Correspondence Scholarship, Class Three [Tuesday Morning, June 24th]

[theexdisgracedacademic]

This week, The Academic was on time for their own class. They’d cleared the chalkboards, refilling them with an extensive list of symbols. Though each clearly corresponded to The Correspondence, not one was scarcely more complex than the radicals they’d learned last week.

“While technically correct, you will almost never see any of these symbols on a plaque or temple wall. We’re still one step away from proper symbols." The Academic stepped away from the display, inviting the eyes of the students to begin to roam over the writing." But put your goggles on now, and look! You can see it now, can’t you?”

Not all of the symbols were rendered in plain white chalk. Every tenth symbol or so, there were tinges of something else, something reddish, or violet, or-

The Academic smacked the dust from their claws. “Yes, there is a touch of violant pigment in some of the chalk. I’m making very, very sparse use of it, in order to assist you in memorization of these patterns and connections. Under regular circumstances, it would take a scholar roughly a year of back-breaking expeditions to The Forgotten Quarter, or Bazaar Back-Alley deals to find and collect scraps of symbols from under the watchful eye of the government.” The Academic clasped their hands behind their back. “Don’t try to memorize it. Simply take your time with it, as you might glance at a broadsheet on your way to the green grocer.”

It wasn’t impossible to look away from. These symbols were laced with neither compulsion nor trickery. If anything, it was little more than a word search. There was no need to read from right to left, when the pattern is as interesting upwards, or diagonal. 

But the longer you look, the less the symbols seem to be aligned into strict rows and columns. The entire thing feels convex. But that can’t be right, because each one is right above the other. Some on either edge of the entire grid have more in common with one another than the ones that are next to them. But why does the noun for “light” have so much in common with the verb for “to commit violence?” Why is your stomach so tight? How does your gut balance that with the satisfying scratching under the surface of your skull, the itching sated again and again by noting which symbols connect to which ones connect to which ones connect to which-

A snap as wood clatters against wood. You aren’t done when The Academic pulls down a second layer of boards, filled with another grid. But when you glance at the wall, over an hour of the class’ time has fled into the void of the past. That feels wrong both ways. You’d only just looked up. But you’d also been playing for days. Playing? Yes, of course. If it hadn’t been fun, you would’ve looked away. But your mind feels as though you’ve finished solving a fiendishly tricky puzzle. Indeed, as you look back to the new symbols, you’re about to connect new information. You’re not just looking.

You’re reading.

The Academic clapped their hands, startling any new reveries before they began. “You may wish to stretch your legs before diving into the next set. These ones shouldn’t take quite as long, but you’ve already been working very hard.”

Faces stirred around the classroom, the other students managing to blink. Each stirring snap of eyelids knocked tears loose to stream down their faces, landing and pooling in the cups of their goggles.

Oh. There was a tickling sensation on your cheek, and a coldness at the rim of your googles. You too. 

Perhaps that break wasn’t such a bad idea.

Once everyone had a good chance to stand up, get a good drink in and a good cry out, The Academic reconvened class. 

“This is applied use of The Correspondence. Heavier usage of violant pigment can force a reader to recall certain words, and there are ways to inscribe symbols in a way that conveys, conducts, or enhances meaning.” The Academic gestured back to the board. “This grid system invites the reader to draw connections, and the use of the faintest dash of violant helps the mind to hold onto important information while continuing to read. This effect is only temporary, but the best study happens when you are able to begin employing the symbols on your own terms. Perhaps the effect could be made permanent if I’d written the entire thing with a stronger shade of violant...” The Academic clucked their tongue against their teeth. “But I’m not looking to burn my readings on these symbols into your mind. It’s much better for me to pass on what I know as a foundation, and to get you building your own voices as quickly as possible.” They tapped their boot on the stone floor, and lifted an eyebrow. “If we wanted everyone to simply agree with me, we might as well throw me into a Rubbery vat and attempt to make copies. But your perspectives are valuable. Irreplaceable. Don’t forget that, while you look at the next set of boards."

As before, the end of class came before anyone was quite done. The Academic rolled up each and every board, spiriting the grids out of sight.

“That’s it. Don’t ask for any more time with them. The correspondence can be highly addictive, but looking at these grids won’t teach you anything else you don’t already know. If you’ve still got the itch, look over your study materials this week. Next week you’ll begin writing in earnest.” 

The Academic gripped their lectern. “You may be experiencing the dread beginning to overtake you. This is normal. Learning languages opens up new ways of thinking. Learning The Correspondence opens up venues of cognition man was not meant to know.” Claws adjusted their monocle, like fingers worrying at a cuff. “And the speed with which you have all broken new ground this week will be…trying. Your sleep tonight will be unpleasant. That is one side effect of studying The Correspondence. Thus, you have two homework tasks this week. First-“ The Academic added this to an empty chalkboard, “-write down one of your nightmares. Especially if a particular vision proves to be recurring. You don’t need to do anything but be aware of it. If a dream repeats, there is a kernel of truth in it, and it’s better to be aware of what it’s telling you.

