Taking a break from his research one morning, Richard decided to relieve some tension by exercising, a rare phenomenon. After a few rounds of push-ups and sit-ups, inspiration struck and he proceeded to play around with his sword, slashing and thrusting as though limbering up for battle. What resulted seemed pre-ordained: a shattered light bulb, rendering the already dark basement even darker. As he was sweeping up the glass, it occurred to him that it might be a good idea to learn how to handle the thing properly before he snipped an artery or, God forbid, skewered Scooter. True, it wasn’t as potentially lethal as a loaded gun, but it was still a weapon, and even a poorly crafted weapon such as his can be hazardous (the blade was “pretty decent,” Jim had said, a “solid piece”). He recalled the odd business card taped to the cash register at Jim’s Antique Weaponry & Curios. B.L.A.D.E.S., with its crude yet clever slogan, had seemed like a goof. But on the off chance that it wasn’t, such an organization could be just what Richard needed to pick up some pointers on sword safety. He placed a call to Jim Grange.

J: [clears throat, belches] Yello?

R: Oh, hello. Is this Jim?

J: Yaw. [swallows hard, belch, paper rustling]

R: Oh, hi Jim. This is Richard Waters. I’m not sure if you remember me. I was in your shop about a month ago—

J: The sword-and-shield guy?

R: Yes! Yes, that’s me. I have a question for you. I noticed a card taped to your cash register—

J: You want to join?

R: Um, I’m not sure. So this B.L.A.D.E.S. is, er, legitimate?

J: [laughter] I get that a lot. Yes, it’s real. We should really consider changing the slogan. Throws people off.

R: Yes, I can see how that might be problematic. Anyway, I was wondering if you, or someone, could, um, possibly hook me up with some lessons in swordsmanship?

J: Is your king gearing up for a Crusade? Are barbarians storming your shores?

R: Um—

J: Kidding. Certainly, we’d be happy to pass on our expertise.

R: Excellent. Will it cost—

J: Nothing. B.L.A.D.E.S. is open to anyone. No fees or dues or any of that nonsense. Just interest and enthusiasm. And you’re in luck. There’s a meeting at my place on Saturday. You up for it?

R: Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.

J: Right on. Lemme give you directions. You’re coming from…?

R: Brookline. J: Hmm, I’m not sure about Brookline.

R: That’s OK. Just give me the address. I’ll Google Map it.

J: Ah, Google, the wonder of the age… [A few seconds pass as Richard finds a pen, then Jim gives him the address.] We meet in the field behind my abode from three to five. That work?

R: Yeah. My schedule’s pretty wide open these days. Should I bring my, um, implements?

J: If you want, but it’s not necessary. I won’t have you swinging a real sword until you know how to handle it properly.

R: I couldn’t agree more. See you Saturday.

J: Great. See you then.

Saturday afternoon. Google’s recommended route took Richard to a one-story, white-vinyl, ranch-style house with three concrete steps for a front stoop. Its gravel driveway was occupied by a line of cars squeezed bumper to bumper. With no room left, Richard parked in the street. He couldn’t verify the house number, but the black lettering on the rusty aluminum mailbox read “GRA   E,” so he figured it must be the place. He walked around to the back in search of the field that Jim had mentioned. A small deck overlooked a dandelion-plagued yard that ended in a dry creek bed spanned by a plywood footbridge. On the other side of the creek was a grove of stunted elms, and beyond that was a grassy patch roughly the size of a basketball court. Dull thumping sounds emanated from that direction.

Richard had left the sword and shield in the Pontiac. Something about brandishing a weapon while approaching a group of strangers who were likely also brandishing weapons disconcerted him. Better to arrive unarmed and inquisitive. And he was apprehensive enough as it was. New people, new experiences. Not his forte. He was too accustomed to the vicarious life.

