Chapter Four

The heavy, wooden door made a small, startled noise as the key turned in the lock. Tess thought he heard something inside, the sound of something scuffling, followed by a whoosh of air. He opened the door cautiously, only to find the room pitch black.

“Oh, come on, don’t just stand there.” Clear pushed Tess into the room, and flicked on the lights behind her. The room was lit by four offensively powerful florescent lights in downward-turned fixtures, which took a moment to flicker to life. The lecture hall was one of the older ones – irregular sides, a high ceiling with a legacy of crisscrossing rafters overhead. Wrought-iron windows lined the far wall of the room, with tied-back dark red curtains on either side. The seats were all wooden, and looked as though they would creak when sat on. The room smelled like old wood and cloth, with a weird hint of something Tess couldn’t identify.

Tess was relieved to see that there was no one inside.

“I thought you said we were investigating new faculty,” Clear said.

“Um, I thought I did, too.”

Their words echoed back at them from high above.

“Well, this is neither new nor faculty.”

“Maybe we’re supposed to investigate the woman this was named after.”

“She’s not new, either! She stopped teaching here nearly sixty years ago!”

“I am so confused,” Tess admitted, flopping down in one of the wooden seats. The reverberating creak startled him back onto his feet.

“No one ever accused Professor Kincaid of being too sane,” Clear offered as she wandered through the hall. “Maybe he’s gone senile,” she added, examining the chalkboard.

“I suppose we may as well look around, just in case,” Tess sighed. He would rather just go home, but he didn’t want all this chasing around to be for nothing.

“Hey, did you just hear something?” Clear asked, looking up from the drawer she was rifling through.

“Um, I was a bit preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied, my ass. You were just staring off into space. Or maybe you were just checking me out.”

Tess made a face at her.

“No, seriously, I think I heard something moving up there.”

Tess looked up at the ceiling. The shades on the light fixtures kept the bulbs from bringing much light into the upper regions of the room. Tess thought a marching band might be able to hide in the rafters if they kept real still.

“It’s probably just bats,” Clear said confidently. “This would be a great place for bats.”

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence as the two looked up into the darkness. Clear closed the desk drawer carefully.

“You know,” she ventured, “I don’t think there’s anything to find here. Let’s head back.”

Tess agreed.

****

The next day, Tess was eating lunch with Clear and Al in the Risibel Memorial Cafeteria. Tess was spooning some jambalaya into his mouth, as Clear recounted last night’s break-in to Al.

“—so while I’m searching for info on this woman or hall or whatever we’re looking for, I hear this noise. Tess was too busy checking me out to notice—”

“I wasn’t checking you out,” Tess tried to interject, with a mouth full of jambalaya. It came out as more of a mumbly-splashy noise.

“Great defense. Anyway, Sterne Hall is full of bats. Hundreds of them. Can you believe this university lets bats just live wherever? Before you know it, the whole place is going to be full of guano.”

“We didn’t see any—”

“Guano means bat shit,” Clear added in a stage whisper.

“We didn’t see any bats, Clear. And I wasn’t checking you out, anyway – I wasn’t checking her out,” he added to Al, who nodded sagaciously. “I was just trying to figure out who we’re trying to find out about.”

“There were so bats, probably.”

“We didn’t see any bat poop.”

“You mean guano,” Al suggested.

“You mean bat shit,” Clear suggested.

“Look, all I’m saying is maybe it wasn’t bats, because we didn’t see any bat sh—any guano.”

“Or maybe they’re very clean bats. I mean, this is a university,” Clear teased.

“Or perhaps the professors collect it for biology experiments,” Al added.

“Ok, I give up.” Tess took another bite of his jambalaya and made a face, half at his friends, and half at the food.

“Hey, look who’s spotted us,” Clear said, prodding Tess. “It’s that girl you said loves cheese stakes yesterday, and that guy she hangs out with.”

Tess mumbled something, embarrassed.

“You know, she’s not bad-looking. You might have had a chance with her, if you hadn’t made such a fool of yourself. Oh my, oh my.”

