#— threads (m.p. chandrasekhar)

[anhxdonia]

@godsunderfoot — antioch university, august 5th, afternoon. trigger warnings: religious references!

PERHAPS  THE  MOST  ELEGANT  FORM  OF  BEAUTY  IS  THE  STORY.  Smithed  words,  struck  when  molten,  and  shaped  until  piercing  at  first  strike;  others  daintily  crafted  and  cut  gems  of  prose.  A  professional  fabulist  drips  jeweled  sentences,  their  carats  reflected  in  the  bright,  yearning  nebula  of  the  human  iris,  a  rapt  audience  caught  in  the  splendor.  As  simple  as  it  may  be,  this  truth  bears  repeating:  we  are  a  species  wrapped  up  in  aesthetics,  fabrics  of  our  imagination...  seeking  beauty  in  the  forms  that  cover  the  ugliness  we  harbor.

Many  believe,  quote  rapaciously,  that  beauty  —  some  unspoiled,  earthly,  carnal,  tactile  essence  —  is  terror.  But  one  is  gripped  by  fear,  horrors  that  subsume  underneath  one's  skin  when  encountering  the  unfamiliar,  unknown.  When  one  believes  they've  never  witnessed  it  before.  Beauty  is  a  terror  when  it  is  FOREIGN.

Maharth's  fingers,  ashen  at  the  tips  with  the  finest  dust  of  Hagoromo  chalk,  underline  the  word  terror  on  the  blackboard.  He  is  still  a  lover  of  the  Classics  and  basks  in  Inquisitive  stares  following  the  arc  of  his  arm  as  he  encircles  the  truth.  He  faces  their  eagerness,  matches  with  a  spark  of  his  own,  and  lovingly  tosses  in  his  kindling,  a  speech:

"  How  we  view  one's  beauty  becomes  one's  truth,  one's  belief  in  the  world  we  live  in...  All  religious  art  has  a  motif  of  untouchable  beauty,  the  peerless  perfect  faces,  serenity  in  the  expression  both  present  and  empty,  seeing  a  world  that  a  mortal  onlooker  could  never  comprehend...  "

The  projector,  more  like  a  banner  that  floats  down  from  the  rafters,  depicts  Michelangelo's  Last  Judgment,  capturing  a  sliver  of  its  phenomenal  flair.  The  professor  summarizes,  "  Michelangelo's  Last  Judgment,  his  final  painting,  stirred  controversy  at  its  time.  The  Catholic  Church  was  in  its  Counter-Reformation  movement,  and  the  Council  of  Trent  deemed  the  Last  Judgment's  Neoplatonic  influences  heretical.  Nudity,  in  fact,  was  the  issue...  I  hear  the  snickering,  students.  Stay  with  me  for  a  second.  "

"  Now,  we'd  think  it  baseless,  quite  prudish,  no?  Given  the  fame  of  the  Statue  of  David,  the  Ecstasy  of  St.  Teresa  of  Avila…  The  bodily  beauty  of  mimicked  flesh  and  blood,  as  a  means  of  extending  the  greatness  of  its  Saints  to  the  people,  was  now  rejected  for  being  baseless,  vulgar,  and  Godless.  "

Maharth  wonders  briefly  how  the  indictment  fell  on  Michelangelo  when  the  commissioners  who  pulled  art  after  art  from  him  betrayed  him.  Did  the  artist  burn  up  in  shame  when  the  poet  Pietro  Aretino  accused  him  of  defiling  the  Sistine  Chapel,  of  denigrating  it  to  a  whorehouse?

"  That's  what  I  want  you  to  think  about,  students.  Expressions  of  piety.  What  is  religious  beauty?  What  is  artifice  and  truth?  Upon  completing  his  last  painting,  Michelangelo  wrote,  'Neither  painting  nor  sculpture  will  be  able  any  longer  to  calm  my  soul,  now  turned  to  divine  love.'  What  divine  beauty  drives  a  pious  servant  to  agitation?  "

His  lecture  ends  with  synchronized  silence  before  students  and  some  faculty  onlookers  remember  the  time  and  place.  Then,  as  if  coming  out  of  a  daze,  they  shamble  out  of  their  desks,  the  nooks  at  the  edges  of  the  room  to  leave.  As  the  newest  member  of  Antioch  University's  roster,  Professor  Chandrasekhar  fields  ravenous  last-minute  questions,  chatting  with  the  engagement  of  a  beloved  old  friend  who  has  a  train  to  catch.  It's  only  after  the  regulars  dip  and  the  field  of  people  thins  out  that  the  professor  notices  someone  in  the  midst,  stately  and  tall  even  when  far  back  in  the  room.

There  are  continuing  education  courses  for  adults  at  the  university,  so  the  age  of  the  man,  sculpted  in  rugged,  well-defined  features,  does  not  illicit  any  curiosities  from  the  professor;  however,  the  lack  of  academic  equipment  (no  papers,  pens)  hints  at  Maharth  that  the  visitor  may  not  be  a  simple  course  auditor.  Well,  there  is  no  hurt  in  asking.

Or,  there  shouldn't  be.

"  Good  afternoon!  The  lecture  wasn't  too  long-winded,  was  it? "  Maharth  calls  out,  hand  cupped  around  his  mouth.  He  follows  his  greeting  with  easy,  long  strides  to  the  man.  Hand  out,  fingers  loosely  together,  knuckles  forming  soft  ridges  like  a  clam's  shell,  he  signals  his  invitation.  "  Professor  Maharth  Prasad  Chandrasekhar.  Charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance.  "

[anhxdonia]

The  professor  doesn't  deliberate  on  the  question;  it  being  a  time  capsule  within  his  hippocampus,  excavated  and  augmented  throughout  the  years.  An  old  grave,  bones  picked  clean.  Exhumed  for  entertainment.  Will  there  ever  come  an  era  where  finally  humanity  masters  the  unknown?

"  No,  I  do  not  think  so,  Mr.  Morrison,  "  Maharth  answers  with  irrepressible  surety.  "  We  touched  on  it  before,  the  state  of  the  ignorant  bliss...  "

Maharth  sets  his  teacup  down  on  its  matching  saucer  and  pushes  it  aside  with  the  back  of  his  fingers,  his  movements  flowing  like  a  river's  current  sending  away  a  lotus  pad.

"  Have  you  heard  of  the  Semmelweis  reflex?  A  talented  physician  from  Hungary  noticed  that  after  the  simple  act  of  washing  his  hands  prior  to  and  after  surgery,  the  mortality  rates  of  his  puerperal  patients  fell  tenfold.  Semmelweis  shared  his  findings  with  his  fellows  —  educated  men,  doctors  with  pride,  prestige  —  and they rejected  the  notion  outright.

"  Because  their  bearing,  their  intellectual  nobility  would  never  allow  themselves  to  be  carriers,  they  thought.  No,  the  filth  of  disease  was  from  the  poor,  from  women,  from  the  vulgar  and  vile...  This  was  in  1847.  It  would  take  another  twenty  years  before  germ  theory  became  part  of  the  public  consciousness.  It  sounds  farcical,  doesn't  it?  Regarding  it  with  our  twenty-first  century  lens.  And  yet...

"  ...That  is  a  single  case  of  belief  perseverance,  cognitive  dissonance.  The  blissful  ignorant  are  not  who  they want  us  to  believe  to  be.  The  intellectual  elite  is  far  in  casting  their  judgment  as  they  are  remarkably  short-sighted.  We  impede  our  progress  to  understand,  the  universe  has  never  stopped  us  from  discovering  her  secrets.  "

A  breath  escapes  through  the  professor's  lips,  carrying  with  it  a  hint  of  exhaustion  as  his  lungs  burn.  Despite  their  long-windedness,  his  lectures  never  cause  a  twinge  in  his  throat.  Maharth  finds  his  agitation  amusing  and  reaches  for  the  soothing  sanctuary  of  his  chai.

Pinky  extended  while  his  fingers  wrap  around  the  fine  china  handle.  Maharth  swiftly  delivers  an  apology  (of  sorts)  to  his  guest.  "  Let's  put  a  pin  on  this  topic  for  later,  Mr.  Morrison.  I  understand  that  it's  summer  and  I  shan't  take  up  any  more  of  your  time  in  the  sun.  "

He  attentively  listens  to  Max's  explanation  and,  indeed,  the  dominating  influence  of  Abrahamic  religions  in  Europe  had  significantly  damaged the historical evidence of a world before the Capital G  on  fears  of  dreaded  paganism.  Though  the  information  is  out  there  on  the  region's  diverse  and  overlapping  entities,  it  is  not  an  easy find.  Suppression  is  a  method  employed  by  those  in  power  to  keep  their  structure  stable,  and  who  did  it  better  than  the  Church?  Maharth  lightly  drums  his  fingers  on  the  side  of  his  cup  while  he  comes  up  with  a  suggestion.

