Chapter 19: Swords, Pistols, and Guns

Friday, October 5

Today, Shelley was at my side. She had awakened me rather interestingly, showing up in a black babydoll negligee, hose, and bedroom heels. I was glad that she didn’t try to awaken me by immediately sitting her delightful bottom on my face, which might have given me a strangulation reflex.

Instead, I was aware - I slept naked - that someone was licking my chest, and discovering male nipples could be erogenous as well.

I realized that I had to square the morning greetings with my preference to start the day with a long, hot shower. It was always fun to shower with an intimate friend, but I hated to do that to someone that had spent time on makeup and hair.

Terry was the goddess of appearance, so, over breakfast, I appealed for her guidance. “Oh dear. First, be sure to have a good supply of shower caps and offer them. Second, if you don’t mind, I’ll discourage them from full makeup when they go to you. After the shower, maybe after breakfast, give them time to reapply -- or send them to Vox for her to do it. Vox can apply a face faster than almost anyone can do it on their own.

“Have you adjusted the showerheads, so there’s an opportunity not to be blasted?”

“Adjusted?”

“Doesn’t your shower have multiple heads?”

“Huh?”

“Oh hell. It might just be that yours never were attached. I need to get the plumber; the stall is definitely plumbed for them, but they might not have been installed. There are stainless steel plates running around the shower, at waist level? Your shower head goes into a plate?”

“Yes.”

“I guess I never looked in there. I’m sorry. I’ll have to get the plumber.”

“I’d imagine that just to start, you have a discreet plumber, who knows generally what you do.”

“Right. I think I see where you’re going. We are going to have some sensitive work areas. Let’s move ahead on your suggestion about a discreet heavy door on the War Room, with a concealed pushbutton lock.

“I’m glad you brought up attire, though. We have something for you. Everyone here?” They were.

“Undress.”

“What?”

“Undress. Do I need to use my Dominatrix voice?”

Scots wha hae

I was utterly puzzled, but complied. Arlene and Shelley walked up, with several boxes.

“We have decided that we are a clan, and you are our chieftain.” From the box came a kilt, in the Black Watch tartan. “You’re not Scots in origin, so we concluded that we would honor mutually if we dressed you in the tartan of one of world’s oldest military units. We’ve modified the classic costume for practicality and comfort. Yes, this is your dress kilt. We have casual ones.

“You realize, of course, what the ladies think about kilts? You do know the classic answer to ‘what is worn under the kilt’?”

I wasn’t sure, but it came to me. I was vaguely aware of James Bong’s voice in hysterical laughter. “Nothing is worn under the kilt. It is all in fine working condition.” Applause.

“We know your tastes, and that getting access to your chest might be fine. They put me into a soft blue shirt, buttoned and with a pair of pockets. “Special order from Brooks Brothers. Cashmere-cotton. Now, a realistic accessory.” They presented me with a collection of dressy pocket protectors, including Black Watch and black leather.

“Today, we’ll put you into the formal stockings, although you need not wear them at casual times. In fact, you don’t need to wear a kilt all the time, but the ladies would prefer you did -- and perhaps the other gentlemen as well. After all, you like short skirts on us.” A skean dugh dagger went into a stocking top. They fitted a belt around me, and attached a sporran, a sword scabbard, and a pistol holster. “You aren’t trained with the sword. As far as the pistol, you never need a pistol until you need it very very very much.” Vivian came up with a presentation box, containing a M1911A Colt .45.

Terry told him, “Regardless of what you’re wearing, given our quest, we think you -- and the rest of us, but you in particular -- should go armed. We do have lighter-weight pistols. If you take the dagger out of your stocking, you’ll find it’s a real Fairbain-Sykes fighting knife.

“The kilt is a fine place for weapons. Here’s a heavier Marine fighting knife to consider strapping to your thigh, as well as a pistol holster. I know you read science fiction. Do you know the habits of Lazarus Long, who went armed to the shower?”

Harold grinned at the Robert A. Heinlein reference.

Lois offered the sword. “I do fence. I suspect you have ways of getting such skill, which we can add to you mixed martial arts. Nevertheless, we’ve learned a bit about your background, and there’s a special teacher for you.”

Sword Oath

Marcyne Morgana strode into the room. From the second to fifth grade, she, two years older, was my best friend. Even in the sixth grade, she was a club fencer, of amazing reputation.

My mother moved away, such that long distance calls were needed to stay in touch. Still, I loved her like a blood sister.

She was a big, strong woman, well over six feet tall, who made no special effort to look feminine. Three years older than I, she could have played linebacker or fullback on my high school teams. Thinking of it, though, my high school team had already been told to send in the cheerleaders. It held the conference record for most safeties scored, hardly a badge of honor. I also had a flash that there was a vague similarity between Marcyne and Frankie, who was one of the cheerleaders, cultivated a Jackie Kennedy look, but also had a muscular build.

“Oh. My. God.” She and I stared for a moment, and then rushed into an intense and nonsexual hug.

James Bong told me “She is important to you, and thus to us. You already are emotionally bonded, although you have to update it. With your existing connection, she will quickly accept our mission, the geas, and her eventually growing telempathic ability.

