I mention all this as background to the next story.
Teaching is a profession which is not quite a profession. As recently as twenty-five years ago, teachers balanced their low pay with whatever satisfaction they could find in the job—and there is plenty for a good teacher—and by enjoying a certain indefinable sense of status in the eyes of the community.
Some years ago when I was a sixth grade teacher, I stepped outside one winter evening to see the Colorado skies ablaze with a disturbing light. It was the aurora borealis, of course, in what may well be the most dramatic display I’ll ever see from these latitudes.
As I stood watching this incredible light show, a young student of mine and her mother came down the street and asked what was going on. I explained about the aurora.
“Oh,” said the mother. “I thought maybe it was the end of the world like it predicts in Revelation, but Jesse said you’d know if it was something else.”
I think of that moment occasionally.
It used to be that teachers were—if not exactly the sages of society—at least respected as minor but necessary intellectual components in the community. Now, when parents go in to a parent/teacher conference, the odds are great that the parents are better educated than the teacher. Even if they’re not, they almost certainly make significantly more money than the teacher.
Of course it’s not just the low pay that is driving good people out of teaching; it’s not even the combination of low pay, contempt from the community, contempt from school and district administrators who see master teachers as a liability (they would rather have beginning teachers whose tabulas are perfectly rasa and ready to be programmed with whatever new district fads the administration is pushing), and the fact that many children today are not pleasant to be around. Perhaps it’s all this plus the reality that teaching is no longer a place for people with imagination. Creative people need not apply. Most don’t.
The point of all this is that just at the time when we most desperately need quality teachers, just when our intellectual survival now demands men and women in the classroom who teach so well and make our children think so well that we’ll have no choice but to pay that teacher the ultimate teacher’s compliment—condemnation to death by hemlock or crucifixion; just at the time now when families and all the other traditional institutions are abdicating their responsibilities in everything from teaching ethics to basic hygiene, abandoning the effort it takes to turn young savages into citizens; surrendering and handing these duties to schools … that happens to be the time when the schools lack the small but critical mass of brilliant, creative, and dedicated people who’ve always made the system work.
To compensate, teachers hang signs in their faculty lounges. The signs say things like—“A teacher’s influence touches eternity.”
It may. It may. But take it from somebody who was in there pitching for eighteen years—good teachers are invaluable, more precious than platinum or presidents, but a bad teacher’s influence touches the same eternity.
The Death
of the Centaur
The teacher and the boy climbed the steep arc of lawn that overlooked the southernmost curve of the Missouri River. Occasionally they glanced up at the stately brick mansion that held the high ground. Its tiers of tall windows and wide French doors reflected the broken patterns of bare branches against a gray sky. Both the boy and the young man knew the big house was most likely empty—its owner spent only a few weeks a year in town—but approaching so close afforded them the pleasurable tension of trespass as well as an outstanding view.
A hundred feet from the mansion they stopped climbing and sat down, backs against a tree which shielded them from the slight breeze and protected them from the casual notice of anyone in the house. The sun was very warm, a false spring warmth which would almost surely be driven off by at least one more snowstorm before returning in earnest. The wide expanse of lawn, dropping down to the railroad tracks and the river two hundred yards below, had the faint, green splotchiness of thawing earth. The air smelled like Saturday.
The teacher took up a short blade of grass, rolled it in his fingers, and began to chew on it thoughtfully. The boy pulled a piece, squinted at it for a long second, and did likewise.
“Mr. Kennan, d’you think the river’s gonna rise again this year and flood everythin’ like it done before?” asked the boy.
“I don’t know, Terry,” said the young man. He did not turn to look at the boy, but raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes.
The boy looked sideways at his teacher and noticed how the red hairs in the man’s beard glinted in the sunlight. Terry put his head back against the rough bark of the old elm but was too animated to shut his eyes for more than a few seconds.
“Do you figure it’ll flood Main if it does?”
“I doubt it, Terry. That kind of flood only comes along every few years.”
Neither participant in the conversation found it strange that the teacher was commenting on events which he had never experienced first hand. Kennan had been in the small Missouri town just under seven months, having arrived on an incredibly hot Labor Day just before school began. By then the flood had been old news for four months. Terry Bester, although only ten years old, had seen three such floods in his life and he remembered the cursing and thumping in the morning darkness the previous April when the volunteer firemen had called his father down to work on the levee.
A train whistle came to them from the north, the Dopplered noise sounding delicate in the warm air. The teacher opened his eyes to await the coming of the eleven a.m. freight to St. Louis. Both counted the cars as the long train roared below them, diesel throbbing, whistle rising in pitch and then dropping as the last cars disappeared toward town around the bend in the track where they had just walked.
“Whew, good thing we wasn’t down there,” said Terry loudly.
“Weren’t,” said Mr. Kennan.
“Huh?” said Terry and looked at the man.
“We weren’t down there,” repeated the bearded young man with a hint of irritation in his voice.
“Yeah,” said Terry and there was a silence. Mr. Kennan closed his eyes and rested his head against the tree trunk once again. Terry stood to throw imaginary stones at the mansion. Sensing his teacher’s disapproval, he stopped the pantomine and stood facing the tree, resting his chin against the bark and squinting up at the high branches. Far overhead a squirrel leaped.