Knowing  the  usual  standard  that  comes  from  summer  school  (though  his  students  have  been  quite  keen  on  their  projects),  the  professor  opts  away  from  the  often  treaded  path  of  Europe's  fascination  with  Classical  Antiquity,  or  viking  resurgence.  Zeus  and  Thor  will  put  away  their  thunderbolts  today.  No,  what  Max  is  speaking  of,  what  he  wants  to  find  out,  may  align  with  Cernunnos  instead...

Maharth  swirls  his  tea  by  the  handle,  the  circling  of  his  wrist  slow  and  deliberate  to  let  the  water  whirlpool  within  the  porcelain  confines.  A  terror  made  in  the  microscale.  He  delicately  coughs,  indicating  the  start  of  a  conversation  rather  than  simply  clearing  his  throat.

"  For  topic  suggestions...  Rounding  back  to  human  sacrifice...  There  is  an  article  about  the  Celts  about  the  Horned  God  and  the  Threefold  Death  motif  I  read  in  the  Journal  of  Archaeological  Science,  written  by  Dr.  and  Dr.  Divekar,  Antioch's  own  archaeologist  power  couple.  I've  met  them  personally  and  trust  their  expertise  and  the  Journal  is  a  peer-reviewed  scientific  journal,  so  verification  is  a  given.  If  you  have  a  student  account  that  needs  to  access  the  online  database,  Mr.  Morrison,  I  can  grant  special  privileges  to  your  account  so  you  can  read  it  free  of  charge.  "

The  professor  savors  the  lingering  taste  of  his  chai  before  gently  placing  the  empty  porcelain  cup  on  the  table.  "  Mr.  Morrison,  I  hate  to  impose  on  burdening  my  students.  However,  I  can't  wait  to  see  what  you  have  in  store  for  your  project  presentation.  I'm  sure  you'll  do  well.  Those  with  passion  and  respectable  time  management  always  do.  "

"screaming, in my case." his teeth are shown gleaming for another long moment, like he's proud of that fact. he's not, but only because he can't remember it. and really... it would only be enjoyable if everyone else was screaming, too. whatever the case, max has decided that he likes professor chandrasekhar. digs his vibes, as he would probably say. he's met so many teachers in his life that just get tired and start beating down; what a breath of fresh air to find some passion for once in his life. in another life, they could have had an excellent conversation on the nature of his own budding legend... but he's not naive enough to consider admitting to his nature a second time. "it's hard to imagine," he continues, taking another sip from his drink. good? he nods, but it's certainly not honesty he's working with. "you know, there ever being a time where there's not more to learn. do you really think it's possible?" it's even a genuine question, if not for the right reasons. he's trying to worm himself into a favorable position, but that doesn't mean he can't be curious about it, too... the smile, as innocent as it is deceptive, even grows flush ( real ) against his face. "pre-christianity is what i'm going for, but... i also know that's a difficult topic to dive into." mostly because so much of it has been destroyed, not remade in the modern world as much as it is reimagined. his own travels have only brought him to a lonely, frustrating conclusion—this is the only place in the world for him. "at this point, i'll take almost anything you can give me. the important thing is that i can verify it, i think."

[anhxdonia]

@kcngkai — maharth's office, august 12th, late afternoon. trigger warnings: none!

SOMETIMES,  A  MOMENT  IS  WORTH  LEAVING  EARLY,  before  an  imprint  of  a  weight  that  no  longer  exists  matts  down  the  grass,  bending  the  blades  in  the  shape  of  a  soul  that  has  flown  away.  Isn't  it  noble  to  prevent  a  haunting  of  a  future  suffused  with  a  rose-tinged  dawn,  one  that  could  hold  countless  unspoken  promises?  We  talk  of  Hope  as  it  is  a  good  thing,  pure  and  holy.  But,  Hope  is  as  tight  a  yoke  as  despair.

And  though  Maharth  Prasad  Chandrasekhar  speaks  of  it  figuratively,  he  does  not  embody  the  expectations  entrusted  by  Hope.  It  would  be  reprehensible  to  damage  someone  by  un-spending  the  time  they  have  left  in  their  lives.  Mooring  them  to  a  stagnant  lake,  and  making  them  believe  a  breeze  would  come  by.

Therefore,  Maharth  never  gives  anyone  the  chance  to  miss  him.

It  doesn't  do  anyone  any  good  to  pine  over  the  what  and  would  have  been's.  So  he  draws  lines,  sets  end  dates,  and  does  not  hint  at  to  be  continued.  Because  how  terrible  would  it  be  to  grieve  someone  still  living?

When  he  rejects  someone,  there's  hardly  any  malice.  It's  a  heuristic  answer,  to  make  the  best  of  the  situation  to  respect  both  of  their  time.  A  case  in  point  is  an  email  addressed  to  his  account  at  Antioch  University  asking  for  an  interview.

In  the  letter’s  opening,  the  professor  already  assumed  the  request  was  from  the  journalism  students  at  the  school,  and  was  ready  to  craft  a  response  that  was  both  gentle  and  motivating,  until  he  verified  the  name  at  the  end.  Kang  Kai  Soo,  from  the  British  Broadcasting  Corporation.  Maharth  recognizes  an  article  or  two  under  the  name,  front  cover  news  that  flaunts  big  exposés  that  have  shaken  up  corrupt  corporate  and  government  landscapes.

Quite  the  resumé,  but—

Dear  Mr.  Kang, I  hope  this  email  finds  you  well.  In  regards  to  your  interview  request,  I  must  say  the  answer  is  no,  thank  you. I bid you the best on your next story. Kind  regards, M.P.  Chandrasekhar

—not  one  Maharth  is  interested  in  adding  to.

He's  never  done  interviews  with  the  press,  the  most  he'd  given  was  a  comment  for  a  book  tour  or  two,  but  his  thoughts  on  belief  have  piqued  the  ire  of  both  the  religious  and  irreligious  alike.  He  is in no rush to head into a firestorm, for he's  grown  fond  of  his  reclusive  mystique.  Makes  things  easier  to  disappear  when  needed,  and  reappear  when desired.  All  in  all,  he's  not  inclined  to  become  a  viral  sound  bite  for  anyone  searching  prestige.

Hours  later,  as  Maharth  drinks  his  kabuse  sencha  from  Kagoshima,  idly  clicking  on  the  students'  online  quiz  answers  on  his  work  laptop,  it  never  occurs  to  the  professor  that  there  are  people  in  this  world  who  do  not  account  in  the  same  measure  of  time  as  he.  The  doorknob  unexpectedly  turns,  which  is  a  cause  for  one  of  Maharth's  brows  to  arch.  He  hasn't  expected  visitors,  nor  invited  them.

When  the  door  opens,  the  professor  faces  someone  he's  vaguely  seen  a  portraiture  of,  though  he  can't  confirm  the  theory  he  has  about  the  stranger's  identity.  All  he  can  wish  for  is  that  it  isn't  a  fiery  detractor  who  has  figured  out  what  Maharth  is  teaching  in  his  class. He hasn't figured out the campus security button yet.

"  Hello,  may  I  help  you?  "  Maharth  asks,  putting  down  his  teacup  onto  the  matching  saucer  and  rising  from  his  chair.  "  I  don't  think  I  made  any  appointments  today  at  my  office.  "

[anhxdonia]

@ofvaliancys — saint peter's hospital, august 6th, evening. trigger warnings: descriptions of blood, injury.

UNHURRIEDLY,  ARM  LIGHTLY  CRADLED,  A  CRESCENT  OF  BLOOD  SOAKING  ACROSS  AN  OTHERWISE  CRISPLY  PRESSED  PALE  BLUE  DRESS  SHIRT,  Maharth  walks  up  to  the  front  desk  of  Saint  Peter's  Hospital,  surprising  the  clerk  as  he  asks,  light  and  carefree,  "  Unfortunately,  I've  injured  myself.  I  was  wondering  how  soon  I  could  schedule  an  appointment  to  see  a  doctor?  "

The  rush  of  shock  that  stampedes  through  the  hospital's  lobby  does  not  affect  Maharth's  nonchalance.  The  clerks  almost  trip  and  get  up  to  their  feet  as  they  clamber  for  assistance.  Maharth  stands  there,  idly  watching,  propping  up  his  arm  and  moving  to  where  he's  called.  Let  his  limbs  be  puppeteered  by  nurses  and  medical  assistants.  He's  asked  to  remain  calm,  and  he  shrugs  with  a  laugh.  He  is  calm.

Seated  sequestered  in  a  white  room  with  even  whiter  lights  beaming  down  on  him,  the  professor  cursorily  checks  the  time.  Ah.  He'll  be  home  rather  late,  depending  on  how  long  treatment  will  take.  Maybe  he  could  get  back  to  Verdant  Hills  before  two  in  the  morning,  but  he  shan't  expect  it.  The  cut  is,  in  his  regard,  quite  grave.  He'd  rather  not  cancel  class  tomorrow  and  devises  his  lesson  plans,  letting  his  mind  wander  until  the  door  opens.

