His father had warned him that the other children might not accept him at first. But just be friendly, he told Max. You’re a good kid. Just be patient and you’ll be okay. Now kiss Pitsu-kitty, say your prayers and get a good night’s sleep.
          Dad wasn’t happy about it either, though. The government had made him send Max to the public school. Dad said that public schools were godless, and that he should shut his ears to anything he knew to be blasphemous. They would continue their religious education on weekends and in the evenings.
          He knelt at the hearth and prayed to Roon and Dorozhand, because he was going to a new place and did not understand the reason for it. He offered a plea to Yoharneth-Lahai who might that night send him calming dreams, and to his favorite Limpang-Tung, whom he loved more than any of other small gods, and even offered one word for Mung, whom he feared beyond all others. He offered no prayer to MĀNA-YOOD-SUSHĀĪ, for to do so would be improper.
          But the next day was cruel. The teachers looked at him with malice, and what they taught was wrong. The other children also looked at him, the friendless, and drew their plans.
          After his lunch of grapes and simple grains, which he ate alone, he lingered in the shadow of an elm on the edge of the playground. The Dawnchild’s yellow ball scorched the hot asphalt and he was approached.
          Greetings, son of Enion, said one of the boys.
          Max nodded.
          Orc-lover, said the second of the three, firm resolved on hate eternal.
          Max stayed silent.
          The third spat on him: Wrath for Dark Urthona!
          Max swung at the boy. In seconds he was on the ground, and the boys were kicking him. He yelled until a teacher came and reluctantly separated them. By Urizen! she swore, almost laughing. The boys were sent away for some mild punishment. Max was sent to the nurse’s office, where among the colored charts and images of broken divine bodies he wept and dwelt upon the vengeance of men and, to the disgust of the nurse (for every human heart has gates of brass and bars of adamant), he spoke a small prayer to Jabim, the lord of broken things.
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