V.

The corridor smelled like a swamp—earthen, sour, and overburdened with seeping old gasbags.

Jean tried not to look too stifled in the presence of such prestigious, learned minds. But whatever gave one the impression that intellect could forgo presentation and simple hygiene, he thought (in the space of a held breath,) was entirely beyond him. He nearly choked along the way to the departmental office of Alchemy and Neithistoology (neitheristic in nature; a bric-à-brac study of neither-here-nor-there -isms and -ologies), before finding a cracked window, where his tour guide thankfully lingered.

Jean pushed the window open farther and stuck his head out. "I must say," he pointed, to a general nowhere-ness to feign awe, "the grounds here are breathtaking."

"Yes," Dr. Enebs said, with a slow and wobbly turn. His nose was narrow and hooked like a shark's fin, and his eyes—although enormous—seemed to sink into his skull, a pair of glass marbles with which one could only divine a picturette of yourself being either bored or repulsed. "Vossle University's horticultural sciences are to thank for that," he continued. "They are simply unparalleled."

"I bet," Jean said.

"Did you notice the Niptullegrums out surrounding the entrance?"

"Can't say I even know what those—"

"The brick colored flowers with the red fringe and a skeletal-white system of veins." Enebs smiled. "They are—or were, rather—an uncommon species native to an isolated western region known as Nupplind. Extinct for half a millennium, those flowers were, in a sense, resurrected by our talented Professor Willick Aanslmen, of whom I am sure that even you have heard of."

Jean nodded.

"But you aren't here for an Aanslmen dissertation, which is unfortunate really because . . ."

Jean shook his head as they continued onward. The hallway grew more narrow with every step, and the ceiling hung lower and lower, until finally they stopped in front of a door too small for a child to fit through. The arch was triangular and surrounded by a paneling of brass and cherry wood. A small, obsidian knob was fixed centered on the door, which was itself a concave, blanched wood. Petrified. It felt like pumice to the touch.

". . .and funnily enough, Professor S. hand-picked the young Aanslmen twenty years ago. Said he had a natural aptitude for retro-molecular orientations and puzzles. Little did either of them know he'd become a forerunner in an entirely different field."

"Uh-huh," Jean said, his eyes never leaving the triangular portal they were expected to crawl through. "And who did you say I will be speaking with about the late Professor?"

"Oh—her name is Ms. Kotta Mekles, a graduate student who will likely replace Shalhope for the title of Wisened in upcoming years."

"I take it that's quite significant here?"

Dr. Enebs laughed. "It is an accredited title recognized and regulated by the—Ah, never mind." He shook his head and smiled. "Simply: Yes. It holds a great deal of value to certain people in circles such as these."

Jean smiled, and stared into Enebs' tenured, crystalline orbs. "Ours is a world of guilded secrets," he said.

"Yes, I would agree."

"And insularity, almost invariably, breeds instability." Jean said, his eyes flicking toward the door, which withdrew from within—the arch expanding in tiered fashion, to accommodate a more realistic stature.

"I would agree to that, Mister..." It was a woman who emerged—young, close to late twenties, with skin the color of limestone, eyes the color of rust. Her hair was a frayed bob of black, which framed her face well.

Dr. Enebs stepped forward. "Ms. Mekles, this is Mr. Imke. He is a journalist with the Duskaal National Tribune, and an honorary member of our capital's Anthropology Society."

She looked to Jean. "And you are here because of?"

"A sudden interest in your former department head, Professor Akar. Are you aware of the exact details of his death?"

"I'm afraid not," she said.

"Well, neither are we."

"We? Does Duskaal have a particular interest in the exact details of—"

"No, no." Jean laughed. "I'm not here as a reporter. Don't think of me like that."

"So? You are curious why, then?" She frowned. "Akar's situation was unusual, yes, but I am sure someone like you would conclude that a man of his age—his afflictions—well, death was inevitable. Only natural."

"Rivvold's is more than unusual, Ms. Mekles. Just how did he catch it?"

Dr. Enebs cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "I will leave you two to discuss things." The old man turned to leave, then paused. "You really must forgive her for any stubbornness, Mr. Imke. Shalhope underwent a lot of scrutiny in life. I imagine she is only trying to avoid a resurgence of criticism in wake of his death. Especially considering how it could impact the department's funding. You know how people are."

Silence kept them together for a moment longer, and then the pair receded into her office.

"How are you finding Vossle University?" She asked, moving toward her desk as to clear it.

