The Stone Gryphon Part 1: Oxfordshire 1942
Chapter 13 Crossroads Part 2
In which we find out what Peter and Mary think about all of this.
"Today there remain but a few small areas on the world's map unmarked by explorers' trails. Human courage and endurance have conquered the Poles; the secrets of the tropical jungles have been revealed. The highest mountains of the earth have heard the voice of man. But this does not mean that the youth of the future has no new worlds to vanquish. It means only that the explorer must change his methods." Roy Chapman Andrews, paleontologist, explorer, administrator, American Museum of Natural History
Nothing for it then.
With a deep, steadying breath, Peter entered the Professor's office.
The Professor looked up from his manuscript. Peter wished heartily that Mary had not located that missing Duns Scotus lecture. Each was more impenetrable than the last. He could not follow the proof of the existence of God beyond step 4, and once he tried to puzzle out how there is no infinite regress in an essentially ordered series of causes, and how essentially ordered causes were distinct from accidentally ordered causes ...
"Hello, Peter. Everything well at the hospital?"
"Good morning, Professor. It was fine, if one doesn't mind yelling and swearing."
"Richard abusing the nurses?"
"And the orderly, technician, secretary, and the engineer who came to fix his window. For someone who is supposed to be resting quietly for tests, Richard was very active. Aunt Polly arrived, so I left. She said she would meet you and Mary at the pub."
Mulling it over on the way back from the hospital, Peter in the end decided not to raise his questions with the Professor. There was obviously some long history between Aunt Polly and Richard, of the same sort that followed both the Russells. Mary and Richard amassed interesting people about them the way others collected charms, beetles, or china dogs. That Peter had himself become part of the collection was both disturbing and flattering when he considered who else occupied space in the Russells' curio cabinet.
In this case, there was no need to gossip with the Professor when he could learn it directly from the source. If he wanted to hear of their shared history, which probably involved mosquito netting and long treks to nowhere with crates of supplies on donkeys, he would ask Aunt Polly or Richard – who would either snap that it was none of his business, or, more likely, tell him because they both loved a good story. Not that many people in England did what they did, and given Aunt Polly's involvement in the Zoological Society of London and African wildlife preservation, he should have figured out sooner that her life would have run along parallel to Richard Russell. Possibly intersecting as well, which led to speculations of a sort that, as Richard would say, made Peter's head hurt and truly weren't his business at all.
More to the point with all these interesting things, people, books, stories, and conversations to be had, Peter again wondered with the small bit of irritation that he permitted himself, why he was trying to cram Latin, Greek, and theology into the mix as well. Why hadn't he ever taken the time to talk to Polly about something other than Narnia? She had spent but a few days there and a lifetime making its magic relevant and real here. He would have to make up for that neglect. For now, Peter pushed the matter aside; it was time to attend to the Professor and the stack of paper he had (mostly) diligently toiled over the last two weeks.
Peter pulled the chair from his makeshift desk by the window toward the Professor's desk, collecting a notebook and pencil along the way.
"To work then." The Professor put the manuscript down. "Would you like the positive, or the negative first?"
"Negative please, Professor."
"Very well." He handed across the desk a dishearteningly weighty stack of papers. "This translation of the Aeneid needs… hmm quite a bit of work, Peter. I had thought that Book Seven, the War in Latium, might have interested you, but that seems not to be the case."
Peter took the pages. Latin. Dactylic hexameter. Exemplification of pietas, which wasn't pity or even piety, but something more like duty. And, oh By the Lion. Every time the name "Turnus" had appeared, he had written "Tumnus." It didn't matter that they were carrying pikes and swords, and that Aventinus (or was it Hercules?) was wearing a lion skin, or that he fought like a lion, or that there was a lion on his shield, although he had thought it was snakes on the shield, not lions. It was still Latin, in meter.
The Professor handed him a book along with the papers. "This is Douglas' translation. It is probably the best, although he does use a rhyming scheme, which of course isn't a Roman convention."
Of course. It was one of those things that once said, Peter remembered, but if someone had asked, would have been a blind guess. It just did not stick.
He smiled, so kindly, Peter felt a fool. "I won't have you try to redo the translation, Peter." He said it as if conferring an enormous gift, which it was. Translations were nightmares.
"Please compare your own to the Douglas translation and correct the errors. Pay particular attention to your use of the nominative, genitive, and dative noun forms. And, your verb conjugation."
In other words, it was fine, except for the nouns and the verbs, which meant that the adjectives were wrong too.
Matella, matellae, matellae, matellam, matella, matellae, matella
The chamber pot, of the chamber pot, to the chamber pot, the chamber pot, by means of the chamber pot, in the chamber pot (ugh), O chamber pot!
Amare, amavisse, amaturus esse, amari, amatus esse, amans, amaturus, amatus, amandus
To love, to have loved, to be going to be loving (what?), to be loved, to have been loved, to be going to be loved (how could that be sensible?), about to love, loved, to be loved
Plus, imperative mood, subjunctive mood, indicative mood, gerund, and supine
"I will, Professor, thank you."
With the next stack, Peter's spirit sank lower still.
"As to your essay on Scotus' metaphysics, you present Aristotle's principles of form and matter very neatly, so full marks there. Unfortunately, it seems that you are not quite clear yet on the argument regarding individuation."
Peter groaned inwardly, while schooling his expression to polite gratitude. Haecceitas, translated as "thisness."
This is not that, because it is this.
