Down a Lost Road (15 page)

“
Don’t worry. Don’t say
anything. You can explain when you can. Let’s just get you back
home…”

He put his hands on my shoulders but I
wrenched away in frustration.

“
No, D, I can’t! I can’t go
home, because I’ll have to leave again. I can’t do that to Mom.
Can’t you see?”

I clenched my hands in fists, seeing how
hurt and confused he was.

“
Merelin, let’s get you
home.”

“
Don’t look at me like
that! I’m not sick, and I’m not crazy. Look at me, Damian. Look at
these clothes! Where do you think I’ve been?”

He shook his head again, almost wincing.
“You always had such an imagination…”

If anyone else had said it, I would have
flown into an indignant rage. But it was Damian, and hearing those
words from him made my heart break. Suddenly something switched off
– or on – in me, and I swallowed back my grief.

“
So, where’s the search
party? Aren’t you going to call and tell them you found
me?”

“
Mom didn’t call one out.
She went to town. She said was going to the police.” He stared, not
at me, but
through
me, narrowing his hazel eyes as he
thought. “I followed her. I couldn’t help it. But she went to Mr.
Dansy’s shop instead. I don’t know why. She talked to him, then
came home. I asked her if they were going to send out a search. She
just said she was sure they would find you, but she was so distant,
and sad. I couldn’t make myself ask her anything else.”

“
Does she know?” I asked,
wide-eyed.

“
Know what? Mer, I don’t
understand what’s going on.”

“
I have to explain it,
then. Now.” I pointed to the chair, and Damian sat down silently.
It was big enough for the two of us, so I sat beside him and fixed
my gaze on my hands. “Damian, it’s about Dad. About his
disappearance.”

Chapter 10 – Kurtis

Only the sound of tree branches clawing at
the window broke the silence. The wind had picked up, and the sky
flooded over with grey, blocking out the hideously sharp sunlight.
Neither Damian nor I moved, though I kept glancing at him as the
minutes slipped by. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking – he had
that aggravating talent for wearing an expressionless mask when he
was deepest in thought. After about the hundredth time looking at
him and seeing him still blank I slouched as deep into the chair as
I could.

“
You haven’t said a
word.”

“
Did you want me
to?”

“
You could at least say
something.” I plucked at the chair’s threadbare upholstery. “You
could at least say if you believe me.”

“
Mer, how could I not? My
God, you know I’d never doubt you. It’s just overwhelming. To hear
all this.”

I smiled, bitterly. “You think it’s
overwhelming hearing it? Try living it.”

He reached over and took my hand. He had a
strong grip, like Dad’s, and its firmness was steadying. The rain
began to fall, pattering against the glass. Thunder rumbled in the
distance. I had always loved our violent Texas thunderstorms, but
now all I wanted was the desert, or the quiet stillness of the
Branhau
. I’d lived on Earth almost seventeen years, but
somehow the few days I’d spent in Arah Byen felt far more real.

“
Damian, will you help me?
I need your help.”

“
What do you suppose they
want you to do?”

It seemed rather an effort for him to say
it.
You still don’t believe me
, I thought, but I let it
pass.

“
They need to know what Dad
learned. What he came to find out. Yatol said he came to learn
about their past.” I got to my feet. “So, how would we know what he
was looking for? He always came here, to the library, to do
research, but was that just for his work here or for the people of
Arah Byen?”

“
Or were they the same
thing?” Damian asked, sitting up. “What did he teach? Did he teach
the very things he was trying to study? I mean, why did he even
want to become a professor?”

“
To have an excuse to
continue his studies?”

We both started pacing, scanning the stacks
and probing our memories for some insight into his motives. I went
through my most vivid recollections of my dad, and mentally walked
through his den and his office here at the university. The details
were all vague. I wished I could ask my mom to tell me more about
him.

Thinking of that, I said, “Mom met him in
college. He must have come when he was about our age, and studied
really hard to get into the university. I remember Mom said he was
an international student. She said she had a crush on him because
of his accent!”

It struck me as funny, and I giggled. And
then I blushed, because I remembered what I’d thought about Yatol’s
accent the first day I’d met him.

“
That’s right, I’d
forgotten that!” Damian laughed, shaking his head. “Did she ever
find out what country he was from?”

“
I think she thought he was
from the Middle East. But I wonder if he eventually told her the
truth.”

That got Damian thinking. “They called him
David. The Bible! Are there clues in the Bible? Like, the Psalms or
something?” He pounded his hand on a shelf. “No, no, that’s just
dumb. I’m thinking too hard about it.”

“
Yeah you are,” I
joked.

“
Okay, genius, what’s your
theory?”

I grinned. I wanted to smack him and hug him
at the same time, I was that happy to be back with him.

“
My theory is we’re getting
ahead of ourselves. Back up. What did he study in college?
Obviously when he came here, he must have thought he could learn
what he needed at college.”

“
History! If he wanted to
learn about the past, he must have studied history.”

“
Yeah…no. It wouldn’t have
been history, because we wouldn’t find any clues to Arah Byen’s
past in Earth’s history books. Right? Or would we?”

“
We never learned anything
remotely like it in any of our history classes.” He grinned.
“Might’ve been more interesting if we had.”

He paused by one of the stacks, running his
fingers over the old bindings. I joined him and began reading
titles. Something clicked, and I snapped my fingers.

