The House of Grey- Volume 1

by Earl, Collin

  Artorius advanced very quickly, leaving Monson and Casey in the midst of Casey’s adoring crowd. Monson leaned toward Casey.

  "What on earth was that about?”

  Casey looked a little uncomfortable. He sighed.

  “Artorius...he wants a girlfriend.”

  Monson waited, thinking that surely that could not be all there was to it, but Casey did not say anything else.

  “He wants a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah,” answered Casey. “He wants a girlfriend.”

  “Umm…I feel like I missed something there.”

  "It’s a long story.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “That would be best.”

  The two of them did not see Artorius again until well into lunch. Monson and Casey found a spot in the back corner of the cafeteria where they tried to remain unnoticed by their fellow classmates. Monson felt this said something about Casey. He was not the type of person to bask in the admiration of the others, For the most part, people sat apart from them with the exception of the boy in the wheelchair that Monson attempted to help earlier that day. Wheelchair boy ignored them and they him even though they were sitting next to one another. About forty minutes after they sat down, Artorius finally showed up.

  “Where were you?” exclaimed Monson and Casey in unison, the latter actually spitting out food.

  Artorius did not say anything. He just sat and arranged his food, but instead of eating he just stared at his plate looking happy.

  Monson spoke to him. “Artorius …are you OK?”

  Artorius turned to look at him. “OK? I’m freaking great!”

  “You didn’t answer our question,” said Casey. “Where were you this whole time?”

  Artorius gave him a devilish grin. “It's a surprise, you’ll see.”

  Monson hated when people said things like that.

  They finished their food, Artorius eating with gusto, as he did not have much time. Twenty minutes later, the boys found themselves at The GM’s main entrance. Casey stopped there and gestured.

  “We’re down this way.” He pointed towards the direction of The Barracks. “You gonna be all right on your own? You sure you don’t want us to walk with you?”

  Monson eyes narrowed, but he smiled. “Of course not. I wouldn’t want you to ruin my rep.”

  Both Artorius and Casey laughed. “All right, we’ll meet up with you later. Don’t get lost.”

  They left, Casey still attempting to force out of Artorius where he went.

  Monson watched them leave, feeling slightly apprehensive. Going to Mr. Gatt’s history class by himself had seemed like a good idea when he signed up, but now they were actually leaving — no, he should not think that way. He would be fine.

  It took some time to find, but eventually Monson neared a small brick building surrounded by a grove of trees and a hedge. Detached from the main portion of Coren’s campus the classroom seemed out of place on Coren’s campus, but nice at the same time. The scenery was very peaceful, and the combination of pine, weeping willow, and a variety of flowers created an unusually lovely and fresh aroma. It lightened Monson's heart a great deal, making him forget his worries ever so briefly.

  His mind drifted for a time until a voice rang out from under a patch of trees, interrupting his solitude. Tentatively, he spoke.

  “Hello?”

  No answer came. He echoed his greeting.

  “Hello?” Again, no answer.

  He moved closer to where he thought the sound came from, when he heard it again. A beautiful voice rang out, clear, clean and harmonious, as if it was creating its own accompanying notes. Monson wandered, searching, as the music rose and fell. He stopped and peered through the drapes of a willow tree and saw a girl with long dark hair standing maybe fifty feet in the distance. Monson wished he could make out the words as he found the melody very appealing; though he was standing close enough to hear her voice, he was too far away to hear the actual verse. Monson continued to listen and allowed his mind to wander. Suddenly, the girl turned.

  Oh crap! thought Monson as he ducked behind a tree. Luckily, the girl turned away from him. She must not have noticed him standing there. Something odd crept over him. A feeling, the murmur of a heart pulsating within him. It brought up images of faces and places he did not recognize. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he saw was a tree-covered mountain that seem to call to him from a distance.

  The girl stopped singing and the sight vanished. Monson opened his eyes and chanced a look, hoping to see the girl’s face. He wanted to know who she was.