Follow that?
He made himself attend. He knew this was important to the Professor. It was important, how precisely? Scholarship? Knowledge for knowledge's sake? Peter wasn't sure.
But it was important to someone important to him, and so it was, therefore, important to him. Was that a logical syllogism? Affirming the consequent?
The Professor was constructing an entire philosophy, from Saint Francis, Scotus, and Bonaventure to something having to do with respect for everything in creation. For Peter, however, haecceitas and its applicability to anything was worse than the dactylic hexameter, Latin declensions and verb conjugations. Although, the doctrine of primacy was near as dense, and step 5 in the proof of the existence of God was unfathomable.
Why wasn't the personal experience sufficient there? I have seen Him, therefore I know He exists?
"Haeceitas, you will recall…" Peter nodded and hoped he did not appear as much the idiot as he felt.
"Means that which is unique, unrepeatable, and ultimately indefinable 'ness' – it is a thing's individuality. I am certain from things you have said regarding Narnia that this principle is quite applicable, particularly insofar as some of your more colourful subjects were concerned."
"Yes?" A hint? Anything to see him through this wasteland of abstraction?
The Professor almost frowned. Did he understand that this was like water through fingers?
"I made some notes, Peter. I'd like you to review them and we'll discuss them this evening."
Peter nodded and took the essay. The Professor's spidery handwriting covered the whole of it, nearly obliterating Peter's own, strong script.
"On to the good news, your comparison of the Doric and Ionic styles of Greek architecture was a solid piece of work. I can't say there was anything new in it for me, but it was complete."
Faint praise that, but given the way the rest of it had gone, Peter was very happy for it . Still, he had a sense of foreboding as to what was to come next. The Professor seemed to be employing a rhetorical and management strategy he used himself, praise first, critique second.
"Of course, I did also ask that you explain why the Ionic style was complementary to the Hellenistic period, and to the extent it was not adopted by the non-Athenian states, why."
"Well, it was that…"
The Professor held up a silencing hand, although the smile that accompanied it was warm. "Peter, as I said, this is the good news. This is not school or university and we do not have a precise result to achieve other than your intellectual readiness. So, while not following directions can be a problem elsewhere, it is not here where you found something that intrigued you and you chose to follow it. In this case, you became interested in the use of structural iron in ancient Greek buildings, and from there, well, you know what you did. I was wondering why."
Peter gave himself the moment to collect his thoughts. He could explain this and wished to defend the point as strongly as needed.
"It was a passing reference in a text to the Greek's use of iron in columns and architraves to withstand earthquakes. It put me in the mind of what I had seen at the Oxford Museum, with the iron and glasswork in the roof. I had read that the first design was with wrought iron and that it was too weak to support the roof. There are of course other examples of use of iron leading to disastrous results, such as the Tey Bridge. It led me to consider the extent to which iron was a fickle building material, in design or composition, or both, and I wondered if its use in Greek architecture might have had detrimental effects upon the structures. I could not answer the question, but I did think it was worth asking."
"I see." The Professor was templing his fingers. Peter was never certain what it portended, if anything, other than the obvious contemplative thought.
He had known he was going far afield with this exploration, but it had been interesting, scholarly and yet still practical. Granted, structural iron was not going to save a building from a Luftwaffe explosive bomb or incendiary. He could not look at the rubble of London and throughout England without considering what would have to be rebuilt, and how such massive projects might be undertaken. Given the Professor's reaction, he was glad now that he had not expanded further into Greek mortar-less construction. Fine joinery work had been something he had seen the Dwarfs do in Narnia and it had been marvelous how they fashioned stones so precisely that one block could be made to fit to another.
"As such things are out of my field, I did show your essay to a colleague with a deeper knowledge of the techniques of Greek construction. He was impressed that you pulled that disparate information together and the questions you raise are actually addressed in a well-known paper on the subject."
The Professor handed a folder across the desk. "So, my congratulations. It was a digression, but a worthwhile one. This is a note from Professor Beazley commending you for asking some very good questions, and he has provided a copy of Dr. Dinsmoor's paper which answered some of them."
Peter took the folder, and the small, if digressive, victory it represented. Nonetheless, he would count it in the win column. "Thank you, Professor."
The Professor leaned forward, less the tutor now and more the friend. "Peter, I know some of this is very new to you. You are an astounding young man, and very worthy here of the title you have borne elsewhere. I have every confidence that you will excel, with time and effort."
Peter nodded. The regard was always soothing, even if he felt he had done nothing to deserve it Here. "Thank you again. I appreciate your efforts." Standing, he brought the chair and papers back to his own desk.
He could feel the Professor's eyes following him. "I think I"ll leave you to it, Peter. I may go see Richard and review some journals at the Library." He paused, musing absently aloud, "On second thought, maybe Library first, then Richard."
Peter let the comment go. It was part of that personal history of intersecting lines that made for private speculation only.
"Mary will probably come by, so send her on to the pub. Polly and I were hoping to meet her at two. Which means I told Mary to meet us at one and we will expect her at two-thirty."
"I'll see what I can do to keep her to something approximating that schedule, Professor."
"Accomplishing that, Peter, you should then have no difficulty with solving Fermat's Last Theorem, explaining the disappearance of the Mary Celeste crew, and locating Percy Fawcett."
"I'll get right on those, Professor, after Scotus and the Aeneid."
