Tristan Hudcalon

Feet aligned with shoulders, then right foot ahead. A descending cut to the head from right, ascending cut to the body from left, then from right, rotate the sword around the head, then finish with a descending cut to the head from the left. Don’t forget the footwork.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

As I was engrossed in my daily drills, I began to notice consistent, albeit weak, hits on the dummy. It took me a while to realise they weren’t mine. I tilted my head to see who was on the opposite side of the dummy but found no one. I felt the four weak hits on the dummy again. Then I looked down.

“Oliver?”

Oliver lifted his tiny hand in answer, as if to say “Yes, father?”

“What’re you doing?”

He shifted his gaze to the dummy, then to the practice sword the village blacksmith Darius gifted, then to me again.

“I see that you’re practising, but why?”

He looked at me with such empty eyes, I started to feel stupid.

“You know what? That can’t be natural, you just began walking. I’m asking your mother.”

He just shrugged it off, almost saying “she can’t hear you.”

“What do you mean she can’t hear me? Sarah, honey? Honeeey!”

No answer came. Oliver just smirked as he crossed his hands. He was both annoying and very cute at the same time.

However unnatural it felt for a 6 month old to wield a sword, I couldn’t deny I was delighted to finally raise my own swordsman, so I began with a sigh.

“Alright, let me see your form.”

He clenched his fists in a victorious manner and began doing the drill I was doing.

“Your footwork needs work, and your cuts are too low. The first and last strikes should aim for the head. Watch how I position my feet—it’s crucial for power.”

I began instructing my boy. To my delight, he was picking up quickly but it wasn’t enough to fix the footwork errors in his feeble form.

“Okay, that is not working,” I mumbled quietly. Then I had an idea.

“Oliver,” I called out to my boy. “Let’s start with the basics, shall we?” I asked as I dropped my sword to the side. He followed suit.

“To fix your footwork errors, you first need to understand what a solid footwork does,” I paused momentarily before continuing. “Throw a punch.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow as he tried to assume a half-assed stance. He tried. His punch was even more disastrous, as he didn’t even keep his wrist straight.

“Well, you would’ve broken your wrist with that punch,” I muttered under breath. Oliver must’ve caught it however, as he frowned a bit.

“Hey, hey. As once said, there is no shame in not knowing; the shame lies in not finding out, especially if you’re just learning.” Oliver’s face quickly lit up as he was angry with himself, not with me.

“Well, first of all, keep your wrist straight. Do not squeeze your fist too hard, nor let it too loose. Align your feet to your shoulder, then bring your left foot a quarter of a step forward,” I began the lessons as I showed the correct stance. Clumsy at first, but Oliver eventually grasped it.

“Key is to rotate your hips, that’s where the power comes from, not just your arms; even if they were to grow to the size of cannonballs. Rotate your hips, then your whole upper body. That way, you’ll generate the necessary momentum to throw a powerful punch,” I continued as I landed a very slow, yet a solid punch to the dummy. “Try!”

As Oliver tried to grasp the concept and threw a few punches, I began to question something. Why didn’t it feel strange teaching a baby? Why would my mind just assume that he’d be able to understand the concept of momentum, or even why I felt like he already knew what momentum was?

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A thud broke the line of thoughts as my eyes refocused.

“Well done. Now pick up your sword and apply the footwork.”

Oliver picked up his sword, and it was like a swarm of knowledge flooded his brain. At least it was the impression he gave.

His feet easily moved with his swings, switching them with each move. He had fixed his errors rather well, generating more power with each slash.

“Impressive…” I let out. “We’ll continue doing this for half an hour, then we’ll move on to the next.”

Although there were no clocks in the village, I had spent enough time in the town to have a good understanding about time. I could estimate an hour rather accurately.

“Okay, that’s enough. Now we’re going to practise two head level cuts. So I assume this position we call ‘the wrath stance.’ Bring your sword up and near your head, like resting it on your shoulder,” I said after what I estimated was a thirty minute repetition. After I showed the stance, Oliver quickly adapted to it, and was ready.

“Just swing your sword horizontally across your and your opponents head level.”

Oliver looked at me, then to the dummy's head, then straightened up, dragging his hand across his head level towards the dummy. His head level barely reached the dummy’s hip.

“Oh you know what I meant, just assume the dummy is the same height as you.”

Oliver gave a soft chuckle as assumed the wrath stance again. From right to left, he swung his sword, similar to how I showed him.

“Drive your elbow along the cut way. , otherwise you won’t be putting enough strength behind the attack. And switch your feet just as the slash ends, just like this,” I said as I showed him the swing once more.

He repeated the cut around five times until he got it right.

“Great. Now just do the opposite, slash from left to right, same logic,” I demonstrated to cut.

He got the second swing relatively quicker and we continued practising for about half an hour as well.

“Good job,” I said as I made a mess of my boy’s strawberry blonde hair. I didn’t know the difference between blonde tones, but that was what my wife had referred to as his hair colour.

“Now to the last drill. Assume ‘the plow’ stance,” I said as I placed my left foot front, bringing my sword to my right around my hip level, pointing it straight front and upwards.

“This is a real solid thrust stance, but it requires a solid understanding of footword. Should be easy for you,” I winked as I began showing the third drill.

“A thrust towards the head, if I land it I normally repeat the thrust, because it’s actually harder to land a thrust. Anyway, you won’t do that, just continue like this. After the thrust, bring your sword to an upper guard, lifting your hand to the right side of your face, then do a descending cut from that guard.”

After struggling with doing a good enough thrust for a long time he got it, only to struggle more with the upper guard position. For some reason, he kept bringing his hand to the left side, and guarded from there. It wasn’t exactly a wrong guard, just wasn’t in the drill.

“Honey?”

“Wrong side again,” I said to Oliver, involuntarily ignoring the voice from my behind.

Oliver assumed the plow stance again, completely ignorant of the voices just like me. He rushed the thrust to try the guard again.

“Tristan? Oliver?”

“Oh do it properly,” I lightly scolded him.

He got to the stance once again, and thrusted properly this time. To my delight, he brought the sword to the correct side to guard as well. He slashed gracefully and sat to the low stance again.

“Nice one! Again.”

“Tristan Hudcalon!” a tap on my shoulder, and a slightly furious voice. Oh no…

I smiled wryly, turning to face my beloved wife. Scratching my hair, I apologised.

“Sorry, I was to consumed in-”

“In teaching him?” She cut me.

“Yeah, look at him go!” I said as I gestured towards Oliver, doing the same drill, oblivious to us, or maybe pretending like it; I didn’t know.

“He’s just six months old!” she exclaimed

“I know, right? I’m doing my drill as usual, then I feel light taps to the dummy other than me. Next I see Oliver with Darius’ sword in his hand, trying to mimic me.”

“So you’re saying he came over by himself, and you decided it was a good idea to teach him?”

“Ehm, yes and no. First I thought that it was unnatural,” she shook her head in disbelief. “Then I called you out, but you didn’t hear me. So I just went with the flow.”

“That was what, two hours ago? And he’s already this good?” she asked.

“Damn right,” I puffed my chest with pride.

Shaking her head with obvious displeasure, Sarah went to pick up Oliver.

“Ollie, aren’t you tired?” she asked with a baby voice.

My boy just shook his head. Yeah, he was straight like that.

“I know you are,” his mother said as she gave a kind kiss to his forehead. Oliver passed out right after. Oh…

My wife made an exasperated “See?” face as she moved him to our bed.

“Well, who cares?” I mumbled as I picked my sword up to continue my drills. My son was a fast learner, a night’s sleep wasn’t going to change that.