“
He taught literature,
right? So maybe that’s what he studied in college?”

“
It must have been. Or at
least what he got his doctorate in.”

“
Doctorate?”

I felt dumb for asking. How did Damian know
more about these things than me?

“
Ph.D. If he taught at the
university, he must have gone through graduate school.”

“
Oh. Yeah, it was
literature. I just remembered that’s what his diploma said, on the
wall in his den. Wasn’t it from Oxford? Maggie and Tony
were
born in England.”

“
Oxford. If he went to
Oxford, then how did he ever end up here? And why?”

I shrugged. “Maybe they’ve got a good
library here?”

“
But…literature!” Damian
cried, going back to that frustration.

A grouchy older student just happened to
pass by at that moment, and directed a scowl and a “shh!” in our
direction. Damian rolled his eyes at the man’s retreating back, but
he lowered his voice.

“
Why on earth did he study
literature?”

“
It’s…fiction.” I met his
gaze and shrugged again. “We can’t have hit a dead end
already.”

“
Maybe we’ll have to ask
someone.”

“
Ask – who? About
what?”

“
Someone who knew him
professionally, maybe. Someone who knew what he studied and
taught.”

“
That was a while ago. Four
years. Are any of the same professors still here?”

“
I don’t know. Yearbooks!
We can find the yearbooks from when he taught. Look at the faculty
pages. Professors usually stick around for years, right? Tenure or
something.”

Tenure, right. I felt dumb again – it was
only a year or so ago that I realized “tenure” wasn’t Texans’ way
of saying “ten-year.”

Damian had already sauntered off, so I
stumbled after him as quickly as I could. We eventually found the
archived yearbooks, not in the library at all but in the Admissions
Office of the university, where they had several decades worth
decorating the bookshelves. We pulled the last five and divvied
them up. I could feel the secretary watching us as we sat on the
couch thumbing through the pages, and felt sorry that she had
nothing better to do than sit staring blankly at us through thick
red-rimmed glasses. I sent Damian to ask her for paper and a pen,
and she wordlessly handed them to him and went on watching our
efforts.

“
Here,” I whispered, trying
to ignore her. “This professor has been in all three of the books
I’ve checked.” I grabbed the latest yearbook from the stack and
flipped through it.

“
Is he in
there?”

I slammed the book shut and tossed it aside.
“Of course not.”

He picked it up and started searching for
other names. I got an idea and started working backwards, looking
for the names of current professors in the older yearbooks.

“
Hey Damian,” I said.
“Check it out. This professor, Dr. Hurtsinger, was a student when
Dad taught. And he teaches literature now.”

“
Do you suppose he took any
of Dad’s classes?” Damian asked, peering over my
shoulder.

I shrugged, copying down his name. “Worth a
visit to find out, don’t you think?”

“
Why not? And there’s one
other professor I found who was here with Dad. Might see if we
can’t meet with both of them. I just hope they’re around for the
summer.”

We piled the books backed onto the shelves,
nodded our thanks to the still apathetic secretary, and darted out
into the pouring rain. Luckily the School of Literature was close
to the student center, just across the mall with its fountain and
brick walkways. It occupied the greater part of Gorley Hall, a
sprawling hollow building of weathered stone that seemed to go on
forever.

Damian and I had been inside it often
enough, but the hallways with their dark wood paneling and worn
oriental carpets still brought a halt to our mad dash. As we stood
dripping and disheveled in the entryway, I stared toward the
staircase, not sure if it was the strength of memory or some sort
of foreboding that held me rooted where I was. Against my will a
memory flashed through my mind of the last time I had come through
those doors. I’d run ahead of Dad, through rain as heavy and bleak
as today, and bolted through the door to wait for him. He came up
the walk with his umbrella, handsome in a tweed jacket and cap,
just like an English gentleman.

At that moment the door swung open behind us
and a young man sauntered in, shaking off his umbrella
enthusiastically. I managed to uproot myself enough to jump out of
his way.

“
That storm blew up in a
hurry, eh?” he said, grinning at us.

I could only nod.
Keep walking,
I
kept thinking. I couldn’t even imagine how pathetic we looked –
Damian, who probably hadn’t slept in a week, and me… I tugged on
the hem of the tunic, cheeks burning.

“
At least you had an
umbrella,” Damian ventured lightly.

“
True enough!” He peered at
us through his thin-rimmed glasses. “Are you two looking for anyone
or anything in particular?”

We exchanged glances. Well, he wasn’t going
to go away on his own, so I might as well ply him for info.

“
Yes, actually,” I said.
“We were trying to find Dr. Hurtsinger.”

“
And Dr.
Balson.”

“
Eh,” he said, giving a
little shake of his head. “Well, you’re in luck, partly. Professor
Hurtsinger here. Not doctor yet, but almost.”

“
Oh!” I exclaimed. “Guess
that was lucky.”

Then I thought that sounded kind of stupid,
and I stared intensely at the floor.

“
I’m Damian,” Damian said,
holding out his hand. “And this is my twin, Merelin.”

He shook our hands warmly, and I mumbled
something about being pleased to meet him. An awkward silence
followed. I shifted my weight and stared harder at the carpet.
Finally Professor Hurtsinger clapped Damian on the shoulder.

“
Guess you two have
something you wanted to ask me about? How about we go up to my
office where we can sit down?”