Mr. Hegek, perhaps recognizing he was not much larger than Mahrree, tried to look a little taller. “Well, none so far—”
She sharpened her glare. “When did the parents first hear about the new lessons?”
“Perhaps five or six weeks ago.” His stature slowly began to shrink.
“And how long have you been here, with the copies of those lessons?”
“Two weeks now,” he melted.
“And in that time no one has come for a copy? How many do you have?”
Mr. Hegek cleared his throat. “Forty. I believe.”
Mahrree gave him half of a genuine smile. “Certainly you can sacrifice one copy for me, then?”
“Look, Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . ?”
Time to represent the name properly, but likely not in the way Perrin intended.
“Shin,” she said as heavily as an army.
Mr. Hegek’s eyes grew big as he shriveled another two inches. “As in Captain Shin? High General Shin?”
Mahrree smiled fully, thoroughly enjoying the effect. “As in Mrs. Mahrree Shin, but yes, some connection there. You see, I taught in the past before my first baby was born, and I most likely will return to teaching again someday—”
She didn’t elaborate to say, In my home, teaching only my children.
“—and I merely want to know what to expect in the future. I also tutor ten boys.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Hegek said nervously. “For you, Mrs. Shin, I’m sure I can make an exception.” He rummaged around his desk for another moment, held up a finger in remembrance, and turned to a large crate next to his desk. He pulled up several thick documents. “Do you want the full version for parents, or the shortened version for the teachers?”
“Two versions?” Mahrree stared wide-eyed at the volume of papers involved for one year’s planning of school. She could usually keep all that she was going to do with her students summarized on two sheets of parchment.
Mr. Hegek shrugged apologetically.
Mahrree sighed. “I’m feeling ambitious. Give me the full version.” Why the parents received a larger version than the teachers made her intensely suspicious.
Mr. Hegek smiled as he handed it to her. “It’s really quite progressive, as you can see. Lots of pages.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said dubiously as she eyed the document stamped on thin papers. “And as everyone knows, volume certainly must connote quality, therefore progressiveness.”
He beamed in agreement.
She groaned to herself, rapidly losing faith in the Administrators’ man who didn’t notice her sarcasm. “And what have you thought of it so far?” she asked as she thumbed through the dense text.
“Uh, well, I uh . . .” he stammered.
Mahrree looked up at him critically.
“I, uh, haven’t read it all yet,” he confessed. “Quite a bit to do around here reorganizing all the schools, you see . . .”
“I guess that’s why you have the Weeding Break, right? To catch up on all this light reading?”
He coughed a tense laugh. “Yes, of course.”
Mahrree nodded. “How about I read through it and bring you a report in a few weeks? Give you a head start on the project.”
Mr. Hegek gave her a real smile. “That would be most welcome, Mrs. Shin. I’d appreciate hearing your reaction to the new lessons.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Mahrree sat down the next afternoon when her children were napping, filled with eager anticipation to begin studying the thick stack of papers.
She got as far as page three before she fell asleep.
And she wasn’t even that tired.
That evening she asked Perrin to read it without telling him about her failure to endure all sixty-two pages. He got to page two before he began rubbing his eyes and looking closer at the writing.
“What is this?” he exclaimed tossing it on the table. Then he picked it back up and began to read in his most official voice.
“‘Resolved: That the youngest children, youngest being those who turn six by the appropriate date established by the Director of Instruction or the local Director of School Regions, whichever authority is recognized at the date of inception of school during that present year, shall be taught in the methods and facts of numerals which designate values to assigned qualities, and the grouping of such numerals and the removal of such numerals.’”
He threw it on the table in disgust and gave her a look that demanded explanation.
She had one. It had taken her a few minutes when she first read it, then reread it. By her fifth attempt she began to understand.
“I think it means, ‘Six year-olds will learn how to add and subtract numbers.’”
Perrin picked up the papers again and read through the sentence with battling subjects once again. He slowly shook his head. “Then why not just say that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.” Mahrree sat down across from him. “You speak Idumean, don’t you? Skip to page three, at the bottom. That one’s by far my favorite. Then again, that’s only as far as I’ve read,” she admitted.
Perrin turned the pages and cleared his throat. “I feel like I should be wearing a red coat and some ruffles . . . ah, here we go. ‘Resolved—’”
He stopped.
“What’s with this ‘resolved’ nonsense? All right, I know, I know—just read it. ‘Resolved: that the upper level students, those being students within the ages of fourteen and seventeen, including those that turn seventeen within the school year but have not yet completed the full educational program, therefore remaining in the school until it terminates for the school year—’”
Perrin paused to catch his breath and roll his eyes.
“‘—will be instructed in the memorization and commitment to the mind of facts—’ don’t those phrases mean the same thing?”
Mahrree nodded. “But you’ll never finish the sentence at this rate,” she pointed out.
He shrugged in acknowledgement. “‘—of facts concerning all matters of historical significance, whether real or perceived—’”
He raised his eyebrows at her.
She motioned for him to keep going and yawned dramatically.
He grinned and continued. “‘—whether real or perceived, but rather focusing on those matters more real such that the students may recall the issues committed to memory in a comprehensive and all encompassing—’”
He decided not to comment on that redundancy in an effort to finally get to the end of the sentence.