"  Good  evening,  doctor,  "  Maharth  greets,  his  curls  bouncing  to  the  side  as  he  slightly  lowers  his  head  in  an  acknowledging  nod.  "  I  assume  the  nurses  have  briefed  you?  It's  a  dreadful  situation…  But,  accidents  happen.  "

[anhxdonia]

If  அம்மா  witnessed  the  way  Maharth  smiles  upon  hearing  John  say  his  name  —  a  smile  so  wide,  radiating  joy  like  a  peacock  preening  its  feathers  —  she  would  shake  her  head  disapprovingly  and  cluck  a  soft  reprimand.  அடி  அதிரசம்,  குத்து  கொழுக்கட்டை.  And  she  would  be  right,  Maharth  lacks  any  shame  because  there  shouldn't  be  any  shame  in  expressing  oneself  like  this.

When  John  talks  about  the  memory,  Maharth  wants  to  know  more:  the  rain's  tapping  pattern  on  the  windows,  the  height  of  the  misty  cliffs  soaked  by  the  merging  of  sea  and  sky,  and  whether  there  was  a  lingering  taste  of  salt  and  ozone  in  the  air.  Did  the  Weavers  go  for  a  drive,  or  stay  put,  sing  along  with  the  radio,  or  let  the  storm  speak?

But  it's  not  his  place  to  ask,  and  as  shameless  as  the  professor  was  a  mere  minute  ago,  he's  equal  parts  skilled  in  reading  the  room.  It  is  a  natural  consequence  of  exploring  a  subject  that  is  both  mystical  and  profane,  with  people  whose  fervor  and  favor  are  whims  of  the  wind.  Furthermore,  a  man  of  Maharth's  age  has  enough  life  experience  to  sense  when  the  atmosphere  has  cooled.  Knows  of  effervescent  turns  of  phrase  and  lively  segues  to  shallow  subjects  where  swimming  is  easy.

However,  Maharth  brushes  past  that  to  look  at  John,  poised,  unflappable.  It's  as  if  he  cannot  stand  to  let  John's  sentence  hang  in  the  silence  by  itself.  To  end  in  such  a  bitter  note.

"  The  trip  served  its  purpose,  even  if  you  didn't  get  to  go  to  the  beach,  wouldn't  you  agree?  If  the  goal  was  to  create  a  lasting  memory,  you  definitely  have  one,  don't  you?  "  Maharth  postulates,  eyeing  the  lining  of  silver  in  these  clouds  of  the  past.

At  John's  movement  to  a  chair,  Maharth  migrates  as  well,  picking  a  seat  opposite  of  John's.  Back  pressed  into  the  slight  give  of  the  chair,  a  leg  crossed  over,  arms  loosely  at  the  rests,  Maharth  gazes  at  his  host  expectantly.  With  no  obstacles  in  sight,  their  eyes  meet  on  a  two-way  lane  marked  by  the  space  between  them,  a  highway  with  no  speed  limit.  He  listens,  muted  until  John  is  finished,  and  nods  as  the  information  comes  together  in  his  mind.

"  Ancestral  land,  I  see.  It's  interesting  how  secluded  your  family  has  kept  the  place,  it  never  encroaches  into  Antioch  proper  even  all  these  years.  "  Maharth  verbally  notes,  wondering  about  what  John  said.  When  he  got  married,  he  constructed  this  house  on  the  property,  making  it  relatively  new.  "  John,  this  house  is  splendid.  You  and  your  wife  did  an  amazing  job.  I  can  feel  the  love  and  care  you  put  into  it.  "

The  armchair  softly  shushes  when  Maharth  leans  forward,  hands  coming  up  animatedly  to  press  palms.  "  You  could  say  that.  Although  I  love  my  cozy  spot  with  a  cup  of  chai  and  a  good  book,  the  places  I  read  about  inspire  me  to  visit  them  in  person.  I've  realized  that  going  out  and  immersing  myself  is  something  I  need  to  do.  "

While  his  injured  arm  floats  down  to  the  arm  rest  like  a  balloon  on  its  last  legs  of  helium,  the  other  hand  graces  the  side  of  his  neck  as  Maharth  casually  kneads  at  the  muscle  there,  stretching  out  a  tension  ache  before  it  can  properly  start.  "  Frankly,  nothing  against  my  peers  who  thrive  in  mindscapes  and  theorems,  but  to  judge  when  one  hasn't  walked  on  the  very  earth  one  is  deriding,  well,  I  just  cannot  do  it.  Theology  is  so  tied  to  the  land,  and  to  understand  its  cues,  you  have  to  go  out  and  feel  the  world  yourself,  is  what  I  think.  "

Maharth  pauses  briefly,  a  small  smile  playing  on  his  lips,  before  he  reveals  to  John,  "  It's  funny,  whenever  I  share  this  with  people,  they  find  it  difficult  to  imagine.  I'm  fully  aware  of  my  appearance  —  rather  bookish.  "

Before  the  professor  can  finish,  his  airy giggles  bursts  out  of  the  cracks,  echoing  through  the  room.  Maharth  attempts  a  sorry  plaster  job  to  seal  in  his  laughter,  stifling  them  with  the  back  of  his  good  hand.

"  Sorry  about  that,  I  had  the  silliest  thought  and  imagined  myself  wearing  Indiana  Jones  gear,  complete  with  a  fedora  and  a  whip.  Perhaps  that'd  silence  the  assumptions  that  I'm  fragile  once  and  for  all  but  I'm  afraid  a  fresh  crop  of  rumors  would  start  instead.  What  do  you  think,  John?  "

Well, it's officially happening... Maharth has crossed the threshold and now stands in the Weaver family home, treading on the same worn floorboards that had felt the weight of his whole life: when he and Daisy had first moved in and the last time she left, the same boards subject to the rapid drum of his children's feet and the slow and endless pacing of John's boots on sleepless nights.

At first John feels as though he's going to be scrutinized and readies himself for defense, but no such thing comes. The professor drifts through as if he's perusing a library, glances across the spines of books but never reaches out to investigate further, surely because he knows John's hackles raise and wishes to avoid it. How can one man know so much? "Oh yeah, of course. Maharth."

He follows at a respectful distance behind him as Maharth wanders the first few rooms of the house, looks where he does, and it becomes evident that the scrutiny is all John's own. "Took a trip out to the coast with my family a long time ago, but it stormed. Ended up spending the whole time in the car."

John decides that tagging along like a lost dog definitely doesn't give the right impression and so he returns to the living room, sits in one of the leather armchairs leaned forward with his elbows set on either knee. "Land's belonged to Weavers for a long time. Me and my wife decided to build this house on it when we got married, start up a family in it." He picks up one of the wine bottles, turns it around in his hardened fingertips though his eyes aren't on the label. "You an outdoorsy guy then?"

[anhxdonia]

As  they  drive,  Maharth  eases  into  his  seat,  fine-tuning  it  to  his  preference.  He  has  never  adopted  enduring  discomfort  in  pursuit  of  unreasonable  forbearance  and  propriety.  The  fear  of  judgment  from  strangers,  social  exclusion  from  the  group  is  a  distress  weaned  out  of  this  generation  of  Chandrasekhar,  and  regardless  of  his  location  —  be  it  Venice,  Bandung,  or  Antioch  —  he  will  not  suppress  his  personal  inclinations,  which  is  to  find  a  comfortable  seat  and  engage  with  the  surrounding  people.

"  Travel  here  for  work  or  pass  through  here  for  work?  "  Maharth  posits  at  a  red  light.  Rather  than  prying,  it's  more  like  dipping  a  toe  in  the  water.  The  response  will  shed  light  on  Dante's  intrinsic  sensibilities.  Between  a  man  who  departs  or  a  man  who  remains.  Maharth  knows  he  is  the  former.

A  small,  inaudible  chuckle  tickles  his  throat  as  the  professor  notices  his  and  Dante's  similarities,  aligning  like  road  markings.  "  Loch  Ness  was  quite  a  grand  time,  too.  But  Nessie  is  unfortunately  a  sham,  I'm  afraid.  Didn't feel it right in my heart to tell the locals, though. Some lies are best left to be believed, don't you think?  "

As  the  ride  continues,  Maharth  props  his  head  on  a  loose  nest  of  fingers,  the  index  a  trellis  along  his  jaw  and  his  middle  and  ring  fingers,  the  wickerwork  that  cups  his  chin.  Resting  his  elbow  on  the  side  of  the  car  door,  scant  of  the  window,  the  professor  tilts  his  head  to  the  side  but  watches  Dante  still.

"  If  I  told  you  the  reason  you're  here  is  also  true  for  myself,  would  you  believe  me?  Paycheck  and  chill  is  a  tantalizing  overture  to  everyone.  Antioch  University  reached  out  to  me  about  a  series  of  classes,  and  I  eagerly  accepted  after  researching  the  town.  These  secluded  areas  are  my  idea  of  a  personal  retreat... "  He  grins,  a  white  crescent  flashing  between  his  lips.  Without  a  second  to  spare,  Maharth  casts  his  gaze  out  the  window,  spotting  the  sign  of  the  diner. 

