benthic_university | Correspondence Scholarship, Class One [Tuesday Morning, June 10th]

It took a while to find the classroom. The halls of Benthic were in turns stately and wild, and to catch snippets of conversation is to risk getting drawn into conversation (risky), or someone else's research project (perilous in the extreme). The little slip of paper with the classroom listing was even worse. The number didn't relate to any floor or door, and those that managed to get their nerves up enough to ask for help were treated to scornful chuckles.

"I knew that class was one big prank," chortled a passing member of the Stoats' Club, "even ol' Percy Winship-Widgon wouldn't fall for it, and he's only got half a lobe left to spare!"

As the starting hour for the class drew closer, and whispering doubts threatened to increase in volume, something important clicked into place. The classroom number might not exist on the walls of the building. But it did correspond to the table of contents in one of the many volumes of required reading. And that pointed to a section that referenced a paper that was also in the course materials, a seemingly unrelated architectural discussion of Benthic's construction…

Ah. The dome at the top of the building. Most students hadn't known that there was a room there. Had there ever been a room there?

Regardless. Members of the class made their way higher and deeper into the center of the great structure, and finally came upon a door, labeled with a lead plaque, and the numbers for the much-sought classroom. To squint at it, one would notice the numbers going funny for a moment. Perhaps they didn't look the same to other people. Though to look around, each member of the class would have noticed that they'd made the trek alone. There were no other people to see these numbers.

The room itself was too big for such a small class; three rows of university benches with shelf desks sat in the middle, facing a lecturing podium and a freestanding chalkboard. There were at least four independent layers to the board, and it wrapped a semi-circle around the benches, closing the space off into a much less agoraphobic classroom area.

Atop each bench were sets of goggles, and several silver atomizers. Atop the lecturing podium was a congratulatory fungal bouquet. If your fungiography isn't too rusty, those were ink-caps for success in scholarly ventures, amanita virosa for permanent consequences, and false-blemmigans to wrap the entire thing in a fantastically sarcastic tone of voice.

Class hadn't started yet, and the professor was absent. Students had a little time to introduce themselves to the others.

Was it true that if the professor arrived late, everyone was allowed to go? Surely it couldn't be, in a university setting. But whether it was mis or good fortune, there came the sound of yelling from the hallway.

The voice was a very unpleasant one. In some, it might've inspired fear. But any ear could detect an uncanny edge to the high timbre. "-certain that you could find a last-minute replacement!"

"There aren't any others with your qualifications!" The second speaker's voice had a posh, Etonian lilt, and though he'd raised his volume, his emotions weren't half as compromised. He seemed patient, bordering on amused. "I promised to attempt to find another professor, but it's a very delicate matter-"

"What nonsense!"

"As you say."

"Absolute rot!"

"Indeed."

A sigh. "It's in here, is it?"

"Yes."

A louder, more beleaguered sigh. "Don't think that this is the end of this. We'll speak later."

"Good fortune and happy teaching."

"The next living creature to wish me that is going to learn their first lesson, and it'll be a keen one, I'll have you know that!"

Somewhere behind the chalkboard, a door slammed, and a pair of heeled boots tapped quickly toward the students. Then, a billowing silhouette of opulent white fabric rounded the corner, as their professor strode into view. Threatening a height of seven feet and staring from behind a semiotic monocle and a shock of gray hair, The Ex-Disgraced Academic all but stomped over to the lectern. Their eye seized upon the fungal bouquet, and their long, clawed fingers seized upon the accompanying card. With two passes of a roving eye, they found immense displeasure with whatever was written. They removed a pen from their breast pocket, scribbled something onto the paper.

Then, the entire bouquet went up in sudden, twenty-foot flames, nearly high enough to singe the domed ceiling above them.

As the welcome gift quickly reduced itself to ashes, The Academic took chalk to chalkboard, and addressed the class.

a figure at a chalkboard

“Well! You’ve all successfully found yourselves in Benthic’s 1899 summer course on The Correspondence. I will be your Professor-” and here, chalk tapping, The Ex-Disgraced Academic wrote their full name on the board. It was a distinguished and somewhat melodic arrangement of syllables, as instantly memorable to the students as it was illegible to their players. “But you may all conform to the decency of good manners, and either refer to me as ‘Professor,’ or ‘Emissary.’”