Alone with the paper, and with trepidation, Peter pulled the Ordinatio (2. D.3, qq5-6) from the stack on his own desk. He experienced fresh sympathy for how Edmund and Susan had come to feel about tax codes. Locating the remains of Percy Fawcett in the jungles of Brazil probably would be easier. Stanley found Livingstone, didn't he?
Fifth I ask whether a material substance is 'this' and individual through matter?
Hence, with regard to what Aristotle proposed, I state that in the case of [things] that are not conceived with matter—i. e. not with an individual beingness that contracts the quiddity—the what-it-is is primarily the same as that to which it belongs, since the kind to which it belongs has no account outside the ratio of what is the what-it-is.
Hoping for a map through the metaphysical jungle, Peter began reviewing the Professor's edits to his Scotus essay. Even knowing that the criticism was intended for betterment, it was difficult, even painful, to read. He had been trying very hard (for the most part) to muddle through it, and there was a sense of wasted effort. Though feeling a bit weary for the argument, he reminded himself it was to build intellectual rigor and character, analogous to running up and down stairs in armour, or hours of practice in the lists with the swordmaster beating you about the head with cudgel. It kept one's sense of self-importance in check. Right?
Ed's reaction would be of a different ilk, something more akin to Bugger That. My character is plenty well developed enough. But then Edmund tended to suffer from an excess of character already and would have the luxury of flippancy as he would have had no difficulty with this material in the first instance.
Oh! Bless him, the Professor gave him an example! Cribbed in tiny scribble in the margins. Peter squinted, turned the paper sideways, and read:
Peter is a human person (H. sapiens), but Peter is also a man (gender male). So Peter is H. sapiens in the gender of Male. Scotus is to the species H. sapiens, in the gender of Male. Peter and Scotus both share fundamentals of genus, species and gender, but both Peter and Scotus possess a defining quality which makes Peter and Scotus uniquely who they are as individual Male Human Persons, a 'Peterness' or 'Scotusness' whereby Peter is not Scotus and Scotus is not Peter but uniquely and unrepeatably and individually Peter or Scotus – their 'thisness.' Peter is THIS Male H. sapiens and not THAT.
Discuss.
It was like a nightmarish hybrid of Richard's vertebrate biology and Mary's Linnean classification, by way of Scotus and the Professor's metaphysics on the nature of being. Peter saw what the Professor was trying to do, and loved the man all the more for it. Truly, though, Peter had no inkling of what the Professor had written at all.
Maybe Book VII of the Aeneid would be better.
Post hos insignem palma per gramina currum
uictoresque ostentat equos satus Hercule pulchro
pulcher Auentinus, clipeoque insigne paternum
centum anguis cinctamque gerit serpentibus Hydram
ipse pedes, tegimen torquens immane leonis,
terribili impexum saeta cum dentibus albis
indutus capiti, sic regia tecta subibat,
horridus Herculeoque umeros innexus amictu.
With the Latin dictionary and Douglas in hand, Peter began the labour, as surely as had Hercules, Herculeoque or Hercule, depending on whether it was genitive, dative, or nominative, or some other form.
The small part of Peter's brain not devoted to declensions always made a point of listening for Mary's step. Her stride was long and quick. She was always rushing from one thing to the next and did not slow down for anything. He did wonder what would happen in an impact between Mary and a brick wall, and suspected the wall would be the loser. Never did he more miss the advance warning his personal Guard could give. It was always useful to know ahead of time when someone approached. With Mary, he always needed a few moments to prepare for the bizarre, discordant moment when she walked into the room.
Her shocking similarity to the Dryad evaporated the moment Mary opened her mouth, or moved, or did absolutely anything. Still, it was unsettling, to perceive that vague feeling of Narnia, and then have it explode back into Here. It always left him slightly off balance, like a bout of sea sickness, and with the feeling that a headache lurked just around the corner.
At the beginning, he had wondered if Mary, Richard, or Asim might have been Elsewhere. The Professor had rounded on him pretty severely for that; Polly had as well. One did not have to go to Narnia to be interesting, to appreciate Creation, or to find Aslan, they both had insisted. To be sure, it had all just been much easier to find such things in Narnia than in this gray, War-torn place, and Peter had been there far longer than they had. Yet, in the Professor and Polly's broader view, Peter could see better the shortcomings of his own myopia.
Richard, Mary and Asim were all rooted here and it was their unique experiences here that had made them the incredible people that they were. Still, they did all echo in different ways and at different times some of the very best things of Narnia – a reverence for the Creator and respect for all His Creation, the passion for adventure, the regard for others, the love of learning, the abundant diversity, yet tolerance of differences, the skill at arms.
For Peter, Mary's particular echo was unfortunately also associated with a confusing dissonance. He did not understand it, could not reconcile it, and was not going to try to do so. Peter had enough to fret over with what he was supposed to be doing, and worrying about what Su and his parents were in for. Trying to divine the meaning of Mary Anning Russell, assuming there was any special meaning, was a distraction he did not need, and wasn't going to bother with.
centum anguis cinctamque gerit serpentibus Hydram. Serpens, serpentis 3rd declension, plural, serpensa ? serpentibus, dative of snakes, to the snakes? Hydra to the snakes? Snakes to the hydra?
