Maniu T's Arc

Chapter 1 of 9

Maniu swept the front step of the castle-shaped school for the third time that morning. The door stood open behind him. Inside, twenty small desks waited in neat rows, each with a slate and a stub of chalk he had paid for himself. It was the first day of classes in Letter Land's first real school, and no children had come. He had spent two years building this. He had painted the letters on the towers by hand. He had walked to every cottage in the valley and promised parents that their children would learn to read. They had smiled and nodded and shaken his hand. A red bird with a flame-shaped crest landed on the railing and watched him with one bright eye. Maniu set down the broom. "Where are they?" The bird tilted its head toward the road. Maniu walked. He passed three cottages before he found a boy in the yard of a warm little house with green shutters. Mark was stacking firewood almost as tall as himself, his striped shirt smudged with bark. He grinned when he saw Maniu, then looked at the ground. "You didn't come," Maniu said. "Papa said no." Mark set another log on the pile. "He said the fisher man came around. Said reading steals hours a boy owes his family." "Which fisher man?" Mark pointed down the path toward the water. Maniu found him on the bank with a long rod and a full bucket. Yes, Fisher was maybe twelve, no taller than the reeds, and he was pulling in a silver fish with the calm of someone who had done it a thousand times. Two younger boys watched him from the mud. Their parents watched from the porch behind. Everyone watched Yes, Fisher. "You've been telling the parents," Maniu said. Yes, Fisher didn't look up. "I tell them what's true. My father can't read. I can't read. My bucket's full. Yours is empty." He nodded at the bucket. "An hour at a desk is an hour a boy isn't feeding his house." Maniu looked at the fish. He looked at the boys in the mud, who were listening to every word. "Read me what's painted on your rod," Maniu said. Yes, Fisher's hand tightened. The rod had letters carved along the grip. He had never asked what they said. "It's your father's name," Maniu said. He had known the old man before the stroke took his voice. "He carved it there so you'd carry it. You've been carrying it for years and never knew." The bank went quiet. One of the small boys stood up out of the mud. Yes, Fisher set the rod down. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. By afternoon, four children sat at the desks inside the castle school. Mark was one of them. Yes, Fisher stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. He did not come in. But he did not leave, either, and the parents behind him were waiting to see what he would decide.