"First honors again?" His mother gaped incredulously at Melvin's report card. "This has to be the..."
"The fifth time so far," his father interjected boastfully. There wasn't a shred of surprise on his face, only that smug look he always had whenever his son brought home his report card. Melvin secretly loathed it.
"The fifth time!" his mother repeated. That was the other thing Melvin hated: His mother constantly repeating what his father interrupted her with, like a darned parrot. "Oh Melvin, your teacher must be so proud of you!" She hugged and kissed her son.
"And more importantly, so are we!" his father added, giving the navy-haired eight-year-old a pat on the head.
Melvin forced a smile. Then he retreated to his room, leaving his folks to gush about how intelligent he was. He remained there for the rest of the day, until suppertime, and after that he went outside to sit on the porch.
He took in his surroundings disinterestedly. Kids were running around in the street, chatting or chasing a ball or cheering from the sidelines. There were a lot of children in this particular city in Southland, named Valyn because of its location and history: nestled in a gap between two mountains, birthed from a handful of shacks surrounding a large inn. Melvin learned that bit of trivia from his history lessons back when he was five. He had an amazing memory, photographic really, and an intellect to match. He was a whiz kid, an egghead, the silent observer who noticed everything and everyone.
And maybe that was why he never played with the other children. He always felt separated from them. They didn't understand what he was talking about most of the time -- he read a lot and possessed a copious vocabulary -- and he wasn't into talking about girls or sports or chasing balls, or picking up fallen tree branches and imagining they were swords. It simply didn't interest him.
And there was also something else.
One of the boys playing ball ran up to Melvin. He was carrying the ball in the crook of his arm. "Hey, Melvin! Why don't you play with us?" The question was half curious, half antagonistic.
Melvin raised his violet eyes to the boy. "I don't want to," he said quietly.
"You never do," the boy countered, and quickly too, as that was Melvin's usual response. "You never want to. But we see you watching us. You always watch us. Every day," he added.
A girl ran up to the pair now. "Yeah Melvin, why don't you play with us?"
Melvin stood up with an impatient sigh. "Because," he started, "I don't want to." And then he went back inside his house.
* * *
"I just don't understand," Melvin told his mother as she tucked him into bed. "What's so interesting about playing ball? Or playing swordfights? That's all kids my age ever do!"
His mother smiled, amusement in her eyes. She kissed her son's cheek. "Sometimes silly things can be fun. You need to stop thinking so much, and just try them. You may have fun."
She blew out the candle on the nightstand, but Melvin hadn't run out of responses yet. "If I stop thinking, wouldn't that mean I'd be stupid? Only stupid people don't think." His statement held conviction, but also an air of doubt, and it seemed his mother sensed this. She smiled again.
"Just try it. Go play ball tomorrow. Or sword fighting. Maybe you'll have a talent for that, too." She blew out the candle and Melvin's bedroom fell into darkness.
"I don't think so," Melvin retorted.
* * *
At noontime the next day, Melvin's schoolhouse was consumed with noise as his classmates left their desks and inkpots for the meadows outside. It was time for a break in their studies. For once, Melvin was not disappointed about this. Something his teacher had said earlier was weighing on his mind.
"This week's history assignment will make the subject of the First War more personal for all of you. I want you to go back in your family's records, talk to relatives -- find out what your ancestor was doing at that time. You may not be able to find much, but some of you may turn up something interesting -- or surprising! On Monday, you will share your findings with the whole class."
Sharing with the whole class was not Melvin's cup of tea. He was one of the quietest students in the group. He had never spoken before an audience either. Just the thought of it made him nervous.
His eyes roamed the schoolyard. He needed something to take his mind off that horrid assignment. He spotted a group of boys trying to swat each other with play swords carved out of wood. One whacked another on the head, causing him to fall over. But the boy got up and good-naturedly rubbed his crown, laughing all the while. Melvin smirked. It all seemed so stupid....
"Hey Melvin, are you gonna play this time, or just watch?"
The voice startled Melvin. He turned to see the same boy from yesterday, the one carrying the ball. Now he held a wooden sword in his hand. Melvin eyed the sword.
"All right, I will," he agreed, and got up to join him.
"You have a sword?" the other boy asked.
Melvin shook his head.
"Then you can use mine." He handed his toy sword to Melvin, who took it and gave it a cursory glance before returning his gaze to the other boy.
"Then what will you use?" he asked pointedly.
The boy blinked at Melvin, his eyes wide. "Me?"
Melvin nodded. "Since I wanna fight you."
