More Tales of MU

…or, Curse Of The Callaways

Since Bryony hadn’t said anything about the lab being canceled, I had taken it for granted that she was leaving after it. Come Friday morning, though, I didn’t see her out on the smoker’s deck. I checked twice to be sure, then wondered if I’d missed something.

Of course, it was possible she’d forgotten to tell us she’d be gone. If she didn’t show up, I could tell everybody that she’d canceled her other class so we could all go back to main campus.

That was assuming I hadn’t missed an announcement. If nobody else showed up, I’d feel like an idiot. For about three seconds, then I’d realize I was smart enough to be wrong about something that nobody would ever know about.

I finished my cigarette quickly and headed inside. I never worried about being late when the professor was outside. If I went in when she did, I would always be on time. I didn’t want to risk being late if she was teaching class today and just too busy for her smoke break. She wanted to like me as a student. I wanted to make that easy for her.

The classroom door was closed, but I could just hear Bryony’s voice inside it.

“…could come ’round and have a chat with her directly?” she was saying.

“Oh, no, Professor. She’d be too proud,” another voice—Honey Callaway—said. “She doesn’t want anybody to know about this. If you asked her about it, she’d probably deny even having them.”

“Oh, well, I suppose given the history and who her mum was and all, that’s understandable,” the professor said. “But you can give her those herbs. She should drink them cold brewed before she goes to sleep. No more than three petals to a tall glass of water. Tell her that. No more than three. Dole ‘em out like that if you don’t think you can trust her. Three will stop her dreaming. More than that might stop more than that. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“I’m serious. Ordinarily I wouldn’t trust a riverman’s daughter with something this strong, but knowing the circumstances—her mum and all—I think it would be crueler not to.”

“Professor, may I be excused from class today? I’d like to get these to her right away.”

“Oh, well, the thing is, I had planned on giving a quiz today. Actually, I’d planned on giving it last session.”

“It’s just, she hasn’t been sleeping professor, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t get these to her right away.”

There was the kind of sincerity that couldn’t be faked. Then there was the kind that couldn’t be anything else. Her voice was chock full of that kind. I swear you could hear her batting her eyelashes. I willed Bryony to see through it. Whatever this errand of mercy was, Honey was handing her a line of bullshit. I wasn’t sure how much I could respect the professor if she bought it.

“Oh, alright then, but mind you get some rest yourself,” the professor said. “You look terrible.”

“She keeps me up nights, with her screaming and moaning. It’s just terrible, Professor.”

“Terrible” wasn’t the word. Whatever they were talking about, Honey was lying. If it showed on her face half as much as it did in her voice, Bryony would have to be blind not to see it.

“Right, well, you just run along, then. But I expect you’ll sleep a lot better over the weekend, though, and be here bright and early on Monday!”

“Oh, of course!” Honey said.

I would have bet my silver stash that we wouldn’t see her on Monday, but I’d need to find somebody dumb enough to take that bet.

From the defeated way the professor said, “Right, then,” I had a feeling she wasn’t quite that dumb.

I stepped back as the door opened and Honey scurried out. Bryony watched her going, shaking her head.

“Hey there, Bowman,” she said when she spotted me there. “Get lonely out on the porch?”

“Didn’t want to be late,” I said.

“You’re a good student, James,” she said. I accepted the modest praise with a smile. It was probably the closest she’d come to admitting that Honey wasn’t. “Come on in and have an extra chocolate before everyone else gets here.” I followed her to her desk, where she had a tray of foil-wrapped chocolates and accepted one. “That Honey Callaway,” she said, shaking her head. I thought she was about to unload. “She’s so good to be looking after her poor cousin.”

The way she said, it sounded like she was doing penance for thinking unflattering thoughts about a Callaway.

“What’s wrong with her cousin, exactly?” I asked.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling tales out of school, but then I guess we’re in school now, aren’t we?” she said. “Her mum had the Callaway Curse. And it seems she has it, too.”

“The Callaway Curse?”

