Amber and Clay by Laura Schlitz (phonics books txt) 📕

me to think of something beautiful,

like the gods or the stars.

But they change. The only thing I can think of

that doesn’t change

is the past.”

He nodded slowly. We sat and listened to the ripple of the water.

The mud under my legs felt moist and sticky.

You notice all kinds of mud if you dig clay.

This mud was rich with it. I pressed my knuckle into it

and began to draw. Joints with spaces in between:

the leg of a scorpion. I went on talking.

“The Spartans won the war.

I bet the Athenians wish they could change that,

but they can’t. My mother was kidnapped when she was a girl,

so she became a slave,

and I was born a slave. I can’t change that.

Menon used to punish me for nothing,

just because he felt like it. He broke my nose.

Now it’s crooked. I’d like to change all that,

but the past can’t be changed.”

Sokrates was listening.

He cupped a handful of water

and splashed his arms.

“What you’re saying is that time moves

in one direction only.

But here’s another question for you:

is time real? is there such a thing as time?

I wonder if the gods have one kind of time,

which is everlasting,

and we have another,

which follows the path of the stars,

and works according to numbers . . .

“My friend?

It seems to me you’re no longer listening.

What are you drawing?”

I muttered, “It’s a scorpion,”

and stared down at the mud.

It was a good drawing;

I’d learned that shape by heart.

“Your master said you loved drawing horses.

He told me he was teaching you.”

“Not anymore.”

I flattened my hand

and wiped out the scorpion. All of the sudden

I was telling him the whole story:

how Kranaos was always tattling on me,

how I’d thought he meant to trick me,

how I flicked the scorpion at him. The strange thing was,

I told the whole truth. I wanted him to blame Kranaos,

who was a sneak,

but I didn’t slant the truth.

I spoke low, but he heard me.

“When you tossed the scorpion at Kranaos,

did you know it was wrong?

Was it a mistake, or did you do it on purpose?”

“I did it on purpose.”

“Good. It’s better to do wrong with knowledge

than to act in ignorance.

I believe no man

would ever do wrong

if he were not ignorant.

You thought Kranaos meant to hurt you. That was a mistake.

So you struck back.

You did wrong and you did it knowingly.

The next time, you might not make a mistake.

You might not do wrong at all.”

It seemed to me he was missing the point.

“Maybe. But Kranaos got me in trouble.”

I traced the scraped place on my shoulder,

the greenish bruise on my arm.

“He had no right to beat me. He’s not my master!

If he weren’t a weak old man,

he’d have half killed me. And now I’m being punished.”

“Perhaps you’re lucky, Rhaskos.

To do wrong is harmful to the soul.

The best thing is to do no harm,

but if you do wrong,

the next best thing is to be punished.

It was wrong to frighten an old man with a scorpion.

Perhaps Kranaos used his stick as the surgeon wields a knife;

there was a little tumor of injustice in your soul,

and Kranaos cut it away. Now it won’t grow,

and your soul will remain in good health.”

It wasn’t what I wanted him to say.

I felt my face get hot.

“What about when Menon beat me for nothing?

What about the damage done to my soul?

What do you know about being beaten? You’re a citizen,

and a grown-up,

and nobody can touch you!”

“Listen to me, Rhaskos!

You say Menon treated you unjustly;

that he broke your nose and struck you without cause.

I’m sure you speak the truth,

but he didn’t touch your soul. Believe me.

There is nothing disgraceful in being beaten without cause.

What is disgraceful is to be the man who strikes unjustly.

If any man were to slap my face,

or steal my purse, or cut me with a knife,

or even put me to death some shameful way —

I would not be ashamed. My soul would be unharmed.”

I got up. Here’s what struck me: no matter who beat me,

it was all right with Sokrates!

It was all right for Kranaos to beat me,

because I deserved to be punished;

and it was all right for Menon,

because he only hurt my body

and not my soul! Either way, it was no skin off his back.

I said, “I have to go.

My master will be angry.

You’ve never had a master, so you don’t know about that.”

I started up the bank. He came after,

but I ignored him. I untied Phoibe and urged her forward —

only Phoibe’s slow. You can’t hurry her. And Sokrates —

he caught up with me.

“Rhaskos, tell me! Can a man be a good man and still suffer?”

I didn’t answer.

I’d had enough of his wisdom for one day.

Everything was wrong.

Sokrates didn’t understand me,

and now I hated him,

my only friend.

The sun was too hot. I was burning,

my skin and my temper;

I was burning alive.

“Let me ask the same question another way:

Is there such a thing as an evil pleasure?”

I whirled around to face him,

Phoibe’s rope in my hand.

I was still holding the yellow stone.

I hated him,

but I didn’t want to lose the yellow stone

because it was all I was going to have

once we stopped being friends.

“Of course there are evil pleasures!”

No one who ever saw Menon drunk

was left in doubt about that.

Beating me and watching me cry —

that was one of Menon’s pleasures.

“But don’t you see, Rhaskos? If there are evil pleasures,

then pleasure is not the same thing as goodness.

Pain is different from evil.

Menon caused you pain, but he didn’t hurt your soul.

Your soul is pure, untouched by what he did.”

There was something about the way he looked and spoke

that ate into me, sank in

like dye into cloth. That night, when I couldn’t sleep,

I remembered his words.

At the time, all I could say was

“Leave me alone!”

He sighed.

There was sadness in his smile.

“You told me your mother named you Rhaskos,

but your master calls you Pyrrhos,

which means fiery. I think Pyrrhos is the better name.

You are gripped by passion just now;

you would sting me like a scorpion.

A man who is mastered by passion

is an unlucky man. His feelings flow forth

like wine from a leaky pot.

Some men take pride in losing their tempers.