released her hand.
"You'll learn," she said calmly.
It was not encouragement.
He sat in the middle of it like hooked bait in a current that swirled with devouring mouths, mouths from which endlessly came mind-deadening sounds.
"This is a boat. A boat sails on the water. The men who live on the boat are called sailors."
And, in the primer, the words about the boat printed under a picture of one.
Paal remembered a picture his father had shown him once. It had been a picture of a boat too; but his father had not spoken futile words about the boat. His father had created about the picture every sight and sound heir to it. Great blue rising swells of tide. Gray-green mountain waves, their white tops lashing. Storm winds whistling through the rigging of a bucking, surging, shuddering vessel. The quiet majesty of an ocean sunset, joining, with a scarlet seal, sea and sky.
"This is a farm. Men grow food on the farm. The men who grow food are called farmers."
Words. Empty, with no power to convey the moist, warm feel of earth. The sound of grain fields rustling in the wind like golden seas. The sight of sun setting on a red barn wall. The smell of soft lea winds carrying, from afar, the delicate clank of cowbells.
"This is a forest. A forest is made of trees."
No sense of presence in those black, dogmatic symbols whether sounded or looked upon. No sound of winds rushing like eternal rivers through the high green canopies. No smell of pine and birch, oak and maple and hemlock. No feel of treading on the century-thick carpet of leafy forest floors.
Words. Blunt, sawed-off lengths of hemmed-in meaning; incapable of evocation, of expansion. Black figures on white. This is a cat. This is a dog. Cat, dog. This is a man. This is a woman. Man, woman. Car. Horse. Tree. Desk. Children. Each word a trap, stalking his mind. A snare set to enclose fluid and unbounded comprehension.
Every day she stood him on the platform.
"Paal," she would say, pointing at him, "Paal. Say it. Paal."
He couldn't. He stared at her, too intelligent not to make the connection, too much afraid to seek further.
"Paal." A boney finger prodding at his chest. "Paal. Paal. Paal."
He fought it. He had to fight it. He blanked his gaze and saw nothing of the room around him, concentrating only on his mother's hands. He knew it was a battle. Like a jelling of sickness, he had felt each new encroachment on his sensitivity.
"You're not listening, Paal Nielsen!" Miss Frank would accuse, shaking him. "You're a stubborn, ungrateful boy. Don't you want to be like other children?"
Staring eyes; and her thin, never-to-be-kissed lips stirring, pressing in.
"Sit down," she'd say. He didn't move. She'd move him off the platform with rigid fingers.
"Sit down," she'd say as if talking to a mulish puppy.
Every day.
She was awake in an instant; in another instant, on her feet and hurrying across the darkness of the room. Behind her, Harry slept with laboring breaths. She shut away the sound and let her hand slip off the doorknob as she started across the hall.
"Darling."
He was standing by the window, looking out. As she spoke, he whirled and, in the faint illumination of the night light, she could see the terror written on his face.
"Darling, come to bed." She led him there and tucked him in, then sat beside him, holding his thin, cold hands.
"What is it, dear?"
He looked at her with wide, pained eyes.
"Oh-" She bent over and pressed her warm cheek to his. "What are you afraid of?"
In the dark silence it seemed as if a vision of the schoolroom and Miss Frank standing in it crossed her mind.
"Is it the school?" she asked, thinking it only an idea which had occurred to her.
The answer was in his face.
"But school is nothing to be afraid of, darling," she said. "You-"
She saw tears welling in his eyes, and abruptly she drew him up and held him tightly against herself. Don't be afraid, she thought. Darling, please don't be afraid. I'm here and I love you just as
"You'll learn," she said calmly.
It was not encouragement.
He sat in the middle of it like hooked bait in a current that swirled with devouring mouths, mouths from which endlessly came mind-deadening sounds.
"This is a boat. A boat sails on the water. The men who live on the boat are called sailors."
And, in the primer, the words about the boat printed under a picture of one.
Paal remembered a picture his father had shown him once. It had been a picture of a boat too; but his father had not spoken futile words about the boat. His father had created about the picture every sight and sound heir to it. Great blue rising swells of tide. Gray-green mountain waves, their white tops lashing. Storm winds whistling through the rigging of a bucking, surging, shuddering vessel. The quiet majesty of an ocean sunset, joining, with a scarlet seal, sea and sky.
"This is a farm. Men grow food on the farm. The men who grow food are called farmers."
Words. Empty, with no power to convey the moist, warm feel of earth. The sound of grain fields rustling in the wind like golden seas. The sight of sun setting on a red barn wall. The smell of soft lea winds carrying, from afar, the delicate clank of cowbells.
"This is a forest. A forest is made of trees."
No sense of presence in those black, dogmatic symbols whether sounded or looked upon. No sound of winds rushing like eternal rivers through the high green canopies. No smell of pine and birch, oak and maple and hemlock. No feel of treading on the century-thick carpet of leafy forest floors.
Words. Blunt, sawed-off lengths of hemmed-in meaning; incapable of evocation, of expansion. Black figures on white. This is a cat. This is a dog. Cat, dog. This is a man. This is a woman. Man, woman. Car. Horse. Tree. Desk. Children. Each word a trap, stalking his mind. A snare set to enclose fluid and unbounded comprehension.
Every day she stood him on the platform.
"Paal," she would say, pointing at him, "Paal. Say it. Paal."
He couldn't. He stared at her, too intelligent not to make the connection, too much afraid to seek further.
"Paal." A boney finger prodding at his chest. "Paal. Paal. Paal."
He fought it. He had to fight it. He blanked his gaze and saw nothing of the room around him, concentrating only on his mother's hands. He knew it was a battle. Like a jelling of sickness, he had felt each new encroachment on his sensitivity.
"You're not listening, Paal Nielsen!" Miss Frank would accuse, shaking him. "You're a stubborn, ungrateful boy. Don't you want to be like other children?"
Staring eyes; and her thin, never-to-be-kissed lips stirring, pressing in.
"Sit down," she'd say. He didn't move. She'd move him off the platform with rigid fingers.
"Sit down," she'd say as if talking to a mulish puppy.
Every day.
She was awake in an instant; in another instant, on her feet and hurrying across the darkness of the room. Behind her, Harry slept with laboring breaths. She shut away the sound and let her hand slip off the doorknob as she started across the hall.
"Darling."
He was standing by the window, looking out. As she spoke, he whirled and, in the faint illumination of the night light, she could see the terror written on his face.
"Darling, come to bed." She led him there and tucked him in, then sat beside him, holding his thin, cold hands.
"What is it, dear?"
He looked at her with wide, pained eyes.
"Oh-" She bent over and pressed her warm cheek to his. "What are you afraid of?"
In the dark silence it seemed as if a vision of the schoolroom and Miss Frank standing in it crossed her mind.
"Is it the school?" she asked, thinking it only an idea which had occurred to her.
The answer was in his face.
"But school is nothing to be afraid of, darling," she said. "You-"
She saw tears welling in his eyes, and abruptly she drew him up and held him tightly against herself. Don't be afraid, she thought. Darling, please don't be afraid. I'm here and I love you just as
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