Jean pulled up a chair, and they both sat. "It's much quieter than the Emier Academy." His eyes lifted to the ceiling, which stretched a good thirty feet above them and showcased a complicated interweave of mosaics. The walls were lined with books, copper scales, brass instruments, and an unusually large collection of gold sundials.

The alchemists of Vassle certainly didn't seem to be in the midst of a funding crisis. Then again, private universities such as these never were affected by uncertain economic climates.

Mekles hinged on the silence for a moment before saying, "Imke, right?"

"Yes."

"Related to? Marisol Imke?"

Jean nodded.

"Her works are a required read in a good number of our classes here."

"Oh?" he said. "Even in this department?"

She smiled. "Why, yes! Artifacts and rituals aren't just the interest of historians and sociologists. Your mother's comprehensive theorycraft helped redirect a great number of our projects. It's always fascinating to be reminded of the ingenuity of those from centuries past. Fascinating to know it wasn't all just retrospective delusions of grandeur."

"Well it is, in a sense," Jean Said. "Between The Great Void and The Undoings, self-importance played a great role in landing us in-between a hungry non-existence and an over-hyped future."

"Don't be so negative," Ms. Mekles said, glaring. She leaned forward. "Things are different now, you understand. The future is closer than you think."

"Yes, I'm sure." Jean cleared his throat. "But did Akar have any interest in sheep?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did your mentor, Professor Shalhope, posses a certain significant intrigue concerning sheep?"

"You came here to ask me if the professor liked sheep?"

"Yes. Sort of. In a way."

"In what way, exactly?"

Jean sighed. "In a carnivorous, sadistic kind of fashion."

Mekles shook her head. "Not to any extent which I can attest," she said with a shrug.

"The cafeteria serves lamb chops? But," she laughed, "No. Sorry. Anything else?"

"Yes, actually," Jean said. "Do you have any reason to believe that he could still be alive? And, by alive, I don't ex-ac-t-ly mean alive. Alive, but not quite himself—or at all, really."

Ms. Mekles leaned back in her chair and stared. "Are you saying he did not die?"

"No," Jean said. "All accounts show he did die. There's a grave, burial records, a mortician to prove it. What I don't understand is how and why any portion of him wouldn't recompense with the earth."

"Shalhope was a very old man," Mekles said.

"Yes, I gathered that."

"No," she said. "I don't believe you understand. His age was grotesquely extensive. A secret I inadvertently uncovered while trying to help alleviate his symptoms—of which, he was obsessed with curing altogether. His accomplishments in bio-alchemical research were no coincidence. Shalhope possessed a severe interest in staying alive."

"It sounds like he's succeeded."

"Well," Meckles said, shaking her head. "I have no idea how. Our work together never humored dabbling in rebirth or afteristics of any kind."

Jean smiled. "So, nothing comes to mind?"

"Shalhope had been working on ridding himself of that 'curse' for longer than either of us have been living," she said. "There is no end to the possibilities of what he has tried in the past, or what he tried on the verge of death. The man knew everything—and even then, Alchemy is a temperamental and unforgiving science."

"You mean to say that there are repercussions."

She nodded. "Whatever's happened to him—if anything at all, mind you, Mr. Imke—is likely evidence of a debt unpaid, nothing more."

Jean wiggled his fingers in her direction. "Or a curse made worse."

Ms. Mekles rolled her eyes. "I still fail to see what makes you believe the Professor has done anything more than rot in the ground."

"The sheep in Mumbles have been throwing themselves off the face of the cliff. Before that, I've been led to believe some of the smaller animals in town had been done-in unnaturally as well. Pets, rodents. It's too regular to be anything but intentional. What is intended?" he said, "I don't know."

"That's all well and good," she said, "but none of this as of yet holds any connection to Shalhope."

"No, you're right." Jean frowned. "Beyond his official date-of-death commencing the oddities of the town, there is nothing tangibly comprehensive. That is why I came here."

"Right. Of course." Ms. Mekles stood. "I won't tell you that you've been chasing shadows," she said, "but, I am highly skeptical—even in humoring the likelihood that Shalhope partook in more...venturous experiments—that any sort of consequence as drastic as this could happen. I do not believe that any ghosts have been conjured, Mr. Imke."

She smiled and showed him to the door. "You might have better luck asking one of our zoology professors."

"Tempting," Jean said. "But no."

He wished to try a more direct approach next. One that required a more resourceful medium.