The House of Grey- Volume 3 (14 page)

The feeling of nostalgia in place, he gripped the
bokken
in a double-fisted hold and took a couple of practice swings.

He thought of Artorius’ instruction.

“Footwork Grey! Watch your footwork!”

Monson glided with ease as he parried a blow from an invisible, imaginary attacker. The faceless swordsman countered with a downward two-handed cleave. Monson dodged and re-posed, sweeping his blade at the neck of his attacker. Unfortunately, he had fallen a bit too heavily into his fantasy world and was again unaware of his surroundings.  But a sudden impact and a loud
crack
penetrated that fantasy and sent his sword from his hand. Slightly distraught, he examined the left post at the foot of his four-poster bed and found a large indentation.

He glared at the mar in the wood. Yeah…he had just lost to a bedpost.

“Well played, you win this round.”

He laughed at his own joke and found that his heart was feeling much lighter and his mind a great deal clearer. He made the choice in an instant; it was time to go and practice some fencing.

***

Fifteen minutes later, Monson was in the shadow of The Barracks, its massive backyard. He rarely came to this place since it served as a gathering spot for students. He tended to avoid the crowds, but no problem with that today.  The murkiness of the impending evening and the ordered lockdown issued by Mr. Gatt seemed to have kept students indoors, most without complaint. He put down his stuff at one of the covered picnic tables near the edge of The Barracks, wanting to keep his stuff dry, as it looked like it was probably going to rain. He opened his backpack and pulled out a notebook. Flipping through it, he found what he was searching for. Notes, and lots of them, sat on the pages of the notebook. These writings detailed concepts and distinctions from both Casey and Artorius’ vast knowledge of different fighting styles and forms, mostly fencing techniques from Artorius and hand-to-hand stuff from Casey.  Monson tried to take it all in.

In the short time he had studied, Monson found he much preferred fencing to the hand-to-to hand stuff. Fencing was lots of fun and something he was gaining proficiency at, although slowly.

Monson turned a page in his notebook. The move he was currently working on was one that he had merely watched Artorius do. The Four Points was an attacking maneuver that struck four of the nine strike zones on the body, almost simultaneously. These points, located on the head, shoulders, arms, chest, stomach and legs, gave the attacker primary target points to hit, almost all of which were totally incapacitating.  Monson’s version of the maneuver aimed for the shoulders, chest and head, those being, in his opinion, the most obvious strike points to use. His movement consisted of two standard slashing moves followed up with two thrusts. It was pretty good in his opinion, but he still could not seem to make his strikes fast enough, no matter how hard he tried.

Reading through his notes made him laugh as he thought about how flustered he had been during the first weeks of explanation and drilling, not so long ago. There was so much to know and so many things to learn. It was all bit overwhelming.  Taking pity on him, Artorius had explained that no matter what the technique or style, he would be able to break it down if he understood one very important thing.  There were only nine real strike zones on the body. That’s it. Only nine. If one understood this, one could also understand that regardless of the move, whether it be thrust, cleave or slash, the opponent would attack one of those areas. To break down an attack and therefore counter it was to understand what area was being attacked and with what move. Monson reveled in that information, which made breaking down moves surprisingly easy.  He could do this, he could learn, and he was starting to, slowly but surely.

He set the notebook down and walked a ways off from the picnic table. He pulled out his phone, plugged in his earbuds, and scrolled through song titles, most of which he did not recognize. Casey had loaded a lot of his music on his phone since Monson did not own any or really have much of a preference. He settled on an instrumental piece called “Equilibrium” and started into some stretching.

The prancing patter of hair-prickling piano drew him in as he moved to some very basic movements. As the tempo quickened, so did his swaying motions. He allowed his wandering mind to follow and felt his heart lighten ever so slightly. It was time to ponder and reflect, and out here alone, surrounded by the fresh air and piney woods, he finally felt able to do so.

The smooth, rich sounds of a violin joined the piano in harmony as he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The fusion
of the piano and violin molded its beauty into his weary and defeated core, intensifying the already growing peaceful feeling. He pushed his concentration further into the complicated construct of chords and scales, falling into the rhythm of the piece as the notes climbed and fell in symphonic unity. As he delved deeper into the music, he saw that there was almost a story in and of itself streaming through the lines of interwoven melodies. It was as if the piano and violin were struggling for supremacy, albeit subtly, yet seemed to always remain perfectly within the borders of propriety. They fought back and forth, each line of music careening as their pace and emphasis broadened. Each instrument became bolder and fiercer, taking its sounds to loftier heights all while striving to overcome its counterpart.  One, then the other, louder and strong
-

Monson stopped dead in his tracks, letting the unfinished form of the
Ja-no
’s Center Step stutter and fall. That was it. He was like the music. Two pieces of his inner self were fighting for dominance. Neither could truly gain absolute dominance, as to do so would have some horrible and unfortunate
effect. Like him, if the piano were
-
another change in the flow of the music catalyzed a detour in his thought process. A new instrument stormed the melodic battlefield, interjecting itself into the introspective sonata. It felt like an invader, someone or something that was not supposed to be there.

Monson cleared his mind. Where were these thoughts coming from? Could there really be an instrument in a musical piece that was not supposed to be there? He closed his eyes, sinking his mind into the music again. What could the music tell him? What was he going to do?

At once, he opened his eyes, saving himself the trouble of answering his own question.

Monson stared into the face of his unscarred countenance.

Strangely enough, he was not surprised in the least to see the figure standing before him. It was as if he had always known that this is where he would end up: alone facing himself. Facing himself? He sounded like some stupid self-help book. He steadied his trembling hand as he asked the question that was burning a hole within his gut.

