The Meek

Charlotte Gainsbourg, AnOther

"Ah, President Mandu! We're so honored that you made the long journey.  I trust you won't be disappointed."

"This had better be good, Warrigal."  The university president rubbed his forehead.  

"Would you care to rest first?  Miss Arinya, will you bring the president some refreshments?"

"No, no, let's get on with it."

Professor Warrigal's face lit up.  "You know I've been digging on this continent for years now, and I've had some success.  But this is, by far, the best site I've located.  You'll be astonished at the level of preservation.  Come this way."  

The professor led the president toward the ruined dwellings, detailing his discovery of the site.  The field assistants followed, clutching their tools and notebooks.  

"Just show me the best one," President Mandu growled.

"The most complete dwelling would be, ah, which one, Miss Arinya?"

"Number 5, sir."

"Yes, Number 5, right over here."  The professor stopped in the open doorway to put on his hardhat.  "Only thirty percent of the roof has fallen in, but we can't be too careful, you know.  Jerara, do you have another hat for the President?"

Mandu accepted the hat reluctantly, and stepped over the threshold onto the somewhat spongy surface of the floor.  Bits of the interior wall were missing, exposing rotting beams.  Mandu sneezed as a breeze through the gaping windows stirred up dust.  That was why he hated archaeology.  Too much dust.

"Sorry about that.  My assistants have been cleaning the site carefully, but the walls continue to deteriorate," the professor explained.  "We've located the food preparation area and bathing chambers, through this doorway and to the left."

"Multiple bathing chambers?  Are you sure?"

"The plumbing is mostly intact, sir." Jerara's enthusiasm overwhelmed his awe of the president.  "The Archaic system is quite intricate.  The pipes lead from this basin to--"

"Thank you, I'm sure your paper will be quite detailed.  What else is there?"

Barega showed the president back to the food preparation area.  "Most of the potsherds were in this room.  Later Corning period, generally."

"Which has a wide distribution on this continent, you know," Professor Warrigal interrupted.  "Show him the box."

Barega opened a panel on a large box in the corner.  "We found traces of food on these trays."  He pulled a flat object from a shelf, and handed it to the president.  "Each tray is divided into three sections, with different discoloration patterns.  I, um, broke one.  The tray is white inside, and looks sort of bubbly."

Mandu balanced the tray on his hand.  "It's very lightweight, isn't it?  Definitely not ceramic.  Curious."

The professor led the way back to the main room.  "Ah, but this is more curious."  He waved his hand at a large object hanging on the front wall.  "Look at this black oblong.  The two skeletons we found here were facing it."

Mandu tried to hide his shiver.  Skeletons were worse than dust.  He was glad the professor had moved the remains to the field lab. 

Unbothered by the idea of Archaic bones, the professor went on.  "We have found more of them.  Glossy black oblongs, or their fragments, in nearly every room of each dwelling.  They vary in size.  We have found small ones in the hands of individuals of all ages, male and female.  No individual was farther than three arms from an oblong at the time of the Cataclysm."

"In Number 3, sir, we found an adult female skeleton, reclining on a collection of coiled wires," reported Mogo, the skeletal expert.  "Textile fragments suggest it may have been some sort of bed.  Even there, the subject had one of the oblongs.  It was lodged beneath the skull."

"A few of these oblongs have been observed elsewhere, haven't they?" asked the president.

"Yes, but not whole, or in such concentration," Lowan put in.  "Without evidence of any practical function, I suggest they may have had ceremonial or religious significance."

"Or, perhaps they were communication devices, capable of displaying information and entertainment," Barega said.  

Mandu snorted.  "That is preposterous.  Our best modern steam mechanics have not produced any such item.  Certainly the Archaics could not.  No, a religious function seems more likely."

"Look at these."  Lowan walked over to a shelf near the largest black oblong.  It held many thin, rectangular objects.  He picked one up and showed it to the president.  Its bright colors had smeared.

"Is that text?" The president was surprised.  "I didn't think the Archaic people had a written language."

"There has been little evidence of it in other locations," Professor Warrigal admitted.  "But we plan to study the remnants available."

Lowan slid a tool into a crack in the rectangle.  "Anyway, see what is inside."  The object divided in two, and a colorful circle slipped out.  It fell to the floor.  Lowan picked it up carefully.  "This side appears metallic, iridescent in sunlight.  It is  lightweight, but must have been valuable.  I took measurements, and found that the diameter corresponds with this opening on the side of the large oblong."

Lowan slid the disc into the slit.  After a slight push, the oblong pulled the disc inside.  Lowan bowed his head.  "The idol accepts the offering."  He gestured to the shelves.  "And this household had hundreds of them in store.  This must have been a very devout family."

"You found similar objects in the other dwellings?"

"Quite a few, sir."

"So you see, President, how much there is to study at this site.  I need more time, more assistants--"

"More funding, Warrigal?"

"Naturally.  But I'd appreciate your discretion in securing it.  I'm not ready to share this find with our rivals yet."

"I'll see what I can do."

The group stepped outside again.

"Let's go back to the field office for some refreshments," Professor Warrigal suggested, "and we can review my plans for--"

"What is that?"  Miss Arinya pointed, and walked toward a thicket of trees.  She carefully walked around the foundation of a more completely ruined dwelling, with the others trailing after her.  "I thought I saw a reflection..."

She pushed branches aside and found a wall.  President Mandu watched as the professor and other assistants pulled back vines and pushed through shrubbery.

"Over here!" Lowan called.  "I found a door!"

"Well done, Miss Arinya," the professor said as the group followed Lowan's voice.  "I believe you have found Number 10."

"Will my name be on the paper?" she asked.

"Of course, right after mine."

"And mine," put in the president as Lowan and Barega shouldered the door open.  "This discovery will redound to the glory of New Tamani University."

Arinya's sigh turned to a gasp.  The floor of the dwelling was covered with a soft textile.  The walls were not crumbling.  The windows' transparent coverings were intact.  Cobwebs and a thick layer of dust were the only evidence of the time this house had stood alone.

And dusty skeletons, of course.  This room held three of them.  Two sets of small bones, swathed in strange fabrics, lay near a pile of brightly colored, knobby bricks.  Some of the bricks had been formed into fanciful shapes. 

