Waking Rose: A Fairy Tale Retold

  Kateri groaned. Paul thought for a moment, biting his lip, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think it was in the car. I think Rose would have brought her notes inside with her, especially if she was still looking for something in the file boxes.”

  “That would sound right,” Kateri said. “She kept everything for her paper in it—phone numbers, due dates, everything.”

  Fish looked around the loft, and everyone else echoed his actions. But there was no sign of a notebook.

  “This is significantly odd,” he said slowly.

  Kateri met his eyes. “And it backs up Donna’s story,” she said quietly. “It could have been taken by the person in the loft….”

  “…who was probably not a random stranger,” Fish finished for her.

  18

  ...The thorns made it impossible for anyone to pass through to disturb the sleeping princess...

  HIS

  By the time they got back in the cars, the sky was darkening fast.

  “Man, I’m starving,” Paul said.

  Fish agreed. “Let’s get some pizza or something. You guys have to be back for anything?”

  No one did, and Fish said, “Okay, you tell me where the best local place is. I’ll pay.”

  Fish found a local pizzeria on a group recommendation, and they downed four pizzas in a short period of time. As they were finishing in a more leisurely manner, Alex said, “Too much intense stuff. What do you say we all relax for the evening? Ben, what are you up to?”

  “Nothing much,” Fish admitted. “I could go back home and study, but I’m sure all of you have to do that, too.”

  “What would you say to a good movie? There’s a new Jet Li that just came out on video.”

  Fish ruminated, and decided to take him up on the offer. “All right,” he said at last.

  So he found himself that night squeezed into a tiny dorm room with five other guys, watching a Chinese movie in subtitles. Alex and Paul shared a room, which, in typical collegiate fashion, was more interesting than orderly. The central point of the room was a huge pegboard which they had mounted on the wall. Displayed there on hooks were all types of weapons—numchucks, throwing stars, and various kinds of swords.

  After it was over, the guys drifted back to their various rooms, but Fish sat up with Alex and Paul, talking about martial arts. He found both of them had studied extensively, Paul specializing in aikido, a more modern “soft-technique” Japanese art, while Alex had a black belt in shorinji kempo, which he explained was a specialized form of karate.

  “You’ve never done any martial arts training yourself, you say?” Alex asked.

  Fish shrugged, sitting back in his chair. “No. First, I never had the interest, then I didn’t have the opportunity, and now, again, I don’t have the interest. I can handle a switchblade fairly well, and a gun. But I don’t enjoy it.”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  For an answer, Fish pulled the small pistol from his chest holster and tossed it into Alex’s lap. Alex picked it up and examined it.

  “This is a good piece,” he said reflectively. “Hate to say this, but as proctor, I probably shouldn’t let you have this in here. You know, the whole illegal weapons thing. I’ve gotten a concession for our own weapons, but a gun might be pushing it with the administration.”

  “It’s registered,” Fish said, pulling out his wallet. “I’m licensed to carry a gun in both Pennsylvania and New York.” He showed Alex his ID, and the proctor glanced at Paul and shrugged.

  “I guess it’s okay then,” he said. “As far as I know, this campus is not a gun-free zone.”

  “I didn’t know you could carry a concealed weapon on you, legally,” Paul said.

  “Sure you can, if you’re willing to submit to registration,” Fish said. “There are some places where it’s illegal—like in a medical facility or a courtroom—but there are a lot of places you can carry one.”

  “But you said you don’t enjoy using it,” Paul said.

  “No,” Fish said. “I carry it for protection—I lived in downtown Pittsburgh till recently—and because I know how to use it. But I wish it weren’t necessary.”

  “It’s an ugly modern weapon,” Paul agreed. “Not like a sword.”

  Alex nodded. “The essence of the warrior code is actually found in the sword.”

  “Alex, show him your katana,” Paul urged.

  Alex didn’t need much encouragement. He pulled a case out from under his bed and unclasped it. Inside was a silver sword with a carved ivory handle.