This second title, they underlined twice, with great relish. “It would happen to be this duty upon which I ought to be spending my time focusing. Vital matters across the sea and on the roof wait for no man. But the Dean is currently embroiled in a-“ the Academic scrawled the words:

PHALLUS-MEASURING-CONTEST

“-with members of the Ministry of Public Decency, and this class is the result!”

It was only at this point that The Academic turned around, to actually look at their students. The sneer wasn't a particularly kind reaction. “The study of this language is only nominally legal. I have been given impeccably strict definitions as to the limits of what may be taught in this class. Which brings us to the prerequisites before we begin The Correspondence in earnest:”

The Academic waved a gloved hand, signalling all the nerds of the class to open their note-books and begin the note-taking.

“Safety Precaution the First: A law is only a law if it is enforceable! Thus, you are highly advised to keep your course notes under lock and key. Anything you learn here might be made retroactively illegal.”

“Safety Precaution the Second! Correspondence symbols are highly flammable! The more flammable the surface, the fewer symbols a material can hold before combusting. Lead can hold precisely seven symbols. So imagine how careful you will have to be with untreated paper.

“Safety Precaution the Third! The threat will come for you-“ the next words rendered in large, block letters, “-IN THE NIGHT. If your housing is anywhere near a sorrow-spider clutch, start sleeping with an eye mask, as well. No more counting on your roommate in the lower bunk to have their eyes taken first: the study of The Correspondence will make your eyeballs like catnip to the sorry scoundrels.”

“And that brings us to the last and greatest peril to your freshly opened eyes. Safety Precaution the Fourth: When practicing, from now on, you will always wear your goggles. It doesn’t matter whether you are crafting poetry or practicing penmanship. You never write a stroke without eye protection, because you are always one mis-stroke away from permanent injury.” The Academic tapped a claw along the edge of their Semiotic Monocle. "I never take mine off. Easily solved."

The Academic tossed the chalk aside, and returned to the lectern.

“Today will be a warm-up. Practice writing sentences in English with no more than four words. One sentence per page, and do not use the back. I want twenty sentences from each student by the end of the period. If you notice another student writing a fifth word on any paper…” The Academic picked up the nearest atomizer, regarded the smoldering wreck of the bouquet…

…and then let loose on the nearest student; spraying water from the atomizer straight into their face.

“…douse them.”

The Academic placed the bottle back down, careless and casual as though they'd done no more than continue talking. "Get to it!"

As the class drew to a close, not a single eye was watching the clock more closely than the unblinking pupil of the professor. The second hand hit twelve, and they were to their feet.

“Well? Off with you! Haven’t you anywhere better to be? I certainly do.”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Having noticed the dangerous interaction between Academic and Tailor, and how tense the latter has been during the class, the Professor got up to meet with them, right by the closet, and picking a little pack of fountain pen refills. Maybe they even actually needed them.

"Ah, thank you. That was a rather intense moment... How are you feeling?" asked amicably yet subtly, trying to not let anyone else hear.

It wouldn't do to hold a pity party, they knew. They'd faced far worse things than minor embarrassments in a classroom setting, and there was work to be done. So the Tailor gave their face a firm rub, uncomfortably aware of how their hair had come loose from the earlier dousing and now hung in their eyes. They tried to push it back for the nth time, to little avail. Tried also not to scowl, with equally poor results.

If they were being really, painfully honest, they were feeling like maybe they shouldn't be here. But to admit as much was to admit to being a failure, so they didn't say that.

"I'll survive, even if my pride's gone through the ringer. Next week will be better." If they said it enough, they could make it true. And then, with sheepishness, they admitted, "I've never particularly thrived in the classroom setting, so this is probably par for the course."

"Of course! Next week will be better." spoken with absolute confidence.

