Page 4 of Atlas of Unknowable Things

DEMONOLOGY

The devil sometimes made them fall suddenly asleep; they fell to the ground and became so heavy that the strongest man had great trouble in even moving their heads.

—THE HISTORY OF THE DEVILS OF LOUDUN: THE ALLEGED POSSESSION OF THE URSULINE NUNS, DES NIAU, TRANSLATED BY EDMUND GOLDSMID

I’d all but insisted on renting a car, but the college arranged for a driver to pick me up at the airport in Denver.

He was tall and lanky with longish gray hair pulled back in a ponytail.

He told me that his name was Jim and that he worked at Hildegard as a handyman.

I tried to seem cheerful, but stepping out into the midday sun, I felt almost exactly as if someone had splashed hot tea in my face.

As Jim was stowing my luggage in the trunk of the big black Mercedes, I stumbled, bracing myself against the car.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I said, righting myself, “just dizzy.”

“You’re feeling the elevation?”

“Maybe. How high up are we?”

“They don’t call it the mile-high city for nothing. We’ll be going up a lot higher. Close to seven thousand feet.” He grew very serious. “Are you sure you want to go?”

I thought that was an odd question. I was here, wasn’t I?

“Yes?” I said, slightly confused.

I could have sworn my answer upset him, but he looked away too quickly for me to be sure.

“It’s important to drink plenty of water and eat lots of greens.” His accent was difficult to place.

“French?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Many of us are French in the area around the college. It is an enclave.”

That also struck me as odd. I’d heard of French-speaking areas near the Canadian border and definitely down in Louisiana, but in the middle of Colorado?

Jim got in the driver’s seat and started the ignition. When I climbed into the back, I was relieved to find that the car was air-conditioned. Through the rearview mirror, I could just make out Jim’s eyes. They were deep-set and hinted at a good sense of humor.

The car had a plush leather interior and smelled like the morning after a rainstorm.

I noticed some bottled water in the seat back, and grabbing it, I unscrewed the top.

It was too warm and slightly bitter, but I drank it enthusiastically.

My lack of sleep beginning to catch up with me, I balled up my jacket and leaned against the window.

I was out in no time, dreaming of Charles.

We’re sitting together at a picnic table beneath a blazing orange sun, eating sweet sandwiches as bees begin to swarm. He’s angry with me for leaving.

“You took everything.” He scowls. “All the research.”

He motions to a box that sits in front of us on the picnic table. A bee lands on my arm. I swat it away. I lift the top off the box, expecting to find pages, but instead, there are test tubes and syringes inside.

“I was just looking for my bluebird,” I say, swatting away another bee.

The sound of the swarm grows louder. Angry. Soon the box is filled with bees. One lands on my neck and stings me.

“I’m allergic.” I cry out in pain, looking to Charles for help, but he just laughs.

I awoke with a start and was astonished to find that in the time I’d been asleep, the landscape had changed dramatically.

As we’d driven up into the mountains, the foliage had grown lush and green, and the air, though thin, was crisp and invigorating.

My head was spinning from tiredness, and even the car itself seemed vaguely different, unfamiliar.

I rubbed my temples and rolled down the window.

A burst of fresh mountain air filled my lungs.

“You are awake,” Jim said with a smile. “You slept quite a while. We are in the mountains now. Near Hildegard. We will be there soon.”

Outside, rich, late-spring greenery blanketed the land.

We were on a narrow road, and I had the feeling of being somewhere unknown, somewhere secret.

It wasn’t long before the college gates came into view.

They were wrought-iron monstrosities, looping and intricate, and at their center was what appeared to be a giant heart.

“What does the heart mean?”

“What heart?” he asked.

“Right there on the gate. It’s a heart, isn’t it?”

“My apologies, but I don’t see a heart.”

Jim brought the car to a halt in front of the gates. Leaving the motor running, he dashed out and opened them with the ease of a man who had done this a hundred times. He returned to the car, smiling broadly.

He settled himself back into the driver’s seat and started up a long, narrow drive, lined on both sides by magisterial quaking aspens.

I wanted to ask again about the heart, but my attention was drawn to an ornate sign posted near a large oak.

It read: CELUI QUI NE COMPREND PAS DEVRAIT APPRENDRE OU SE TAIRE.

