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The day my father died, my mother hired his killer to teach us to use a sword. He was an odd man with short legs and long arms that, to a child's eyes, seemed to extend well past his knees as he paced back and forth in front of a line of children.
Most instructors would begin a pupil with a wooden stick or, perhaps, a small, dulled sword. Not my instructor. He taught us with real swords. They were heavy in my small hands and I was clumsy with the weight. My instructor said that if I ever intended to avenge my father, I would need to be strong and that wielding a too-heavy blade would bring about that day much faster.
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