"Start sketching, Miss Arinya," the professor directed unnecessarily.  She had already filled one page of her notebook.  The rest of the team dispersed through the dwelling.  Mandu heard Jerara exclaiming over the plumbing, Barega counting intact pieces of crockery. 

Mogo reported the presence of seven skeletons within the dwelling.  "Two are holding tools, seemingly in the process of building something.  One is in the food preparation area."  "There appears to be an adolescent female in the bathing chamber."   The normally imperturbable young man shuddered.  "There's no fabric on the bones, but there is metal attached to her teeth." He shook his head, then went back to take proper measurements of each.

Lowan returned, looking frustrated.  "I can't find any of the black oblongs."

Miss Arinya looked up from her sketchbook.  She saw a panel on the wall and slid it open.  "There you go.  They had one, too."

"It is quite small for a family shrine, don't you think?  And the door was closed.  Everyone else in the village was looking to their idols when the Cataclysm came.  What about these people?"  

Miss Arinya shrugged.  She approached the large skeleton which was seated on a soft platform.  "Perhaps they were poor, or maybe they had different beliefs."  She carefully extracted an object from the dusty phalanges.  A thin, flat piece of it drifted to the floor.  "Look.  A book."

President Mandu turned to stare at her.  "A paper book?  With text?"  

"Full of it."  Miss Arinya looked around.  "And there are more."  Lowan and the president looked at the shelves.  Instead of the uniformly sized offering boxes of Number 5, these shelves held books.  Large, small, colorful, dull.  Hundreds of books.  


Mandu held out his hand, and the young lady reluctantly gave him the first book.  She turned back to the wall.  The lowest shelf held something different.  

She crouched to examine the flat objects.  Lowan joined her, pulled some off the shelf, and handed a few to Miss Arinya.

"Heavy paper,"  he noted, "decorated with different images..."

Miss Arinya looked through her stack.  She held one square by its sides, wishing she could read what was written on it, when something fell out.  A large, flat, black disc.  "What on earth?"

Barega stepped in, holding a large pitcher.  He eyed the circle on the floor.  "Maybe it was some sort of sound storage, for music and the like."

Lowan snorted and Arinya rolled her eyes.

"Just kidding," Barega said.  "Take a look at this, President."  He stepped back into the food preparation area, Mandu following.

Arinya gently slid the black disc into its covering, and stood up.  Something caught her eye near the doorway.  

"Here's an oblong for you, Lowan."  Instead of a glossy black surface, it held an image of people.  They were very pale, but smiled, with their arms around each other.  

"An amazingly realistic depiction," Lowan murmured.  "Very advanced art.  Perhaps they worshiped these figures, with the black discs, somehow..." He searched for a slot near the image.

"...six, seven."  Miss Arinya finished counting.  "No.  I think this shows something the individuals valued, but not as an object of worship."

"What could be more important to an Archaic household than its idols?

"It's a picture of this family."     

For once, Lowan had nothing to say.                                       