“Look, I’m not interested in her, okay?” An image of McKenzie, the beautiful, confident girl from his geology class pranced through a summer field in his mind. His first thought was how much he wanted to impress her, and his second was how much he wanted to keep Clear from finding out.

“You cad! What’s she ever done to you?”

“Hey, what’s the deal with that guy she hangs out with?” Tess asked quickly to change the subject.

“No one seems to know,” Al answered, “but I’ve heard they go everywhere together.”

“Are they – ‘together’?” Tess asked.

“Oh no,” Clear said with a giggle. “Oh no no no. Milo is what we women like to call ‘gay’. That means, attracted to other men.”

“I—” Tess started to say.

“Not women. Just men,” Clear interrupted.

Tess glared at her. “Ha ha, the greek kid doesn’t know what gay means. You’re a stitch, you are.”

“You’re from Greece?” Maya said, having just arrived at the table. “That is so cool. There’s a really good Greek restaurant near here. I went there with my parents the first night we were here.” Maya suddenly stopped talking and looked down at her tray, her cheeks reddening.

“What my associate means to say is that the Greek culture is quite fascinating, and we’d like to join you for lunch, if you don’t mind,” Milo said, coming to Maya’s rescue. “I’m taking a class on ancient Greece right now, and I feel they were very forward thinking.” Milo gave a little laugh.

Clear laughed too, but Tess wasn’t sure why.

“Seriously, though, what’s really interesting is this class on paganism I’m taking with Professor Wheeler. Did you know that this is one of the few pagan-founded universities in the country?”

“I did not know that,” Clear said a little too seriously, while Al just nodded.

“It’s true. Philip Crowley, one of the founders, was into spiritualism, geomancy, and all sorts of interesting things.”

“That’s your hobby, right?” Tess said. “You’re into séances and pictures of faeries and stuff.”

“Well, not so much the faeries. But as far as historical information about séances is concerned, this class is great. Professor Wheeler studied under Professor Sterne – the old one, not the new one.”

Tess, Al, and Clear exchanged glances.

“What did I say?” Milo said, looking around at the three.

“How much do you know about Professor Sterne?” Tess asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. A little of this, a little of that. She was considered the foremost professor of occult religion in her time. Well, the foremost at a liberal arts institution, anyway. That’s why Wheeler is so good for information on spiritualism and the like. Why?”

“Well, it’s like this . . .” Tess began to explain.

Chapter Three

“You know, for someone who’s obsessed with being a stalker, you sure don’t seem to be trying very hard–shouldn’t you be going through a certain someone’s garbage right now?”

“I’m not obsessed, Clear; I just can’t think about anything else. And did he tell you about the mushrooms?”

“Yeah, he said you weren’t into them. You know, in the version I heard, the kid has to drink soy sauce and gnaw on the drywall.”

“I’m not sure this a productive area of discussion.”

Tess, Al and Clear were piling their jackets in a corner of the Rosebrough Student Center cloakroom. The cafeteria dated back to a time when and linoleum was king and architects never met a bit of stainless steel they didn’t like. Tess and friends passed into the adjoining room, where a long line of students was pushing through a turnstile.

“Well, maybe it is, Tess,” Clear persisted. “If you’re going to be drinking soy sauce for like a year maybe you should try to get a taste for it now.”

“Yeah,” added Al. “Start with a few drops and go slow until you build up an immunity.”

Tess scowled. “That’s poison you’re thinking of.” Al shrugged in a maybe-it-is-maybe-it-isn’t sort of way. Tess pressed on: “Anyhow, the soy sauce isn’t the issue. I mean, following this guy around, going through his stuff. It’s all so illegal…. What if I get caught?”

“I don’t believe in laws,” said Clear, prompting Al to reach over and tousle her hair affectionately. “They’re totally against human nature and they just cause more problems than they solve. If people were just allowed to do whatever it would all just sort itself out. See? Watch what happens if I punch Al here.” Clear took a swing at Al’s nose that entirely failed to connect as he blandly held her at arm’s length with his palm on her forehead. “There, see? It works itself out.”