Second assignment: get rid of the nightmares.” The Academic underlined this, twice. “If they get worse, you’ll be forced to take a stay in hospital, and that will get in the way of your studies, and effectively waste MY time, too. So. Find something soothing. A good meal, time spent with someone you think you can trust, several bottles of opiates. I don’t care what you use, so long as it works. You don’t need to bring it into class; I’ll be able to look in your eyes next week and tell. Anyone who comes into class with a haggard and haunted look will…” The Academic looked from face to face, then smiled.

“…not receive homework points!” They tossed their chalk back to the lip beneath the chalkboard. “That, of course, is all the punishment which I care to offer. If you choose to ignore my warning, then tonight you will immediately receive a somewhat more natural incentive.” They took up a rag and an atomizer of their own, before promptly beginning to clean the chalkboards.

“Class dismissed!”

Comments

[tolpen]

Before he sinks to his usual seat on the edge of the second row, the Mycologist greets the Professor-Emissary and also any classmate that happens to be close by.
Upon closer inspection, the man hasn't slept much and when he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up, dense writting in a curly script on his skin is revealed. It seems it is a washable ink, already slightly faded.

From the briefcase he produces his mechanical pencil, goggles and a small portable version of Dewar's invention which upon opening fills the room with the smell of spices and coffee. The Soft-Eyed Mycologist takes a few sips of whatever the concontion inside is, and judged by his expression, he's scalded his tongue. He is not deterred whatsoever.

[ticktopis_observatorium]

Called first by the exotic scent, then the proto-thermos, and finally by the writing on the Mycologist's wrists. They nod as a greeting.

"Good morning. Can I ask what is that you brought? It has quite the alluring scent."

[tolpen]

The Chimeric Professor's approach is welcomed with a warm, kind smile.
"'Tis coffee, my esteemed colleague. Although, I admit, I sought to evoke the taste and smell of chai with a selection of spice substitues. Well," his voice dropts to a conspiratory whisper, "I say 'spice substitues', but truly, it is all mushroom. The price at which cinnamon is sold here? Cardamom? Those are basic human rights!"

Upon closer inspection, dark brown on dark brown, the writing is nothing in English. It is not even the Latin alphabet. (It is, in fact, the Kannada script, and if the Mycologist's notes - which he is now putting on the desk - are anything to go by, it is not his handwriting.)

"If thou hast brought a cup, I am willing to share." But he won't drink from the same container as someone else.

The language of the writing is also Kannada. What is visible are fragments of a love poem. Not a good one, but a passionate one.

[ticktopis_observatorium]

The metaphorical glow in the Professor's eyes could be clearly seen even through the shades.

"Like chai you say? My my! Properly spiced is one of the few ways I can enjoy coffee... Oh, give me a moment..."

The Professor looked for something among their belongings, finally producing a tin cup, probably for use in expeditions.

"I'll be forever grateful for a sip." Offering the cup, hopeful. "Oh, and absolutely. One could have a word or two with Mr. Spices about this. Proper gastronomies (read "Not British") need a proper supply of spice. But the heroic work of innovators is always a relief."

A sincere smile, and perhaps a rather unashamed peek at the writing now that the most important matter had been settled. Dravidic, perhaps? That's as far as they reach before deeming it untranslatable for them. It tells a story, nonetheless.

[tolpen]

The cup poured is a generous one. The coffee itself is not sweetened at all, but the all-containing breafcase also holds a silken pouch of brown rock sugar, which is offered to the Professor while the Mycologist pretends he is holding no such thing beneath his desk.
(It's not that this rock sugar hasn't been taxed - although do not ask too much - but a coffee purist might be present.)

The imitation of chai is not perfect, but it is passable. Ginger, cardamom, cinnamon, clove, something peppery but not quite, and something that is a boletus doing an impression of orange peel, but it has seen only an orange tree out of season. From a train. The same "orange" also has a very good milky taste, which is probably why it is in the mix in the first place.

Until the Mycologist pulls out a notebook. It is thick as a brick with additions. A pen is raised up with the question: "What are thy thoughts? Any particular sensations? Notes to taste? Texture?"

[ticktopis_observatorium]

The Professor is pleasantly surprised at the generosity, cupping their hands around it to feel the warmth, waiting for it to be drinkable for their lips. The steam clouds their shades when brought close to their lips and they take a tentative sip, without sugar, to judge how much would be adequate.

