Soldier at the Door (Forest at the Edge)

by Mercer, Trish

  Mahrree pulled away from his arm and stiffened. She purposely didn’t think about it, just as she didn’t contemplate her own death, because there was nothing do about it but observe its approach and weep.

  “I think neither of us has a lot of faith in the Administrators’ school,” he said quietly. “But then again, who knows, maybe they might surprise us with—”

  “—engraved invitations to move to Terryp’s ruins in the west?”

  Perrin sighed. “Yes, something remarkably well done like that. Mahrree, we have some time to see what happens. But if not . . .” He couldn’t find the words.

  “What are you trying to say, exactly?” she prompted.

  “I’m not entirely sure myself, but . . .” He exhaled and looked around again. “This morning I told you our most precious possessions were safe with Zenos. But they aren’t—”

  “Our babies AREN’T safe?!” Mahrree squealed, twisting absurdly to look behind her as if she could see her children sobbing from miles away.

  “Mahrree, Mahrree,” he chuckled, “I mean, they aren’t our possessions.”

  Mahrree breathed deeply and patted her chest to catch her breath.

  “Sorry,” he kissed her on the cheek. “Zenos is fine with them, I’m sure of it.” His face grew solemn. “But it’s been pressing deep into my mind, ever since I called them our possessions. It’s just that . . . Mahrree, we’re told in Command School about the duties of soldiers and citizens. One thing we had to recite was that sending children to school was the citizens’ responsibility to the government.”

  Mahrree blinked at the odd phrase. “Our duty to the government? To hand over our children to their care?”

  “That was one of Querul the Second’s statements, and the Administrators never abolished it. After all, citizens earn money which is then taxed and given to the government. In a way, the government—and it doesn’t matter whose—sees themselves as owning the people. They don’t serve us,” he whispered harshly, “but instead, we work for them. Without our taxes, they’re nothing. They’re especially interested in the children, because if they’re successful, then so will be the government. Or perhaps I should say ‘wealthy,’ instead of ‘successful,’” he grumbled in annoyance. “It all comes down to riches and power. You know that. None of this is publicly stated, of course. But Mahrree, that combination of words—children and duty and government—always sounded wrong.”

  His wife nodded so vigorously in agreement that, had she been wearing the ludicrous bird hat, it would have launched into flight.

  “No government owns our children,” Perrin growled under his breath. “We don’t even own our children! They belong to the Creator. Parents are guides, not possessors. And as their father, I’m responsible to the Creator for leading our family. I answer to no one else.”

  She grabbed his arm and kissed his shoulder. “How did I end up with such a man like you?”

  Perrin smiled and groaned at the same time. “A man whose talk could be considered dangerous to community’s welfare should the Administrator of Loyalty hear him?”

  They both instinctively looked around again the gray landscape for a flash of red. All that looked back at them were black and white cows, none that appeared to be spies in disguise.

  “What does that administrator look like, anyway?” Mahrree fretted.

  “Ever seen a weasel?”

  “Yes.”

  “One that’s been in a fight with a dog, in a rainstorm, then rolled in the mud and hasn’t eaten for three days so it’s a bit on the testy side? That’s Gadiman.”

  “In other words, someone fun to have over for dinner.”

  “Indeed,” he sighed. “I guess what I’m getting at, Mahrree, is maybe in five years if the schools aren’t what we feel is best, we could look at doing something else.” He took a deep breath and looked around again.

  “Like what?” Mahrree asked, her interest piqued.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Like what we did before the Great War?” Mahrree was all energy now as her history lessons unfolded. “Of course! No one sent their children to school! All the parents took turns and spent a part of each day teaching their children and their neighbors’ children at their homes, then worked with them in their shops and fields. We merely modified that after the end of the war, but . . . why did we do that?”

  Her face contorted in trying to remember. She really didn’t expect Perrin to answer, and he couldn’t have supplied one. She squinted in the distance as if reading a far away text for an answer, and the answer came rushing to her.

  “That’s right! The first king! Querul wanted to make sure everyone learned the same things, so he instituted teachers in the villages to help work with the parents. Ohhh,” she said, the beginnings of an idea formulating. “Ohhh, yes. Yes, it could be done! Perrin! The schools are a holdover from the period of the kings. We could do what was done before, since the beginning. We could approach the Administrators and, and, and . . . petition to not follow an old edict of the kings, but teach our children ourselves! Oh Perrin, you’re smart!”

  “Mahrree,” he started cautiously, “you make an excellent point, but I’m not sure the Administrators would see school as an ‘antiquated holdover’.”

  “But couldn’t we ask? What would be the harm in asking?”

  Perrin thought for a moment. “I can see the harm in asking about other things, but teaching? We’d be easing the burden on their school system, as long as our children are successful and still later pay taxes . . .”

  “I’ll even write the petition!” Mahrree said, full of energy. “Let’s keep your name out of it. I’ll sign it alone, as a teacher asking for this option if a child is frequently ill or immature or slow or something. If we could get permission for one child, then we could maybe later get it for our own. Let me do this, please!”

  Perrin thought again.

  “I really can’t think of a reason why we shouldn’t try,” he responded.

