Reincarnated Cthulhu

29. Life, in its brevity, yet contrasts the enduring length of art.

After a fleeting period, I was once more master of my faculties.

In spite of the enigmatic event that had transpired, the campus was steeped in an eerily serene aura. A duo of owls perched atop a street lamp, hooting comfortably, whilst students, in all their youthful vibrancy, trod across the grass with their vivacious chatter.

I found myself standing in stark contrast, sauntering about as an uneasy elder, my neck drawn in and a suspicious glare fixed in my eyes.

Bizarrely, this tranquil atmosphere felt grotesque, looming over the mysterious occurrence I had just experienced. It differed vastly from the past incidents at Jacob's Island or the West Norwood Cemetery, where threats from monstrous entities, frantic in their ability to bring death upon mankind, gushed from the unseen corners, unbeknownst to the denizens of London.

Yet, Oldcourt was nestled squarely within the confines of London, a university teeming with hundreds of students, who casually attended their lectures. They bore no animosity towards me, nor did they worship any blasphemous deity and mutter in an unintelligible language.

It was akin to wandering in a fog-laden field, a common occurrence in London, yet one that perpetually stirred a sense of discomfort.

"Ah, Professor Herbert."

A familiar voice echoed from behind me. Prepared to strike with my cane, I wheeled around.

"Acting Dean Kallas."

"Please, call me professor today. The dean is present."

It was Kallas who had approached me. His expression seemed more animated compared to when we had met in the dean's office a fortnight prior. However, even this cheerful expression appeared pretentious to me. Wasn't his current demeanor conspicuously contrived?

"How was your inaugural lecture?"

"Far from facile."

My response was deliberately vague, to which Kallas replied composedly.

"Indeed, what comes easily at the outset is often of little value."

"The students were peculiar."

I had chosen my words intentionally, for he was the acting dean in title, yet in truth, he oversaw all the university's affairs. Surely, he couldn't be ignorant of the strange phenomena I had encountered within just a single day.

Kallas' fists clenched upon hearing my words, and I subtly readied my cane.

"I understand. Lecturing at another university is significantly different. Here at Oldcourt, everyone is in pursuit of wisdom. Wisdom and knowledge are frequently conflated, yet they are diametrically opposed. Those steeped in knowledge often bear narrow minds, while the wise approach new knowledge with caution. Hence, such resistance from the students."

He animatedly swung his clenched fist into the thin air, resembling a boxer engaged in pathetic shadow boxing.

"They are fighting back, challenging the intellectual authority amassed by scholars over centuries. Incompetent professors, who merely regurgitate defunct knowledge, fail to thrive here. They remain oblivious to their faults until they are dethroned from the lectern."

He thumped my shoulder with his fist, a touch reminiscent of the Mediterranean fervor, somewhat intrusive in London's customary reserve.

"But, since you mentioned it wasn't easy, you must have imparted some wisdom. I anticipate the forthcoming changes."

Kallas voiced his sentiments cheerfully. The stingy kindness of London made it challenging to believe this benevolent professor was part of this mad university. It would have seemed more natural for him to side with the victims.

Yet, I had just borne witness to an inconceivable occurrence.

Ordinary students, with no commonality save for their affiliation with Oldcourt, were instantaneously driven to madness. Madness, it appeared, rendered all men equal.

Side by side, we ambled along, our strides unconsciously aligning. I was compelled to concede that Professor Kallas was indeed genuinely concerned about my welfare.

As we strolled beneath the university's flag fluttering overhead, the emblem, bearing a unique ominousness, underlined the sacrilege of erecting a university atop a former monastery.

"Isn't it mystical? Even in such a small flag, the laws governing the universe are enshrined."

I glanced back at Kallas. His eyes twinkled with reverence.

"Are you referring to the emblem?"

"The emblem was conceived by Dean ■■■ ■■ ■■■. Much akin to a sextant, the greater one's wisdom, the clearer the insight they acquire. It closely resembles a form of foresight."

At the mere mention of the name, a pounding headache set in.

I was aware of their reverence for the dean, but the stories seemed steeped in mythology. Finally, I couldn't resist voicing my skepticism.

"Unless my memory fails me, it has been over a century and a half since the Oldcourt Monastery was transformed into Oldcourt University."

"Ah, indeed. I speak of the inaugural dean."

Kallas clarified with a hearty laugh.

"So, you're suggesting that every dean bore the name ■■■ ■■ ■■■?"

"Well."

Kallas responded with uncertainty to my veiled sarcasm, which only deepened the confusion.

