Poison Flowers (8 page)

She found little to change in the house proper. She had merely repacked her boxes, loaded them into her car and then unpacked again. The large living area now bore most of her books and what few mementos she possessed, making the place her own. Outside, she had taken advantage of a natural rise in the yard and constructed a type of meditation garden for herself. The project had occupied and excited her for the past several days and now it was done.

Sitting at her cramped desk in the newsroom, Marya let her thoughts drift to that special place of her own and allowed a soothing peace to overtake her. She imagined herself sitting on the square wooden platform, a platform painstakingly sanded and smoothed by her own hands. She mentally inhaled the sweet smoke of incense as the small ceremonial fire warmed her face. Wind chimes sounded in a soft breeze and the rustle of bamboo fronds voiced nearby.

A sudden slam against her desk brought her back to the present with cruel harshness.

“Brock, this is getting crazy. There’s no answer at his house. He hasn’t called in all day. What did he do, just take off for the Bahamas? Is he having some sort of midlife crisis? Did he go gaga over some younger woman?”

Ed stared at her with helpless frustration, his palms pressing into the piles of paperwork on her desk.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Ed. I haven’t heard or seen anything that would help you. I wish to goodness I had.” She shrugged her shoulders, eyeing him with helplessness.

“Well, move over to his desk and try to pick up some of his slack, will you? I’ll get the others to help too, but stuff is piling up at his station like you wouldn’t believe. When he does get back, you’d better bet he’s gonna catch hell from me.”

Mumbling under his breath, Ed moved toward his office.

Leaving her imaginary porch garden with some regret, Marya put away the catalogs and got back to work, moving across the way to Denton’s tidy desk area. If she was going to do double duty as copyeditor and reporter, she was going to need every second of the day.

Marya didn’t leave work until seven that evening when the last page of newsprint had been copy edited. She was beginning to worry about Denton. His e-mail box was overflowing; his computer was flashing with overdue messages the entire time she’d been on it. Marya didn’t know him that well, but she didn’t see him as the sort of irresponsible person who would take off without a word to anyone, leaving so many incomplete projects behind. He had seemed to her to be the levelheaded one in the office, the one who brought wild ideas into focus, who brought impossible story ideas back to reality. Taking a deep, needed breath as she climbed into her car, she hoped nothing had happened to him and that he would come back to work soon.

***

Driving along Collier Street, Marya took a right onto Route 17 which would take her toward the South Myrtle Beach area. Dorcas Wood having turned out to be such a prickly harridan, she felt she owed it to herself to check out some of the other martial art schools along the coast. She had seen several listed in the phone book and hoped she might find one she liked just as well, one whose master didn’t hate her.

An hour later her mouth and mind were curved into a bow of disappointment. One worn, unkempt school of karate had proven unacceptable. The art of karate was not her discipline, anyway. A more likely candidate had been a small t’ai chi ch’uan school, but she decided t’ai chi, the art of moving meditation, would have to wait until she mastered the highest taekwondo belt.

Master Wood’s, it seemed, was the only studio which adhered to the same martial art philosophy she did. She saw martial art training as a way of life, a path of self-improvement that must, pretty much, be traveled alone. Tournament competition was fine for some if that was what their own personal path encompassed, but it was not her way. She preferred the path of solitude, of quiet accomplishment under a master’s tutelage. Trophies meant nothing to her, and every studio she had entered thus far had displayed trophies indicating competition as a measure of their worth.

Why couldn’t Master Wood be more agreeable? Obviously she and Marya held to the same philosophy. The framed pictures in Dorry’s lobby had portrayed that same private path of personal growth that Marya believed in. Why did Dorry have to hate her so? She wondered about this hatred, especially as it related to her status as a master. Shouldn’t Dorry be past that type of tawdry emotion? Deep inside she recognized the fact that masters were as human as their students, but shouldn’t someone who had trained so long and hard that she had won a black belt of rank many times over be able to set aside her feelings and train her with equanimity?

