Bright Eyes

18.2. Teach Me to Fight

A word.

It just took one word—"Open."—out of Mr. Brighteyes's mouth for the front door to swing inward. No stomp, no secret device hidden within the floorboards, no other motion—just one word.

And that one word took a second, and that one second was enough for Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Lyn to realize they had made complete fools of themselves in front of Mr. Brighteyes and his friend (a label they assumed for the stocky, brown-skinned man who stood next to him).

It was two o'clock now, and they stood next to each other, their feet planted down on the grass-strewn ground, outside Mr. Brighteyes's cabin. They were a good distance away from any form of shade, allowing the sun to blatantly scorch their skin. Mr. Brighteyes's friend studied each one of them, his eyes lingering a few beats longer on Damien—if anyone was keen enough to notice. Then, after a glance at Mr. Brighteyes, the blue-eyed, olive-skinned man cleared his throat and said, "Sander, Lyn, Damien, Jack, Max. I would like you to meet Bato, an expert warrior and strategist, and I have assigned him to train you in the art of hand-to-hand combat and weaponry."

"Good afternoon," said the man Bato, his stance firm, his back straight. He had a youthful quality to his voice, a contrast to his worn, middle-aged appearance. "It is an honor to meet you." There was a certain strain to the word, the youths noticed. And they were certain they knew why—stomping on floorboards like idiots didn't give a good first impression, did it?

Jack took his steps toward Bato, reached out a hand. "Pleasure to meet you, too, Mister Bato," said Jack, flashing his signature smile.

Ever the extrovert, Lyn thought to herself, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.

Bato said nothing, did nothing, but glanced down at Jack's hand and looked up again to meet Jack's brown eyes.

Silence, the awkward kind, then Jack said, "Mister Bato, if Mister Brighteyes here hasn't told you yet, I've had formal lessons in boxing and mix martial arts. I'm an athlete. Used to compete in boxing and martial arts competitions back in grade school and middle school. You won't have to worry so much about me as you should about them." He chuckled, pointed a thumb in his friends' direction.

Sander glanced at his other three friends, and muttered, "Should we be offended?"

A smile appeared on Bato's face, then a slight nod of the head. Jack kept the corners of his mouth turned up, showing his good set of white teeth, coupled with the stranger-friendly look in his eyes. That's how you make a good impression, Jack thought, pleased with himself. Smile, talk. Maybe crack a joke. Say something to make them like y—

And just like that, without warning, Jack witnessed the world spin before his eyes, the air stolen out of his lungs as he crashed against the grass-strewn floor. And before he even realized it, Bato had rolled him over and pinned him down to the ground—Jack's arms bound behind his back, his face pressed against the earth, the sharp edge of a knife hovering right before his eyes.

"Dude. Dude! Did he just—"

"Yes, Max," said Sander. "Mister Bato flipped Jack over."

"But—But he's tiny."

Lyn rolled her eyes at Max's words.

Damien, on the other hand, tried to keep a straight face, suppressing the urge to laugh. Yet he felt the corners of his mouth quirk up inadvertently, fragments of a chuckle spilling past his lips.

Bato put the knife back into the sheath strapped to his side. Then he jumped off of Jack's prone form, looked up at the other youths, and said, "This is your first and most important lesson—pride will only lead to a warrior's downfall. Remember this always. As you can see, your friend here," he said, turning his sights to Jack, who had sat up and was brushing the dirt off his face and shirt, "if he hadn't learned this lesson now, would have learned it the hard way." He smiled down at Jack's nervous expression. "Yes. Death."