Page 33 of Katabasis

Could Professor Grimes be here? It was possible, and she supposed she ought to be looking.

But she simply didn’t feel Professor Grimes was motivated by riches.

No one went into academia if they wanted to get rich.

Certainly some were there for the paychecks—and they were bottom-rung, bottom-feeder types who inevitably left for industry.

But if what you wanted was money, then you’d just go become a banker or lawyer or something like that.

Certainly all of Alice’s undergraduate classmates thought she was crazy, to keep studying at Cambridge when she could have gone and worked in minor magickal industries for six figures and a yearly bonus.

At least two folks Alice knew who’d majored in magick were now vice presidents at regional banks.

But Alice had never wanted money, she had wanted the truth.

She was certain this was true as well for Professor Grimes, who was always turning down lucrative speaking opportunities so as to focus on his research.

No—despite his nice town house, his nice clothes, and his nice collection of scotch, Alice knew that Professor Grimes wasn’t in this field for money.

He’d just gotten rich by accident. Maybe minor academics squabbled with each other over funding, but Professor Grimes never had the need. He was simply too good for it all.

“I bet those are trustees.” Peter had made a game of guessing the sins of Shades they encountered, which would have been annoying if his observations weren’t quite so funny.

“I bet that’s a serial plagiarizer. I bet those are assistant deans.

There’s a special place in Hell for deans, don’t you think?

Upping their own salaries when the rest of us are scraping by on digestives? ”

Alice did not think Peter had ever scraped by on anything but did not have the energy to contest this.

In time they saw they would not have to trek to the bottom of the abyss after all.

There was a bridge, hewn of the very same stone of the cliffs, camouflaged so they had not seen it from above.

It was generous in span, wide enough they could walk across comfortably side by side, and ornately carved.

Each step was made of a half dozen embellished tiles, each column and window lined with figurines.

Alice wondered what deity had done this.

It seemed bizarre to construct a bridge down here, hidden against the rock.

Like plucking out a chunk of Venice and balancing it inside the Grand Canyon.

A Shade dithered at the center, as if unsure whether to cross. He kept taking a few steps forward, then a few steps back. When he saw them approaching he asked, “Stone seventeen?”

“Sorry?” said Peter.

The Shade waved his transcript at them. “There it says stepping stone seventeen, stone seventeen for three years or until I’ve learned my lesson, whichever comes first.”

Peter frowned at the transcript. “I still don’t—”

“Oh, here.” The Shade darted around them.

Alice noticed an empty slot on the bridge, marked with the Roman numeral XVII.

The Shade climbed down and assumed a kneeling position.

The most extraordinary thing happened then.

His features blurred; his extremities faded away; and his grayness deepened.

In seconds he had become rock, and the softest sigh emitted from the gap where once had been his mouth; a low note that took several long seconds to fade, and even then, persisted in the wind.

“Gosh,” said Alice.

It was apparent now the entire bridge, and all its ornamentation, was formed of petrified Shades.

Everywhere she could trace out clues of human forms. Here, an extended leg; there, two arms wrapped over a head.

But the footsteps held firm, and there were no other trails that got them across, so it seemed only reasonable to proceed forth.

Archimedes darted across without hesitation.

A chorus of moans echoed in his wake, and as Alice followed, all she could think of was the particular pitch of each moan on each step; how if you could just jump across five steps at once, you could play the opening to Mozart’s Symphony No. 25.

The path was thinner across the bridge, and more treacherous—this time, they had to haul themselves uphill.

Further up, two Shades were tussling over a particularly bendy part of the path.

The dispute seemed to be over who should have made way for the other, which struck Alice as rather pointless, since they were all going to the same destination in the end.

But the Shades kept jostling one another, until one placed his hands on the other’s shoulders and pushed him clean off an overpass.

“Watch out!” Peter yanked Alice back.

Concerned, Alice peeked over the ledge. But the fallen Shade simply picked himself up and proceeded at an undignified crawl up toward the bank, none the worse for the wear. They were already dead, she supposed. Anything that happened now was just an indignity.

