Night Moves

would apply against an attacker, then putting the students into pairs to practice. There weren't any belts to denote rank, same as in most silat styles, but it was obvious after a few minutes who were the advanced students and who were the beginners.

This was her weakness, Toni knew. She'd had plenty of advanced training from her guru — as the Indonesians called their teachers — but she hadn't spent much time in group situations, either as a student or an instructor. Guru had always told her she needed to teach to get the full benefit of silat. She had only just begun that.

After about thirty minutes, Stewart put the advanced students into a series of controlled semi-free style match-ups. One student would be the attacker, the other the defender. He allowed the attackers to throw full power punches and kicks, but only to the chest or thigh, where a missed block would merely be painful instead of seriously damaging.

She watched as the current pair of students faced each other. The defender was a thin man with long black hair, the attacker a short and squat red-haired fellow. The thin man turned so his right side was toward the attacker, his feet wide in a deep, open stance; his left hand was high, by his face, the other hand low, to cover his groin.

Red tapped his right fist, to show that would be his attacking weapon. They stood about six feet apart, and they circled each other slowly.

Red lunged, shot a fist at the center of Thin's chest. Thin pivoted slightly, did a scoop block and a backfist with his right hand, then followed up with a grab and sapu, a sweep, that upended Red and put him on the floor.

Not bad.

Red came up, gave Thin a fist-in-the-palm salute, and they reversed roles.

Thin punched. Red ducked under the punch, put his right shoulder into Thin's belly, stepped through and biset, a heel-drag, and took Thin to the floor.

Not bad at all. These would be the two senior students, Toni guessed.

Stewart waved the students off. Then he looked at Toni. 'We have an American silat practitioner with us today, class. Perhaps she'd like to demonstrate how her style works?'

Toni smiled. She'd half expected this. Since she was in jeans and running shoes and a short-sleeved cotton pullover, she was dressed to move. 'Sure,' she said.

'Joseph, if you would?' Stewart nodded at Red. 'Joseph is my senior student.'

Toni nodded and gave Stewart, then Red, the fist-in-palm bow. Relaxed, hands low.

Red circled to her left. She did a back cross-step, turned to follow him.

Red lunged, bracing his right punch with his left hand, set up for the wipe if she blocked.

Toni dropped to the floor, caught Red in the belly with a short left-thrust kick, hooked her right foot behind his right knee, and thrust with her left again.

Red went over backward as Toni rolled up and did a heel scoop — a hackey-sack kick over his head, slapping it with her left hand to show the connection.

Red waited to see if she was done and, when she stepped back to show she was, came up with a big grin. 'Nice move!'

Stewart also wore a smile. Her move had been flashy, but it had worked against his senior student, so he ought to be impressed.

'Very good, Ms. Fiorella.'

'Toni, please, Guru.'

'Mightn't I ask if you would feel up to performing kembangan?'

Toni nodded. Of course. Kembangan was the 'flower dance' and, unlike forms or kata in most martial arts, was a spontaneous expression of a silat player's art, nothing prearranged. An expert never did the same form twice. Unlike buah, the full-speed and full-power dance, kembangan softened the moves, using the open hands more than fists, and turned the motions into a dance suitable for demonstrations, weddings, and social gatherings.

If you really wanted to see how good a silat player was, you watched them do kembangan. In the old days, when a fight was imminent but the contestants didn't want to maim or kill each other, they would sometimes offer each other kembangan instead of actual combat. Experts could recognize who would have won the fight by the skill they displayed during the dance, and there would be no need to come to blows. If you were defeated in kembangan, you apologized or made right whatever the problem was, and that was that. It would be dishonorable to continue against an opponent of much lesser skill, and foolish to challenge one who was obviously much better. Of course, the best dancers would sometimes deliberately put small errors into their routines to lull an opponent into thinking they were less skillful than they actually were. In kembangan competitions, only if the players considered each other to be of like abilities did the game progress to sweeps or strikes.

Toni took a deep breath, allowed it to escape softly. She made a full, formal bow to the guru, did another cleansing breath, then a third, and began.

There were days when you were off and days when you were on. Today, her flow was good, she felt the energy coursing through her, and she knew she could do a clean dance without major mistakes. Halfway through, she deliberately misstepped a hair, allowed her balance to drift slightly off before she recovered.

One did not wish to embarrass the guru in charge of a school one visited by being perfect. It might make him look bad in front of his students, and that was impolite.

A minute was enough. She finished the dance, bowed again. It was a great one, she knew, one of her best. Her guru would be proud.

The class broke into spontaneous applause.

Toni flushed, embarrassed.

Stewart smiled at her. 'Beautiful. An outstanding kembangan. Thank you… Guru.'

Toni gave him a short nod. He acknowledged her skill by calling her 'teacher.' And now she was curious. It was a bit forward, but she said, 'I would be pleased to enjoy your kembangan, Guru.'

The students went quiet. It wasn't a direct challenge, but there was a broad hint: I showed you mine, now show me yours.

He smiled wider. 'Of course.'

He offered her a formal bow, different than hers but similar in intent, cleared his wind and mind, and began. Stewart's best days would be behind him. At fifty, she knew he would be past his physical peak, on the downhill slide. That was the nature of human physiology. His knowledge might be greater, but his body would be half a step behind, and steadily, if slowly, losing ground. Her own guru had been amazing, but she'd been an old woman when Toni started, and there were places she could no longer go. Stewart was still in good shape to look at, and certainly better shape than most men his age, but he would have lost a couple of steps by now. She should have made a couple more mistakes in her dance, she thought.

With Stewart's first series of moves, Toni realized she was wrong.

If you play decent guitar and you see a tape of Segovia practicing, it makes you want to cry because you know you'll never be that good.

Stewart was the martial artist equivalent of Segovia.

Toni watched, mesmerized. The man moved as if he had no bones, as if he was a drop of hot oil rolling down a clean glass window — smooth, effortless, and utterly amazing. She had never seen anybody perform kembangan as well.

At about the same point in his dance as Toni had done, Stewart offered a bobble. His foot came down a hair crooked, he had to shift his weight hurriedly to recover.

Toni didn't buy it for a second. This man, who was old enough to be her father, would not make that kind of mistake. He'd given it to her, a gift, so she would not lose face.

She was thrilled. If push came to shove, Stewart was superior to her. He was the perfect opponent, the one