Old Fan's Podium

Old Fan had taught at the Willow Flat village school for thirty-five years.

The school was two old tiled rooms halfway up the mountain, a blackboard with flaking paint, and a dozen desks missing legs. Old Fan did it all alone — Chinese, math, gym, music. At first there were over thirty children; later the young left for the cities, and the roll shrank year by year. By last year only three remained: two left-behind children, and Stone, who was slow by half.

Word had long come from above that the village school would merge into the town center. Old Fan said nothing, only swept the classroom more often.

Stone's mother washed dishes far away, his father worked the mine; neither came home often. Stone was eight and knew few characters. Old Fan taught him hand in hand; Stone's "person" character always stuck out a stroke too many. Old Fan was not in a hurry. Learn to stand first, he said, and the character will stand too.

The other two, a brother and sister, had parents selling vegetables in the provincial city. Before winter break the parents took them to the town school — better there, with heating and computers. On the day they left, Old Fan gave each a dictionary. Look up what you don't know, he said, and by looking you'll grow.

After the new year, only Stone was left at Willow Flat. Old Fan still rose at six, lit the stove, wiped the board, and waited for Stone. One teacher, one pupil; in the mountains the quiet was so deep you could hear the wind turn a page.

In summer the merger order came down in red. Stone too would go to the town, boarding, home once a week. Old Fan walked him to the pass and watched the small figure round the bend. Stone called back, Teacher Fan, when will you come teach us in town? Old Fan said, you study well; your teacher stays here and keeps watch.

For the last lesson Old Fan taught nothing new. He cleaned the board and wrote one character: person. Stone, he said, remember — learn to be a person first, then the rest. Stone nodded. Old Fan locked the door and gave the key to the village head. The school is empty, he said, don't let anyone spoil it.

After that Old Fan did not idle. On weekends children home for a visit came to make up lessons, to hear him speak of the world beyond the hills. He was not highly educated, but he held a deep store of stories; every class had grown up on his "Jingwei Fills the Sea" and "The Foolish Old Man." Once the town school invited him to tell a lesson; he stood in the bright room a little lost, and when he finished the Foolish Old Man the children clapped, and he reddened.

Someone asked, Teacher Fan, a lifetime of teaching, what for? Old Fan said, so the children aren't trapped in these mountains like me. He pointed far off. Beyond the hills there is the sound of reading, he said; someone has to send them there.

Year's end, the county named him Most Beautiful Rural Teacher; the certificate came to the village head's house. Old Fan had it framed and hung in the main room. The villagers laughed, your certificate's worth more than your pay. Old Fan said, it is.

That spring Old Fan opened a small study in his yard, set out the years' textbooks and dictionaries, free for any child home to read. Mountain wind passed and the door chime rang. Old Fan thought, the school is empty, but the reading is not; it moves from one room to another, out beyond the hills.