1853

Garbled shouts and thunderous hammering alerted Father Thomas the fight had moved indoors. He'd just begun to stand, but resettled when the headmistress' shrill screech sounded above the cacophony. She censured for a good time, using every name in the book not deemed untoward for a holy institution. Sudden silence, then stomping down the hall. Father Thomas sighed as his door was flung open.

"He's done it again, Father, and heaven help us if you don't kill him this time!"

Father Thomas restrained the laugh begging to be let loose as he beheld the red-faced woman and her disheveled bun. Rather heaven help the boys who incurred her wrath!

Father Thomas nodded demurely. "I'll deal with him."

The headmistress sniffed and closed the door a bit too hard on her way out.

Father Thomas assessed the boy who'd been dumped into his office. No vest, the shirt torn in two places and smudged all over. Pants wrinkled, lacking sufficient care. Expression emotionless.

Father Thomas met the boy's steely eyes, but as always he stared straight ahead, at attention with his hands behind his back. Father Thomas' eyes traveled to the rod propped up in the corner of his office. How many times had the boy been in here? How many times had he been chastised in word or body? Too many to count offhand.

Father Thomas drummed his fingers on the worn leather Bible on his desk as he was wont to do when troubled. Certainly he could thrash the boy again, as was his habit with chronic offenders. Usually it took not more than once for a boy to avoid his office, but this boy...He'd come here angry and he'd stayed angry.

Father Thomas stared at the faded gilded title embossed on the reverent tome and recited internally: "Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, and the rod of correction shall drive it away." Father Thomas' eyes flicked to the boy again as he stilled his palm on the Bible. He'd never actually seen the boy fight until today. A scuffle had drawn his attention outside his window and he turned in time to observe the bulk of the fracas. The boy may be sporting cuts and the beginnings of bruises, but he'd certainly held his own, and against a much larger foe.

Father Thomas rubbed a finger over the indentation of the title. The rod of correction certainly had its place, but hadn't the blessed Savior demonstrated patience and ingenuity while disciplining the twelve under his care? Time and again he corrected them and they became his loyal witnesses.

Father Thomas stood. "Come." He walked to the door and opened it.

The boy turned, his eyes narrowed warily. "Where?"

"Follow me." Father Thomas left the office and the boy dutifully caught up to him, pacing by his side. A few curious glances trailed them as they passed down the hall and out the front door. It was near noon, but several people still wandered the streets. Father Thomas halted in front of a livery stable.

"You don't want them to hear me?"

Father Thomas looked down at the boy. "Hear you?"

"You gonna horsewhip me? Don't want them to hear me scream?"

Father Thomas was taken aback. "No, boy, of course not. Wait here."

Father Thomas entered the stables. "Joe?"

"Over here!"

Father Thomas paced to the end of a row of stalls and looked in on a man bent double with horse's foot propped between his legs. "Hurt?"

"New shoes. What do you need?"

"Do you remember old Jabin? Father's tutor?"

Joe snorted. "How could I forget? I still got the scars."

"Is he still in town?"

"As far as I know. Over in the east district. He's got a school now, like you." A slight chuckle followed the last statement and Father Thomas smiled. Joe had never seen eye to eye with him about his professional choices.

Father Thomas headed back to the door. "Take care, Joe."

"You, too...Father," came the good-natured voice in the last stall.

Father Thomas was glad to see the boy had waited as ordered. He'd half expected him to take off after his assumption. The boy did glance at his right hand, but relaxed visibly when he saw it was empty. "Come," he said again. The boy paced next to him as before.

Father Thomas glanced down at the boy's tousled brown head, remembering when Sister Clare had appeared, making the boy wait in the hall while she discussed his case in the office. He'd seen how frazzled she was right away. Normally she had the patience of Job. She'd explained the boy's mother had abandoned her family some time back. The boy's father had come to hard times financially and with no way to support the boy had handed her his last savings even as she protested, leaving the boy in her care. He'd been at the orphanage only three months, but she practically begged Father Thomas to take him on, albeit couched in terms of the boy's need of a male in his life he could look up to. As it was, Father Thomas had only opened the school the year prior after the First Plenary Council of Baltimore had called for every parish in the country to set its sights on education. His may not have been the large city school they'd imagined, but he'd heeded the call in his own way, purchased a disused home, and begun a small boys' school. He'd needed students, and so took on the boy with the provision of the money he left behind. The boy could stay a few months before it ran out.

Father Thomas smiled ruefully and turned his eyes back to the road. The boy was intelligent. He may not have been vocal, but the results of his study were far above his peers. But study hadn't been enough to sate his anger; he loved his mouth and fists more. Father Thomas had thought the lad would easily change under his care and had felt perhaps a bit affronted the boy hadn't seen the kindness of his willing mentor and fallen in line.

Father Thomas nodded to himself. This boy would not change by being talked to. He was like Joe. Someone else could reach him. He needed to control his body before his mind would be open enough to deal with the pain in his soul.

Father Thomas saw the sign before the building, a large swirling red dragon. "Here," he said when they reached the porch. The boy gazed upwards at the sign. Father Thomas opened the door and stood aside. The boy walked tentatively forward and stepped through.

