The Sword

Back in the early '80s we were newly-married.  And very, very broke.  For Christmas, we went with home-made gifts for friends and family.  This story was a gift to my two sisters who were politely on my case to write something. So what was their gift almost 40 years ago is now being shared here with you.  And the sisters are cool with that.  I think.

The General stared out the window, studying the thoughts in his mind.

Six months ago he had been given command of Supreme Headquarters.  There were others with better credentials, more education. He was selected for a different reason.

     The King’s Directive, relayed directly to the Council, demanded that the Army make soldiers fit for battle, not administrative bureaucrats with counseling capabilities. The Directive was to train and equip soldiers with what they would need to fight - and win.  

     The King wanted His leaders to know how to consistently defeat the Enemy and could teach others to do the same. And He chose the General.

     The General knew of only one way to accomplish this Directive - surrender to the King and His Spirit.  It is only through the King.  Many of the officers at Supreme Headquarters had forgotten.  The General had not.

     Dark, intense eyes closed briefly as his body and spirit knelt once again before the King.  With a sigh, the General rose and moved to the massive desk and its myriad responsibilities.


***


     The only sound in the outer office was the gilded pen’s rapid dance across parchment.  The hand holding the pen abruptly stopped as the thick, dark wood of the anteroom door swung open.

     The brightness of mid-morning sun exploded past the door’s swing to splash across the desk and blind the writer. The Major saw a silhouette in the door’s entrance.  Not knowing the rank of the figure, a quick decision led the Major to stand.  He assumed a practiced stance that would allow an easy move into the Attention/Salute Response if the figure was of greater rank.

     The figure advanced and becomes a soldier like himself, wearing the crimson armor of a Guardian.  The red helmet rested upon an average-sized man of normal proportions.  His gait was relaxed, his stride efficient, as if accustomed to much walking in body armor.  The shield strapped to his arm moved in easy rhythm with the booted feet.  The sword arm was held casually at the precise angle to draw the weapon if needed.  He was the same rank as the Major.

     “Good day, sir.  May the King’s Joy be your Strength.” the Major intoned with practiced inflection and professional warmth.

     “And His Peace your strong Fortress, sir,” the visitor answered.

     The Major was briefly surprised by the tone of the ritual response.  The Major could see something in the man’s eyes.  The Major couldn’t put his finger on it - and for some reason it bothered him.

     “Major Foundson, King’s Guardian at FarPoint, sir,” said the saluting officer in an almost neighborly way.

     Not quite the way to make a memorable first impression, thought the Major, who replied,

     “And I am Major Courtman, Attache to General Goodall, Commander of Supreme Headquarters.”

     The Major smiled while using his towering height and practiced baritone delivery for maximum effect.

     It bothered the Major that his visitor gave not the slightest hint of being intimidated, but answered casually,

     “Nice to meet you, Major Courtman.  I have orders to see General Goodall this morning.”

     Glancing at the desk corner, Courtman saw the appointment.  Nodding towards Foundson, he began moving across the gleaming stone floor back towards the General’s office.

     “Please wait here, Major.  I’ll inform the Gener . . .”

     “Major Foundson of FarPoint!  Welcome to Headquarters!” chuckled a booming voice from behind them, “How was your trip, Robert?”

     As the General and Foundson moved toward each other, Courtman found himself inspecting the newcomer.  The scarlet-enameled helmet and body armor were highly polished and well-cared for, but had dents and creases on both.  The thick leather handle of the sword didn’t have the slick, glossy shine like most of those found at Headquarters.  It had the dull patina that came from sweat and use.  The red and gold shield was buffed and polished yet its surface was pockmarked by creases and punctures, its edges serrated with small dents and cuts.

     Who is this Major Foundson?, Courtman mused as he followed the two men to the General’s office.  How could someone from FarPoint be this well connected at Headquarters?  No one in the right circles or “on the climb” would stay long at a place like FarPoint.  It's too far away from Headquarters and doesn’t enhance one’s service record.

     Eavesdropping on the conversation, Courtman realized that Foundson had been commanding the FarPoint Garrison for all his career.  The stranger was almost twice his age and still only a Major. A Major at FarPoint!  A classic case of career wheel-spinning, he thought, a sad career indeed.

     Courtman started to pull the office door shut and resume his desk-bound vigil when the General called over his shoulder,

     “Why don’t you join us, Jon.  Leave it open.”

     The General motioned to a corner of the spacious office where an exquisite grouping of chairs surrounded an ornate table.  Huge windows made up the back wall, brightly framing the citadel known as Supreme Headquarters.  Buildings, walkways, streets, and people made a colorful mosaic of organization and purpose.

     The three soldiers sat down.  Foundson chose the chair without arms.  Courtman noticed he did not remove his sword and sheath. Resting the shield against his leg and the chair, he placed his helmet on the table within easy reach.

     Interesting, thought Courtman. Most of the General’s visitors use the table to hold their weaponry – that is if they wear any at all.  What an uniquely uncomfortable way to converse.