His old shady government job has him gauge the man upon reflex. The niceties were exchanges, and caution is thrown to the wind as quickly as the invite is placed—if he didn't know anyone, Dante would have declined. Maharth seems to think differently, keeping the suggestions and riffing off of the conversation playfully. Either there's an optimism about people there, or Dante is too wary for his own good. Antioch's getting to him. Or the job. But looking at dead bodies arranged as if it were art really isn't good for anyone's mental health.

"No. Just a transplant, like you. Used to travel for work," he says, checking the rearview mirror as he he drives off. His migraines at least, were cooperating with him, his tone steady and even. "How 'bout you then, why come to Antioch? I just wanted somewhere to chill out and collect a paycheck. You seem like the kinda guy that should be in Loch Ness or something."

[anhxdonia]

When  Maharth's  university  colleagues  insisted  the  Antioch  swap  meet  was  a  must-do,  claiming  it  matched  his  interests  to  a  tee,  they  were  absolutely  right.  As  Maharth  puts  back  a  decorative  plate  onto  its  stand,  he  moves  onto  the  curio  next  to  it,  some  candelabra  that  had  either  been  a  loving  metalworking  project  or  met  its  end  against  a  hammer.

Maharth  grins  as  he  peruses  the  dusty  merchandise.  While  many,  if  not  all,  were  pop  culture  collectibles,  he  notices  several  historical  artifacts  from  Antioch's  past  that  were  available  for  sale.  A  stamp  set,  an  old  pamphlet  warning  of  the  Swamp  Monster.  Some  pair  of  gate  keys?

He  finds  it  fascinating  how  these  once  cherished  possessions  hold  so  little  value  in  present-day  Antioch.  What  caused  their owners  to  fall  out  of  love?  Undoubtedly,  time  is  the  most  effective  eraser of sentimentalities.

The  professor  holds  the  thought  while  admiring  some  wood  carving  —  art  is  a  prime  instrument  of  faith,  after  all  —  when  he  hears  a  rather  amusing  conversation  nearby.  While  turning  to  crane  a  ear,  he  sees  the  events  unfold  and  before  he  can  help  it,  he  chuckles  and  responds  in  kind,  walking  over  to  the  girl,  "  Now  that's  how  it's  done!  Mind  if  I  try  it  sometime,  or  is  that  a  trade  secret  between  magicians?  "

status:  open. location:  (  drive  in  &  )  swap  meet. when:  late morning / mid-afternoon.

      space  buns  sit  atop  her  head  like  mickey  mouse  ears  and  there's  a  child-like  skip  in  her  step  as  she  peruses  the  stalls  at  the  local  swap  meet.  there's  no  goal  in  particular,  there  never  is,  juno  will  know  when  she's  found  what  she's  looking  for  when  it  speaks  to  her―much  like  the  cover  of  the  book  now  rolling  around  in...  someone  else's  hands  (  irrelevant.  she  always  gets  what  she  wants  ).  her  eyes  roam  over  the  title  again,  full  brutal,  and  a  smile  blooms  at  her  luck.  sure,  the  cover  looks  like  shit,  but  she's  never  been  strong  enough  to  ignore  anything  splatterpunk.        popping  the  blue  lollypop  from  her  mouth,  she  speaks  to  the  person  beside  her,  ensuring  her  voice  is  loud  enough  to  carry  to  the  one  currently  holding  treasure  that,  rightfully,  belongs  to  her,   ❝  hey,  d'ya  think  crazy  is  contagious?  ❞   a  pout  forms  and  her  tone  becomes  dejected,  bordering  on  ashamed.   ❝  because  when  someone  takes  something  i  want,  even  something  stupid―like...  like  a  book―i  get  these...  urges.  ❞   when  the  novel  is  hastily  forgotten,  the  walsh sibling  giggles  around  the  candy  that's  back  between  her  lips  and  retrieves  it  before  someone  else  has  the  chance  to  swipe  it  again.   ❝  wow,  would  ya  look  at  that!  it's  like i'm  magick,  no?  ❞

[anhxdonia]

"  Yes,  we  come  into  this  world  uncomfortable,  don't  we?  Crying.  "  The  professor's  extrapolation  is  mildly  spoken,  like  a  quaint  joke  among  old  friends.  However,  Maharth's  diction  is  unassailable,  the  conclusive  line  of  an  academic  paper  that  would  challenge  opponents  if  it  weren't  so  dishearteningly  assured  in  its  claim  that  contradicting  would  be  a  losing  battle  or,  at  most  salvageable,  a  pyrrhic  victory.  "  I'd  even  further  your  thesis,  Mr.  Morrison,  that  we,  who  cannot  stay  blissful,  who  tried  to  be  ignorant  but  couldn't,  wish  to  learn  because  we're  so  uncomfortable  with  not  knowing  the  world  around  us,  and  us  ourselves.  There's  a  hope  that  someday  we'll  be  rid  of  the  incomplete  that  is  within  us  through  secret  knowledge.  "

Seeing  that  Max  keeps  quaffing  the  instant  mix,  Maharth  vaguely  reconsiders  not  replacing  the  gifted  set  of  coffee  from  the  university  faculty,  which  he  had  accepted  to  foster  goodwill  between  him  and  his  employers  for  the  next  few  months.  Personally,  he  reviles  the  taste  but  he  can't  account  for  the  buds  on  each  person's  tongue.  He  won't,  as  the  kids  have  taught  him  to  say,  yuck  someone's  yum  if  they  enjoy  something  and  Max  appears  to  like  it  enough  to  sip  at  it  during  their  conversation.  "  Good?  "  He  asks  Max  about  the  taste.

An  affirming  murmur  buzzes  on  Maharth's  lips.  They  roost  on  the  porcelain  eave  of  his  teacup,  breathing  in  toasty  spices,  a  passport  to  a  memory  of  ಧಾ��ವಾಡ  ಪೇಡ,  the  last  time  he  held  the  milky,  cardamom-laced  treat  in  his  hands  after  மாமி's  funeral.  The  Kannada  and  Tamil  weave  in  his  head,  like  two  separate  colored  thread  in  a  tightly  woven  tapestry  as  he  considers  the  subject  of  support.

He  rolls  the  vague  concept  in  his  mind  like  hands  palming  dough,  feeling  its  weight,  the  softness,  the  place  where  the  strands  snap,  unable  to  hold  itself  together.  Then  he  presses  and  stretches  the  idea,  shapes  it  by  saying,  "  I  may  not  be  well-versed  in  social  work,  but  I  believe  that  if  we  had  education  systems  that  made  more  of  an  effort  to  truly  understand  and  believe  in  children,  many  of  them  wouldn't  lose  faith  in  themselves.  I  don't  want  to  speak  badly  about  anyone's  family,  but  I  profoundly  understand  the  importance  of  standing  up  for  yourself  and  advocating  for  your  own  needs.  "

Though  their  differences  are  readily  contrastable,  Maharth  has  a  lot  in  common  with  his  student,  all  drawn  from  their  non-conformist  fiber  of  being.  While  Max  treads  into  the  topic  he's  sought  Maharth  for,  the  professor  pours  more  hot  water  into  his  teacup,  and  drapes  another  lemon  slice. Another cube of white sugar dissolves when it hits the water.

Then  Max  mentions  human  sacrifice,  and  Maharth's  spoon  touches  the  bottom  of  his  cup,  metal  striking  kaolin  and  petuntse.  And  next,  the  spoon  spins  in  the  liquid,  Maharth's  movements  accurate  and  absolute  as  he  looks  the  student  in  the  eye  with  guileless,  unaffected  serenity.  He  chuckles.

"  Fair  enough,  it's  been  a  sensationalized  topic  for  a  millennia,  after  all.  When  you  speak  of  Europe,  do  you  have  a  place  or  a  time  period  in  mind,  Mr.  Morrison?  Are  you  looking  more  in-line  with  the  Wicker  Men  of  the  Gauls,  or  the  Tollund  Man  of  Denmark?  There's a lot of differentiating factors, such as the rites of caretaking the chosen, the method of execution, manner of burials... Which god to appease through bloodshed. "  He  explains  while  blowing  gently  on  his  perfected  cup of chai  before  drinking it with  a  smile.