Secret of the Brick Oven

A Magpie Tale

     "I hate this job," Tyler grumbled as he scrubbed garlic-shallot butter out of the saucepan.  He wrinkled his nose, attacking the scorched bits around the edge. 
     "Whoa, dude."  Nate looked up from the wooden paddle he was dusting off.  "How can you hate Papa Zucca's?  We make the best pizzas in town."
     "For the lowest wages.  For the meanest boss."
     "You gonna quit?"
     "Can't."  Tyler sighed.  "If I quit this job, Haley will dump me."
     "Oh, yeah.  Haley."  Nate hung the peel on the wall.  "Are you going over to her place after work?"
     "Nah.  She'll slam the door in my face if I don't bring her a scampi pizza, and we're all out of shrimp."
     "There's still half a Santa Fe chicken left."
     "She doesn't like guacamole.  You know, sometimes I wonder if she thinks of me as a boyfriend, or just her personal delivery boy."
     Nate touched the tip of his nose with his finger.  "Bingo!"  Seeing Tyler's startled look, he quickly went on.  "Look, dude, since you're at loose ends tonight, why don't you hang with me?"
     "What are you doing?"
     "Mr. Z. told me to lock up tonight."  Nate looked around before whispering, "He's outta here, so I'm going to find the secret."
     "Secret?"
     "The secret to Papa Zucca's pizza success.  Remember Madge?  She used to work for Papa Z. himself.  Learned all his recipes.  Just before Mr. Z. fired her, she said she was this close to finding the secret."
     "Why did she get fired?"
     "She asked for a raise.  She was worth it, too.  But Mr. Z. would rather pay kids like us, or those Mexican dudes on the lunch shift.  Anyway, she told me that Papa Z. always said, 'The secret is in the oven.'"
     "Sure," said Tyler.  He had read the menu.  "'A brick oven creates a crust with unique flavor and texture.'"
     "No, I think there's something more to it.  Come on."  Nate exchanged his apron for the jacket on the hook.  Tyler followed suit.
     They stepped out into the drizzly night, checking that the doors were securely locked.  Nate looked over his shoulder every few steps, and led Tyler around to the back of the restaurant.  Nate stared intently at the great chimney.
     "Um, what are we looking for?" Tyler asked, looking between the damp bricks and his friend's concentration.
     "I dunno.  Maybe a loose brick with secret recipes stuck behind it?"
     "You're crazy, man."  Tyler squatted down by the wood pile, tucking a few stray pieces back under the tarp.  "Hey, check this out."  One of the bricks had a little pumpkin shape carved into it.  "I thought it was just a hole, but . . ."
     "Definitely a pumpkin, just like on the sign out front.  You got it, dude!  Can you pull it out?"
     Tyler's fingers just slipped off the edges.  Nate could not grab the brick, either.  Frustrated, he stood up, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and kicked the offending part of the chimney.
     "Dude . . ."  With a quiet grinding sound, the bricks opened to reveal darkness.  "What do we--"
     The squealing of brakes at the side of the building decided their plan.  Nate shoved Tyler inside the gap, and climbed in after him.
     "Dude, can you squeeze in some more?"
     "Ow!  I'm up against the wall.  Hey, wait.  We can go this way."  Tyler felt his way around one corner, then another.
     "No way!  Daylight!"  They emerged into dappled sunlight.  A pleasant breeze swayed the tree branches.  A bird's song brightened the silence, only to be drowned out by a rumbling from behind. 
     "Where did those little twerps go?  This is my oven . . . oof!"
     Tyler and Nate looked at each other, then back at the mouth of the cave they'd left behind.  "Mr. Z.!"  Nate whispered.  They hid behind a boulder just before their boss squeezed his belly out of the narrow opening.  He took a deep breath, then trotted down the trail that ran to the left of the cave.  The boys immediately ran off to the right.
     Soon the forest thinned to reveal an idyllic farmland.  Tyler shook his head.  "Where are we?"
    Nate leaned on his knees, panting.  "I don't think we're in Seattle anymore."  He looked around.  "What are those?"  A fence enclosed a flowery pasture occupied by small brown animals.  "Chickens?"
    Tyler walked closer to the fence.  "I've never seen chickens with horns.  And they're dripping."
    The breeze shifted, bringing a tangy scent over the pasture.  "Buffalo chickens!  This must be where the wings come from.  Awesome!"  One bird regarded Nate with a round eye, squawked, and went back to foraging.
     Nate hurried to catch up with Tyler.  "Hold on, dude.  Check out this flower.  It smells good enough to eat!"
     "That's gross, man."
     Nate nibbled a petal.  "Is not.  The petals taste like mozzarella."  He popped the whole blossom into his mouth.  "And the middle tastes like pepperoni!"  He stopped to gather himself a bouquet.  "Pretty spicy, though," Nate said with his mouth full.  Tyler hopped across a brook, but Nate plunged his face in for a drink.  "Root beer.  Sweet!"
     "You've got to be hallucinating."
     "No way.  This is paradise.  Try it, dude!"
     Tyler sniffed the brook suspiciously, but found his friend was telling the truth.  They followed a path next to the brook.  After passing through a basil-scented grove, they found fine sand.  A white-haired man sat on a beach chair, facing the bright blue lake.  He turned around.
     "And who is this?"  He lifted his sunglasses for a better look.  A smile broke out on his pumpkin-shaped face.
     Nate stopped in his tracks.  "Papa Zucca?  Aren't you, like, dead?"
     "Oh, no, I skip the dying and come straight to paradise."
     Tyler tried to explain.  "But Mr. Zuccone said . . ."
     "Zuccone?"  Papa Zucca scoffed.  "So my ungrateful son changed his name, did he?  I suppose it fits.  I like to make the pizzas, to make people happy.  My bully of a son just wants to make money, so I retire.  Only the true pizza-lover can come to this place.  That money-grubbing ragazzo will never find me here."
     Nate looked nervously over his shoulder.  "Actually, I think he followed us."
    "Then there is no time to lose."  Papa Zucca waved to a girl who was approaching with a tray.  "My niece, Ginevra.  She can bake anything, you know."
     "Whoa, dude.  She's totally hotter than Haley," Nate said in a loud whisper.  The girl blushed.  "And I think she digs you!"
     Ginevra placed her tray on the table, and prepared to slice a steaming pie.  Tyler was speechless, but managed to give her a crooked grin.
     "It looks delicious, my dear, but there is something else we need right now."  Papa Zucca whispered in Ginevra's ear, and she hurried away.  Tyler stared after her.
     "Even in paradise, we have our defenses," the old man said, standing.  Come this way."
     By the time they heard the boss's panting and grumbling approach, the boys were concealed in the woods.  Papa Zucca was seated again, this time facing the trail.  When Mr. Zuccone recognized his father, he shook his fist, too out of breath to shout.
     "So, you come to torment me in paradise, do you?" Papa Zucca called.  At his nod, Nate and Tyler let their cream pies fly.  Blinded, Mr. Zuccone tripped and landed heavily on the sand.
     Papa Zucca slowly walked over to his son.  "He wants only profit, no work.  But we will tame the beast.  I think I start him on cleaning the chicken coop.  Things get a little piquant in there."  He poured some lemonade on Mr. Zuccone's face, rinsing off some of the cream, and handed him a napkin.  "We also tame him with pie.  Everyone, come sit down."
     It was the best pie that either Nate or Tyler had ever tasted.  Even Mr. Zuccone acted more conciliatory after eating a few bites.  He stayed quiet while the boys discussed his management of the restaurant with his father. 
     "You have the true love of pizza, Nate," Papa Zucca decided.  "I give the restaurant to you now.  Hire good people, pay them well, make the best pizzas even better."
     "I totally will!  Like, thanks a million!" 
     "And come to visit, anytime, both of you," the old man said with a smile.  "We'll have the pie ready, won't we?"
     "I'll be back," promised Tyler, "if that's okay?"  Ginevra nodded, beaming.
     Nate brushed some cream off Mr. Zuccone's shoulder.  "Wait.  Which kind of pie will be waiting for us?"


Find recipes for the above-mentioned pizzas at Jen's blog.  She can bake anything!

Your Italian lesson for today:
ragazzo = boy
zucca = pumpkin
zuccone = donkey, stubborn person

Cold Determination

A Magpie Tale

and this one is true...

