Ms Honeyeater was a legend in the lutruwita Education Department (argument had been raging for 300 years about whether it should be the Lutruwita Education Department). Since the invention in the 25th century of AntiAge, and the subsequent raising of the retirement age to 135, teaching records had fallen regularly. But Ms Honeyeater was to date the only centenarian: she had been teaching youth school history for 101 years.
The main celebratory function the previous year had acquired legend status in its own right, and Ms Honeyeater had lived ever since in fear that some of her students would find out about some of the things that happened that night.
Today, however, as Angela Turbochook’s deskpod flashed a rainbow lightshow in response to a question, Ms Honeyeater’s thoughts were on more important, if less colourful, historical events.
“The only Olympic sport associated with lutruwita,” Angela said, “is directioneering.”
“Correct,” said Ms Honeyeater, and an elephant hologram appeared above Angela’s head and trumpeted and all the children in the class clapped their hands over their ears and laughed. Elephant holograms were their favourite, but they were loud.
“Now,” said Ms Honeyeater, “who can tell me the original name of the sport of directioneering, and why it was changed?”
The class was quiet. The name had been changed 479 years ago, and no-one in Ms Honeyeater’s Youth 1 history class had ever answered this question. No-one in 101 years.
The teacher looked benignly at her eight pupils (it was a large class this year, but teachers with more than 45 years’ experience were allowed to opt for bigger classes).
“The original name of the sport of directioneering,” Ms Honeyeater said … and then paused, because the deskpod of wee Willy, as Ms Honeyeater thought of him, had flashed. Willy was a good student, assessed by his Grad-Ex results, but in the three months of this school year to date, Willy’s deskpod had never flashed. Verbalising in class was not something he apparently felt comfortable doing.
“Yes, Willy,” said Ms Honeyeater gently. “What was the original name of directioneering?”
“Orienteering,” said Willy, even more gently. The other seven children looked baffled by the strange word, although three of them clapped hands to ears in case Willy was right and earned an elephant. Ms Honeyeater simply smiled, and then tapped her deskpad to create a gold star hologram above Willy. This was one grade above elephant, but quieter.
“Very good, Willy,” said Ms Honeyeater. “May I ask where you browsed that knowledge?” Teachers were always ready with such subtle questions to learn which corners of the AInet students were inhabiting.
“My mum told me,” said Willy, unexpectedly. “Her 27-great-grandmother was a world champion at orienteering,” he continued, even more unexpectedly.
“Corroboration,” said Ms Honeyeater automatically, and the room’s AInet panel flashed a pale green, meaning Willy was not right, but not entirely wrong either. The screen changed to archive-vid footage of a directioneering event so ancient that the environment still contained living trees. A young woman crossed a finish line, and in the next scene, received a gold medal. “Hanny Allston, of Tasmania,” the caption read, “World Junior Orienteering Champion, 2006.”
Ms Honeyeater tapped her deskpad and a herd of elephants and a second gold star crowded above Willy’s deskpod.
When the racket had died down, Willy’s deskpod flashed again. Ms Honeyeater nodded, and Willy, growing more confident, said, “South-western lutruwita was the last place on Terra to have orienteering races because it was the last place to have living trees. When the trees were finally all gone, they changed the name of the sport.”
“Well done,” Ms Honeyeater said, with a touch of melancholy. “Top marks and a Class Distinction to Willy Allston.”
Chris Champion is the editor of Forty South Tasmania and a director of Forty South Publishing. He has worked as an editor and writer in Australia and Asia for more than 50 years.