Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 25

25. Among All, The Most Cryptic Being

‘At our next meeting, it will be you who seeks me out. I have found that the distance to this place is considerable, indeed.’

Having uttered these audacious words, Arthur took his leave. Yet, I found myself ensnared by his enigmatic presence, transfixed in my seat long after his departure.

He had shared glimpses of his far-reaching visions, each revelation shocking, audacious, draining me of my mental reserves. Indeed, if I were to liken myself to Faust, then Arthur would undoubtedly take on the role of Mephistopheles. I was captivated by his blasphemous blueprint, standing at the precipice of the Brocken Mountain, where devils revel in their wicked dance.

My mind, lost in thought, was jolted back to reality by the audacity of a bold rat, its small head peeking out from the crevices, as if to determine whether I was man or mere object. At the sight of this, a sigh escaped my lips. Reflecting upon my circumstances, I was reluctantly led to a singular conclusion.

I was intricately woven into Arthur Frank’s grand design from the very beginning. The realization that such an impetuous man could meticulously execute his plan was a revelation in itself.

Yet, why me? Surely, a more suitable candidate could have been found with ease. Yet Arthur, to the very end, had not deigned to reveal the answer to this intriguing question. Undoubtedly, he withheld this information intentionally, knowing my intense curiosity. A sly and distasteful individual indeed.

───Knock knock.

The knock at the door served as a lifeline, pulling me back from the abyss of my musings.

“Master, are you within?” came the query.

“Yes.”

The voice belonged to Marie. Well, to be precise,it was Marie’s new voice. Similar, yet disturbingly alien, it left me unsettled every time it graced my ears, as though every word chipped away at my very soul.

“I do not wish to intrude, Master, but it is time for you to prepare to venture out…”

“Has so much time elapsed already?”

Arthur’s unexpected visit had led me to lose track of time, and I had forgotten that this day held a certain importance.

I vacated the parlor, the image of shattered teacups strewn across the floor suddenly flashing in my mind. I couldn’t leave them as they were, so I found myself swiftly heading to the kitchen.

Yet, upon arrival, I was met with a scene of pristine order. No fragments of ceramic were to be seen, the space immaculately clean.

“Marie, did you clean up this mess?”

Marie, who had followed me into the kitchen, fidgeted nervously. Her movements were awkward, reminiscent of a marionette’s disjointed dance.

“Yes, I feared you might injure yourself, Master.”

“Show me your hand.”

Her glass-like eyes, touched with hues of blue, quivered in trepidation.

“Quickly.”

With an air of reluctance, Marie extended her hand at my insistence. As I examined her hand, turning it over delicately, I found additional scratches marring her smooth, waxen skin.

“In the future, refrain from such actions.”

“But, Master…”

“I am perfectly capable of domestic duties. Focus on tasks within your realm of ability. For instance, tending to the orchids.”

Unable to meet her gaze, I released her hand and swiftly turned away.

“I must prepare to depart.”

“Can I assist you, Master?”

“No, I can manage alone!”

I hurriedly extricated myself from the situation under the pretense of getting ready. However, Marie’s desolate whisper followed me, the words piercing my heart like a sharpened blade.

“Then what purpose do I serve…”

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

Oldcourt University.

This serene institution, nestled on a quaint hill in North London, was originally an enigmatic and secluded monastery. The monks, early adopters of natural philosophy, frequently proposed bold interpretations that were deemed heretical, resulting in a multitude of executions for heresy.

Thus, over time, the monastery naturally evolved into a fortress. Today, we still see remnants of this transformation, with evidence of secret passages and panic rooms built into each building on campus.

At the heart of it all stands the Tower of the Irish Saint, a testament to medieval architecture.

This cylindrical fortress stands at the intersection of three colleges, intentionally designed to ensure that no corridors or stairways provide access to the other institutions. This is a clear demonstration of their commitment to maintaining the autonomy of each college.

Atop the Tower of the Irish Saint lies the Dean’s Office, also divided into three separate areas, each inaccessible from the others. In essence, this peculiar university houses three dean’s offices in a single location.

───Tock.

