Dragons – Ice and Fury

Much to Whit’s surprise, Gordo was waiting for him just outside the entrance to the Hallerman administration building. During normal class hours, he had behaved as if they had never met, and in response Whit, disappointed, had refrained from approaching him.

“Ah, my favorite spy,” he grinned. “Well, are you going to visit us again today? I suggest that this time you enter through the front door rather than crawl through the thickets. After all, old chap. How much blood can you stand to lose.”

Whit blushed then quickly added, “Elise invited me to return, but I’m not sure if she really wants to see me. She didn’t show too much enthusiasm when I left.”

“Oh, that’s just Elise. She likes you well enough or she wouldn’t have asked you or spent as much time with you as she did. She’s very particular, you know. You can come with me, if you like.”

“Are you leaving now?”

“Not at all. I’m headed directly to the Parade Grounds. First tryouts for the rugby squad, you know. Did you play last year?”

“Rugby? No. It’s not an American game, and to tell you the truth, I’m not too interested in team sports.”

“Tennis, golf?”

“No, I’m afraid that I don’t play those either. Actually, I don’t play any sports.”

“Good. Then it’s time to build up those muscles,” he grinned, slapping Whit on the shoulder vigorously. “Come along. We’ll tryout together. Did you bring a kit? No? Well, I didn’t either. I just learned about the tryouts myself. We’ll have to make do as we are.”

“Is rugby a popular sport here? It’s virtually unknown in the States.”

“Popular? My God, Whit, have you never heard of the All Blacks?”

“All Blacks?”

“It’s the national team; they’re the best in the world. Well, once in awhile arch rivals South Africa and Australia have been beaten them, but forget about the European teams. The national teams from the southern hemisphere national are on a completely different level, much higher. Rugby is an obsession in New Zealand, bigger than cricket or football.”

So, it had been decided; they would be teammates as well as classmates. Whit really had little choice in the matter.

§

The Parade Grounds consisted of a wide expanse of lawn spread out behind the Hallerman academic buildings. Play areas had been reserved for practice in the three major sports in which the school participated: cricket, football, and of course rugby. Actual matches were held on Saturday mornings in Wakefield Stadium, a pitch encircled by elevated rows of spectator seating but a venue rather less splendid than its name implied.

At the moment, the field was swarming with several herds of boys, pushing and shoving each other about. They were maintaining a sonic blanket of shouting and laughter, but not a ball was in sight. About a dozen adults from the school’s athletic department were also in attendance, evidently the coaching staff for the rugby program. Gordo and Whit joined their stampeding schoolmates on the field just as a chorus of whistles erupted from the gathered coaches.

“All right lads, gather around. That’s enough horse play for now,” a tall, muscular man wearing a peaked cap began. “We’re holding tryouts today only for Hallerman rugby teams. If you’re interested in a different sport, please leave. Schedules for football and cricket tryouts will be posted later in the week.

“We’re planning on fielding three teams this term: varsity, for seventh through ninth graders, mid-level for fifth and sixth, and juniors for lower grades. No promotions this year. You may not play for a team above your level. I shouldn’t have to add that demotions are also prohibited. In other words, no mixing of grades except within the divisions I just described. Any violations and you’re out of the program permanently.”

“I heard there were a rash of injuries last year,” Gordo whispered. “Head Master put his foot down.”

“Form yourselves into three groups according to those grade levels. Do it now, people! You’re wasting daylight.”

In agreement with everyone else, Gordo and Whit quickly followed instructions, searching about for classmates and then joining their designated groups. Their oversight in not bringing proper kits to the first practice was soon forgotten; it was, apparently, a universal offense; no one else they met had brought any gear whatsoever.

§

Rugby practice was as rough and tumble an affair as Whit had feared it would be. Reeling from exhaustion, emblazoned with another layer of cuts and bruises, he and his teammates staggered from the field and collapsed on the sidelines, grasping for breath.

One of the assistant coaches, carrying a clipboard of roster sheets approached them and made a brief announcement.

“Take a breather, lads, you did well today. We’ll post our preliminary cuts tomorrow. Thank you for your efforts. If your name’s not the list, you can still try for another sport. We can’t take everyone; there’s only so many positions to be filled. There will be one additional cut before our final selections. I wouldn’t advise purchasing any gear until you’ve definitely been picked for the squad.”

“Thank God, that’s finally over, “ Whit said, turning toward Gordo after the coach left. “I’ve never felt so beat up in my life. I’m so tired that I’m not sure I can manage the walk home. One more scrum and I would have died on the spot.”

“Don’t let it get you too depressed, old boy. We’ll have another tryout in two or three days.”

“You may have another tryout, Gordo, but I’ll never survive the first cut. Of that much I’m certain. I was positively pathetic out there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’ll past through the first cut. You did fine, better than any of the other beginners, as well as me, in fact; and I’ve played rugby before. Both of us are going to make this team.”

