The Four Voices of Lutefecht

1589-03-10
Crescent Hearth, Port City

Between classes the room held its breath. The hearth clicked, the shutters tapped, the chalk star waited on the floor. I set my lute on a table and began to name what our bodies had been saying. Not a list of guards. Not a parade of cuts. Voices. A name pins a feeling so a student can find it again when courage is thin.

The Voice of Wind
Light feet. Hips free. The wrist alive. We walked the eight pointed star in slipping steps: enter on the forward ray, melt to the diagonal, let the strike pass the place you no longer occupy, answer with the point on the return. Wind speaks in absence and reply. The blade rides the breath rather than the shoulder.

The Voice of Stone
Heels kiss. Knees find the floor. The hip turns under the ribcage. I set a mug at the center of the star and told them to cut without rattling it. When the feet are honest the edge aligns by itself. Stone does not chase. It receives, it turns, it stands.

The Voice of Flame
A drum on the bar marked quick counts. We broke the beat on purpose: one two, and, four. Hold on three, spend the will on four. Flame is not frenzy. It is timing given weight. Choose the instant and let the rest of the world arrive late.

The Voice of Water
Parry into parry. Cut into thrust into cut. Keep the circle of the core turning. When the edge finds a wall, slide to the flat. When the line closes, take another. Water does not argue. It travels the path that remains.

Each voice is a cut, a note, a virtue. Wind carries melody. Stone keeps the drone. Flame lifts the chorus. Water returns us to quiet. We drilled until the line between fencing and dancing wore thin as thread.

At the end I wrote the names into the book the monk is illuminating. His hand set stars and arcs around the words. I left a blank line after the four and closed the cover with care. The students waited for a fifth title. I spoke it softly so only the room could hear.

The Fifth Song of War
We learn it in silence. We do not sing it aloud. We hold it for the hour when lives hinge and nothing else will serve. The Lutefechten keep this vow. We will boast of no killing stroke. We will answer questions with work. We will let our steps and our breath be the only music.

When the shutters opened the sea wind moved the lantern smoke, and the chalk lines shone pale on the boards. I told them one sentence to carry in the bones and then we were still.

To strike is to sing; to sing is to remember.