quite sure it will teach behaviour more wanting of less punishment."
Beggar's son: "With great respect, sir, it is such times as these that I am glad my calling of beggar. For sad to say but I have not the sight or courage to be teacher, punisher, judge, jury, philosopher, lawyer, executioner and know what is taught and what is punished. To move resolutely and without compromise through the wearing of each hat; always maintaining the stern face of fairness before such young wide eyes.
Big Nose: (lowering his stick and taking a less wide stance of nostril). You are right there, fellow. A School Master has a hard task and yet at times must be hard to the task. I call teaching the art of filling empty bowls. But like any bowl it must be cleansed from time to time; what better way then a little scraping with a stick? To empty it of any foul or crusted decay that may dictate or even corrupt the new addition of worthier fare.
Beggar's son: A mild scraping most call a thing of sound health; a battering most call a madman's waste unless one seeks to eat the fragments of the bowl. But, pray, give sirs, a slight alm to my curious nature and tell the horrendous doings of youth which boldly beg for ungentle correction?
Big Nose: Why, is your aim to judge the judge? This school revolves around my unquestionably sphere. What respect would fall from my satellite eyes were I to be seen mocked in the streets by ignorant prods of wrapped rags?
Beggar: Ah, fear of nothing, I have neither the hands of the law nor the tongue of a priest. My bite is wrapped all in a gag of ragged complexion; a mongrel come sit and cant his head before the Master's doings. No boy will harbour less respect of your stature, should you bend and offhand a gesture of keen violence to a stray dog. For even those above School Masters keep pets for their amusement and our recognition of their dominance as humans. For who among the beggars would not envy the well fed tiger or bejewelled elephant? That these brutes lie so close to benevolence and are given thus solely because of their noble nature. So regal that they need not demand; merely accept. Woe to any beggars, any destitute that may carry such airs. What is paraded in brutes is dispelled with vengeance in rags of gatherings. That is the irony of tyranny: to tremble before glaring eyes from heaps while stroking the fur of panthers.
But a Master is a master of himself as well as others. He will allow no doubt to check his stretching hand. He fears not to smooth a rumbling beggar's matted brow. For what can the beggar or cur or tiger tear from the Master's mind?
Years schooled in the arts of respect and wisdom cannot be overturned like one wheeled carts weaving haphazard through destiny. A Master's mind is a chariot. He fears not its unattendance in any hovel street. No one would dare take upon themselves the reins of its surge of steeds; power harnessed only to the delicate tough of a Master's will. Any less than this would find themselves either unmoved or quickly flung out, cartwheeling into stalls of moulding cabbage.
No, only a school boy fears a question, only a tyrant, weak, outside his strong hands, fears the questioning loss of face. In fact, Masters, that is Masters of anything, gather questions about themselves as attentive cross-legged wide eyes followers. A Master loves his questions, as a Baker loves his yeast; for they freshen the stale daily bread.
Respect? Who would respect a Master who shirks this following; a Master who cowers in shadows and will not look out. But who has not looked upon a Master gathered tender but sure these sprouts of his plating; seen him delicately rearrange the branching to enhance the coming flower? He gingerly moves from one question to the other, sprinkling his answer to each down to its roots of ponder. Who cannot then respect the wise, courageous master who fears no loss of himself in the outpouring of his own mind?
Hence I come spilling the dust of yeast between us. Only the Master knows the heaviness of dough, the years of kneed, the warmth of enlightenment. These he lays upon the yeast. Together we create bread between us. Wisdom, the sustenance of minds.”
With that the Beggar's son stood silent. Waiting to see if the School Master had understood what he had said. If he had understood the very subtle challenge he had thrown at him. That men of fear shrink from questions. Men without fear need no questions. Men asking of questions need not fear.
Big Nose: “As a principal I agree, most men in need of knowledge are fearless in their want. Yet even great mouths are burnt upon the taste of truly fresh bread. Most prefer the cooler variety made more palatable by time and the passing through many other mouths. The common ways are filled with this recognition till all is mush scooped from bowl to bowl with only a faint smell of bread and this over powered by the bile of wretched offering.
