Will Thomas - To Kingdom Come

“This is your new stick. It’s called a bata in Gaelic. Does it hurt?” he asked with a devilish smile.

“You know it hurts!” I sputtered around the stick in my mouth.

“Would you like some cold water on it?”

I nodded. Cold water was just what I needed for my shoulder.

“He wants water, boys,” Yeats said. Suddenly, I was dragged off the rock and, before I knew it, I was sailing through the air, until I struck the icy water of the Irish Sea. I hadn’t meant salt water. My shoulder stung as if a thousand needles had been jabbed into it. Unsteadily, I crawled out of the sea onto the rocks. What had I been thinking when I assured myself this was just an initiation ceremony? I was hoping now to simply live through it.

Shivering, bruised, wearing nothing but sodden drawers, I came back up to the circle of smirking devils who awaited me.

“Is that it?” I asked. “Is it over?”

“Almost,” O’Casey said with an evil look, handing me the stick I had just been branded with. “You just have to fight Fergus and me and it’s all but over.”

“But I’ve never fought with a stick before!” I protested.

“Aye, we know,” he gloated. “This is to teach you the importance of knowing how. Fergus?”

“Call it!” He tossed a ha’penny up in the air, caught it, and slapped it against the back of his wrist.

“Heads!” Fergus called, delighted.

“Heads, it is, then. Your treat. But save me a little.”

“I’ll save you just enough to wrap a stick around,” he said, and began to circle me.

I was about to get a hiding, while Barker was asleep a quarter mile away, which might as well have been London, for all the help he could render me. If my rapidly bruising ribs were any indication, this was going to hurt. I had had no more than a week’s worth of lessons from Monsieur Vigny, and my experiences with fisticuffs, in prison and the school yard, had been generally unsatisfactory.

McKeller raised his stick behind him, waving it in small circles over his head. His other hand was out, his feet spread apart, ready to wage war with the ease of a seasoned fighter. I raised both hands in front of me and swung my stick around in an attempt at self-defense.

He lashed out before I could move and smacked the knuckles of my free hand. Pain blossomed as if I’d been stung, but I dared not drop the stick. I thrust the hand under my other arm and continued circling my stick. He swung across with a swipe that would have taken off my head had I not barely ducked out of the way.

The stick continued in an arc, coming back my way again with more speed. I wasn’t going to stand there and get hit. I blocked and parried it, but missed his shoulder by a good foot. The malacca stick I had trained with was nothing compared to the knobby cudgels we were fighting with now, and I had nothing to protect me at all save my wits.

Fergus McKeller feinted at my head again, causing me to raise my stick just enough for him to wallop me in the ribs. The stick felt like an iron fist. I gasped and leapt back, but the ring of young men pushed me into the fray again. We circled about once more, McKeller with a grin on his face, assured of an easy victory. I was going to have to do something to show him this wasn’t going to be so easy.

What could I use that Barker had taught me? He told me there were three basic kinds of fighters: the runner, who strikes quickly and dances away; the blocker, who blocks the attack and launches one of his own; and the jammer, who jams your attack as it starts and brings the fight to you. Identifying which fighter I faced would allow me to anticipate what he would do. McKeller, I decided, was a jammer. He wasn’t afraid of my stick and didn’t fear leaping into my territory. I’d have to teach him.

As if in answer to my thoughts, my opponent jumped forward, stick raised overhead, ready to hit me over the ear. Grasping both ends of the bata stick, I pushed it into his chest, knocking him back before his stick could hit me. Everyone laughed, and McKeller was left rubbing his chest, a lopsided grin on his face. He gave tit for tat on the next move, however, as his hand shot out and he lunged forward in a classic fencing move, the knob catching me square in the solar plexus. I gasped for air and rubbed furiously at the spot.

We circled for a few moments, swinging and missing, feinting and jabbing. I was hoping I’d earned a bit of respect from him. I dodged one of his attacks and caught him on the knuckles of his stick hand, which brought some colorful Irish language from his lips. My downfall, however, was in foolhardiness. I swung at his head; and in answer, he parried it solidly and gave me a riposte upon the ear that knocked me right off my feet.

“My turn!” Eamon O’Casey called eagerly, and he and McKeller switched places. Of the two, he was the more dangerous. McKeller relied upon his aggressiveness and his strength, but O’Casey was a scientific fighter. Watching me as I got up again, he padded about like a young panther planning a kill. He stepped this way and that lightly, almost on his toes, and reluctantly settled into position. His every muscle was coiled, and when I dared wave my stick at him, he knocked it down and lashed out, catching me on the other ear. Now it was I who cursed.

I won’t embarrass myself any further by describing it. I attacked; he struck. I blocked; he struck. I ran; he came after me and struck again. I was hopelessly outclassed. I was also quickly growing black and blue. My lip began bleeding, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of quitting. He’d have to knock me off my feet before I admitted the point. Which he did.

I lay flat on the rocky ground, remarking to myself how many types of pain there are. The sharp agony from a blow on the elbow, for example, is far different from the deep ache from a whack on the lower limbs. A blow to the ears feels cold, as if a bucketful of water has been thrown on your head, but a handful of barked knuckles is hot, like a burn. These were the thoughts I was mulling over when both my opponents bent and looked down on my prostrate form.

“Both at once?” I asked, a bit of fight still left in me.

“Well, he’s game enough,” McKeller stated.

“What’s this about?”

“Call it a test, Penrith,” O’Casey said. “An initiation. We initiated you in the Invisibles. This is a tryout for goalkeeper of our hurling club. We’ll need one badly once this is all over and we go back to Dublin. Are you interested?”

“I’ll consider it,” I said diplomatically.

“First non-Irish lad we’ve ever invited to be on the team,” McKeller said, making sure I saw what an honor it was.

“Perhaps, if you stop beating me with sticks.”

“Stop! Why, boy,” McKeller insisted, “we was just getting started!”

“Very well,” I said, “but I want you to know I’m taking names of those to whom I shall eventually give a good beating.”

“Put me down,” quipped McKeller.

“Me, too,” O’Casey added.

“Is this a private gathering, gentlemen, or may I join?” a voice came from the shadows. All eyes turned as the blessed form of Cyrus Barker stepped forward into the flickering light of the bonfire. He was removing his jacket and pulling down his braces. “Perhaps, Mr. McKeller, you would enjoy sparring with someone closer to your own height and weight.”

Everyone looked at one another. I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. Barker changed things. Barker leveled things.

“I dunno, Mr. van Rhyn,” McKeller said. “You ain’t a member. You haven’t been initiated.”

Barker turned to O’Casey. “In that case, I formally apply for membership in your organization. Here are my credentials.”

He removed his shirt and singlet, revealing to the terrorists the dozens of entrees to other secret organizations he wore across his arms and torso. He flexed his bulging arms as he displayed Chinese figures seared into his forearms, Arabic script across his biceps, and a dragon tattoo on his shoulder.