“Twenty-six,” said Terry.
“What’s that?”
“Cars on that train. I counted twenty-six.”
“Mmmmm. I counted twenty-four.”
“Yeah. Me too. That’s what I meant to say. Twenty-four, I meant.”
Kennan sat forward and rolled the blade of grass in his hands. His thoughts were elsewhere. Terry rode an invisible horse around in tight circles while making galloping sounds deep in his throat. He added the phlegmy noise of a rifle shot, grabbed at his chest, and tumbled off the horse. The boy rolled bonelessly down the hill and came to a contorted, grass-covered stop not three feet from his teacher.
Kennan glanced at him and then looked out at the river. The Missouri moved by, coffee brown, complicated by never repeating patterns of swirls and eddies.
“Terry, did you know that this is the southernmost bend of the Missouri River? Right here?”
“Uh-uh,” said the boy.
“It is,” said the teacher and looked across at the far shore.
“Hey, Mr. Kennan?”
“Yes?”
“What’s gonna happen on Monday?”
“What do you mean?” asked Kennan, knowing what he meant.
“You know, in the Story.”
The young man laughed and tossed away the blade of grass. For a brief second Terry thought that his teacher threw like a girl, but he immediately banished that from his mind.
“You know I can’t tell you ahead of the others, Terry. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?”
“Awww,” sa
id the boy but it was a perfunctory whine, and something in the tone suggested that he was pleased with the response. The two stood up. Kennan brushed off the seat of his pants, and then pulled bits of grass from the child’s tangled hair. Together they walked back down the hill in the direction of the rail line and town.
The centaur, the neo-cat, and the sorcerer-ape moved across the endless Sea of Grass. Gernisavien was too short to see above the high grass and had to ride on Raul’s back. The centaur did not mind—he did not even notice her weight—and he enjoyed talking to her as he breasted the rippling waves of lemon-colored grass. Behind them came Dobby, ambling along in his comical, anthropoid stride and humming snatches of unintelligible tunes.
For nine days they waded the Sea of Grass. Far behind were the Haunted Ruins and the threat of the ratspiders. Far ahead—not yet in sight—was their immediate goal of the Mountains of Mist. At night Dobby would unsling his massive shoulder pack and retrieve the great silken umbrella of their tent. Intricate orange markings decorated the blue dome. Gernisavien loved the sound created as the evening wind came up and stirred a thousand miles of grass while rustling the silken canopy above them.
They were very careful with their fire. A single careless spark could ignite the entire Sea and there would be no escape.
Raul would return from his evening hunt with his bow over a shoulder and a limp grazer in one massive hand. After dinner they often talked softly or listened to Dobby play the strange wind instrument he had found in the Man Ruins. As the night grew later, Dobby would point out the constellations—the Swan, Mellam’s Bow, the Crystal Skyship, and the Little Lyre. Raul would tell stories of courage and sacrifice handed down through six generations of Centaur Clan warriors.
One evening after they had carefully doused the fire, Gernisavien spoke. Her voice seemed tiny under the blaze of stars and was almost lost in the great sighing of wind in the grass.
“What are our chances of actually finding the farcaster?”
“We can’t know that,” came Raul’s firm voice. “We just have to keep heading south and do our best.”
“But what if the Wizards get there first?” persisted the tawny neo-cat.
It was Dobby who answered. “Best we not discuss the Wizards at night,” he said. “Never talk about scaly things after dark, that’s what my old Granmum used to say.”
In the morning they ate a cold breakfast, looked at the magic needle on Dobby’s direction finder, and once again picked up the journey. The sun was close to the zenith when Raul suddenly froze and pointed to the east.
“Look!”
At first Gernisavien could see nothing, but after taking a handful of Raul’s mane to steady herself and standing on his broad back, she could make out—sails! Billowing white sails against an azure sky. And beneath the straining canvas she could see a ship—a huge ship—creaking along on wooden wheels that must have been twenty feet high.
And it was headed right for them!
The classroom was ugly and uncomfortable. For a long time it had been used as a storeroom and even now the walls were marked and gashed where boxes and metal map cases had been stored.
The room, like the school, was old but not picturesque. It evoked no Norman Rockwell twinges of nostalgia. The once-high ceilings had been lowered with ill-fitting accoustical tiles that cut off the top third of the windows. Tubular fluorescent lights hung from gray bars that emerged through holes in the ceiling tiles. The floors once had been smooth and varnished but were now splintered to the point that students could not risk taking off their soaked tennis shoes on wet days.
Twenty-eight plastic pink-and-tan metal desks filled a space designed for three rows of wooden schooldesks from a previous century. The desks were old enough that their tilted tops were carved and scratched and their ugly, tubular legs gouged new splinters from the floor. It was impossible to place a pencil on a desktop without it rolling noisily, and every time a child lifted the desktop to reach for a book, the little room echoed to the sound of screeching metal and notebooks falling to the floor.
