“In my observation, there are two general ways of looking at the world,” declared Master John as he carried Timothy over a footbridge in the salmon morning light. “One way focuses on the whole picture — and the motion of all things. The other sees the details by breaking things down into their component pieces. The first way is concerned with the particular and changing; the other, the abstract and the fixed.”
Atop Master John, Timothy fiddled with his whiskers. “Okay. I don’t know if I understand, but please continue.”
“If it weren’t for our ability to see the flux of the universe, we’d more than likely get hit by a peddler’s cart on Market Lane before too long. And if it weren’t for our ability to recognize wholes, we’d find ourselves adrift in a perplexing sea of unrecognizable objects of unintelligible significance. We might, for example, confuse a well pump for a living being.”
“How strange!”
“Indeed! To get a sense of what that might be like, I recommend examining the paintings of Joshua of Hampstead — after that strange disease addled his mind. But now to the other half of my point: the abstraction is important too. Without our ability to analyze and deconstruct and categorize, we would not have any of the machines that mill our grain, transport our water, and defend our forts. Both modes of attention matter. But many - like Master William, for instance - have privileged one at the expense of the other. They imagine their abstractions represent the world in its entirety.”
“And they don’t?”
“No. In many cases, they are very useful models of the world — models with great predictive power. But they are re-presentations of the world at best — and they must be constantly compared to the reality of the concrete, not treated as unalterable certainties.”
“Are you saying, then, that Master William is too confident he’s mastered it all?”
“That’s it exactly. And this unfortunate failing is rife in the circles from which he springs. Many educated creatures exist in essentially closed systems in which confirmation is never sought — and is certainly not desired even when clear contradictions intrude despite their best efforts. That’s how you get architects who design buildings creatures hate and cannot use. Or, for that matter, celebrated instructors at Alexandria who’ve persisted with their preferred lenient pedagogies despite their manifest failures — and their students, who depart from the same having learned absolutely nothing because they were never spurred to do so by high standards.”
“If I had the coin to go to Alexandria, I would try to learn everything I could.”
“I’m sure you would, little mouse.” Timothy could hear the smile in Master John’s voice. “You are naturally hard-working and curious. But you are not every pupil. Others require external inducements to apply themselves — exams, grades, medals of accomplishment. When you take those away - as Alexandria did a few terms ago - some creatures grow indolent and produce less that merits praise.”
Timothy frowned. “You’ve told me many terrible things about our kingdom’s finest university, teacher. Isn’t there anything we can do to change what’s happening there?”
“I wish I knew, young one. I wish I knew.”
Then, suddenly, Master John halted in his course, his ears rotating, his muscles tightening beneath Timothy’s haunches.
“What —?”
“Hold your tongue. I heard —”
A shadow fell over them both, small at first but growing larger with each heartbeat. The silhouette was dreadfully familiar; the scream that rent the air was absolutely unmistakable. Hawk!
There was no joviality in Master John’s next command. “Go now! Dismount and run to the nearest cover!”
“But —”
“Do not disobey!”
Timothy swallowed the rest of his objection with an audible gulp and slid down Master John’s side with such speed that the landing on the dirt below left him a little winded. Quickly assessing the surrounding prairie, he took off in the direction of the river they had just crossed, taking care to duck beneath the vegetation and praying desperately that the hawk wouldn’t notice his terrified flight.
Moments later, Timothy squeezed himself beneath the beams of the footbridge and - panting, his heart thrumming in his chest - he turned to look for any sign of Master John in the fields he’d left behind. Where is —? Wait! There! Oh, Maker, help him!
Master John was a cat transformed. The witty, urbane feline whose intelligence and insight exceeded that of anyone Timothy knew was gone, replaced by an ancient predator that hissed and growled in primal rage as it clawed at the attacking bird, scattering feathers, blood, and - eventually - viscera across the grass.
And the hawk? The hawk was Master John’s even match and not so easily subdued. It too raked at its adversary with a viciousness that defied description, eliciting howls of pain from Master John that, in later days, would haunt Timothy’s darkest nightmares.
Timothy squeezed his eyes shut when he could no longer look upon the scene unfolding before him, choosing instead to retreat into the comfort of a childhood incantation: The Maker is my light in the darkness; I shall not be afraid. He is my burrow in the earth; He protects me from my enemies. I must have hope, for He is with me in all things.
The Maker is my light in the darkness; I shall not be afraid. He is my burrow in the earth; He protects me from my enemies. I must have hope, for He is with me in all things.
The Maker is my light in the darkness; I shall not be afraid. He is my burrow in the earth; He protects me from my enemies. I must have hope, for He is with me in all things.
Timothy didn’t know how many times he recited this under his breath before, at last, he heard Master John call to him from the scene of the battle.
“Timothy?” Master John’s voice was low and weighted with torment. “It is done. You may come out of hiding.”
Timothy did — and immediately cried out in sorrow, “Oh, teacher! Your eye!” For Master John’s right eye had been punctured by one of the hawk’s deadly talons, its gore dripping down the side of the Maine Coon’s handsome face. “Oh, oh, this is my fault! I should never have made you take me here!”
“Shh,” soothed the cat. “Enough. It was my choice as much as yours — and one I do not regret. Now come — we must make it to Sycamore Sanctuary by nightfall.”
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