“Oh, it isn’t a real curse,” Bryony said. “Not the sort that priests can break, anyway. It’s a sickness of the head that some of the Callaway women have, with visions and fevers and things. Most get just a touch of it, if they get anything. Hazel’s mum—Johanna Callaway—had about the worst case I ever heard of. Normally it skips a generation or two. She must have had it strong enough for her daughter to get it.”

“Oh,” I said. I would have asked more, but I didn’t want to reveal that I’d heard the conversation. I hadn’t been listening on purpose, exactly. My ears were just a little extra sharp.

“Anyway, it’s doubtful how much help her cousin will accept,” the professor said. “River folk are willful enough without the curse to contend with. But she’s trying. That’s all that can be asked of anyone.”

The rest of the class arrived, and she passed out chocolates and served a drink that tasted like cinnamon before dismissing us. Some people grumbled about having come all the way across campus, but most seemed happy about the free period.

“Sorry, but I’ve some pressing business to get to,” Bryony said in response to the grumblers. “I had planned on administering a quiz before turning you out, but time’s shorter than I thought it would be.”

She enlisted my aid in carrying some bags for her, since as she put it she knew I didn’t have anything else to do that morning. I might have resented the presumption, but I could hardly picture the little professor making it all the way across campus on foot even without luggage to carry.

“They won’t send a coach out this way for you?” I asked her as we walked across the footbridge.

“I’ve asked the school but they never come,” she said. “Even when I contract for a cab myself, they drive off without looking at me more often than not. Too good to carry my kind, I guess. That’s fine with me. I have to pay them out of my own pocket anyway. You planning on seeing the dragons tomorrow?”

“Probably,” I said. I nodded down at the bags in my hands. They felt a bit like purses to me, but they represented a good amount of storage space for a gnome-sized woman. “I get the feeling you’re not going to be there?”

“Sadly, no,” she said. “The gardening conference is going to last all weekend.”

“Sounds exciting,” I said.

“Oh, terribly,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe the things we’re doing with mulch these days.”

I laughed.

“Seriously, though, it’s important,” she said. “It’s the first transracial gnome-goblin agrarian symposium.”

“Is there a lot of need for that kind of thing?” I asked.

“Well, we’ve always been a pastoral lot,” Bryony said. “And gobs still grow seventy, eighty percent of their own food. And we’re both finding ourselves feeding more and more mouths with less and less land these days. Learning to cooperate and get along with each other could be the key to our survival as distinct peoples.”

“Sounds admirable,” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t have anything to do with getting it started,” she said. “But I’m also not going to pass up the chance to speak at it. My colleagues are constantly being invited to these sorts of things, and I’m always left out in the cold. I know herbalism isn’t the most exciting subject, but sometimes it seems like the university barely remembers it has an herbalism program.”

“That’s got to hurt.”

“On the other hand, I never have the dean breathing down my neck about anything,” she said. “Though, to do that, he’d have to bend over or use a long tube of some sort, or something.”

When we got to the eastern edge of campus, I had to follow Professor Bryony. The faculty didn’t use the same carriage stop that we did. They had a nice covered coach port that the vehicles pulled into, with upholstered benches and a drink dispenser. It was a bit to the south of where the student carriages were.

“Nice,” I said.

“It is a bit, isn’t it?” Bryony said. “Some students agitate for something similar every time the weather turns. It even got put to a vote once or twice, but by that time things had warmed up and they spent the money on something else. Me, I think they should add a stop on the other side of campus. Not only would that be handy for me but it would keep students from having to walk all that way for night classes.”

“Are there night classes on west campus?” I asked.

“Only a few, and they never fill up,” she said. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re anxious to be off and enjoy what’s left of your morning, so I won’t keep you.” She stuck out her hand, and I reached down and shook it. “See you on Monday, Bowman. Don’t forget the dragons.”

“I won’t.”

“Or your paper.”

“Right,” I said. “See you.”

I spent the rest of the morning trying to improve my etherforming skills. It seemed like I’d actually gotten worse at it since the day before, but I stayed with it until lunch. If Iason had come hunting for me during our scheduled class time, he would have found me engrossed in it.

He didn’t, though.

I wasn’t surprised, and maybe only a little disappointed.

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