  “What are you doing?”

  Turning quickly, Monson slipped and fell hard on his rear end. It hurt. Embarrassed, he twisted to see the boy in the wheelchair staring at him with mild interest on his face. Monson recognized him immediately and cringed, thinking about their earlier encounter. The boy had dirty blond hair, light blue eyes, and soft features, which gave him a somewhat feminine appearance. Monson made a mental note not to say that. Beyond this, his eyes projected strength, and Monson comprehended a single dominant feature emanate from the boy’s countenance: Intelligence. Overwhelming intelligence.

  As he looked into the boy’s eyes, Monson’s vision blurred, which forced him to blink. The boy’s eyes did not so much as flicker, but Monson sensed a certain degree of remorse. Remembering the girl, Monson spun on his feet hoping to get a glance. She was gone. Monson turned back towards the boy and finally answered the question.

  “Yeah…that wasn’t what it looked like.”

  The boy smiled at this. “So you weren’t spying?”

  Monson thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “OK, maybe it was exactly what it looked like.”

  “At least you picked a cute one.” The boy looked close to laughing.

  Monson shrugged. "I wouldn’t know. I didn’t see her face.”

  “Too bad for you. Shall we go?”

  The boy turned abruptly. Moving his chair with amazing speed. Startled by the sudden end of the conversation, it took Monson a moment to recover, by which time the boy was already quite far in front of him. Monson scrambled after him ignoring his clothes, thoroughly disheveled from falling down. They moved quickly up the path toward the front door of the building. As they neared the entrance, Monson hesitated, not knowing if the boy would accept his help this time. Monson decided it did not matter and rushed forward, catching the door handle and swinging it open right as the wheelchair rolled through it.

  “Nice one, Grey.” The boy continued rolling down the hall.

  “Thanks,” Monson muttered, stepping through the door himself. He rushed after the boy and caught up to him halfway down the hall.

  “You’re really fast on that thing,” Monson stammered this through puffs of air as he struggled to keep up with the wheelchair.

  “Have to be,” answered the boy. “They don’t give us very long between classes, do they?”

  “That's certainly true. I think I’ve been late to almost every class.”

  “Well, spying on girls doesn’t help.”

  “Shut up.”

  They entered the classroom.

  Chapter 11 – A Teacher Like None Other

  The bell rang as the two entered a very large room. It did not look like a traditional classroom, but was long and rectangular, almost like a lodge of some sort. The deeply stained polished wood floor gave the room an ancient feel. The same brick Monson saw on the outside of building was inside as well, giving a clear indication of the building’s age. Windows draped with ivy outside lined the wall and bathed the students in an earthy ambiance. It was nice, but he wondered why the building was here at all. Everything else on campus was new. Why keep this?

  As a boy bumped into him on his way into the classroom, Monson suddenly remembered he was late. He scanned the room full of older students still milling around, chatting idly. A large group congregated near the front of the room around someone he could not see. He spotted an empty seat in th
e back corner and started for it, glancing over his shoulder at the boy in the wheelchair. The boy smiled and nodded, indicating that Monson should continue. Monson made a beeline for the seat.

  How uncomfortable. He could actually feel the eyes of the older students sitting around him, many gazing at him in distaste. The boy in the wheelchair was looking at him from across the room. Monson smiled and the boy nodded back, and then shifted his chair forward.

  Crap, thought Monson, letting his attention trail off. He had forgotten to ask the boy his name, though he should not be too hard on himself; their conversation was not exactly extensive. Monson felt pleased by the boy’s change in attitude from when he tried to help him earlier. Monson stopped as something occurred to him. The boy had said “Grey” in the hall. That could not be right. Monson did not remember telling him his name. How did he know? He racked his brain trying to remember if he had seen him at the assembly or the reception. Consequently he found the chattering of the students very annoying.