  “This is the weapon of the samurai,” Alex said. “It’s usually paired with the tanto, a smaller dagger used for the kill stroke, and a wakizashi, which is a medium length sword. But I don’t have those yet.” He pulled out another sword in a black leather case. “This is a ninja sword. You’ll notice it’s straight, like a Western sword, also shorter, but with a tapered end on one side. It’s meant to be strapped on the back and drawn by putting your arm over your head.” He pulled out the blade and handed it to Fish, who looked along its sharp edge, half wondering, half skeptical.

  “Do you actually use this?” he asked.

  Alex nodded. “But not for combat—far too lethal. That’s where we use wooden swords.” He ran his finger down the dull side of the blade. “Also because a sword nicks easily, and the oriental swords are so thin they can break. We usually use them for doing things like slashing through two-liter bottles filled with water. It’s pretty neat. Then there’s kata—those are exercises you do alone with the sword to improve your accuracy and technique. Paul and I both do those, but alone. I don’t think we’ve ever dueled with the Oriental weapons, at least not the real ones.”

  Paul nodded. “It would be too easy to do serious damage to each other,” he said.

  “So you practice with all these weapons you actually never use?” Fish asked, a bit cynically.

  “It’s a preparedness thing,” Alex said. “Part of our code here, at Sacra Cor.”

  “I think of it as the way we look at manhood,” Paul said. “Being prepared. To protect the innocent, defend the common good. It’s not just weapons, you know. It’s the skill needed to handle them. It’s almost a mental attitude.”

  “As well as a physical capability,” Alex said, sheathing his katana.

  Fish slid the ninja sword back into its sheath, and couldn’t help noticing how smoothly the metal slid into the case.

  “Have you seen my Claymore?” Paul said, and got his sword out of its place in the corner. “It was too heavy to hang on the wall.”

  He handed the weapon to Fish, a long silver blade with a carved pommel, almost three feet long and very heavy. “It’s a Scottish two-handed sword. More like a club with sharp edges. You can do some severe smashing up with it.”

  Fish tried to lift it, and agreed. “Impressive.”

  “But this is my combat sword,” Paul said, pulling out a silver sword from an ornate leather sheath that hung by his bed. “It’s a one-handed sword.”

  He handed it to Fish. “Test its balance,” Paul urged. “This isn’t one of those cheap fantasy swords you get at reenactments. This one was hand-forged by this company in New York. Can you tell? Each one is unique.”

  Fish hefted the blade in his hand. “You’ve got to have a lot of muscle strength to wield this,” he remarked.

  “It’s made to fit me,” Paul said, a bit proudly. He looked at Alex. “Let him try one of yours. You’re more his size.”

  Alex reached up to his weapons wall and pulled down another broadsword, this one lighter. Fish weighed this one in his hands.

  “That fits in your hand better,” Alex said.

  “It does,” Fish admitted, turning it around so that light caught its surface and its keen blade.

  “Want to try it sometime?”

  “All right.”

  “How about you spend the night and we do it tomorrow morning?”

  “I have to leave early.”

  Alex smiled. “Don’t worry
. I’ll get you up earlier.”

  The next morning he was shaken awake from his makeshift bed on the floor before, it seemed, the sun was up. Blinking, he got up in the foggy gray light to find Alex tossing a hooded heavy sweatshirt and gloves to him.

  “Get dressed and come on,” he said.

  Outside, Alex climbed the wet hillside to the soccer field beyond the dorms. He was carrying three swords in his hands, two wooden and one metal. “Right,” he said when they reached the top. “Here’s how we start.”

  For the next half hour Fish found himself standing in a dew-drenched field, wielding a heavy sword and attempting to learn how to use it.

  Alex demonstrated and gave constant instructions. “First—holding the sword. Most people try to hold a sword like a baseball bat. You can’t choke up on it, and with this kind of sword, you’re supposed to use only one hand.” He demonstrated with the wooden sword. “Got a grip? Right. Now—stance. Unlike in Eastern disciplines, it really doesn’t matter how you put your feet, so long as you’ve got them firmly under you. Don’t hold it too close to your body, or you can’t move it, but don’t hold it too far out, or you can’t defend yourself. That’s it. Right about there.”