  But somewhere in the back of his head a tiny part of his mind flinched as he remembered the words, Most dangerous woman in the world.

  ---

  Late that afternoon Mahrree wrote a carefully worded and logical letter. Several wheels had been turning in her mind for the past few moons, and they came all together in the message she didn’t show to her husband before she sealed it. She didn’t want him to feel any responsibility, nor did she want to feel any of his influence. Once the children were down for a nap, she brought it herself to the messengers’ office north of the markets and walked home feeling rather satisfied.

  But before any of that, she interrogated Shem extensively about what her babies did every minute while she was gone. She couldn’t decide if she was happy or disappointed that the three of them seemed to have had a wonderful time. Peto even began to cry when Perrin took him from Shem, and Jaytsy kissed Shem on the cheek as he got up from the floor to leave.

  Shem noticed Mahrree’s disillusionment and Perrin’s suspicious glare.

  “This is what my uncle taught me to do,” he explained. “Win over the children so that they always have another adult they can turn to when their parents get too difficult to handle,” he winked. “Don’t worry, they still love you more. I’m merely a new plaything. So,” he said with a teasing look as he took his jacket from the chair. “Did you two have fun? See anything interesting? Plot against the Administrators? Learn anything new?”

  Perrin and Mahrree looked at him blankly, neither quite sure how to answer him.

  “All right,” Shem said slowly as he put on his jacket. “So how about I come back in two weeks and let you two out again so you can change the world?”

  The Shins exchanged a meaningful look.

  Shem grinned. “What in the world did the two of you do in just three hours?!”

  “Thank you, Private,” Captain Shin said. “I’ll see you in the morning. That will be all.”

  ---

  Late that night Barker, the ‘puppy’ which wa
s growing so large and heavy that he already out-paced every other full-grown dog in Edge—and gave smaller ponies an inferiority complex—snored inside his dog house that was the size of a small shed. He was consigned to sleep outside whenever the weather wasn’t freezing.

  Until he smelled the bacon.

  His eyes perked open, his nose sniffed the air, and he lumbered out of the dog house towards the scent that came from the back fence by the alley.

  A man in a black jacket lurking in the shadows tossed Barker one slice, then a second. As the dog gulped them down, the man came up to the fence. Gingerly he reached over and started to pet the massive dog’s head.

  “Well done,” he whispered. “Well done.”

  ---

  The Administrators in Idumea receive hundreds of letters each week. All are sent to the Division of Letter Readers who skim the contents and prepare one of several different pre-drafted responses. The Junior Letter Skimmers practice their best handwriting as they create stacks of prepared answers, waiting for the Senior Letter Skimmers to fill in the specific blanks and send the form letters back to the hopeful citizens.

  Form letter number one contains the phrase, “We will look into your issue and respond as we see fit.” This was the most popular letter in the department and had the effect of making the recipient feel listened to, understood, and maybe even important.

  But its real value lay in the fact that the wording allowed the Administrators to never have to send any more correspondence if they didn’t “see fit.”

  And they didn’t “see” most of the time.

  Another version reported that, “We appreciate your concern and assure you that the Administrators are doing all that they can,” which also vaguely negated the call for additional action while making the recipients feel the need to proudly hang the letter on their cooling cabinets.

  Then there were the, “We do not become involved in local issues such as chicken thievery or loud neighbors. Consult your local magistrate and/or fort” letters, and the occasional, “We are certain the birth of your child [insert name here] was a joyous occasion for you” forms.

  But some letters catch the skimmers’ eyes and are sent on ahead to the Main Skimmer, who then sends them on to the head of the Letter Readers. Some lucky letters leave this division to go to the specific departments, such as Office of Family, or Commerce, or Farming.

  And every once in a great while a few of those letters move on, after visiting the full hierarchy of their intended department, to the Administrators themselves and the desk of Mr. Gadiman, Administrator of Loyalty.

  This particular day a letter from the little village of Edge sat in front of Gadiman. His mouth twitched as he read and reread the words.

  It was borderline.

  The writer could have been sincere in her desire to help children that, as she phrased it, “would benefit from an alternative form of education.”

  Yet something in the very idea of questioning the Administrators’ educational policies had alarmed the Department of Instruction.

  Perhaps it was the subtle insinuation that the current school system seemed like a remembrance of the era of kings that the Administrators were trying so hard to eliminate.

  Or maybe it was the suggestion that current educational procedures may be unsuitable to meeting the needs of some children.

  Or maybe it was the assertion that parents could make decisions about their children, freeing the Administrators from any liability in their education.

  Or maybe it was because an annoying woman was pointing out the faults of the Administrators.

  Nothing in the letter specifically, however, suggested undermining the government—the Administrator of Loyalty’s primary concern.

  But he could never understand people’s need to be different, only to be difficult. It was like herding hogs, the diverging ways some people insisted on going. They were all destined for the same fate at the butcher’s, so Gadiman couldn’t understand why they fought it so much.

  He tapped the feathered end of his quill on the letter as he pondered it.

  The idea that someone was thinking beyond the bounds of what the Administrators advised was slightly troubling. Most likely nothing would ever come of this woman’s letter. She was merely a small teacher in a small village.