  A creak sounded as Mr. Gatt entered the room carrying a large box. The sound caught Monson’s attention and he looked up towards the door. Mr. Gatt looked as slick as ever in the same dark blue three-piece suit. He placed the box on the table and opened it, still not speaking, not even looking at the class. Most of the chattering died down as the students became interested in what Mr. Gatt was doing. After the box was open, he reached inside and fiddled around with some unknown objects. He pulled out two glossy sheets that looked like posters and set them facedown on the table. Monson tried to get a look at them but Mr. Gatt moved too quickly. Monson had an inkling that he did not want the class to see. The teacher smiled a toothy grin as he surveyed the class.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. Welcome to my class.” He looked excited, almost buoyant. “We should start with the roll. I don’t know all your names; the class is bigger than I expected.”

  There were far more people than Monson had anticipated as well. He looked around counting, although his back corner seat made it difficult to see everyone. As far as he could tell, there were at least thirty students, probably more. That was odd. What normal, healthy, high school student wants to take a class in analytical history? Monson finally looked to the seat beside him. He gawked.

  “Were you always there?” A pair of deep green eyes sparkled as they peered into his. “No, I saw you sit down and thought I would come and keep you company.”

  Monson’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Now why would you do that?”

  She smiled her wicked smile. “Why do you think I would do that?”

  Monson had no idea. This girl could not be interested in him, could she? No, of course not. He blurted out without thinking, “I don’t know, my dashing good looks?”

  She laughed but did not answer. She simply adjusted herself in the chair, a very innocent look on her face. She then gave her wholehearted attention to Mr. Gatt, which annoyed Monson a great deal; he hated being ignored.

  Monson spied on the girl sitting next to him: Taris Green. Green eyes, long, strawberry blond hair with soft, creamy skin. She was smoldering, like just being near her could overpower you. Her looks, her flowery perfume, her temperament; it was all very appealing. And everyone thought so. This was the current “It” girl. The daughter of some famous Hollywood actor, Taris' popularity as the teen idol was quickly gaining momentum as she appeared in movies and on television and gained recognition as a singer. Many of the guys on the campus had never even seen her in person, despite living in the same city and attending the same school. Taris Green was one of the truly elite and until now opted to take private lessons from tutors. Her reasons? Unknown. But regardless, the girl was known to be kind and gentle, the perfect balance of supermodel and Mother Teresa.

  This information was all new to Monson, of course. He happened to overhear a conversation about her in the hallways and even saw a rather risqué poster of her pulled up on someone’s laptop. Monson blushed crimson at the thought of it and then immediately scolded himself for blushing. He sighed. Monson was well aware of his appearance and less-than-desirable social status. So why would this girl go out of her way to talk to him? He just did not understand it.

  Monson forced himself to abandon his surveillance activities when the tap of chalk hitting a chalkboard became too distracting. Mr. Gatt was beginning his lecture. Wait; Mr. Gatt said he was going to take roll. Did Monson miss it? Monson hoped fervently that Mr. Gatt didn’t count him absent. He looked to the board and saw three words written in a neat scroll:

  Fact. Truth. Belief.

  “I want all of you to take out a piece of paper,” Mr. Gatt said, turning towards them.

  They did so with a great deal of shuffling.

  “Is everyone ready? Good.” He looked at the class and, grabbing one of his posters, turned his back to them again, saying, “Write the definition of these three words.” He pointed at each.

  Fact, truth, belief. Huh? thought Monson, studying his own paper where the three words were written. What do those words mean? If he was being honest with himself, he had never really thought about what those words meant. He just knew. Monson looked at Mr. Gatt. A poster was now hanging from the top of the chalkboard. It looked like a reproduction of an oil painting. An old one, probably 17th century, though Monson couldn’t say for sure. He had recently watched a History Channel special about painters through the ages, and this painting reminded him of some of the works on that program from that period. Monson looked closer, leaning as far forward in his chair as he could. The picture depicted an older man standing pleasantly in his frame. He was wearing a funny pointed hat that was midnight blue and accented with golden trim. A long white beard with streaks of silver hung to mid-chest and contrasted nicely with a star-covered robe of the same color as the hat. The man leaned against a wall with a very serene look on his face. Monson heard Taris breath out of the corner of her mouth.

