Jackson waved goodbye to his dad without even looking back. He walked toward the middle school early Monday morning.
The weekend went by quickly while his dad was around. Jackson was glad he got to enjoy it, and make up for going to sleep early on Thursday night.
He was sure his family would understand if they knew what was really happening, but he still felt bad about it. His dad would be back on the road sometime before noon, which was disappointing.
Jackson walked through the front doors and entered the main hallway. There weren't a lot of students because classes were just about to start.
Jackson didn't bother going to his locker and went straight for his first class of the day—Social Studies.
The hallways were slick and looked like they had been recently cleaned. His shoes squeaked every time he took a step. The classroom was at the end of the hall, and he only had a few seconds to get to class. He started running and reached the door just as the bell rang.
In the classroom, the teacher wasn't there yet, so the students were just chatting in their groups. Jackson saw Beck, Charlie, and Sebastian at the back of the classroom, being loud as usual. They were laughing loudly at something that happened.
Jackson noticed Ryan sitting in the row in front of them. The boy had his head down.
Beck pressed his mechanical pencil a few times and about an inch of lead was sticking out.He pointed the pencil at the back of Ryan's neck and pressed his thumb against the lead. The lead broke, flying right into the back of Ryan's head and down his shirt.
Ryan flinched.
Jackson started walking to the back of the class, where he usually sat. He gave Beck and his friends an unamused glance.
"Oh, looks like the nerd's boyfriend has come to protect him."
What did he just say?
Jackson snapped.
He grabbed the shoulder strap of his backpack and swung the backpack off his back as hard as he could. It slammed into Beck, causing the pale boy to fall backwards in his chair.
Beck hit the ground with a loud thud, and Jackson took the opportunity to keep him down. He trudged around the table and stomped on Beck's face, making him bleed from the nose.
Then Jackson knelt down on Beck's chest and started punching him in the face multiple times. It wasn't long before Charlie and Sebastian tackled Jackson.
He wrestled with them on the ground for a minute, getting a few good punches in while he could.
"HEY!" Came an adult's voice from the front of the class.
The fighting stopped.
"Get up. I'm taking you all to the principal's office," the teacher said.
All four of them got up. Beck was holding his nose, which was still dripping with blood. They followed the teacher out of the classroom and down the hall.
Jackson tried to keep his distance from the others and walked faster. He could already feel a bruise forming on the side of his eye. It pounded like a heartbeat.
He walked with his back straight, feigning that he felt no pain. He could hear his old friends talking to Beck and trying to help him walk.
When they arrived at the principal's office, Jackson sat on the far side of the waiting room. He saw the teacher knock on the principal's door and talk to her in a low voice.
The principal—Mrs. Beldein—began a series of interviews, starting with Beck. It was brief; he was sent to the nurse to see about his wound.
Next was Sebastian, and then Charlie. Each of them were interviewed for about five minutes.
Last of all, Jackson was called into the room.
"Take a seat, Cooley," the principal said. She was a dark-skinned woman with black hair that was almost white in some parts. "What are you doing here? Didn't we do this a month ago?"
"Hey, I've tried to stay away from them, but it's a little hard when they're in almost all of my classes. Can't you get me moved or something?"
"I'm not going to accommodate things because of your bad behavior. Why do you think you're even in a position to make that request?"
Jackson folded his arms and looked away. "They were picking on a kid," he said reluctantly. He might as well try the hero approach. Maybe he could avoid a suspension that way.
"They said they were joking around with Ryan. That he was in on it."
"Wow," Jackson said abruptly, turning to Mrs. Beldein. "They just lied to your face. Ryan was hating every second of it. Anyone could see that. They were flicking lead at the back of his head!"
"That's not what they told me. So that's three witnesses against one."
Jackson was indignant. "Ask anyone! They've been bullying Ryan all year!"
"If my memory serves," the principal said. "You were in that group, bullying Ryan. Don't try to deny it. It seems you were the mastermind. How do you know those other boys didn't mellow out now that you're no longer friends with them?"
