Different Weapons and Dances

1587-11-07
Fechtschule, Maraisbourg

Master Merryen said every weapon keeps its own time.

Morning brought a pair of dussacks, curved wooden trainers warm to the hand.
“These are not swords,” he smiled. “They are partners.”
We worked the hips first, then shoulders, then hands. Cut from the core. Let the arm arrive last. The room found a beat. Blades clacked like castanets while he clapped a tempo and called the steps: advance, gather, slip, cut, recover. In pairs we learned to meet and to part without hurry.

By afternoon the floor cleared for halberds. Reach changed the tune. The haft taught patience. The head asked for small feet and a proud spine. I counted my steps the way I once counted bars of a verse, and the weapon answered when I kept the count.

Dusk sent us out into the narrow streets. I walked sore and smiling. The songs of kings and saints had faded. What stayed was a new choreography: wood speaking to wood, feet to floor, breath to measure.