The Whispers (3 page)

To stand in the presence of Professor Praun is to know whether one’s wobbly knees can actually support one’s weight. Though many are intimidated by his mere presence, others tremble at his reputation for keeping a strict classroom and stricter grade book. Perpetually foul of eye and mood, the man wears a razor-sharp black goatee dusted lightly with silver. That’s the only bit of hair on his smooth, dark head. Even his eyebrows are shaven; strange as it looks, it’s a unique style they used to take on when he himself was a student.

“Jennifer,” he says, his cool voice ringing across the unnecessarily enormous and reverberant office he keeps.

“Professor.” I stop halfway across the room, unable to bear the sound of my footsteps echoing loudly.

He’s facing away from me, staring out of the glass wall that forms the north side of his office, his hands clasped behind his back. With the glow of the sun on his skin, in this moment he appears godly.

“You came to me as a Theories major,” he states.

I swallow once. “Yes, professor.”

“Specialized in History and Mythology.”

“Yes. Right.”

“As a studier of Mythology, you further specialized in the … Undead.”

Just that tiny pause in his sentence pours a cold and discomforting stream of anxiety down my body. It does not matter the progress I’ve made in my time here nor how much of a grown woman I think I’ve become; in this instant, I’m an unlearned child with noodles for knees.

He turns finally, gracing me with his cold, stern eyes, the whites flashing brightly in contrast with his dark skin.

“Tell me, Jennifer. What first inspired you to abandon your course of study and shift to a pure Histories major?”

Unable to meet his eyes, I address the general vicinity of his throat when I answer. “I found it fascinating.”

“And you felt that a wise decision?”

Obviously it wasn’t, as is evidenced by this meeting.
Of course, that’s not what I answer. Still staring at his throat, I say, “I … felt at the time that I connected more with … with studies of our past … and—”

“Your dissertation is due in just one week’s time.” He takes a few steps in my direction, coming around the front of his desk. “There is quite a stirring in the conversations of my students. I may speak all day in auditoriums, but I listen twice as well. That’s why we’re born with two ears and one mouth.”

“A stirring in conversations of your students?” I echo, afraid to connect the dots.

“Everyone is so very, very,
very
curious about … one particular part of your dissertation.”

“I know,” I say at once, caving, trembling, suffocating. Is there any air in this room at all? “I know what you said. I remember every word of our conversation, but I—”

“Come.”

He moves across the office, drawing close to a round table upon which a holograph of our planet floats lazily. I stand on the other side of the table. Sweat has gathered under my arms. My throat is clenching shut, as if refusing me the right to breathe.

“Here,” he says, pointing at the holograph. It shows the planet glimmering in hues of green and gold. “See?”

I nod wordlessly.

“Our university, right by the ocean, edge of the world. Look at our forests. Look at Crystal River, see it?”

I nod again, staring listlessly at the professor’s jacket visible through the flickering holographic image.

“We have water. We have food in ample supply, and we mind the recycling of our resources. We are a diligent, self-sustaining society. Do you know who wasn’t?”

Obviously. Everyone does. It’s half my dissertation.

“
Them,
” he mutters, spinning the holograph of the planet around with one dramatic wave of his hand. In striking contrast, the other side of the world is dark and colorless, its landmasses appearing like giant blots of ink and ruin, its oceans a sickening, mottled purple.

I would never dream of disrespecting Professor Praun, but how can he call into question all of my work when I haven’t even yet presented it to him? “Please, professor,” I begin to beg. “I know what they’re all saying, but I—”

“It’s an embarrassment to the Histories department,” he declares, each of his words like an icicle into my chest; I feel their effect in my fingertips. “Nothing can survive there, living
or
dead. It’s a ruined realm beyond the sun’s reach, nothing more. It’s a reminder of our past mistakes, and how greedy our ancestors were. Nothing. More.”

“The Sunless Reach,” I recite. “They call it the Sunless Reach, where the Dead live and the Living die, and—”

“Your Beautiful Dead do not exist.”

I swallow hard. I feel the hint of tears grace my eyes, which frustrates me to no end, how my face betrays me. The last thing I want is for Professor Praun to witness me cry; he wouldn’t spare an inch of sympathy for me.

“I warned you, Jennifer Steel.”

I can’t meet his eyes, nor speak. I’m struggling to keep all the tears in my face and not allow a single one to spill.

“I warned you when you began your dissertation. I witnessed the embarrassment of your first presentation at the start of last term, and when you shifted your studies to the Histories, I
warned
you to tread lightly in my department, yet your arrogance persists.”

Staring at the holographic world—one half alive, one half not—I manage one last plea: “P-Professor …”

He steps close, too close. “If you print a
word
about your so-named Beautiful Dead, you will be expelled from Skymark University. If I so much as
hear
a word like ‘Undead’ uttered from your lips, I will personally escort you off the campus myself. Am I made clear, Ms. Steel?”

Unable to speak, I nod once.

Professor Praun studies me a while, perhaps waiting for me to humiliate myself further with a spilling of tears and snot and grossness from my indignant face. Then, unexpectedly, he puts a hand on either of my shoulders and lowers his chin, eyeing me directly.

In a calm, softer voice, he says, “You are an intelligent young woman. You are capable of great things, Jennifer. You have excellent grades. Please, don’t let your potential go to waste. Focus your dissertation on the
survival
of the
Living
, and what we’ve
learned
from our Histories. Do not waste it on the Dead. The Dead do
not
live. That is why we bury them, so that they may rest for all of eternity.”