"oh, i agree completely. i think we're lucky to have the full range of human experience. sure, being happy all the time would be comfortable, but it wouldn't be worth anything. nothing great ever came out of staying comfortable." he could probably attribute that to someone else, maybe plato. definitely not plato. but max is about as good at inspirational quotations as he is with the rest of academia—he really just prefers to wing it. "i've always liked to think if you're not uncomfortable, you're not learning anything. that's why we're supposed to be here, isn't it?" not only, but partially, to keep from puking in his mouth, max takes a sip of his coffee. professor chandrasekhar is right—it's absolutely atrocious, just shy of pure, liquid shit. it's also not the worst coffee he's ever had, so he keeps drinking. maybe he can get a cup of this to-go... give some to ari. a few additions and it would be truly undrinkable. that's a scheme for another time, though—for once, max is actually thinking about what he's going to say next. what would have helped you as a child? a warm smile flickers to life on his face, a stark contrast to the utter annihilation that consumes his thoughts. he can think of a few things, chiefly that he hadn't been stopped and sent away, but that has nothing to do with the education system unless you count the many, many, many calls home. once the cat was out of the bag, they would have sent him away regardless—he would have loved a second chance. ah, c'est la vie. "support, i think," he says instead, not untrue. he's an expert of dancing around white lies and half-truths. "all my life, my family just wanted me to be like them. you know, a good little drone. they believed in this shit system hook, line, and sinker." he even offers a wistful shake of his head, just for effect. "my subject was history." a lie this time. he'd always snored through those classes. "guess i can see why they might be a little oppositional. it's much easier to just stick your head in the sand and let life happen to you." maddox is no observer, especially not in his own life. in that sense, he's speaking truth again... even if it is just to gain something. as per usual, it doesn't last. "—yeah, it's for a paper, but not just for a paper, you know? i don't do anything just for school." it's not a lie if he's not enrolled, right? coursework is the last thing on his mind. "but," now that he's properly positioned himself, he can lay back on the posturing a bit; "my dig right now is human sacrifice." he smiles, the picture of innocence. "european, specifically. but there's just so much out there that's... wrong. fabricated, or whatever. i was hoping you could point me in a better direction."

[anhxdonia]

"  Yes,  so  the  oft-quoted  phrase  begins...  If  I  remember  correctly,   the  18th-century  English  poet  Thomas  Gray  originated  it,  "  Maharth  adds  with  a  whimsical  hum,  his  mind  a  whirr,  already  seeking  connections  and  recontextualizations.  A  thoughtful  purse  of  lips  falls  on  Maharth's  face  like  the  tail  of  a  shooting  star  as  he  ruminates  Max's  remark,  the  student's  unofficial  confessional  in  the  sanctum  of  his  school  office.

He  wonders  how  Max  would  react  knowing  he  has  something  in  common  with  the  country's  third  president,  as  Jefferson  remixed  the  words,  asking,  if  ignorance  is  bliss,  why  aren't  more  people  happy?  Maharth  has  his  personal  theories  to  the  president's  rhetorical  question,  but  what  is  more  pressing  is  what  his  student  has  implied,  though  it  may  be  a  misreading  on  the  professor's  part.

It  doesn't  hurt  to  be  safe,  no?

Fingers  return  to  lattice  just  scant  off  Maharth's  chin  as  he  gesticulates  with  only  his  eyes,  calm  but  not  probing.  He  inquires  with  a  gentle  coolness  that  indicates  no  offense  is  taken  if  the  question  is  brushed  aside.  "  Bliss  can  be  elusive  and  hard  to  attain,  isn't  it?  But  I  think  there's  nothing  wrong  with  the  other  emotions  we're  taught  to  conceal,  at  least  in  my  perspective  of  fifty-years  of  living.  "

Chair  rolling  aside  to  let  Max  fix  himself  a  cup  of  coffee,  Maharth  gives  the  boy  a  once-over,  amused  by  the  blazing  rebellious  that  youth  so  easily  tap  into.  Not  to  say  Maharth's  own  fire  has  been  extinguished.  However,  he  must  admit  some  luxuries  offered  at  his  age  and  position  have  dulled  the  seditious  knife  against  the  brocaded  throat  of  traditional  elite  academia.  But  hearing  Max  speak  gives  the  professor  an  entryway  for  his  subversive  critique.  Even  old  flames  burn  again  with  new  kindling.

"  It  is  rather  upsetting  that  the  school  systems  employ  standardization  when  we,  as  a  species,  are  so  beautifully  diverse.  "  The  professor  says,  preparing  his  tea.  It  is  second  nature  at  this  point;  he  does  not  need  to  see  as  much  as  he  believes  in  his  movements.  A  sprinkle  of  loose-leaf  black  tea  scatters  on  the  surface  of  his  teacup,  followed  by  a  sprinkling  of  cinnamon,  clove,  and  green  cardamom.  Picked  up  with  thin  metal  tongs,  a  single  cube  of  sugar  dissolves  to  the  bottom  of  the  steaming  cup,  while  a  half-moon  slice  of  paper-thin  lemon  floats  like  a  ship  in  the  amber  water.

His  spoon  swirls  the  mixture,  one,  two,  three...  "  There's  also  the  lack  of  reflection  on  the  canon  of  basic  education  and  who  is  in  charge  of  these  dogmatic  curriculums...  What  would  you  have  liked  to  learn  in  school,  Mr.  Morrison?  What  would  have  been  helpful  for  you  as  a  child?  "  The  utensil  lightly  clinks  on  the  china  saucer,  and  Maharth  raises  his  cup  to  his  lips,  sipping  his  Sulaimani  Chai.

"  Is  that  right?  I  was  sure  you  came  to  my  door  saying  you  had  a  few  questions  for  your  paper,  "  Maharth  postulates,  squinting  slightly  as  the  recollection  of  the  past  few  minutes  materializes  translucent  and  malleable  like  smoke.  Fretting  not,  he  inwardly  shrugs  away  the  doubt  and  doubles  the  effort  in  his  professionality.  "  Adventure,  you  say?  Color  me  intrigued,  Mr.  Morrison.  Go  on,  what  are  you  thinking  of  doing  for  my  course?  "

here's where things get interesting. max has to bullshit like he's never bullshitted before—mostly because for the entirety of his adult life, he's avoided higher institutions of learning. it should be noteworthy, he thinks, that he's here at all. if anyone he knew saw him now, they would have thought they'd skipped on down to a parallel dimension. or that he's seeing someone. wrong on both counts, as it so happens! he's actually doing what you're supposed to do at a university—seek knowledge. "ignorance is bliss," he says, showing his teeth. he gets the sense that the professor is eager to talk, but it doesn't bother him—people always say the same thing about him, too. the difference is that maddox's tendency to ramble on comes purely from his own ego, a desire to hear his own voice and ideas. clearly, maharth's come from a passion of subject. the funny thing is that people rarely differentiate between the two, so long as you're confident enough. "but i've never really been the blissful sort." already, max thinks he feels a sort of camaraderie between them. he's not the type for rigid molds or boxes, either. and he's also... not enrolled. but that hardly matters! that might even work to the professor's advantage, all expectations considered. he isn't in any rush, with no classes or responsibilities currently nipping at his heels, and for all his impatience is perfectly willing to kick back in relax on someone else's time. "i think your take on things is refreshing," he says, stepping over to make himself a cup of instant coffee—and at home in maharth's office, too. "so many people around here just want to do it by the book. didn't we all learn that these systems were just put in place to make us good little factory drones? last i checked, most college graduates don't work in factories." settling himself comfortably in his seat, max continues; "anyway, about my question? well, i don't know if i'd call it that. it's more of an adventure, i think." god, he's really laying it on thick. the things he does for other people... yeah, other people.

[anhxdonia]

Maharth  chuckles  at  Max's  skepticism,  the  sound  warm  against  his  throat.  To  the  fine-tuned  craft  of  his  student's  lifted  brow,  Maharth  smiles.  Merely  cups  his  chin  in  unmistakable  acceptance.  While  his  peers  might  raise  their  hackles  at  the  situation,  what  they  might  perceive  as  youthful  indiscretion,  Maharth  finds  no  fault  at  all.  Questioning  should  always  be  championed  when  it  is  to  discover  the  truth.

"  In  Vyasa's  Bhagavad  Gita,  which  is  our  required  reading  in  three  weeks,  there  is  a  chapter  that  emphasizes  the  importance  of  self-realization:  looking  within  and  out  in  search  of  knowledge.  "  Maharth  begins,  leaning  forward  once  more,  serenely  making  eye  contact.  "  Knowledge  is  the  force  that  transforms  our  thinking  into  our  beliefs.  It  takes  exceptional  bravery  to  seek  knowledge  and  even  more  courage  to  accept  that  we  can  never  return  to  ignorance.  "

Even  though  the  course  only  started  a  few  days  ago,  Maharth  has  to  admit  that  his  new  group  of  students  has  been  quite  amusing  and  unusual.  While  he  doesn't  know  if  Max  will  stay  or  not  —  the  faculty  has  notified  Maharth  that  the  first  two  weeks  didn't  signify  the  final  attendance  list  —  the  professor  hopes  he  will.  It's  always  charming  to  see  the  next  generation  showing  interest  in  how  humans  perceive  their  existence  co-mingling  with  the  lives  of  others.

