by Trish Mercer
Mahrree looked at the brand new collection of blank paper, tightly bound and protected with a leather cover. Her own book. At least, it would be soon.
Joriana, who had left yesterday for Idumea with her husband and two fewer guards, had bought the beautiful book for her when she endured an arduous but highly distracting outing at the market with Hycymum, two toddlers, and a couple of long-suffering soldiers. When she handed the undoubtedly expensive gift to Mahrree, her eyes were damp.
“Whenever I was deeply troubled, Uncle Hogal told me to write about it. He said we don’t know what we’re thinking until we see it in our own writing. He gave me my first blank book right after my parents died and I realized I was expecting Perrin. I was actually surprised to see that Edge even carries something so fine,” she said as she ran her hand gingerly over the swirling patterns imprinted on the leather, the grooves darkened with inks.
“Oh, Mother Shin—I can’t accept this!” Mahrree had breathed, not daring to take the book. Nothing else in her house could be declared as fine, and less than one minute with either of her children would render it dismal. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“It will fit quite well in your extensive collection,” Joriana said with finality, nodding to their full bookshelves.
“But shouldn’t you keep it? I imagine you have plenty to write about.”
Joriana smiled sadly and held up two more, just like it. “You’re right—I do have a lot to write about. Mine will be dreary enough, so Mahrree, create something memorable!”
Last night she only fondled the cover, not daring to muss any pages.
“Just use it,” Perrin told her. “Really, my parents can afford it. They can afford a dozen of those.”
Mahrree squinted. “Just how much silver is paid to the High General anyway?”
He squinted back. “He’s paid in gold. And realize, that’s not a job I ever want—especially now—so you can stop your planning—”
“I don’t want you to have that job either! I’m only . . . curious.”
He glared at her, not entirely convinced that curiosity was all there was to it. “Enough to keep their house stocked and their servants well paid.”
“They have servants?” Mahrree exclaimed. “How big is their house?”
He shrugged dismissively. “Big enough to be garish. No one in their right mind would want it, including you.”
So early this morning Mahrree stoked the fire in the gathering room, dragged one of the stuffed chairs over to it, and settled down with her book next to a small table with a mug of water, ink, and quill to write something memorable.
After five minutes of staring, she realized it wasn’t that easy. Too many things were on her mind, all fighting to be recorded, then each suddenly deciding it didn’t want to be the first to blot the beautiful pages.
She was wasting time, and she hated that. Soon her children and husband would be waking, there’d be morning chores and she’d have to prepare for her After School Care boys. This afternoon they were heading to her old school’s orchard. Recently she noticed no one had picked the apples. Many were hanging heavy on the low branches, while others had dropped to the ground to feed whatever creatures stole them in the night.
At first, she was irate. Every year for decades the fruit was harvested by the students and sold in the market to fund the schools. Every student’s family used to help . . . but now?
Mahrree had tried to put her irritation in her apron pocket and decided to chalk up the neglect of the five school orchards to all of the recent Guarder nonsense.
So why was it that, when all of those problems had most directly affected her family, they were the only one still concerned about the school orchards?
Probably, she fumed, because the villagers knew the Administrators were now paying for the teachers and new, larger buildings. Just like the lessons that no parents worried about, the orchards were ignored because someone else was taking care of it.
Why do the work when someone else—and it didn’t seem to matter who—will do it for you?
Mahrree had already decided they’d harvest those apples this afternoon and give them to Director Hegek. They were “his” property now, after all, even though he likely didn’t realize it. The neighborhood school now belonged to the Administrators, and no one outside of the Shin household seemed to think that was yet another tragic turn of events.
Mahrree thought again of what Joriana had said about her own blank books, and decided that maybe she need to follow Hogal’s advice as well. The rich, thick pages would be darkened with her own frustrations, and while it seemed a poor way to treat such a treasure, nothing else came to her mind.
Since it seems that The Writings are actually the records of families and what they experienced, perhaps I too can create my own “Writings” on these pages given to me by my mother-in-law, Joriana Shin.
She smiled at the words. “Not a bad beginning,” she murmured, and continued on.
So much has happened this past year that I almost worry what more can occur. The year started quietly enough, until Weeding Season came bringing with it strange changes to the education of our children and a raid by the Guarders which resulted in tragic consequences, especially for Perrin’s great aunt and uncle, Tabbit and Hogal Densal.
It would have been worse though, I’m sure, had Corporal Shem Zenos not
Mahrree stopped.
Exactly how much should she say about Shem and their suspicions? It was barely over a week ago the two lieutenants were found dead, and Shem even volunteered himself to be interrogated by her father-in-law. Only an hour later an exasperated High General sent him out of the command tower. Perrin told Mahrree he had never seen his father so frustrated, nor had he seen Shem so relieved to be exonerated, again.
Two days after the attack, files and a letter came from Dr. Brisack. It seemed there had been a girl both lieutenants had pursued when they first arrived at Command School, one that played both of them before chasing after a graduating officer. There was bad blood between the two lieutenants which they chose not to reveal. Dr. Brisack personally apologizing for not recognizing the potential problems with the young officers and for allowing such ill-disciplined men to serve so closely to the High General.
Later Perrin told Mahrree over dinner, “I read the note from Brisack, thinking on the off chance that maybe . . .” He shrugged when he said that, and silently challenged her to see if she could finish the sentence.
It took her a minute. “If maybe . . . he was the one who sent you the warning a year and a half ago? About the twelve Guarders? How would he have known?”
Perrin shook his head quickly. “I know, I know. And the writing didn’t match, not one bit. It was ridiculous to even think it, but . . . Well, at least the mystery seems to be solved. The lieutenants did kill each other at the same time. Brisack confirmed he had seen a case of that before. Shem was so relieved that he practically danced out of the office.”
“So,” Mahrree sighed happily, “we can be absolutely sure we know the truth about Shem Zenos?”
Her husband only swallowed and went back to his dinner.
That’s why Mahrree stared now at her new book, wondering exactly what to write. Shem had been over the afternoon and evening before, staying with the children so that she could go with Perrin to do the final inspection of the new small fort in Moorland. She didn’t even think twice about leaving Jaytsy and Peto with him. The three of them were sound asleep together on the sofa when she and Perrin returned late last night. The sight of her children snuggled in Shem’s ample arms was so adorable that Mahrree committed it to memory.
“He really is the sweetest soldier ever, isn’t he?” she said to her husband, who merely sneered good-naturedly at her.
But still Mahrree was plagued with suspicion.
Was it really just coincidence that Shem noticed the Guarder raid first that Weeding Season? Or had he been watching for it? Just how much on Mahrree and Perrin’s side was he then? Was he more
now?
She tapped the feathered end of the quill on the paper.
Shem was theirs, she was sure of it.
She shrugged and started writing instead about High General Shin’s suggestion to put a simple log cattle fence at the edge of the forest to slow down the Guarders, and her husband’s dumbfounded reaction that he hadn’t thought of that himself. Yesterday he set two crews of soldiers to begin felling timbers along the river for the long beams.
Mahrree’s writing strayed into the Shins’ visit and the lieutenants’ deaths and—
She scribbled out the last two sentences she wrote.
