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

a thing. It's Friday, October eighth, nineteen sixty three. The big headlines were that President Kennedy was visiting an Ethiopian Emperor named Haile Selassie, the Dodgers beat the Yankees in four straight games to win the Series and Willie Mays was going to play baseball for the Giants and make one hundred thousand dollars this year. There wasn't a single mention anywhere of a miniature Mohawk warrior beating the bejeebers out of four heavyweights in a split second without raising a sweat. A Negroe athlete, even as fine as Willie Mays, getting a hundred grand a year to play baseball was tough enough to believe in this day and age. There was still good magick in the world of men.

“Are you okay?” John asked. “I’d like to take you home and have a little talk with your grandparents about this. We have to see about teaching you some basic self defense. Running’s a good strategy, but what do you do when there’s no place to run?”

“You’ll teach me how to fight like that?” he asked incredulously and pointing back at their urban battle ground.

“Sure. You're not thinking of becoming a bully or anything, are you?” John said. “Those were pretty basic moves for the most part. The real trick is to be able to do them fast enough and with enough power to only have to do them once.”

"Where do you get that kind of power from?" he asked.

"Everywhere. Even from your opponents," John replied.

“If Grandma says okay,” he said, “I’ll do anything you say.”

“That will be the point,” John said stopping to face him. “If I agree to train you, you must agree to do anything I tell you, when I tell you. If I tell you to punch through a brick, I want you to punch through it like you only have one chance.”

“You’re going to tell me to punch bricks with all my might?” he asked. “I might be safer just getting beat up a little.”

“Not yet,” John said smiling, “but the time will come when we have you built up and trained to it. If I were to tell you to punch through anything, it will be because I am absolutely sure that you can. You don’t think I’d just let you hurt yourself, do you? ”

“No,” he said. “I’ve just never heard of such a thing. I’ve seen judo once on TV, but it was nothing like what you just did. I never even seen what you did.”

“It’s called ‘karate,’” John said. “I learned it in Okinawa when I was in the service. In it, you learn to use your whole body and mind as a weapon. Hands, feet, elbows, knees and even your head.”

“Isn’t kicking somebody ‘dirty fighting’?” he asked.

“Almost as dirty as outnumbering and jumping on one poor skinny kid, I would say,” John said, matter-of-factly. “I can’t think of any really nice way to hurt people, so if they don’t try to hurt me, I leave them alone. That is the honorable way to live. If they are so messed up where they want to hurt someone for fun or profit, who’s to say I messed them up worse than they already were. When those gonzos back there wake up, how much respect do you think they will have for the next little person who walks by?”

“I thought we’d be goners by now,” he admitted. “I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things I thought in the past few minutes. I think they will too.”

“See, you’re learning already,” John said, punching him playfully, “That’s what I like about you, kid. The thing is, when they wake up, they will say I hit them when they weren't looking, or used dirty tactics or any number of excuses. There is never any glory in fighting. Which is why we'll do as little of it as we can get away with.”

Big John and Little John, and nobody knew how big Little John really was. He felt as giddy as if he had just heard the biggest joke of the century. This was better than reading the best issue of Batman he had ever seen. Nobody could ever imagine what this quiet, kind and friendly little man was capable of, and if Grandma was up to her usual form, he was certain that she would allow him to become privy to this special secret. She just had this way of knowing impossible things. If this was what would come of walking John’s Good Red Road, he was going to plant his big clumsy feet firmly in the middle of it.

There was a moment when he thought she might veto the whole program. Grandma didn’t want him solving his problems with his fists, but with his brains. John Little Fox agreed, but said the option to do either should be open, or his brains would likely get spilled out onto the street. She looked at them both, long and hard. Even she couldn’t deny that the little Mohawk warrior wasn’t firstly and foremost a man of peace. Everything about the quiet and confident way John carried himself and conducted his business pointed to his deep desire to live at harmony with all his neighbors as much as was possible, and a little more besides. This was no braggart or show off. Truth told, the man went out of his way to avoid any confrontational behavior.

"Okay, boys," she agreed, "but if I hear of any fighting at all, I first want to hear about everything you did to avoid it. Om biggun tu?"

"Tiggum, Grandma," he replied. "We understand. John was telling me that very thing on the way home."

"What's a 'tiggum?'" John asked.

"It's Irish. It means 'I understand,'" he replied. "Sometimes we speak Irish at home."

"I didn't know that Irish people had any other language than English," John said.

"When the British took over our island," he explained, "they made it illegal to speak our own language or practice our own customs or culture. Everybody had to become Englishmen, or be hanged. So a lot of us practice our own language and customs where the bloody British never see or hear it."

"Hmmm. Where have I heard that story before?" John said, remembering his own tribal history. "Even without the Indian blood, we've got a lot in common."

"So, how come you've got blue eyes?" he asked.

"There's some Irish in the family a few generations back," John replied. "We were never sure if he was attracted to our women or the game of lacrosse."

"What's lacrosse?" he asked.

"It's a game where we run around, tossing a ball and catching it with sticks," John explained, "and if the other guy gets too close, we get to hit him with the stick. Rough sport."

"I can see the attraction," he quipped, "but with Irish women, you still might get hit with the sticks anyways. We call them shillelaghs."

“The women, or the sticks?” John asked.

“Let’s not let my grandmother hear this,” he replied, trying hard to stifle a laugh.
The Sidhe Contingent

By ancient decree crossovers into the plane of Abred by the Sidhe were not allowed. However the matter of blood kin and hereditary political bonds made this a questionable matter. Since events rarely favored the fair folk in the dealings with humankind, such circumstances were kept, understandably to a minimum by all concerned. Even so, Master Shabriri and Elder Shan would keep their intrusion minimal in nature by conducting the boy's training out-of-body. Their crossing consisted of passing through a portal that connected to a mausoleum within the county the boy lived in. The Sheehan family had ancient ties to the Sidhe and the crypt had been kept free of family remains for well over a century. If anyone had visited the sealed tomb, they might well question why the dead might have use for the large old mirror on the far wall. It was through this mirror the Master and Elder Sidhe prepared to step fully and physically into the earthly plane of Abred.

The ancient, rune carved mirror turned black as the depths of space itself as the dust laden air was sucked violently out of the sealed stone crypt. Then, as though a window had been opened into a bright summer morning, the sweet air and light of Gwynvyd refreshed the vaulted room as Master and Elder stepped through its portal.

A full seven feet tall, Master Shabriri loomed into the room, his crimson traveling cloak billowing in his wake. Pulling back his cowl, revealed his pale blond hair and brass colored eyes which accented his ruddy complexion. The sharp, upswept facial features common to his race, along with his high pointed ears made him devilishly handsome by Sidhe standards. He swept through the crypt examining the plaques labeling the individual crypts that housed the supplies they would need for their extended stay.

The second of the pair, Elder Shan stepped through the portal glancing quickly about. About six inches shorter of stature than the Master, he cut a no less imposing figure. Noting the Master's cowl was down, this meant that conversation was allowed and he dropped his own to speak. Snowy, fine white hair accented large violet eyes with high arching brows, his rich tenor voice broke the