"  I'd  have  you  find  my  predilection  to  the  coursework  far from the norm,  Mr.  Morrison,"  says  the  professor  as  he  steeples  his  fingers  together,  the  well-groomed  fingertips  blemished  with  spots  of  blue-black  ink.  "  A  topic  such  as  Comparative  Religions  can't  be  reduced  to  some  impersonal,  ineffectual  score  out  of  a  hundred.  I  best  make  myself  available  to  my  students  should  they  wish  to  break  out  of  that  mindset  and  delve  into  their  learning  passions... So, the question you wanted—  ah,  one  moment,  please."

An  electric  kettle  sits  on  a  small  round  table  with  a  drawer,  bubbling  away  on  a  burner,  finally  clicking  off  once  a  thin  but  continuous  flow  of  steam  swirls  up  from  its  spout.  The  professor  pulls  out  the  top  box  of  the  drawer,  procuring  himself  a  minimalistic  but  elegant  teacup  and  saucer,  and  tilts  his  head  gently  at  his  visitor.

"  While we discuss your question, please  take  a  cup,  if  you'd  like. If it's too hot, I believe there's ice somewhere in the fridge...  I've  got  loose-leaf  tea  and  some  instant  coffee,  though  I'd  humbly  request  you  to  keep  your  expectations  low  for  the  latter.  "

exceptional is not usually used in relation to him, particularly when it comes to academic strides. by all accounts, max has always been a terrible student with no respect for any system of authority, intellectual or otherwise. the university is no different; he's only hoping to serve himself in any endeavors therein. "i mean, is it really?" brow cocked, max treats any flattery maharth dispenses as nothing to do with him... but he's perfectly happy to preen to it anyways. what does it matter? ideally, he'll never know he's taking someone else's place. "here i thought i'd be shit out of luck."

[anhxdonia]

Maharth  flips  through  his  dog-eared  copy  of  Richard  Dawkins'  The  God  Delusion,  eyes  jumping  from  the  text  in  Times  New  Roman,  presumably  11-point  font,  to  his  own  notes,  a  mixture  of  Kannada  and  English  that  would  look  ever  so  the  cryptic  code  to  anyone  else  unaccustomed  to  the  Dravidian  language.  He's  about  to  mark  up  another  segment  of  Dawkins'  preamble  in  this  one-sided  debate  when  his  door,  always  left  slightly  ajar  and  both  inviting  and  uninviting  in  its  uncertainty,  swings  open  to  reveal  a  young  man,  blue-eyed  under  a  wave  of  blond  hair,  coming  in  like  the  midnight  tide  against  the  cliff  that  is  Maharth's  office  door.

Needless  to  say,  the  consummate scholar  he  is,  Maharth  is  appropriately  charmed  by  his  student's  insatiability  for  knowledge.  The  professor,  grins  abound,  gestures  to  the  empty  seat  before  his  table,  putting  aside  his  book  on  the  shelf  at  his  left  side.

"  Ah,  yes,  please  take  a  seat,  and  do  forgive  me,  I've  just  arrived  in  Antioch.  Your  name?  "

Once  introductions  are  shared,  the  professor  leans  forward  in  his  desk,  the  wrinkles  around  his  eyes  and  lips  sloped  pleasantly  as  he  asks,  "  It's  quite  exceptional  to  see  Antioch's  students  taking  summer  courses  seriously.  I'd  be  delighted  to  answer  your  questions.  "

starter for @anhxdonia !!

"hey, it's office hours, right?" he asks, curling his fingers in the doorway to discourage it being shut in his face. "i'm in your class, i just had a few questions i wanted to ask. for a research paper, you know?"

[anhxdonia]

"  I  have  a  different  understanding  of  the  word;  I  think  it's  influenced  by  the  history  of  my  homeland.  For  me,  someone  who  is  'uncultured'  wouldn't  be  interested  in  broadening  their  horizons…  "  Maharth  says,  settling  his  gaze  on  the  rancher  slanted  among  the  desks.  The  professor  watches,  silent  in  his  reflection  for  a  moment,  before  he  lightly  jests,  "  I  promise  not  to  let  the  burden  of  my  burning  questions  fall  only  unto  you,  Mr.  Weaver.  Just  a  smidgeon  if  you  don't  mind  another  day's  conversation  after  classes  if  you'd  like  to  continue  your  audit.  "

Through  a  veil  so  sheer  it  might  as  well  be  transparent,  Maharth  sends  his  open  invitation  to  John,  sealed  with  a  tap  from  his  dress  shoes  striking  the  wooden  floors  when  he  steps  one  foot  closer.  He  wants  to  listen  in  to  more  of  John's  stories,  interjecting  where  welcomed  with  appraising  comments  and  follow-up.  Layers  his  ephemeral,  silk  timbre  atop  John's  own,  rich  with  a  slight  burn  at  the  edge  akin  to  a  sip  of  whiskey.  The  cosmic  invention  we  call  'time'  passes  as  Maharth  and  John's  conversation  builds  upon  their  foundation  like  a  miniature  Babel.

While  Maharth  senses  he  struck  a  chord  with  the  other  man,  he  hasn't  expected  his  presence  requested  at  a  private  abode.  He's  intrigued,  fingertips  tracing  his  jaw's  outline  and  feeling  the  scritch  of  his  cropped  beard  as  he  mentally  maps  out  the  town  he  has  been  committing  to  memory.  According  to  John,  he  lives  in  the  heart  of  unknown,  unmarked  territories  in  Maharth's  town  guides.  Opportunities  like  this  don't  come  often.  "  I'll  take  you  on  the  offer,  Mr.  Weaver.  Who  wouldn't  want  a  glimpse  of  heaven?  "

There's  much  of  Antioch  that  Maharth  doesn't  know,  stories  written  in  loose-leaf  paper,  unbound  and  unorganized.  As  a  scholar  and  an  aesthete,  there  is  a natural  urge  within  the  professor,  like  a  circadian  rhythm.  Curiosity  is  too  weak  a  sentiment  to  describe  this  keen  prickle  lining  his  temples,  a  chaplet  garnished  with  intellectual  hunger.  However,  Maharth  has  identified  this  craving  and  knows  its  desire  for  pretty  possibilities.

"  If  we  agree  on  that  reasoning,  then  I  promise  you,  I  owe  you  at  least  two  cups.  "  Maharth  chuckles  but  nods.  He  has  his  preferences  of  hot  beverages,  but  it's  rather  uncouth  to  look  any  gift  horse  in  the  mouth.  Especially  one  offered  by  a  dashing  man with a good handshake.

He  signals  to  the  other  man  that  he  has  to  quickly  gather  his  belongings  with  an  amateurish,  single-handed  imitation  of  a  traffic  controller  before  doubling  back  to  his  lectern.  As he walks back, Maharth's  eyes  can't  help  but  land  on  the  black  expanse  again,  sinking  into  the  bullseye  of  BEAUTY  and  TERROR  etched  in  chalk.

Certainly,  the  story  is  the  most  elegant  form  of  beauty—the  most  enduring  seduction.  It  is  where  the  taste  of  another  person  lingers  in  the  mind  without  ever  having  brushed  lips.  It  is  the  allure  that  once  sheathed  Shahryar's  scimitar  from  beheading  the  lovely  Scheherazade.  It  is  the  discovery  of  the  god  of  the  unseen  people  within  the  storyteller.

If  Beauty  is  a  terror  when  it  is  foreign,  then  Maharth  has  never  been  terrified.  While  such  a  fallacy  is  impossible  regarding  the  specific  centrality  of  the  human  reviewer  and  subject,  it  is  only  when  they've  shrunk  the  scope,  turned  dials,  and  sought  out  symmetries  and  ratios  to  craft  an  exclusionist  criterion  of  beauty.  To  combat  this,  Maharth  has  trained  himself  to  smash  the  lens  and  find  beauty  even  when  it  escapes  from  him,  ragged  and  bloodied.  Monstrous  and  screaming. A familiar sight.

(How  truly  terrible  that  people  can  be  so  closed-minded.)

The  professor's  hand  confidently  reaches  for  the  blackboard  eraser  and,  with  a  single  determined  stroke,  obliterates  any  trace  of  finding  terror  beautiful.

" Shall we head out, Mr. Weaver? "

Maharth smiles right back and it's like light filtering through a leafy canopy, warm and easy. His expression that seems to appear so effortlessly puts John's mirthless, wincing thing to shame and, deep down, in that faraway part of him that somehow remains untouched by the gods or their madness, he finds it soothing. John thinks the last time he's seen a smile so honest was the gleaming jaws of a bear trap.

"Presume away, but can't promise I'll be much of a resource," John admits with a shrug, moves back to sit against the edge of the nearest desk with a grunt. "I've lived here all my life, but I'm about as uncultured as they come. You'd do better to ask around at the local watering holes."

He's at least heard of the things Maharth explains, nods along as he mentions each one and occasionally remarks with his own experience when he can. It's easy to appreciate the professor's enthusiasm for this topic, and John's fascinated that this man he's never even met is so intimately familiar with little Antioch's laundry list of secrets, like he's read the manual cover-to-cover for a car he's only driven for a few days. His voice is sharp with intellect but smooth, brings to John's mind the pitch of a pine, oozing out in the heat of the day over knots and whorls until the tree bark beneath is one continuous, glistening surface... John has to remind himself of the threat that this stranger poses.

