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Chapter 4: Fellowship of the Geeks
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It was a dark and muggy night. Unwilling to beg a ride, Moira'd walked eight blocks. Her hair probably looked like cultured lichen, and her nose wouldn't stop running. Moira felt like absolute shit, but she'd agreed to this meeting, and there was no going back now.
It had come to this. She paused, looked up into the infinite, cloudy night. It loomed over Moira like a thing from nightmare: the Honors Dorm.
She gulped, adjusted her backpack, and swished a stealthy glance around. It was too much to hope no one would see her enter, of course, but she was all about limiting the damage.
Keeping her head down so the damp wouldn't drizzle down her back -- and also hoping she wouldn't be recognized and forever after branded a frizzy-haired lurker in the honors dorm -- Moira slunk up the back stairs to room number 411. She knocked softly on the gnarled wood door.
"Moira? That you?" came a muffled voice from inside. Moira scowled.
"Yeah. You gonna let me in?" The question was punctuated nicely with a sneeze and sniffle.
Moira heard some scuffling from inside the room. Finally, the door squawked open like it hadn't been oiled in a generation, and Alicia poked her head out and grinned like an over-excited anime character.
How the hell could she always look so happy? Moira's scowl deepened.
"Come on in, Moira. Wow, you look cold. I have a space heater over there by the end table. And you are wet… jeez, did you walk the whole way from the co-op?"
Moira nodded miserably and ducked into the chilly dorm room. A hot-pink beanbag chair was squashed into the tiny space between the end table and the twin bed. Moira climbed into the beanbag and spread her hands out in front of the sputtering little space heater. Heat felt marvelous on her chilled hands.
Greg sat cross-legged and shoeless on one end of Alicia's narrow dorm bed. He wore loud orange socks, and his hair, as usual, stuck out in all directions. A heavy book lay across his lap, and one ink-stained finger kept his place when he looked up to nod hello. He seemed pensive, more nervous than usual. Or was it excited? It was hard to tell with Greg.
Moira's eyes wandered again to Greg's orange socks. His fashion sense was, as always, a mystery.
Flopping onto the bed beside Greg, Alicia curled up into a little ball, legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins, and grinned at Moira over her kneecaps.
"So, out with it. What did you find?"
Moira unzipped the inner compartment of her backpack and pulled out a newish-looking spiral notebook. Then she took a deep breath.
"Well, like I told you, it sounds completely nuts. I wouldn't believe it, but he told me, so I guess it's true." She stared at her classmates, silently daring them to say she was a loon. Then, clutching the notebook a little, Moira pronounced dramatically: "Dr. Birdsong is an ed-thell."
Silence. Coulda heard a pin drop. Alicia and Greg had identical yeah-and-now-what looks on their faces. No shocked gasps. No bleating questions. Nothing. Moira narrowed her eyes. Had she pronounced it wrong? Opening the spiral to page one, she continued, referring to her notes.
"Well…so I did some checking. As far as I can tell, 'edhel' means 'elf' in this made-up language called Sindarin. A fantasy writer named J.R. Tolkien apparently made up the word, really the whole language. Get this: Some weirdos out in Indiana live in a commune type thing and speak the this stuff and publish a monthly magazine in it, and ... what?" Alicia and Greg had been darting quick glances at each other while pretending to listen to Moira's little speech. What the hell? Was this some geek-love flirting thing? Moira felt pissed and just a little left out.
Then Alicia and Greg looked up at Moira and burst out laughing. What had she said that was so damned funny? She felt a blush warm her cheeks.
Finally, drying her eyes and limited herself to only shallow chuckles, Alicia pulled herself upright and grinned at Moira.
"Welcome to the club, Moira. We've known Dr. Birdsong's little secret for a while. That's why we invited him to come teach. I don't think he knows we know. But he told you? Wow. He must really like you." Somehow, Alicia made that sound not so condescending. Oddly, Moira felt sort of giddy to be welcomed into their little geek club.
"Yeah," said Greg. "And it's J.R.R., not J.R."
Moira raised an eyebrow. "Meow?" she asked.
"The fantasy writer. His name was John Ronald Reuel, so J.R.R. He wrote about the elves. Sort of introduced them and their struggle to the modern world." Greg shifted, stretching out his long legs and letting the book close over his hand.
"Struggle? What the hell are you talking about?" Moira asked. Her gaze had shifted again to those orange socks. They were hypnotic, really.