“Oh, that’s smart,” she shook her head. “Yes, put down in writing that you suspect Shem Zenos to be something . . . else. That the lieutenants were something . . . else. Don’t even know if it’s the same ‘else’! Should this ever fall into the wrong hands . . . Sorry Shem, I simply lost my head for a few minutes.” She dropped her quill and folded her arms. “I wonder if the guides ever struggled with knowing what to reveal.”
Sadly she regarded the pages with too many dangerous words and knew there was only one thing to do. Cringing, she tore out the first two pages of her beautiful new book and threw them into the fireplace.
“Sorry, Mother Shin. Well, this is hardly a promising beginning,” she chuckled sadly. “Maybe this is why people don’t always keep their own writings. Whatever isn’t boastful is embarrassing, or shameful, or libelous. And if it’s none of those things, then it’s downright boring!”
She sighed loudly and looked over at her worn copy of The Writings on a shelf, wedged between other books. There were many incidences in their ancient history which were less-than-glorious, but certainly memorable. Maybe that really was the purpose of The Writings: to show not everything is charming, funny, and happy every day. She read the set-backs and failures of her ancestors so she could see how they endured those dark days to see the sun shine again. And it always did.
She shut the cover on her own bound pages, retrieved her copy of The Writings from the shelves, and sat back down.
How did their ancestors write about difficult things?
She opened the book to the saddest words in The Writings, the last warnings from Guide Hierum. She had hoped, when her mother gave her the copies of her family lines, that she would see she was descended from the Great Guide. But she wasn’t. Still, she admired him more than any other man who had lived. Her chest burned, either with the power of his last words or the dread of them. They always seemed timely, no matter what time she read them.
I warn you now that we cannot continue in the ways we are now. Our lives and existence on this world are not forever. An end will come.
In the arguing among our people I see the seeds of antipathy and apathy that will grow to destroy the world we are striving so hard to create. We’re drifting from the structure the Creator left us, and if we continue on this path our descendants will not be found faithful at the Last Day when the test ends. What we do today affects our children and their children. For their sakes, we can’t continue down this way you are planning. I know your secrets, and they will destroy us all. I beg you to abandon this!
You know as well as I do that the Last Day will find each one of us facing either the reward of Paradise to enjoy the company of our family and friends for the next one thousand years and beyond, or the misery of the Dark Deserts to endure the torture of knowing we failed to do His will.
When that Last Day comes, no one knows but our Creator, and its arrival will surprise those that fight against the Creator’s people.
On that day do not be one of those surprised to find yourself on the wrong side.
On that day do not find yourself with a blade in hand ready to charge your brother or sister.
On that day be one of the many standing with the guide, having seen the signs and recognizing what is coming.
Before the Last Day will be a land tremor more powerful than any ever experienced. It will awaken the largest mountain and change all that we know in the world. Those changes will bring famine, death, and desperation to the world. And that desperation will cause the world’s army to seek to destroy the faithful of the Creator.
Be among those faithful to the Creator!
Be among those standing firm for what you know, having not so quickly forgotten His words to us!
Be among those who see the marvelous deliverance from the enemy the Creator will send us! For He will send deliverance before He sends destruction to those who fight Him!
Don’t destroy His structure for our survival. What you’re planning to do will ruin—
There was more he was trying to say, but couldn’t. Mahrree read the account of those who rushed the Great Guide while he stood on a large rock to address the people who came to him demanding changes to their world. With knives and stones they attacked him, shoving him off the boulder, then stabbing and beating him as he cried out for understanding and faith in what they had learned not so long ago. They didn’t like his words, so they silenced them.
No one came to his aid. Everyone else fled in fear, hiding in caves to avoid the confrontation. It was the first violence their ancestors had ever experienced, and bravery wasn’t something they had yet learned. They hadn’t yet made the connection that faith and courage were opposite ends of the same stick.
Each man who attacked Guide Hierum had personally known the Creator, had sat at His feet and learned from Him. But they chose to ignore all His teachings, as if overtaken by the power of the Refuser, and wanted to destroy the man who tried to remind them.
But the Last Day, they had reasoned, would be thousands of years away. Now was the time to live the way they wanted to live. If necessary, they could apologize for any wrong-doing later. It would be easy to get forgiveness, they rationalized. After a slap on the hand for their disobedience, the Creator would surely allow them into Paradise. He said He truly loved them, so why would He deny them what they truly wanted?
The only witness to the horror was one of Guide Hierum’s assistants, Clewus, who eventually became the next guide. He was hiding silently and safely in a tree by Guide Hierum’s command. The assistant wept as he wrote the Great Guide’s last words and watched his death. It was the first murder, and it was the end of the gloriously perfect peace they had enjoyed for the six years they had existed in the world.
The men who attacked the guide created a secret order of oaths to control the most coveted piece of land they found. It was “eastward,” the only specifications The Writings gave to its location.
Mahrree was always intrigued by that. Didn’t that mean they used to live “westward”? Might their people actually have started in Terryp’s discovered land beyond the desert of Sands? Might that have been one of the amazing discoveries Terryp made that the king didn’t want known? The Writings were vague about the location of where the Creator had first placed them, and all of the other records kept from that time were destroyed in that fire so many years ago. So many details about their origins, gone forever.
Their ancestors had a better way of living, she was sure of it. But no one knew it now or even cared to rediscover it. There were hints and suggestions scattered all throughout The Writings, but no one bothered to put them all together. Mahrree frequently tried, as she did again that morning, but knew she was missing key pieces to an intriguing puzzle.
Perrin didn’t know any more than she did, and Rector Lunting actually skipped that section when he covered it a few weeks ago. Everyone always seemed more interested in what the “awakening” of Mt. Deceit might mean, so useless speculation was all that was discussed that Holy Day.
Mahrree occasionally wondered if Shem might have any insights about how their ancestors first lived. He was constantly surprising them with his understanding and knowledge. Among other things.
Her eyes traveled again to Guide Hierum’s warnings.
On that day do not be one of those surprised to find yourself on the wrong side. On that d
ay do not find yourself with a blade in hand ready to charge your brother or sister.
Right now it was obvious which side was the right side—opposite of the Guarders. But both sides, the army and the Guarders, held blades and charged each other. The only way someone could be “surprised” would be because they were sure they were on the Creator’s side, but weren’t.
That worried Mahrree.
What if they were already on the wrong side and didn’t recognize it? They certainly would be “surprised.” Guide Hierum had called “the world’s army” the enemy. But how could the Guarder side be the right one? They hadn’t “guarded” since they betrayed the last guide. All they did was terrorize.
“Perrin’s right,” she murmured. “A complicated math problem with too many unknowns and variables. Oh, how I hate those unknowns.”
She shook off the notion of doing math so early in the morning and instead continued reading about what happened to the first families.
After the Great Guide died, a large group followed the six men and their families “eastward” to the new city. New villages popped up around it, given designations based on the terrain—Sands, Grasses, Winds, Marsh, and Rivers.
But the original six rebellious men named their city after themselves. They called it Idumea, taking a letter of each of the six men’s names. Guide Clewus didn’t record those names, hoping that those who read The Writings many years later wouldn’t seek out those of similar names, either to take revenge or to take the oaths. The men of Idumea established rules, forcing settlers to hand over goods and nuggets of gold to secure their chosen plots and to ensure security from the six holders of the land.
