Elfish - Julie Steimle (books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT) 📗

intending to make an audio recording of each lecture on his cell phone to get an idea of how this professor’s mind operated. He hardly peeked at the overcast sky as he walked out the door, wondering vaguely where his umbrella was and if he ought to grab it. Yet he was late and had to hurry. Peter took the bus to campus, rushing in at a quick walk so he could get a free seat.

In the hallway, he accidentally bumped into a pretty brunette with dark eyes and almost 50’s style bob, with how it curled under smoothly. He apologized, meeting eyes with her. “Excuse me.”

She blushed, clutching her notebook to her chest. He noticed her dangling earrings, which were silver Celtic crosses, and her perfume which smelled oddly herbal. Or maybe it was her cough drop. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was unusual.

Yet he rushed on, nearly late.

When Peter stepped into the room, entering by one of the back doors of the amphitheater style space, he searched out an open seat not far from the doors. All the seats were old and wooden, uncomfortable looking, with cast iron frames from probably the founding era of the university. He knew the professor lectured in larger halls where he could more easily vanish into the crowd, but this hour was the only one that he had permission to audit. There were three seats left in the back, most already full. As he selected one, he noticed that girl he had bumped into take a seat in the front of the room, greeting friends. If he hadn’t been there to research their patron elf, he would have gone down and struck up a conversation with her. She was pretty, and so were her friends. One of them was a redhead, the other two blondes.

Perhaps after class.

As he settled into his seat, he noticed the professor was already there. The man was shuffling papers at the podium. His vantage point gave Peter a fair look at the professor while the man began his opening remarks. The man reminded him of that guy who played Prof. Moriarty in the Robert Downey Jr. Sherlock movies—what’s-his-face with the reddish hair. Jared Harris. The man had a similar voice at least. Similar demeanor. Similar bad teeth which made Peter want to recommend him a good dentist.

Peter leaned back in his seat, quietly taking notes as the professor’s smooth droning voice carried about the hall, speaking on the topic of Mythos and Legend versus Reality. This installment was focused on the myths of Merlin.

The debate? Was he real or fictional?

Normally Peter would have blown off such a debate. But after hearing that his friends had met the mythical Monkey King in China, he no longer doubted the possibility of legend having a connection to reality. Peter was just sorry he had been too busy soccer training in Italy to have gone himself. Of course, back then he had gotten access to some of the Vatican records, so it wasn’t a total loss.

“…known by several historical names. Aurelius Ambrosius, Merlin Ambrosius, Myrddin Wyllt, Merlin Caleonesis, and Myrddin Emrys,” the professor said to the attention of a silent, if not enthralled, class. “Some say he was born of a mortal woman yet sired by an incubus. Some say Stonehenge is his burial place. Some say he was a hero. Some say he was a villain. But whoever he was, he was powerful. According to Robert de Boron, he had a great power to shapeshift.”

That sounded like any one of those kids who were protected at Gulinger Private Academy, Peter drowsily thought. If Merlin were real, then he could have been a troublemaker like Tom Brown. And he was not sure was an incubus was. He had never met one. Besides, what would that make Merlin? A cambion? He recalled Tom Brown being called that. But Tom’s father was an imp not an incubus.

“According to some lore, Merlin was a bard driven mad after witnessing the horrors of war. He had fled civilization and had become a wild man of the wood. This account is dated somewhere in the sixth century. Several authors have put in their say on this legend. The most famous is Sir Geoffrey of Monmouth. His depiction of Merlin is the one most accepted today. But his account is wildly inaccurate.”

Most mythic accounts were wildly inaccurate, Peter mused. Most history was warped and frequently rewritten to whoever was in power at the time.

“Now there was one legend, according to Nennius, that Ambrosius (who was Merlin) was discovered when King Vortigern was trying to erect a tower. This tower kept collapsing just before completion. According to the tale, all his wise men advised this king that the solution was to sprinkle the foundation with the blood of a child born without a father.” The professor chuckled. “So you can imagine the king sending out a search in the land for such a person. And as such Ambrosius was rumored to be such a child. However, when he was brought before the king, Ambrosius revealed the true reason for the tower’s collapse—one which would save his life, as he would have been a human sacrifice. With his prophetic gifts, Ambrosius revealed that below the foundation was a lake and in that lake were two dragons in the midst of combat. A white dragon and a red dragon. Ambrosius told the king that their combat shook the earth and destroyed the tower. The story goes that Ambrosius watched them battle until one dragon had finally killed the other.”

Dragons…. Peter’s mind drifted to that as the professor continued to expound on Geoffrey of Monmouth’s work, the Prophetiae Merlini which supposedly contained the actual words of the legendary wizard/madman. Peter honestly was not that interested in Merlin. Dragons, however, he was interested in. He could still remember what they smelled like when he was in the other world, especially the last time he had encountered a pair with the rest of the Seven (minus Michael Toms who was in California). Sulfur, methane gas, and an odd scent of turpentine. There were animal smells of scat also, but that was because the pair of dragons had been chained up at the gates of O’thor’s castle and they had nowhere else to dump a load. Peter wondered if there were any dragons still alive on Earth today (as apparently they had existed), or if indeed they had all been slain in the Middle Ages.  