“I finished high school early, and entered the undergraduate kinesiology program at the University of Maryland. Basketball and volleyball offered me scholarships, but I didn’t want to commit to them. Unfortunately, their fencing team is men-only, but that didn’t stop them from naming me a student assistant coach.” She gave a predator’s grin. “There’s no male fencer on the team whom I can’t beat, and they know it.”

“I’m not quite sure how and why the connection was discovered, but Terry came to me, and urged me to join what is now a clan.”

She reached for the scabbard behind her, drew her blade, and fell to her knees. “I offer you my sword and my loyalty.” James Bong guided me.

Very carefully, I drew my sword, not wanting to hurt anyone with a sharp instrument that I didn’t control well. As I touched the handle, however, it felt as if it were molded to my hand. I felt the surge of information flow from the Others. With complete confidence, I tapped her shoulders with my sword, and vowed, “I offer you my loyalty as well, and I will die to protect the clan to which you now belong.”

“Harold, could we spend some time updating one another?”

“Sure.”

“Something that I should get out up front. Harold, that was the first hug I’ve had, from a man, in years. I’m lesbian. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. I learned that my mother is mostly closeted, but that’s her identification. Perhaps more to the point, every woman here is bisexual, and would enjoy another female clan member.

“From my standpoint, I like girls. So if you do...”

She gave an enormous smile. “I couldn’t hang loose with my mother and be out. So no problem here?”

“You might have a couple of the more aggressive ones want to join you in the shower, ASAP. No, not at all.

“To be honest, I’m personally a bit confused, given that I do love you. Even if that were physical, would then incest be a bad idea?”

“Harold, if I get physical with any man, it would be you. I don’t think I will, but let’s see what the future brings. From some things learned from Terry, you do have group scenes.”

“Yes.”

“That might be good for me, to play with women but be in the presence of women with men.” She looked thoughtful. “I wonder how I’d feel around gay men? Do you have any?”

“No, but I am thinking of bringing some into the clan, for a variety of reasons. I’m thinking of one, who is pretty fluid in gender identity. Biologically male, but not clear if he or she wants to become a woman. I’ve seen her in drag a time or two and she makes a beautiful woman.”

“That’s even more confusing to me, although not necessarily in a negative way. Let’s change the subject. I understand that most of you do martial arts training, not necessary formal.”

“Right. In this apartment complex, we have a private gym, as well as an area that works for dance or for combatives. Are you thinking of teaching?”

“It would be good for all of us, I think. Yes. That could also include knife and stick fighting, on a more practical basis. Japanese meditative sword work is in the opposite direction. I also know a bit of Scottish swordplay and ritual; it’s little know that there is are Scottish stick and sword art with music. For the stick or cudgel, there is a traditional Scots Gaelic song, Buailidh mi thu anns a’ cheann, which means literally “I will break your head”. “Breaking the head”, though, isn’t a threat, but the call of victory in a cudgel match.

Marcyne laughed. “You won’t do it to me, I don’t think, but there are times that I, or other swordmistresses, have discussed that with men who suggest that I play with their cudgels of flesh. Usually, I stare them down, but I’ve broken, or at least dented, a head or two.”

“You used the term swordmistress. That’s presumably outside sport fencing.”

“Yes, it is. I’m pleased that you picked up on that. There’s an informal sisterhood of women who study traditional martial arts, many of which are armed. It’s spiritual, but we can also be lethal. One friend concentrates on ninjutsu, which is by no means an elegant sword art, and involves a variety of weapons. With her, although safe forms are used in practice, ninjas do not train in how to maim and kill. There’s so much to study that they leave out the maiming part.

“Some think that the blade and the stick are symbols of masculinity. That’s a limiting belief. Might I suggest that we go into your workout room, put you into protective clothing, and let me demonstrate?”

They went into the studio. “Marcyne, right now, there’s a firm wooden floor, as well as mats for throwing. Given a few minutes, we can also put a springy wood over floor in place, which is best for ballet and other dance forms. Which would you prefer?”

“Bare wood for now, I think. I do have a tape deck and some small speakers. By any chance, is there a speaker system to which I can connect?”

“Yes. Do you want anyone else to see the demonstration?”

“I’m not opposed, but don’t pick anyone, for example, who would get silly or angry if they see me overcome you.” I realized that she was supremely confident that she could do that. It was more than her being bigger and probably stronger. I decided maturity might be best for a first audience, so I asked Terry, Lois, Margaret, and Paul to observe.

She put me into padded clothing and a face mask, then hung a vest of springy wood slats over my chest. “That’s a Japanese armored vest, designed especially to protect you against sticks.” Marcyne put a jō stick, a little under four feet long, in my hand. It felt as if it belonged there; the Others gave me a bit of knowledge.

To the spectators, she had laid markers on the floor, to delimit the safe viewing area. “Please, please, do not go outside those lines.”

“Now, Harold, try to hit me with your jō stick.”

“Shouldn’t you put on protective equipment?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I knew enough not to charge at her, the stick raised as a club. Somewhere, I remembered the admonition, “Thrust to the soft, cut to the hard.” Extending the stick in a swordlike manner, I tried to dance around, occasionally feinting a thrust. She stood, relaxed, holding her stick at both ends.