As he passed the gymnasium on his way to the staff parking lot, he heard the rhythmic clack of wood on wood. Intrigued, he stopped by the door and saw her working with a handful of students.
Amihan was on a teacher exchange from the Philippines, and though their interactions had been brief, mostly polite nods and greetings in staff meetings, he’d found her demure and soft-spoken. The antithesis of the archetypal PE teacher. Really, she didn’t fit the usual mold. Still, he’d figured it would be an improvement over the endless rounds of dodgeball that typically filled the gym.
As he paused, he was surprised to hear a voice far different from the Amihan he knew. It was firm, directed, and punctuated the staccato strikes with the rhythmic insertion of commands. “Inhale. Strike. Exhale. Strike. Pivot left. Block. Step forward. Strike.” As they moved, it looked like a kata, only sharper and more fluid. The students followed every cue as if she were an army drill sergeant, bodies moving in tight unison, like a synchronized swimming team on land. As they continued to move, she mixed the directions with actual instruction. “Remember to move forward when you can. If your opponent is retreating, you are already winning. Don’t chase; flow. Keep breathing. Wait for the opportunity to strike. Victory comes from rhythm, not force.”
She had seen him then, lurking in her doorway like a shadow. A vampire dared to enter without permission. An invitation that she gave with a simple wave of one of her sticks. She pointed to the bleachers with the other, showing him where he could sit and watch. The remaining class took another half an hour, and Remi, hunger forgotten, had been enthralled.
When the students had left, she joined him, taking a seat to his left. His right side being taken by the stack of marking. She nodded at the pile, smiling politely. “Paperwork or penance?” she asked.
Remi smiled in return. “Both.”
Amihan nodded, not with humor as he’d expected, but with understanding.
As she sat, she slipped a long woven sash from her shoulder and folded it beside her on the bleacher. The motion tugged her sleeve just enough for Remi to notice some geometric ink on her upper arm. There were sharp lines and flowing patterns he didn’t recognize. He was instantly drawn to the tattoo. One of his guilty pleasures was watching tattoo shows on late night TV. He loved the art, and had even considered getting one himself, but he was terrified by the thought of the needles.
Not wanting to pry, he instead nodded toward the sash.
“Is that part of the training gear?” he asked.
Amihan glanced at it. “A sablay,” she said simply. “It’s from home. I’ve always worn it when training, especially others. The thought of leaving it home, where I’ve already left so much, was too painful. So I brought it. The kids here think it's cool, but it gives me a way to talk about where I'm from.”
“Which is?”
“Kalinga.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s where I got the batok.”
“Sorry?” Remi knew the place, but not the word. Amihan pointed at the ink, still visible on her upper arm. The tattoos Remi tried very hard not to stare at, though she had clearly noticed anyway.
Remi flushed. “I’m sorry, I really like tattoos.”
She smiled, a quiet spark in her eyes. “Me too.” She left it at that, and he didn’t push.
“I train until the world stops moving. You could mark until the same. I know how hard it is to be alone, so you are welcome to stay and mark as I finish up. Maybe then we can chat some more.” Having no objections, that's what he did. Remi had marked, as Amihan had trained. That first night had been hard, and he had barely gotten any marking done. The blur of sticks as she practiced her form was an enormous distraction.
When the world for her stopped spinning, and the sticks finally came to a halt, Remi had barely gotten through three papers. He also could no longer ignore the audible groan from his gut. Amihan was right; the company was nice, especially when eating. She had accepted his invitation to dinner; it was there that he learned about her kids. How she’d left them with her husband in order to pursue this “exchange opportunity,” hoping it might garner her a promotion at home. She missed her kids and had started the after-school Kali club to keep busy. It helped, she said, make her miss them less.
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As they prepared to leave the Raman place, to catch a few hours of sleep before they started the teacher-go-round again, she offered to have Remi join. “If you ever need to hit something that can’t file a complaint, Guro, come by.” Guro meant teacher in Tagalog, she’d told him, and it became a nickname she’d used for the rest of her time at the school.
He’d politely declined. She even suggested that the training might be good for his balance. Remi knew it wasn’t his physical balance she was talking about.
Again, he had politely declined, saying that someone who was in peak physical condition, like he was, didn’t really need the activity. They both ignored his rounding belly, and thankfully she even rewarded his joke with a smile. “Maybe next time?” She said it as an open-ended question rather than a statement. An open possibility for Remi to choose to take part.
They had parted, and Remi figured that would be it—a pleasant night with a colleague. Yet the next night he once again found himself in the gym, with his marking, as sticks whirred through the air. And the next night, and the next. The patterns changed, even for him. He got better at marking and did less watching, but he never joined. Amihan’s pattern remained constant. At the end of each training session, or the dinners that occasionally followed it, she would always ask, “Maybe next time?”