"It remains unknown as to the number of generations the current dean belongs to, when they assumed office, or the criteria for appointing their successor. Nevertheless, they have come to be collectively referred to as ■■■ ■■ ■■■."

"Impossible!"

"Why? As long as we abide by and learn from his wisdom, we too may regard ourselves as an extension of ■■■ ■■ ■■■. Oldcourt functions as an incubator for cultivating another ■■■ ■■ ■■■."

Kallas' sudden fanatical fervor sent a chill down my spine. His allegiance was pledged not to Her Majesty the Queen nor to the Divine Father. He merely sought the wisdom bestowed upon him by the university dean.

"Purchase truth and never part with it; cherish wisdom, instruction, and understanding."

I swiveled my head.

"That is a proverb of King Solomon. Does it not strike you as paradoxical? Knowledge, wisdom, instruction, understanding — they are all commendable, so why does he implore us not to part with them? Solomon indeed was a foolish king. His ignominious end was a result of his failure to comprehend that wisdom stagnates when hoarded. Conversely, we are professors who earn our livelihood by imparting knowledge. Surely, we cannot adhere to the baseless words of a foolish king?"

Kallas audaciously expounded his interpretation of the King of Wisdom.

"Oldcourt esteems the sharing of wisdom as the paramount virtue."

I swiveled my head only to catch sight of a high stone wall separating the colleges. His notion of sharing appeared incompatible with the daunting structure.

"I fail to comprehend."

"Déan staidéar san eagna, agus sábhálfar tú."

Kallas, employing his eloquence, flashed a cryptic smile.

"That's alright. Given your wisdom, it is inevitable that you will understand someday."

.

.

.

Upon reaching Frank Mansion, I sought out Arthur directly.

He sat alone at an ostentatiously large dining table that seemed grotesquely oversized for the dining room. I finally had the chance to satiate my curiosity about Arthur's dietary habits in the absence of a housekeeper.

Laid out before Arthur was a meat pickle encased in sugar crystals. The so-called sauce bore a charred appearance, reminiscent of the caramelized surface of crème brûlée. He was cutting into it with a spoon and knife and devouring it.

Observing him, a wave of nausea washed over me. Arthur's pallor, too, provided a stark indicator of the taste.

"Have some?"

"No, thank you. Unlike you, I must reduce my sugar intake."

He discarded his cutlery and dabbed at his mouth. The sweetness was so intense that a swarm of flies promptly descended upon the plate the moment Arthur's hand ceased moving. I had never witnessed such a revolting sight at a dining table.

"Do you follow a similar diet?"

"Pardon?"

"Considering your dual nature, is your diet similarly diverse?"

Arthur responded to my query with a grimace.

"That is the most asinine question I've heard in a while, Philo."

Despite wiping his mouth repeatedly, a sticky residue clung to his lips, prompting him to spit onto the table. Such behavior would not be exhibited by even an eight-year-old gentleman.

"Something's amiss at Oldcourt."

I dove straight into the matter at hand.

"Your disappointment is palpable every time I utter a word. I presumed you were uninterested in continuing our previous conversation regarding the academic conference and the like."

"Your supposition was accurate in that regard. I can no longer turn a blind eye to the events unfolding in London. As long as I have resolved to reside in London, I will assist with your conference. However, you must listen to me. It's plausible that the lives of hundreds of unsuspecting young men are at risk."

"Really? That warrants listening. Pray, what did you say?"

Arthur pushed the plate aside and propped his elbows on the table. The swarm of flies dispersed from the plate, radiating out like an aura.

"Are you aware that I have been appointed as a professor at Oldcourt University?"

"What? You never shared that."

He let out a gasp of surprise before mumbling to himself, his voice gaining in volume.

"■■■ ■■ ■■■. The dean of Oldcourt. He resides there!"

"Do you know him?"

At my question, Arthur launched into a well-rehearsed monologue. It led me to wonder if he had prepared a script for such occasions.

"I did my due diligence. He seemed a worthy candidate to invite to the conference. Unlike the mere figureheads, he is a true scholar. He maintains a low profile, yet his name features in every newspaper circulated in London of late. The only other individuals capable of such feats are the chairman of the Royal Society and ■■ ■■■. Even in academic circles, it has become a ritual to submit papers to Oldcourt prior to publication. Can you fathom that? Those pompous scholars humbly submitted. Yet, he refrains from registering his name with the Royal Society."

Arthur concluded his eloquent tirade with a slight squint.