Father Thomas followed, taking in the exotic decoration and oriental influence. The boy looked around, eyes sharp and wide. A slight woman with almond eyes greeted them. "Welcome. May I help you?"

"I wish to speak to Jabin."

"Mr. Jabin is in a class."

"May we see?"

The women glanced curiously at the boy, but nodded. She led them to a small room, let them enter, then shut the door. The end of the room contained a glassless window and guttural cries issued from it. The boy walked to the window, instantly interested. Father Thomas followed him.

Several men stood with their backs to the walls of the larger room they gazed on. Two combatants challenged each other in the middle. Father Thomas named the stances, each familiar to him. As one combatant flipped the other, Father Thomas grinned at the boy's sharp intake of breath. He was mesmerized. When one finally became victor, pinning the other, they bowed to each other and separated. The victor nodded heartily. "Good. Good. That's all for today." The men filed out of the room; the victor stayed.

Father Thomas put his hand on the boy's shoulder and directed him to a door next to the window. They passed into the large room and the victor, an imposing man with dark hair, looked up at them. He cocked his head. "Yes?"

Father Thomas smiled. "Charles O'Grady."

The victor's eyes widened and he strode to Father Thomas, clapping his shoulder. "Little Charlie?"

Father Thomas nodded.

"Look at you! What is this getup?" The victor looked the father's dark robes up and down.

Father Thomas laughed. "My profession."

The victor shook his head. "Would never have expected it out of you."

Father Thomas shrugged his shoulders. This wasn't the time to tell his own story. He gestured to the boy. "I have a school and I think I might have a student for you."

The victor looked down on the boy and the boy seemed suddenly intimidated. "I don't teach many boys now."

"I can pay you."

The victor waved his hand dismissively. "If I accepted it, I might be damned." The victor leaned over to look in the boy's eyes. "What's your name?"

The boy swallowed, but met the gaze. "James...West."

"I'm Jabin." The victor held out his hand and the boy took it. Jabin shook his hand firmly, then let go and indicated to the middle of the room. "Fight me."

The boy looked alarmingly to Father Thomas. Father Thomas nodded his head towards Jabin. Flames sprang up in the boy's eyes. Father Thomas could guess he thought he'd been brought here to be pummeled by a professional. He stood tall and squared his shoulders. He stepped to the middle of the room and held his eleven year old fists up, scowling.

Jabin raised his eyebrows at Father Thomas. Father Thomas let the ghost of a smile play on his lips. Jabin stepped up to the boy, dwarfing his figure. He waited, but the boy did nothing, so he jabbed towards his head. The boy blocked the move and punched outward. Jabin easily caught the punch in his palm, but nodded approvingly. Jabin continued to punch and move across the room. The boy kept up with him and once or twice almost grazed him. Jabin moved faster, made his punches harder, still the boy kept with him. Then he spoke.

"You're angry. Anger won't help you win if it's not focused."

"I'm not angry," the boy growled.

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You are if I say you are."

"I'm not!" The boy lost it then, punching with abandon. Jabin met each blow and the boy didn't block like he had been. Jabin cuffed his shoulder and the boy went down. He groaned and put his hand to his injury. His eyes flashed at Father Thomas. "Just beat me and get it over with!"

Jabin wandered over to Father Thomas. "I see why you want him here," he muttered.

Father Thomas nodded. "Will you take him?"

Jabin glanced at the boy seething on the floor. "I will. How many times a week?"

"All the time."

Jabin raised his eyebrows a second time. "His studies?"

"Send him to the school during the day. Let him live here. And I will pay you."

Jabin's voice lowered further. "Laura died last year."

"I'm sorry."

"We never had children. Maybe he'll fill in. Is he an orphan?"

"Abandoned. I can't guarantee we won't see his father again."

Jabin nodded thoughtfully. "Then we'll do what we can until he returns. And you won't pay me." Father Thomas opened his mouth, but Jabin went on. "You can't tell me a priest makes enough to hand out his students to private tutors."

Jabin strode over to the boy. "On your feet, James West."

The boy stood, defiantly facing the Martial Arts instructor.

"Welcome to your new home."

The boy snapped his head to Father Thomas. "You're leaving me here?"

"You'll come to school, but Mr. Jabin is your caretaker now."

"I don't want to stay here."

"You don't get a choice."

"I'm not staying."

Father Thomas walked up to the boy and stared sternly down at him. "If you're a coward, return with me."

The boy's eyes lit up. "I'm not a coward!"

"You are if one slap on the shoulder makes you afraid to stay here."

"I'm not afraid."

"Then prove it. Stay here and let this man teach you."

The boy looked between the priest and the instructor. "Teach me?"

Father Thomas let slip the hint of smile. "Yes, boy. I didn't bring you here for him to beat you. And if you're brave enough, you'll stay behind when I walk out the door." Father Thomas turned and walked away, out of the large room, into the hall, and down the front steps. He strode through the street for several yards, then paused to look back. The boy was nowhere to be seen.