The Vampire Tapestry by Suzy McKee Charnas

the poet uses in the poem.”
    “But when Housman writes of ‘an air that kills,’ I doubt he means he’s smelling the air,” Dr. Weyland said. “The deadly breeze seems to me to blow directly into Housman’s heart, bypassing his senses altogether.”
    Mark fidgeted unhappily at the bars. He should have known better; there was nothing worse for schoolwork than a grownup helping you with it. He said, “Well, without smell there’s just sight and the kinesthetic sense. That’s only two senses. I need more than that. The teacher wants at least two whole pages, double-spaced.”
    “I see,” said Dr. Weyland dryly. “Nevertheless, while the point about muscular memory does have some minor value, you would do better without a paragraph on the senses altogether. Then the outline would flow much more easily from the first paragraph about the fairy-tale atmosphere of the poem, through the second on its childlike simplicity, to your conclusion concerning its meaning.”
    Mark remained mutinously silent.
    Dr. Weyland flicked the edge of the page with his forefinger. “I see that you mean to conclude, ‘I like the poem a lot.’ But you called it a ‘mushy poem’ when you first mentioned it to me.”
    “I hate this assignment!” Mark burst out. “The poem doesn’t even make sense. What’s ‘an air that kills,’
    anyway, poison gas? It’s just dumb, a lot of babyish moaning around for no reason.”
    “Good, you do realize that you’ve avoided the main question,” said Dr. Weyland; “what, precisely, ‘an air that kills’ might be and what it destroys in the poet. As for ‘moaning around,’ have you never had to leave behind an existence that suited you better than the one you moved on to?”
    For no reason Mark felt a pressure of tears in his eyes. He turned away, angry and embarrassed.
    “I have,” Dr. Weyland added meditatively. “Often.”
    “That doesn’t mean a person should go around whining all the time,” Mark muttered. “Can I have that stuff back now? I have to go and type the paper up.”
    “You’re not ready to,” Dr. Weyland said. “Not until you at least consider the central question.”
    “I’m only in the ninth grade, you know. I’m not supposed to know everything.”
    “What is the air that kills?” asked Dr. Weyland inexorably. “Why does he let it into his heart?”
    “I guess it’s memory,” Mark said sullenly, “and he lets it into his heart because he’s a jerk. He’s doing it to himself—making himself miserable by thinking about his happy childhood. Only a stupid jerk walks around thinking about his childhood. Most people’s childhoods are actually pretty lousy anyhow.”
    “It isn’t necessarily childhood that he means,” Dr. Weyland said, “although you make a good case for that in your outline. I think the reference is more general—to the perils of looking backward on other times and the seductiveness of memory. Well...” He fell for moment into an abstracted silence. Then he added briskly, “I think, by the way, that if you really dislike the poem you should say so—and why—in your paper.”
    “I can’t,” Mark said. “This is for Carol Kelly, and she likes the crummy poem. She would.”
    “Who is Carol Kelly?”
    Suddenly recalling that Dr. Weyland was a teacher himself, Mark tried to brazen it out. “This is her assignment. I’m doing it for her.”
    “How kind of you,” murmured Dr. Weyland, returning the book.
    “She’s paying me ten dollars. It’s a business.”
    “My God,” Dr. Weyland said, “a thesis mill! How old are you—fifteen?”
    “Fifteen in June.”
    “Fifteen and rich, no doubt. Certainly enterprising.”
    “I’m not greedy,” Mark said stoutly. “It’s important to have an income of your own, that’s all. Then you don’t have to depend on other people. You should know—I bet you’re rich yourself, I bet you’ve salted away all kinds of treasure from other times.”
    “Unfortunately, great wealth,