“‘—final test to determine their ability to progress from one age level to another, notwithstanding their age at the time of taking the final test.’ Whew! Explanation?”
Mahrree said in a bored tone, “Teens memorize the facts. Spit them out on a test. If they pass, they move on.”
Perrin skimmed through the sentence again. “Impressive. Should the ancient spy groups that the founders of Idumea created ever resurface, I can use you to break their codes.”
She smiled. “Try the next one. I’m sure you can figure it out. All you need to do is add about five extraneous words for each important one.”
Perrin chuckled. “Let’s see, ‘The practice of deliberating and analyzing issues to the extent of establishing conclusions, intended or accidental, shall, in the interest of maintaining efficiency and eliminating ambiguity, no longer be of necessity within the studies of various subjects, specifically those subjects addressing accepted historical essentials and acknowledged scientific developments.’”
He stopped and stared. “You thought I could figure that one out? I’m flattered. Can you give me a few minutes?”
“Of course. I’ll give you a hint if you want.”
“Not yet,” he said leaning over it as if it were a complicated math puzzle. “Let me see . . . ‘deliberating and analyzing issues’ . . . could mean . . . establishing conclusions . . . is this debating?”
“Very good! Now the next part.”
“Establishing conc
lusions, maintaining efficiency, eliminating ambiguity, well if they really wanted to eliminate ambiguity—” But he shook his head and continued, “‘no longer be of necessity . . .’”
He stopped.
“Whoa.”
He looked up at Mahrree with sudden understanding.
“Debates are not needed,” he said. “They take up too much time and confuse students.” He quickly looked down. “So no debates about history and science?” he asked incredulously.
“Hmm, you cracked that faster than I did.”
“I’m in the army, remember? Sometimes we use ambiguity in messages that have the remote chance of falling into the wrong hands. Or be read by nosy privates. Or Administrators,” he smiled ruefully. “My father and I have been sending each other messages about ‘the weather’ for years. But we’ve never used ambiguous verbiage this ambitiously. Ugh. Now I’m starting to sound like them.”
“Apparently all historical evidence has already been ‘accepted’ and needs no more interpretation, and all scientific developments are ‘acknowledged’ and need no more theories.”
Perrin stared at the sentence again as if trying to understand a mooing horse. “But this only applies to the upper aged students, right?” His eyebrows furrowed. “Or . . . is the sky always going to be blue in Edge?”
Mahrree shrugged. “I really don’t know. Still have fifty-nine more pages to go,” she said gloomily.
Perrin cringed. “You really don’t have to do this. You’re not teaching this, and no one’s asked you to read it.”
She sat up taller. “If I don’t read it, who will? No parents have expressed interest, yet. At all!” Her eyes turned stony with determination. “The poor director had a glazed look in his eyes when I asked what he thought of it. I hate to admit it, but he only seems like an overwhelmed and slightly clueless man. Not administrative at all. We might be able to work with him. He seemed quite grateful for my assistance.” She shook her head. “Perrin, if I don’t figure out what our children might have to eventually learn, who will?”
Perrin’s eyes softened as hers hardened. “That’s why I married you, isn’t it? Read it. Find out. We can ask Corporal Zenos to come by to watch the children and give you some uninterrupted time. You need to get to the bottom of this.”
Mahrree spent a couple of hours for the next several days staring at the baffling language, deciphering the ridiculously long sentences, and musing as to why nothing was plainly stated. Sometimes Jaytsy and Peto napped, other times Shem came by and took them for a walk so she could concentrate in silence. But sometimes it didn’t matter if she was undisturbed or not. The entire document was completely ludicrous.
So ludicrous that one afternoon she could no longer fight the urge anymore.
She wrote a third letter.
As per and in reference to the previously distributed documents detailing the declarations in educational developments—
She was sure someone among the skimmers might enjoy her attempt at writing like the Administrators. Their lives must be so dismal, so dull, so dreary.
—I am moved by concern and interest and a sense of duty to the children, offspring, and descendents of the world to express my thoughts and ideas about the aforementioned document.
Perhaps, she reasoned, if she wrote like them then someone might actually read it. Perhaps they simply couldn’t understand her previous letters, with her direct tone and manner of getting right to the point. They enjoyed repetition, redundancy, and the same thing said in different ways in order to make sure the reader got the message on at least one of the attempts to communicate the ideas so critical to express in very long sentences with many irrelevant and unnecessary additions.
Besides, after reading their writing, she couldn’t formulate a sentence that didn’t take up at least three lines of parchment.
I am compelled to suggest and propose that the guidelines detailing and delineating what children will be taught and instructed in Full School be written more concisely, precisely, and nicely.
It was as contagious as a stomach ache, and just as nauseating. She did feel better once it was all up and out, though.
---
Two men sat in a dark room of an unlit building.
“I see she got a copy of your ‘test,’” Brisack couldn’t help but snort. He tried to keep it in, but if he did he would have felt nauseated.
Mal was gripping the armrests of his chair before Brisack even finished reading it. “She’s mocking us!” the old man snarled.