Remi could never consciously answer why he kept coming back. Maybe it was to share time with someone who also stayed late. Maybe it was something else.
There is a kernel of truth in all cliche, and in this case, all good things came to an end. Finally, her six-month exchange was over. The kids said a tearful goodbye, and Remi pretended to focus on his marking. Hoping he could mask the lump in his throat. He would miss Amihan.
On the last night, he watched her gather her gear, wipe down the gym floor, and turn off the gym lights. She would be on a plane home tomorrow to see her children, which made Remi thrilled for her. Yet that Monday would mark the return of Dodgeballs, and the end of late-night stick dancing, also made him incredibly sad.
He had offered to take her out for one last dinner, but she politely declined. She needed to pack and get to sleep to make the journey home. At the door they had paused; she locked up and gave Remi her keys to return to the office.
She had looked at him in that moment. “Guro, before I go, I want you to hear me.”
“Okay” had been his response. He’d felt awkward at the seriousness of her tone.
“Remember to breathe, Remi. It’s important. If you learned only one thing in our nights together, I hope it's that you understand the power of breath.”
Remi didn’t really know what to say. He had always been terrible at goodbyes. He murmured, “Sorry I never took you up on that lesson.”
Amihan’s mouth lifted at the corner. “I have a feeling that our paths will cross again, Guro. I’m not sure why, but I feel it. So maybe next time.” With that, she hugged him. An uncharacteristic physical gesture of affection for her. She had then turned right down the long hallway. Remi watched her retreating for a second, her back illuminated in the light, before he too turned—left, to the parking lot, and the routine of his life.
* * *
Apparently, Amihan had stayed late again. Remi was not sure how or why she was here, but he would be lying if he didn’t acknowledge how nice it was to see her standing there.
“Guro, it's finally time we had those lessons. You’ve got a job to do now, and so do I.” When she turned, the face that met him was not the strictly friendly one he’d expected. It was harder, more focused.
She strode towards him, sticks still crossed behind her back. “Lesson one is about balance.” She closed the distance between them lightning fast, but that was less shocking than the boot she planted directly to his chest.
Remi was lifted cleanly off his feet and came to the ground with a crash. His teeth slammed together with the impact, biting deep into the tip of his tongue. He felt his mouth fill with blood.
Suddenly she was above him, her face close to his own.
“If you can’t keep your footing, you’re dead, Guro. I can’t have that happen. My children can’t have that happen. So get up, and I will show you how to stand so that I can’t do that again.”
There have only been a few times in Remi’s life where he was actually speechless. This was one of them. He got to his feet without comment, taking only a second to spit the blood from his mouth. The splash of red on the white floor starkly contrasted.
“You stand like this.” She modeled a base, feet shoulder-width apart. Remi followed. She tapped his right leg with one of her sticks. “This is your lead foot, as you are right-handed. It matches your main weapon hand. It should be placed about half a step forward.” She slid the stick between his legs and looped it behind his right knee. She yanked forward, and Remi stumbled.
“Good, that's perfect. Now angle your toes out like this for stability.” Again, Remi followed, mimicking the 45-degree angle. Amihan continued, “Knees lightly bent, not locked.” She went to hook his leg with a stick again, but Remi had had just about enough of that. He sliced down with his own weapon, knocking hers to the side. He bent as instructed.
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Now put about sixty percent of your weight on the back leg and forty on the front. This will allow you to spring forward or backward instantly.” She modeled the lunge.
Remi rocked forward and backward, getting a feel for the movement.
“Spine upright but relaxed, hips square to the target, shoulders down, not raised.” Amihan raised her stick again, but saw Remi’s stick arm tense. She smiled gently and brought the sticks together, freeing her left hand. She gently set it on Remi’s shoulder. “Tension slows you, lower Guro.” He relaxed both into the stance and into their new dynamic.
“Last is engage the core,” she said. “Keep it firm enough to stop your body from swaying, tighten to absorb impact.” Remi did as instructed. “Now remember to breathe from your diaphragm—inhale from the nose, and exhale as I strike. The key to Kali is rhythm and balance, and the key to both of those is breathing. So remember to breathe, Remi.”
Remi managed a nod before she continued.
“I’m going to kick you again, Guro, and this time hopefully you will not fall over.”
It came as a shock to no one that Remi once again found himself on the ground, but at least this was more of a stumble and trip than a free fall and crash. He also managed not to bloody himself this time. And while his embarrassment stung less, his chest stung just the same.
“Better,” came her response, again from a position above him. “Again.”
Remi got up, and for the next hour, Amihan repeatedly sent him ass over teakettle, in order to teach him the balance that Remi struggled to find.
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