The Shade who’d pushed the other peeked over the ledge as well, then huffed as if with satisfaction before continuing on his way. Alice and Peter followed cautiously in his wake.

“What a dick,” muttered Alice.

“I wonder what he did.” Peter squinted at the Shade, then cried in a too-loud whisper, “Why, that’s Bill Cadeaux!”

Fortunately the Shade named Bill Cadeaux did not hear. The name rang only a faint bell for Alice. “Who’s that?”

“He and Hollis Galloway were up for the same job back in the sixties,” said Peter. “It was a terrible scandal.”

“Hollis Galloway the semiotician?”

Peter nodded. “They’re both semioticians.

Were. So Cadeaux and Galloway were up for the same job at Chicago, and after the job talks they decided to make an offer to Galloway.

Only Cadeaux got wind of it and started sending anonymous letters to Chicago pretending to be graduate students alleging that she’d—you know—”

“Diddled them?” Alice supplied.

“Basically, yes. Which wouldn’t have been such a big deal, except that Cadeaux was pretending to be female students, which made Galloway out to be some sort of predatory lesbian.

Now, Chicago doesn’t mind predators; lesbians, that’s another story.

So Chicago launches this whole investigation into Galloway, who might actually have been a lesbian, just not the predatory kind, and so she gets so scared off that she rescinds her job application, and Cadeaux gets the job, and no one knew any better until word got out he was bragging about it to graduate students at the pub.

He’d made the whole thing up. He’d got his mum and sisters to handwrite anonymous letters and everything.

Galloway found out and swore she’d ruin his career, except she died in a car accident before anyone could get to the bottom of things. ”

“Jesus,” Alice muttered. “I’d think he belongs in worse than Greed.”

“And then once the word spread, he insisted he was innocent. Swore to his dying day that none of the allegations were made up, that Galloway really had harassed all those students.” Peter stared after Bill Cadeaux, fascinated.

“I just can’t understand it. How you could do that to someone else.

How you could live with yourself after.”

Alice thought Peter was laying it on rather thick, considering. “I think some people are just that selfish.”

“I mean, but to sabotage a colleague! That’s demonic!”

“Oh, sure.” Alice could not restrain herself. “And you’re an absolute angel yourself.”

Immediately she regretted saying this. Peter slowed his pace. “What does that mean?”

“Sorry—nothing—I only meant, we’re all competitive, aren’t we? There’s department politics everywhere.”

He seemed unconvinced. “Are you angry with me?”

“No.” She tried to speak calmly, and instead her voice came out a bright chirrup. “Why would I be?”

“You’ve been short with me all morning.”

“Sorry.” Alice hugged her arms across her chest. She might have done a better job acting the fool, she knew, but she simply wasn’t a very good actor. “I’m only very tired, and very hungry. It’s not you.”

“Okay.” They continued walking in silence for a moment. Then Peter asked, “Is this about the Cooke?”

“What? No!”

“It’s just you’ve been a little weird ever since I mentioned it. And I know it was rude to brag, and I’m sorry...”

She was certain now he was fucking with her. How cruel, how unbelievably cruel this was. She felt like a small animal, trapped in a cage.

What if she laid it all out in the open?

She had half a mind to do so. Anything to put an end to this torture.

I know what you’re doing, she could say—your puppy dog act won’t work on me, fuck you, Murdoch.

But then what? Would he confess, apologize?

Ludicrous. More likely he, too, would push her over the ledge.

He didn’t need her whole, he only needed her alive.

The only relevant feature in that spell was the presence of a living soul.

And Peter could do anything to her before he dragged her over the finish line.

She fought to keep her voice level. “It’s not the Cooke.”

“Then what is it? Have I done something?”

“It’s not you, honestly—”

“Was it about that one morning? Is it my—”

“ God , Murdoch, no!”

“If you’re angry with me, just tell me.”

“It’s just—” She broke off. She could not shake the sudden conviction that someone was laughing at her. She was sure she’d heard a woman giggle. She glanced about but saw no one. Peter’s face set in familiar concern, and she felt the panic again that she was going mad. “I’m just—”

There it was again, a definite tinkling laugh.

Alice spun around. “Stop that!”

“Stop what?”