Ghost in the Roses

I hate writing reports. That’s what we’ve been practicing for weeks since the end of the orientation. The knight instructor, Sir Dima would set up a table with his game set of opposing armies of toy soldiers and have them battle each other out to shreds. It wouldn’t be so difficult if it wasn’t for other things going on.

The teacher would bring enchanted wood carvings of dragons, phoenixes, werewolves, or some other beings and throw them into their own bloodbath along with others. Even for toys, this role play can get gruesome and it’s hard to keep track of every move and detail.

He wants us to move on from practicing report writing and start teaching us battle plans and strategies, but there’s always a mistake that would piss him off and send him into a raging storm of tearing up our pages. I’m not sure if this madness is part of the program or if we are truly the sorriest bunch of shit faces he’s ever taught like he always says to us. Physical training isn’t much of a mental break either. It takes every ounce of my will to keep my muscle fibers from letting go.

Today, we’ve been permitted to start our next class in Manipulation of the Enchanted Craft. Sir Dima restrained himself from tearing apart our shitty reports and told us to get them out of his sight and get on our way to Madam Zinaida. She’s a non-knight instructor and her very different uniform is a giveaway to her rank here. Not a spot of white fabric.

“Hurry up and take your seat, you’ve got a lot to master in a matter of an hour,” she leans in with her hands pressed on a desk in front of her.

Right behind her, a huge blackboard stretches from one side of the wall to the other. Drawings of pieces of squares being folded step by step with a total of 32 follow one after another. The end result resembles a bird with sharp geometric edges.

“First, draw out the instructions I have posted on the board in your notebooks. Then, take out the reports you made earlier for Sir Dima and follow each step precisely. I want to see sharp edges. Pay attention to the detail,” her tone cues us that there's something on the line.

It takes me a few tries before she approves my collection of origami.

She nods with a smile and hands me a spanking brand-new piece of report paper, “Again.”

I keep on practicing to the sound of paper shuffling and fellow students grunting with frustrations when the edges didn’t line up perfectly. Every now and then, Madam’s ‘again’ randomly echoes in the room.

For a one-millionth time she checks her watch.“Alright!” she claps her hands.“Let’s take your new pets outside!”

We line up against the wall with our delicate masterpieces comfortably nesting in the palms of our hands and like the little baby birds ourselves, we follow the lead of Madam Zinaida to the front courts.

“Now, with a good throw into the air, release one of your reports!” our instructor commands as she demonstrates how it’s done.

With an untraceable change in the shapeshift, her piece of origami transforms into a pigeon and takes flight. With haste, it flutters away to make the delivery.

I do as I’m told and with luck, I can’t explain, it does the same. It must have been the smoothness in the edges that I tried so hard to keep that allowed the magic to unfold. Some of the cadets’ letters don't cooperate. Madam Zinaida isn’t very forgiving and shouts at the failed artists to go back into the classroom and get their shit together.

But the ones who are lucky like me are allowed to stay behind to witness our creations of paper being shut down by shooting a fountain of fire. The folded papers burn down and the sky begins to snow ash.

“Good. Now, defend your message. Your enemy will be watching for you to launch your report of the battle and will do whatever it takes to take it down. Your next job will be to do whatever it takes to make sure the letter reaches your superiors.”

Madam Zinaida’s hand points at a large display of varying weapons.

“Pick your weapon. That’s one of the few choices you’ll be allowed to make in this career,” she says, welcoming us to dig into the deathly feast.

My first pick is a bow and arrow.

“Again!” our teacher commands a second try.

I hesitate, knowing that the letters will only be slaughtered again. Others don’t and release their letters along with a counterattack. Using cannons looks like a good idea, but that causes only more problems. Our massages get caught by the friendly fire.

“Seize fire! Stop sending your reports!” I yell.

They do, but not out of some respect for an authority that I do not possess, but out of curiosity about what I have in mind.

The enemy keeps on firing. Where is it coming from? I pick out a pair of binoculars to help me see, then take one of my origami pieces. It’s not one of my reports. Just a blank decoy.

I throw it up and watch the horizon to see from which direction the fire is coming. Without suspecting anything, the blasts are released and my pigeon is shut down. But, at least I get a good look at our 'rivals’. They're non-manned and operate purely by mechanical senses. Now, I know my enemy.

I put down my reports to go find a new kind of 'message' to send. A stick of dynamite picks up my interest, so I tie the sparkling red stick to one of my arrows. Holding my breath, I aim at the distant base and release the tension of the string. My arrow flies away. Patiently, we wait for the results. My messenger does me proud; with an earth-shattering bang, it proudly lets everyone around know that it reached its goal. We all duck, as a row of cannons, ignite into a wall of fire.

Oops, I just blew up a few dozen of the school’s equipment. My back straightens, as I come out of my arms’ cover. There has to be hell to pay, but I dare to face the music as Madame Zinaida walks up to me. A punishment for this seems more than suitable, but instead of being yelled at, she nods with a smile.

“What are you waiting for?” she doesn't understand my concerned look. “Release your reports!”

Together we all release our reports cheering. A single aim from our side, allows our letters to disappear behind the sun’s blinding rays.