's new home.”