Ironically, Mahrree often considered, the only ones at the time threatening violence were those six men and their associates. People were buying protection from their aggressors, handing over their gold and silver to make sure they wouldn’t come steal it later. Mahrree still puzzled over why so many first families agreed to such a manipulative system. It was exactly what the Great Guide was trying to warn them about: destroying the Creator’s order of government would ruin their prosperity. Perhaps the early families agreed to the extortion out of fear.
Or maybe from lack of faith.
“In either case,” she muttered sadly, “they were all cowards.”
Not all families moved eastward with the founders of Idumea, but eventually everyone found themselves in the city or the surrounding villages. And soon the influence, attitudes, and way of ‘business’ these six men created filled the entire world, despite the pleadings of Guide Clewus.
The land was meant for everyone, he tried to remind them, given freely from the Creator—just like the apples in the orchard that grew of their own accord and sat waiting for whoever needed them. The land wasn’t meant for people to horde and sell. That was the Refuser’s influence.
But no one listened to his words.
Today they still ignored those pleas, Mahrree realized. Guide Hierum died saying his words in vain. No one listened then, and no one lived the Creator’s way anymore now. Everything had a price. From a grain of wheat to the death of a man, the right amount of gold nuggets or slips of silver could secure it.
Mahrree felt a chill go through her, despite the heat coming from the fire. Always when she read that passage she felt a deep sense of loss. Their way of life was now considered only commerce. Even Mahrree gave a large bag of silver slips to the daughter of the widow who owned her house before her, so Mahrree could make sure no one else could lay claim to it.
On the one hand, she could see how it was considered fair. She gave pieces of something shiny taken from the ground in exchange for another piece of ground.
But on the other hand, it seemed peculiar.
The man who claimed that piece of land where her house stood decades before didn’t pay anyone for it. He just took it. Was it right that he should demand the widow to pay for it simply because he was the first one there?
And the family who owned the mine in Trades from which the gold nuggets and silver slips were cast didn’t make the nuggets or veins. They didn’t even find or dig them out. Their ancestors just claimed that piece of land, had other men and women labor to get the shiny bits out for them, and took the majority of the earnings for something they didn’t create, earn, or even pay for. It wasn’t destiny that they found that line of gold in the rock and laid claim to it all, but they acted as if somehow they were special. That was the way of the world, Mahrree sighed, as unfair and exploitive as it was.
And a gnawing in Mahrree’s heart said, This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.
Guide Hierum knew it, and Mahrree knew it too. But she didn’t know what to do about it.
She stared at the page, not really seeing it, but still pondering the pleas of Guide Clewus: this world was freely given, and meant to be freely shared. While all that she heard about Idumea, that it was the pinnacle of progress and achievement—except in Perrin’s eyes—there was no denying it: the city was founded by traitors and murderers who twisted the entire way of life the Creator established for them.
And, Mahrree suspected, Idumea was still run by traitors and murderers who ignored the Creator’s teachings. Maybe that’s why Perrin hated the city so much. He likely felt the evil that still lurked there, lying in disguise beneath every distinctive building and unique feature. The elaborate garb of the power-hungry kings was now replaced by the red coats and white ruffled shirts of twenty-three Administrators. Even evil can appear lovely in the right hat.
She shook off the thought, disappointed that she couldn’t think of any way else to honor or follow the early guides.
Except . . . maybe harvest neglected apples and give them away.
Mahrree noticed the water in her mug on the side table begin to tremble. She instinctively grabbed the sides of the table to steady it and glanced around the room. Some of the books stored loosely on the shelves began to shiver, and the floor beneath her chair rolled ever so slightly. She waited patiently, looking back again at the words in The Writings:
. . . a land tremor more powerful than ever experienced.
Tremors like this one happened at least once a season. Her family would sleep through this one, as would most of Edge. During Perrin’s first year, though, he always woke up when the ground shook, unaccustomed to the force and frequency of land tremors in the north. Idumea noticed the land shift only a couple of times a year. And in the far south of Flax and Waves, where Shem came from, land tremors were rarely felt.
But Mahrree never dove under the table like her husband and their favorite soldier did when the ground moved. She could tell from the outset just how bad each one would be. Her main concern right now was making sure her water didn’t slosh out and dampen any of her papers. The motion around her finally slowed, then stopped, without water spilling anywhere.
Mahrree smiled stiffly and patted The Writings. “Definitely not the Last Day yet, is it Guide Hierum.”
But in the back of her mind a sense of immediacy gripped her, just as it had when she read about the Last Day after Perrin had proposed to her more than three and a half years ago. The words were committed to her memory, despite her effort to not remember.
Before the Last Day even the aged of my people will strike terror in the deadened hearts of the fiercest soldiers.
On the Last Day those who have no power shall discover the greatest power is all around them.
On the Last Day those who stayed true to The Plan will be delivered as the destroyer comes.
And, even more tragically:
On that day be one of the many standing with the guide . . .
But there were no guides, not anymore.
And Mahrree didn’t know what to do with that terrible truth. Maybe it meant to stand by their words, to remain faithful to their memories—
She sighed. Why did the Creator allow the last guide to die at Mt. Deceit? Surely they still needed guidance, didn’t they? Why would the Creator sudde
nly decide, “I’ve said enough. Go figure out the rest on your own”?
They still needed guidance, and protection, and . . .
For some strange reason she found herself remembering the old, stooped man from last year, the one who caught Jaytsy as she ran past him at the village green, and patted Peto to sleep in a way she and Perrin could never replicate. His dark skin was faded, his curly gray hair was thinning, but there was something bright and lively and intense in his eyes. And he said . . . what was it? Something about the Creator preserving their family?
The ground shifted abruptly again, sloshing a bit of water on to Mahrree’s new book. Growling under her breath she snatched up Jaytsy’s dirty dress from yesterday, still lying on the floor, and quickly mopped up the spill.
“Will wrinkle the pages,” she mumbled in aggravation. “Only thing worse than complicated math problems are wrinkled pages!” She looked out her window and toward Mt. Deceit in the west, pretending her view wasn’t obscured by the Hershes’ house. “Any more little quivers and quakes this morning?” she asked crossly. “Because I have a few things to do today, and I’d like to get all of this trembling over with!”
The ground remained still for one minute, two, three.
Mahrree nodded. “Thank you,” she said curtly to the west, set her new and still empty book down where the pages could dry flat, and headed to the kitchen. It wasn’t the Last Day yet, so it was time to make breakfast.
As she pushed through the kitchen door, she tried to leave behind a new thought, bearing the distinct mark of coming from her father. Try as she might she couldn’t ignore the impression.
Just know, Mahrree, that the Last Day is not thousands of years away. It’s far sooner than you think.
And Mahrree, you are on the right side.
For now.
Mahrree stood in stunned silence for at least a minute until she heard the early morning whimpers of her son waking up.
---
There was one good thing about Barker, Mahrree decided that afternoon as she watched the dog plod along pulling the wagon containing her two children and a stack of ten slate boards. He was exceptionally mellow. Or ridiculously exhausted, she wasn’t sure which. But each day he lounged around as if he’d been up all night wandering the world.
Or meeting pretty little female dogs who didn’t get a good look at him in the daylight to realize he wasn’t much to pant after.
