Shaman's Crossing

Those of us who quickly caught on to drill could do nothing for those who did not, nor could we make our entire patrol look better than the worst soldier in it. Gord took a heavy share of Dent’s abuse, as did Rory, for he walked with a rolling gait and bent elbows. Kort had a longer stride than the rest of us, and when he attempted to shorten it, he appeared always on the verge of stumbling, while gangly Lofert could not seem to master the difference between right and left on any of the commands. He was always a second behind the rest of us as he strove to go the correct direction by spying on the cadet beside him.

Dent cursed us all roundly but without Sergeant Rufet’s skill. I could not understand why he could not teach us calmly, until I spied Cadet Captain Jeffers and Colonel Stiet standing to one side of the parade ground. Jeffers had a notebook in his hands and seemed to be critiquing each patrol under Stiet’s watchful eyes. Caulder Stiet stood just behind his father and to his left, scrutinizing us as well. I wondered if he contributed comments to our critique. I was begi

Such thoughts occupied my mind and made me perform a ‘column left’ turn when the command had been ‘left flank’. I threw our entire patrol out of stride, and was given a demerit to march off before I could go to my study hours.

I was not alone in my punishment. When Dent finally dismissed us after a final dressing down, almost every cadet on the ground had a demerit or six to march off. These consisted of marching the perimeter of the parade ground, pausing to salute, every direction of the compass at each corner. I had never before experienced such a useless discipline, and resented this waste of time that would have been better spent with my books. Rory, Kort, and Gord were still marching when I finished my single demerit and left them to go back to Carneston House.

I had hoped for a time of quiet alone with my books. My upbringing had been in many ways solitary and the constant companionship and noise were begi

I was grateful for my father’s foresight in preparing me for my lessons. I knew the material and had only to endure the drudgery of writing out information I was already familiar with. Many of the others were not so fortunate. Writing arm cramped tightly to my side, I finished my language and history assignments and then took out my math. The set of exercises Captain Rush had given were basic calculations, not difficult at all, which made doing them even more tedious. At least I’d only earned the first set of problems in addition to the regular review assignment. A few of the other fellows had four sets to complete tonight. Trist was finished before any of us, and bid us a cheerful farewell as he headed off to the quiet and relative comfort of his room. Beside me, Spink laboured with many blotches through his Varnian translation exercise and then composed the letter to his mother.

I had nearly finished my maths when he took out his book and opened it reluctantly to the very first page. I watched him as he studied the given examples and then head his paper for the first set of problems. He took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive off a bridge, and began. Our proctor came and stood behind him. Midway through Spink’s second problem, he leaned over him. “Six times eight is forty-eight. That’s your error, on this and on the first problem. You need to drill yourself on your basic arithmetic facts or you’ll not get far at the Academy. I’m shocked that you don’t know them already.”

Spink became even quieter, if that were possible, keeping his eyes fixed on his paper, as if he feared to face mockery if he looked up from it.

“Did you hear me?” the corporal prodded him. “Go back and fix the first one before you continue.”

“Yes, sir,” Spink replied softly and began carefully rubbing out the error on his paper as the corporal continued his circuit of the table. The arrival of Rory and Kort took up his attention for some time. He had just given them places at the table when a very red-faced Gord came puffing up the stairs. Perspiration had left wet tracks down the side of his face into the rolls of his neck. He smelled of sweat from marching off his demerits, not clean man’s sweat, but a sour spoiled-bacon stink. “Whew!” someone exclaimed in soft disdain after he had passed through the room on his way to hang up his coat and get his books.

“I think I’ve finished,” Natred a

I saw it again, as if Gord had do

Spink reddened slightly. He glanced toward the proctor, expecting a rebuke. Then, deciding to forestall it, he raised his hand and said, “May I request that Cadet Burvelle be allowed to assist me with my assignment?”

I mentally cringed, expecting a scathing onslaught from the corporal. Instead, he nodded gravely. “Assist, not do it for you, Cadet. Assisting a fellow cavallaman is well within our traditions, Go to it.”

So we did, whispering quietly together. I showed him how to set up the problem, and he worked it gravely, arriving at the correct answer with only one prod from me, again on his calculation. But when he said, “It’s much easier. But I don’t understand why I can set it up this way. It seems to me we’re skipping a step.”

“Well, it’s because we can,” I said, and then paused, perplexed.

I knew what I had done, and I’d done similar problems a hundred times. But I had never thought to ask my maths tutor why it could be done that way.

Gord’s hand softly came down on Spink’s paper, covering the problem. We both looked at him hostilely, believing he was going to complain about our whispering. Instead, he looked at Spink and said quietly, “I don’t think you understand exactly what exponents are. They’re supposed to be a short cut and once you understand them, they’re easy to use. Shall I show you?”

Spink glanced at me as if he expected me to be irritated. I turned a palm up to Gord, inviting him to go ahead. He did, speaking softly, his own books ignored on the table before him. He was a natural teacher. I saw that. It made him want to help Spink before he began his own work, despite his late start at it. He didn’t do Spink’s work for him, or even work the problem himself to demonstrate it. Instead, he explained exponents in a way that enlightened me. I was good at math, but I was good at it in a rote way, just as a small child recites ‘nine plus twelve is twenty-one’ long before he knows what numbers are or that they signify quantities. I could manipulate numbers and symbols accurately, because I knew the rules. Gord, however, understood the principles. He explained exponents in a way that made me understand that I had been looking at a map of mathematics and Gord knew the countryside of it. That is an inadequate explanation for such a subtle awakening, but it is the best I can do.