Finches

Chapter 8 - The Spinning Slash

The picture of a bass fish on the wall of the shack, however, probably found it less impressive. It had gotten hit with the flat side of the cutlass and flown off the wall. It slammed to the shack floor, shattering the glass inside the frame.

"Oops," Colt muttered as he bent over to examine the damage he'd caused.

"That right there," said a voice, "just earned you another day's work."

Colt turned around and saw that the fisherman had returned from fishing. He was currently standing in the doorway, looking back and forth between Colt and the broken picture.

"How, uh," Colt cleared his throat. "How much of that did you see?"

"The whole thing," replied the fisherman.

The fisherman walked into the shack, grabbed the broom from off the wall, and proceeded to sweep up the broken glass.

"I saw your dance moves, and I saw the damage they caused."

Colt stood up and watched guiltily as the fisherman finished sweeping up the mess he'd caused.

"You should have seen me earlier," he said. "I had a promising technique going."

The fisherman turned to him, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, I saw the entire thing. Your 'promising technique' is precisely what I'm referring to. I don't even know what to call that last thing you attempted."

"Ah," Colt said. "That was the Spinning Slash move."

"No, that was the primary definition of embarrassment."

Colt crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, that's why I'm practicing. To get better."

The fisherman put the broom down and gave Colt his full attention. "I hate to break it to you, son, but that's not how that works. You won't get better by practicing the wrong technique. Practice only makes perfect if you're practicing the right thing. You can't learn how to swim by drowning."

"I'm not sure if that's an accurate metaphor," Colt replied. "And how do you know my technique is wrong. You're a fisherman!"

The old man just nodded slowly. "That's true enough, but I wasn't always a fisherman. I used to be a fighter. Those days may be behind me now, but I still know my way around a good old cutlass. Besides, it wouldn't take a professional to see that you're doing it wrong. You're dancing all over the place, not fighting."

"Okay," said Colt, suddenly seeing an opportunity. "Then show me how to fight the right way."

Colt puffed out his chest confidently and met the fisherman's eyes. The fisherman seemed to consider this for a moment, but then he turned away from Colt and took a seat in the chair.

"Nah," he said after some thought.

"Oh, come on! After all that talk? Nothing?"

The fisherman sighed from the chair and his gaze got far away. "I would like to, sure. But I'm afraid I'm just too..."

"Old?" Colt finished his sentence. "Yeah, you're probably right. That's what I thought at first too, but then you start talking up such a big game about being a fighter. I almost forgot that you're simply way too old to be--"

Colt paused when he realized that the fisherman had stood up from the chair. He was now staring at Colt, his eyes focused and determined.

"Alright, fine. Age will only stop me from doing something if I let it."

Colt grinned, trying to avoid that this had been his plan all along. "Glad to hear it. So where do we start?"

Colt expected the fisherman to take his sword and show him how it's really done, or immediately start shouting pointers at him. But instead the old man just pulled a chair out from the table and took a seat. He motioned to the other chair.

"I thought you were going to train me," Colt said, hesitating to take the seat.

The fisherman nodded. "I may show you how to fight correctly. But first I have to ask some questions. So if you want to learn, sit."

Colt sat.

The fisherman stared a Colt before speaking. "I'll get straight to my main question. Why do you want to know how to fight properly?"

Colt laughed a little, but then noticed that the fisherman was dead serious. "What kind of question is that?" he asked.

"The kind that you answer if you want this to go anywhere."

"Okay," said Colt, clicking his tongue in thought. "Well, look at the world we're living in. There's two types of people, those who fight and those who run. And I'm not a very good runner."

"I see," said the old man. "The reason I ask is this: I don't want to teach someone skills who is going to use those skills to harm others."

"I won't do that," Colt said.

"Can you prove that to me?"

Colt blinked. "No," he said, then, "but I can tell you why I really want to learn how to fight."

He figured this was as good a time as any to tell the old man what was going on.

The fisherman narrowed his eyes. "Yes?"

"I'm preparing to take a trip to the Authority base up north," he explained. "Not to attack the Authority, just to give them information that could save this town from being completely robbed of all possessions."

The old man looked puzzled, and Colt could tell that it was not what he had expected him to say. "For what purpose? You're a pirate. Why help the I.A.?"

"Because in return they'll give me information from their archives. A friendly transaction is all. I just want to learn to fight so I can make it through the journey there with at least a couple limbs left over."

The fisherman tapped his fingers on the table.

"That's extremely dangerous," he said finally. "The last person to travel that route was never heard from again."

"I know," Colt replied. "But I don't care. I'm going, and you can't stop me. You can help me, however."

"Okay," said the fisherman, finally. "But I want something in return."

"What is it?"

The fisherman stood up and crossed the shack. He opened a cupboard and retrieved a slim, white envelope from it. He held it out to Colt, who took it from him. Colt studied it a little. It looked super old and dusty, so he could tell it was written a long time ago and then stored away. It had a faded red seal on the front, and on the back was the name: EDWARD written on it.

"Give this to Edward," the fisherman said, something that Colt had already worked out for himself. "It's a letter." Again, something Colt had already assumed.

"What does it say?" Colt asked.

"What it says is none of your business. Edward is a member of the Infinite Authority. Just give it to the reception desk up at the base when you get there, and in return I'll show you how to properly handle a sword."

Colt flipped the envelope back and forth in his hands, wondering idly what the letter said.

"Do we have a deal?" prodded the fisherman.

Colt looked up, and considered it for a second more. Delivering the letter didn't set him back any or bring him any harm, so he didn't see why not. "Sure," he decided. "We have a deal."

"Splendid," said the fisherman. "Now get ready, this is not going to be easy."