Whatever it was, Barker always seemed tired, which made him slow enough to not turn over the wagon which he dutifully pulled.
But there were times like this that Mahrree wished Barker could go just a tad faster. She had to catch up to her After School Care boys who charged ahead noisily on their way back to their schoolhouse. At least it was for now. The Administrators had already sent builders and wagons of bland block to begin construction on a new gray, dull, square building. Mahrree had refused to go see it.
She reached the school house grounds just in time. The orchard that filled the side property and surrounded Mr. Hegek’s office-shack was heavy with apples, and the boys were already snacking.
Mr. Hegek stood in the door of his shack, puzzled. When he saw Mahrree approach with Barker and her children, he smiled. “Ah, thought I was being overrun at first . . .” His face paled. “I heard rumors about an incident up at the fort?”
Mahrree smiled back. “Everything’s fine, Mr. Hegek.”
“It’s only that the word was that your in-laws—”
“—are now safely on their way back to Idumea. No threat to the village,” she said confidently and tried to change the subject before she got dragged into any more hearsay.
She often worried that maybe she accidentally started some in her conversations, but she was sure the village knew all about the incident last week from Hycymum and Joriana’s tour of the market.
“We’re here for one of our projects, Mr. Hegek. These apples used to be sold each Harvest Season, and the money went to improving our school house and purchasing supplies for the next year. The money from these apples will now go to you—”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said brightly. “Because all funding comes from the Administrators now!”
“And where do the Administrators get that funding?” she asked as sweetly as she could.
Hegek faltered. “Uh, I suppose they get the funding from careful management of gold and silver slips—”
“Taxes,” she cut him off, but kept her tone from going nasty. Almost too late she remembered that was how Hegek was paid, as well as her husband.
“Now,” she said kindly, “If you’ll excuse me for a moment?” She clapped her hands and the boys immediately lined up in front of her. “Take your slates from the wagon,” she directed, “set them over by Mr. Hegek’s office so we can check your estimates when you’re finished—”
She waited for them to stop shoving each other for prime placing position, while Mr. Hegek watched, amused.
“—then, when I give the word, you know what to do. Ready . . . Start!”
The boys exploded off the line and rushed to the side of the shack, snatched up baskets that sat there neglected all year, ran to the trees, climbed them expertly, and started grabbing apples as quickly as possible.
“Remember,” Mahrree called to them, “no bruises! Apples don’t heal like boys do.”
Mr. Hegek grinned and stood next to Mahrree. “They’ll have the orchard cleared in an hour, I dare say! I was wondering what to do with these apples . . .” His voice trailed off as he likely hoped the conversation wouldn’t go back to taxes and Administrators.
But Mahrree just chuckled as she undid the ropes securing her toddlers. Barker had already slumped to the ground for a nap. “Turn everything into a competition, Mr. Hegek. That’s the key to working with males, I’ve discovered.”
Jaytsy climbed out of the wagon and claimed an apple dropped by a careless eleven-year-old. Peto wailed to join her, and Mahrree set him out on the brown grass as well. Another boy purposefully dropped an apple near him, and Mahrree pretended it didn’t bounce and bruise before Peto picked up the shiny red ball to gnaw.
Mr. Hegek winced a little, but didn’t comment. “So the purpose of this activity today is . . .?”
“Take a look at their slates.”
He squinted as he tried to make out their scribbles and numbers. “Looks like . . . bets? You’re teaching them betting?”
Mahrree shook her head. “While some fathers might approve of that, what we’re really doing are estimates,” she whispered the last word.
Mr. Hegek frowned. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. They are supposed to be learning about estimating right now. The objective—”
“Shhh!” She pulled him out of earshot of the boys. “Don’t say ‘objective’ in front of them. They don’t know this is a lesson,” she hissed.
“I don’t understand.”
Mahrree smiled. “Nothing kills a lesson faster than thinking you have to learn something from it, Mr. Hegek. Look, they’ve made guesses—bets, if you want to go that far—about how many baskets each of them can fill, and how quickly. There are rewards for the boys who fill the most, have the most accurate numbers, and who demonstrated the most thought in arriving at his guess. Bet. Estimate.”
Hegek nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting, interesting . . . what’s the reward?”
“The winning boys get to ride with Corporal Zenos along the forest’s edge at dusk.”
Hegek’s eyes bulged. “That sounds terrifying!”
Mahrree shrugged. “That’s what they’re hoping. Don’t worry. There’ll be several other soldiers full of scary stories, and all of the parents have already given permission. I think a couple of fathers are hoping to go along as well.”
Hegek chuckled and shook his head. “So how is this teaching estimating?”
“When we get back to my house later, with our counts completed, then we’ll discuss how some estimates were way off, and why others were more accu
rate. Timing, loads, effort—none of that’s important to them right now, but later? When they see who wins? That’s when the boys will be interested to know how to better estimate next time. That’s when they’ll learn the lesson, and quite quickly.”
Mr. Hegek grinned. “That’s slightly brilliant, isn’t it?”
“What, applying principles to actual activities? That’s not brilliant; that’s simply life,” she declared.
“So what are the girls doing? Don’t you have an associate taking care of girls?”
Mahrree nodded. “Miss Alrick. Right now my mother’s over at her place teaching the girls the secrets of her cake recipe.”
“The, uh . . . the cake at the Strongest Soldier Race?” Hegek seemed to drool the words.
Mahrree hid her smirk. “Yes, it is! The girls will each make a number of smaller versions, then bring them to the market tomorrow and make guesses as to whose will be most successful, who will sell more, who will bring home the biggest profit—”
“Wait,” the director of schools said, alarmed, “that’s basic business practices. They won’t be learning that for another moon or two, and the objective—”
“Would you please stop using that word?” she snapped pleasantly. “And so what if they learn concepts out of order? That ‘order’ is randomly decided anyway. Everything in the world connects, Mr. Hegek. Like the spokes on a massive wheel. You can’t see one spoke properly without seeing how it connects to the wheel, so why pretend it’s not part of it? They’ll still understand it all. Really.”
Mr. Hegek tilted his head and pondered that. “I suppose . . . I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” she said dismissively. “And by the way—the key to working with females is to show them they’re appreciated. My husband’s planning to send a couple of soldiers to the girls’ cake stand tomorrow to buy out whatever doesn’t sell until the end. Girls this age need to feel success in order to realize they are much more than merely something pretty to look at. And soldiers will buy and eat just about anything, especially if their commander’s given them the silver for it.”
Mr. Hegek laughed. “Both of you are brilliant.”
He was about to say something else when Mahrree shouted, “Oy! No bruises, remember? On the apples OR each other! Sticks DOWN!” Then she held up one finger, remarkably threatening.
The boys stabbing each other in the treetops hung their heads and reluctantly dropped the dead branches they were using on each other.
Mahrree nodded, smiled forgivingly, then pointed at the sun—they were still being timed. They hurried back to picking apples.
“I’m impressed,” Hegek said quietly. “You only held up a finger, and they stopped fighting?”
“The finger was a warning,” she told him. “First warning. If I get to a third warning, joy is lost.”
Hegek frowned. “Joy is lost?”