That was not exactly the reassurance that Whit had welcomed. In addition to a new assortment of minor injuries, his clothing had been reduced to a rag-like bundle. He was certain that his mother would forbid him to continue in the sport. At least, that was the tenuous hope that sustained his spirits.

After a few moments, the group of battered players gathered themselves together, struggled to their feet, and began to leave.

“Are you coming home with me?” Gordo asked. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Elise, now,” he grinned.

“No, not in this condition. Tell her I’m sorry, but I never suspected that the afternoon would end this way.”

“Can I offer you a ride home? No troubles; it’s on the way. My father’s carriage is waiting on the edge of the campus.”

“No thank you, Gordo. I have a stop or two to make first. It’s an easier enough walk, even in my present, massacred state. Tomorrow, in school?”

“Yes, until then,” he replied, extending his hand for a rather formal handshake.

Reluctantly, he watched Gordo walk toward the front of the administration building. Under different circumstances, he might have accepted his offer, regardless of his shabby appearance, but he had seen his brother Walton sitting near the back entrance. He waved and walked over.

“What are you doing here? Not trying out for rugby, I hope.”

“Hello, Whit. No, I just came over to watch when I heard about the tryouts. I didn’t realize that you were coming out for the team. You look rather slaughtered like everyone else, but you did well out there. It’s encouraging that someone in the family is athletic.”

“That might be an overstatement, dear brother, but shall we walk home together?”

“Why not? Everything that happens must happen for a first time,” he replied.

§

They chose not to speak again during the twenty minute walk from the Hallerman campus to their home on the northern end of Wakefield Village. Marika greeted Walton with a brief hug and smile; for Whit, she summoned a Draconian scowl.

“Those clothes! Off. They’re furnace bound.”

At dinner, Whit waited until the soup had arrived before bursting forth with an excited, detailed description of the trampling he had received on the rugby pitch. Henry listened politely to his account, traces of a frown creeping over his features, mumbled a few inaudible words, and the matter, as far as he was concerned, cleared from the agenda, returned to his chicken noodle soup. Only Olivia seemed vaguely pleased that her older son had become a sportsmen; not so much, as Whit reflected on her reaction later, for his participation in a manly after-school activity, as the singular fact that both of her offspring had walked home together peacefully.

§

“It’s a damn shame we’ll have to wait so long before we can join the All Blacks and beat the living crap out of the Aussies,” Gordo exploded. His prediction of yesterday had been accurate; both boys had survived the first rugby cut according to the list of names posted on the bulletin board outside the gymnasium. Another tryout session had been scheduled for the following day.

“Now that you’ve dressed properly, I expect you’ll be coming home with me after school. I’ll wait for you by our carriage.”

“Gordo, was Elise annoyed that I didn’t come by yesterday?“

“Elise? How the devil should I know! Ask her yourself. I don’t read minds.”

And before Whit could comment, Gordo had hurried into the science building, and thereafter, in perfect symmetry with his behavior the day before, proceeded to ignore him until classes had ended.

§

At the final bell, Whit stuffed his pencils, notebook, and texts into the storage compartment beneath his desktop. Rugby tryouts would resume the next day, no minor event in a New Zealand school, and in consideration of the gravity the occasion deserved, no homework had been assigned to any of the grades from which team members would be chosen; all school supplies, therefore, could remain on campus.

Whit exited the building and walked toward the wide driveway fronting the landscaped campus. As promised, Gordo was waiting, slouching against a lamppost, a mischievous grin creasing his expression. His brother Bear was also in attendance, but the usual horse-drawn carriage he expected to see had been replaced with Avram St. Martins’ recently acquired, gleaming black Austin motorcar.

Avram was a small man, wiry in build, only an inch or two taller than his younger son. He was neatly dressed in a double-breasted grey tweet suit, white shirt and regimental striped ascot, an elegant homburg hat. His hair held more grey than Henry Downes’s, but his beard was shorter and spread across more cheek than his father’s goatee.

“How do you do, young man,” he began, though not offering his hand— apparently a greeting he presumably reserved for adults—as they climbed into the car. “I’m sorry I missed you the other day.” He looked over at Whit who had seized his arm rest in a firm grip as soon as he was seated and smiled. “You may relax, Master Downes. I’m not as accomplished a driver as our chauffeur, but I promise to drive slowly. I’ve never had an accident.”

“Not yet, anyway. The car is brand new,” Gordo laughed.

They followed a roundabout route away from Hallerman School, circumventing the village, driving northwest further into the countryside. The day was still warm, this late in the season, but cool, fragrant breezes from the flower-carpeted meadows brought welcome relief, and Whit, who had regarded the open seating with some apprehension, had come to appreciate the design.

“I know of your father, young man; he’s one of the most eminent scholars at the University. His field is linguistics, I believe?”