Edmund suspected something. Peter had seen it in the last letter. It was a mistake he now realized to have not said more about her. Peter had not been able to think of a way to write it that would not have sent Edmund into a panicked state. Which, Edmund probably had ploughed into regardless. Good intentions and all that, with Peter now recalling why he was so disapproving when others tried to conceal things "for his own good." Hopefully, Lucy would be able to talk Edmund out of whatever tree limb their brother had crawled out on to, spinning his worst case conspiracies. He was an alarmist with a very active imagination. Concededly his shadowy concerns were usually justified, but not always.
Really, what did Edmund think? That Peter would do a Rabadash? Go mooning after one of the Professor's oldest friends and students? Make an ass of himself over a woman who was devoted to a man he respected a great deal and who was guarded by a knife-wielding assassin who had ridden with T.E. Lawrence in the Arab Revolts? Act like the Trils who just would not shut up about her? Oh yes, and then there was the fact that he was, to all appearances, sixteen.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
He hated being this age again. As Ed would say, an adolescent human male could look at a kitchen table and think of sex. Peter did think that this time around he was managing to approach it with a fair bit less idiocy. More than the tempers and all the rest, and really those were just something one dealt with and tried not to inflict upon others, the worst of it by far was the company he had to keep. At some point when the Trils were obsessing (again) over Mary with that revolting combination of lust, gossip, and ignorance, Peter had privately made the startling realization that he could envision pretty accurately what she looked like without her clothes on. The Dryad had had a knot on her trunk; he wondered if it would translate into a human birthmark and if so, where. He declined to share his hypothesis with the Trils.
Adj, pulcher, Masculine. beautiful, pulcher, puchri, pulchro, pulchro, pulcher Hercule pulchro, so masculine beautiful dative, To beautiful Hercules? Of beautiful Hercules? pulcher Auentinus, nominative, Beautiful Auentinus. Beautiful Auentinus to beautiful Hercules?
Granted, Mary was likely the most attractive female at the entire University this summer, except maybe the maids the Trils kept boasting about. However, given all the talk and the patent inaccuracies in that talk, Peter had concluded that those maids, or at least the Trils' touted experiences with them, were as real as the Loch Ness monster. Why did boys so vocally broadcast their ignorant, venal banality? It was so hard to not just bluntly contradict or correct them, but that would then lead to those questions of how he knew what the Trils didn't even know enough of to dream about. They would really do themselves and their future unfortunate partners a favor if they just found a decent book on the subject and tried to learn the basics of the biology.
That woman on the trail with the Labrador had been good-looking; her skirt was certainly slim enough. But, then how could someone move properly? It was just the sort of fashion that drove Edmund spare. Peter had come to the view that trousers on a woman really were preferable all around – more mobility for the woman, better sense of her legs for him.
The nurse who kept finding reasons to come into Richard's hospital room when Peter visited was very pretty, though that smart attitude was really something Ed appreciated more than he. Peter didn't like all that drama in his personal relationships.
I'm drifting again. What a truly stupid age to be, again. Peter firmly bundled up these disjointed and mostly feminine distractions and tossed them out the open window. Now was not the time. He would divide his attention just enough to listen for the footstep that would give him the warning he needed, and devote the rest that remained to conjugating Latin verbs and noun declensions.
Ipse pedes
Ipse, ipsa, ipsum… Himself!
Pedes… noun, 3d decl.. solider? Himself a solider?
Damn doctors, obviously without a clue unless you have a bullet in the chest. Mary could just scream for the inanity of them. There had to be something for Richard's tremors. A treatment for muscles? Or nerves, perhaps? Richard had never been especially nervous. Goodness, how could he be, given things like that cobra nest under the house and the hippo in the bathing pond? She'd need to go to the medical library and harass the students there for some ideas.
Students. Richard had wanted a copy of one of his C. fiber papers, but the Trils couldn't find the Journal in the Library. Mary suspected the Library's copy might actually be in their library at home. Digs probably had a copy of the article. She'd take a look for it in his office.
Digs. And Polly. She was to meet them at the pub at three. Plenty of time to take a look at Digs' binder and find the paper. She could just borrow it.
The door to Digs' office was open, and she walked right in.
"Oh! Hello, Peter! I was expecting Digs!"
Peter was bent over something moldy but not biological. He had been at it awhile. Mary knew that look well. She saw it in others regularly enough, but never endured it herself. If anything was that tedious, she'd never have the patience to see it through.
He rose to his feet, quite the young gentleman, but did not seem surprised to see her. "Hello Mary. I say, it's near one o'clock. Shouldn't you be meeting the Professor and Aunt Polly?"
The office wasn't usually this cramped. Goodness, the boy did have a way of taking up a lot of space.
"Plenty of time yet," she said dismissively. People who were punctual had too little to do. Mary looked over at the disgusting tome on the desk. "Oh dear God, Dunce Scotus again? Peter, how can you stand it? He is absolutely pedantic, deliberately obscure, and just dull."
Peter put his pencil down, scooting his chair under the desk, to face her, giving them both more room. "So tell me, Mary, how do you really feel about the Subtle Doctor?"
"Loathsome. I really do not know whether to be impressed or appalled that you persevere through it. In fact…" Yes, now would be a good opportunity. Very seriously, clasping hands prayerfully, she intoned, just like Reverend Essex had in Hong Kong, "Peter, I wish to make a full confession."
Peter looked thoroughly alarmed. "Mary, I don't wish to hear your confession for ever so many reasons."
"Sarcasm? Peter, I didn't know you were sarcastic."
Mary went over to the bookcase and pulled Digs' Russell binder from the shelf. She pushed a stack of paper to one side, and hopped on to Digs' desk.
