Excerpt: The Cartographer's Den

He was a dark and stormy knight.

Perhaps not in the context as many others saw him. In fact, Professor Stefan Drake of Oxford was almost the very opposite of that entire statement.

Dark was not an appropriate term. He was, in fact, fair skinned and almost being one labeled as pale. He only ever got color when he returned from his long periods of disappearance, be it he on administrative leave or on some worldly expedition for months in the field. The color, only then, came in the form of either sunburns or the accumulation of mud and dirt that had settled into his skin.

He wasn’t very stormy, although he had his moments where his personality simply declined from his usually well tempered self. On rare occasions his students would arrive in his class to see him shut away in his office, and their days, or even weeks, assignments scrawled up on the board in near to illegible hand writing. On ever more rare the occasion, he would actually erupt into a fit of nerves and anger, throwing things about in his classroom, barking dates and notes that gave him the air of being more appropriately belonging to a military complex, and giving assignments that were nearly impossible to finish on time, or were not even on a subject he had taught.

Now, he being a knight, for lack of a better term, was an arguable truth. Dr. Drake was, in fact, a very tall and handsome young man. Young, if you knew the truth of his age. It was not uncommon for students or even some of the staff to peg his age around the mid-forties when he was, in fact, at the meager age of 24 years of age. He donned himself in three piece suits, rather than knightly armor, but walked with a confident indifference, and everyone was simply waiting for the Queen herself to title him a “sir”.

And, as with every knight, he had his own share of dames at his coat tails to gawk at him, and, of course, spread the rumors.

The Gossiping Hens, they were called, although never to their face, were perhaps the most influential pieces to the puzzle of rumor spreading. The three college girls hated each other with a burning passion, but suppressed their otherwise distasteful opinions, for they each knew that the other would have the most palatable news for that given day. The walked about in a pack, from class to class, from the cricket field, and about the grounds, whispering and giggling as if they still hailed from common grade-school.

These three girls, Lauren Purdue, Emily Foul, and Christine Chick, presently found themselves crowded outside Professor More’s class of Philosophy, waiting for the only other student they could ever dare lower themselves to speak to. Of course, they only did so for a very important reason; Cameron Olivier was Dr. Drakes most prestigious students.

“Have you seen him though? I mean truly seen him?” clucked Emily, her eyes simply lit up with childish enthusiasm.

“Of course I haven’t,” Lauren interjected, as if her friend had only inquired to her. “But we all know what he’ll look like, what he’ll act like, he’ll-”

“Rough chin,” interrupted Christine, nodding her head and clutching her books to her chest. “Dirty hair, all unkempt and so forth. As always, you know, he’ll have that look in his eyes. Oh, that dark look likes he’s simply seen to much to even begin to have us imagine! And, oh!” Her eyes lit up and she flushed a brilliant rose color. “And a scar!”

“Another scar, you must mean.”

“Quite right,” Emily said as she agreed with Lauren. “He has that one just above his eye. The right eye. Don’t you remember Christine?” She stared down at the odd girl out with a disapproving gaze.

“That faded thing?” Christine asked. “If we must talk about scars, perhaps I will be the only one to mention the one on his arm that travels down his bicep like a white vein.”

The three fell silent, their eyes rolling back in a dreamy realization. The Oxford High Bell chimed the end of classes, and only brought them back in time to shift out of the way for a wave of students attempting to escape the uncertainty of philosophy. They waited for what seemed like some time, tapping their feet and pruning at their hair, waiting. Finally, after a long minute of emptying halls, each one, one at a time, craned their necks around the door frame and into Professor More’s classroom.

Cameron Olivier was seated at her desk in the very front row, stooped over her class work with great determination. He hair had fallen about her face and had given her what privacy she could win, and her pen scratched relentlessly on her paper. Seated at his desk at the front of the room was the professor himself, tapping at his watch, shuffling papers, and otherwise letting out long and exaggerated sighs of impatience. Miss Olivier, however, was not catching onto the hint as he had quite planned.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Miss Olivier?”

She came to attention, her green eyes very focused on his dull grey ones. “Yes, professor?”

He smiled as politely as a man in his position could muster. “If you would like you may bring your paper home tonight and hand it in first thing tomorrow morning.”
Cameron stared at him for a long moment as if trying to grasp the offer firmly. “But, Professor,” she began, not noticing him cringe, “you said that this assignment was due at the end of class. I only want the best grade I can manage.”

“Well I lied,” the professor spat, perhaps a bit too hasty, and he quickly recoiled his statement by saying, “What I meant was, you can have more time.” He forced a nervous laugh. “You’re such a good student.”

Cameron grinned broadly and stood, gathering her books and bag, pulling the strap over her shoulder. The professor signed once more, but more in a form of relief, before he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and began to rummage around in a mess of ties and spare dress-shirts he kept in case of emergencies. However, before he could come to the possession he most wished to find in such a mess, he found a shadow looming over his desk and coming to rest on his chest. He looked up, and smiled forcefully again, at the face of his student. “Was there something you needed, Miss Olivier?”

“Oh, it’s just… well…” The girl held up a leather-bound book. “I’m afraid I was taking reference from one of your books, sir, and if you want me to hand in my paper tomorrow morning, first thing as you mentioned, well I’ll have to-”

“Take it with you!” the professor jested, overly excited now. “Yes, yes, that’s right, tuck it under your arm and borrow it if you’d like. No, no, don’t protest anymore, I insist. Do a bit of reading in the other sections, if you care.”

Cameron nodded, very thankful for such a kind gesture, promised numerous times the safety of his beloved volume, and scurried out just before the professor continued to rummage about in his drawer.

“He’s a drunk! A lush!” Lauren giggled as the four girls progressed down the long hall, now barren aside from themselves. Emily and herself had both linked arms with dear Cameron in an attempt to slow her hurried pace.

“Oh, nonsense! You mustn’t say things about dear Professor More, he’s a very good teacher, you know… can’t we hurry up? The High Bell is going to chime soon…”

“Oh, if he’s not a lush, then I’m not clearly the fairest of all the girls, aren’t I?” Christine chided, ignoring the glowering gazes of the two opposite hens. “He keeps a flask in a sock in the bottom drawer of his desk, for goodness sake!”