As he traversed yard and grove, his shoes and pant cuffs soon became caked in mud, courtesy of a cloudburst from the previous night. About a dozen people, men and women, stood in a semi-circle in the grassless, puddle-pocked center of the field. Some wore protective leather vests, while a few had on coats of what Richard guessed to be homemade chain-mail. An older man—huge, bearded, bald, and armored with a steel breastplate, shin guards, and elbow pads—was speaking to the assembled group. Richard was too far away to hear the words, but he guessed that the man was in the middle of delivering a lesson. The instructor pointed to a young woman, the smallest person present, and had her step forward and assume a sword-fighting stance, positioning her arms, legs, and torso just so, her weapon—a two-handed longsword similar to Richard’s, but smaller and with a skinnier blade—extended outward at a forty-five-degree angle. He then turned around nonchalantly, as if daring the woman to attack him. Strapped to his back was a double-bladed axe that looked like it could decapitate a rhinoceros. The woman hesitated for a moment before taking a tentative step forward and lunging. In less than an instant the axe was out and the woman’s blade had been swatted aside. Richard could tell from the look on her face that she had not expected any other result. “And you call yourself a swordmaiden?” the axeman bellowed. “You’ll have to do better than that, wench!” Both combatants started laughing, and soon the entire group was doubled over, clutching their bellies.

Yep, this is the place, Richard thought.

Memories from the longship flew across his mind: leather-clad men, weapons strapped to backs, barking task-master, stoic captain. The scene in front of him was a mockery, a joke. It encapsulated none of the glory of the sphere. He was about to skulk back to the car before anyone saw him when he spotted Jim Grange kneeling beside a bulging burlap sack. With his rotund physique, the founder of B.L.A.D.E.S. could not have looked more dissimilar to the boy-captain Beowulf. But Richard reminded himself that he was no longer caught inside an epic poem come to life. It had become increasingly difficult to the keep the lines between this reality and that other one from overlapping.

Jim saw Richard and waved to him. “Richard Waters?” he hollered as he trudged across the field.

“Hello, Jim.”

Jim was not attired for battle. He had on a black heavy metal T-shirt—a band called Falconer this time—and his black corduroys were splattered with mud almost up to the knee. He looked like a pint of black and tan. The two men did not shake hands because Jim was carrying a pair of wooden practice swords and a metal toolbox.

“You didn’t bring your goodies?”

“Oh, no. I wasn’t sure—“

“That’s OK, we can use these,” he said, indicating the practice swords. “And I have something for you.” He held out the toolbox. Richard set it on the ground and opened it. Inside were a whetstone, a metal file, a bottle of oil, a block of wood, and an instruction manual entitled Proper Sword Maintenance.

“Just a few things I had lying around,” said Jim. “Thought you might like them.”

Richard was both touched and perplexed. Was it a sign? Were the Sphericals telling him to buckle up and get ready? He tried not to show his confusion as he thanked Jim for the gift.

“It’s pretty straightforward,” said Jim. “Lay the blade flat on the block, gently file down the roughest spots, then use the oil and whetstone to get it nice and sharp. It’ll take some elbow grease, so be patient. And make sure not to oversharpen it; a too-sharp blade becomes thin and brittle. And this probably goes without saying, but be careful! I once knew a guy who lost a couple of fingers while polishing his katana. Just follow the instructions. Anyway, glad you’re here. Shall we dance?”

“Er, you mean a lesson?”

“Affirmative. That’s why you came, isn’t it?” Jim then turned and headed toward a less muddy patch of ground beneath a gnarly-rooted oak.

“You mean with you?”

Jim glared at Richard from over his shoulder. “Yes, with me.”

Richard realized what he’d done. Jim had interpreted his query as a comment about his size, as if a heavy man couldn’t work a sword. Richard tried to wiggle out of it by pointing to the old guy with the axe. “Sorry, I just assumed that the gentleman over there was the instructor.”

“Oh, he is,” said Jim. “But he prefers more advanced pupils. You’re with me today.”

Richard nodded his assent. It occurred to him that Jim had not introduced him to the rest of the group, which struck him as a little odd. Maybe he didn’t want to interrupt the old guy’s training session. He was about to bring this up when a practice sword clocked him in the face.