  He led Fish through a series of strokes—the overhand strike, the underhand strike, and various kinds of blocks.

  “Good,” Alex said, tossing him a wooden sword. “Now, if you want to try some actual combat, take this, and we’ll have a go.”

  Fish handed the metal sword back, and Alex sheathed it and took up his own wooden sword. “Now, hit me,” the stocky guy said.

  “How? Where?” Fish said warily.

  “The goal is to touch me with your sword. Anywhere on my body. And to stop me from touching you. Use the techniques I just showed you.”

  The wooden sword was still heavy in his hand, though he could tell it was definitely a safer weapon. He was a bit uncertain, but at last he lunged forward for Alex, who moved aside and brought his sword down towards him. Fish remembered to block it in time, and then tried again.

  “Don’t expose your hands,” Alex warned. “When you turned your sword like that—see?—I can slash your hands like this.” He demonstrated. “Keep it turned so I can’t do that. Again.”

  It was, as Fish had expected, more difficult to touch Alex with the sword than it looked. At one point he feinted at Alex and then lifted up his arm to lunge down, and Alex swiftly poked him in the armpit.

  “Aha!” he said. “You were open. Watch yourself there! Most vulnerable part of the person is under the arm, because there’s never armor there.”

  Fish gritted his teeth but gamely went for him again.

  “Not too close to me,” Alex warned him. “Too close means you can’t maneuver either. Back me up, yes, but don’t get into my personal space or you’ll be at a disadvantage.”

  Fish found soon that he did better if he kept his eyes fixed on Alex’s sword arm. To look anywhere else was a distraction. He concentrated and finally, after fifteen minutes and surviving three more touches by Alex, he landed a blow on Alex’s arm.

  “Good, very good,” Alex said appreciatively. “Take a break?”

  They were both panting, but not winded. Fish nodded, and they rested.

  “You’ll notice sword fighting is actually very simple,” Alex said. “Much simpler than weaponless combat. In weaponless combat, you’ve got to be aware of both your opponent’s hands and feet at all times. Here, you only have to watch the sword.”

  “A lot like gun fighting, only closer-range,” Fish said.

  “Yes, there are similarities. You’re good, Ben. Fairly quick on your feet, but in this form of combat, that’s not an advantage unless you can back it up with strength. I would highly recommend martial arts for that.”

  “Like I said, not interested,” Fish said, catching his breath.

  “Why not?”

  “Never had a desire to go looking for trouble,” Fish said with a wry smile. “In my experience, trouble has always had to come looking for me.” He looked at the sun-infused clouds on the horizon. “I don’t know if Rose ever told you about my brother and me.”

  “I think I’ve heard the basic story, yes.”

  “Then you know I was in prison, and that’s where I was taught how to fight. Basic survival technique, learned by necessity. I learned to shoot when I was living on the streets and needed to defend myself against guys who were bigger than I was. It wasn’t exactly a fulfilling experience. Now, I’m in school like most normal guys, and I prefer it to battle any day. The ivory tower really appeals to me.”

  “Well, that’s understandable, given your circumstances. I suppose the rest of us must seem awful facile, getting all excited about battles and swordfights, when none of us has ever been in a real fight for our lives,” Alex said reflectively.

  “No, I can understand it,” Fish said. “I was ready to take on the world when I first found the faith. I was all fired up and idealistic, wanting to take on the evil in the world and crush it for Christ. That’s how you guys are—all pumped up with energy and optimism. That’s great to see. I wouldn’t want you to trade places with me for any reason.”

  “Because you’ve seen too much?” Alex suggested.

