My name is Mengzheng, and I keep the village school. My father gave me the name out of admiration for Lü Mengzheng of the former dynasty — a man who lived in a broken kiln and drank thin gruel, yet still placed first in the examinations. I never placed. I teach eleven children in a small town instead.
This plague year, school is hard to keep. The children recite "man at birth" while their eyes drift out the window to the mountain — Flower-Fruit Mountain, with monkeys on it, and monkeys are better reading than the Three Character Classic. I don't blame them. When my cough acts up, they're the ones who bring me water.
The other day Huwa asked me: Sir, are yao also born good, as the classic says? I stood there dumb for half a minute. Twenty years of teaching, and a child finally stumped me. I wrote the question down and pinned it to the wall. When I have the answer, I'll teach it. A schoolmaster's gift isn't having every answer — it's keeping the good questions.