“That’s how to discipline boys,” Mahrree explained. “No sense in keeping them after school, or making them write lines . . . what does that accomplish? But temporarily take away something they love, and they remember. They discover that their behavior doesn’t earn them punishments, but decreases their joy.”
Hegek slowly shook his head. “You should be teaching this at the directors’ training conference. So I have to know—what’s the ‘joy’ they lose if they misbehave?”
“They lose their Zenos Day. Corporal Zenos won’t come do an activity with them that week if they reach the third finger of warning.”
“And that threat works?”
“Loss of joy,” Mahrree reminded him. “And yes. I’ve only had to implement it once for the boys to realize I was serious, and for them to realize how long and dull a week is without Zenos Day. It was as painful for me as it was for them, to be honest. But if I had them write lines as a punishment, I have a feeling we’d be doing that every day.”
Hegek looked at her with sudden and intense fervor. “Mrs. Shin, I need you!”
Mahrree, stunned, said the only thing she could think of. “Uh, but I’m already married, Mr. Hegek.”
Hegek went red and shook his head vigorously. “I mean, as a teacher.”
“Oh, of course—”
“Mrs. Shin, you could accomplish so much if you returned to teaching.”
“I think I accomplish a great deal already,” she said, taken aback, and turned her attention to her toddlers sitting next to each other. They nibbled on their apples. Jaytsy dropped hers, eyed Peto’s, and pulled it out of his hands. Peto didn’t wail because he was already lunging for the apple his sister dropped. They took tiny bites from their new apples and the process started again. Jaytsy thought Peto’s looked better, and Peto wanted the apple she dropped again.
She watched them to avoid saying that the idea of going back to school was one she never entertained. And the thought of sending those darling children—who traded apples yet again but were now eyeing each other suspiciously as if realizing their sibling was really a thief—well, the thought of sending them to Full School made her gut twist.
She couldn’t say the words because the small figure standing next to her with an air of hopefulness really was, at his core, quite a very nice man. That was the trouble. It was easy to be angry and rant against the Administrators and Mal because there were beasts that lived far away. Distance makes it easier to demonize.
But poor Mr. Hegek, with loneliness in his eyes that watched the children with what Mahrree suspected was actually longing, was simply trying to do his job and what he thought was best for the world. He used to be a teacher himself, she found out, down in Orchards. Then he answered a call for teachers wanting to ‘improve the world’ and found himself at director training in Idumea. He wasn’t a malicious, conniving or callous man; he was just a good man doing a stupid and unnecessary job.
How could she say that to him?
She heard him chuckle softly, breaking the uncomfortable silence between them. “I think they figured it out,” he gestured to her toddlers. “They’ve finally discovered they’re eating the same two apples.”
Jaytsy and Peto were now glaring at each other, with the sweet fury only toddlers possessed, and clutched their nibbled fruit in defiance of the other. At any moment now Jaytsy would declare, “Mine!” and Peto would yell, “No!”
Mr. Hegek said, as cheerfully as he could, “How old’s your youngest—the boy?”
“A year and a half.”
He sighed. “So . . . another four to five years, right? Until I can hope you’ll consider my offer and come back to teach? Once they’re both in school themselves?”
Mahrree could only groan softly before looking into Mr. Hegek’s eyes. She was reminded of a sad, damp mouse begging her to take the last of his grain.
“How about we discuss this in four years?” was all she could say. She wasn’t about to tell him she hoped a great many things would change in four years. Such as the Administrator over Education realizing all of this was a ridiculous idea, or the system drawing too much taxes, or a cavern opening up to swallow all of Idumea . . .
Mr. Hegek chanced a small smile. “I suppose I’ll have to be content with that.”
“Well, I imagine you must have a great deal of work to do,” she hinted, hoping to leave the topic of schooling, her, and her children far, far away—
“Actually, I’m awaiting a cart from Idumea. Rather important shipment,” he said uneasily.
Mahrree had intended to walk away to supervise her students, but Hegek’s words—and his tone—intrigued her. “Oh, really? What is it?”
Mr. Hegek squinted down the road. “Ah, looks like it’s here!” His voice tried to be enthusiastic, but his eyes looked pained.
Mahrree was intensely curious as a horse-and-cart with a driver pulled up and stopped in front of the shack.
“You Mr. Hegek?” the driver called.
Under his breath the director murmured, “Are you Mr. Hegek. My goodness, the language we use—Yes,” he said loudly wh
ile Mahrree chortled in approval. “Is it a lot?”
The driver scoffed. “—’Slot, he wonders. ‘Spect I unload, he wonders next,” the driver complained as he climbed down from his perch.
Hegek scowled at Mahrree. “Should we give him a lesson in diction before we let him leave?” he whispered. “You don’t ‘spect’ the boys can hear him, do you? He could set us back moons in education.”
Mahrree just laughed as the director walked over to the cart to sign whatever form the driver was waving around.
No, Mahrree thought again, there’s no way I can tell him what I really think about all of this. Just listen to him—he actually made a joke. Outside of Perrin and me, I doubt he has any friends in Edge.
Then she had an idea, and it made her grin.
Mr. Hegek walked back with a crate in his arms, trying to appear as if he were strong enough to carry it, despite the wobbling of his knees. Behind him the driver was carrying two more crates, rather easier. Mr. Hegek set his crate down on the ground in front of her and stood up looking sheepish.
“It’s actually a bit more than I anticipated. I’ll need to make some space in my office, first. Just set them down by the door,” he instructed the driver. “And the next two crates, by those two.”
“Five crates?” Mahrree said, and gasped quietly as Hegek pried off the lid of the first crate. “All paper? There’ll be no more forests above Scrub at this rate.”
“Actually,” Hegek said as he lifted a stack from the crate, “they’ve been reusing the paper from the Administrative offices. They can shred it, pulp it again, and make new paper from old.”
“That’s amazing!” Genuinely impressed that Idumea did something right, she fingered the paper which was a bit murky in color, but still quite functional.
“Yes,” Hegek said enthusiastically, “someone complained to Idumea, and they agreed that the last thing we want is to decimate the forests.”
That struck Mahrree oddly. Wouldn’t decimating the forests—and the Guarder threat—be exactly what Idumea would want?
But before she could think more on that, the words stamped onto the paper caught her eye. “May I see this?”
“Uh,” Hegek began, but slowly handed the bundled pages over to her. “Since I hope you’ll someday be a teacher for me . . . I suppose you should see this now.”
Mahrree thumbed through the pages. “Lesson plans?”
“Uh, yes,” the director said hesitantly. “It seems that while we did well enough for the Administrators to give us new schools—”
“—Schools that we will pay for, in higher taxes no doubt,” she interjected as she continued to scan the pages.
“Yes, heh-heh, likely that,” he responded with the fakest laugh Mahrree had ever heard, “while we did well, we didn’t do quite so well as, say . . . Pools.”
Mahrree glanced up. “Why do we care about Pools?”
Hegek coughed politely. “Heh-heh, why indeed? Well, because our averages—”
“We shouldn’t care about averages,” Mahrree said sourly as she stopped scanning and focused on a bolded word. “We should care about individuals!”
He sighed. “That’s why I need you,” he whispered so intently that Mahrree’s eyebrows went up, as well as her gaze.