     Courtman glanced sideways to see the General's response.  The approval in those dark eyes surprised Courtman, who kept his face at a practiced angle of professional empathy.

     “So tell me, Robert – how goes the Garrison at FarPoint?” 

     “The King’s Work is being done by the King’s Strength.” replied Foundson.  Courtman sat stunned by the response.  Intensive empathy training told him that Foundson had relayed trust, weariness, submission, frustration, and confidence all in his short response.  

     The General leaned forward and began to ask questions which the FarPoint Major answered plainly and honestly.  Foundson told of victories and defeats, battles won and lost, wounds sustained, traitors and comrades.

     Not a sharp career move there, thought Courtman.  A “can-do” attitude is needed to move up through the ranks.  You’ll never get ahead by dropping your guard like this.

     A little too late, Courtman perceived the General was also watching him.

     A bolt of panic shot through Courtman.  Keeping his face at the proper angle, his mind was whirling.

     How long has the General been observing me?  What did he see?  How will this impact my service record?  Is this a test rather than a conversation?  Did I fail?

     The General leaned back in his chair.

     “You know, Robert, Jon here has won top honors in Weapons Presentation.  I believe it’s been three years in a row.”

     Foundson turned to the Major.

     “Congratulations, Major Courtman.  A soldier’s life depends on his weapon skills and his reliance on the King.”

     Courtman smiled back with a nod, searching Foundson’s eyes.  All he found was sincerity.

     “Jon, would you be so kind as to give us a demonstration?  Would you like to see that, Robert?”

     “I would enjoy that, General,” said Foundson as he shifted in his seat to face Courtman.

     Courtman moved back from the chairs, picking an area of sufficient room.  He turned to face the others.

     “What is the General’s pleasure?  I have kept up on all of the latest forms, including the Ryoko-Chi Meditative form.  It has a few variations that you might find interesting, sir.”

     The General half-turned to Foundson before those dark eyes swung back to Courtman.

     “Whatever you’d like, Jon.  Show us your favorite.”

     Courtman quickly selected the form that would best accentuate his impressive physical presence while showcasing his mastery of the Rotating Grip, a technique that allowed many more creative sword maneuvers than the old forms.  He assumed the Awaiting Stance as he began to relax and focus.  He waited the mandatory fifteen seconds, the minimum requirement for any form, even though he had already prepared himself in about half that time.

     The initial movement of the older forms was to draw the sword.  Courtman’s form started with an elegant and involved hand exercise that increased in speed and split-second precision.  The Major drew the sword with a looping move and instantly the blade became a blur.

The weapon spun, rotated, and at one point even flipped end-over-end so quickly that only the practiced eye can tell.  Courtman’s form, longer than most of the new ones and much longer than the old ones, came to an end as Courtman spun the golden blade across his body, shooting it upward, then ramming it down hard to stop a hairsbreadth from the opening of the sheath.  He lowered the sword into its opening, ending in a perfect Attention Stance as the gleaming hand guard clicked into the sheath.

     He relaxed and turned to the smiling face of the General whose eyes seemed sad.

     Strange, wondered Courtman, I thought I did it perfectly.

     Courtman then looked at Foundson.  He was surprised to see the FarPoint Major standing in almost a Battle Ready Stance, his hand grasping his sword pommel and the shield on his arm.  Courtman looked into Foundson’s eyes and saw a hard grimness there.

     Courtman’s mind is spinning.

     Foundson is . . . angry?  What did I do to bring this about?

     It bothered Courtman that he had actually wanted the approval of this FarPoint Commander.

     The General broke the awkward silence by asking,

     “Robert – what did you think of the Major’s presentation?”

     Foundson replied politely, yet quietly.

     “The Major is skilled and well-practiced.”

     Foundson’s eyes never changed as the General walked over to Courtman and put his hand on the Major’s shoulder.

     “Thank you, Jon, that was very well done.  Would you like to see Robert do a favorite form?”

     “Yes, sir, I would.  Please, would you give us a presentation, Major?”

     It annoyed Courtman that he really did want to see Foundson’s choice.

This is insane, thought Courtman as they traded places.  I am Attache to the Commanding General of Supreme Headquarters.  Why would I need the approval of some has-been from FarPoint?

     Courtman kept his face wrapped in practiced interest though he did not meet the General’s eyes for fear it would expose his inner feelings.

     Foundson moved to the area vacated by Courtman.  Turning to face them, he nodded before drawing himself up into the Awaiting Stance. His hand rested lightly on the leather of the sword pommel.  His shield was held in front of his body, covering the torso except for the sword arm.  Then he did the most extraordinary thing.  He shut his eyes.

     This must be a very old form, mused Courtman.  No one shuts their eyes anymore.  The modern experts all feel that a soldier cannot afford to close his eyes to the world around him.  We must use our minds and hands now more than our swords.  With closed eyes, how can people react to change, to those events happening around them?  The man definitely has archaic tastes.

