Noology (6 page)

 
Peering over the stunted wooden gate into the box stall, I
surreptitiously watch as the new mother grooms her twiggy colt. He sways on
splayed legs, desperately struggling to keep his balance as she unfurls her
snout to lick his body with her serpent tongue.

“What are their names?” I question.

“The mother is Lustre and the baby is
called Gloss. Not the most creative, but I do my best.”

“I love them. How was her delivery?”

“Really easy, actually. She just popped
the little devil out in under an hour. He was ready to see the world for
himself,” Bryn replies with a chuckle.

Gloss begins stalking towards us, no
trace of trepidation in his wobbling steps. I reach out my hand when he is
close enough to touch, but Lustre growls from the depths of her core in
warning. I retreat behind the barricade and am content to watch the master at
work on her charge. The fragile young colt explores the straw bedding with
huffing snorts, and soon a tremendous sneeze explodes from his nose, shaking
his entire frame with its vibration.

“Bless you, Gloss,” I offer. He whinnies
in reply, and collapses on his mother, suddenly exhausted by his investigations.
We watch as heavy lids seal his eyes and he drifts into a peaceful sleep.

Bryn and I pivot and begin retracing our
steps back down the aisle way. I stop at the third door on the right, searching
my navy rucksack for a lone sacred sugar cube I stole from the kitchens this
morning. I intercepted the sparkling white block before anyone suspected its
disappearance, and it maintained its geometric shape despite being contained in
my sweating palm. The sairns relish sugar even though they otherwise only
consume radioactive chemicals and hazardous waste materials. I guess this
speaks to the semi-toxic of this substance, a fact ignored by generations of
past peoples that swore by the granulated dust.

“Leo!” I call, clucking at the half-open
stall entrance lined with intricate silken spiderwebs and captive insect prey.
A slender nose inches over the paneling, sniffing anxiously at my closed fist.
“Come on, say hello.”

A gigantic emerald head emerges and I
extend my fingers to offer up the sugar cube. Leo slurps up the gift, nosily
crushing the treat with small molars hidden deep in the recesses of his
multifunctional nose/mouth. I stroke his forehead, whispering praises against
his temple. I was entrusted with the duty of naming Leo since I was present
during his birth just under two years ago. I chose his name to pay homage to
the great Leonardo Da Vinci: a unique human specimen and true Renaissance man.
Personally, I think that if mankind is to persevere we must once again learn to
adopt multifaceted careers with roots in the humanities as well as the medical
field. Otherwise, the pressure may drive us to our destruction and untimely
demise.

I grab a stained rag and cracked plastic
bucket of water from the silver rack beside the door and venture into the pen,
judiciously latching the gate behind me. I begin gingerly bathing Leo with the
wet cloth, careful not to rub his tender sides too vigorously. After
eliminating the film of sticky secretions from his body, I pat him robustly
with my free hand and leave the cramped stall. Just as I turn to disembark, I
blow three times into his extended nostril and look him square in the eye,
murmuring my goodbye. He nods one last appreciative farewell and returns to his
slumber.

Hustling down the stone corridor, I
almost crash into Bryn as he methodically harnesses two of the petite sairns to
the university medical carriage that mimics an ancient ambulance. The sairns
cannot be ridden, but must instead be driven by coachmen since their sensitive
digestive filtration systems must never be obstructed by either saddles or
human bodies. A sairn will become deadly and volatile upon experiencing the
suffocating sensation triggered by a blocked filter.

“Can you help me for a second?” Bryn
requests as he labors to fit the yoke to the dancing beasts.

 
I summon my courage and snatch the reins from him, quickly
turning my attention to the eye of the closest sairn. As I delve beneath my
likeness reflected in its glassy surface, I stare into the slightly fearful
chocolate iris branded with a ruby “U”. All captive sairns are tattooed on
their eyes with the signature of the organization responsible for them, in this
case the university. This documents ownership as well as culpability in the
event that disturbances occur.

As I continue to level my gaze upon the
transfixed sairn, I sense the tension oozing out of his neck and shoulders.
Finally, the defiantly frightened expression previously seated in his face succumbs
to my tactics and a submissive one takes its place. I repeat the exercise on
the second sairn, but he is easier to convince having witnessed the relaxation
of his fellow. I hand the reins back to Bryn, and he marvels at my skill in
handling the reluctant chauffers.

“It’s all in the eyes. If you get control
of their gaze, their minds and wills will follow.” With this philosophical
tidbit, I take my leave.

Crossing the expansive medical campus and
returning through the woods to the dormitory, I savor the minute details of my
escapade. I cling to the syrupy smells of the sairns, the slippery texture of
their jade backs, and particularly the haunted gaze of their expressive mocha
eyes. As the oppressive jagged building looms before me, I spend one last moment
immersed in the wondrous world of these glorious monsters. My trips to the barn
to visit and care for the sairns keep me sane, keep me grounded, keep me
breathing. Without this pseudo-therapy, I am a papyrus butterfly fighting
against howling gales to remain in place, alive and with access to the nectar
of bulging marigold blossoms. I must outcompete not only my peers, but also my
own self-expectations in this flurry of study and evaluation.

I timidly slip through the glass doors,
and reenter the academic battlefield with renewed energy, but perhaps lacking
some respect for its relevance.
  
 
 
 

The splash of clear water along my brow
enlivens my senses, and my neck tingles as droplets cascade down my protruding
collarbone. Studying my reflection in the square glass mirror, I trace the
maroon depressions ringing my eyes. I haven’t slept well, and my vacant
expression attests to my fitful night. I grope along the wall until my probing
fingers encounter the course towel hanging mournfully from its mount upon the
rusty bar. Expediently patting my face, I bolster my spirits and venture into
the cold, forbidding hallway.

