The children marched single-file through dense brush, plodding along behind their teacher. She listened to their awkward stomps in the deep moss and wondered. This was a moment for listening, she said earlier, and urged them to appreciate a serenity so rarely afforded. If they had not learned yet, they will soon enough. The green path dove into a stream ahead. It was thin, not much of a beach, but clear. This glassy, shimmering escape was an ideal resting space. With a nod, the group lined up along the bank. They mimed her when she sat, though some more slowly for fear of dirtying their shorts.
The light reflecting from the stream illuminated the toes her boots and she smiled. They had nothing of the pristine youth that the children seemed to covet. They cared mercilessly for their matching class of footwear, maintaining every inch of glossy leather to achieve some immortality; and by lives so barely lived. “Remove them.” No upkeep for these old things, she thought, as she deftly unmade knots learned long ago. She knew every scar of darker tan. She remembered every tear and dent and sun-worn blemish. No upkeep, but love. And setting her heavy pair of memory carefully beside her, she dipped her feet into the cool stream. The children trusted and obeyed.
“No worry, children.” she said, “Yonder sleeps an abyssal lake whose mouth is too swift for the dust to settle.”
“But you don’t know that!” called a little boy.
“Hush now. Remember what I taught you. This is a time for listening…”
“Not Reading.” they hummed in harmony.
This unity set them at unconscious peace, and proud their teacher turned her attention across the stream. She buried her eyes in the mesh of colorful life beyond, allowing her mind to nestle amongst the quiet forest. All eyes were forward now, focused on nothing but attentive to the presence of empty mind-space. They explored it together and, finding nothing, were calmed. A vacation for the busy brains of New-Readers, her own teacher had called it; relaxation at last.
Suddenly, there was another. It had been moving silently within their circle without notice, but now there was no doubt. It avoided them all, every powerful mind indifferent. It was the shadow of a man hauling a net of debris across the wilderness. Before there was time to react, a tiny girl spoke up.
“It’s a Waster!” she said.
And with a moment’s hesitation, the man was gone. Behind him trailed an animal; a weasel, something gentle and obedient, alongside his satchel of refuse. The children whispered amongst themselves, finite experience and endless legend coalescing instantly into a lucid dream that would never be forgotten. The little girl turned to her teacher and spoke again.
“You knew him. Miss Graham…Miss Kie-Kiela? And he knew you. Also, you haven’t returned Dorn’s calls?”
“Nonsense, Fensa.” she muttered, wiping a secret tear. “Wasters are not known to us, and who are you to call him so!? Keep out of my mind. Or have you forgotten today’s lesson?”
The child listened again to the buzzing of her peers. Eventually, she gathered her boots and began the thorough task of inspecting them before lacing up for the long trek home.