One would think few could stomach these schools of weak bowelled philosophy. But alas these ladles of fearful thought are many; overcompensated for their meagre fare. Squinting before the truth, these teachers loom large before the dim gathered to their faces. It is a mirage, in reality, the gawkers are being overshadowed by ignorance; mercenary, insidious in its recital. Their music is blown of a wind without horn. Their word for politics is grovel. Their geography is of yellow maps; pointing to places they have not been. And the same said of their philosophy. Of law, they are as chained mules, they do not know why, only how far. Their mathematics is incalculable since they dare not choose sides, a sum of errors even less than the perfect nothing in their skulls. Here, too, their ethics drowns quickly, wrapped in a sewn bag of presumption. Only in history do they excel since their minds have only crept from it yesterday!
This school I head I steer not to be as such. There is none of ‘what we do not know we can mutter or mumble and hope it slips by’.
To teach one must learn. To learn one must do. Men do. Men labour. Men think. Men create. From the ranks of the doers, come betters. From the betters come a few chosen Masters. From there we plant the flower for each garden of thought here. But not forever, there is no lasting pension here for declining interest and lagging thought. After five years, the master returns as a doer to rehone his dusking wit and a new master is secured.
All this keeps fresh and keen to the appetite, the fare laid before our pupils.
I will not brag of the great many who have risen from our table and went out to great and glorious tasks. That is the way of others, Masters of Schools, though they have meagre results compared to our sum. I do not brag because it could be said that tradition now sends us the worthy and the worthy will ascent regardless the steps in nature. This is true 'cept for the rather weakening effect of diluted fare. Give a bad pupil to a bad teacher and failure is the bond of both. I dare say this school before you has failed with some of the worst but it has never ruined one of the good.
Which reminds me of your question. Before you are two of the worst. Though both are quick in their wit, they are slow to their nature. That is slow to change their nature. They have a failing to easily let angry words collect in their fists, then attempt to drive their points down each other's throats. Time after time in verbal tone I have cudgeled them that though this is a common method of negotiation, it is frowned upon in higher arenas of discussion. Why even in politics, where ethics is even deemed a side door entrance, physical tactics are given shun; though no doubt because liars are not only hard to corner but are generally cowardly and would therefore skirt this office should bloodshed come with the brass medal.1
Other arguments, too, have been tumbled upon their heads. That great men know the times of their calling; they do not waste their strengths battling over tiny trinkets that snap to disappointments within a day.
I have tried to tell them that combat should be only a well laid course of action. No good can arise when men or boys simply flare to any perceived intrusion or incendiary look. There are straw men who rustle much against changing winds. Dry and prickly to the touch are their hands and thoughts.
1. In this city, all noblemen, etc of the city wear a brass signia of their office on a chain.
In truth, though we call them of fiery temper, they are simply easily kindled by any approaching heat of fury or human warmth. They do n
ot fight for rightful space, they struggle for distance from everyone else. They are in a solitary feud against the world.
One of these boys appears forged of that temper. Push him and he sparks like an axe caressing the wheel.
The other boy is of another species of men. A needle that seeks these haystacks. Comrades with tiny daggers.Men who are only friends with another man’s pain.
Their works rarely seen but known well to the squirm of a haystack. These men with delicate persistent spears have found joy in torment; warmth in a blazing roar. Such narrow eyes these lizards, to find the crack in another man's glare. And then the rapid tongue flicks and tastes the buzzing seethe.
So these boys have found each other as mongoose and snake; dog and rabid bait. A deserving pair, some say, let them be. Like bitch and cur, a well made marriage that saves others a taste of misery. Let them continue this dance till it consummates in victory or passion's exhaust.
But I say, no, anger is a fever unwholesome to the soul if its source is unhealthy doings. As such it must be cleansed for the tormented to rise. The whip is a leech to draw the pestilence; a water spray on the backs of red eyed bulls to cool blackish brows.
It is
The Seven Days of Wander Page 29
