Soldier at the Door (26 page)

Mahrree could only grumble.

Chapter
8 ~ “It’s really quite progressive, as you can see. Lots of pages.”

T
he new educational director over Edge arrived right on time several weeks later in mid Planting Season, right after Jaytsy’s 2
nd
birthday. Perrin brought Mahrree the news that Karna had met the newest arm of Idumea to punch into Edge and escorted him to his new office at the site of Mahrree’s old school. Mahrree decided to give him a fair chance by letting him get settled for two weeks before he encountered the wrath of Mrs. Shin.

Besides, Perrin wouldn’t
let
her meet him until Mahrree promised she would be polite and present the name of Shin properly.

And no, that didn’t mean she could go wearing a sword or a hidden long knife.

It was a beautiful Planting Season afternoon when Mahrree left her two children napping while Mrs. Hersh sat at the house, to meet Mr. Hegek. Mahrree needed to know, after all, what her After School Care boys would be tested on in the next year. That was the excuse she could give, in order to bypass demanding to know what terrible things the Administrators had done to education.

When she pounded on the thin wooden door of the office and opened the door, she wasn’t quite prepared for what she found.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” a timid voice behind a pile of papers asked.

Mahrree peered into the shack, the one in which she and Perrin had shared a kiss the day after they were engaged. A too-large desk was crammed in there, and the walls were now lined precariously with stacks of pages, not rakes and spades.

“I certainly hope so,” she said crisply, craning her neck to find the person that belonged to the mousy voice. “I understand the Administrators have decided to tell us what our children should be learning in Edge. I’d like to see a copy of the plans.”

Mahrree evaluated the man the peeked cautiously between two stacks to see her. Mr. Hegek was perhaps in his mid-thirties and only slightly larger than Mahrree, with black hair that could be ratty if not combed constantly, a nose too pointy, green eyes that were far too small for his head, and arms not much thicker than hers.

Yes, she could like take him in a fist-fight. Perrin had taught her a few defensive moves that could easily turn offensive.

He raised his eyebrows as he searched his desk overflowing with stacks. “Of course, of course,” he said cheerily, which grated on Mahrree’s ears. “I have them here somewhere.” He stood up and looked through folders and pages. “And what age is your child?”

“I don’t have any in school yet. My oldest won’t be ready for another four years. I’m planning for the future.”

Mr. Hegek stopped searching his desk and slowly looked up. “Then why are you worrying about it now?”

Mahrree smiled as sweetly as she could, although her eyes were poisonous. “Shouldn’t I be worried about what
all
children in our village are learning?” her voice dripped syrup. “As a concerned citizen, I should be aware of what my future shop keepers, lumberjacks, and weavers are being taught, shouldn’t I?”

He stood fully—but
shortly
, Mahrree noted with hostile approval—and looked her in the eye. “I suppose so. I only haven’t heard anyone expressing interest yet. I’m not so sure I can give you a copy.”

“
No parents
have expressed interest?” She was stunned. Just as recently as three years ago, the last time Mahrree started a new school year,
she
was being briefed by her students’ parents on what they expected her to teach their children. Now complete strangers were deciding what their children should learn, and not one parent was concerned what that might be?! To have so much trust in leaders they didn’t know . . .

Mahrree struggled to remain sweet while a bitter taste grew in her mouth. “So why can’t I have a copy?”

“They’re for the parents,” he shrugged. “Of children in school now,” he clarified.

“And
no other
parents have come in inquiring about their children’s education?”

Mr. Hegek, perhaps recognizing he was not much larger than Mahrree, tried to look a little taller. “Well, none
so far
—”

She sharpened her glare. “When did the parents first hear about the new lessons?”

“Perhaps five or six weeks ago.” His stature slowly began to shrink.

“And how long have you been here, with the copies of those lessons?”

“Two weeks now,” he melted.

“And in that time
no one
has come for a copy? How many do you have?”

Mr. Hegek cleared his throat. “Forty. I believe.”

Mahrree gave him half of a genuine smile. “Certainly you can sacrifice
one
copy for me, then?”

“Look, Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . ?”

Time to represent the name properly, but likely not in the way Perrin intended.

“
Shin
,” she said as heavily as an army.

Mr. Hegek’s eyes grew big as he shriveled another two inches. “As in
Captain
Shin?
High General
Shin?”

Mahrree smiled
fully, thoroughly enjoying the effect. “As in Mrs.
Mahrree
Shin, but yes, some connection there. You see, I taught in the past before my first baby was born, and I most likely will return to teaching again someday—”

She didn’t elaborate to say,
In my home, teaching only my children
.

“—and I
merely want to know what to expect in the future. I also tutor ten boys.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Hegek said nervously. “For you,
Mrs. Shin
, I’m sure I can make an exception.” He rummaged around his desk for another moment, held up a finger in remembrance, and turned to a large crate next to his desk. He pulled up several thick documents. “Do you want the full version for parents, or the shortened version for the teachers?”

“Two versions?” Mahrree stared wide-eyed at the volume of papers involved for one year’s planning of school. She could usually keep all that she was going to do with her students summarized on two sheets of parchment.

Mr. Hegek shrugged apologetically.

Mahrree sighed. “I’m feeling ambitious. Give me the full ve
rsion.” Why the parents received a larger version than the teachers made her intensely suspicious.

