Teacher, Teach Me
Notes: Usual disclaimers apply. Not for profit, for fun
He remembers when Bookman first taught him to darn socks. A life perpetually on the road, they had to be careful with the wear and tear in all they owned and carried with them. So yeah, darning socks. This was before he even knew of his elder's skill with needles.
"Junior," Bookman had said, " it's all well and good to have a dozen needles for specific tasks, but," the gravelly voice, paused, "you need to be able to make do with one first."
He can call up the memory as if it was yesterday. They're in Phú Xuân (modern day Huế, Vietnam). In a makeshift shelter made of goatskin tentage. They sit at a rough hewn table of some un-named wood, on a bench of the same - side by side. They are sharing with some others but no one's paying them any mind. Both he and Bookman have soft woolen caps pulled right down over their hair and Bookman has taken to leaving his charge's face grimy this time. The only light they can work with is the sputtering flame in the oil lamp on the table. They look just like a grandparent and child, one of the many displaced families of that war. Bookman's voice in spite of its rough quality is sonorous. Lavi sees that little boy, wants to touch him on the shoulder, as he's rubbing at his eye and fighting sleep. He wants to whisper that everything was going to be alright.
There are things that he remembers that Bookman has taught him that have nothing to do with the Bookman code. He remembers when he'd taken those first steps away from the orphanage, filled with apprehension and trepidation. Small uncertain steps, that hand on his shoulder and that gravelly voice had stopped him.
"Boy, pick your feet up, don't shuffle, don't drag your feet. Step lightly if you can." He remembers the pause in between, "Hrnh, that way, your shoes last longer." He recalls that he'd looked up at those weird dark eyes and that there was a twinkle in them and they'd smiled at each other and then he ran off. But he didn't run too far off, he was afraid of getting lost. He was not sure then - as now even come to think of it - if it was to tell him to walk unafraid while teaching him to be frugal at the same time. Sometimes you cannot tell with Bookman. He loves to riddle.
He remembers how at nine he would slouch, or slump over a desk as he wrote. Sitting over a notebook, he's day dreaming when he's smacked hard in the back with a wooden ruler. He's suddenly brought back to his assignment and straightens up naturally. The rule is held firm against his back.
"Back straight boy! If you can't breathe properly, you'll get sleepy, and you'll not be able to keep your writing neat." There's another of those pauses, "and you won't grow up right." At that last he remembers turning round to see the humour in those eyes again and they share a smile.
He remembers being at a stream. They're in India, and it's wash day in the village they're at. Everyone is out and so are they. They're washing clothes with the others, and after he gets permission to join the other children at play in the water. It's a chance to wash the grime of travel and freshen up. He noticed that Bookman's topknot is undone and the hair hangs limp below his ears. He smiles at the memory, thinking to no one, "he does, you know. Sometimes. How else does he keep it clean d'you think?"
He remembers, Bookman teaching him to walk across a crowded room. This was one of those lessons Junior classifies as a 'gray' area. He's not entirely certain if this is part of Bookman training just another those questionable arts necessary in the name of self preservation. "There are three ways boy." To walk through like somebody, like nobody or like you belonged. It depended, and he remembers the conspiratorial whisper, "what your end game was."
He remembers nights, and he can hear the cacophonous cicadas underneath starlit sprinkled darkness, campfire aglow and crackling; the story of misguided King Shahriyar and his beautiful and clever Queen who sacrificed herself to save a country's women. That remarkable storyteller herself Shahrazad. He loved (still loves) listening to those stories, listening to Bookman's voice. How it soothed, as it took him off to wondrous lands of times past, how it would allay fears, as lessons wound their way through the tales. Except, except that since they've come to the Order, those times have been rare, and lately even not at all.
Exorcists are being sent everywhere. They've moved to the new premises now, and Bookman is being rather aloof and closed off with the whole Allen being the Fourteenth and Cross Marian's disappearance - dead or not, there is no body, and Bookmen will reserve judgement till there is proof, as with everything they witness. Bookman being offhanded as he has ever been, hurt a little. His pride smarts and this is what Lavi's put all his reminiscing at the root of. Even though he may have his own reasons for doing so, Bookman should trust him more and in this case the less riddling he has to work through means the fewer circles his brain needs to go round. The better he can record, their journals.
And he's remembering all this because tomorrow they are going back to China where his travels first began with Bookman all those years ago. Where they went in search of Cross, all those months ago. It's a long way but Allen will open the Ark gates for them. How long a trip it will be he does not know, but maybe, maybe with them being away from the Order, he can wheedle Bookman into telling them all a story, when the work is done, and they can sit by another fire and just listen.
Fin
Notes:
This is for the 11 August. If it was your birthday yesterday ...Happy Birthday!
Apologies this is late.
Depending on who's reading this for what ... look I didn't mention Kanda at all, although I very nearly did to mention Bookman pinching his hair ties, when I talked about him having his topknot undone. I'm proud of myself. On the other hand if you ARE here to see Kanda I apologise that he didn't even get a sniff in this. ^_~
Once again, to my lovely readers, because I know you're there, you are so loved... Have a great weekend. - Zan
Part 12 of the 49 Days series