"Oh, my gosh," Jackson said, shaking his head. "Fine, don't believe me. This place is a freaking prison."
The principal narrowed her eyes. "It's time to call your parents." She picked up the phone.
. . .
"Five days?" Jackson's mom repeated, appalled.
"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Cooley. That's the rule on subsequent suspensions," the principal said.
"And what happens next, Mrs. Beldein?" Jackson's dad asked. He had been preparing to leave for work when they got the call. He decided to come to this meeting instead.
"Well, if he gets one more suspension, he will have missed too many days. Then it's summer school."
Jackson's heart sank. He couldn't take that. He would run away from home if it came down to summer school.
"That makes sense," his dad said with a serious look on his face. "Jackson, what were you thinking?"
"I told you I was standing up for a kid!"
"I don't believe you. You've never been one to be the hero," his dad said.
The words stung. They struck Jackson to his core. Even his own dad was against him. Jackson put his head down, wanting to cry, but not wanting to show emotion. He held his breath.
Jackson wouldn't say anything for the rest of the meeting. Several times they tried to ask him something or lecture him, but he wouldn't lift his head.
It finally came time to leave, and he walked slowly, still with his head down. They walked to the car, and he got in the back seat. His parents still tried to talk to him—he didn't listen.
When they got home he still had his head down. He went to his room, and his dad followed him. In Jackson's room, his dad said more harsh words and then left, closing the door behind him. He was leaving for work now.
Good riddance.
Jackson lay on his bed until his siblings got home. Until the sun went down. Until dinnertime had come and gone. Until the streetlight came on. He closed his eyes to escape.
◄——————————————————►
Taft looked around his new quarters. He was awake earlier than usual, so he would wait for Sairia to finish cooking before leaving the room.
His emotions were still a mess. He tried to forget about what his dad said. After all, his dad wasn't there with him. None of his problems were there with him. Jackson could be an entirely new person as Taft.
Taft walked around the room, familiarizing himself with the new surroundings. He picked up a small wooden statue that was on a chest of drawers across from the bed.
It looked like a toy soldier. It had a helmet and chest armor and was holding a sword and shield. The joints on its shoulder twisted, so the arms could move.
Taft looked underneath it. There was something written. Prins, it read. Taft had never seen that word before. Maybe it was a name?
Just then, Sairia knocked and creaked open the door. "Time for breakfast," she said. "We have a long day ahead of us."
"More readings?" Taft asked. For the last three days in this new house, all they did was more of the same language study. He wondered when they were going to start something new.
"No… well… you're going to start some writing and listening practices on the side. But what I'm talking about is much more exciting. It's time for you to learn some sword techniques and a little bit of kovak."
"Really?" Taft said in amazement. He could feel his mood improving already.
"But only the basics," she said. "With your language study, we started out difficult. I think it's time we take a few steps back with your other training."
Taft nodded.
They both went to the kitchen, crossing the large room where the mansion's entrance was. They passed the object with crisscrossing strings, which Taft found out yesterday was a musical instrument, though Sairia didn't know how to play it.
The kitchen was large and not particularly fancy. The floor was made of stone blocks, and the fireplace in the corner looked like it had been used hundreds of times to cook on.
Taft sat at the table. He saw the same meal from yesterday on his plate. The same meal from three days ago, when it was their first day here.
There were small circular rolls, green in color. They were likely made of the same stuff as the rolls in The Heart, but these ones were dry and hard. There were several dry orange pellets. They were a little bigger than peas.
Then there was the jerky—dry, salty, and hard to chew. Taft joked yesterday that the meat must've been a training of its own—for his teeth. Sairia didn't laugh.
"The same thing?" Taft asked disappointedly.
"I'm not exactly a five star chef, kid," Sairia said. "Besides, there's only so much you can do with the food Sallion had in the stores here. They're all rations. The whole nation is eating like this, so don't complain."
She sat down next to her own plate. "Well, except in The Heart," she said under her breath.
Taft took a bite of the jerky and tore through. He chewed slowly—there was no making quick work of this food.