“Who does not understand should learn or be silent,” I read. That seemed vaguely familiar, but I was still groggy and couldn’t place it.

“You speak French,” Jim said, obviously pleased.

“I read French, and not very well. Just enough to get by for my research. It’s a strange message, isn’t it? Not very welcoming.”

He shrugged. “It’s just one of their sayings. They have a lot. I pretend to understand them, but I am more like you. I think, let them have their sayings.”

As we emerged from the long drive, the campus rose up before us.

The style was Collegiate Gothic, but with a slight flair of Romanesque Revival.

We drove past a redbrick bell tower with ornate windows followed by an even older-looking building.

Sunk into the ivy and hellebore, it stretched out in dark stone, covered in parts by a patina of vibrant green moss.

“Is that the monastery?”

“Yes. It’s a library now. Magnificent. People come from all over the world to use the books in there.”

Finally we came to a stately manor.

“The chancellor’s house,” he said. “You’ll be staying here, I believe.”

Almost Mediterranean in style, it was enormous, with a creamy exterior and dark blue shutters.

From the upstairs center window a balcony with a curving wrought-iron railing jutted out.

It looked like the photo on a postcard of a villa on some magical isle.

As the car pulled into the rounded driveway and parked, a figure emerged from the front door.

He was handsome, probably in his mid-thirties.

“Ms. Quain, it’s so nice to have you.” His dark hair was pushed up and out of his eyes.

He gave me a winning smile. Dressed somewhat extravagantly in a dark burgundy blazer and expensive-looking slacks, he looked like he would be more at home in a club in Soho than in a library in the middle of the Rocky Mountains.

“I’m Dorian Dubois, the head librarian. We corresponded through email, but of course it is a pleasure to meet you finally in person. ”

“It’s great to meet you as well,” I said, trying to get my bearings. The grounds were gorgeous, but the altitude was definitely a concern. The air was so thin I could barely breathe. “It’s quiet,” was the most cogent thing I could think to say.

Dorian lifted my luggage and led me inside. “Hildegard is a very small school. We cap enrollment at three hundred.”

“Only three hundred students?” I stopped in the foyer of what was proving to be an obscenely gorgeous house.

“Small is the way we like it at Hildegard. We like to think of ourselves as offering a one-of-a-kind educational experience, and one of a kind by its very nature isn’t for everyone. And now everyone has gone home for the summer.”

“Everyone?”

“There is a skeleton crew, of course. We’re glad to have you here,” he continued.

“It will be good to have some new blood around.” He lowered his voice, creating an air of unearned intimacy between us.

“We’ve recently had a faculty member leave, and none of us is very happy about it.

So if people seem a little squirrelly, that will explain it. ”

My heart beat a violent tarantella against my rib cage. This was my chance. “The professor who left, may I ask their field of expertise?”

“Cognitive neuro-programming,” he said.

So not archaeology after all. Interesting.

Dorian led me into a large central room.

From the ceiling hung an ancient-looking chandelier, but it wasn’t lit.

To my right, affixed to the wall, was a large bronze heart embossed with the image of a face, and to my left was a marble table on top of which sat a vase of wildflowers.

As we made small talk, I followed Dorian along the baked red tile that lined the floor and up an enormously wide staircase.

At the top of the stairs, Dorian paused and pointed down the hall to his left. “I’m just down there if you need anything. And if you’ll follow me this way,” he said, stopping outside a door at the end of the hall. “Your room.”

When he opened the door, I was nearly blinded.

All the windows were open, and the room was flooded with sunlight.

I could hear birdsong lilting up from the eaves beyond the window casements.

The room was large and lavishly decorated with purples and blues.

An intricate flower pattern adorned the walls, and the sitting area was comprised of a puffy chair and love seat in a matching print.

In the far corner there was a writing desk that looked out on a large vaulted window.

I set my bag down on a gorgeous four-poster bed made of dark wood and piled high with fluffy white bedding before wandering over to the window.

Outside, the grounds stretched through a series of intricate gardens and twisting paths down to a crystal-blue lake from which arose a small island, brilliant green and exploding with plant life. Beyond the lake lay a majestic pine forest.

“I didn’t realize there was a lake.”

“If you enjoy swimming, there is a pool on campus, but I’m afraid the lake is much too cold to swim in.”