The Arrival of Missives Read Online Free PDF Page B

if he is mad and this is the form of his insanity.
    He pinches his lips together, and then says, 'I receive visions, instructions from the rock, and much is at stake. I was guided to this village to shape the destiny of those within it, but I find the actions I must undertake are too difficult for me.'
    'What kind of actions?'
    He shakes his head. 'I cannot keep you here for the length of time it would take to explain. You must get home on time tonight to keep suspicion at bay. I have written it all down for you. It will be a terrible thing to read, but I must ask it of you, and that you will keep it safe from discovery. I rely upon you in this matter.' He reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out an envelope, which he hands to me. I read my name upon it. 'I do not know if this is the correct course, but I have wrestled with my conscience and I find I must look to the greater good, and to that end I must provide you with some explanation. I am, first and foremost, still your teacher, and it is my goal to elucidate, and not simply to instruct.'
    'I understand perfectly, sir,' I say, and it is true. How could a teacher respond differently? Once more I am reminded that we share the same goals, and the thought is reassuring.
    'Yes,' he says. 'Thank you. Thank you, my dear.'
    Then we briefly lay out plans for the May Day celebrations, and I am tasked with fetching the horseshoes for the game. I cannot see that this would qualify as an important occupation, but I feel that delicate partnerships such as these must begin with the reinforcement of positivity, just as one would praise a pupil for an error-ridden piece of work in order to establish that any future criticism builds upon a solid base of mutual understanding.
    See, I am the teacher and he is the pupil at this moment! I cannot help but smile as we conclude our meeting, and I head homewards. I slide the letter into my pinafore, where it presses against my breast. The sharp corners stick me each time I breathe, but I don't mind. I am about to make myself indispensable, and I have his private words as proof.
    *
    It was a long supper, and my mother cast many glances my way. I think she wanted to speak of something privately, but I am glad to say the opportunity did not come. Now I am alone, in my bed, after complaining of a headache.
    'Headaches, now, is it?' said my father. 'She's a real lady. Pass the smelling salts.' He said it in a joking tone, but my mother frowned at him severely. I sense some disagreement between them, thickening the air. I was surprised that when she served the bread pudding it did not curdle the cream in its jug.
    Still, I have other things with which to be concerned, such as the contents of the letter.
    He has written my name with such stylish ease, the ink flowing freely at the commencement to make a strong 's' that tapers into the fine loops and lines that follow. He did not refresh the ink halfway through, and the rest of my name fades until the 'y' is barely visible. Never has my name looked so beautiful.
    I open the envelope, taking great care not to tear it, and feel the fine quality of the paper as I slide it free. It is a thick, long letter. The writing is small and slanting; it has a sense of urgency. If he were my pupil I would reprimand him for rushing at his work. I picture him in a fever at his kitchen table, hunched over the page by lamplight. These are the words he desperately wants me to read.
    I settle back on my pillow and give myself to them. I find that I am abruptly thrust into the heart of a story. No preamble is given, no address. It is as if he has simply committed his thoughts to these pages, and I can feel his presence with me as I read. It is as if he sits behind me, his breath stirring the fine hairs on the back of my neck.
    Other men, those returning to the front line, told me they did not remember receiving their injuries. Everything was a blur, one told me, and I believed him. But now I know that he lied. He lied