"Agreed to rustle cattle.
"Said Tweedledum to Tweedledee
"I'll use my nice new saddle."
"Come, come, my old!" he said chidingly. "No stealing. Honor among beeves, always. And rhyme and scansion limp. Let your Carroll fall trippingly off the tongue."
"I'll try," I agreed, still moving right. "Second stanza—
"I sing of two lasses in Birmingham,
"Shall we weep at the scandal concerning them?"
and I rushed him.
It didn't quite work. He had, as I hoped, relaxed the tiniest bit, evidently expecting that I would go on with mock play, tips of Hades alone, while I was reciting.
It caught him barely off guard but he failed to fall back, parrying strongly instead and suddenly we were in an untenable position, corps-a-corps, forte-a-forte, almost tete-a-tete.
He laughed in my face and sprang back as I did, landing us back en garde. But I added something. We had been fencing point only. The point is mightier than the edge but my weapon had both and a man used to the point is sometimes a sucker for a cut. As we separated I flipped my blade at his head.
I meant to split it open. No time for that, no force behind it, but it sliced his right forehead almost to eyebrow.
"Touche" he shouted. "Well struck. And well sung. Let's have the rest of it."
"All right," I agreed, fencing cautiously and waiting for blood to run into his eyes. A scalp wound is the bloodiest of flesh wounds and I had great hopes for this one. And swordplay is an odd thing; you don't really use your mind, it is much too fast for that. Your wrist thinks and tells your feet and body what to do, bypassing your brain—any thinking you do is for later, stored instructions, like a programmed computer.
I went on:
"They're now in the dock
"For lifting the—"
I got him in the forearm, the way he got me, but worse. I thought I had him and pressed home. But he did something I had heard of, never seen: He retreated very fast, flipped his blade and changed hands.
No help to me—A right-handed fencer hates to take on a southpaw; it throws everything out of balance, whereas a southpaw is used to the foibles of the right-handed majority—and this son of a witch was just as strong, just as skilled, with his left hand. Worse, he now had toward me the eye undimmed by blood.
He pinked me again, in the kneecap, hurting like fire and slowing me. Despite his wounds, much worse than mine, I knew I couldn't go on much longer. We settled down to grim work.
There is a riposte in seconde, desperately dangerous but brilliant—if you bring it off. It had won me several matches in 6pee with nothing at stake but a score. It starts from sixte; first your opponent counters. Instead of parrying to carte, you press and bind, sliding all the way down and around his blade and corkscrewing in till your point finds flesh. Or you can beat, counter, and bind, starting from sixte, thus setting it off yourself.
Its shortcoming is that, unless it is done perfectly, it is too late for parry and riposte; you run your own chest against his point.
I didn't try to initiate it, not against this swordsman; I just thought about it.
We continued to fence, perfectly each of us. Then he stepped back slightly while countering and barely skidded in his own blood.
My wrist took charge; I corkscrewed in with a perfect bind to seconde—and my blade went through his body.
He looked surprised, brought his bell up in salute, and crumpled at the knees as the grip fell from his hand. I had to move forward with my blade as he fell, then started to pull it out of him.
He grasped it. "No, no, my friend, please leave it there. It corks the wine, for a time. Your logic is sharp and touches my heart. Your name, sir?"
"Oscar of Gordon."
"A good name. One should never be killed by a stranger. Tell me, Oscar of Gordon, have you seen Carcassonne?"
"No."
"See it. Love a lass, kill a man, write a book, fly to the Moon—I have done all these." He gasped and foam came out of his mouth, pink. "I've even had a house fall on me. What devastating wit! What price honor when timber taps thy top? ‘Top?' tap? taupe, tape—tonsor! -- when timber taps thy tonsor. You shaved mine."
He choked and went on: "It grows dark. Let us exchange gifts and part friends, if you will. My gift first, in two parts: Item: You are lucky, you shall not die in bed."
"I guess not."
"Please. Item: Friar Guillaume's razor ne'er shaved the barber, it is much too dull. And now your gift, my old—and be quick, I need it. But first—now did that limerick end?"
I told him. He said, very weakly, almost in rattle, "Very good. Keep trying. Now grant me your gift, I am more than ready." He tried to Sign himself.
So I granted him grace, stood wearily up, went to the bench and collapsed on it, then cleaned both blades, first wiping the little Solingen, then most carefully grooming the Lady Vivamus. I managed to stand and salute him with a clean sword. It had been an honor to know him.
I was sorry I hadn't asked him his name. He seemed to think I knew it.
I sat heavily down and looked at the arras covering the rat hole at the end of the room and wondered why Star and Rufo hadn't come out. All that clashing steel and talk—I thought about walking over and shouting for them. But I was too weary to move just yet. I sighed and closed my eyes—
Through sheer boyish high spirits (and carelessness I had been chided for, time and again) I had broken a dozen eggs. My mother looked down at the mess and I could see that she was about to cry. So I clouded up too. She stopped her tears, took me gently by the shoulder, and said, "It's all right, son. Eggs aren't that important." But I was ashamed, so I twisted away and ran.
Downhill I ran, heedless and almost flying—then was shockingly aware that I was at the wheel and the car was out of control. I groped for the brake pedal, couldn't find it and felt panic...then did find it—and felt it sink with that mushiness that means you've lost brake-fluid pressure. Something ahead in the road and I couldn't see. Couldn't even turn my head and my eyes were clouded with something running down into them. I twisted the wheel and nothing happened—radius rod gone.
Screams in my car as we hit! -- and I woke up in bed with a jerk and the screams were my own. I was going to be late to school, disgrace not to be borne. Never born, agony shameful, for the schoolyard was empty; the other kids, scrubbed and virtuous, were in their seats and I couldn't find my classroom. Hadn't even had time to go to the bathroom and here I was at my desk with my pants down about to do what I had been too hurried to do before I left home and all the other kids had their hands up but teacher was calling on me. I couldn't stand up to recite; my pants were not only down I didn't have any on at all if I stood up they would see it the boys would laugh at me the girls would giggle and look away and tilt their noses. But the unbearable disgrace was that I didn't know the answer!
"Come, come!" my teacher said sharply. "Don't waste the class's time, E.G. You Haven't Studied Your Lesson."
Well, no, I hadn't. Yes, I had, but she had written "Problems 1-6" on the blackboard and I had taken that as "1 and 6"—and this was number 4. But She would never believe me; the excuse was too thin. We pay off on touchdowns, not excuses.
"That's how it is, Easy," my Coach went on, his voice more in sorrow than in anger. "Yardage is all very well but you don't make a nickel unless you cross that old goal line with the egg tucked underneath your arm." He pointed at the football on his desk. "There it is. I had it gilded and lettered clear back at the beginning of the season, you looked so good and I had so much confidence in you—it was meant to be yours at the end of the season, at a victory banquet." His brow wrinkled and he spoke as if trying to be fair. "I won't say you could have saved things all by yourself. But you do take things too easy. Easy—maybe you need another name. When the road gets rough, you could try harder." He sighed. "My fault, I should have cracked down. Instead, I tried to be a father to you. But I want you to know you aren't the only one who loses by this—at my age it's not easy to find a new job."