Breakfall (15 page)

He stopped, his ears picking up a sound he had not heard since Okinawa. “Is that… is that a
shishi-odoshi
?” The traditional deer-scare water fountain made of bamboo was out of sight, yet the sound of water and the clacking of bamboo against stone was unmistakably hypnotic.

“Yeah. George built that—you’ve met him at the Warehouse. This used to be a farm, and Kenny-sensei’s landscaping the whole property into a Japanese garden. Come spring we always do blossom viewings here. You’ll see.”

“How does he find the time?”

“Hauling stones is one of many ways to keep in shape.”

The wooden stove in the carriage house emanated just enough heat, with wood stacked in a basket nearby. The long wall was covered with weapons racks, and the far wall contained a nook with a
shinza
. As they entered, Asbjorn followed Nell’s example and bowed. Nell lit a stick of incense, knelt, and opened the little shrine. Asbjorn had seen many shinza in Japan: a small altar where the spirit resided, often with a little wooden house much like the one here, always with various offerings of seasonal flowers and fruit.

“Let’s sit quietly while we wait,” Nell said, her feet finding her customary spot on the
tatami
mats. Her grace spoke of endless hours of training as she lowered herself into a seiza, removed her sword from her obi with all due ceremony, and placed it in just the right spot on her left side with practiced care. Asbjorn watched her eyes close as her breath steadied into an even rhythm.

Meditation was the furthest thing from Asbjorn’s mind. His eyes slid from one thing to the next, inspecting the contents of the room with unveiled curiosity. The garage doors had the appearance of shoji screens, their small windows allowing just enough light to enter. The weapons racks fascinated Asbjorn. There was the usual assortment of wooden swords and staves of various lengths, but also a three-sectional staff, nunchaku, the sickle-like
kama
, three
yari
spears, and a very real-looking polearm whose prongs were meant to break fine samurai steel. Two boat oars shared the wall with a sickle weapon with a chain and a steel ball attached—and a
nantubo
spear. It was the one and only genuine Okinawan fishing spear Asbjorn had ever seen outside of Okinawa, and his heart leaped in excitement.

The door opened, and Asbjorn stood just as Nell did, both of them bowing to Ken Swift, who filled the whole doorway. He was dressed in black and gray. His kosode was embroidered with his
dojo mon
in five places. There was a sword in his belt and another one in his left hand.

After returning their bow, he crossed the space silently, knelt, and bowed to the shinza. Then he turned and bowed to them again, and Asbjorn suddenly had a sense of being transported to a different time and place. The smell of leaf mold and smoke from the outside mingled with the sandalwood incense, and the room felt a bit on the cool side despite the fire in the stove. Shadows seemed to dance on the walls like warriors of elder days, comingling his Viking heritage with his chosen Japanese path. He inhaled, taking it all in.

Nell introduced them. There was very little need for words. The two men measured one another with a long, mutual gaze, and their body language immediately seemed to reflect a sort of mutual agreement.

Ken-sensei’s eyes were halfway shut, his weathered face softened by the indirect lighting as he moved to sit across from Asbjorn, still on his knees. He lifted the sword, holding it horizontally at his eye level, the gnarled fingers of his left hand lightly supporting the gleaming, lacquered
saya
that protected the razor-sharp blade while his right hand folded around the sword handle. Asbjorn noted the belly of the sword pointing up and toward Ken-sensei, who bowed his head to it.

He then met Asbjorn’s eyes. “I pass on to you the sword of my student, James Tiger Thorpe. May it cut only your enemies. May you carry it well and without injury for many decades to come.”

This was the big moment Nell prepared him for. Her instructions were clear and precise.

He reached out and grasped the sword in just the right place, and as Ken-sensei let go of the blade, Asbjorn greeted it by bowing his head and raising the sword again. He then inspected the sword in the prescribed and customary manner: he admired the brand-new silk cord wrapped around the sharkskin of the handle, he murmured in appreciation over the antique brass fixings, or “sword furniture.” He gently wiggled the sword out of its saya and drew it almost all the way out, careful to aim the
ha
, the sharp edge, away from Ken-sensei and toward himself. When he angled his body away from Ken-sensei, he slipped the sinuous steel all the way out of its thin wooden sheath and inspected its even curve and its sweet spot at the end. The watermark line gleamed blue-gray in the natural light, and the numerous, almost microscopic folds of the antique, exquisite material undulated in a wavelike pattern.

