Wesley, Wes to his friends, sat at the tiny study carrel and tried to read the text of the ancient Latin document for the sixth or was it sixtieth time? He couldn’t really be sure anymore nor was it getting any easier. If he wasn’t facing down a C in Advanced Latin, he would just bag it and go to bed. He supposed that some would find it ironic (or should it be tragic?) that his middle name “Torvus” was Latin for fierce. Or was it stern? Heck, if he knew he would probably also know what the heck was written on this page. Ugh, he had been studying so long that he had forgotten his own name.
He glanced around the castle like room. It looked like something from Harry Potter. Only the lambent glow from a nearby computer terminal and the dim electric lights ruined the effect. Of course, that was what you got when you were in a university older than the United States.
It wasn’t his choice mind you. No, it had been at his father’s insistence that he go to the ‘family’s traditional alma mater’ at Oxford. THE Oxford. In England. Even though he had been here for the better part of four years, he still found himself homesick at times. He had been happy back in Maine. Sure, it was quiet there and a bit… rustic, but that was where he grew up and his friends were. He had even managed to convince his dad to let him attend the University of Maine for his first two years, but after that it was off to Oxford for his ‘qualifications’ and graduate school.
He knew that the chance to earn a degree from such a prestigious institution was truly a golden opportunity and it wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful. No, he really did love school. It was just that he felt torn and more than just a little coerced. The core issue was that his father had died just a few weeks after he had received his acceptance letter. Wes had immediately told his mother he would decline the invitation and stay home to help her out. She had practically demanded he do no such thing and go to Oxford because, “after all that is what your father would have wanted!” And, she had added for impact, it was not as though they lived on a farm. Her position at parks department didn’t really require much in the way of assistance beyond that a photocopier and modem could supply.
No, this was a matter of tradition and his mother insisted he follow it. His father, grandfather and the whole Farnham family had attended Oxford as far back as there had been an Oxford. He had relatives across the globe that he had never personally met that had sent him emails, small parcels and even the occasional hand written letter congratulating him on his acceptance. It was almost like a cult. It was sort of a Farnham family tradition to study at Oxford and then travel to some obscure location as a scholar. His uncle Nigel was an archaeologist in Egypt. His aunt Elizabeth was an English teacher in Seoul. His cousin Rupert was on the most glamorous members as a medieval historian in Romania. He had been told as a child that the Farnham’s sought to research, study and enlighten the world around them.
He took one more look at the dusty tome and thought about calling it a night. He could get up early and try again. No. That wouldn’t work. He HAD to get this done tonight and he had to do it right. It wasn’t just the grade that was driving him to keep at it. While that was important, the true payoff was that his uncle Terry had promised him that if he did well on the assignment, he would pay for a weekend trip to London.
Sighing in resignation, he cracked the book again and set himself to get back to the translation. He had firmly decided that Latin was a dead language for a good reason and that it should remain buried as far as he was concerned. It was then that a faint, but definite buzzing sound caught his attention. The library was careful to keep insects out so it was unusual to hear and it was loud enough to further serve as a distraction he did not need if he was to get this done. As he glanced around looking for the source of the sound, he spotted a small codex at the end of the table that he could swear was not there a moment ago. What made it even stranger was that he was certain he had not seen or heard anyone for hours.
The tome was obviously quite old and was emblazoned with a stylized cross that he recognized as the symbol of the knights Templar. The cover had the words “Libro de Vera”, embossed into the red leather binding. Hey, at least he could read it, that one was easy; it translated as “The Book of Truths”. More or less. He was pretty sure that’s what it meant.
As he cracked the tome open, he was surprised. No, not surprised, amazed to be able to not only read the words, but comprehend the meaning and even the intention of the author. In fact, it was like someone was explaining things to him rather than just reading it. Questions that arose in his mind, were answered before they were fully formed. It was over in mere moments, but he felt that he had been reading for days. Now, if that wasn’t weird enough, the content of the book made no real sense to him. It was like a combination of all the really good, old horror movies he had seen as a kid and the roleplaying games he had enjoyed as a kid. It was clearly a bunch of superstitious garbage from a less enlightened time.
Ah well, enough of that distraction, he had work to do and reading about wendigos wouldn’t get it done. If the whole of the previous experience had been odd, even bizarre, the next bit truly set his teeth on edge. As Wes began to read the ancient play he had been tasked to translate, it was as if someone had given him a crash course in advanced Latin and he actually retained it all. It was done in a few minutes. This was supposed to be hard wasn’t it? Hadn’t it been hard just a few minutes ago? Hadn’t it been hard all night long?
Not that he was complaining at all as he packed up. No, he might even be able to get a couple hours of sleep now. Smiling as he walked out the door, he batted absently at a large firefly. Yep, life was looking up for the first time in weeks. Acting out of instinct, rather than consciously thinking about it he looked for dead birds and cold spots as he walked. It didn’t even occur to him that this was odd…but boy bed sure sounded good he thought as he absently batted at another large firefly.
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