"The elves came first, before humans, to sort of put beauty into the world. Most of them left a long time ago for Aman, basically heaven. But we think some elves stayed here, trying to help humans defeat evil in the world. They have this ongoing struggle against evil," Alicia said, her eyes getting that all-big-and-glowy look, like she was campaigning for the salvation of all things furry. Girls like Alicia needed a cause, and heroic elves, apparently, were Alicia's.
"Uh huh," said Moira blandly, wriggling so her feet dangled in front of heater. "Right. Are they winning?"
"Well, we think so," Greg said slowly, but Alicia interrupted.
"And we wanna help them. We're looking for them. They seem to be a little, well, scattered right now. Something big just happened. Or is about to happen. We want to fight with them."
Moira drew a deep breath. She'd been prepared for some of this, but her brain was beginning to fizzle. It was getting really hard to stifle the nervous giggles, but Moira made one last effort. And caught Greg's eyes briefly.
Those eyes burned, like they counted a Seurat pointelle, and the whole world depended on the outcome. That was not the look of someone playing a bizarre practical joke. That look was deadly serious.
"Will you help us?" Greg asked softly. It was impossible to breathe. The room seemed very stuffy, and the old space heater was only slightly louder than the blood thrumping in Moira's head.
Moira remembered the professor, looking west on his rooftop at dawn. She recalled the yearning in his voice when he spoke of others like him. Professor Birdsong was the most incredible, compelling creature she'd ever met, even beyond his blond-god looks.
Suddenly there was nothing in the world she wanted so much as to help him.
Moira blinked.
"Where do I sign up?" she asked.
#
Compadres,
Info: The prof's full name, according to university records and the Maine DMV, is L. Galen Birdsong. Dunno what "L" stands for. Here's the weird thing, tho: I know he came from this tiny university in Maine called Wainright. That's where Greg and me sent letters asking him to come here. His Wainright bio says he taught at Oxford.
But no L. Galen Birdsong ever taught at Oxford.
But, get this: A Laszlo G. Birdsong taught French and Italian at Oxford in 1929. No records after that.
Ali
ps -- Maybe we should get together to discuss this stuff instead of sending e-mails?
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Greg and Alicia,
Hey. So, I did some checking. Laszlo G. Birdsong shows up on a casualty list for the British army in 1921. Our guy's grandpa, maybe? Way too old to be our Birdsong, o course. lol
More digging: L.G. Birdsong posthumously (after death… I looked it up g) awarded George Cross and the Croix de Guerre. May have been sent to Ravensbruck concentration camp in the '40s…but records are pretty fuzzy on this.
BTW, what does BSOE stand for?
Still digging,
Moira
ps-- Yeah, let's get together. Belly dancing at the student union tonight. My friend Cassie's in the show. We could get coffee upstairs after.
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Ali and M.,
BSOE British Special Operations Executive.
Didn't anyone ever tell you elves are immortal? More or less.
G.
ps -- Can't make the bellydancing. So sorry. May not be in linguistics tomorrow either. Any way you guys can take notes for me?
#
Co-conspirators (hehe),
Did you know that Tolkien served in the British army in WWI? And taught at Oxford during WWII. Stranger still, Tolkien claimed all his life that his fantasy world, middle earth, was really Europe, and all the things he wrote about really happened a long time ago.
After suffering shell shock in the war, Tolkien immediately began to work on documenting his made-up languages and writing The Silmarillion, the history of the elves.
Sure looks like he saw something in the war that made him believe in fairies.
Wouldn't be surprised if he met up with our Laszlo.
Ali
ps-- Moira, meet me at the Wendy's tomorrow after your 1pm class? There's a chocolate frosty in it for ya if you show.
pps-- Greg, What's up that made you miss linguistics? Must be big. Yeah, I got your notes right here. leers We're supposed to finish reading that Riddley Walker book by next Wednesday. Don't freak: It's mostly in English.
#
Hello out there…. Greg, are you there? Missed you in class again. We had a quiz. You okay? Please send us a message at least.
Even the prof is worried.
Ali
(and Moira's here, too!)
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Ali and Moira,
Sorry for ducking out there for a while, guys. Am on to something big, but I have to show it to you in person. You're not gonna believe this.
Bring nice clothes and meet me at Moira's co-op Saturday real early. We'll be gone till Monday.
Greg
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AN:
Many thanks to Airee and Claudia for beta-ing.
Of course, the canon characters (hmmm… who could that be??) belong to the Tolkien estate.