     I arrived at the university full of vague hopes, fond wishes, pleasant dreams, and one concrete goal.  I never wrote it in my planner, but it was clearly defined in my mind, measurable, reportable.  I was determined not to slip and fall on the ice more than once that winter.
     In the maritime climate of my Maryland upbringing, snow was a rare occurrence.  The scarcity of snow led to its identification with delightful surprises.  "Our football team won the game?" a friend might say.  "It's going to snow!" 
     If snow did fall, we thrilled at the sight of the first flakes, and hoped they would stick.  When an inch or two accumulated, my sisters and I would cluster around the radio, listening to the alphabetical list of school cancellations as the various counties phoned in their bids.  One hour late . . . Two hours late . . . Closed.  Jackpot!  If a few more inches fell, the "non-essential workers" would be sent home from the capital.  Beltway traffic was snarly enough in good weather; no one needed those impatient drivers to get stuck in the snow.  Whether the total came to three inches or three feet, with an inch-thick layer of ice on the top, the result was the same:  everyone stayed home and let the snowplows do their work.  We would sled down our front yard, build forts in the back, and try to enjoy the white stuff before it turned slushy and melted in a day or two. 
     My parents, who hailed from a different climate, assured me that in places where it really snows, life goes on.  People put on their snow tires and drive sensibly.  Snow doesn't melt all winter, and schools never close.  Thus warned, I went to further my education in Utah, which boasts the "greatest snow on earth."
     When the first flakes fell that winter, I was thrilled, as usual.  As it piled up on the ground, I wrapped myself in my puffy yellow corduroy coat, put on the most sensible shoes I possessed, and continued to walk all over campus.  I trusted the army of students employed in the Grounds Crew to arise early and apply their plows, shovels, and salt to the walkways.  I watched my step, and stayed upright.
     I was quite pleased with my success toward the end of classes in December.  I even wore ordinary shoes from time to time, but stayed wary.  Constant vigilance was the key.  Then, after studying form and function in my History of the Decorative Arts class one day, I left the Fine Arts building with some of my classmates.  Perhaps I was too eager to eat lunch.  Maybe I was distracted by conversation.  I only remember that when I reached the top of the short flight of icy stairs, my heel slipped out in front of me.  I fell, bouncing as I went.  It was a spectacular slide.  When the others caught up, concerned, I just had to laugh.  I had allowed myself one fall, and it turned out to be splendid.
     Putting that slip behind me, I went forth into the new semester with stronger determination.  I am pleased to say that I did complete my goal of keeping my seat off the concrete for the rest of the winter.
     The next winter was a different story.  I learned that my first year had been rather light on snow, by Utah's standards, and the mountain reservoirs held little for the farmers the next summer.  Returning to school, we were all encouraged to pray for "moisture."  Our prayers were answered with abundant snow.  Having grown complacent in my uprightness, I set no goal regarding slips and trips.  Therefore, I crashed on the same icy spot on my way home every day for a week. 
     I guess the moral of the story might be:

If at first you do succeed,

stick with the program!

Late to Class

A Magpie Tale

     “I’m sorry.” Professor McGrail shook his head. “Without the Foundations course, you are not prepared to progress through the requirements of this major.”
     “I tried to sign up for it, as soon as I could register. But every section was already full! Couldn’t you--”
     “I’m afraid not. Try again, next semester. Or perhaps you should reevaluate your academic goals, Miss, um . . .”
     “Erickson.”
     “Yes, good-day, Miss Erickson.”
     I could not believe it. I had dutifully completed most of my general requirements in my first year, and I was ready to embark on my life work. As long as I could remember, I had wanted to be an archeologist. I could see myself sifting through the soil of the millenia, piecing together the puzzles of the past. I had hoped the professor could waive the requirement, temporarily, or persuade one of his colleagues to add me, halfway through the semester, to a crowded Foundations section. But this one unavailable course still stood in my way.
     I sat down at the computer before starting my math homework, and clicked through the class schedule. What could I possibly take next semester? Would they throw me out for taking too many electives? Once again, I found myself looking longingly at the archeology offerings. One more time, I looked at the Foundations sections, each one boldly labeled FULL. Except for one, at the bottom of the list. Had that been there before? It was a second block class, so it started the next week, and it fit perfectly into the hour I had left for lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Lunchtime was a small price to pay for my dream. I selected the class, and printed out my new schedule before anything could change.

     I pulled out my schedule after Spanish class the next Tuesday, to check the room number for Foundations. But it was not listed in the Smith building, like most of the other archeology classes. I had not brought a map with me, so I headed for the information booth in the student center.
     “The Doyle building?” The attendant peered at the campus map. “ I don’t think we have one.” She typed something into her computer. “Wait. Phineas Doyle was one of the founders. His historic home is now the Alumni Society’s office. I don’t think any classes are scheduled there.” I showed her my schedule. She shrugged and pointed to the map. “The Alumni Office is here, on the south edge of campus. Good luck!”
     I was nearly out of breath when I found the small, ivy-covered cottage. I had to admit that it did not look like a classroom building.  Glancing toward the small window next to the door, I saw a dark shape moving within. What could that be? I peered through the wavy glass. The professor was wearing his full doctoral robes. I had never seen any other teacher dress so formally for class. He must have wanted to make a good impression the first day. I eased the door open, hoping not to disturb him ten minutes into his lecture. But his back was to the door as he wrote dates on a blackboard, and he did not seem to notice as I slid into a desk. Luckily, a syllabus was already there. I pulled out my notebook and copied the chalkboard furiously, hoping I had not missed anything. After a few minutes, I realized that the room was awfully chilly. Why were they still running the air conditioning in October?
     Doctor Altgraber was an old-fashioned lecturer. He invited no discussion, and my classmates were silent. Halfway through the hour, my stomach growled loudly. “Excuse me,” I whispered, as the echoes died away, but no one turned to look.  I continued taking notes. When the lecture ended, I was the first student out of the door, running back across campus for my canoeing class.
     Doctor Altgraber’s chosen text was out of stock at the bookstore, so I ordered a copy online. Then I found a dog-eared copy of Fundamental Field Archeology in the library. It looked almost like an antiquity itself, but the first chapter was a good description of the early history of the discipline.

     On Thursday I packed an extra sweater, and a lunch to gulp down on the way to Foundations. This time I arrived five minutes late, but, warm and fed, I felt much more comfortable during this lecture. A little too comfortable, in fact. Doctor Altgraber’s voice was calm and soothing, and soon I found myself nodding. A young man in a crew cut at my left caught my eye, grinned, and yawned theatrically. I couldn’t help it, but began to yawn myself. Then I found a note on my desk.
     "Don’t fall asleep!" the neat script read. I looked around. To my right, a handsome guy with a dark pompadour smiled, but there was urgency in his eyes. I sat up and refocused on the professor’s recitation.