“Heads up!” shouted Jim.

Smarting, Richard held up the sword. It was heavier than he’d expected. But the grip felt snug in his hand, an instinctive feeling. Without a thought, he turned his body sideways and hoisted the sword into position.

“Ho, ho!,” said Jim. “Alrighty then.” The huge man lunged. Richard dipped his sword and attempted to parry the stroke but got smacked in the ribs instead. He doubled over in pain.

“What the fuck!”

“Sorry, Richard. It’s just that you looked so eager! I couldn’t resist.”

Jim twirled his sword like he was in the circus, then tossed it high into the air and snagged it by the hilt just before it hit the ground. He bent his knees and, seemingly without effort, slid on the slick turf from side to side and back and forth. He executed a maneuver—backslash, thrust, backslash—and returned to the mirror image of his original position. Richard stood there gaping like an idiot. How could such a blob be so gazelle-like?

Before continuing, Jim had Richard put on a chest-guard, fencing helmet, and knee pads. He himself wore no protection. The hour-long “lesson” consisted of Richard getting whacked, poked, and smited in a hundred different ways. Jim demonstrated basic thrusting and parrying maneuvers, which Richard struggled to imitate. “Maintain your equilibrium,” Jim admonished. “Balance! Balance!” “It’s just like boxing. All in the footwork.” “Head up! Head up!” “You’re dead!” “Those are your intestines spilling out!” “I just opened your throat!” Richard, clumsy since birth, was dropped on his ass seven times. In the end, he’d had enough. Winded, bruised, and filthy, he waved off a bullrushing Jim, who seemed to possess limitless stamina. Richard couldn’t have been more inept had he tried, and he had major doubts as to whether he’d actually learned anything about handling a sword.

“Not terrible for a novice,” exclaimed Jim as they passed over the footbridge. “Not great. But not terrible. Come back again, and we’ll throw the shield into the mix.”

“Thanks, but—honestly, Jim, I’m not sure I’m cut out for this,” said Richard between gaping breaths. “Physical coordination and I are the bitterest of enemies. I’m what you’d call an avid indoorsman. Mind’s eye, solitude. That’s what I’m good at.”

“Doesn’t surprise me at all,” said Jim, not unkindly.

Richard nodded. I reek of idleness.

He remembered that there was a question he’d intended to ask Jim.

“Are you familiar with a poem called ‘The Wanderer’?”

Jim thought for a moment. “'The Wanderer'? No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s an elegy. Old English. I’m, um, translating it.”

“How does it go?”

Richard half-shut his eyes and recited from memory: “Hwǣr cwōm mearg? Hwǣr cwōm mago? Hwǣr cwōm māþþumgyfa?”

“Yikes. Sounds like a fruit bat having a stroke.”

“Yeah, the language is…knotty, Teutonic, lots of hard consonants, nothing like the English that we…” Richard’s words trailed off into space.

“You OK, dude? You seem deflated,” said Jim. “My apologies if it got a little rough out there.” He clapped Richard between the shoulder blades, right on a tender spot that Jim’s landed blows had found more than once. “Some of us are going out for wings later. Care to join?”

Richard shook his head and looked at his muddy shoes. “Um, no, that’s all right. Thanks for the lesson.” He patted the sword-care kit. “And for this.”

“My pleasure. If you don’t mind, I’d like to add you to our mailing list.”

“Yeah. Sure. OK.”

Richard rattled off his email address, and Jim affixed it to memory. They shook hands, and the large man ambled toward his house, whistling cheerfully.

Richard’s jeans were brown with mud, very likely ruined. He felt ridiculous as he shimmied out of them while trying not to dirty the Pontiac’s upholstery, but he didn’t have a towel or blanket. He was not surprised to see pink welts criss-crossing his thighs. In the backseat, the sword, shield, and, his newest addition, the sword-care kit were propped up like kids in car seats.

“What were you thinking?” he asked himself as he drove back to Brookline in his underwear.

Next Chapter: Part Three: Diversions, Digressions, Discoveries, Chapter XVII