"In extending an invitation and furthering my research, I stumbled upon an odd fact. He lacks a tangible existence. Renowned scholars typically leave a trail. They append their names to conference attendee lists, dispatch lengthy and monotonous letters of protest to academic journals, and are prone to showcasing their intellect. However, this author operates strictly within the confines of Oldcourt University. I speak of the closed, dreary fortress situated in North London. Despite it being modern times, his practices resemble those of a medieval individual. I am yet to encounter someone who claims to have laid eyes on him."

Arthur leapt from his seat. With his head cast low, he paced in an agitated manner, a perturbation of the senses that stirred the air around him.

"The missive's dispatch was an error. Irrespective of the man's existence, the perils are too great. One can't conjecture the extent of the Academic Society's breach. Has the list of membership been compromised? Unlikely. The buffoons of Frank are akin to a smokescreen. However deep one delves behind these motley lot, no meaningful discovery awaits."

His anxious ramblings barely resonated within my comprehension.

Arthur was disturbed, his mind in disarray. To him, the enigmatic Dean ■■■ ■■ was an inscrutable specter.

"Compose yourself. By God, your frenzy infects my own calm."

"One certainty prevails – he is in contact with the Royal Society. Else, they wouldn't have permitted his fortified stronghold in London, a feudal lord in his own right. What allure beckoned the lofty scholar? What is his reciprocal offering?"

"……"

"Philo, we are at a pivotal juncture. We must rally the dispersed members within London. Even with the Academic Society's full preparation, I am loath to engage with the Irish recluse known as ■■■ ■■. The timing is precarious, delicate."

With his ceaseless pacing halted, Arthur's countenance underwent a drastic metamorphosis. A nefarious grin twisted his lips, evocative of the Cheshire Cat from Alice's fabled tale. He sank back into his seat, laughing with a wicked mirth.

"Yet, an unexpected weapon has landed in our favor. Regardless of his cunning, how could he have anticipated a plot unbeknownst even to me?"

"Art, you surely don't imply…"

"Philo, I seek intel on this Irish recluse known as ■■■ ■■. His schemes behind the fortress walls of Oldcourt and the nature of his relationship with the Society."

His demand was direct.

"Hundreds of young lives hang in the balance, approach the task with gravity!"

"……"

"Surely, you, having witnessed and endured the circumstance, are better equipped than I, who remains ignorant. I trust you to unravel the situation. We can strategize once we are better informed."

In the face of Arthur's stern demeanor, I was rendered speechless. Indeed, I had no retort! Acknowledging the veracity of his words, I suppressed my indignation.

"I seek clarity on a single matter."

I ventured, holding little hope for a satisfactory response.

"Do you comprehend the meaning of ‘Déan staidéar san eagna, agus sábhálfar tú'?"

"It's Irish."

Arthur responded promptly.

"Immerse yourself in wisdom, and salvation shall follow. A pedestrian play on words. Acts 16:31, ‘Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you and your household will be saved.' A mere modification to the initial phrase. Is such jesting common amongst the present-day university youth?"

I gaped in disbelief. Arthur smirked.

"Is my knowledge of Irish so astonishing?"

"It is indeed! Your French proficiency is questionable, yet you speak Irish?"

"Life is brief, yet Art endures. At the tender age of twenty, what scholarly accomplishments could I have amassed?"

His unabashed dismissal irked me. I was well-aware of his inclination towards academic truancy and frivolous pursuits.

"So, did you venture to Ireland? Or perhaps Scotland?"

"Oldcourt."

My negation made him falter.

"One of Dean ■■■ ■■'s followers coined the phrase."

"Indeed? He is of Irish descent. Remarkable that such a place could foster talent."

Arthur spewed his bias casually. I was not taken aback. Anti-Irish sentiment was rampant across Britain in these times. Arthur's comments were not uniquely offensive; they mirrored the societal norms of the era.

"Art, that's not in good taste."

"Aye, I was rather candid in the presence of an esteemed nationalist."

However, his barbed retort was a reflection of his sardonic disposition. Regardless of my evident displeasure, he pondered deeply, chin in hand.

"The Royal Society has a means to bind a distinguished Irish scholar. Perhaps, by promising Irish independence."

"They are merely a group endorsed by the royals, can they make such a commitment?"

His soliloquy had left me agitated, and I interjected.

"Can we repose faith in parliament when even the queen's trustworthiness is suspect?"

His reprimand fell on me as if my query was devoid of reason. His words rang true, and I drummed the table in silent frustration.

(TO BE CONTINUED)