His gentle, well-meaning words sting me worse than a condescending pat on the head. It does nothing to ward away the tears that still threaten to spill, nor does it do a thing to help my ever-clenching nerves.

“I look forward to your presentation next week.” He drops his hands from my shoulders. “Good day.”

The walk back home is slow and frigid. Surprisingly, the tears never spill. As the sun now paints the campus in a zillion shades of gold, my mind fights with every last word that my professor uttered. No matter how furious I am, I know I have no recourse. Why did he pick
now
to put an end to my dreams? What harm was my innocent studying going to cause? Was he afraid of waking the Dead … which he doesn’t believe in, anyway? Is he secretly scared of ghosts? Did he just lose a loved one and resents my interest in the subject? Why do books exist on the Living Dead if we weren’t meant to believe them?

I only make it halfway back to the condominium before dropping onto a bench at the edge of the campus, suffering with the weight of my professor’s disapproval. I hug myself and stare into the sky and the fire that now bleeds across it. My attention is caught by a hovercraft floating through the field of trees beyond the perimeter of campus. I wonder for a while what it’s doing there, resorting to making up hilarious reasons for its existence.
It is transporting more oxygen from the forest to us, the Living,
I decide. The hum of the machine soothes me somehow, and I find myself closing my eyes, seduced into a state of half-sleep. Waking up so early to visit Dana the Diviner certainly did a number to my sleep schedule. I feel myself tilting back, my head threatening to float me into a realm of dreams if I’m not careful.

A gust of wind rouses me, and I open my eyes just in time to witness the hovercraft soar high above my head on its trek over the campus. I stare after it for a while, watching as it disappears, taking with it the gentle hum I was so enjoying. And there goes my peace.

“He didn’t even give me a decent reason,” I complain to Marianne when I meet her and John at the dormitory cafeteria for an early lunch. “Just a general ‘Stop or else!’ sort of spiel.”

“So awful. And after all your inquiries and books and things,” agrees Marianne sympathetically, forking a bite of sugared fruit past her lips.

John shakes his head. “He can’t just do that.”

“He did.” I sip on my mint-and-water.

“No.” John folds his muscular arms, tensing up in that way that pops out a vein or two in his forehead. He turns his handsome face, his lips pursed in frustration, which shows off his stubble and chiseled jawline. “You have a right to study whatever you want,” he says, brooding. “That’s the whole damn purpose of the university … of education.
I
think for myself. I’m innovative. What the hell do I have to do to prove myself to the university? To earn the damn financial aid? I
know
I’m better than half their Engineering students. They have no new ideas.”

I study the side of his fuming face, that nagging worry chasing its way into my chest again. Is it really all about John? As soon as the university
does
accept him, is he out of my life forever?

“At least you have a place to stay,” I point out, then realize how badly I sound like I’m fishing for gratitude. “And a salad,” I add quietly, my eyes dropping to the tasty one that sits on the table before him.

He regards it with a smirk, then channels all his fury at the university into that salad, as if its innocent greens and berries were now to blame.

“I told you, you could sneak into my biology classes,” says Marianne with a shrug. “My professor doesn’t know any of our names or faces. I don’t even know if she knows her own. She wears blouses backwards sometimes. I don’t think it’s intentional. You’d be perfectly hidden.”

John rolls his eyes irritably. “Thanks, but I haven’t yet grown a fondness for Anatomy or Biology or Blood.”

“I love Blood,” she whispers while sucking the dear life out of an innocent strawberry.

I take John’s hand. He seems startled by the action at first, as if a spider had just leapt upon his fingers. “We will sort out this ridiculous situation with your acceptance and with the financial aid, John. We’ll write a letter showing all your accomplishments and Engineering knowhow and your … your hunger for more. It’ll be a dissertation of your own,” I insist. “We’ll change their minds.”

“As certainly as you’ll change Praun’s,” agrees John with acid sarcasm, then pulls his hand from mine.

I frown, annoyed by his reaction. Does he think of me at all? Does it occur to him how much I’ve done for him? “I’m trying to help, John. I know you’re upset, but—”

“What I mean is, I’m not allowed to be a student,” he goes on bitterly, “and you can’t study what you
want
to study because your professor finds it embarrassing. I think the concept of the Beautiful Dead is so …
brilliant
. Who does this school serve? Its brilliant students, or itself?”

I wonder for a second if John just called me brilliant, or if it was just a passing, general remark. With a sigh, I set down my spoon, creating a metal bridge from one side of my noodle-and-berry soup to the other, then express my complete and utter surrender to Praun’s philosophy. “You know, I think my professor … has a point.”

Marianne and John face me as one, surprised.

“After all,” I continue, “no one has ever
seen
the Dead. Seeing is believing, is it not? The Sunless Reach is only half an ocean
that
way,” I say, pointing. “There’s no evidence of their existence. None. After all these years, why have we seen nothing of their kind here on our side of the planet? Don’t they … thirst? What sustains them? Wouldn’t they smell our blood half a world away and swim across the ocean to feast on us?” I look at either of my friends, beseeching them. “Doesn’t it make sense? Professor Praun’s doubts are not unfounded. In fact … maybe, if I were to be honest, I … I share his doubts.”

“This is about the dumb diviner,” says John.

I wrinkle my face. “What? No. I just meant—”

“She turned out to be a fake, just like the last four crazy fanatics you met with, and now you’re discouraged and calling it quits.” John leans across the table, his face drawing close to mine. “The Jennifer I know doesn’t quit. She fights. Her heart still beats.”

The Jennifer he knows …?
My heart still beats. Does John really know me at all? Maybe I’m the one who’s holding back. Maybe
he’s
waiting for
me
to open up.