  Still, small things had the disturbing tendency to grow larger.

  Especially when such things had such connections.

  Administrator Gadiman made some notations on additional pieces of paper.

  One note recommended that the first form letter be sent to the writer with a signature from some junior assistant in the Department of Instruction.

  The second note indicated that the writer was the wife of the commanding officer in Edge.

  Captain Shin’s file sat in front of him. Next to his name was a blue dot of paint indicating perfect compliance and noteworthy performances. Gadiman leafed through the pages of the file and found nothing alarming. He didn’t expect to, considering whose son he was.

  The Administrator of Loyalty set the file aside and picked up a new, empty one. In large bold letters, he printed a name along the top. He placed the original letter and his notations in the file, then put a drop of yellow paint next to the name.

  Mahrree Peto Shin was now officially Watched.

  Gadiman was going to have to get another crate. His office was filling with files full of yellow and red dots. Or he needed a bigger office.

  ---

  Two men sat in the dark office of an unlit building.

  “Question,” asked Mal. “What kind of a woman writes a letter to the Department of Instruction?”

  Brisack held a piece of parchment. “Mrs. Shin?” he said, looking at the writing again and shaking his head.

  Mal nodded. “Yes. And look, she signed it alone. I hadn’t considered her as more than an appendage to her husband, but she’s demonstrating independent thought.”

  “I realize you may not know this, but many women are not always completely under the control of their husbands and frequently do things without them,” Brisack said with a smirking hint of approval. “Besides, would our Captain Shin marry anyone who didn’t?”

  “I suppose not,” Mal said with a slight glare. “You know, it sounds as if your appreciation of our captain, and now his wife, is increasing. Objectivity, my good doctor?”

  Brisack waved that off. “Oh, come now, didn’t you ever feel a bit of personal interest in your research subjects?”

  Mal sighed. “Only occasionally, for a moment. But once that personal connection is recognized, it can be dealt with and destroyed. I’m warning you—don’t get too attached to Shin. Or his wife. All research subjects will eventually be terminated. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” Brisack said reluctantly while Mal scowled. “But I can’t help but wonder, might you be intrigued by Mrs. Shin?”

  The older man shrugged grudgingly. “While I hadn’t considered observing her, she just might be worth our attention. Now, read the entire letter.” An odd, somewhat sickly smile appeared on his face.

  It was as if Nicko Mal wasn’t used to demonstrating genuine happiness, and it nauseated him.

  Seeing him truly happy about something naturally put Brisack on edge. The good doctor held the letter up to his eyes to read it in the dim light.

  “This is really quite bold, suggesting that the Administrators are extending the practices of the kings. But it’s subtly worded, so I’m surprised Gadiman noticed it. Only an intelligent woman could craft such a sentence,” his voice warmed without his noticing. “No wonder the administrator over education couldn’t recognize it.” He chuckle softly. “Something concerned him about the letter, but he couldn’t discern exactly what.”

  Mal nodded. “Initially I wondered, is she truly intelligent or did she accidentally write the wrong words?”

  “Sounds like another question for us to test,” Brisack grinned. “I wonder if her husband knows what kind of thin
king she’s committing. Look at this line, suggesting that parents be allowed to supervise their children’s education and not hold the government liable!” He chuckled as he shook his head. “No, it’s not accidental. She’s far too clever, and too often.”

  His tone grew so appreciative it dangerously approached adoration.

  “Indeed, she’s a little too perceptive. No wonder her letter made it all the way to the top.”

  Mal sat back in his chair, watching his companion’s growing ardor with amusement. “Keep reading. I don’t think you’ve reached the end just yet.” His smile took on an uncomfortably pleasant, yet also intestine-knotting, quality.

  Brisack squinted to read the neat, careful handwriting. A moment later his breathing stopped. His eyes quit moving across the page. His chest inflated and his lips pressed tightly together.

  Mal’s smile turned positively diarrheal, spreading all over his face.

  Breaking their rule, Brisack grabbed a candle and lit it in order to make sure he actually read the words correctly.

  He did.

  “Why, that little . . . sow!” the good doctor swore in aggravation.

  Mal’s eyebrows went up, never before hearing his companion use that vulgar term for women, and his smile grew to epidemic proportions. “I see you found it.”

  “How dare she?!” Brisack spluttered. “Did Gadiman notice this?”

  “He didn’t mention it,” Mal said easily, almost cheerfully. “He was more concerned about what the Administrator of Education pointed out to him. I suppose that since that section was also so subtly worded, he didn’t notice it. But apparently you did.”

  Brisack flattened the letter on his lap and read the sentences out loud that caused his face to contort and his language to burn.

  “‘I therefore request that I be allowed to conduct such a trial, the results of which I would happily share with the Administrators and Chairman. While what I am requesting is untested, it is only through conjecture, then trial, that we can see if such an alternative to education would be beneficial for this small segment of our citizenry. After all, it is through conjecture that we have accepted that the rest of the world is poisoned and uninhabitable, and it is through conjecture that it is assumed women are unable to safely bear more than two children.’ Conjecture?! Assumed?!” Brisack exploded.