The quill pen echoed as it dipped into the inkwell. The sound, bouncing off the dome-shaped ceiling of the Dean’s Office, resonated deeply throughout the room. Professor Apollo Gregorios Kallas adjusted his glasses, sliding the signed contract towards him.

“Nationalism and International Politics… Do I discern this aright?”

“Indeed.”

Anxiously, I awaited his response, akin to a young lad having just made his foray into the vast city of London. Kallas, seemingly more intrigued by the title of the lecture than the content of the contract, rose from his seat, extending a welcoming hand and a congenial smile.

“Excellent. As of this day, December 2, 1895, you are hereby officially appointed at Oldcourt. Welcome.”

A moment of respite washed over me. I attempted to rise, but Kallas, observing my condition, offered his hand while I remained seated. I gratefully accepted his tactful gesture, shaking the practically untouched hand in one decisive motion.

Professor Kallas retreated back to his seat, releasing a deep sigh.

“Today, I find myself standing in for the Dean. I confess, I find contracts far less pleasing than books.”

The elderly scholar made no effort to conceal his strained state, his countenance easing considerably. He was a man who understood the comfort brought about by human imperfections.

“And the Dean?”

“He is much the same. Nay, he is even more severe in this regard. A scholar at heart, he displays an utter lack of interest in administration. I have yet to witness him sign a contract in person, though he is never amiss in signing important documents for the Royal Society.”

“I must admit, I have received several letters bearing the Dean’s signature.”

“Ah, those, too, were penned by my hand. I am now more accustomed to signing in his name than my own.”

Kallas chuckled briefly at his admission.

“How curious. I thought the only aspect of him I was acquainted with was his penmanship, and now it appears I was mistaken even in that.”

“Indeed. He is a figure of enigma. The Dean is among the most mysterious individuals I have come across.”

At my comment, Kallas burst into hearty laughter. His exaggerated reaction, a trait of his Mediterranean heritage, didn’t unsettle me.

“You arrived just in the nick of time.”

“To be frank, I was surprised. I hadn’t expected my position to be maintained.”

“There were some who foolishly petitioned for your removal.”

Kallas’ eyebrow arched in emphasis.

“However, the faculty and student representatives unanimously agreed to retain you. This was a matter of course for an Oldcourt individual. We seek wisdom. Wisdom is akin to clear water; it begins to stagnate the moment it settles. As the times ebb and flow, new currents must infiltrate Oldcourt.”

His words sparked a vivid sense of déjà vu. They echoed a familiar sentiment, something I had certainly encountered within these walls before.

“Is this a well-known quote?”

Kallas blinked in surprise.

“Is it perhaps an adage unique to this university, something akin to a slogan?”

“Ah, it seems you have had some intriguing interactions during your journey here.”

“To be precise, a similar sentiment was expressed by a student when I visited the library a few months ago.”

At my clarification, Kallas seemed momentarily stumped. His lips parted and closed, mimicking the actions of a scholar contemplating the best method to elucidate a complex concept to a novice. Given his profession, it was an understandable habit.

“How might I expound this… uh….”

While he pondered, my gaze drifted around the room. Since entering the Dean’s office, something had persistently gnawed at my curiosity. It was a mechanical clock mounted on the wall, though I was uncertain if it could even be accurately described as such.

It was the second most intricate mechanical contraption I had ever encountered.

It bore a resemblance to the astronomical clock in Prague, but even that, celebrated as one of the most complex and artistic timepieces in the world, seemed simple in comparison to this contrivance. This device appeared more akin to an intricate piece of artwork than a timekeeping instrument.

Countless symbols were displayed, including Roman numerals, intersecting ecliptic and equatorial lines, Greek zodiac signs, Jesus and his apostles, Kabbalah, and numerous others. Soon unfamiliar symbols superseded them.

Each symbol moved at its own rhythm, the ticking sounds overlapping to form an almost cacophonous hum. The ordinarily tranquil Dean’s office was infused with an incessant noise reminiscent of a bustling London street.

These symbols participated in an unending metaphysical dialogue, appearing and disappearing in an instant. As a result, the clock appeared to morph into a different entity each second, creating a mesmerizing illusion. Any attempt to extract meaningful information from it was futile.