“And if that weren’t enough,” Tess persisted, “what’s with the whole ‘show your work’ thing?”

“Maybe there are different formats,” Clear offered. “You know, like CIA style?”

“Brilliant,” Tess muttered as he pushed through the turnstile. He walked another few paces and joined the line for hot food while his companions went on into the dining room in search of a free table.

He was rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands in his pockets when a wisp of a girl with a halo of short, curly, red hair made passing eye contact.

“Hey,” said Tess brightly. “Don’t I know you?” The girl looked genuinely surprised.

“Yes! You’re Tess.”

“Right. Ma . . . Maggie?”

“Maya.”

“Oh. Weren’t we in the same tour in New Student Week?” She pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled faintly at this.

“Actually we have three classes together.”

“Oh.”

“And we live in the same building.”

“Oh.”

A little alarmed at how badly he was doing, Tess struggled to dredge up some factoid to show that he was not in fact as clueless about this person as he apparently was.

“You must be in line for the cheese steaks, right? Because you’re from Pennsylvania,” he finished triumphantly. He crossed his arms on his chest heroically. Maya looked almost embarrassed, although it was unclear for whom.

“Toronto. I usually just have cereal but I was in line with my friend Milo.”

The Milo presumably in question spun around at this. He was of average height but looked a fair bit taller than he actually was because he stood with an immaculate posture that bespoke extensive training in ballet, modern dance, and tap. Additionally, he seemed to exude an air of hyperkinetic omnidirectional bonhomie that extended well beyond the physical confines of his body. He grabbed Tess’ hand and pumped it up and down.

“Oh hi,” Milo enthused. “I’ve seen you all over the place. Weren’t you in the bushes the other day? I love the fatigues.” Tess felt startled at how well-known he was turning out to be.

“I . . .”

“And look at your hair!” He grabbed a curl of Tess’ hair and tugged at in exuberantly, watching it spring back into place. Tess took a half-step back and looked around in wide-eyed semi-panic.

“Have we…?”

“You might have read something of mine in the school paper.”

Tess realized he had and managed to recompose himself a bit.

“Yeah…didn’t you write a three-page article for the New Student edition about how séances are the next big thing…or something?”

“They are!” Milo hit him on the shoulder here, causing him to ladle gravy all over his cafeteria tray. “They’re a great way to pick up people; in the article I called them ‘the new Twister.’ They totally are. Did you know the guy who founded TU used do them? He was really famous for them. I read he used to do daguerreotypes of fairies too. And goblins. I was thinking of doing some for an art project. Want to be in one? All you have to do is hold really still for two hours.”

“Yeah, sure.”

On walking into the dining hall they were greeted by a hearty din: laughing students, the noise of clattering cutlery, chairs scraping across the floor, and the occasional dropped tray (followed by polite applause) formed a wall of sound. Volleys of bread rolls and some of the smaller root vegetables were flying back and forth across the room at regular intervals. Tess pointed to Al and Clear in a far corner of the room. “That’s my roommate and his girlfriend if you want to join us.”

Maya looked up from the Fruit Loops dispenser. “You mean the kind of average-looking guy and the really small Indian girl with hair like Liza Minnelli in Cabaret?”

“Yeah, that’s them. That’s them exactly.”

***

The five of them were walking back across the residential quad after dinner. It was a cool night but not uncomfortably so and the stars shone brightly between a few wisps of cloud. They cheered on a couple energetically canoodling on the plinth of the Obelisk for the Once and Future Student, a twelve foot tall bronze edifice crafted to resemble a tower of haphazardly piled books, desks, mattresses, and other student essentials. For the last six decades or so it had been a favorite venue for drunken make-out sessions, impromptu free climbing competitions, and other such youthful bacchanalian shenanigans.

“So what are you going to do about professor Sterne?” asked Clear as they approached their dorm, the stately and squat Pulleyblank Hall. Tess, who was momentarily distracted by the sight of shadowy figures cast on the blinds in his residence advisor’s window, shook his head.

“Have any of you guys–huh?”

“Sterne.”

Clear mrowr-ed to herself.