Her outlook brightened suddenly. Of course she should! This was not her problem to deal with; this was something that Dorry needed to work through. Marya knew then that the right thing to do was to return to Master Wood’s
dojang
and work as hard as possible following her own path. Dorry would come to see her as an ally eventually—because she would prove herself to her.

Full of new purpose, she decided to turn around and go home. As she pulled to one side, her eye was caught by a large window advertisement featuring a
dobok
-wearing taekwondo artist executing a high sidekick. The neon sign above the building read
Barnes Taekwondo
in tall red letters. Seeing no trophies in the window, she decided to stop one last time.

A smiling man with a blond crew cut and wearing a white taekwondo tunic greeted her just inside the door.

“Can I help you, miss?” His tone was polite, but somehow she sensed sarcasm beneath his politeness.

“Yes, I’m interested in training in taekwondo. What type of programs do you offer?”

“How old is your son?” he asked, eyes examining her curiously.

“Oh, I don’t have a son. This is for me.”

He paused a long moment.

“Well, we have a six-week sign-up session just starting. It’s a hundred forty-nine dollars to join. Then if you want tournament training, sparring, like that, it’s an added sixty and you have to buy all your own gear.”

“I’m not interested in sparring,” she said when a lull fell in his dialogue.

He smiled widely, “I didn’t think so, but I’m supposed to tell that to everyone, even the women who come in. I suppose you’ll want to try the class for a week or so before you decide whether you want to sign up for the long course, right?”

His patronizing smirk was getting under her skin in a major way, and she could feel her cursed Irish temper getting the better of her.

“Look here, you cretin,” she said in a low voice, her tone steely but still under control. “I wouldn’t take your blasted class if you were the last school in a nuclear holocaust world. Your attitude toward women is appalling.”

Her voice had risen against her will, and an older man, a master wearing a dark blue
dobok
, appeared in the
dojang
entryway. He studied the situation for a moment, then spoke, his voice commanding. “Thomas, what is going on here?”

Thomas bowed his head and gestured respectfully to the master. “The lady is seeking instruction, sir!”

The master’s gaze traveled to her face, and his deep brown eyes impaled her. She bowed and extended her hand.

“Marya Brock, sir.”

He took her hand and returned her bow. “Fred Barnes. A pleasure to meet you.”

An awkward silence fell, then Barnes spoke. “You seek instruction in the way of hand and foot?”

“Yes, sir, but I am afraid our paths differ. I hope you will excuse my intrusion.”

She glared at Thomas and moved toward the door.

“Please, Miss Brock.” Barnes’s voice arrested her. “Forgive my student. Obviously he has had a poor teacher. It is simply this; not many females come through our
dojang
. Those who do are very young and do not usually stay. This has colored our perception of women in the martial art.”

She moved closer. “Then how do you explain a master such as Dorcas Wood? I mean, look what she has accomplished. She even has her own school.”

Barnes’s back stiffened noticeably, and he drew in a sharp breath of air. “You know Dorcas Wood?” His eyes studied her unmercifully. “How do you know her?”

Marya backed off, confused by his vehemence. “I was going to train under her but I…I wanted to see other schools first.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. Thomas watched his master cautiously, his mien unaccountably nervous.

“She is a good teacher,” Barnes said finally as he slowly opened his eyes. “You would do well in her school. Many women go there and are pleased by her method.”

Another long silence fell.

“Please excuse me now,” Barnes whispered. “I must…return to my class. Thomas, you will assist me.”

The two men left and Marya stood alone, thoroughly puzzled by the encounter.

Fortifying herself with the reminder that Master Wood’s antagonistic feelings toward her were not her problem, she approached The Way of Hand and Foot
dojang
Wednesday evening. She was nervous. It had been a long time since she had entered a new school, and she longed for the familiar, comforting faces of her old
dojang
. Making the best of the situation, she entered the lobby with her head held high.