The director cleared his throat and looked down at the pages. “Well, you see, Pools lead the averag—scores in testing, so the Administrators decided Pools knows the best way to teach.”
Mahrree glared. “The best way to teach is to teach individuals, not crowds!”
“I know that as well as you do,” he whispered back and looked around nervously, the same way Perrin sometimes did.
Must be a condition of having lived in Idumea, Mahrree considered. He’s likely worried that around the corner may be a man in a red jacket listening in.
“But to help our numbers improve, a group of teachers at Pools has sent each school . . . help.” Then he held his breath.
Mahrree knew why, as soon as she read the words on the paper. She had purposely looked for the heading “Estimates.” She couldn’t help but read out loud what followed.
“‘Good morning [or afternoon, as the case may be] students. Please take your seats. Today, students, the objective of our lesson is to understand, manipulate, and use estimates.’”
Mr. Hegek was cringing when Mahrree looked up, her eyes smoldering in fury. “This must be a joke. Please tell me this is a joke.”
Mr. Hegek swallowed hard. “I never once remember laughing in Idumea.”
“They’ve SCRIPTED what each teacher is supposed to say?!” Mahrree exploded.
Her toddlers dropped their apples, surprised at their mother’s volume.
Several of her students did as well.
“Every grade, every subject, every minute,” Hegek droned gloomily.
“I’m still TIMING you!” she bellowed at the boys who were staring at them, and they obediently continued picking.
Mahrree’s toddlers tried to steal each other’s apples, and succeeded.
Mr. Hegek cleared his throat and attempted to carefully take the paper out of her clenched fist. “I’m sorry. Perhaps this isn’t the best—”
“Isn’t it bad enough that we can’t decide what to teach our children—” Mahrree didn’t relinquish her control of the pages crinkling in her grip, “—now we can’t even decide how?”
Mr. Hegek stopped trying to retrieve his script and instead anxiously rubbed his chin as Mahrree crushed the script as if it were the Administrator of Education’s writing hand.
“They’re going to dictate everything from Idumea?!” she screeched in a whisper. “Can you imagine someone standing in front of those boys and stating, in all seriousness, ‘Today our objective will be the discussion of estimates.’ Outrageous! They don’t even need teachers with this nonsense! Only script readers! Is that what they’re trying to do? Eliminate all possibility of adults having intelligent discussions with children?”
She finally regained enough of herself to focus on Hegek’s eyes, and she stopped when she noticed how miserable he looked. None of this was his fault, but his eyes were turning red and his chin was close to trembling.
“This wasn’t my idea, Mrs. Shin,” he said in a low, dejected voice. “But if I don’t implement it, I’ll be reported.”
A light went on in Mahrree’s head, and to Mr. Hegek’s surprise she began to smile. She shoved the vile script into his hands. “Think about it, Mr. Hegek: who will report you, and to whom?”
Hegek gulped, his eyes darted around, and then the light came on for him as well. “I don’t know who would bother to report me, but . . .” A smile forced its way onto his mouth. “I would be reported to Major Shin.”
Mahrree burst into a grin. “Take these papers, Mr. Hegek, and the other crates, and hide them as far away as possible. I’m thinking the fort might be a safe place. My husband may have an idea or two of where to heave them,” she winked and Hegek beamed. “I’ll do my best to get these boys’ scores even higher than last time—or maybe we should let the scores drop, so the scripts seem to have caused more problems than they cured? In any case, Idumea will never know what we did or didn’t do. They really don’t care about what happens in Edge anyway.”
Now Hegek’s chin was trembling, but happily. “See why I need you, Mrs. Shin?”
Mahrree’s grin remained as she remembered her idea from before the arrival of the wretched papers. “Mr. Hegek, there’s only so much I can do with this small group of boys. There are other after school care programs like mine, and if you spoke with their instructors, I’m sure they’d be willing to help us avoid this ‘help’ as well. In fact, may I recommend that you begin first with my friend who’s working with the girls near here?”
Hegek nodded. “Mrs. Alrick, was it? A few houses down from Mrs. Peto’s?”
Mahrree shook her head. “That’s Miss Alrick—”
Early thirties, she recited in her head, pleasantly plump, sweet smile, long red hair, us
ed to be a teacher, patient demeanor, loves children, but far too shy around men for her own good—
Hegek began to grow pale.
For a moment Mahrree wondered if this was such a good idea after all. It could be a very, very quiet meeting.
Unless . . .
Unless Hycymum was still there.
“Remember, they’re making cake today,” Mahrree added. “I think you should inspect what she’s doing and maybe sample a piece? Show the girls—and Miss Alrick—that you recognize their efforts?”
Hegek cleared his throat. “I know I’ve already said this,” he began in a quiet voice, “but I really—”
“Yes,” Mahrree cut him off before the poor man became too emotional, “I know. But actually what you really need is to try my mother’s recipe. At Miss Alrick’s. Their attempts should be cooling right now.”
Go before my mother leaves, Mahrree added in her head. These two are going to need all the mindless chatter—and purposeful meddling—they can get.
Hegek gulped again, smiled apprehensively, and headed to the road, forgetting about the crates by his shack.
Major Shin had a couple of soldiers pick them up later that evening—since they contained such valuable information that, if in the wrong hands, could prove to be . . . well, not good—and put the crates in the back of the armory where broken weapons were stored and usually forgotten.
---
By the time Mahrree crawled into bed that night it was very late. The suggestion from her father had bounced around in her mind like apples that day, and she wondered how—or even if—she should explain it to Perrin. But how does one tell one’s husband that they might someday be on the wrong side?
By bedtime she had shelved the thought far back into her mind, unsure of what to do with it. Besides, she needed to concentrate on more important matters that evening because she was on a spider hunt.
Poor Jaytsy had this problem at least twice a week. Ever since she saw a spider crawling on her pillow over a season ago, she frequently woke up screaming about “Biders!” crawling on her. Mahrree was ready to go to bed an hour ago, but the panicked squeal of two-year-old Jaytsy told her she was hunting “biders” first. She spent half an hour with a candle showing Jaytsy every corner and edge of her bedroom, assuring her that there were no spiders.
That wasn’t entirely true. Mahrree did see two spiders on the floor which she subtly squashed under her feet before her worried little girl saw them. Mahrree wished she was wearing her shoes. Or at least her stockings. But that was yet another example, she decided, of the depths of a mother’s love.
And yes, occasionally there were times one needed to lie to let someone believe they were safe.
Not that she’d confess that to her husband, already asleep upstairs.
She finally appeased Jaytsy and she drifted off to sleep while Mahrree told her the simplified stories of Terryp that Cephas always told her. Mahrree gave each one a happy ending. What was the point of the story otherwise? There were enough worries and darkness in the world that they didn’t need any more.
When she finally got into bed, after washing her feet, she cuddled up to Perrin and breathed in the comfort of his closeness.
“My wife, the mighty Bider Hunter!” he rumbled quietly. “I think I’ll be sad when Jaytsy finally figures out how to make an ‘s’ sound. But maybe not. The other day in the command tower I said, ‘Ooh, I better get that bider,’ and promptly smacked the thing with a stack of parchment and as much pride as if it were a Guarder. The two sergeants on duty just stared at me.”
Mahrree chuckled. “Didn’t know you were still awake or I would have had you come help.”