“Not us,” Brisack pointed out. “But the Department of Instruction. Quite cleverly, too,” he grinned in appreciation. “Almost concisely, certainly precisely, and a bit saucily.” He bobbled his head, proud of his own construction.
Mal was not amused. “You can be replaced, you know.”
The doctor waved that out of the room. “Gadiman isn’t nearly as much fun as I am, and you know it.”
“How can you be so casual about this?!” Mal exploded. “Don’t you see? She’s getting it!”
Brisack leaned forward. “Wasn’t that the point? To see if she did? But she still may give up, just like others have. The Department of Instruction hasn’t received any other letters besides this one,” he shook it. “Hers is the first, and maybe the only one. Everyone else has dropped out of your little test, Nicko. They concede they’re too stupid to understand. Great victory for the Administrator of Education!”
“I don’t appreciate your cynical tone, Doctor.”
Brisack scoffed. “What kind of tone did you expect? It is rubbish! Even you declared it so. And we’re pushing this forward anyway. Every school in the world is affected simply because you wanted to teach a lesson to an insignificant teacher in Edge.”
Mal firmed his grip on the armrests, as if they were real arms. “I’m not that narrow. You know full well this is for the best for everyone. As I said, we’re drowning many cats in one well.”
“Well, this cat is still swimming,” Brisack said, slapping the letter down on a side table. “And what will you do if she makes it to the top?”
“We’ll wait to see if she does,” Mal hissed. “In the meantime, form letter number one goes back to her. In four weeks.”
---
Three days after Mahrree sent off her third letter, Shem took the children for her but returned earlier than she expected. In one arm was a sleeping Peto, and in the wagon he was pulling, a snoring Jaytsy.
Mahrree went out to the front garden to help him bring them in.
“How do you do that?” Mahrree whispered enviously as she took Peto from him.
He chuckled quietly as he scooped up Jaytsy and followed Mahrree into the house. They put the dozing children in their bedrooms and met again in the gathering room.
“Well, Zenos?” she demanded. “It’s mead, isn’t it? You get my babies drunk, don’t you?”
He groaned. “My secret’s out. Who told you, the barmaid at the inn your mother works for? One of your former students, is she? She looked deep into my eyes and said, ‘This is our little secret.’ But as my father said once, never trust a cross-eyed girl.”
Mahrree snorted at his stoically solemn face that didn’t even twitch. “Seriously, how do you do it?”
“Well, I simply think very sobering thoughts, then I—”
“Not your face!” Mahrree laughed. “I mean, get the children to fall asleep!”
Corporal Zenos shrugged. “Just run them ragged, Mrs. Shin. Just like I do with the boys each week.”
“Well, so do I,” she grumbled, “but it never works. I’m the one always ready for a nap and they have more energy than ever. But Shem, thank you.”
“Anytime, ma’am. I really do enjoy playing with them. I’ll be on my way, then—”
“You don’t have to go already, do you?” Mahrree said. “I’ve hit a particularly difficult passage and I could really use a break. Care for pie?”
Shem didn’t mean to, but he licked his lips.
Mahrree pointed
at his face. “I’ll take that as a yes! Sit down and relax a bit before you go back to the fort. I know you have the evening shift again.”
“I think I will,” he smiled as he pulled out a chair at the table. “Sometimes your children tire me out.”
“Only sometimes?” Mahrree grinned as she went to the kitchen. A few minutes later she came out with two plates of pie, and set the larger one before the corporal seated at the table. She sat down next to him as he thumbed through the thick document.
“May I borrow this when you’re done? Sometimes I have a hard time getting to sleep when I get off duty in the middle of the night.”
Mahrree scoffed. “Might as well. Puts me to sleep in the middle of the day.”
Shem took a big bite of pie and shook his head as he skimmed a page.
“Reads like the codes Poe told me he and the boys pass to each other during class. Usually about someone stinking like . . . well, never mind. This is odd,” he said, reading between bites. “If they mean, ‘All ages will learn to write coherently’, why don’t they write that coherently themselves?”
Mahrree leaned over to look at the passage he was referring to, and her mouth fell open. “How’d you figure that out so fast? That’s where I got stuck!”
Shem blushed. “Just . . . um . . . I don’t know,” he shrugged.
Mahrree looked at him hard. “Don’t dismiss yourself, Shem. You’re exceptionally bright. I see it in you all the time.”
He turned even redder and took another bite of pie.
Mahrree squinted at him. “Ever thought of going to Command School? You’d be an excellent officer. You could easily pass the entrance exam, I’m sure.”
“Oh, no, no . . .”
“If it’s a question of money, we could help you find a sponsor, and Perrin and I would love to—”
Shem shook his head vigorously. “Thank you, ma’am, but no thank you. I’m not officer material. And I could never bear to live in Idumea!”
“You are officer material, Zenos. My husband even said so, and he’s never wrong. It’d be for only three years, Shem. Two, if you pass the advanced intelligence exam, which shouldn’t be a problem for you. Then you could come back here and serve with Captain Shin. I’m sure my father-in-law could—”
Soldier at the Door (Forest at the Edge) Page 20