     I arrived in class already tired the next Thursday. I had been up late studying for a Spanish test. I tried my hardest to keep taking notes, but each line dwindled to an illegible scrawl. My head drooped toward my chest. Abruptly, my head jerked up again. At the same time, my arm twitched, sending my pen flying. Suddenly awake, I watched helplessly as the projectile soared straight toward the beehive hairdo of a young lady two rows away. I winced at the moment of impact. Then I heard the pen clatter to the floor. The student was still calmly watching the professor. The boy with the pompadour winked, but no one else seemed to have noticed.
     More alert now, I took a closer look at my classmates. A couple of rows ahead of me, two girls pulled out their cell phones every few minutes. They appeared disappointed each time, as if they had not received an expected message. They were the most normal-looking people in the room. A guy with bushy sideburns and plaid trousers lounged in a front-row seat. A prim girl with a big bow in her hair wore a flowered dress with puffy sleeves. I saw bellbottoms and pegged jeans. The young lady filing her nails near the wall was actually wearing a poodle skirt. Did the professor advertise this section at the thrift store?
     My textbook arrived in the mail that afternoon. It was less worn, but no newer than the copy in the library. I guessed Doctor Altgraber liked to use original sources.

     I settled into a pattern in the Foundations class: arrive late, listen to droning lecture, try to take notes, start to feel drowsy. When I was nearly asleep, the cute guy with the pompadour would pass me a note, or catch my eye, do something to attract my attention and wake me up. I wished I had time to talk to him after class, but I couldn’t be late for canoeing. One day he signed one of the notes. I smiled at him, but he was already looking back at the chalkboard.
     No matter; I was a modern girl. I looked up “J. Ingledent” in the student directory. He was not there. Hmm. Maybe he had registered late, or a careless secretary had left him off the list. I tried Facebook. Still no entry. Strange. Finally I found a Jerry Ingledent, listed among dead alumni in an old college newsletter. Maybe my friend was named after his father. I started thinking of him as Jerry, and watched for him around campus. Once I thought I saw him at a retro dance in the student center, and a couple of times I thought I glimpsed him through the stacks in the library, but he was never near enough to hear my greeting.

     One Tuesday in early December I arrived at class determined not only to stay awake, but to start a discussion. According to the syllabus, we were going to cover one of my favorite topics, the Dead Sea Scrolls. I shivered with anticipation, having become accustomed to the chill of the old classroom. I listened intently as Dr. Altgraber described the 1947 discovery of ancient records by simple shepherds in desert caves, and their subsequent study by learned scholars. I raised my hand.
     The professor looked rather startled. “Yes, Miss, um . . .”
     Should I change my name to Um? “Erickson, sir.” I had never called anyone “Sir” in my life, but it seemed to fit.
     “Miss Erickson?”
     “What is your opinion on the accessibility of these records in modern times? The early scholars were very possessive of the documents and their translations, but now with the internet--”
     He squinted at me from beneath his mortarboard. “You’re a live one, aren’t you?” He resumed his lecture without further comment. He covered the dating of the documents by the style of pottery in which they were found, and mentioned his hopes for good results from G. L. Harding’s team of international experts. And then he moved on to the finding of the Upchurch Hoard in 1950.
     I was stunned. How could a few Roman coins in England compare with the cultural riches of the Dead Sea Scrolls? And what sort of stuffy professor refuses to answer questions? I shot a questioning look at Jerry, but he only shrugged.

     The next week I went back to see Professor McGrail for advice on registering for the next semester. “Miss Erickson,” he sighed. “Must I remind you that without the Foundations class--”
     “But I’m taking it now, from Dr. Altgraber.”
     His eyes grew round. “Really? I . . . I didn’t know he was teaching this term.”
     “You didn’t?”
     The professor regarded his desk. “Dr. Altgraber is an emeritus professor. He teaches a class now and then, when he feels like it.” He looked up again. “Has he graded any of your assignments yet?”
     “No, the whole grade is determined by the final exam.”
     “Do me a favor, if you will. He can be rather, well, eccentric in his recording. So you’ll need to insist that he grade your final exam before you leave the classroom, and bring it to me.”
     “What about--”
     “Just bring it to me.”

     I arrived for the final exam with unusual punctuality.  I was confident that I had filled the gaps in my notes with information from my primordial textbook. The professor had never mentioned any more modern developments, and I thought I had a pretty good grasp on the history.
     There were no bubble sheets for Dr. Altgraber’s test. I had not written that much in cursive since the fifth grade, but I finished the test with time to spare. I checked it over one more time, then nervously approached the professor’s desk.
     “Dr. Altgraber, sir, I’m very anxious about my score. Will you please grade the exam for me now?”
     He looked at me as if he had never seen me before. I put on a pleading expression. “Very well, Miss . . .”
     “Thank you.” I went back to my desk. Jerry gave me the thumb’s up. I bit my lip as I waited, watching all the other students writing steadily. Finally the professor stood, handed me my paper, and collected the others.
     I was surprised to find Professor McGrail waiting for me outside the Doyle building. He looked relieved.
     "Do you have it?"  I handed him the exam without looking at it. “Interesting,” he commented as he leafed through.
     I watched my classmates streaming out of the door. I waved to Jerry, and he walked over, smiling. “You made it,” he said. He looked pleased, but wistful.
     “Thanks to you,” I replied. “Did you pass?”
     “Oh, I passed long ago. But, as the professor likes to remind me, I’ll always be late. So long!” Jerry waved and strode away, disappearing into the dusk.
     Professor McGrail looked up, tactfully pretending he hadn’t heard. “I’m afraid I was not completely forthright about your registration in this class.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “Dr. Altgraber was a real asset to our department long ago.  However--”
     “I can tell he’s not up on modern methods, but is that a problem in a historical class?”
     “Well, he suffered a heart attack during Commencement in 1953. He, ah, did not recover. But he does still insist on teaching.”
     “‘Did not recover?’ Do you mean he’s dead?”
     “Well, yes, precisely. The Theatre department invites him to play in Hamlet from time to time, but he complains about typecasting . . .”
     My shivers had nothing to do with the frigid evening air.  “What about the other students?”
     “In much the same state, I believe. If you had fallen asleep in class, you would have been doomed, with them, to repeat the course as often as Dr. Altgraber wants to teach it. He’s been boring students to death for over half a century.”
     I was shocked. “Why didn’t you tell me to quit the class? Some counselor you are!”
     “I’m sorry. But it seems that dropping out has the same effect as dropping off. Three years ago, I lost two students by advising them to withdraw.” He looked terribly sad.
     “Oh,” I whispered. “They are still waiting for you to call.”
     The professor sighed again. “At least you survived.” He walked away with my exam. I looked through the window again. I saw no robed professor, no desks, just a comfortable sitting room.
     “Wait!” I started to run after Professor McGrail. “Do I still get credit?”