“I shooed away the spiders last time, remember?”
“I think that was two times ago.”
“But you still love me anyway?”
She giggled and was about to kiss him when an urgent pounding came at the door.
“Oh no,” she whimpered as he leaped out of bed and into his trousers and boots in record time. Perrin ran down the stairs simultaneously buttoning his jacket and fastening his sword while Mahrree looked out the back window. There didn’t seem to be any dark blobs of horses or soldiers waiting.
She went to the landing at the top of the stairs to listen as Perrin opened the front door. Soldiers always came to the back porch door, so something else was up. She hoped the loud knocking didn’t disturb their sleeping toddlers. She strained to hear who was at the door, but Perrin’s voice was too low for her to pick up any conversation. A minute later he closed the door, paused to hear if Jaytsy and Peto were still asleep, then plodded back up the stairs, complaining under his breath.
Mahrree sighed in relief. “So you’re still mine tonight?”
“The forest is still quiet, the children are quiet, the spiders are quiet, so yes: I’m all yours.”
“Good. Because if whoever it was at the door woke up Jaytsy, I would have made him come in and search for spiders.”
“That would have resulted in even more nightmares for our little Jayts. It was a stupid Administrators’ messenger.”
Mahrree cringed. Whenever the little men in red uniforms arrived, it was with yet another new way that something would be altered in the name of progress. “Now I’m going to have nightmares. What was so important that he came so late?”
“It wasn’t that important,” he said with irritation. “Just delivered news to the fort that there was going to be another tax levied beginning in the next season. Expenses of the world, and all.”
They went back to their room, both grumbling.
“And for that he came so late?” Mahrree complained as she got back into bed and Perrin replaced his sword and belt carefully by the bedroom door.
Perrin scoffed as he undid his jacket. “He was afraid there might be violence caused by the news. Said we should emphasize to the village that much of the tax would be going to improving the world for the next generation. It’s all in the wording, you see—”
Mahrree imagined he was rolling his eyes at the advice.
“—if we really want the next generation to succeed, we need to be willing to pay for it. After all, the best education is also the most expensive education. I was ready to punch his smarmy face myself. If he really wants to avoid violence, then he shouldn’t bother me when my wife is about to kiss me.”
He set his trousers exactly at the right angle on the seat of the desk’s chair, to be snatched and put on in another moment’s notice.
“Remember, you should never kill the messenger,” Mahrree said. “Idumea might notice us. So the best education is the most expensive? The best education happens when someone really wants to learn and someone is eager to share what they know! No amount of money will change that.”
“Full School is actually Fool School,” Perrin muttered, placing his boots in precisely the landing-into-them position.
“Ooh, be careful, Major Shin,” she smirked.
“I left the major at the fort,” he said, draping his jacket exactly over the back of the chair before getting into bed. “I can complain about whatever I want in the privacy of my own bedroom. I promise you, the money’s not going just for education or for teachers or buildings or books, but also to the best buddies of the Administrators who’ve been put in place to oversee every new little program and regulation they can come up with. I didn’t tell you yet what my father said before they left. The Administrator of Law was hiring more than one hundred new law assessors. And they’ll be helping with army law as well. Nice, huh?”
Mahrree’s mouth dropped open. “Why that’s . . . that’s probably one man to every law! Unless,” her voice quieted, “there are going to be more laws.”
“My father suggested the same thing. For what other reason would they need so many assessors? Except to give one’s friends an easy income, which is probably half the reason. Now that the world has accepted the Administrators they’ll push that acceptance to the very limits. Although it takes them weeks
of discussions to enact something, I suspect they won’t let the process keep this government from bloating like a dead cow.”
“Lovely image for me to dream about, Perrin. Thank you.”
“Well, it’s true. The larger the government gets, the more stench-filled and abhorrent it becomes.”
“And then it all rots,” she shuddered. “I suppose it is an apt analogy.”
“That’s not the only thing bloating,” he warned. “My father also mentioned that the Administrator of Education now has four levels of hierarchy to ‘oversee’ instruction. To adequately supervise the seventeen villages, they need about sixty more overseers.”
“And exactly what are they doing?” Mahrree asked, mystified. “Mr. Hegek seems to be working non-stop, but I never see those piles of papers move on his desk. I still can’t figure out what takes up all of his time!” she murmured. “Just let the teachers teach. I still don’t get it—why should anyone else besides parents be in charge of the children?”
“You know why. Parents feel stupid because their government tells them they are, so they’re humbly—and even willingly—allowing someone else to guide their children’s teaching. But there’s another reason,” Perrin hesitated, as if worried the little man in red might still be in earshot. “This way the Administrators get to pick and choose what the growing generation learns, and anything that’s not supporting the Administrators simply isn’t covered. In one generation, the entire population should be as loyal to the Administrators as they are—or were—to their parents’ beliefs. Whatever they say, the people will believe.”
“Let’s hope there are still a few rebellious ‘teenaged’ souls out there. Besides us, I mean.” Mahrree sucked in her breath as a memory from long ago came to her. “Perrin, did you ever know that King Querul and the three Queruls after him for eighty years kept . . . servants?”
Perrin tensed up next to her. “Yes, I know. The question is, how did you know about that? That’s hardly common knowledge, even forty years ago!”
“My father told me,” Mahrree confessed. “He had an older friend over in Winds, another teacher, who helped to settle the servants in their own homes after they were freed. He told my father about it years later, how he had to teach them how to read and write and even shop.”
“Amazing,” he breathed. “I really wished I knew Cephas. How many other secrets of the world did he know about?”
“I think that was the only one,” Mahrree said. “How many more are there?”
“Uh,” Perrin hesitated, “that’s probably it,” he said, not sounding completely honest. “Those thirty-three people—they weren’t Querul’s servants, Mahrree. They were slaves,” he said bitterly. “They and their children and their children’s children. They knew nothing but what Querul and his descendants told them. They were never paid or educated.”
“They had been with the kings for years,” Mahrree remembered, “and believed everything they told them.”
“Querul the First brought them to his compound during the Great War. He kept them sequestered for their safety,” Perrin whispered. “He told them all kinds of terrible things were happening out in the world. Battles, bloodshed, men killed, and their women and children abused in atrocious ways . . . But in the compound they were safe. What they didn’t realize was that they were actually trapped. The war ended, but no one told them. Querul and his sons and family had grown so accustomed to those seven people doing all their labor that they told them the world was an awful place to be. The servants had no idea that everyone else had more freedom than they did,” he sighed.
“Querul the Second and the Third simply kept them,” he continued. “After all, the seven servants were marrying and making more loyal, terrified servants. They truly believed the kings had ‘chosen’ them out of the world to give them such a protected existence. And to earn that honor? All they had to do was work all day and night cleaning, building, repairing, cooking—everything.”
Mahrree was astonished at the details. “How do you know all of this?”
“My grandfather Pere was the one who liberated them when he was first made High General, about forty years ago.”
“Really?” Mahrree felt a surge of pride for her children’s ancestor.
