Morningside Fall(145)

And then, like hammer and anvil, they clashed.

It was nearly impossible for Wren’s eyes to follow what unfolded before him. The speed was terrifying to behold, almost as if time had been compressed. Time and again the old man’s sword sang, and time and again his mother twisted away, only to snap out a deadly strike of her own. But neither fist nor blade found its target, so quick were they to dodge and counter.

Hands grabbed Wren’s arms and lifted him out of the snow. Swoop was pulling him backwards, away from the fight. Painter was there, watching the fury in shocked silence.

The speed was frightening on its own but it was made all the more mystifying by how precisely the blindfolded man judged Cass’s actions. Cass seemed far faster than the old man, but the old man’s movements were so efficient and fluid he was surprisingly able to match her. His quickness was unhurried.

Though it was too fast to see exactly what happened, for a moment Cass seemed either to grab or strike the old man’s forearms, and in the next instant his sword catapulted from his hands and tumbled into the snow several feet away. Yet the old man wasn’t disrupted. In nearly the same motion, he grabbed Cass with both of his now-empty hands and quickly spun, throwing her over his hip.

Cass flipped headlong, but somehow managed to arch her back enough to get her feet on the ground first. With her body parallel to the ground, she clung to the old man’s arms and launched a kick back over her head. Wren couldn’t tell if she connected or not, but the old man came free and collapsed backwards into the snow. He rolled like a shadow spilling across the ground and in the next instant was back on his feet, blade in hand.

Cass twisted into a low crouch. A moment later, the old man closed the gap between them with a single lunge and attacked with a downward slash, followed instantly by an upward stroke. Cass evaded both, and closed in tight, once again inside the range of the sword.

He fought to trap her hands, but her elbow flashed upwards and snapped his head back. The old man stumbled backwards, skidded in the snow, but as he did his blade flicked out and Cass flinched. For a tense moment they stayed separated by about ten feet. Cass was breathing hard, her hands held up in front of her to guard against the next assault. A thin black line welled from cheekbone to jaw.

The old man’s sword tip was pointed straight at her, steady and calm, like a knife in the hand of a surgeon. He seemed as relaxed as they’d found him, as if the combat had been no strain at all. He straightened slightly and gradually allowed his sword to lower, so low it nearly brushed the ground. And then he turned sideways and shifted his stance so the blade was pointed behind him, away from her. The two held their ground, each seeming to wait for the other to make a move.

And in that moment, something about the old man’s silhouette – the way he stood, the way he held the sword – came together with the way he had spoken, in a flash completing the picture that had been struggling to form in Wren’s mind. Before he’d even had time to process the thought and doubt it, he called out, “Chapel!”

It was impossible. Utterly impossible. And yet his heart was sure. The old man remained completely still, and Cass held her ground. Wren tried to run forward, but Swoop snatched at his coat and stopped him in place.

“Chapel, stop, please, it’s me, it’s me Wren!”

Still neither of them dared move. But the old man spoke.

“Chapel,” he said, as if some distant memory was awakening within him.

“Wren,” Cass said, despite breathing heavily. “What are you saying?”

“It’s him, Mama.” Wren managed to yank free of Swoop’s grip and he raced between the two fighters. He stood right in the middle of them with his hands up and out to his sides, facing the blindfolded man he’d once known as Chapel. Now that Wren could see him up close, even through the blindfold, grime, and wild hair, there was no mistake that it was indeed Chapel. But something was far different about him.

“Chapel, don’t you remember me?”

“Chapel,” he said again, more certain this time. “Yes. That was once my name.” He stood straight and relaxed his grip on his sword, but did not sheathe it. “I was at a place of refuge then. You were there for a time.”

“I was,” Wren said. “You saved me. From the Weir. You, and Lil, and Mister Carter.”

“What is going on?” Cass said from behind him.

“I don’t know,” Wren answered. “I don’t understand. They said you were gone. Lil said you’d been taken.”

“Taken, yes,” Chapel said. He stood silent for a moment. And then he sheathed his sword in a fluid motion, and it disappeared within his large shabby coat. “For a time, I did not know myself, and was lost.”