River Story, Part 2

For Part 1, click here

A Magpie Tale

When Chris arrived at his office, he found an unwelcome visitor leaning on his desk. “Dirk. You’re back already?”

“My research grants ran out, so I have to actually write something now.” Dirk said with his mouth full. He set a half-eaten apple on the desk and picked up a small framed picture. “Who’s the pretty redhead? She looks familiar.”

“My wife. You would not know her.”

“You never know. I meet plenty of dissatisfied housewives at the café. I do my best to, well, cheer them up, but what can I do, really?” The telephone clattered to the floor as Dirk assumed the lotus position on Chris’s desk. “Attachment brings suffering.”

“You’re taking your Buddhist studies a little too seriously, Dirk.”

“I’m thinking of converting, actually. But not yet.” Dirk slid back to the floor and took another long look at Margie’s photo. “I intend to experience the world thoroughly before I renounce it.”

Dirk sauntered away, leaving Chris fuming. Chris hurled the apple into a trash can across the room, as if it were as poisonous as Dirk’s insinuations. He picked up the telephone. Margie would never . . . would she? He decided to give her a call.

The phone rang and rang. No answer.

Then Chris noticed he was late for class, and rushed away. He could not focus on the discussion, though. What a waste of time. Where is she? After class, he called again, sure he would hear Margie’s melodious voice. But she still did not answer his call.

Worried, he returned to the library to pick up the book of folk tales.



“Chris! Here’s your little book! One of my finest jobs, if I may say so myself.” Becca displayed the slim volume with a flourish.

He barely looked at it. “It’s all right.”

“My masterpiece is ‘all right’? What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s Margie. She’s not answering the phone. I think – I don’t know what to think.”

Becca smiled. “She’s probably getting a surprise ready for your big day.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. By the way, I took the liberty of reading a couple of these stories. I like the one about the boy who popped out of the peach. I wish it were that easy to have a baby,” Becca said, rubbing her rotund belly. “I feel like a giant peach myself, about ready to split.”

Chris did not know how to reply, but she went on, saving him the effort.

“The story about the crane was so sad, though. Why didn’t the man just leave her alone, like she asked?”

“Would you?”

“Probably not,” Becca laughed. “Have a happy anniversary!”



That afternoon, Chris waited for Margie in the garden. He could not bask in the sun like she did, though. He fidgeted and paced. Where could she be? What was she hiding from him?

Finally she appeared, looking rather flushed. “Chris! You’re early!”

“Where have you been?”

“I was searching for your anniversary gift. And I found it,” she teased, “but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

He was not amused. “Is that all?”

“Well, I ran into some old friends, and we had lunch.”

“Who?”

“You wouldn’t remember them. What’s the matter, Chris?”

He sighed. “I tried to call you, and you didn’t answer, and I was worried – ”

“Worried about me?” She put her arms around him. “I’m fine, honey.”

They sank together onto the garden bench, but Margie started up again. “What is this?” She picked up the green book from her seat, and settled down again.

“Oh, that is my gift to you. You can read it now, if you like. I’ll get dinner started.”

When she came in for dinner, Margie gave Chris a curious smile, but said only, “Yes, I found the perfect gift for you.”



Margie did not mention the lipstick that night. After spending the day worrying, Chris forgot the shiny tube he had tucked into his sock drawer. On their anniversary morning, he awoke to her humming, and thought about the book he had given her. Why was he drawn to those tales? What did her enigmatic comment mean?

They are just silly stories. Nothing like that has ever really happened. And if it did, it was long ago, in a far-off land. Besides, I have never rescued a crane from a trap, or sheltered a fox. No, my wife is just a beautiful, private woman.

His mind drifted back to the day they first met. He had been walking along the river after class one autumn day, shuffling in the leaves and listening to the slow gurgle of the water. He arrived at his favorite spot on the bank only to find it occupied. There was a pimply kid from the high school that Chris had tutored a few times.

“What are you doing with that turtle?”

The boy was holding the squirming creature by its hind legs, staring intently at its tail. “I’m studying marine biology.”

“‘Marine’ has to do with the sea. Don’t you mean ‘riparian’?”

“Whatever. Do you think this is a boy or a girl?” The boy started poking the soft parts.

“Hey, that’s rude,” Chris pointed out. As the boy looked incredulously at his tutor, the turtle wriggled out of his hand and swam for deep water. “Go find another science project.”

The kid slouched off, muttering under his breath. Chris sat down on a stump, reviewing material from his poetry class. He had nearly finished going through his notes when he heard the rustle of leaves again.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” A tall, pretty girl with red hair and serious brown eyes indicated a nearby stone.

“Not at all.” Usually so shy, Chris had no trouble introducing himself, and fell into a comfortable conversation with Margie. He no longer remembered what they had discussed that day. That discussion blurred in his memory with so many others they shared later. They had wed at the end of the summer, and were living happily ever after, more or less.

Happily ever after. Just like a story. Wait. I did rescue that turtle! What if Margie is a...

“Chris, have you seen my lipstick?” Margie called from the bathroom.

“Um, isn’t it in your case?” He reached for his glasses, but the night stand was empty.

“No.”

“Can you use another one?”

“No, that is the only one I have.”

Really? Chris thought as she came into their room. She seemed to be wearing a fuzzy robe, with a fuzzy towel wrapped around her head. Of course, everything looked fuzzy without his glasses. He located her brown eyes, and between them...was that a beak? Yikes! He scrambled to sit up.

“Margie – I’m sorry – sock drawer – what. . .”

She rummaged through his drawer, and disappeared into the bathroom. When she returned, she handed him some clothes and his glasses. She looked as beautiful and serious as ever. “Let’s go for a walk, Chris.”