“Once he discovered what was going on in the mansion he wanted to put a peaceful end to it. Eighty-one years they had lived like that. My grandfather told Querul the Fourth that he’d heard some of his ‘servants’ were actually related to Guarders who had recently been contacted, and now the servants were waiting for the right moment to massacre his family. Fortunately the Fourth was a gullible man and he released all of the servants the next day. His first instinct was to kill them all, but my grandfather had told them that if they were released instead, Querul and his family would be safe from future attacks. My grandfather sent them far away from Idumea where they could get a new start. He appointed some teachers for them in Winds—I suppose your father’s friend was one of them. A few years ago I tried to find out what happened to them, but couldn’t find any records. They probably changed their names and moved.”
Mahrree grinned into the dark. “Now I wished I had known Pere Shin! Very clever, telling Querul a lie to right a wrong.”
“Hmm, interesting,” Perrin said smugly. “Lies are sometimes necessary—”
“Oh, not that again!” She snorted in spite of herself. “My father’s friend told him how astonished the servants were that it never occurred to them to question the source of all their information, because why would the kings ever keep them enslaved? They claimed they loved them. It took them more than a year to adapt to the real world,” she recalled.
Perrin scoffed. “My grandfather Pere suspected that the first Queruls even fathered a few of them, based on some noticeable resemblance. They sired their own slaves. Little surprise that none of that information was ever made public. My grandfather told me about it only once, when I was about twelve, because he thought someday I would be High General, and if so then I should—” he stopped abruptly.
Mahrree bit her lip. He didn’t want the position, and they never talked about it. It was as if they had each privately decided that not talking about becoming High General would make sure it didn’t happen. It certainly wasn’t a logical rationale, but it was comforting.
Perrin began again as if he never said the last sentence. “What would the world think of their leader if they knew he enslaved people for his own pleasure? Gives me chills just remembering it,” he whispered. “Mahrree, sometimes I wonder if that’s not what’s going to happen again. But instead of the servants being restricting in their movement and knowledge, it could someday be the entire world—all of us trapped by our own ignorance.”
“Now you’ve given me chills,” she shivered under the blankets. “How will we ever know we’re being controlled and trapped?”
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
“That’s why we always have to find out the truth.” She snuggled into her husband. The enjoyment of debating her husband increased in relation to her proximity to him. “At least, find the truth as often as possible.”
“Conceded,” he unwillingly agreed, and held her tighter. “But here’s a follow-up question,” he stated in a debating tone. “Will we recognize the truth when it’s presented to us?”
She groaned. “Ooh, good point. If no one’s allowed to debate, no one will ever know, will they?” she whispered. “There’s always The Writings. We can always refer back to that.”
“But will everyone?” Perrin whispered. “Did my father tell you that the Administrator of Culture is writing a new history text for the schools?”
Mahrree groaned again, but louder.
“Obviously he didn’t. I took a look at the teacher scripts Idumea sent. For history, the teacher is merely to read the new book to the students. No discussions, no arguments.”
“Oh, you can’t be serious—”
“The Administrator of Science will have a new book
coming out soon, too,” he told her reluctantly. “And references from The Writings? I wouldn’t bother looking for any. In a generation or two, people might forget all about them. And that’s precisely what the Administrators want: the only authority influencing the world will be theirs. No mystical ‘Creator’ gumming up their plans or confusing their people.”
Exasperated, Mahrree rolled out of his embrace. “People should be able to think and believe whatever they want to think and believe! If the Administrators were completely honest and honorable men, we should be able to teach and believe and discuss and even debate anything. But obviously, that’s not the case. Dishonest men perceive threats everywhere!”
Perrin cleared his throat and propped himself up on one arm. “Be careful, Mrs. Shin.”
“Why?” she gestured pointlessly to the ceiling. “They’ll think I’m a threat? Someone will start a file on me? I thought I was going to bed with my husband, not Major Eyes and Ears and Voice. Remember what you suggested a few minutes ago, that the Administrators are out to control the thoughts of the next generation? You might be considered a bigger threat than me!”
He chuckled. “All right, all right. I won’t report me . . . or you. Now we can both sleep better.” He leaned over to kiss her.
She didn’t notice. “Do you realize no one’s teaching Terryp anymore? I didn’t see any mention of him in the sixty pages of the Full School description, he was the most important historian of the Middle Age! Who else and what else will they eliminate? Guide Hierum was mentioned only once.”
Perrin let out a low whistle. “Ah Mahrree, Mahrree, why do you like to get into such discussions so late at night?”
“Because it’s the only time the house is quiet.”
He sighed. “Weren’t you going to kiss me a few minutes ago?”
“Is that all you can think about right now? Our entire future may be changing, and Perrin, what if we don’t notice it? What if we someday discover we’re . . . on the wrong side?”
There. It was out.
He sighed louder. “There’s not going to be any kissing, or even any hope of arguing until you get this resolved in your head, is there?”
“We’re arguing now!” she declared, a bit put out that he didn’t seem worried about whose side they were on.
“No, this is debating,” he said patiently. “I was suggesting the kind of arguing that begins with kissing.”
Mahrree kissed him quickly on the cheek.
“Well that was hardly worth the effort . . .”
“So what do we do?” she asked earnestly.
“Well, first, I come over here to face you properly—”
“No! I mean, how do we expose the Administrators, preserve the truth, and save the world?”
Perrin chuckled. “That’s a little more than we can expect to accomplish tonight, my darling wife. I have a much better chance at kissing you, but now I’m beginning to doubt my odds of succeeding at that.”
She giggled sadly. “I supposed you’re right. About fixing the world, that is.”
“There’s one thing we can do,” he said. “We can make sure we’re not touched by whatever may be coming.”
“Nor our children,” she reminded him.
“Nor our children, I agree. In our house we will discuss and believe whatever we want. We can recognize for ourselves that the sky is dark and threatening with a storm on the way, and explain to our children that the rest of the world has been conditioned to believe it is blue, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
She kissed him briefly on the lips. “Have I told you lately that you are the most perfect man, and that I love and adore you more than words can express?”
“That kiss is still inadequate for the perfect man. And, if you insist, you can even believe the dinner leftovers can evolve into something as handsome as me, and I’ll explain to our children how their mother is a little odd at times.”
Mahrree giggled. “I’m odd? Mr. Let-Me-Put-My-Boots-at-a-Perfect-50-Degree-Angle-to-the-Bed?”
He chuckled. “Just as long as no one outside of our house ever finds out what we discuss inside the house, we should be all right.” He sighed. “It’s simply too big a battle to fight, Mahrree. The two of us against the twenty-three Administrators? Definitely not good odds.”
Mahrree had heard that excuse before, and she tried to ignore it. “Hmm. At least the forests are still quiet,” she mumbled in resignation. “That’s one less battle we have to fight.”
Perrin slipped his arm under her. “Mm, yes. At least the forests are still quiet. And the soldiers know how much I love a quiet forest, especially at night. But they don’t know entirely why.”
She giggled as he pulled her close and finally claimed his kiss.
---
Barker was waiting when the man in the black jacket reappeared. He trotted over to the fence and began his slow climb.
“Up, up, up. Well done, well done. Jerky again, but you seemed to enjoy that. Sorry about being late. I didn’t realize messengers showed up this hour of night. But it figures—we’ve had nothing but delay after delay. Alongside, now, alongside. Hope you’re ready. Long night ahead of us, boy.”
Chapter 22 ~ “Now, how do I go about putting an end to all of this nonsense?”