     Foundson stood, not moving, for over five minutes.  Courtman glanced at the General.  The older man’s face radiated a fierce expectancy.  Below the whitened temples and brow, the dark eyes danced with anticipation.  The General’s hand went to his sword, the movement more of a caress than a grip.  Slowly, like dawn touching a mountain peak, a small smile appeared at the corners of the granite-like face.

     Courtman’s gaze was drawn to his left.  Foundson slowly opened his eyes.  Those eyes, which only minutes ago had been filled with a startling grimness, were almost blazing with light.  It was a glow that Courtman had only seen a few times in his life.  He remembered three or four of his old instructors having such a look.

     What had it been called?  Courtman tried to remember.  King’s something . . . King’s Spirit.  Yes.  King’s Spirit.

     Then Foundson moved.

     Courtman would remember that moment for the rest of his life.

     He’s not a man, Courtman marveled, he’s an explosion in armor!

     Never had the Major seen such a simple display of intense, unstoppable power.  The golden blade seemed to be at one place, then suddenly appeared at another.  Front, back, side, high, low – the sword sang as it instantaneously materialized around the body of the crimson warrior.

     Most modern forms ignored the shield since it hampered the elaborate swordplay of the Rotating Grip.  Foundson’s shield moved in perfect red-gold symmetry to the blur of the whistling blade.  It was a matched counter-balance to every action of the slicing, thrusting weapon.

     The realization hit Courtman like a hammer.   The flashing offense of the sword and the tenacious covering of the shield virtually assured that no enemy could land a killing blow.  It might be impossible to land an effectual blow at all.

     Courtman noted other things during those final seconds of the presentation.  Foundson’s grip on the sword never left the hard leather of the hilt.  No rotating grips, sword loops, or pommel rolls.  None of the popular modern maneuvers.  Only a grip that let the sword cover the greatest area with maximum speed and force.  If the blade could be parried or blocked, Courtman was certain that nothing short of cutting off Foundson’s hand could make him lose his grip on the sword.

     As the whirring weapon came to its instantaneous stops, the point never wavered.   The golden blade never quivered.  It simply appeared, like lightening in the black of night.

     With control like that, Courtman marveled, a man could cut through armor and cloth and yet not even scratch the skin.  One could almost perform surgery with such a weapon!

     The final thing Courtman realized was the scope of the form.  All new forms presumed an attack from the front.  Modern ideas have totally rejected the idea of an Enemy.  The enemies faced today were believed to be the misuses of power and human abilities.  A soldier must concentrate on what he can see before him and react accordingly.

     Foundson’s form never stopped moving.  The golden sword attacked every point of the compass as the shining shield spun around the dancing form of the Guardian.  High, low. Back, front. Here, there.

     Then Foundson stopped, causing Courtman to startle.  The gleaming sword was pointed straight up in front of Foundson’s face, the shield covering his body.  Then the Major from FarPoint did an amazing thing.  He moved his head slowly forward with reverent gentleness and kissed the blade.

     Courtman’s wide eyes watched Foundson slowly slide the sword into its sheath.

     No one spoke.  The air in the room felt charged with an intangible, silent power.

     Foundson looked forward as if seeing something more than the office and the panorama outside.  Courtman turned to look at the General, who had the same look save for the shining emotion pooling at the corners of his eyes.  The General was the first to speak.

     “Thank you, Robert.” the General almost whispered, “It has been awhile since I’ve seen King’s CrossPoint done in King’s Spirit.  It’s the only way the form can be made invincible.”

     Those shining dark eyes swung toward Courtman as the granite face smiled at him.

     “It’s the only form that has ever defeated the Enemy.  It is the only form that ever will – if done in King’s Spirit.”

     The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the office door.  The General walked forward, extending his hand to Foundson.

     “I have another appointment, Robert, but please accept my invitation to dinner tonight.  I’ll come by the Officer’s Quarters shortly after Vespers.”

     Foundson grasped the offered hand.

     “I would like that very much, sir.  May the King’s Joy be your Strength.”

     The General smiled as he softly answered,

     “And His Peace your strong Fortress, Major Foundson of FarPoint.”

     Foundson turned to Courtman, who drew himself to Attention as if in the presence of a superior officer.  Courtman was the first to speak.

     “Thank you, Major, for the presentation.  If you do not have any plans for the remainder of the day, I would very much like to talk to you of, uh, questions I have concerning that form . . . and the old ideas, the Enemy, King’s Spirit, and the like.  That is, if you have the time.”

     Foundson smiled as he shook Courtman’s hand.

     “I would enjoy that very much, Major.”

     Then Courtman remembered.

     “With your permission, of course, General.”

     “Well, Majors,” chuckled the General as he walked them to the office door, “have a nice afternoon and a good conversation.”

     The General watched them leave, his hand caressing the hilt of his sword.  A look played across his face, the type of look that is peculiar to fathers and leaders of men.  He chuckled again.

     Stepping through the office door, he walked across the anteroom and greeted his next appointment.