They walked to the river, stepping silently through the early morning, and sat down in their favorite clearing.

“Margie – I – you . . .”

“You’ve discovered my true identity, Chris. I am actually a painted turtle.”

“Oh, no,” He knew how these stories turned out. “Please stay! I didn’t mean – ”

She ignored his pleas. “Furthermore, I think you are a turtle, too.”

He was shocked. “No, I’m not.”

“What do you remember from the time you fell in the river?”

“Um, not much, really. My parents just told me we were visiting, and we were going to buy some ice cream . . .”

“And you remember what they told you. I remember it differently.”

“You?”

“Yes. A group of us were swimming across the river when that couple came walking up. You were so curious that you crawled onto the bank to take a good look at them. When you took off your wet glasses, you transformed into a little boy. The woman started to cry. They had wanted a child for so long, she said, you were a wish come true. So they adopted you and raised you as a human. Your father happened to knock your glasses back into the water. I hid them in a safe place.”

Chris shook his head. How could it be? A child from the water? Transforming animals? He must have been spending too much time on his translations.

She handed him a small package. Opening it, he found a child-sized pair of tortoiseshell spectacles. They looked just like the ones he had lost. “Try them on,” she urged.

Why not? They will never fit. But they did. Margie took his hand and stepped into the shallows. With her other hand, she dipped a washcloth in the water and used it to wipe away her makeup. Chris stepped into the river, too.

The water was cold, but in a comfortable way. He could feel his fingers lengthening, webbing themselves together. The odd hourglass shape of his chest hair smoothed into a distinctive pattern on his plastron. Scutes spread over his back with a satisfying click. The trees seemed far taller now, the river broader and more inviting.

And there was his Margie. He reached out to stroke the brilliant red streaks of her cheeks. She patted his claws with her own. “I knew it was you,” she said, and led him through the water. Memories swirled around him like the dawn light sparkling on the river, and he knew it, too.

River Story, Part 1

He had never seen her without makeup.

The thought never occurred to Chris until they had been married about a year. One of the graduate students who shared his office had just returned from a honeymoon, and the other guys were teasing him.

“It all changes when you’re married, right, Brad?” asked Tom, who was engaged himself. “You find out what’s behind the makeup and flirting.”

“Yeah, the next morning I woke up and thought, ‘Yikes!’”

“Would that be a euphemism or a derogation?”

“Stick your critical discourse analysis in your Eustachian tube, Mike! Seriously, she has this big birthmark, right there on her neck, that I’d never seen. I guess I’ll get used to it.”

“What about you, Chris?” Tom inquired. “What does your wife look like first thing in the morning?”

“Margie is always beautiful,” he replied.

“There’s a typically uncreative American compliment.” The others laughed at Mike’s analyzing tone, and went on with their banter.

Chris headed for the peace of the library, but the question kept floating into his mind. His wife was an early riser, always fully dressed by the time he put on his thick glasses. Was he missing something?

Margie was lovely, no doubt about that. He had often wondered what she saw in a shy scholar like him. It certainly wasn’t his earning potential that attracted her. Linguists don’t get rich. But she did not seem to mind. She shared his quiet habits, enjoying reading, long walks, and going out for sushi on Saturday nights. She was perfect for him, that was all, and it did not matter if her makeup hid a few blemishes.

He shook off the thought and focused on proofreading his translations. Satisfied that they were ready, he found his way to the library’s conservation lab.

“Hi, Chris!” Becca greeted him cheerfully. “What do you have for me?”

“Just these stories. I’d like to give them to Margie for our anniversary.”

“That's so sweet!  For our first anniversary, Dan gave me a case of motor oil.  At least he doesn't expect me to change it myself."  Becca pulled out samples of binding cloths and endpapers.  "For this gift, you'll need a really nice binding.”

Chris looked them over, but could not decide. “What do you think she would like?”

“Don’t you know your wife by now?” Becca teased.

“I thought so.” Chris frowned. “Do you tell Dan everything?”

“Not all at once. When I hung a spoon on the end of my nose at our rehearsal dinner, he almost called off the wedding out of astonishment,” she chuckled. “A girl has to keep a few tricks up her sleeve.”

“You think Margie is keeping some talents hidden?”

“I’m sure of it. How about this gold paper with a green binding?”

Margie was waiting for him outside, as usual. Her red hair shone even more brilliantly in the golden evening light. “The garden looks great, dear,” Chris said. She had been transforming the barren back yard of their tiny rental house into a little paradise, complete with a rocky fountain feeding a small pond.

“Thanks, honey. Look at these!” She pointed at something moving in the pond, then scooped it out of the water.

“Is that a turtle? I’ve never seen one so small. How did it get here?”

“We’re not that far from the river. The mother must have liked this sunny spot.” She indicated a small hole in the ground. Chris peeked in and saw some eggshell fragments.

“How many are there? What do they eat? Do they need shots or anything?” Chris asked nervously. His parents had never allowed him to keep a pet.

Margie laughed. “Don’t worry, they can fend for themselves. There are only five, so the flower garden should attract plenty of insects for them. They’ll like the aquatic plants I set in the pond, too. But maybe they would like some minnows from the river. Shall we go for a walk after dinner?”

“Of course,” Chris smiled. Though he had grown up in another state, his earliest memories were of that river. His parents, alumni of the university, had returned to visit and persuade their young son to study there someday. He ran along the river trail until he tripped and fell into the cold water. His father had fished him out right away, with no harm done, but Chris had lost his glasses. After that incident, his mother had insisted on holding his hand any time they approached water. He still loved to walk along the river, matching his pace to its slow current.

When Chris awoke the next morning, he could hear Margie’s little splashes in the bath as she sang wordlessly. Listening to the comforting sound, his mind drifted to the old folk tales he had translated for her. They were strange stories of grateful animal spirits returning the favors of men by marrying them and making them rich – until the foolish men discovered their wives’ true forms.

Was Margie’s true form much different from her made-up face? It seemed unlikely. And she had never actually asked him not to look in on her during her bath. He put on his glasses and went to the bathroom door. It was locked.

“Do you need something, honey? Sorry – I’ll be right out,” she called.