“Did you attack the Diamond?”

Monson’s doppelganger stared right through him, giving no response or indication that he or it or whatever the heck it was had even heard him.

Monson peered inquisitively. “Why aren’t you answering me? You were all ready and itching to talk to me before.”

The figure opposite him again said nothing and stood perfectly still, but did close his eyes. He gave off an almost passive aura. Monson scanned his face of his replica,
until a dramatic shift in the air around it forced Monson to shrink back. The pulse of an overwhelming blood lust strengthened inside of him, steadily thickening like the drum of an overeager heartbeat. He blinked as all the mundane sounds around him faded, leaving only the throb
of a deadly song. When he opened his eyes, his lifelike twin still stood inches from him and stared at him, but with eyes that were unlike his own.

Bright glowing silver replaced the dull blue-gray that, just moments before, had occupied the space. Monson and his other self stared at one another, transfixed. No words passed between them but Monson could feel the carnage and destruction radiating from the other figure. Monson suddenly realized that he was staring into the face of evil…his evil.

Acting like a trigger, the moment he thought this, the replica started to melt away, dissipating right before Monson’s eyes.

“No!” Monson shrieked. “Not yet! Answer me! Who are you!?” At any other time Monson would have been embarrassed by the cracking and fear in his voice, but not today, not now. He needed to have those questions answered and he didn’t care how.

The ethereal form smiled as it melted into thin air, but surprised Monson when he opened his mouth to speak.

The cold voice came not from those parted lips, however, but from the airy nothingness surrounding them.  “I am the least of your problems, little one.” Malicious laughter echoed and mixed with a parting admonition. “Grey, you really should be more aware of your surroundings….”

“More aware of my wha
-
?”

The answer to that question came in a vision of a figure seen through the fading traces of his imitation’s indistinct form.  Monson’s blood ran cold as he stared at the mirage-like figure just beyond the fading vapor. Monson collapsed to one knee as the familiar feelings of fear, surprise and confusion slammed into his mind and the horror of his dreams once more became reality. His eyes locked on a man clothed in a billowing black cloak.

Pulsating anger set his soul and mounting blood lust aflame. A superimposed vision of a cloaked man spilling the lifeblood of a young girl burst to the forefront of his confusion and alien thoughts. It in turn faded into the cruel, cold visage of another standing over a battered, defeated individual, attacked in his weakest of moments.  His thoughts sparked something inside him, which fused with the now-familiar yet ever-foreign inner darkness. The evil emotion solidified into crystal clear motivation. His sandy foundation of surprise shored itself into granite-like confidence, as Monson came to a clear, all-encompassing realization.

He was no longer afraid.

He found himself on his feet, gripping his
bokken
as if he were a gladiator in a Roman arena. His mind became lucid and focused as the foreign and dangerous emotion that he had been so scared of in the past surged and took him over completely.  He pointed the mock blade at the man in the black cloak.

“I don’t know if you really exist or are only in my mind.”

The figure did not answer.

“But I do know this; I am tired of being afraid. So come to me, man in black
-
whether you be demonic apparition or part of my sinister psyche, come. Let’s see if you’re real or make-believe.” 

Monson assumed an
en garde
stance and felt his own rage stream from his hand and course down the blade. He hardly noticed the splinter of cracking wood.

A cruel smile gleamed from the shadows of the hood and seemed detached from the almost completely concealed face. Unexpectedly, a voice spoke from beyond the shrouded face.  “It seems the Son of the Great Betrayer has some fight left in him.”

Son? What do you mean, son?
Monson’s mind whirled.
However, his all-engulfing anger would not allow for a sidebar discourse. He charged.

Monson shot forward like a deranged cheetah, directing
everything in his being on that one moment of contact. He closed the distance, noting the subtle boom of thunder somewhere in the distance. From what seemed like a hundred feet away, a thought came sharply into his head, thrusting aggressively through the haze of boiling rage.

The grinning man isn’t moving
, he thought.

Monson was fifty feet away now, but still nothing; no reaction from the cloaked man.

Twenty-five feet; no movement.

Twenty-feet…fifteen-feet…ten…five…Monson’s blade slashed across the chest of the cloaked man’s chest as the man gaped in surprise. The wood seemed to take on a blade-like edge and sailed through the dark cloth like the sharpest of swords. He followed through, splitting the man from shoulder to hip before hunching down and to one side, holding the pose.

He could hear nothing. The only sound was the rise and fall of his own breathing. He could feel nothing aside from the drive of his unnatural blood lust. He did his best to control the swelling impulse as realization settled in. 

  He did not know what he had expected
-
agonizing screams, the splutter of life fluids, or the dissipation of his own foregone delusion, perhaps.  But the crumbling of stacked stones to the earth and the tearing of the black lifeless cloth where the man had once stood were the last things he could have foreseen.

He did not let his guard down, could not let his guard down. Something was lingering among the lush breath of vegetation and thick, humid air.  He could feel it…he could feel…someone. The traces of another’s presence saturated his surroundings. He heard faint, diabolical laughter that seemed to ping off every air movement, taunting him like a mythical spirit or ghost.

Inexorably, that feeling, that sound drew him away from black torn cloth and the pile of stones, appealing to him at the most basic level.  Monson sprang back into action, racing towards The Barracks and rounding the corner of its western edge. A blast of wind forced him to close his eyes as he cleared the angle of the building.  The tail ends of the strange laughter fell prey to the strengthening gusts of air, then, all at once, all natural sounds cut out as if the power cord to nature’s sound system had shorted out.  Then there was silence; annoyingly natural, unadulterated silence.