"Only occasionally. It is my brother who has refined it to an art form. Also, my sister Susan can convey an entire conversation laced with irony by raising a single eyebrow."
Mary put her glasses on and peered at the boy, speaking most sternly. "Don't divert me, young man. You do that a lot, and I won't be put off. Stop looming like a crow in the corner there. Sit back down."
He just gave her a bland, I'm sure I couldn't possibly know what you mean look. This bullying worked so well with the Trils. Obviously, Peter had been getting coaching in Mary Management from Asim, Digs, and Richard. Treacherous louts. Peter did at least sit, so following some instruction was evidently within his grasp.
Mary did want an answer to a question that had been vexing her ever since Peter Pivensee blithely rolled into Digs' life. She wanted to understand and this Enigma was not going avoid it with his typical evasiveness.
"I want to confess that I can't keep Scotus or some of this other drivel in my head at all. I keep notes on these topics that I know are of such importance to Digs. Before I see him, I review my notes so I do not sound the utter idiot when speaking."
So that is what shock looked like on young Peter's face. She made note of it.
"You cram? Before seeing the Professor?"
"Yes. Silly, isn't it, but there it is. It's such an academic's way of doing things. I suppose it's a remnant of when he tutored me and my desire for him to think well of me, a desire I have not had the sense to outgrow."
He did not laugh at her. That was a good decision on Peter's part; she might box his ears if he had.
"This is a confession Mary. I'm afraid though that absolution is quite beyond this humble servant. My understanding, though, you certainly have. I understand very well."
Sympathy. He did do an adequate job of conveying sympathy. Interesting too because Peter was also sympathizing. Which meant that this paragon of virtue understood the importance of having Digs' approval, the insecurity of potentially not having it, and was, despite every outward appearance, striving to maintain it.
She shrugged it off, a little. "Now, I know that Digs does not review the latest Proceedings of the Royal Geography Society before seeing me. And I doubt he would be able to find his way out of the Sahara with nothing but a compass, a camel and a canteen of water. But, his good opinion does matter to me. Enormously."
He gave her an infuriatingly askance look. "Mary, did you really make it out of the Sahara with nothing but a camel, a compass, and a canteen of water, was it Asim who did it, or are you just having one on me?"
Impudent. Mary did not like that at all, or what it suggested. "Peter, just because I am a woman, does not mean I don't know how to read a map or orienteer. Would your sisters let you escape a slight like that unscathed?"
"If I was implying a poor assessment of their abilities, you can be sure they would not. Both my sisters have very firm temperaments, each in her own way, and will use pointed force to carry the day when necessary, including on my poor person."
"So worse still, you question my veracity?" Really, he could be very aggravating. "You should be asking which time, and it's not limited to the Sahara. The time the camels died? The time I was with Father Lapparent? I didn't cross the Sinai in 48 hours, like Lawrence claimed, but I have crossed it."
She jumped off the desk, grabbed The New Conquest of Central Asia from Digs' shelf and dropped it next to Peter's essay on his desk. Ouch. From the immediately recognizable scrawl, she knew from years of painful experience that Digs had had plenty to say on Peter's interpretation of the Dread Dunce, Doctor Scotus. Which would bring her back even more urgently to the question he kept diverting her from asking. Which she would ask just as soon she corrected this deplorable misapprehension of his about her competency.
Opening the book, she pointed to one of the plates. "That's the Gobi Desert of Mongolia. That's me, Roy Chapman Andrews, and 25 Bactrian camels. They have two humps. In the Sahara, those are Dromedary camels, with only one hump. Of course, I was about ten in this picture, but I hope you are getting the appropriate view here, Peter."
Mary was going to snap the book shut on his nose when she spied another photographic plate on a facing page. She caught her breath. Oh My Goodness. She grabbed the book and held it close, looking both with and without her reading glasses. Could that be it? She turned to the pages where she knew the other photographs were. This was uncanny. Absently, she began searching her trousers for a pencil.
"Mary?" She felt a hand brush her arm. Blinking, she refocused on where she was. She was not at the Flaming Cliffs, brushing red dust from white rock and bone. Digs' office. 1942. With Peter Pevsnee.
"Sorry, Peter. I was having a flashback to that expedition. I've just realized something. Something unbelievably important."
Peter handed her his pencil. "Do you want to write it down?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Do you need some paper?"
Mary grabbed her satchel from where she'd left it on the floor and dumped its contents on to Peter's desk. Notebook. She dug through the bag, tossing on to the desk and over Peter's haphazard papers, her compass, pocketknife, torch, a package of nuts, measuring tape, magnifying glass, brush (for specimens, not hair, unless the specimen had hair), and the many other accouterments to a well-stocked lady's handbag. "No thanks." She found her field book (of course) at the bottom and quickly turned to a blank page.
G= P andrewsi? Parietal = wing? Beak? Tail? Credit 2 P. Pesevsnee
With a breath, she brought herself back from the moment. She needed to go back to the library. This wasn't work for the Trils either; it was more subtle than that. In fact, they were the wrong sort for this altogether. Then, she had to find the right plaster block in the ballroom. She hoped it was in the ballroom. If it was in the cellar or the carriage house, that would entail the assistance of lots of native tribesmen to move it. Mr. Patel would help. She was sure it was there; where was the trick.
But now, I have a theory. An absolutely fabulous, unbelievable, amazing theory. I am so very clever!