"And there's nothing to be ashamed, believe me. The only true target of a class is to learn. As long as you're learning, you'll do it well."

"You just have to think about the lesson. Correspondence is dangerous, every one of its symbols adds more risk. So the first step is to learn how to take your point across with as few words as possible. And how to react quickly when that doesn't happen"

A reassuring smile, fangs flashing between the now useless bandages, and a nod.

"We used to steal them, you know," the fellow said quietly but without much thought to the words. "The plaques people use, when I was younger, I mean. Even then I always wondered why such heavy bits of rock had so much value for what little was chiselled into them."

English had so many rules, and exceptions within, and formality and diction and structure played more into status than most people could ever realize, if they'd been raised with it at least. The words could waffle and become chains of long, near inscrutable sentences. To be concise was rare. Perhaps even refreshing.

"If it were so easy to make your point so quickly, you'd think everyone would know Correspondence," they said with evident sarcasm, finally turning to follow the Chimeric Professor out of the small space. "Or maybe not, considering the risk of flammability to one's attire and reputation."

"And many more, I'm afraid. Interesting and useful as it is, it's still like playing around with dynamite. You can be reasonably certain it won't explode in the most inadequate time, but the risk is ever present. Now think of a whole city with dynamite attached to its walls, pockets, schools... And anyone willing could just grab some and play around as well. One could think that could be useful, yes. But in truth it's more dangerous than any other thing... Unless properly taught. But if we could all learn? What a marvel would that be, hmm?"

"Most things are dangerous unless properly taught," the Tailor muttered, more to themself than the professor. "And even then..." They waved the thought away. "Is that why you're in attendance for this class, Professor? Knowledge for knowledge's sake?"

"Half and half, one could say. Knowledge was the reason to come to the Neath in the first place. But as the mystery and horror became part of my life it became something of a passion. Transgression, an addiction to a sunless freedom impossible elsewhere. So, learning the language in which the natural laws are written through painful secretive ways is one thing. Seeing it imparted? Now that's special, don't you think?"

The Tailor was very quiet. Then, "I suppose the implications are heavy, yes." Transgression, and learning to write the language of the natural laws. (They had been witness to a Law being written, once. They hadn't really understood what they were doing, even after falling into Parabola for the first time.) If one knew the language, could one--

Surely not. It couldn't be so easy to change the state of the world. They shrugged it away. It was the matter of secrets that intrigued them more. To know things that were meant to be kept in the dark, now that enticed them.

"I should thank you for being so generous today. We haven't had much opportunity to speak before this in the few classes I've attended--I regret that. As I said, academia is not my strongest area. I..." This next part was said with a heavy helping of obvious unwillingness. "I may request assistance in areas that might seem baseline. Could I ask for your discretion if so?"

"No need to, really. And of course, it'll be my pleasure to help when possible. Worry not about discretion either. I may not be a priest but I respect trust."

Has there been a wink? The shades don't allow to check.

The Brash Devil had intended on catching the Tailor coming out of the closet and teasing them about their normally put together appearance falling apart. But he'd stopped when he'd heard the conversation the Tailor was having with the Professor, frowning more and more as it went on. He was picturing the Tailor as one of the urchins he used to run with all the time.

Damn it all.

Why can't he just be a proper Devil about this, a proper devil wouldn't be...

Wouldn't be...

What was he?

When the Tailor finally left the closet the Devil didn't have the smug grin on his face he'd intended to greet him with. If anything, his frown deepened, as if caught unawares even though he had chosen to stay.

Finally he snarled and threw the cloth in his hand at Tailor's face before stomping out of the classroom.

Stunned, the Tailor tugged the cloth off their face, looking from it up to where the Devil had stood before storming off. They blinked, instinctively pocketing it. What had they even done?

Well. This day was a wash.

Correspondence Scholarship, Class One [Tuesday Morning, June 10th]

Re: After Class

Re: After Class

Re: After Class

Re: After Class

Re: After Class

Re: After Class

Re: After Class

Re: After Class

Re: After Class

Re: After Class

Re: After Class