In truth, I had sought to ascertain the time, but only managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of the hour hand. I was certain that there were minute and second hands as well, yet their location and form eluded me.

“Does it distract you?”

Perhaps my fixation was overtly apparent. Kallas, with a warm smile, interrupted my contemplation. I confessed to my rudeness and offered my apologies.

“My apologies.”

“Fear not, it is quite common. Most react similarly upon their initial encounter with it.”

Kallas declared, his tone hinting at a peculiar sort of pride.

“That is the Hexasofia clock, a contraption devised by the dean himself.”

“Hexasofia, you say?”

It was a term with which I was unfamiliar. He began to elaborate, as if anticipating my ignorance.

“Are you aware of the concept of a sixth sense?”

“During my tenure in naval service, certain impressionable recruits would dabble in such beliefs.”

“Ah, I see. What is your stance on the matter?”

“After witnessing them being unceremoniously shot and killed, I’ve made it a point to avoid those who entertain such subjects.”

Kallas appeared taken aback by my candid response and felt compelled to apologize.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“It has been more than a decade.”

I erred in my manners. My gentlemanly decorum was compromised by an incident from this morning involving Mari’s hand, but that is no justification for my insensitivity.

“The sixth sense we refer to is distinct from such pseudoscientific claims. Literally, it is the human’s sixth sense.”

“Do you imply something akin to a sense of equilibrium?”

“Rather, I refer to wisdom. The sixth sense, subsequent to the known five.”

A luminescent spark ignited in the elderly eyes of Kallas.

“A person imbued with wisdom perceives more than their less enlightened counterparts. It affords them a glimpse into horizons otherwise invisible to the common observer.”

“Is that philosophy?”

At my inquiry, Kallas exhibited a knowing smile.

“The Hexasofia clock persistently exhibits only six units of information. Yet, the truly wise can decipher an abundance of knowledge beyond that from it. It is a masterwork intended to reveal a thousand truths from six.”

“To me, it seems exceptionally abstract.”

“No, it is a tangible reality. I invariably decipher some form of information from the Hexasofia clock. However, thus far, only the dean has exhibited full command over the Hexasofia clock.”

There was no plausible reason for this seasoned professor to resort to exaggeration. Thus, it was rather astounding. That intricate contraption, which seemed utterly nonsensical to me, served as a practical timekeeping instrument for someone else.

“And you, being a wise individual, I am certain will discern even more than I.”

Kallas winked subtly, betraying the amicability that must have endeared him to his students.

“I fear I may have digressed excessively. I trust I have not detained you unduly?”

“No, quite the contrary. Your conversation has been most enlightening.”

I struggled to my feet to bid him farewell, and then a thought occurred to me, which I voiced.

“Pray, where might I find the dean? It has been quite some time since our paths last crossed. I would like to pay my respects.”

“He is at Jamestown College today. Regrettably, you may need to wait for a future occasion.”

“May I not go and seek him out?”

Kallas’s countenance took on a grave expression.

“… As one ages, the propensity to overlook important details seems to increase. I ought to have informed you of this sooner.”

He muttered, removing his spectacles and meticulously cleaning them.

“Oldcourt is a seeker of wisdom. Any means may be employed to procure wisdom. However, there is one principle that must never be breached.”

Kallas returned his glasses to their rightful place and rose from his seat.

“You must never encroach upon the territory of another college.”

Despite my lack of understanding, I experienced a chill of fear emanating from this genial old man. For a fleeting moment, his gaze bore an uncanny resemblance to the madmen I had encountered in my past.

Professor Kallas eased his expression and offered a warm smile once again.

“And even if I were to inform you that today is the day the dean visits Henry VIII College, I am uncertain whether you would have the opportunity to meet him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You will learn soon enough. But let me tell you, even I have yet to see his face.”

“How can that be?”

His face was adorned with the same genial smile as before, but it no longer felt comforting. There was a profound secret laced within that smile.

“Did I not mention it earlier? The Dean of Oldcourt, ■■■ ■■ ■■■, is the most mysterious of all.”

(TO BE CONTINUED)