Were not for the shades, the Mycologist could see the Professor's pupils becoming almost round, a forked tongue shily licking their lips. "Whoa... That's..." Noticing the sugar seemingly for the first time. "Brown sugar? My my..." Adding just a bit, enough to correct for that bit too much of bitterness that clouds the spice.

Another sip, holding onto the cup as if life depended on it, quickly followed by a longer one. "Hmm... You make me think of home. The most surprising hit on the tongue is the milkyness of that boletus, so good, yet different to the one the Khaganians use. Dare I say better?"

Another sip, to try and get more hints. "Tastes like cinnamon, clove, cardamom... Ginger? All dancing around. And... That isn't pepper, or not a variety I recall, but feels adequately piquant. It is amazing. You are transporting me to a Libyan cafe back home... When home was in the Surface."

A dreamy sincere smile towards the Mycologist. "Thank you so much. Would you please share the secrets of this mix with me?"

[tolpen]

The Soft-Eyed Mycologist takes notes at a speed that almost justifies the illegibility of his writing. If he takes his coffee this strong, it would explain why the lettering is so jittery, too.
He takes a sip himself, weighs the liquid in his mouth for a moment, and adds a few sharp additions to what he has written so far.

The page in the notebook is marked with a scrap of green paper. An entire rainbow is sticking at odd angles out of the monstrosity of notes.

"Well, technically," his grin can be described only as smug, "what thou art tasting are Devil's bolete, dead moll's fingers, and a trio of water fungi from the Blastocladia family, which has no such poetic name as its distant siblings people don't need a microscope for."
He waits for a beat, takes another sip of coffee and adds: "However, I have been cultivating them in my laboratory since the rain has stopped, and they've made a wonderful progress as to taste and toxins. I have a pack of this batch still in the lab if thou hast interest in it. No more than a spoonful a day, though. It still is the Devil's bolete. Overindulgence might prove costly for thee."

[ticktopis_observatorium]

"Impressive indeed!" starting to take their own notes, neatly organized, yet awfully written. "And I would love to, as soon as I can. It'll also be a pleasure to be properly introduced to your work, after all this time of only knowing you through your publications."

[tolpen]

He chuckles: “The pleasure will be mine. Thy person has been this grey eminence among my students - as they are - for the longest time. Always citing thee, but never really knowing thee. A surprising amount of presence among my work tables for a person whose foot never stepped in.”
He says it very lightly without a bite to his words.

[ticktopis_observatorium]

"Such honour you bestow me! I am happy to have helped in your research and teaching, don't get me wrong... But this is what we are for, or ought to be for, in the universitary environment. Maybe we could discover more ways to collaborate together, soon, as we get better acquainted..."

[the_soft_hearted_maven]

When she first smelled the Mycologist's coffee, the Maven was hit with a heavy wave of nostalgia. Despite herself, she found she herself eavesdropping on the conversation between the Professor and the Mycologist. Part of her had wanted to participate in the conversation, but didn't trust her voice not to break at first at the smell.

Like chai huh? That would explain it, even if it was via mushroom substitutes.

After they had finished talking, Maven found it in her to approach. She felt shy about doing so; she realized she hadn't spoken to the Mycologist until now and so doing so to ask about the mix made her self-conscious and like she was being selfish. It helped when she realized she also needed to talk to him about talking to all the students after class, but only a little.

"Um, excuse me," Maven spoke up to get the Mycologist's attention, "Would I be able to purchase one of those packs as well?"

[tolpen]

The Mycologist has been very decidedly not turning his head in the Soft-Hearted Maven's direction. Only when she approaches, he greets her with a sweet smile. He listens politely.

"Purchase? My dear colleague," on the academic grounds, all are colleagues, "art thou implying that this experimental mixture that has not been approved by the Ministry of Health and Sanitation is sold somewhere? That taxes due for such commerce are paid to Mr Spices and slash or Mr Apples?"
He waits for a beat and then drops the theatrical hand back down to the table: "This is merely a batch that is a by-product of experimental breeding of fungi. It's existence has academical reasons. There is not even a patent yet. As such, no, thou art not able to purchase any amount of packs of finely ground fungal powder. However, if thou art willing to participate in gustatory research regarding the powder's properties, accompany me to my laboratory once this class is over, and thou wilt be provided with a sample."

He probably could have just said: "I'll give you one for free," but where would the fun be in that?

[the_soft_hearted_maven]

Maven giggled a little at that, "Very well. I didn't want to be presumptuous and assume you were giving these out freely to anyone who asked. I would love to help with your research."

"Oh, speaking of after class, the Chimeric Professor and I were hoping to speak with all the students after class is over. Would you be able to stay for a few minutes?"

[tolpen]

"Who am I to deny such a delightful lady when she has asked me so politely? I will hear what you have to say."