She wanted to crow about it from the rooftops, but that wasn't how these things worked. It was a slim hypothesis, and now it needed the hard effort of testing and proving it. I could be doing this until the War ends. But, that's fine, because everything I need is here. It was a brightening, reassuring thought.
"Well, Peter, without that potential slur to my skills and veracity, I would not have looked in Roy's book. I've had a Eureka moment. Lots more work, but maybe a breakthrough and so I thank you for that."
"Always glad to be of service, and I really didn't intend to malign you or your skills at all." He had his hand out.
Pencil. He probably knew she was a criminal mastermind specializing in pencil thievery. She gave it back.
"That's not what it sounded like to me, Peter."
"For that I do apologize. Simply put, anything involving a desert, a camel and a canteen was going to be a good story and I was hoping to goad you into telling one. I'll be sure to couch the request in more agreeable terms next time."
She had to smile, her pique soothed. For one so young, Peter did know how to charm. In fact, all things considered, he was quite charming, particularly when compared to the slightly older but far less mature Trils. It was very odd, and not something she had especially noticed before. Asim had his theories, each more fanciful than the last. Mary, however, just hadn't quite seen what was so very special about Peter Pesenvee and had declined to join the cult of hero worship that seemed to surround him. Maybe this was part of what Asim had perceived and meant.
"I've become quite accustomed to Richard jotting things down," Peter was continuing. "The Professor does the same thing. I might feel motivated to follow the example and keep a notebook and pencil of my own, but I can't say as I have so many of those moments of clear insight that would warrant the bother."
He began handing over the equipment from her bag she had scattered over his work space. Peter did not seem overly fastidious, but Sahara sand was leaking on the Latin translations. Those, like the Scotus essay, bore the very heavy imprint of Professor Kirke's editorial commentary.
"Reeling and Writhing," she said with empathy of her own, gesturing toward the written over papers with her compass.
"So the Mock Turtle replied." A shade of grimness flitted across Peter's countenance, then disappeared. "I'm not sure though about the different branches of Arithmetic."
"Perhaps no Ambition and Derision, but certainly Distraction and Uglification."
Peter tapped the notebook in her hand with his pencil. "Speaking of reeling and writhing things in notebooks, Mary, you should check the time you wrote down for meeting Aunt Polly and the Professor. I clearly remember it was one o'clock, and it's passed that already."
"No, it was three." She flipped to the page. "See… oh, I guess it was one." She shrugged, picking up the bag of nuts from the desk that had been in her bag since the Sahara. "Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting!"
"I am getting much better about your random quoting of Alice." He handed her the measuring tape and some string.
"It's not random, Peter. Each quote I use is perfectly matched to the occasion."
"But of course it is, Mary."
"Sarcasm! Twice in one conversation! This must surely be a record for you."
"Say, what's this?" Peter asked, giving her a small, gritty parcel that had spilled out of her satchel.
"Oh! I forgot I had that! Let me show you!" Carefully she unwrapped the cotton wad and oilcloth package to reveal seven inches of bone crushing, conical tooth. She handed it to Peter.
"That is impressive," Peter said, weighing it in his hand. She heartily approved of the awe that crept into his voice.
"It is, isn't it?"
"What is it?"
"One of the really massive, crushing teeth I found in the Sahara. If the scale holds, a tooth that size would have been in the mouth of a 40 foot long crocodile."
He whistled appreciatively. "That's the length of a train car."
"Yes, with over one hundred of Asim's daggers for teeth. Just imagine something that big, stomping about the swamps of the Sahara, tearing into tender dinosaur flesh and gulping it down. Really magnificent," she concluded with a lusty sigh.
Peter winced. That was not the first time she had noted it. "What? You winced. What did I say?"
He was trying to laugh it off, but he was squirming too. "Nothing, Mary. Truly."
"I won't be diverted, Peter." She parked herself squarely on the corner of his desk. He'd have to go out the window or bodily remove her from his path to escape. "You have my full attention and I've already made one confession. Under principles of reciprocity, it's your turn."
He blew out a rueful breath. "It's that you are fond of that particular adjective."
Adjective? He had a problem with an adjective? How peculiar. "Which one? Oh, you mean, 'magnificent?'"
Peter nodded reluctantly.
"I suppose I am fond of it. It's such a terrific word to describe really enormous, magnificent reptiles."
"And owl vomit, fossilized dinosaur dung, drooling Komodo dragons, and boa constrictors swallowing mice. All have qualified for that adjective in your observation."
"You certainly are paying more attention than I thought you were. Why is an adjective a problem for you?"
"Not a problem," Peter corrected quickly.
She pushed her glasses down her nose and peered over them at him. Was that a slight blush? Surely not. Must be a trick of the light. Yet, he did seem effacing and affected by it. It was the most emotion she'd seen out of him all summer. She'd come to assume that Peter had no emotion to speak of and that he was all about being quite properly self-regulated at all times. Again, a rather marked contrast to the Trils.
"So, if not a problem, then what?" Mary was prepared to persevere and camp out at the desk corner until she got her answer. It was a tiny chink in the impervious armour of Peter Penseive, and one she would probe further.
He squirmed again then finally admitted, "My brother and sisters use the term to try to wind me up."
"Oh, they tease you? You permit them to tease you?"
He ignored the second and answered the first.
"Yes. To them, it's a word that is closely associated with me, if you follow. So you associating it with seven inch teeth from an extinct crocodile the size of a lorry would give them no end of amusement."