“Yes,” Whit replied, surprised that a wealthy industrialist like Avram would be familiar with his father’s relatively obscure speciality. “He’s interested in the semantics of comparative Germanic languages.”

“I assume, then, that you’re conversant with the results of his studies” Avram chuckled.

“No,” Whit stammered, while Gordo in the front passenger seat and Bear beside him laughed, “I’m just repeating what he told me. I know very little about his work.”

“I see. You’ll know more once you reach university. Plenty of time for that,” Avram said, trying to ease the boy’s discomfort.

“My mother teaches as well, at the Technical College. Mathematics.”

Avram nodded without comment, concentrating on the twisting road before them. It was not unusual for strangers to recognize his father’s illustrious academic reputation, Whit observed, but his mother Olivia was the greater achiever of the two. She was one of only a handful of women mathematicians in the world who had risen to stand amongst the leading authorities of her profession; she had been a fully tenured professor at the University of California. When the parameters of her speciality were taken into account, she probably had no peer, yet her husband received all the honors while she waited for a subordinate position. He should mention that fact to Elise, he decided, but casually, not as a topic of major concern.

Now they were passing through farmland, cultivated rows of fruit and vegetables, each homestead separated from its neighbors by birch woods and thickets of hickory.

“This is your second year at Hallerman?” Avram suddenly asked, abruptly ending the prevailing silence of their drive.

“Yes. We moved to Christchurch from San Francisco at the beginning of the last year. Have you been here long?” It was an obvious question to ask in response to his, even though Whit already knew the answer. He had begun to suspect the reason for their protracted ride: Avram was conducting an interview before giving permission that he be granted access to their home.

“As residents, yes, but we’ve operated our plant here for nearly a decade. During that time, I’ve visited periodically, but it’s a long trip: a week crossing the Atlantic, six days on a train from New York to Los Angeles, ten days across the Pacific. We plan to keep return trips, if necessary, to a minimum. It’s entirely possible that New Zealand will become our permanent home.”

They drove across a narrow bridge over a stream that dry weather had reduced to a trickle of water and turned at a railroad caution signal onto Clifton Road. Bramford Manor lie just ahead.

§

Once past the entrance, the crushed gravel road led through a wooded area toward the main house, concealed by the lush foliage. As they slowly approached, Avram steered the Austin along a circular drive and stopped before the front portico.

“You’re very late,” Miriam shouted, running out the front door, followed by Rebecca, Gentry, and another servant dressed in livery.

“We took a scenic route,” Avram explained.

“Guess what, Miriam,” Gordo shouted. “We’re going to make the rugby team. Well, we passed the first hurtle, at least, but I’m confident we’ll be picked after tomorrow’s tryout. Where’s Elise? Whit came here especially to see her.”

Whit lowered his head and thrust his hands in his pockets to hide his embarrassment.

“Elise is ill,” Rebecca said, “but I’m sure she’ll be disappointed to have missed you.”

“She’s sick a lot,” Miriam added.

“Hush, you,” Rebecca admonished.

“Never mind,” Gordo exclaimed. “Let’s have a bite and shoot some arrows before it gets too dark.”

§

After a quick snack of cookies and milk on the portico, Whit followed Miriam and her two brothers to the garage where the archery equipment was stored. Once there, Gordo bellowed out orders and assigned everyone a task: Bear, the smallest of the four, carried the arrows, and Miriam hoisted the bows. He left the heavy, canvass and wooden targets for himself and Whit to drag to the side of the house.

They spent the rest of the rapidly darkening afternoon hours practicing their marksmanship, competing with each other informally: no prize for the winner had been declared. It was Whit’s initiation into the sport, which gratefully he found less threatening than rugby.

“Is Elise all right?” he asked Gordo in a near whisper.

“She’s just having an off-day; she’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“Why is she ill so often?”

“Don’t listen to Miriam. She dramatizes everything that happens around here. She’s the worst source of information about anything You’ll see. Elise will be fine. Don’t worry about her; concentrate on the tryout tomorrow.”

Whit looked toward the house at a flickering light. Avram was standing on the front porch smoking a cigar, watching. They had lost track of time; it was almost dark.

“I’ll drive you home, Whitaker. Gordon and Bearworth will come along for the ride.”

“No, thank you, sir. It’s not far. I can walk.”

“Nonsense, I insist.”

He was about to protest when Gordo nudged him sharply in the ribs and nodded. His father obviously wanted to know where and how he lived.

As they were walking toward the Austin, Whit glanced up at the second floor. Elise was standing by the window. He wondered how long she had been there watching. He waved, and she waved back; then she smiled and left.

Much later, Whit lie in bed and tried to follow his friend’s advice that he concentrate on the coming ordeal on the rugby pitch, but each time those thoughts vanished and were replaced by his memory of Elise watching him.