“It’s beautiful. Nell told me you did some work on it, Sensei?”

“Ahh… well. Tiger did put some miles on the blade, doing cuts with it. I gave it a new polish. See the nick over here? That was there when Tiger got the sword. It’s reasonably old—I figure 1640s, from the sword signature. The furniture’s newer, but it’s still good, and I thought you would have wanted Tiger’s anyway.” He glanced at Asbjorn.

“Yes,” he said, not wanting to interrupt the narrative.

“I didn’t replace any of that,” Ken-sensei continued. “The wood and the sharkskin were worn, so I replaced ’em, and since I was doin’ that already, I figured I might as well use new silk cord for wrapping the handle….” Ken glanced at Asbjorn sideways.

“You used blue cord to match my eyes, whereas Tiger had either green or brown.”

A satisfied grin split Ken’s face. “Yeah. Nell’s got the green, so Tiger had the brown. It would never go with your coloring, and one of my students would pester me to redo it for you anyway.”

Asbjorn sheathed his sword and bowed to it, then set it to his left side just like Nell. Then he bowed to Ken-sensei. “I would be honored if you would teach me.”

A
SBJORN
WAS
floating on cloud nine despite his aching shoulders. Nobody did hundreds of cuts with a wooden sword and escaped soreness the first few times around. His shinken—the “spirit blade” that had been carried by so many warriors in its lifetime, imbued with their energies—would see use only after Ken was sure Asbjorn was ready for it. Asbjorn’s customary rakish grin softened into a goofy, happy smile that would not leave his face. His sword was sheathed in its beautifully lacquered saya, protected by a green felt bag which, in turn, was nestled in an old, plastic rifle case together with Tiger’s well-used wooden practice swords: the long
bokken
and the short
wakizashi
, and a sword-care kit. He placed the sword case on a low table by Ken Swift’s living room wall with due reverence.

A piece of Tiger would be with him forever now, and as the realization dawned upon him, Asbjorn looked at Nell with wide, glistening eyes and bowed.

She closed the distance between them in three swift steps and embraced him. “I know, Bjorn. I know. I wish you to have this blade. I have my own—and I have Stella.”

“All right, then. Stop being so sappy, you two.” Ken Swift, who was a lot less formal outside the dojo, threw a wild grin Asbjorn’s way. “I’ll expect you to make class once a week for the first year. Your schedule is busy, but there’s no point studying if you come once a month and keep having to learn the same thing over and over again. And I expect you to do your cuts several times a week. Daily would be best. Even just a few minutes, if you can’t spare more.”

Asbjorn nodded.

“How about something to drink, then. Tequila? One of my students gave me a special bottle. Here, you’ve got to try this.”

Ken got three small glasses and poured a bit in each. They touched them together and settled on the stuffed living room sofas.

The liquor was unique and interesting: thick, complex, and intricate—and so very smooth.

“It reminds me of a good cognac,” Asbjorn said, surprised. “It’s excellent.”

“Ahhh. My students take good care of me. And I take good care of them.”

Asbjorn smiled. It was such a perfect day. Nothing—absolutely nothing—could get in the way of his newfound good cheer.

A
PRETEEN
girl scampered down the curving staircase. Her rainbow-streaked hair bobbed up and down. “Hi, Nell!”

“Heather!” Nell smiled at her. “Did you grow again? What do they feed you?”

“Oh, candy and pizza, mostly.” Heather turned to Ken. “Dad, you told me to tell you when our guest wakes up. So I’m telling you.”

Ken pulled the girl in. “So how is our patient doing?”

“Like all the others, I guess. They all seem to want to sleep with the light on.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah. A bunch. But they’ll go away. Right, Dad?”

“Sure enough. Is our guest hungry?”

“I dunno… just showering, for now.” Heather’s eyes flitted to Asbjorn. “Are you the new student?”

“Yeah. I’m Asbjorn.”

Heather walked over to him and leaned in with a slight whisper. “If you bring me candy, I won’t staple the bottoms of your jeans shut while you’re in class.”