She found the women’s changing room within minutes and slipped from her street clothes into her practice uniform. The feel of the soft, comfortable, very worn material centered her. She began to look forward to a good workout. Carrying her belt loosely in her hand, she bowed and stepped into the
dojang
, the carpet rough on her bare feet.

Several students, mostly lower belt ranks since they were the remnants of an earlier class, stood about the practice area. Many were stretching, others stood in small groups talking. She sought a deserted corner and after tying her belt around her waist, began stretching muscles that had been wearied by a day of sitting at a desk.

“Hi there. You’re new.”

A young woman had suddenly appeared before Marya. She was a brown belt, one ranking below Marya’s, and she carried herself with the self-confidence of an experienced student. She smiled and extended her hand, bowing in the traditional taekwondo manner. Marya returned the smile and with a bow, took her hand firmly in hers.

“I’m Marya Brock,” she told her, “from Seattle, Washington.”

“You’re a long way from home, Marya Brock,” the student said, her eyes twinkling with merriment. “Karen Jenkins, from right here in good old Schuyler Point.”

She released Marya’s hand and clasped her own hands behind her back, her legs spread in the relaxed stylized posture of the martial artist.

“So what brings you to the East Coast, Marya?”

Marya studied her, noting the glossy sleekness of her long, dark hair and the brightness of her gray eyes. She was very attractive. “Well, I guess I needed a change. And my parents live here.”

‘‘Oh, you’re living with them?”

“Yes. Well, I was, but I just moved into a new place a few weeks ago. It’s over on Begaman Cove.”

Karen nodded. “That must be near Master Wood’s house. She lives over there. Have you met her yet?” She studied Marya calmly.

“Yes, yes, I have, but…”

“Let’s line up, please!”

Marya jumped nervously as Dorry’s authoritative voice echoed across the
dojang
. She had entered the practice area from behind her, and chills jittered along Marya’s spine as she imagined those cold blue eyes raking across her back. Warily, she turned and caught Dorry’s gaze. The master was unreadable, her face impassive, her eyes icy as she glanced away to watch younger students scurry from the room.

Karen grasped her numb fingers and gave them a squeeze. “We’ll talk more later,” she whispered as she pulled Marya into line.

There were just eleven students in this high-ranking class. Because they were well-trained, they joined the line as though materializing from thin air. Marya glanced along the line, noting that most were close to her age except for one teenager who had already acquired his first belt.

“I see we have a new student. Karen, since it seems you have already met her, perhaps you would like to make the introductions,” Dorry said, her gaze resting on anything but Marya.

Karen stepped forward one pace. “I’d like to introduce Marya Brock from Seattle, Washington, sir!” she announced in a crisp voice.

She stepped back into line, and the whole class as one unit turned toward Marya and bowed in welcome. When Master Wood turned her eyes upon her, they were as cold as ever.

“Welcome to our
dojang
, Marya. We hope you will find balance and peace with us.”

Marya bowed, deliberately dropping her gaze to the floor. Though it was subtle, she knew Dorry would understand and accept the message. In class she would always be subservient to her. All their differences were to be forgotten once she passed inside the doors of the
dojang
. When she raised her head, she saw Dorry’s eyes soften in acceptance, then the master inclined her head in a small nod of understanding.

Classes under Master Wood were much the same as those in Seattle under Master Hayes, comprised mostly of powerful kicking and hand-arm strike exercises. They worked together well as a class. Marya was paired with Karen in tumbling and sparring work.

Later Dorry moved the entire class together in the
kebong
form. Marya was impressed with the quality of the students’ performance. Even the youngest and oldest of them moved through the graceful stylized defense moves with near-perfect form. Obviously Master Wood spent a lot of time and energy with her classes.

At the end of the ninety-minute workout Marya was winded, but her body was glowing with vitality. She smiled at Karen as they walked to the changing room together.

“That was a good class,” Marya told Karen as she slipped out of her uniform trousers and into a pair of sweatpants. “What type of master is she?”

“Master Wood? She’s a great teacher. I worry about her, though. She seems to have no life other than this school. I mean she’s here almost all the time.”