Maniu T's Arc

Chapter 6 of 9

By Wednesday morning, the withdrawn boy had done more damage than the landowner. His father had kept him home, but the boy walked the lane past the school anyway, telling every child he passed that Maniu's letter would get them all whipped. By the time Maniu opened the door, only Mark sat on the bench. The other student's chair was empty. Mark held the painted wooden B in his lap and would not look up. "Where is she?" Maniu asked. "Her brother said the paper's a trick," Mark whispered. "He said the landowner will read our names off it and burn our barns." Maniu sat on the floor so his eyes were level with the boy's. "The paper has my name on it. Not yours. Not hers." "He said you wrote ours underneath." So that was the rumor. Maniu stood. He had until Friday. One boy on a bench was not a school. Princess Letter came through the door with the green pup at her heel and a folded cloth under her arm. She had heard already; news in Letter Land moved on bare feet. "Show them the paper," she said. "All of it. Read it aloud in the lane where the withdrawn boy can hear." "He can't read it back to check me." "Then teach him to, right there. One word. Today." She set the cloth on the desk and unfolded it. Inside was a large bright letter A, blue and orange, edged clean. "Start with this. Everyone knows the sound. Nobody can argue with it." Maniu carried the A and the written answer into the lane. Mark followed with the B. Princess Letter rang the school bell until doors opened up and down the row. Mothers came out with wet hands. The withdrawn boy came too, hanging back by a fence post, arms crossed like his father's. Maniu held up the paper first. He read every word slowly. Consent from the teacher. No names of children. No names of families. Then he held up the A. "This is the first letter your children have been called liars over," he said. "Watch." He turned to the withdrawn boy. "Come say its sound. Just the sound. If I've lied about the paper, you'll know before your father comes home." The boy did not move. A younger girl stepped out from behind her mother and said it. "Ah." Then Mark said it. Then two more children. The withdrawn boy's mouth moved without sound, and his arms came uncrossed. By noon, four children sat on the bench again. The withdrawn boy was not among them, but he stood in the doorway the way Yes, Fisher once had, watching. His mother had not called him home. Mark's neighbor stopped Maniu at the gate that evening. "The landowner sent a rider past the mill an hour ago," she said. "He's not waiting for Friday anymore."