Mr. Hegek smiled as he handed it to her. “It’s really quite pr
ogressive, as you can see. Lots of pages.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said dubiously as she eyed the document stamped on thin papers. “And as everyone knows, volume certainly must connote quality, therefore
progressiveness.
”

He beamed in agreement.

She groaned to herself, rapidly losing faith in the Administr
ators’ man who didn’t notice her sarcasm.
“
And what have you thought of it so far?” she asked as she thumbed through the dense text.

“Uh, well, I uh . . .” he stammered.

Mahrree looked up at him critically.

“I, uh, haven’t read it
all
yet,” he confessed. “Quite a bit to do around here reorganizing all the schools, you see . . .”

“I guess that’s why you have the Weeding Break, right? To catch up on all this light reading?”

He coughed a tense laugh. “Yes, of course.”

Mahrree nodded. “How about I read through it and bring you a report in a few weeks? Give you a head start on the project.”

Mr. Hegek gave her a real smile. “That would be most welcome, Mrs. Shin. I’d appreciate hearing your reaction to the new lessons.”

“I’m
sure
you will.”

Mahrree sat down the next afternoon when her children were napping, filled with eager anticipation to begin studying the thick stack of papers. 

She got as far as page three before she fell asleep.

And she wasn’t even that tired.

That evening she asked Perrin to read it without telling him about her failure to endure all sixty-two pages. He got to page two before he began rubbing his eyes and looking closer at the writing.

“What
is
this?” he exclaimed tossing it on the table. Then he picked it back up and began to read in his most official voice.

“‘Resolved: That the youngest children, youngest being those who turn six by the appropriate date established by the Director of
Instruction or the local Director of School Regions, whichever authority is recognized at the date of inception of school during that present year, shall be taught in the methods and facts of numerals which designate values to assigned qualities, and the grouping of such numerals and the removal of such numerals.’”

He threw it on the table in disgust and gave her a look that d
emanded explanation.

She had one. It had taken her a few minutes when she first read it, then reread it. By her fifth attempt she began to understand.

“I think it means, ‘Six year-olds will learn how to add and subtract numbers.’”

Perrin picked up the papers again and read through the sentence with battling subjects once again. He slowly shook his head. “Then why not just say that?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.” Mahrree sat down across from him. “You speak Idumean, don’t you? Skip to page three, at the bottom. That one’s by far my favorite. Then again, that’s only as far as I’ve read,” she admitted.

Perrin turned the pages and cleared his throat. “I feel like I should be wearing a red coat and some ruffles . . . ah, here we go. ‘Resolved—’”

He stopped.

“What’s with this ‘resolved’ nonsense? All right, I know, I know—just read it. ‘Resolved: that the upper level students, those being students within the ages of fourteen and seventeen, including those that turn seventeen within the school year but have not yet completed the full educational program, therefore remaining in the school until it terminates for the school year—’”

Perrin paused to catch his breath and roll his eyes.

“‘—will be instructed in the memorization and commitment to the mind of facts—’ don’t those phrases mean the same thing?”

Mahrree nodded. “But you’ll never finish the sentence at this rate,” she pointed out.

He shrugged in acknowledgement. “‘—of facts concerning all matters of historical significance, whether real or
perceived
—’”

He raised his eyebrows at her.

She motioned for him to keep going and yawned dramatically.

He grinned and continued. “‘—whether real or perceived, but rather focusing on those matters more real such that the students may
recall the issues committed to memory in a comprehensive and all encompassing—’”

He decided not to comment on that redundancy in an effort to finally get to the end of the sentence.

“‘—final test to determine their ability to progress from one age level to another, notwithstanding their age at the time of taking the final test.’ Whew! Explanation?”

Mahrree said in a bored tone, “Teens memorize the facts. Spit them out on a test. If they pass, they move on.”

Perrin skimmed through the sentence again. “Impressive. Should the ancient spy groups that the founders of Idumea created ever resurface, I can use you to break their codes.”

She smiled. “Try the next one. I’m sure you can figure it out. All you need to do is add about five extraneous words for each i
mportant one.”

Perrin chuckled. “Let’s see, ‘The practice of deliberating and analyzing issues to the extent of establishing conclusions, intended or accidental, shall, in the interest of maintaining efficiency and eliminating ambiguity, no longer be of necessity within the studies of various subjects, specifically those subjects addressing accepted hi
storical essentials and acknowledged scientific developments.’”

He stopped and stared. “You thought I could figure that one out? I’m flattered. Can you give me a few minutes?”

“Of course. I’ll give you a hint if you want.”

“Not yet,” he said leaning over it as if it were a complicated math puzzle. “Let me see . . . ‘deliberating and analyzing issues’ . . . could mean . . . establishing conclusions . . . is this debating?”

“Very good! Now the next part.”

“Establishing conclusions, maintaining efficiency, eliminating ambiguity, well if they
really
wanted to eliminate ambiguity—” But he shook his head and continued, “‘no longer be of necessity . . .’”

He stopped.

“Whoa.”

He looked up at Mahrree with sudden understanding.

“Debates are not needed,” he said. “They take up too much time and confuse students.” He quickly looked down. “So no debates about history and science?” he asked incredulously.