Witch Clan: Warriors!, John Stormm [books to read in your 20s female TXT] 📗

Shoulders shimmied, hips shook, feet stomped and bodies leapt and whirled in unified abandon as one by one the neighborhood kids joined in the circle dance.

"You'd think they would have forgotten how to do that dance since last year," Geraldine said. "I ain't seen 'em do it right since then."

"When did my kids learn that dance?" Mrs. Morales said. "We've only been here a month. I never even see them practice that one but they know it now!"

"It's something about Johnny," Geraldine's oldest daughter, Essie explained, "We own that record, and the kids can't dance like that unless Johnny's in his groove. Emma, your boy is just not natural for a white boy," Essie said laughing at the synchronized show being put on by the kids.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Emma replied, "though if I remember right, it was your sisters that taught him to dance."

"Oh, that kind of dancin' don't come from no teachin', " Geraldine declared, "He's got a gift like David dancin' before the Lord with all his might, an' he brings his mighty men in line with him!"

"Yeah, and the women too and it's a strange gift indeed, to come all wrapped up in a white boy," Essie said, as they fell into each other laughing.

John pondered the sight as the music came to its end and all the children looked at each other like they couldn't believe they pulled it off. Johnny resumed his formerly self conscious posture in the crowd and memories of dreams involving ancient people and stone circles crossed John's mind for review. There was a reason he was here.
Speak Softly And Carry A Big Stick

It had to happen. Summer had to end and Leona had to leave for her home. Not that fifth grade was all that bad. Johnny's grades were beginning to get him some recognition and a music teacher from the Eastman School of Music had shown up early in the year to introduce him to the idea of playing the trumpet. Piano would have been preferable, but there was no way that Grandma was going to be able to buy him a piano, and even if she could, there would be no place to put it. The trumpet would do just fine, besides he'd still get to learn how to read and play music. Then he wanted to write music of his own.

At ten years old, he was experiencing something of an artistic renaissance. When he wasn't doing bookwork, he was drawing relentlessly. Not just the usual young boy's super heroes and villains, but ideas and inventions. What he picked up in normal music class had him starting his own composition book, which was what got his music teacher to recommend him for the advanced music program. It wasn't that he was ignoring his book studies either. On library days he always came out with four or five books under his arm. Some stories and a good portion of various disciplines of science. His regular teacher thought he was losing his focus in class with his incessant doodling, but his grades remained at the top of his class. The only class he did not excel in was physical education. He was growing rapidly and couldn't seem to keep himself from tripping over his own feet.

At about five foot, seven inches tall, he was rail thin and his sharp, upswept facial features made him look like the world's tallest elf. His unruly blond hair and over large, almond shaped blue eyes would have easily landed him a role as Peter Pan in the school play, but instead, he played the Pied Piper of Hamlin. His ability to memorize lines and mimic characters made him such a natural, that when he took on his part, scolding the crooked mayor of Hamlin for cheating him, the boy playing the part almost backed off the stage in fear as Johnny advanced on him with eyes flashing angrily. This attention made him the butt of the school's rougher element, and more than twice a week Johnny was forced to run home. The school principal had talked with him and his grandmother about moving up and skipping a couple grades, but the idea of being put in with so many kids older and bigger than himself and trying to survive the negative attention was more stress than they were prepared to handle. He would stay put and deal with problems more his size and age range.

Winter had made an premature visit in October and Johnny had an early warning that he was due to be jumped after school and he had made a break from the other side of the school on the pretext of going to visit his music teacher. He ran downtown and circled his neighborhood wide so that he could enter it from a direction the bullies would not expect from him. Deep in the large pockets of his winter coat, he had brought the walkie talkies that John Little Fox had given him for his last birthday. Little John usually got home from work about the same time Johnny got home from school, and if his homework was finished, he would sometimes visit his older friend and they would talk on the CB radio. Johnny was hoping he could contact the Little Fox and let him know of his situation.

"Panther Boy to Little Fox, Panther Boy to Little Fox," he called on his set.

He had one walkie talkie up to his ear and the other he was talking through, trying to boost his range by pressing both talk buttons at once. A pair of brawny, and rough looking black men, he had never seen before had noticed him and were crossing the street towards him. They didn't look the least bit friendly. He was trying to decide whether he should start running all over again when they boxed him in a deserted store front.

"Gimme them radios, kid," one said through a face ravaged with pock marks and scars. Johnny didn't see much help in arguing and didn't want to think of what kind of damage those big arms and hands might do to him. He gave up his prized possessions, and the two brutes started to walk away with them.

About halfway down the block, a sudden movement caught his attention. John Little Fox was running up the street towards the two men, hell bent for leather as his grandfather would say. The little man never slowed, but shot out his arms into the midsections of the two hoodlums and used his momentum to shove them up against the wall with his fingers thrust painfully into the softer flesh of their bellies. They couldn't breathe, couldn't talk and were hesitant to make any moves while he had them held up thus.

"You want to give the boy his walkies back?" he asked them in a low tone of voice, laced with a double helping of menace.

The lout in his left hand offered up the pair of radios with a pained grunt, and John let them drop to their feet holding their guts, and accepted the units. As he turned to give the radios back to Johnny, two more men came to join the first two. Now four large men stood around them on the snowy sidewalk. Johnny was certain that this was his last day. He had been running since the last bell rung at school and still managed to get corralled by worse than he was running from. He knew everyone in this neighborhood, but he had no idea of where these thugs were from. He also had no idea of what to do. He was trying to quiet his panicking mind to generate some fear that might move them along, but as the smallest of the four towered over the two of them it would be a poor try at best. Things were threatening to get much worse.

"I'll take those radios, white man," said the biggest of the newcomers.

"Who are you calling a white man?" John asked in a low growl.

"How about I call you a dead one?" the goon replied snapping forth a switchblade knife.

"I fear no man," John said with a defiant gaze..

That just had to be about the corniest thing he had ever heard out of somebody who was about to be cut to ribbons by four big thugs. This would be it. He closed his eyes tightly and balled up his fists, hoping he might actually leave a mark on his murderers. A staccato flurry of sharp, bone breaking cracks followed by four dull thuds of bodies hitting pavement and snow banks and then silence reached his ears in the space of two seconds. Opening his eyes, John was still standing before him in that loose, easy, half crouch and looking about at his handiwork. The four big men were sprawled about the sidewalk like so much litter.

"Your grandmother said you were late home from school," John said. "Geraldine's boy, Henry, said you were giving the slip to some school punks. I came looking for you. I take it that these guys aren't from your school, and probably haven't been in school since before your time."

So small. So soft spoken. So deadly. Johnny was still struggling to believe his own eyes, but his eyes had never followed what had actually happened there. It was all over in scarcely a blink, and there they were, talking as if he was late for an appointment because he missed a bus or something. Four, full sized men taken down in seconds and the little giant who did it all, was talking to him like he had just offered to help carry a ladder. He had never, even in the most outlandish movie he had ever seen, even heard of such