“Who?” Milo asked.

“You know,” Maya answered him. “The archaeology professor. The one with hair like Patrick Stewart in Next Generation.”

“Do you know anyone who doesn’t have hair like someone on TV?” Milo quipped at her. Maya looked quietly down at her toes. After an uncomfortable moment Milo suddenly lunged forward, lifted her by the midsection, and swung her in a tight circle, her legs flying outward, until she was laughing for him to stop.

Meanwhile, Tess was trying to remember the combination to his mailbox in the lobby. “I don’t know,” he said, finally opening the mailbox and pulling out a manila campus mail envelope. “I don’t suppose anyone wants to–”

“Nope,” Al cut in with surprising conviction. “Simpsons.” Maya brightened noticeably at this and followed him downstairs with Milo in hot pursuit, leaving just Tess and Clear.

“Sure.”

“What?”

“You were going to ask if anyone wanted to help you break into Stern’s office, right?” Tess winced and looked around to see if anyone had heard but the lobby was empty for the moment.

“Yeah . . .”

“Sure, I’ll help.”

“Well, that’s great but I still don’t know how we’re going to get in.”

“Sneak in, I guess,” said Clear as Tess ripped open the envelope and looked inside.

“How? It’s not like we have–oh.”

“What?”

Tess emptied the contents of the envelope into his hand. There were two keys.

***

Tess and Clear agreed to meet behind the Colbert Hall bushes at midnight. Tess had arrived early in jeans and a black turtleneck and was crouching in his usual spot. The bushes seemed pointier at night.

Tess felt annoyed. Bending to teachers’ every whim, hiding in shrubbery while everyone else was having a good time: that was the old Tess. Where was the new college Tess he’d promised himself? It was Monday night –– shouldn’t he be at a party now?

Clear walked up noisily behind him. “Looking sharp!” she announced. Tess flashed the whites of his eyes and shushed her.

“Oh, relax,” she said. “Nobody’s here but us and that couple back there making out in the archway. C’mon.”

She strode up the stairs to Colbert hall as he scrambled behind her. She rapped her flashlight in the palm of her hand as he fished the two keys he’d received out of his pocket. He inserted the larger of the two keys into the keyhole. With a smooth click the door unlocked and they quietly slipped into the building.

“Ooh, this is just awesome!” enthused Clear as she played her flashlight over the walls of the darkened hallway. “In the sixties my parents used to break into stuff on their campus all the time, you know. That’s how they met –– they broke into the chancellor’s office on the same night. It’s so romantic.”

“Yeah,” said Tess, not really listening. “I think his office is down this hall here.”

“And then Dad proposed while they were taking a dump on the provost’s desk . . .” Clear continued.

“We’re here.”

Sterne’s door was covered in yellowing Far Side comics and Onion articles (“Archaeologists Discover Ancient Race of Skeleton People!”). Clear perched on a nearby table between stacks of papers covered with red marginalia.

Tess took the smaller of the two keys out of his pocket, swallowed, and inserted it into the knob on Sterne’s door. It didn’t turn. He pulled it out, stuck it in again, and rattled the knob. Still nothing.

“What? It doesn’t work?” asked Clear. “Try the other one.”

Tess did, without success. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why would Kincaid give me a key to the building but not his office?”

“You’re sure they’re from Kincaid?”

“Pretty sure–his name was crossed out before mine on the envelope.”

Clear furrowed her brow and appeared to think for a second or two. “I’ve been in this building before. My roommate has a class in here. I wonder . . .” She took off at a brisk pace down the hall and Tess chased after her.

“What?” he asked as they jogged down a flight of stairs and around a corner. They were now standing in front of the door to Colbert 100, a large lecture hall that Tess had walked past before.

“Here. Give me that key.”

Tess handed her the key. She stuck it into the locked knob and the door swung open.

“How did you . . .?”

“Maybe you have the wrong Sterne,” she said quietly and pointed his flashlight at a small brass plaque affixed to the wall next to the door. It read: “STERNE LECTURE HALL. In honor of exemplary service given to the university by Julia Sterne, alumna, Professor of Mathematics, 1911-1939.”