"Or owl vomit. Or drooling dragons."
"In one. I am certain that if any of them heard you, I would never hear the end of it from them."
What an interesting dilemma. Peter simply didn't seem to be the sort with much sense of humour. He was very serious for so young a person.
"So, do I persist, in order to please them, or desist, in order to make it less personal for you?"
"You needn't do either, Mary. You asked why I reacted, and I told you."
"True." Still, she expected that Peter permitted his brother and sisters to take liberties that he would not allow others to take. If she persisted in using the term, she might actually get some sort of emotional reaction from him. It would likely be a negative one. It could be an interesting hypothesis to test.
Peter handed the tooth back to her and she began wrapping it up again.
"So, why do you think it's a crocodile and not a dinosaur?" He was changing the subject again, undoubtedly to keep her from using the word "magnificent."
"I think between the scutes I found, those are scales, along with shape of the teeth, it's most likely crocodilian and not a dinosaur, but we'd need a skeleton to be sure." Magnificent didn't really fit in that sentence.
"Are crocodiles that different from dinosaurs? I had always thought they were a sort of living dinosaur."
"Paleontologically speaking, crocodiles are older than dinosaurs, and are totally different animals for all that both are reptiles. They are both ruling archosaurs, but dinosaurs are unique in the structure of their hips ..."
"Hips?" Peter echoed, sounding alarmed.
"Yes, as compared to other reptiles like lizards and crocodilians, the hips of the dinosaur are…"
Peter made a hurried, silencing gesture. "Mary, I apologize for inadvertently stumbling into this subject and now interrupting you, but I am under strict instructions to not discuss hips with you under any circumstances."
Mary pushed her glasses down her nose again and stared down this very irritating young man. This was one of her favorite topics and he didn't want to hear about it? Intolerable.
"What in blazes are you talking about?"
Peter slid his chair away, warding her off with his hands. " The Professor said that should you begin discussing that subject in my presence, he shall feel compelled to write my mother and explain that he has failed in his moral duty to protect her beloved, innocent child from the unwholesome influence of a notorious evolutionist. The Professor will also give my mother your name and address so that she may give full vent to her feelings in correspondence to you.
Oh dear God.
Peter pushed his chair back further still. "Richard informed me that should you begin discussing that subject when he is present, that I am to immediately leave the room for eleven minutes, during which time, well I cannot possibly speculate what would occur being the beloved and innocent child that I am. If he is not present, I am to immediately direct you to wherever he is. So, Mary, your husband is in the hospital, and if you persist in the topic, you are to go see him. Should you chose not to seek your husband, Richard instructed me that I was to immediately leave the room and not return for seven minutes. I'm sure I don't know what he meant, but these were his instructions."
Oh Richard, I love you so much. Seven minutes. Goodness, would it take that long? Eleven with Richard? I don't think it took that long in the back of that merchant's stall in Cairo. Or in the luggage compartment on the train from Bombay. She'd have to find a stopwatch at home and time it out.
"Last, and most worrisome of all to me, is Asim's caution. He said that it would take a braver man than he to endure more than ten minutes of your discussion on that subject. As he is a soldier, an experienced fighter, and a brave man indeed, I cannot imagine what you might say that could be so concerning to him. However, I shall heed his advice and not attempt to find out."
She laughed and threw up her hands, conceding defeat. Really, what else could she do against the combined might, cleverness, and guile of Asim, Richard, and Digs together? She could overcome it, eventually, but it would be a tedious business.
"As I do not wish to be accused of contributing to your delinquency or truancy any more than I already have, Peter, I shall desist in discussing that subject, alright?"
"Thank you, Mary." She thought she heard a trace of smugness in his tone. Mary Management, indeed.
Peter was dusting the sand from his desk and blowing the fine grains off his wasteland of an essay. "I am certain my mother most especially thanks you for the delicacy you are affording my tender years."
"Oh! Sarcasm! You were sarcastic again!"
She took the tooth and put it back in her bag. That first Sahara expedition with Lapparent had been a good one. One guide, three camels, miles of Sahara, dozens of teeth and scutes. Where was Lapparent now? Dead? Imprisoned? Collaborating? She sighed heavily, the brooding anxiety smothering her, smothering them all, again. Bloody War.
Peter's voice intruded on her thoughts. "Mary?"
"Sorry. Just the Distraction branch of Arithmetic, as the Mock Turtle would say. I was wondering where Lapparent was, is, whatever. I was with him when we found teeth the first time. He's a brilliant archeologist and won the Cuvier Prize. He's also a French Jesuit priest, so it's really hard to know what has happened to him. I've not heard from him in over a year."
"Richard mentioned that's true for a number of your European colleagues."
"Yes." She tucked the notebook in and closed up her bag. "It's not just the fear that they may be dead, either. I dread to think that they are Nazis or sympathizers, or worse still, have thrown in behind Hitler's perverted causes."
Mary picked up Roy's book to return it to its rightful place on Digs' shelf. They had several copies at home, some even that did not belong to university libraries.
"Like everyone, I really want this War over. But, I do worry about what we face afterwards. Sentence first, verdict afterwards, I suppose, just like in Alice. It will be an ugly business."
Crossing back to Digs' desk, she sat down on it again and started leafing through the binder, looking for the C. fiber paper Richard wanted.
"It would not be right at all to condemn people that way," she heard Peter say. "Even traitors may mend, if given the opportunity to do so."