  “He looks like a wizard.” She looked amused.

  Monson did not say anything but scrutinized the picture more closely. It did look like a wizard, however, Monson was saved the trouble of guessing further when Mr. Gatt spoke.

  “Mr. Peter Shaarin.” Mr. Gatt spoke softly but it sounded like a command. “Will you tell me, perchance, what you wrote down for the word fact?”

  Monson heard a boy with a heavy accent speak but was unable to make out the words. Monson was not the only one. Other people in the class must have missed it as well, as many looked confused. Monson strained his ears listening to the boy named Peter speak again, louder this time.

  “A fact is something that actually exists. Something observable, you could say.” He spoke with a thickly accented voice. Wanting to place a name with a face, Monson actually stood up slightly hoping to see Peter, but to no avail, as the boy’s back was to him. This problem solved itself when Mr. Gatt next spoke to Peter.

  “Excellent! That is as good as any definition I have heard. Will you come and write your answer on the board?”

  As Mr. Gatt held out a piece of chalk, Peter reluctantly stood and walked forward, taking the chalk. He wrote his definition in neat curlicue handwriting under the word fact. He handed the chalk back and returned to his seat. Monson recognized him instantly. He was one of the boys who had held him up in the halls earlier that day. Monson felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach. This could be bad if some of those other boys were in here as well.

  “Derek,” Mr. Gatt gestured towards the middle of the front row of students. “What about you? What is your definition of truth?”

  A smoothly arrogant voice shot out from the rows of students. Monson grimaced; he knew that voice. Derek was already answering.

  “I think truth is a relative concept; there is no absolute truth or fact. But if I had to come to a real definition then I would say truth means conformity with fact or reality. To follow truth is to follow fact or reality.”

  Monson gaped at the answer. It was deep and insightful. Derek had come across as such an idiot back in the hallway. It was qu
ite obvious that he was not. Mr. Gatt also looked pleased with the answer.

  “Interesting answer, Mr. Dayton. Will you write that on the board?”

  Like Peter, Derek moved to the board and wrote out his answer. He turned back toward the students and started to walk to his seat, his eyes scanning the room. He stopped suddenly, almost comically, as he gazed upon Monson. His gaze flickered and an angry flush washed over his face. Monson’s gaze dropped and he focused on Mr. Gatt’s voice.

  “How about you, Miss Green? Please round out our definitions.”

  The mention of Taris’ name had noticeable effect on the room, as the students tensed. Taris either did not notice or did not care, as she appeared unruffled, her expression playful, a sassy smile continuing to the edges of full lips. She stood up and moved to the front of the classroom, well aware that every boy in the room was staring at her with hearts in their eyes, while the girls did their best to maintain their self-confidence in the midst of royalty. She took the chalk from Mr. Gatt smiling, giving him a full blast of her charm. He smiled but rolled his eyes slightly. She wrote one word on the board.

  Conviction.

  Taris handed the chalk back to Mr. Gatt and slowly walked back to her seat. The room remained incredibly quiet.

  “Well done, Miss Green,” said Mr. Gatt, looking from her answer to the girl. “I could not have said it better myself.”

  She nodded her head towards him as if to accept the compliment. Mr. Gatt continued.

  “These are the ideas that we will be studying this year; the differences between fact and truth and the respective effect of belief on both. Why do we recognize some things as fact yet other things as truth? Are they the same? Are they different? What does belief have to do with fact or truth? How do the three affect each other? This class will look at facts, beliefs, and truths in the hopes of coming to a better understanding of each. Any questions?”

  No one raised a hand. Monson understood why. Mr. Gatt’s voice had suddenly become quite appealing like his words were going through special ears on your body. When one listened with these ears, what was said could not be ignored; one could only listen and understand.