Chapter Two

“Why the fatigues?” Al said after breakfast the next morning. Breakfast was being held after noon today, in honor of the twin facts that it was Saturday and that Al had an inexplicable headache all morning. The latter fact Al bore with the equanimity that had become his default reaction to life.

“I got them at the thrift store this morning,” Tess replied. He was still sitting motionless on the couch, his eyes fixed at some privately-known point in space.

“That’s fair.”

“Um, no, seriously, Tess. What’s the deal with the fatigues?” Clear demanded between bites of canned peaches and granola. A spot of peach juice and organic yogurt was smeared across her cheek. She knew it, and didn’t care.

“Uh . . .”

“Did you finally join the military? I know that’s been a big goal of yours.”

“It is not!” Tess shook himself out of his trance and glared at Clear. “The reason I’m . . .”

“I’m just gonna rinse this out,” Clear said, leaving the room.

Tess turned to Al. “I’m wearing this outfit because Professor Kincaid broke in here last night, chloroformed you, and told me I have to spy on a new faculty member.”

“Okay,” said Al.

“Okay?” Tess echoed.

Al shrugged.

“Look, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never spied on anyone before.”

“No?”

“But, I mean, that’s not the point. Professors can’t just break into a person’s room and give them assignments. And what kind of assignment is this, anyway? This is completely against . . . some sort of university rules!” he exclaimed, and then added, “I bet.”

“Not that I know of,” Al replied.

“Well, it should be! And I mean, even if I do stalk this guy, what then? What is there to know about a new faculty member, anyway? I don’t even know what Kincaid wants me to find.”

“Maybe you’re just supposed to find out where he went to school, and stuff.”

“Well, I’m not doing it.”

 

 

Tess was squatting in the neatly-trimmed bushes beside Colbert Hall. It was pointy and unpleasant and scratchy, and Tess wished he were instead sitting on the stone bench with Al, behind which he was hiding.

“Look, he’s coming out of the building now,” Tess said, his binoculars to his eyes. Tess only knew what Professor Sterne looked liked because he had found a grainy picture of him on the school’s website, in the article about new hires.

“Oh, let’s go introduce ourselves,” Al said.

“No!”

But it was too late. Al was already moving across the green to intercept Sterne. Al called out Sterne’s name, and they moved together for conversation. Tess could see Al pointing toward his hiding place in the bushes. Sterne laughed.

Tess felt humiliation surging up his neck toward his face. Well, nothing for it now. He stood up, causing twigs to shower from him, and he marched out to meet his fate.

“Professor Sterne, this is Tess Katsiavrias. Tess, this is Professor Sterne. He did his Bachelor’s at Stanford and has a Ph.D. in Archaeology from Oxford.”

Tess held his hand out, and had it shaken vigorously by Sterne. “Pleased to meet you,” he mumbled, unable to look Sterne in the face.

“I think I’ve rather alarmed the poor boy,” Sterne joked.

“He’s not normally so flighty, Professor. He is just a little embarrassed because he was stalking you from the bushes.”

Tess kicked Al in the leg.

“Well, I had better be off,” Sterne said. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you both. I hope next time I meet you, you aren’t emerging from shrubbery.” With a laugh, Sterne continued on his way.

“He seemed nice,” Al said to a seething Tess.

“God damn it, Al! You couldn’t have made that more embarrassing if you had tried.”

“You should think of this as a learning experience, Tess. Gather up you embarrassment and let it drift from you like a cloud. In this way, you allow yourself to let go of fear and cultivate compassion.”

“Shut up. Look, this is bad. Now Sterne knows who we are! Do you know what this means?”

Al shrugged.

“They say that the last time a student failed to follow Kincaid’s orders, Kincaid locked him in the attic of Whitehall Hall for twelve days with nothing but a Nalgene full of Diet Mountain Dew! He only survived by licking moisture off the rafters and eating mushrooms!”

“It is said that the Buddha was denied food for forty days in a cave, and when he was finally able to emerge . . . hold on, Clear’s calling me.”

