Hopscotch Read Free Page B

imagination. He could almost smell the wet snow, the horses, the rich ale pouring into the oak-slatted kegs. . . .
    “I cannot believe my eyes!” a firm male voice said, startling Garth so badly that he dropped his paintbrush. “Young man, what have you done?” He turned to see a stern monk named Hickory. “I noticed the light down here, but I never expected to see this! Who gave you permission?”
    Garth had never dreamed of asking permission. “I was going to show everyone when I was done.”
    “Well, you shouldn't have started in the first place.” Hickory crossed his arms over his chest. “Don't we give you enough chores to keep you busy? It's easy to see what sort of mischief idle hands can work.”
    Garth didn't know how to respond. “But . . .
look
at it. This is art.”
    “When you paint all over a wall you don't own, without permission, it is called
vandalism.
Come with me to Chocolate's office. We'd better see the administrator right away.”
    Unfortunately, Chocolate didn't know what to do with him, either. All the “Swan” children in the Falling Leaves were wards of the state, given up by parents who felt no obligation to babies born from bodies not their own, or impregnated during flings, after which the original minds had hopscotched to someone else. The monks received government stipends to teach and raise these young charges, and they took their obligations seriously, considering such children to be entirely new souls, new flames, and therefore something special.
    The chubby, soft-spoken administrator seemed flustered, his brow creased with worry. “Oh, why don't we just let him paint scenes on
all
the walls? Maybe then the BTL won't want to take over the monastery, after all.”
    “Sir!” Hickory said. “We can't encourage this sort of—”
    The other monk waved his pudgy hand. “This is really not a very good time, Hickory.” He sighed, looking at the papers on his desk. “I suggest we merely have this young man repaint the walls so the room can be usable again.”
    Garth's knees grew weak at hearing the devastating punishment. “Don't you even want to look at what I've done, sir?”
    “I'm sure it's wonderful,” Chocolate said, already engrossed in an official-looking document on his desk. “You're a very talented young man, Garth, but you must learn to respect certain boundaries.”
    Later, the beige paint smelled sour as Garth swathed it on with a thick, inelegant brush. Horse carts vanished under a layer of drab tan. Rosy-cheeked monks continued to gulp foamy brew as he painted right over their faces.
    He dipped the heavy brush into the bucket again, swabbed more paint across the rough bricks. Garth wished he'd been able to at least show Eduard, Teresa, and Daragon before erasing his wall. He managed to keep the tears balanced inside his eyelids, not letting them spill down his cheeks.
    “That's very good, from what I can still see of it,” Soft Stone said. The bald female monk was a mother and a teacher to her wards.
    Garth took a moment to compose himself before he faced her. “You should have been here before I covered all the good parts. Now it's all gone.”
    “Not gone—your mural is still there, behind the paint.”
    The motionless brush dripped beige droplets on the floor. “But no one can see it. I can't show it to anybody. Isn't that what art is for?”
    The old woman nodded her smooth head. “Art is about sharing and communication, yes, but that's not the only thing. There is process as well as product. Did
you
learn from doing this project?”
    He swallowed hard. “You told me to learn from everything I do.”
    “And?”
    “And . . . yes, I learned from it, I suppose. I enjoyed doing it, too.”
    “Then it's not a total loss, little Swan.” Soft Stone smiled as she turned to leave. “An artist needs to do more than create pleasant scenes. Use your art as a lens for viewing all facets of life. You can't just imitate what you see, you must