The Odd Case of Ms. Squid
Chapter Three
The Odd Case of Ms. Squid, Chapter Three, follows Cerulean as he tries to understand Ms. Squid’s career through the insights of a man who knew her well – a historian with eyes honest enough to see clearly and a heart brave enough to still care.
As evening light slanted over the land, Cerulean paced across the dying yellow grass of Aram University and then jogged up the short flight of stairs into a sturdy, red-brick building. Just inside the doorway, a wooden sign with bold letters directed the unenlightened to the five departments within the building: The Education Center—an arrow pointed to the right. The Legal Department—an arrow pointed to the left. Political Studies—an arrow pointed up. Cerulean rubbed his chin. Must mean straight ahead. History and Art—a crooked arrow pointed to steep steps, leading downstairs.
Chuckling to himself, Cerulean pattered down the stone steps and, at an open doorway, hurried into a brightly lit dungeon. At least, that’s how the dark paneling and low ceiling struck him at first. When he realized that the walls were covered in old shelves packed with old books, he readjusted his thinking. Not a dungeon but a gateway…
“May I help you?”
A short, plump gentleman with a shock of white hair stepped forward, his clear brown eyes shining with interest.
Pulling his scattered thoughts together, Cerulean offered a formal bow and introduced himself. “I sent a message that I was coming. I’d like to talk with someone in the art department, if I may.”
With a sad wave brushing that possibility aside, the man turned and gestured to a corner with two chairs, a low table, and a carafe that might be filled with something nice to drink.
“I know of you, Mr. Cerulean, and it’s an honor to make your acquaintance. I just wish it were under better circumstances.” He gestured to one of the plush chairs. “Please sit and join me for an evening libation. Ms. Squid and I always ended our workday with a little refreshment.”
Relaxing in the soft embrace of the large chair, Cerulean could feel his whole body respond as his muscles unclenched and his nerves untangled. He watched, pleased, when two long-stemmed glasses were procured from a hidden cabinet behind the chairs and set on the table. Then golden liquid was poured from the rich brown carafe into the clear glasses. One was placed into Cerulean’s hand. He nodded with gratitude. “I don’t usually drink liquor, but—”
Tapping the air, the gentleman corrected the mistake. “Not intoxicating, if that’s what you’re thinking. Oh, no, not Ms. Squid. She never touched anything that might harm her inner balance, as she called it.” He took an appraising sip and smiled. Best bouquet I ever bought. Seven years old, mind you. Not the cheap stuff they foist on the younger crowd.”
A smile rising to his lips in the serene environment, Cerulean savored a glorious sip and then considered his host. “You know who I am, but I don’t know you.”
Snorting, the gentleman’s eyes twinkled. “Well, you’re certainly not alone there! My name is Doctor Jay Brund. PhD, not medical, you understand. I am the foremost and only history professor on this campus. And sad to say, Ms. Squid was our only artist.” A sober shake of the head, and his cheery attitude dropped like a falling star as he stared across the room.
“I am surprised. Considering OldEarth’s long, complicated history and all the records that surely need to be organized, I’d think there’d be an army of historians working full time to make sense of Newearth’s place in the universe.”
A quirked grin. “You would think, wouldn’t you? But alas, no. Even OldEarth, before its demise, had reduced history departments all over the planet to a few guardians of large rooms filled with old records. But that’s not why historians exist! Never was and never shall be. Our passion is not to merely keep records; why any datapad can do as much. No! Foolish humanity. We are the voice crying in the desert—Who are we? Why are we here? Where did we come from and where are we going? What went right, what went wrong, and what have we learned? These are the questions that historians must grapple with. But instead, we muddle along and call it living, ignoring the big picture, the very purpose of human existence.”
Cerulean shifted in his chair. “Luxonians could use a few historians ourselves. Instead, we have Supreme Guardians who believe they can remember enough of yesterday to direct tomorrow.”
Exhaling a long breath, Dr. Brund shook his head. “A mistake. Politics and history are different departments for a reason. We should inform each other, not become each other.” After another savored taste, he eyed Cerulean carefully. “You didn’t come here to listen to a lecture on the value of history professors.” His gaze fell. “I heard about Ms. Squid this morning. She was one of the best souls I ever knew. I hope you find out who killed her and punish the guilty party. We can ill afford to lose one of the best members of humanity.”
“You know what happened to her?”
“The missing brain? Yes, I heard. Very strange.” Then a shrug. “But perhaps not so strange.” His brows knit together as he leaned toward Cerulean. “Ms. Squid was a spiritual soul. I mean, she saw the inner person that we often hide from each other, even from ourselves. Fearless, she understood the play of light and dark within each of us. Her art was as much a cautionary tale as a witness to the glory of God.”
Still leaning back comfortably, Cerulean waited.
A pause, and Dr. Brund appeared to study his half-full glass. “But she wasn’t smart, not in a brainy sort of way. By that, I mean she could hardly follow a map, knew nothing about science or mathematics unless it connected to some natural pattern, and had no ear for linguistics. If a simple piece of furniture broke or there was even the tiniest technology snafu, she’d have to call for help. Plenty of people would assist her, but the fact is, she just didn’t have a head for anything but art.”
Cerulean considered this honest appraisal and moved on. “How long did she work here?”
“Oh, it’s been nearly twenty years now. She was just a young thing when she came, bright and energetic. Her resume was nearly blank, which astonished the review board, but when she showed what she could do, they became converts. Plus, she worked for practically nothing and never asked for a raise. She didn’t need much, being a simple person. People just gave her things. Out of gratitude, I believe. Somehow, she brightened everyone’s life by just listening and caring. And then, she’d make these amazing gifts. Things people really admired and loved, just perfect for them, tailored to their inner person, though how she knew what a person would like so much, no one ever knew.”
Leaning back with a faraway look in his eyes, Dr. Brund seemed to be searching the unseen heavens for his old friend.
“Do you happen to know where she came from? Anything about her past?”
Puzzlement rippled over the professor’s face. “Not a clue. And as a historian, that bothered me no end, you may be sure. She lived alone; I know that. Never mentioned family or even specific friends, though I know she attended some meetings at the Cathedral. People came to visit her here and at home. All kinds of people. And she would make gifts for them and their friends and family. Somehow, in a strange sort of math, the total of her life added up to much more than what the pieces could account for.”
His glass drained of every sparkling drop, Cerulean knew it was time to go. He heaved himself from the chair and held out his hand to the antiquated professor, who also rose to his feet. “You have been very helpful. I feel as if I have met Ms. Squid and yet I am terribly sorry I didn’t know her.”
“Oddly enough, I feel much the same. I knew her, yet I didn’t, if that makes any sense.”
After a courteous bow, Cerulean turned and made his way back upstairs. Outside, the evening light mellowed the lawn and distant trees to a glorious golden hue. Knowing full well that no camera on the planet could catch the scene, he started forward with one thought filling his mind. I bet Ms. Squid would’ve painted it just right…
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