“Well, we have to do better, Al! I’m not going to lick mushrooms off rafters!”

“Hey, Clear. Yeah. Yeah. We’re stalking that faculty guy. Yeah, you want to come with?”

Tess ignored the conversation. He had to break into Sterne’s office. It was the only way to get what Kincaid wanted.

 

Chapter One

One evening in early September, when student voices carry far on cool breezes through the leaves of trees just starting to turn, Thesius Katsiavrias –– freshman, class of 199-, major: undeclared –– was woken from the latest in a series of confusing and highly personal dreams (vodka, skittles, a compass of platinum) to find himself being not-unkindly slapped in the face. The slapper was leaning over him, shrouded in shadows, smoking a pipe that emitted a periodic red glow as though pulsing in time with a slowly beating heart. The smoke was redolent of blended tobacco and memory; hazy scenes of Tess’ grandfather, public libraries, and summers spent on the inner flank of Wisconsin’s Door Peninsula all flowered from the bowl of the pipe.

“Al?” he murmured.

“You’re awake,” the slapper said, and simultaneously so did something in Tess’ memory. He remembered matriculation: the procession of the faculty led by a stooped figure in a robe of arterial red faced with black velvet; the figure handing the president of the university a sparkling silver mace and seeming to laugh (flashing eyes and floating hair) on examining the assembled crowd of students. He remembered that the president had given him a rather wide berth. He remembered a name…

“Professor … Kincaid?” he managed.

Kincaid sat on the edge of Tess’ mattress and leaned back, his face intersecting a shaft of moonlight for a moment. Kincaid’s bulbous face was framed with downy muttonchops and he wore a black jacket and slate-colored pants that made him look a little like a Victorian undertaker. Curiously enough, Tess imagined that for just a moment he could also make out one of his own winter scarves draped over Kincaid’s left shoulder, as though the old man had burst, fully-formed, from the fiery crucible of Tess’ dorm room closet.

“I saw your lights off,” said Kincaid, “so I, ah, went ahead and let myself in, although it meant taking the long way ‘round.” He chuckled.

“Oh,” said Tess, which did not feel quite adequate.

“I prefer to keep these meeting private. I hope he won’t mind,” Kincaid replied, gesturing with his carved Meerschaum pipe at a motionless lump in neutral-colored pajamas across the room, “but I took the liberty of chloroforming your roommate.”

“I bet he wouldn’t, actually –– hey, what?”

“Well, he can thank me later, hmm? I have a project for you, Thesius.”

“Tess,” he corrected automatically. “Wait–I . . . what? Why?”

“I’m your advisor; it’s my job to give you projects.”

“But Professor Tillyard is my advisor.” This was true.

“Not true. I am. Tillyard is a figurehead. A very polite man, Tillyard is. He knew Ezra Pound at Harvard, you know? Aaron Copland too: a very polite man, Copland, although I never cared for his music –– oh my, no.”

Tess didn’t know at all what to say at this point.

“Oh my, yes,” Kincaid went on. “Copland, you know. Dear me. As I was saying, your project –– I’d like for you to work on your methods. Hmm? There’s a new professor at the university, did you know that? There is. One by the name of Sterne. Hmm? Yes. I’d like for you to do some research on this Sterne. Be sure to cite your sources. I’ll be dropping by from time to time to see how you’re coming along.”

Kincaid examined his pocket watch, which seemed rather larger than a simple date and time affair should need to be.

“Well, I must be going. Promises, many miles, and etcetera. I’ll be drugging you now.”

With remarkable nimbleness for someone who looked as though he was approaching his centenary, he lunged forward and held a handkerchief against Tess’ face. As Tess’ world was drowned in a sea of ink he seemed to hear his roommate wuffle softly in the darkness as Kincaid regarded him with eyes of flame.

Prologue

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

– T. S. Eliot. “Quartet Number Four: Little Gidding.”

Prologue

Stephenson Quad, October 2, 1:45 AM

— Fancy running into you here.

— What happened this time?

— Somebody probably burned their fucking cereal.

— I blame witchery.

— Isn’t that always the way?