Why would she lock the door? Chris shook his head. Don’t be silly, he thought. It’s probably just a habit from her single days. She emerged soon, with her radiant hair neatly arranged, elegant eyebrows framing her deep brown eyes, smiling lips nearly matching her vermillion hair.

“Good morning, sunshine.” She tousled his hair, and he forgot all about the old stories.

After his shower, though, he glanced at the case on the counter. It looked like a tackle box, but she had said it was her makeup case. He wondered how much makeup she actually used. He tried the lid. But it, too, was locked. Then he noticed a single metallic tube standing next to the case. He opened it to find lipstick, Margie’s favorite bright red. He slipped the cylinder into his pocket. Would she notice?

For Part 2, click here.

To read the sort of stories of which Chris is thinking, see my father's translations here.

Through Her Eyes

A Magpie Tale

     Everyone loved my roommate. Kate was beautiful; her long, blond hair waved naturally, her skin was clear, and her blue eyes sparkled. She was also intelligent and witty, and treated everyone with interest and kindness. I did not blame the guys she met for wanting to get to know her better.
     No one seemed to be interested in getting to know me. Next to my roommate, I was mousy, drab, reticent. The young men were certainly civil enough when they came to pick Kate up for a date, or when we invited them for Sunday dinner, but they focused on Kate. I tried not to worry about it. I was paying all this tuition to go to classes, right? Social life was not guaranteed in my acceptance letter. But the apartment was awfully quiet while she was out on the weekends. Occasionally I went to a concert on campus, but the staff in the student center gave me funny looks when I asked for only one ticket. So I would wander the student art exhibits, or do some recreational reading, or just study more. Near the end of the semester, I was on top of my assignments, but Kate was falling behind.
     After our other dinner guests had gone home one Sunday evening, Darwin was still droning on; Kate listened and smiled. I had finished washing the dishes, and was typing an email to my parents, when one sentence caught my attention.
     "I really can't waste my time dating girls who don't have blue eyes," Darwin announced, smugly. "I wouldn't want to pollute my gene pool."
     I raised my eyebrows. I had had a private theory that this might be the case among the male students we knew, but I was surprised to hear someone say it aloud.
     Kate, on the other hand, was incensed. She politely thanked Darwin for sharing our meal, and escorted him to the door. Then she started pacing the living room, fuming about bigots and gene pools. Apparently the idea had never crossed her mind.
     That night, we traded eyes.
     It was Kate's idea. "Let's test your theory. If brown-eyed girls are invisible, maybe you can get a date this weekend, and I can finish my term paper."
     I gazed sceptically at the azure orb she offered me. "I'm not sure blue is my color."
     "How many dates have you gone on this semester?" she asked.
     "Well, there was that one night when Ben and Jeff showed up at the same time to ask you to the same movie, and you persuaded them to double."
     "Is that really all? You need these," she said emphatically, and we made the trade. I lent her my glasses, too. It would not be fair to have to write a paper with a blinding headache.
     On Monday my face felt rather naked without the glasses. But it was refreshing to be able to see the blackboard and my notes without adjusting my specs. Soon I began to see even more.
     For the experiment to work, people needed to notice the blue eyes in my head. So when I went jogging Tuesday morning, I looked up and smiled at my fellow exercisers. My habit was to look down, hoping no one would recognize me. But now I saw that I was not the only one with ratty jogging clothes or a blotchy red face. And some of the joggers smiled back.
     After class Wednesday afternoon, I saw Andrea at her kitchen table in the apartment next door, and stopped in. She greeted me pleasantly, but seemed frustrated.
     "Did you do something different with your hair?" She was unable to place the difference in my appearance. I just smiled, and looked more closely. I recognized the calculus book on the table.
     "Are you having trouble with math?" I asked.
     "It's 'integration by parts.' I have to take the exam tomorrow, and I just don't get it."
     "That is a tough one. Here's what my professor showed me last year." I sat down and helped Andrea through the process. In half an hour, she was ready for her test. She gave me a friendly wave as I left, and promised to come by if she had any more calculus questions.
     Andrea did come over Friday evening, and I beamed when she reported her good grade in calculus. I blinked when she invited me to the campus dance, with her brother and his friends. I turned the blue eyes on them all, and danced more in one night than I had in the past five years. We talked, too, and I found that I actually had a few things in common with these cool guys. The blue eyes were working!
     I answered the door Saturday night to find Tommy asking for Kate. I felt bad; Kate liked Tommy, and would be disappointed to have missed him. But she had given me strict orders to not reveal her location in the library, so I looked him in the eyes and told him that she was out.
     "Are you and Kate related?" he asked after a moment's thought.
     "No, we're just roommates."
     "But you look really familiar."
     "I've lived here as long as she has."
     "Oh, that must be it." He started to leave, then turned around. "Do you like Mexican food? I have a coupon."
     So Tommy took me out for dinner. As he toyed with his chips and salsa, I saw that he was preoccupied. I looked at him sympathetically, and soon he was telling me all about his mother, and her chemotherapy. He worried about her, and the rest of the family. He was trying to decide whether he should keep going to school, or get a job near home and try to help out. I had had no idea that Tommy had such concerns, and I did not know how to comfort him. But I listened to his burdens, and soon he was smiling and joking again.
     Suddenly I realized what the difference was. I had trained my brown eyes look at books and art; Kate looked on the heart. Could I do the same with my own eyes?
     Sunday morning, Kate handed back my eyes. "I'm sorry they're so bloodshot, but I finished the term paper!"
     I doused the brown spheres with eye drops before inserting them again. "That's great!"
     "So, what about the experiment?" she asked. "Do blue-eyed girls really have more fun?"
     "Well, I learned that it's not so much about how you look as, um, how you look."
     "What?"
     "I mean, how you see."
     She did not understand, probably because it came so naturally for her. But I practiced her technique. A few months later, Darwin came by to announce his engagement to a blue-eyed freshman. Instead of dismissing him as a bigot, I took a closer look. In the girl's eyes I saw trust and security; in his I saw, behind the triumph, relief that he had found a good mate before beginning the rigors of medical school. Kate and I congratulated the couple sincerely. And after they left, we giggled about the surprising turns genetics can take.