The professor continued to pontificate about the various accounts of Merlin, from Nennius’s Ambrosius who was merely the son of a Roman consul, to Geofferey’s Merlin, the begotten son of an incubus with a king’s daughter. He talked a great deal about Merlin’s shapeshifting, from various human forms such as woodcutter with an axe about his neck, to an ugly man herding beasts, to a beautiful boy and a handsome man—to animals such as a huge stag with a white fore-foot. Peter got the subtle impression that Merlin liked to put on a show. If he were real, that part was the realest part. Elvish people, who wanted to be seen, had a thing for being egocentrically showy.

“We will discuss the death of Merlin at a later date,” the professor announced near the end of the hour. “There are several accounts, and each must be considered separately. However, his association with King Arthur and the legend of the Holy Grail will be addressed in the following lecture. I would like each of you to read the corresponding texts on the topic and select an argument for the veracity of each. The following questions ought to be considered while reading:

“First, how much has this story been altered do to the encroachment of Christianity on Pagan Briton? Second, what Pagan elements have carried over into the later versions? Third, if the stories of the grail quest were in fact true, which parts are most likely embellishments? And as you read, I would like to you formulate five questions of your own, which I want you to research and find the answers to.”

Peter absently wrote that down. His mind was still on the dragons, though he did start to wonder about the grail. He knew magical items existed in the world. The golden ankh and the box the Seven owned were two of them, though he still was not sure about the power of each. They had merely acted like messages and tokens, mostly. But he could be wrong. For all he knew, they could have a secret power they had yet to tap. However he was sure the tale of the Holy Grail was a pagan legend co-opted by Catholicism the same way all their holidays were. After all, in pure Christianity, idol worship (as well as witchcraft) was a huge no-no.

Peter was startled out of his thoughts by the ring of the dismissal bell. Everyone rose. Peter set his eyes on the professor. He had to speak with the man before he got sidetracked. If the professor knew a thing or two about particular god-elves in England, he did not see any reason to waste time.

At the front of the room, a number of students had approached the professor with last questions while the rest left. Some heads turned when Peter came down the steps to join them. That brunette blushed, tugging on her friend’s sleeve, stepping out of his way. The professor even lifted his eyes to him, distracted to what had drawn their attention from their discussion.  

“Professor?” Peter nodded politely to him. “Do you have a moment? I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

Chuckling, glancing Peter up and down, Prof. Birtwistle collected up his papers and gestured for him to walk along and be hasty about it. “I know all about you Mr. McCabe, but I have no time for dabblers.”

Peter blinked at him, his skin bristling along the back of his neck. “Dabbler….? Professor, I am a student of archaeolo—”

“I know who you are.” The professor marched from the gaggle of ladies and the others whose questions sadly would not be addressed after all. “The American footballer known as the Witchdoctor. You may be excellent on the football pitch, but clearly this is not your realm of expertise. You just want to score points with the ladies.”

The ladies giggled, following them.

Peter blushed, marching after the professor, though he had peeked at the redhead. “As I said, I am an archaeology student who is—”

“We are not involving ourselves in digging among ruins here,” Prof. Birtwistle replied, cutting him off. “No brute labor. My research involves intense mental exercise.”

What an arrogant ass. Shooting him a dirty look, Peter opened his mouth to correct the man.

“Let’s be fair,” Prof. Birtwistle said in the most condescending tone, “Could you even keep up with my lecture? I saw you nodding off.”

Peter rolled his eyes. He hadn’t nodded off. He had closed his eyes for a minute while thinking about pagan appropriation within modern Christianity and had merely lost track of time. Admittedly, he had a late night so he was tired, but….

“So, you’ll understand if I don’t waste my time,” Prof. Birtwistle concluded with a patronizing smile.

“I am a student in Egyptology,” Peter bit back irritably. “I’m well versed in Latin and Greek. And currently I am researching—”  

“A hobby,” the professor replied, ignoring him, “which you are being wildly hyperbolic about. I am sure you have memorized trite phrases like Sic Semper Tyranis.”

“Or ‘canis meus id comedit’[1]?” Peter muttered. This professor was hopeless.

Prof. Birtwistle lurched to a halt. He turned, blinking at Peter. “You found that one as a joke.”

Peter smirked back. “Or maybe I just think you are being an ass.”

Bristling, the professor turned fully around.

“Are you intelligent enough to grasp the metaphysical and supernatural world?” Prof. Birtwistle snarled, looking Peter up and down again. “Yankee, go home.”

It was like being slapped. Peter watched as the professor marched off at