"You know, my first year in the army," Sairia said with her mouth half-full, "we were on a mission in the northern mountains. Some raiders were hiding out there, and we were tracking them down. We had to eat like this everyday. The mission lasted three months."
"You were in the army?" Taft asked, chewing.
"Yeah, The Rey Oben First Division. It was a long time ago. Of course, being the Alma Ni, they didn't send me on too many missions. That particular mission was supposed to be easy, but we ended up getting lost."
Taft raised his eyebrows. He wondered if he would be put in the army. He didn't really like the idea. Freedom of choice was far more appealing.
They each finished their meal. Sairia ate quicker than Taft—who was still getting used to seeing her eat at all. They both got up, and Taft followed Sairia out back.
The dirt patch was still there, as was the tall post in the center. Straight ahead, on one end of the dirt patch, he could see that there was also a stand set up.
The stand had two wooden swords placed into it. He realized they were going to practice swordplay now.
Taft felt his heart leap. "Are we really doing this? I thought you might've been joking."
"I've never been one to joke," Sairia said, walking ahead of him.
"Yeah, I can tell."
She looked back at that but said nothing. She reached out for one of the wooden swords and pulled it out. The way she handled it was careful, as if it were an actual blade. "Let's get started."
Taft grabbed a sword and pulled it out. It was heavier than it looked, and he had to use both hands to hold it up.
"These are designed to mimic the weight of a real weapon. That way, the practice is safe but effective," she said. She swung her sword in a diagonal motion, one-handed. It looked like it took no effort at all.
Taft tried to do the same, and his sword bounced against the ground. He had a long way to go.
"We'll go through motions several times, but first I should explain a few things," Sairia said. "Effective swordplay is about prediction and timing. Not everyone believes that.
"Some warriors choose to take a hit in order to get an opening. That only works with heavy armor, and it doesn't take long before the warrior loses. Other warriors choose to strike hard and fast, never giving an opportunity for the enemy to make a move. That only works as long as they are the fastest one around.
"The style I've been trained in is about patience and observation." Sairia swung her sword again in a downward arc, kicking up dust from the dirt patch.
"It can be tempting to get the first strike when an enemy doesn't expect it. But that is a coward's way and—most of all—foolish. Those people will never know how many lives could have been spared or how many fights avoided.
"This style of swordplay will prepare you to fight—and win. But more importantly, this style will teach you how not to fight." She swung again horizontally and ended with her sword arm stretched out to her side. "Are you ready?"
Taft nodded.
"Again. Swordplay is about observation. Observing your enemy, their arms, their feet, but most importantly, their core."
"Their core?"
"Their core, their balance. Where is their body weight? If you can discern that, then you can predict where their blows will come from and how powerful they will be. And if you can predict those two things, you can exploit an opening and be ready to counter."
Sairia twisted her body as if she was about to strike, but paused in the middle. "Right now my body weight is on my left foot. In order to swing my sword, I need to transfer that weight to my right foot in a fluid motion."
She swung slowly, showing how her legs changed positions in order to provide force to the swing.
Taft could see it. The weight shifted. If the weight didn't shift, she wouldn't be able to swing her sword very strong at all.
"Today, we will practice swing forms," she said.
"Alright, I'm ready," Taft said determinedly, raising his sword up again.
"You can put away your sword. I'm talking about practicing reading swing forms. You will observe me and tell me where my body weight is."
Taft lowered his sword, which seemed to reflect his own excitement. "Really?" He asked defeatedly.
. . .
"Back foot to front foot," Taft said, yawning.
"Yes, good," Sairia said.
Taft was sitting in the dirt with his elbow on his knee, supporting his chin with his hand. Sairia had done that particular move a dozen times. He may have gotten it wrong the first few times, but now it was just becoming trivial.
He wished she would mix it up a bit more. These must have been basic forms. He tried to study them so he could repeat them later. Surely he would get the chance to practice them himself eventually.
Sairia finally stopped, breathing heavily. She put the sword away and motioned for Taft to stand up. "What was that one?" She asked.