She looked up from the articles, surprised he said anything, having considered her musings more rhetorical. Peter was tapping his pencil on the desk, staring into the middle distance at a space on the worn carpet.
"So, you take a more compassionate view of this?" she asked.
He looked up and Mary was struck by how very somber Peter was. It was a very serious subject, and she would not have expected someone as young as he was to have given it such contemplative thought.
"I do," he admitted. Peter began moving the scattered, now slightly dusty, papers around on the desk. "Justice has to be done, of course, though not sentence first. Only God knows what is in someone's heart. All we know is what the accused says and does. If those indicate repentance, than yes, I believe compassion is the appropriate response."
"I certainly wish that to be true," Mary agreed. It would be so much more hopeful to believe repentance and redemption were possible. She might fear less what the truths at the end of the War could reveal.
Of course, Mary would prefer most if everyone did the right thing in the first instance, as she would do. "It doesn't bother you that someone might call you naïve for thinking that way?"
"I don't consider justice tempered by compassion and providing the opportunity for repentance and reform to be naïve. Regardless, I don't worry too much about what most people call me," Peter admitted, fiddling with the pencil.
"So long as it isn't a sibling teasing about 'magnificent.'"
"Keep that up and it will be the last thing I ever disclose to you, ever."
He said it lightly, but Mary heard something very firm beneath it as well. It was a promise, even a threat, backed by the conviction to see it through. She actually felt a bit chastened, having not previously considered this undesirable consequence. She grimaced. "Duly noted."
"And speaking of acts of contrition, you are going to owe the Professor and Aunt Polly an apology for being almost an hour late."
"I am so glad you raised it, Peter!"
His look sharpened, but there was no escape now.
"This brings us nicely back to my confession wherein I admitted to trying to relearn Scotus' metaphysics and haecceitas every time I meet Digs for a drink at a pub."
Mary again mimicked the prayerful handclasp from her desktop perch. She thought she probably looked like a gargoyle.
"For my contrition, I have decided on an act of works, Peter, and wish to emulate your fine example. So that I might follow in your footsteps, tell me, what did you do to secure Digs' good opinion so that I might do the same?"
With a tilt of her head she indicated the ruinous Scotus essay and sandy, marked up translations on the desk. "Because you certainly have his good opinion and yet it is not due to your acumen at deciphering the Dread Dunce or translating Latin."
Peter's eyes flicked toward the heavily corrected work, then returned to her own, guarded, as if he had revealed something he would have preferred to conceal. He was suddenly and impressively impassive. It was like smacking into a brick wall. Round and round in circles and all she had learned was that he didn't like the adjective "magnificent" and was occasionally sarcastic. He could be very charming, could be empathetic without being sentimental, and was repressively optimistic that people could mend their ways, but wasn't stupid about it either. This was more than she knew at the beginning of the summer, but not much more. The one new, critical piece of information she now possessed was that to her utter surprise Peter Pesenvie was not the Classics prodigy she had assumed him to be based upon Digs' singing praises and accolades.
Squinting, she tried, again but simply did not see what Asim said was plainly there.
And Richard? Richard loved Peter as he loved his children and most cherished students, but with a regard he reserved for people like Louis Leakey and Digory Kirke – an echelon of esteem so high, Mary wasn't sure if her husband even put his own wives in it.
In this exchange she did finally sense what Asim had described before - the shift when Peter went from adolescent to something else. Again, Asim had his theories, while Mary was reminded of a brick wall.
"Back to that point, again?" Peter asked. "The issue on which you would not be diverted?"
"I was hoping to lull you into complacency."
Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm afraid I really can't tell you, Mary."
"Can't?"
"Can't," he repeated, very firmly.
Goodness, Peter possessed a will she would not want to try to cross on a whim.
"I don't know what I've done to deserve here what you describe as the Professor's esteem. To me he does speak with very high regard for your intelligence, energy, and experience. I believe you do have his good opinion, and I think you would continue to have it, mastery of metaphysics, or not."
"Really?" Mary wished she had not sounded so hopeful, but she truly wished to understand. It was neither academic prowess nor life experience that had put Peter where he was in Digs' pantheon of valued people. But if not those qualities, then what was it?
"Yes." Peter paused, and then began speaking even more carefully. "There is one thing on which I am certain the Professor does not respect you, though."
"What's that?" Mary muttered with a growl and a huff. She pretended to return to the binder of articles.
"Your punctuality. It's near two, and time for you to go."
"Oh. Well, I suppose I can live with that." Aha! She found it! She slid the C. fiber paper out of the binder under Peter's watchful eye. I'll return it. I'll have to, because Peter will tell Digs I took it.
"Why don't you mull that over on the walk to the pub?"
Chapter 13, Crossroads Part 3 to follow
In which we learn what Asim thinks of all of this and telegrams are received and sent.
Everything I knew about Latin I learned over 25 years ago.
There are lots of real world references. One I will call out is Roy Chapman Andrews, an American paleontologist, explorer, and director of the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. He is frequently cited as one of the inspirations for Indiana Jones. Percy Fawcett is also a cited inspiration for Dr. Jones. Fawcett's search for the Lost City of Z and subsequent unsolved disappearance is woven into the most recent Indiana Jones film, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.
The "hips" discussion, apart from being one of Mary's manias, is in fact an important distinction in tetrapod anatomy, and does make dinosaurs anatomically distinct from a lizard or crocodile.