And then he brings up the woods, and the two find a way back onto that dangerous, unfamiliar path called fate. "You'll have to come out to my property sometime, Mr. Chandrasekhar," John offers, hopefully sounding more casual than he feels... his heart has quickened again with the possibilities at hand. "Can't say you'll find what you're looking for, but if the woods are divine, my place is some kind of heaven."

"You free for a bit? I'd like to treat you to a cup of coffee, as thanks for letting me talk your ear off."

[anhxdonia]

AT  THE  CRACK  OF  A  SMILE  ON  JOHN'S  FACE,  a  considerable  tenderness  splits  Maharth's  own  lips  in  a  grin.  He  doesn't  draw  attention  to  it  any  more  than  that,  the  moment  itself  not  needing  to  be  forced  to  linger.  Yet,  he  sustains  his  smile,  allowing  it  to  radiate  undaunted  like  the  sun  even  when  the  earth  has  turned  away.

The  professor  nods,  earlier  background  notions  coming  ahead,  hypotheses  being  proven  right  by  John's  confirmations.  Small-town  religiosity  is  a  beast  of  its  own,  distinct  in  its  liturgy  that  comes  from  untouched,  unspoiled  insulation.  A  few  years  ago,  Maharth  conducted  a  co-study  on  the  topic,  which  revealed  the  division.  However,  Maharth  still  felt  unsatisfied  with  the  limitations  of  that  report,  as  it  had  to  make  generalizations  due  to  working  with  a  partner  of  a  less  dedicated  temperament.

So  when  John  Weaver  says  —  no  —  confides  in  Maharth,  expressing  questions  and  curiosities  and  scratching  an  itch  just  so  off  from  the  relief  of  biting  nails,  Maharth  can't  help  but  think  this  is  serendipity.  "  I  know  exactly  what  you  mean  by  those  walls,  and  it  has  been  my  lifelong  calling  to  take  a  hammer  to  them,  "  Maharth  eagerly  chats,  pressing  his  hands  together  in  a  small,  soft  clap.  "  I'd  be  very  happy  to  answer  what  I  can  and  strive  to  solve  what  I  can't.  "

He  listens  with  laser-focused care,  excited  to  get  an  Antioch  native's  perspective.  John's  story  elicits  a  peal  of  understated  chuckles,  kept  close  to  Maharth's  nose  in  amused  snorts.  "  Haha, I've  read  a  little  about  the  Eulman!  Nothing  about  Hooters.  Funny  how  that's  been  omitted  in  my  version... "

John's  compliment  doesn't  go  unnoticed,  even  though  it  isn't  spoken.  The  professor,  half  bashful  and  arguably  more  than  half  playful,  raises  his  wrist  in  mock  embarrassment  —  oh,  this  old  suit?  —  before  tucking  a  loose  curl  behind  his  right  ear,  genuinely  flattered.  Blushing  isn't  something  he  does  often,  as  he  generally  considers  it  unfeasible  to  be  embarrassed.  However,  in  the  quiet  charm  of  his  listener,  an  unfamiliar  warmth  flutters  underneath  Maharth's  cheeks  and  ears.

He  recomposes  himself  a  second  later,  thinking  to  make  a  note  to  ask  his  students  about  the  local  legends  since  John  has  mentioned  his  kids.  Would  the  different  generations  have  deviations  in  these  beliefs,  and  if  so,  where  does  it  stem?  Questions  upon  questions  pile  up,  and  Maharth  is  excited  for  the  challenge.

"  Truly,  there  is  such  a  fascinating  culture  here  in  Antioch  that  I  feel  I  am  just—  " Here,  Maharth  pinches  the  air,  "  —about  on  the  verge  of  breaking  through.  Though,  of  course,  if  you  don't  mind  me  presuming,  a  native  such  as  yourself  might  better  discern  if  these  theories  I  have  are  far-fetched.  "

He  quickly  explains  the  local  myths  that  piqued  his  interest:  black  dogs,  caves,  and  the  watchtower  that  stands  as  a  sentinel  on  the  outskirts  of  town.  "  I'm  captivated  by  the  outposts  and  the  woods.  How  the  environment  and  natural  elements  represent  the  divine.  It  has  been  on  my  mind  since  I  arrived,  so  I'm  looking  forward  to  making  a  day  trip  soon.  "

I don't believe you're a no-one, Mr. Weaver. The words are likely a polite reassurance, but in his hyper-vigilant state, they seem to glint with precise intention. For a fleeting moment it strokes John's most primitive ego that someone outside the Society, a real someone, may finally recognize the fire he alone has been tending for almost three decades now, but the thought is so outlandish that John's stoney visage cracks into a small grin.

As swiftly as its taken flight he crushes that delicate bird of hope in a fist, replaces it with that old, wrought-iron gate that's protected the Stellar Society this far. Distrust, suspicion, self-preservation. Maharth's charismatic manner suddenly takes on a malevolent tinge as John's defenses come back up.

"I'm a religious man," John starts, proceeding carefully, but honestly. "I have these questions, curiosities, but I keep running into walls. Difficult to scratch an itch you can't reach. Thought maybe a man who makes questions like that his work could help me out."

The folktales of Antioch, as ridiculous as they are numerous. The gruff old cowboy gives the question some thought, though it feels like a roadblock in the rest of their conversation; John is nothing if not a bloodhound with his nose buried in the dirt, stubbornly stuck on one scent and all-too-willing to ignore everything else. "Always liked the Eulman myself," he says mildly, runs a callused thumb through the silvery beard at his chin. "My kids loved those stories when they were little. If I had a dollar for every time we'd go out driving past that old Hooters at night, quiet as church mice, I'd be as well dressed as you, professor."

[anhxdonia]

INTIMACY  IS  ARGUABLY  A  DELICATE  AND  DELIBERATE  SACRIFICE  OF  PRIVACY, where  we  desire  meaningful  interaction  with  another by  giving  up  freeing  but  isolated  sequestration.  In  Maharth's  readings,  his  learnings,  gods  take  wives  and  husbands,  entangling  them  with  holy  matrimony  as  long  as  they  do  not  hinder  their  love  and  obey  their  message.  To  be  married  to  the  gods  is  to  carry  lifelong  subservience.  As  a  scholar  of  the  sacraments,  the  professor  does  not  wholeheartedly  agree  this  union  between  divine  and  mortal  can  fulfill  its  promises  of  total  acceptance.

Not  in  the  way  mortals  desire.  Because  humans  are  earthly  vessels  of  the  prime  elements  that  make  up  the  known  universe,  they  act  in  the  same  way—bonding,  colliding  together  for  closeness,  inching  each  micro-nano-pico  measure  closer  and  will  continue  to  do  so  until  Science,  the  New  Age  God,  coins  a  word  that  finally  breaks  through  the  infinite  of  divisible  space.  In  this  pocket  between  Maharth  and  John,  there  are  countless  infinities.  Maharth  sees  it  as  a  philosophical  paradox  and  a  ordinary  conversation  between  two  no-longer  strangers.  Both  can  be  truths.

"  Is  that  so?  That's wonderful,  to  strive  for  a  new  experience, "  Maharth  asserts  in  response  to  encourage  the  other  man,  as  his  statement  is  another  of  his  unfeigned  convictions.  "  I  hope  I  made  a  proper  impression,  then.  Was  there  a  subject  in  particular  that  drew you here,  Mr.  Weaver?  "  The  refined  lines  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes  crescent  as  Maharth  beams  at  his  first-time  auditor,  friendly  like  a  spring  breeze  returning  after  a  cruel  winter.

The  professor  hides  a  modest  chuckle  behind  a  loose  net  of  fingers  splayed  over  mirthful  lips to John's humble admission.  "  Oh, I hope you heard about me from the good rumors, though the conspiracy theory that I am somehow two twins pretending to be the same person is amusing, it's also one easily disproven. And please  don't  mind  my  opposition,  but  I  don't  believe  you're  a  'no-one,'  as  you  say, Mr. Weaver.  "  If  Maharth  gives  a  cheeky  wink,  it  is  for  John's  eyes  only.

In  general,  Maharth  has  grown  out  of  birth-placed  hierarchies  and  castes,  his  time  in  and  out  of  his  beloved  country  has  not  only  compared  religions  but  cultures,  as  well.  No  matter  the  heritage  or  the  flag,  the  professor  subscribes  not  to  those  unjustified classifications  upon  his  fellows.  No,  John  Weaver  before  him  is  worthy  of  every  respect,  as  is  any  university  chancellor  or  beggar  on  the  street.  "  I've  been  to  many  places,  some  not  even  labeled  correctly  on  the  maps,  so  small  towns  aren't  new  to  me...  Though  this  one  certainly  is.  Antioch  has  a  marvelous  and  curious  foundation  of  stories  enveloping  it, and  I'm  very  keen  on  hearing  their  tales.  Do  you  have  a  favorite?  "

The academic's handshake is firm, too, which appeals to John's surface sensibilities, but as Maharth speaks, his dulcet tones echo softly as a wasp's droning in his ears. Without meaning to he pauses, stuck for a fraction of a second with his hand extended as if he's forgotten to lower it again. They've just exchanged pleasantries, but John feels as though something is shifting, the innumerable coils of the things below scraping against each other as they create new shapes.