Taft wasn't paying attention that time. "Um… left foot shift?"
"Incorrect. It was a right shift spin. Not to worry though," she said before letting out a long breath. "Every mistake is a lesson learned."
Taft stood. "Are you going to let me try now?"
"No," she said, still breathing hard. "That's enough for today. I'm tired."
Taft was just about to object, but Sairia continued talking.
"Let's move on to kovak training," she said.
Taft whooped. "Alright! What should I do?"
Sairia shuffled her feet back to the house and sat down on a stone bench right outside the kitchen's entrance. She beckoned to Taft and motioned for him to sit on another bench perpendicular to her own.
Taft walked over and sat down. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, kid," she said. "But this is training we can do sitting down." She held out her hand for a few seconds. "Okay, grab my hand carefully."
Taft grabbed Sairia's outstretched hand and then pulled away. "Ow! That's hot!"
"I said carefully. We're doing Resistance training. Even a baby can learn this one, it just takes a little time."
She put her hand down. "Just as your natural reaction was to pull your hand away, soon it will be second nature to adapt to that heat using kovak."
"How?"
"Exposure," she said simply. "If we keep exposing you to hotter and hotter things, your body will naturally adapt." She held out her hand again. "Okay, once more. And don't worry; I turned down the temperature some. Try to keep holding on as long as you can."
Taft grabbed her hand carefully this time. It was warm—unnaturally warm—but it wasn't so hot he thought he would get burned.
"Now I'm going to increase the heat," she said. "Hold on as long as you can, but try not to burn yourself. This training doesn't actually require you to get burned, you know?"
Taft kept holding on, he could feel his skin tingling.
"There you go!" Sairia said enthusiastically, yet still in her serious tone. "Resistance can always be improved upon, but we'll work our way up to flames.
"Just remember that some fires burn hotter than others. If you haven't built up Resistance to an extreme temperature before, you can still get burned."
Taft nodded, then pulled his hand away when Sairia's hand got too hot.
"Okay, I think that's enough," Sairia said.
Taft shook his hand in the air and then sucked on his fingers. He probably held on longer than he should have that time. The tingling sensation was going down now, too. He wondered if that feeling was kovak, or just his skin frying.
"What now?" He asked.
"It's time you start learning to speak Ihmonic," she said, then switched languages. "Can you," was all Taft caught from the next sentence she said.
"Um, say that again but slower…," Taft said in English.
"Can. You. Understand. My. Words." Sairia said, speaking slowly.
Taft switched to Ihmonic. "Yes. I. Can. Understood. Yours."
"Understood. No. Understand." Sairia said, holding up a finger, then moving on. "Yours. No. You."
Taft nodded. He mixed up the words a little bit. Conjugations and possessives were still a sore point for him. He could tell they would be talking slowly for a while, before he could get up to speed.
"Sorry," he said in Ihmonic.
"Every. Mistake. Lesson. Learned."
Taft gave a wry smile of understanding.
"Let's practice some writing," Sairia said slowly in Ihmonic.
"Yes," Taft said.
A wind had started to blow, causing a chill on Taft's skin. They went inside to study.
Sairia went to her new room and had a stack of papers, which must have been left there by Sallion. She brought a quill and ink jar as well. The quill was black on the top half and gray on the bottom half. Taft took it like it was a pencil.
For the next few hours, Sairia would say a word, and Taft would try writing it. It wasn't too difficult because he could still remember how those words looked when he read them.
But there were moments that he forgot how a word was spelled and tried to sound it out in the Ihmonic alphabet. In those cases, he only got it right about twenty percent of the time.
He continued to practice diligently until the sun was starting to go down and it got too dark. Writing by the light of torches was too difficult for him.
Taft went back to his new quarters and got in the bed. That was one improvement from The Heart. The bed was extremely comfortable.
The bed he had before was just a slab of stone. The food may not be great, and the training might have even been boring, but at least Taft got to escape for another day.
Escape from his life as Jackson.
He was sad to return.