Thief of Time

There was some applause from the acolytes at the abbot's prowess in animal recognition. “He saw the patterns. He knows what is happening. He just doesn't know what he knows,” said Lu-Tze doggedly. “And within a few seconds of meeting me he stole a small object of value, and I'm still wondering how he did it. Can he really be as fast as that without training? Who is this boy?”

Tick

Who is this girl?

Madam Frout, headmistress of the Frout Academy and pioneer of the Frout Method of Learning Through Fun, often found herself thinking that when she had to interview Miss Susan. Of course, the girl was an employee, but… well, Madam Frout wasn't very good at discipline, which was possibly why she'd invented the Method, which didn't require any. She generally relied on talking to people in a jolly tone of voice until they gave in out of sheer embarrassment on her behalf.

Miss Susan didn't appear ever to be embarrassed about anything.

“The reason I've called you here, Susan, is that, er, the reason is—” Madam Frout faltered.

“There have been complaints?” said Miss Susan.

“Er, no… er… although Miss Smith has told me that the children coming up from your class are, er, restless. Their reading ability is, she says, rather unfortunately advanced…”

“Miss Smith thinks a good book is about a boy and his dog chasing a big red ball,” said Miss Susan. “My children have learned to expect a plot. No wonder they get impatient. We're reading Grim Fairy Tales at the moment.”

“That is rather rude of you, Susan.”

“No, madam. That is rather polite of me. It would have been rude of me to say that there is a circle of Hell reserved for teachers like Miss Smith.”

“But that's a dreadf—” Madam Frout stopped, and began again. “You should not be teaching them to read at all yet!” she snapped. But it was the snap of a soggy twig. Madam Frout cringed back in her chair when Miss Susan looked up. The girl had this terrible ability to give you her full attention. You had to be a better person than Madam Frout to survive in the intensity of that attention. It inspected your soul, putting little red circles around the bits it didn't like. When Miss Susan looked at you, it was as if she was giving you marks.

“I mean,” the headmistress mumbled, “childhood is a time for play and—”

“Learning,” said Miss Susan.

“Learning through play,” said Madam Frout, grateful to find familiar territory. “After all, kittens and puppies—”

“—grow up to be cats and dogs, which are even less interesting,” said Miss Susan, “whereas children should grow up to be adults.”

Madam Frout sighed. There was no way she was going to make any progress. It was always like this. She knew she was powerless. News about Miss Susan had got around. Worried parents who'd turned to Learning Through Play because they despaired of their offspring ever Learning By Paying Attention to What Anyone Said were finding them coming home a little quieter, a little more thoughtful and with a pile of homework which, amazingly, they did without prompting and even with the dog helping them. And they came home with stories about Miss Susan.

Miss Susan spoke all languages. Miss Susan knew everything about everything. Miss Susan had wonderful ideas for school trips…

…and that was particularly puzzling, because as far as Madam Frout knew, none had been officially organized. There was invariably a busy silence from Miss Susan's classroom when she went past. This annoyed her. It harked back to the bad old days when children were Regimented in classrooms that were no better than Torture Chambers for Little Minds. But other teachers said that there were noises. Sometimes there was the faint sound of waves, or a jungle. Just once, Madam Frout could have sworn, if she was the sort to swear, that as she passed there was a full-scale battle going on. This had often been the case with Learning Through Play, but this time the addition of trumpets, the swish of arrows and the screams of the fallen seemed to be going too far.

She'd thrown open the door and felt something hiss through the air above her head. Miss Susan had been sitting on a stool, reading from a book, with the class cross-legged in a quiet and fascinated semicircle around her. It was the sort of old-fashioned image Madam Frout hated, as if the children were Supplicants around some sort of Altar of Knowledge.

No one had said anything. All the watching children, and Miss Susan, made it clear in polite silence that they were waiting for her to go away.

She'd flounced back into the corridor and the door had clicked shut behind her. Then she noticed the long, crude arrow that was still vibrating in the opposite wall.

Madam Frout had looked at the door, with its familiar green paint, and then back at the arrow.

Which had gone.

She transferred Jason to Miss Susan's class. It had been a cruel thing to do, but Madam Frout considered that there was now some kind of undeclared war going on.