The crowd around them began to murmur. Someone came up and offered another wooden sword. Melvin watched his opponent grasp the fake blade. Then he turned back to Melvin. "All right. Let's go." He charged at Melvin, clumsily brandishing his mock weapon.
Melvin watched him carefully. He dodged the attack with ease, then whirled around and jabbed his opponent with his sword before the boy had a chance to turn around. "Got you," he said smoothly. He tried with all his might to suppress the proud, irreverent smile that was tugging at his lips.
The crowd was murmuring again, as Melvin's opponent rubbed his shoulder blade. "That was pretty good," he admitted.
"You don't do it right, you know," Melvin told him. "A sword is held like this." He demonstrated to everyone, grasping the toy sword at the hilt with his right hand. "You don't hold it like a club. It's not supposed to smack people on the head. It's supposed to stab them." He slashed at his opponent again, this time drawing an imaginary wound across his abdomen. "Like you're slicing something."
Melvin's opponent stared at him open-mouthed. "Man, who taught you that?"
The remark caught Melvin off guard. For once, he was unable to fire off a quick reply.
* * *
After school, Melvin told his mother about his experience in the schoolyard. They were in the kitchen, and she was washing dishes in a huge wooden basin. Melvin was pacing about the floor, beaming with joy. Yet he kept his voice level while he told his story; he didn't want to sound too silly. "So I taught them all a thing or two about sword fighting. And I never really played that before, and they played it all the time. But they weren't playing it right. So I showed them how," said Melvin. Darn it, there was that smugness again! It was really starting to irritate him, how it kept seeping into his conversations as of late. Since when was he such a braggart?
"See? Didn't I tell you?" his mother replied, briefly looking up from her work to watch her son. "You didn't think about it; you just went and tried it. And you liked it." She slid a large plate into the warm suds and began to scrub at it.
"But I did think," Melvin countered. "I explained it to them. Sword fighting is about timing. It's about the right moves. You have to think. You have to think quickly." He made a little leap and landed in what he thought was a pretty accurate sword fighting pose, his right arm outstretched, grasping an unseen blade. Then he caught himself. That was too silly. He glanced at his mother, who had been watching him with a very warm smile. At first Melvin felt embarrassed, and his face flushed. But then the thought of his history assignment wiped away all trace of shame. He hung his head. His mother saw this.
"What is it, darling?"
"Well... I have this history assignment," Melvin began, "where I have to find out what my ancestor was doing during the First War with the Evil Gods. But that's not the bad part. The bad part is that I have to say it in front of the whole class."
"Oh, I see," said Melvin's mother, an exaggerated note of sympathy in her voice. "Well, you might want to talk to your father about that. His family kept very detailed records of their history. I'm sure he'll be able to find something for you to talk about. But saying it in front of your class.... Don't worry about that so much. If you're really interested in what you're talking about, you won't be nervous. You'll be happy to share what you found out with them."
"I don't think so," Melvin responded blackly. "I'll probably be too scared to speak."
His mother let out a short laugh. "Don't be so sure! You said the same thing about sword fighting. And look how much you enjoyed it!"
Melvin's mouth opened to answer that, but again he had nothing to say. His mother made a very good point.
* * *
Later on, after dinner, Melvin was sorting through a stack of books in his parents' room, trying to scrounge up anything about his ancestor during the First War. "You know, I think your teacher gave you a very interesting assignment," his father had opined. "My family was very meticulous about recordkeeping. Do you know what that word means, meticulous?"
"Yeah dad, I know."
"Good, good. Smart boy. You should do fine."
The sun had long since set; Melvin's mother had supplied half a dozen lit candles so her son could read in the dark. "Call your father if you need any help," she told Melvin.
But it wouldn't be physical help that he would require. As Melvin's eyes took in passage after passage, page after page and book after book, a very revealing picture of his family's history was painted for him. There were lawyers, magicians, even a mayor in his bloodline. His little heart swelled with pride. He was impressed. What a glorious line of people he was descended from! But what of the ancestor during the First War? He kept reading determinedly. Then at last he found what his teacher had asked of him.
On the page was the image of a tall man with stunning musculature and a wild blue mane. He wore a simple cotton tunic, but was leaning against a massive broadsword. There was a cocky look in his eye, and his posture oozed more than just confidence. Beneath the illustration was a caption that read Dekar of Bound Kingdom.
Melvin was impressed again. He placed the open book on the floor and eagerly turned to a box of papers, rummaging through the contents, trying not to disturb the order in which they were placed. He went back through the dates until he reached the end, where the earliest records were kept. There among the yellowing parchment Melvin found some correspondence bearing the same name he saw in the book. He unfolded one letter and read it, his heart hammering with excitement at what kind of person this man had been.