  Fish shrugged. “I just got too hurt and got too tired. You hear people say ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?’ Not true. Sometimes it makes you weaker. I still believe, but I struggle at times to believe that anything I can do would make a significant difference against all the evil that’s out there.” He stretched. “So I’ve stopped looking for trouble. I’m trying to get my degree, get a job, do my research in my corner of the world. And find whatever kind of happiness is still possible. That’s about it.”

  “It’s understandable,” Alex said, meeting his eyes. “Still, no offense, Ben, but the world hasn’t stopped being evil just because you’ve decided to stop fighting it.”

  Fish bristled. He evenly turned the pointed look right back at him. “All right,” he said slowly. “I won’t take offense.”

  Alex didn’t drop his gaze. “I’m glad,” he said. “Let’s have another round before you go.”

  Fish got to his feet with some irritation and took up the stance Alex had coached him in again. After a few more parries, Alex said, “Good job. You learn quick. If you want, you should go in for further training.”

  “Why put all this effort into something that’s so outdated?” Fish asked, rubbing his shoulder a bit crossly.

  “Why study philosophy? Or literature? Or even go to a liberal arts college?” Alex asked. “You figure it out.”

  Fish’s investigation slowed down as classes began in earnest and he found other things pressing around him besides tracking down the three medical personnel Rose had interviewed.

  The nursing home doctor she had talked to answered all of Fish’s questions but couldn’t tell him very much. And after what seemed like a dozen phone calls, the Indian doctor whom Rose had interviewed returned from his winter vacation, and Fish interviewed him. For something that had taken so long to accomplish, the interview yielded disappointingly little. He, like the nursing home doctor, was new to the area, and didn’t know anything about Daniel Brier or the anonymous nurse. However, he did agree somewhat cautiously with Dr. Murray’s assessment of Robert Graves Memorial Hospital.

  “I have heard rumors,” he said in the end. “And that is all I can say.”

  “Rumors about what?” Fish asked patiently.

  “That is all I prefer to say,” the doctor repeated.

  And the last doctor, Sister Genevieve, was away in Rome for some reason. Fish waited for her to return and focused on his studies. But he still saw Rose’s friends every Friday.

  Donna returned to Mercy College this semester, and Fish started to find it impossible to talk to Kateri without finding Donna in her company. The tall blond girl still was uncomfortable around him, as he was around her. She was more reserved than she had been in the past, not pushing herself forward. Mostly, she wor
ked diligently at her studies and helping Kateri in her activism work. Kateri was now the newly-elected president of the campus Human Rights group, but she continued to research the question of the mysterious nurse informant when she had a chance.

  The first Saturday that started to feel faintly like spring, despite the snow that was still on the ground, Kateri called Fish on his cell phone around five o’clock.

  “We found something,” she said, and Fish could feel the excitement in her voice.

  He cradled his cell phone. “Where are you?”

  “I just got back from the library. I’m in my room.”

  “Then come over and tell me about it. I’m over at Sacra Cor. I was on my way out to visit Rose.” He had been sitting in the courtyard on the rock, talking with A.J. and Paul.

  “You want to make an extra stop?”

  “Sure. Where to?”

  “To visit the children of the late Tennille LeBlanc? I got her son on the phone this morning, and he agreed to talk to me.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Her son still lives at her original home. Her daughter lives next door.”

  “I’d be more than happy to come along.”

  “Then come and pick me up.”

  Fish said goodbye to the guys, who were too busy that day to go visit Rose, and drove over to Kateri’s dorm. He found Kateri and Donna sitting outside on the edge of the raised flower bed outside the dorm. When he drove up, Donna got up quickly and stood aside, but Kateri came forward, her hair almost twitching with her energy.

  She swung into the front seat. “I got the directions,” she said.

  “Donna, are you coming?” Fish inquired, looking at the blond girl.

  She looked away and shook her head. “I have to go study,” she said, and turned away, red-faced. It was obvious she still wasn’t comfortable around him, but Fish didn’t particularly mind. He didn’t enjoy being with her either.

  “Donna actually found the information,” Kateri told him, spreading out a folded photocopy on her lap. “She’s been working hard at this.”