Introductions over, Heather ran off.

“Do you have one of your wounded birds using the sanctuary, Ken?” Nell’s voice was casual.

“Yeah…. An unusual case, that. A student from your school, actually.”

“Let me guess… another rape victim?”

Ken shrugged noncommittally. “Margaret gave me a call last night. The kid had nowhere to go. No family, no friends in town, and the dean’s office lady was being something of an ass about the whole thing.”

“Who is it?” Asbjorn asked.

“Can’t tell you that. Victims’ names are kept confidential.”

“I am
not
a victim.”

T
HEY
ALL
turned toward the pissed-off voice of Sean Gallaway. He rested his forearms against the dark wooden banister, and his eyes were on Ken.

“The victim here’s gonna be the asshole who kicked my door in last night.”

He walked down, not seeing the guests who sat deep in the soft cushion of the other sofa until his blazing eyes met the startled gaze of Asbjorn’s. He stopped in his tracks.

Nell was the first to find her voice. “Sean!” She looked at his bruised face and neck, aghast, and as though drawn by an invisible force, she neared him, step by step, and halted within arm’s reach. “Sean.” Pained, she extended her arms, and obediently, Sean allowed her to embrace him. “If there is anything, and I mean
anything
I can do, please let me know.”

“So much for maintaining your privacy, kid.” Ken’s voice was resigned. “Margaret’s gonna kill me.”

Sean extricated himself from Nell’s touch and met Asbjorn’s eyes. He noted the stone set of the other man’s jaw. His posture was erect even while seated, and his eyes suddenly acquired the hard gleam of the cold, arctic ice.

I guess I’m the last person he wants to see.

Suddenly overcome by a wave of shame at his weakness, his incompetence to defend himself, and his utter uselessness, he felt heat rise up his neck and into his cheeks. He’d been… used. Abused. All those years of martial arts training, and all for nothing.

Totally worthless.

Incompetent.

Ineffective.

Weak.

Asbjorn was his student in aikido as much as he was Asbjorn’s in fighting dirty, and now… now Asbjorn knew what a lame excuse of a man he truly was.

With eyes downcast, before he embarrassed himself further, he turned and walked up the stairs, trying very much not to hurry.

A
SBJORN
SAW
a world of hurt in Sean’s expressive brown eyes, and he knew. His jaw tightened, the muscle flexing in a spasmodic twitch.

It was his fault.

Had he not told Sean off, Sean would have most likely stayed at his place. He told Sean off to protect his own precious pride. As a result, Sean lost his.

“
Fuuuck
!” Asbjorn’s scream held the agony of the past year. Sean’s flushed, battered face and hurt eyes were the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Bjorn.” Nell watched his fists pump open and closed as his eyes filled with unshed tears.

“’t’s my fault. He took care of me when I was hurt. He did everything—he dragged me in for X-rays and cooked and made sure I got my assignments and made sure I slept okay. This is my fucking fault.”

Asbjorn’s eyes slid to Ken, who was observing him with renewed interest. There must have been stories floating about, both from Nell and Tiger, about him and his famous Lund temper. He tried to tamp the searing heat down and regain what was left of his now tenuous control.

“How so?” Ken Swift asked.

“’Cause he was staying at my place. He practically lived there, and I couldn’t stand being taken care of, and I snapped at him. I told him to leave me the fuck alone, so he did.” Asbjorn took a deep breath. “I even texted him today, hoping to make things good again, but he never replied.”

“His phone’s with the police.”

“Oh.” Asbjorn looked at Ken and Nell. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go and see how he’s doing. This is all my fucking fault. Me an’ my big mouth.”

T
HE
LITTLE
lamp was still on even though it was late afternoon. Sean curled in a ball on top of the bed he’d made just minutes ago, his arms wrapped around a yellow polka-dotted pillow. He buried his face in it, the red heat of his skin cooling against the smooth cotton.

Asbjorn had seen him and his bruised, swollen, battered face. He must have known. He must have heard of what went down, and Sean didn’t know how he would ever meet Asbjorn’s eyes without burning shame. Sean was known as Sean-sensei to his aikido students. He was teaching them techniques purported to aid their self-defense skills, yet he himself was unable to protect himself in a simple home invasion.