His fingers twitch nearly imperceptibly as John lowers his hand again, slips the thumb of it into his pocket, and he's glad he's still wearing the Stetson: the shadow cast over his face hopefully does well to cover the startled furrow in his brow.

"This is my first time... auditing," John answers, forces a bit of nonchalance into it as an attempt to save face from his lapse. He hopes Maharth didn't notice it at all, but something tells him this professor tends to pick up on the little things: his assumption is seemingly confirmed as Mr. Chandrasekhar leans in, whittling away precious centimeters out of the space between them, and suddenly John feels a little like he's subject to an appraisal. Can he hear that droning, too? What are they telling him about me?

He straightens up a bit, distributes his weight evenly across both planted feet in a subtle display of confidence. "I've heard about you," he explains, "and for a no-one rancher in a nowhere town like this, that takes a lot. What brings you out all this way, Mr. Chandrasekhar?"

[anhxdonia]

MANY  FAITHS  MENTION  DIVINE  TOUCH  AND  RITUALS  OF  CHIROTONY,  FAITH  PRESSED  FROM  PALM  TO  FINGERTIPS.  From  the  Abrahamic  to  the  Dharmic,  found  in  continents  in  the  Far  East  and  West  split  by  the  sea,  there  is  an  understanding  of  immediate  sanctity  and  comfort  transcending  the  limitations  of  language.  Evolved  from  the  wild  tangles  of  survival  instinct,  bred  and  domesticated  like  a  cultivated  genus  of  flower,  our  tendency  to  seek  and  lean  into  the  warmth  of  another  has  become  human  indispensability.  Both  wholly  pedestrian  and  sacred  is  the  thin  barrier  that  we  call  skin.

And  Maharth  takes  in  the  texture  and  heat,  noticing  the  exhibitions  of  veins  and  pathways  inlaid  in  palms,  as  the  tangible  connection  between  his  hand  and  John  Weaver's  demands  attention,  gently,  like  the  softest  but  most  ardent  prayer.  Maharth  smiles,  with  his  teeth  peeking  between  his  lips,  unable  to  hide  his  delight  at  their  handshake.  No  posturing,  no  listlessness,  firm  and  fine.  If  handshakes  are  first  impressions,  then  his  is  that  he  likes  John  Weaver's  touch.

Though  a  synesthete  he  isn't,  Maharth  can  close  his  eyes  later  and  imagine  this  meeting  again,  replay  a  communion  between  copper  and  sapphire,  no,  deeper  still...  a  cold  blue  that  is  so  unreachable  until  it  touches  the  hot  core  of  the  earth,  which  imbues  it  with  its  heart-red.

Tanzanite  would  be  the  closest  call.  It  is  the  only  mineral  whose  intense  and  one-of-a-kind  trichroism  can  color  the  crystal  azure,  violet,  and  crimson  all  at  once  under  different  tricks  of  the  light.  This  rarity  suits  John  Weaver  but  not  as  impeccably  as  the  man's  vintage  hat,  the  denim  that  whips  up  idyllic  Americana,  and  his  earnest  honey-toned  eyes.

"  You  are  incredibly  generous  to  a  doddering  raconteur  such  as  myself.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Weaver.  "  The  professor  laughs  self-deprecatorily,  though  he  is  secretly  pleased.  "  As  best  as  two  weeks  have  allowed!  I  appreciate  the  neighborly  check-up.  "

Although  Maharth  has  shed  his  figurative  academic  cloak  since  his  class  ended,  he  remains  naturally  curious.  What  brings  this  man  to  his  lecture?  "  Do  you  audit  classes  here  at  the  university  often?  Have  any  recommendations?  "  If  he  leans  in  a  little,  it's  only to  hear  John's  voice  better,  to  pick  out  the  soft  rasp  and  slight  grain  in  the  smooth  syllables.

"  It's  always  a  pleasure of mine  to  meet  someone  else  who  shares  a  passion  for  learning.  "

John makes it his business to know when influential people roll into town. He might not be aware of them while they swim in that nebulous, endless ocean of a world outside Antioch, but large animals have a way of keeping unseen until they venture to the shallows: only then do their forms displace the water, and when John sees those ripples he knows it's time to cast an investigative net.

The new professor of Comparative Religions at the local university makes the biggest splash so far, at least on John's watch. He thinks it's curious that someone as worldly and learned as Maharth Chandrasekhar is willing to bring his career somewhere like Antioch, but from what little John knows about his work, he's convinced it's no coincidence. Something must have drawn him here specifically, and the only truly unique thing Antioch, Oregon has going for it is the very thing that keeps John here, too: perhaps in all of his pages and pages of research, Maharth Chandrasekhar has caught a glimpse of the truth.

It's this faint hope that sees John lingering in the labyrinthian lecture halls that afternoon. He seems a bit out of place, fresh from the ranch in his blue jeans with the stained knees, worn old cowboy hat, and heavy, square-toed boots that shed dirt particles with every few steps, but his attention is just as rapt as any of the young students surrounding him, if not more so... as the professor's lecture draws to a close and the students begin gathering their things in a hushed stupor, John notes a peculiar fluttering in his chest, an eager, almost excited tremble that travels right down into his callused fingertips.

Is it possible that this sharp-dressed, sharp-minded stranger will be able to... understand?

The brim of his hat follows his eyeline as John glances up, acknowledges the professor's greeting with a small nod. "Not at all, professor," he grunts, weary and calm even though there's the subtlest tremor in his fingers as he takes Maharth's hand to shake it. His grip is firm, only released after the handsome academic does. "John Weaver. Guess a welcome is in order. Getting settled in okay?"

[anhxdonia]

As  much  as  the  professor  finds  those  who  have  encountered  the  spiritual  world  fascinating,  he  is  equally  intrigued  by  those  who  avoid  it.  Finding  non-believers  feels  just  as  sacred,  especially  in  a  town  as  historic  as  Antioch.  What  codifies  one's  belief?  What  doesn't?  These  questions  have  been  at  the  heart  and  soul  of  Maharth's  intellectual  pursuit.

"  Honestly,  the  places  you  mentioned  are  justly  important,  "  Maharth  says,  emphasizing  his  statement  with  a  light  tap  of  the  air  with  his  index  finger  as  he  comes  to  his  conclusion.  Shepherded  by  the  other  man,  Maharth  verges  upon  a  nearby  parked  car  that  stands  out  among  the  typical  models  on  Antioch's  streets.  Its  coating  is  glossy  like  a  candied  fruit  and  just  as  tempting.

While  others  may  hesitate  to  get  into  a  car  with�� a  stranger,  for  the  professor,  it's  second  nature.  The  very  manner  of  his  studies  requests  the  goodwill  of  local  people,  and  he's  probably  hitchhiked  more  than  a  thousand  miles  in  car,  wagon,  boat,  even  a  camel.  His  senses  are  astute  enough  to  pick  up  on  nefarious  intent,  and  Dante  doesn't  trigger  any  alarm  bells.  "  Why  not  if  I'm  already  tall  enough  to  ride?  "  he  says,  playing  off  of  Dante,  "  and  if  the  pie  is  as  good  as  you  make  it  sound,  I'd  love  to  taste  it  myself.  "

After  getting  the  go-ahead  to  come  in,  he  sits  in  the  front  passenger  seat  and  thanks  the  driver  for  the  ride.  While  Oregon  is  lovely  this  time  of  year,  a  spot  of  air  conditioning  is  even  lovelier.  Plus,  does  he  get  to  make  an  acquaintance?  A  friend?  Glancing  over  to  Dante,  Maharth  chances  a  conversation,  hoping  it  won't  be  a  distraction.  "  Have  you  lived  in  Antioch  your  whole  life,  Dante?  "

The Swamp Monster. The haunted cemetery. Dante's been here for all of three years—or perhaps more, as time seemed to bend around the sleepy little town in a warp, and still he doesn't remember half the urban legends around town. He'd left chasing ghosts to his old division, now he just deals with car accidents, crush injuries and people's guts.

"Sorry, bud. You're shit out of luck—if you want the creature feature tour, I'm not your man. Watering holes and food? I've got you covered." It's not a bad thing to know in town, and at least he has an amazing repertoire of places that deliver late, just for those times he needs to be in the hospital at all. Leading him to a car fit for a doctor, pristine and shiny, Dante waves at it with a mock flourish. "Last chance to get off the ride, Maharth. It's a drive to the diner—and I'm in the mood for the blueberry pie."