The windows were high and warped and all but one refused to open. The previous September, when the temperature continued to hover near ninety degrees and children’s sneakers sank into the asphalt playground, the little room was almost unlivable with only a rare stirring of breeze coming through the windows.
The chalkboard was four feet wide and had a crack running along the right side. Kennan had once used it to illustrate the San Andreas Fault. On his first day he had discovered that the room had no chalk, only one eraser, no yardstick, no globe, only one pull-down map (and that predating World War Two), no bookshelves, and a clock permanently frozen at one twenty-three. Kennan had requisitioned a wall clock on the third of September and an old one was mounted next to the door by the end of January. It stopped frequently so Kennan kept a cheap alarm clock on his desk. Its ticking had become background noise to all the other sounds in the room. Occasionally he set the alarm to signify the end of a quiz or silent reading period. On the last day before Christmas vacation, he had let the alarm go off at two o’clock to herald the end of work and the beginning of their hour-long Christmas party. The other classes reserved only the last twenty minutes of the day for their parties and although Kennan was reprimanded by the principal for not reading the school policy booklet, the incident confirmed the suspicion of most of the children in the school that Mr. Kennan’s class was a fun place to be.
Kennan’s memory of that Christmas season would always be linked with the musty, dimly lit basement of Reardon’s Department Store, a faded and failing five and dime store on Water Street, where he had shopped for his fourth graders’ presents late one evening. One by one he had selected the cheap rings, jars of bubble-blowing liquid, toy soldiers, balsa wood gliders, and model kits—each with a special message in mind—taking them home to wrap until the early morning hours.
Kennan had covered the chipped walls of the classroom with posters, including the illustrated map of Boston which had hung in his dorm room for three years. He changed the one bulletin board every three weeks. Now it boasted a huge map of the planet Garden on which the events of The Story were marked.
There was nothing he could do about the faint odor of rotting plaster and seeping sewage that permeated the room. Nor could he change the irritating buzz and flicker of the overhead lights. But he bought an old armchair at a fleamarket and borrowed an area rug from his landlord and every afternoon at one-ten, just after lunch period and just before language arts, Kennan sat in the sprung chair and twenty-seven children crowded into the carpeted corner and the tale resumed.
Gernisavien and Dobby paid their last two credit coins to enter the huge arena where Raul was scheduled to fight the Invincible Shrike. All around them were the dark alleys and gabled rooftops of legendary Carvnal. They pushed through the entrance tunnel with the crowd and came out in the tiered amphitheatre where hundreds of torches cast bizarre shadows up into the stands.
Around the circular pit were crowded all the races of Garden, or rather, all those races which had not been exterminated resisting the evil Wizards: the hooded Druids, brachiate tree dwellers from the Great Forest, a band of fuzzies in their bright orange robes, many lizard soldiers hissing and laughing and shouting, stubby little Marsh Folk, and hundreds of mutants. The night air was filled with strange sounds and stranger smells. Vendors bellowed over the noise to hawk their fried argot wings and cold beer. Out in the arena, work crews raked sand over the drying pools of blood that marked the spots where earlier Death Game contestants had lost to the Shrike.
“Why does he have to fight?” asked Gernisavien as they took their places on the rough bench.
“It’s the only way to earn a thousand credits so we can take the Sky Galleon south tomorrow morning,” Dobby answered in a low voice. A tall mutant sat down next to him on the bench, and Dobby had to tug to retrieve the end of his purple cape.
“But why can’t we just leave the city or take the raft farther so
uth?” persisted Gernisavien. The little neo-cat’s tail was flicking back and forth.
“Raul explained all that,” whispered Dobby. “The Wizards know that we’re in Carvnal. They must already be covering the city gates and the docks. Besides, with their flying platforms we could never outdistance them on foot or by raft. No, Raul’s right, this is the only way.”
“But no one beats the Shrike! Isn’t that right? The thing was genetically designed during the Wizard Wars as a killing machine, wasn’t it?” Gernisavien said miserably. She squinted as if the light from the stadium torches hurt her eyes.
“Yes,” said Dobby, “but he doesn’t have to beat it to earn the thousand credits. Just stay alive for three minutes in the same arena.”
“Has anyone ever done that?” Gernisavien’s whisper was ragged.
“Well … I think …” began Dobby but was interrupted by a blare of trumpets from the arena. There was an immediate hushing of crowd noise. The torches seemed to flare more brightly and on one side of the wide pit a heavy portcullis drew up into the wall.
What’s a portcullis?
It’s like a big, heavy gate with spikes on the bottom. So every eye in the stadium was on that black hole in the wall. There was a long minute of silence so deep that you could hear the torches crackling and sputtering. Then the Shrike came out.
It was about seven and a half feet tall and it gleamed like polished steel in the light. Razor sharp spikes curled out like scythe blades from various parts of its smooth, metallic exoskeleton. Its elbows and knees were protected by rings of natural armor which also were covered by short spikes. There was even a spike protruding from its high forehead, just above where the red, multi-faceted eyes blazed like flaming rubies. Its hands were claws with five curved, metal blades that opened and closed so quickly that they were only a blur. The claws went snicker-snack, snicker-snack.