"Yo Guy! Whats up. It was his Highness' birthday recently, and we held a feast at the castel. Man, I can't remember how much i drank. Something good must've hapened thogh, because when i woke up --"
Melvin dropped the letter. He could read no more. So that was Dekar of Bound Kingdom? That was his ancestor, a dull-witted young man who couldn't even spell so simple a word as castle? Who couldn't properly punctuate or capitalize? He sounded as stupid as Melvin's classmates and neighbors -- no, even worse! And was that what he did during the First War, drink and do things he couldn't remember? Dismayed, Melvin got up and stormed out of his parents' room and into his own, slamming the door. He flopped onto his bed, seething. He was related to an idiot, of all things! Him, a brilliant student! That couldn't be right.
"Dad ought to burn that stuff," he muttered bitterly. Who would want to remember being related to a moron?
There was a gentle knock at the door. "Son?" It was Melvin's father's voice. "What happened? What's wrong?"
"Nothing!" Melvin snapped. He buried his face in his pillow. He heard his bedroom door creak, then soft candlelight flooded the room. The next time his father spoke, his voice was closer.
"Now it certainly can't be nothing. Nobody gets mad over nothing. Why don't we talk about it?" Melvin felt a weight sink into his mattress.
Melvin sat up, his lips curved in a pout. "I -- we are related to a moron," he stated flatly.
There was a momentary look of confusion on his father's face, before the man began to chuckle. "Oh, I see. You read about Dekar of Bound, didn't you?"
"I wish I didn't," retorted Melvin.
"Now, don't speak so soon," his father chided him. "He was a great man."
Melvin exploded. "He couldn't even spell the word castle! He was dumb, dad!"
"Well.... Yeah, he wasn't the brightest candle in the cathedral," conceded his father, "but he was still a great man. What did you read about him?"
"Some letter he wrote to someone named Guy. It was all spelled wrong and talked about stupid stuff --"
"Guy, huh? Well you should know who that is from your studies. Guy from Tanbel, one of Maxim's warriors." Melvin's father gave him a wink.
Melvin was saucer-eyed. "What?! He knew Guy from Tanbel?"
His father nodded slowly. "Yeah, the two of them were friends. They met in Bound Kingdom, when they joined with Maxim to fight Gades for the first time."
Melvin was shocked to silence. His ancestor had fought Gades? He must've been very powerful. He must have been.... "Hey, that means he was a swordsman, right?"
His father nodded again. "Yeah. And a darn good one, too. He might have been the strongest man on earth. Or so the rumors said. Did you read the books? It was said he once lifted a bull out of a sinkhole in the sand, single handedly. And in Portravia, in Northland, they have a statue of him in the town square. He saved that town. It was overrun with monsters, right when Maxim and his team were getting ready to fly to Doom Island. Dekar of Bound fought them all off, on his own. He saved the town, and made it clear for Maxim to go up there and do what he had to do. And he saved Maxim before in Karlloon, on the Ustark continent in Northland, when the shrine there was collapsing. He took the fall while the others escaped. It was a miracle he survived. He was a great hero, even if he wasn't that smart. There are other virtues out there, son, besides a brilliant mind.
"And that's why my father, and my father's father, and his father, going all the way back, kept such good records," Melvin's father finished, his eyes smiling. "They were proud of their lineage. They were proud of who they came from."
For a moment, there was total quiescence. Melvin studied his father and noticed something unusual. For once, there was no smug smirk, no grin dripping arrogance, no braggadocio. Just pure happiness. A smile graced Melvin's face. He couldn't put it into words, but he understood now. He understood everything. "I guess I should be proud too, huh dad?"
His father smiled back at him, but said nothing, only ruffled his hair. "It's awfully late, you know. Better get some sleep. You can read more tomorrow." He got up and left the room, taking the candle with him, casting everything back into darkness.
And that's when Melvin realized exactly what he was going to tell his classmates.
* * *
"When I first read about my ancestor during the First War against the Mad Gods, I wasn't all that glad. He sounded.... Well, he didn't sound very smart. But what he didn't have in brains, he made up for with strength. My ancestor was the strongest man alive. He could defeat monsters with a single move -- he called it BlastMaster. He fought off tons of monsters all by himself! He even saved Sir Maxim a couple of times. And there's a statue of him in a faraway city called Portravia, because he saved it from monsters. After the First War, he returned to Bound Kingdom, where he trained the prince to use a sword. He went on different adventures to clear cities of monsters when they were overrun. My ancestor was a hero, and without him things would've been a lot different today. I think even Sir Maxim would agree."
Melvin's finished speech was hailed with applause.