Gentle puffs of dust whirl through the
stale air, illuminated by the shards of light penetrating the cracked exterior
of the dormitory. My pulse quickens, my heart an unruly stallion racing ever
faster. Today is a day I have been dreading: midterm examinations. There are
always continuous evaluations on a weekly or even daily basis for classes, but
the heavily weighted midterms and finals are enough to make one’s very soul
quiver with trepidation and anxiety. My stomach has contorted itself into a
bundle of nerves, and I fight to suppress the urge to gag. Claustrophobia sets
in, and suddenly I need air.

I explode through the brittle doors, and
double over instantaneously as I gasp and heave. Suddenly, I feel a slight
pressure on the small of my back, and I snap straight to see Tate behind me.

“Don’t DO that!” I scream, trying to
silence my frayed nerve endings. He apologizes, but remains firmly in place.

“I saw you run out the door, and figured
you could use some help. Is everything okay?”

“Of course everything isn’t okay!
Midterms start today, and you know I have crippling test anxiety, Tate.”

“I forgot. Sorry,” he muttered like a
whipped mutt, trying to melt into the scenery rather than face harsh judgment.
It isn’t his fault; Tate is excused from midterms this semester because his
SMART’s are fast approaching so it’s only natural that he failed to realize the
stresses bothering my narcissistic self.

I lock him in a strong embrace,
whispering into his scratchy woolen coat. “I’m sorry for yelling,” I whimper.
“Do you hate me?”

“Obviously. Why would you even ask such a
trivial question, especially when you already know the answer?” he jests with a
sly grin.

My breathing has slowed and I feel safe
trapped in his sturdy arms. “I have to go. My exams start soon.” I grudgingly
pry myself from his grasp and meander down the lane to the university.

“Wait,” Tate bellows. He closes the short
distance between us in a few long strides. “I’ll come with you; for luck. I
have to go to the library anyways and check out some new resources for the
SMART’s.”

I attempt to focus on the pungent smell
of the imposing pines as they leak amber sap down their gnarled trunks. I try
to drown out the negative voices in my head with the subtle songs of the
finches as they dart through the hollow trees, but my efforts are futile. Eventually,
I condemn myself to my purgatory and observe the thoughts as they bloom into
fearful paranoia.

Before realize it, we are at the foot of
the yellowing marble staircase that leads to the examination hall. Tate grabs
my trembling hands, and looks into my wide sapphire eyes.

“You will do exceptionally, I know it. Be
strong, focus, and remember to breathe. You are your own worst enemy and
biggest critic, so just try to relax.” With these final words of wisdom, he
gingerly pecks my forehead and strolls towards the campus library.

I count to three: one, two, three, and thrust
the bulky oak door aside. Surveying the endless void, I spot Nirvana along the
far side of the room. I discretely slither into the unoccupied seat beside her,
communicating a mute “good luck” with a curt nod.

The proctor delivers his memorized
instructions and regulations, pointedly emphasizing academic honesty and
integrity. No one would dream of cheating in such a juvenile manner nowadays
anyways; everything is done behind the scenes in the bathrooms of dormitories
with a handful of vibrant pills. Finally, he meticulously deposits a brick on
each of our desks consisting of a patchwork of papers bound by a thin rubber
band. Our exams have been extracted from the plethora of ancient testing
materials stored in the filing cabinets of decaying medical schools across the
country that are now mere ghost towns. Since human physiology has remained
unchanged, the resources are repurposed and the population decline has ensured
that there are more than enough supplies to go around. All third year students
will take the same exams and classes together, the only exception being
students preparing for their SMART’s.
 
 

“You may begin,” booms the proctor’s
commanding baritone.

I rip open the dense booklet, read the
first question, and begin rapidly scribbling my answer. All around me, a flurry
of movement burgeons and bubbles like an ominous brew. I ignore my
surroundings, and focus on the ivory page as words writhe and squirm before my
incredulous eyes. Easy. You can do this. I strain to overcome my impulses, and
achieve a mental acuteness that will propel me through this exercise.

Tate’s words replay in my head, “Be
strong, focus, and remember to breathe.” I inhale deeply, contain the air, and
release it with a smooth compression of my lungs.

“Question 2: If a patient enters the
hospital complaining of respiratory distress and mild intestinal discomfort,
what should you prescribe?” I know this. I craft a succinct answer, and
continue answering each question as if it were a mere trifle separating me from
my happiness and self-fulfillment.

As I stepped boldly through the stone
arch marking the exit from the cavernous hall, the blinding sun pierces my eyes
and I squint in pain. I fumble down the stairs, and begin the arduous journey
back to the dorm with Nirvana to accompany me.

“What are your plans for the holiday?”
she queries.

After our midterm and final examinations,
we are granted a one-week reprieve from the rigors of academia to visit family
and friends. It is one practice in place to protect the fragile minds the
university so often disturbs with its barrage of competitive evaluations.

“I am going to head home to spend the
week with my parents and Rian. You?”

“Same. My mom just announced she’s
pregnant again, so it should be a blast” she sarcastically whines. “I swear,
the woman needs her tubes tied!” Nirvana is the eldest in a family of six
brothers and sisters; well, I guess it is about to be seven. Outwardly, she
resents her position as first-born with a fiery hatred, but I think she
sincerely loves to mentor her siblings.

“Sometimes I wish I had younger siblings
to advise,” I reveal.

“Please, take one off my hands!” she
moans. “I get no sleep, and they are constantly bugging me with trivial
questions. I want to strangle most of them, and smother the rest!” She growls
in frustration, but a smile lights up her eyes.

We round the final bend and gaze upon our
dilapidated residence with a fondness reflective of the trials we just endured.
I wish her safe travels as we part on the second floor, and continue on to the
third. I grab a quick snack, a scarred blood orange, and retire to my room.