The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  Garran’s eyes flicked to the necklace dangling from her neck as she leaned over the papers on her desk. “That’s a nice necklace. Where did you get it?”

  Vivian’s hand flashed to her throat. “My mother gave it to me on my last birthday. It’s a family heirloom of sorts.”

  Garran smirked. “Is that right?”

  “I see we already have a visitor.”

  Garran turned toward the voice. The man was in his fifties and wore the uniform of a dean. The emblem sewn in gold thread at each end of his sash marked him as the dean of the School of Diplomacy.

  Vivian smiled at his approach. “This is Garran Holt. He got in a fight with another boy during dorm inspections.”

  “Where is the other one?”

  “He is in the infirmary.”

  “Ah, quite a tussle then.”

  Vivian handed him a stack of papers and a brown folder. “Here are the correspondences that came in last night and Mr. Holt’s file.”

  “Excellent. Give me ten minutes then send in Mr. Holt.”

  The dean disappeared into his office, and Garran waited patiently until Vivian told him to go inside. Being familiar with the room’s layout already, Garran went straight to one of the chairs near the dean’s desk and sat down. The dean glanced over the top of the folder he was reading when Garran entered.

  “Garran Holt…that is an unfortunate name.”

  “I think it’s spelled differently, sir.”

  “Yet appropriate on the surface of things. You have been here barely twelve hours and you have already accumulated a week’s worth of demerits and put one student in the infirmary.”

  “There were special circumstances, sir.”

  “I highly doubt that. I consider myself a good judge of character, and I think this kind of behavior is far from unique.”

  Garran squirmed a bit in his chair. “Have you spoken with Cyril Godfrey?”

  “No, but I doubt anything he has to say would provide more than specific details to things I already presume. I have been in this business longer than you have been alive. You are not going to surprise nor impress me.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that,” Garran muttered under his breath.

  The dean dropped Garran’s file on his desk. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Philip Kelsey. I am a retired field agent and dean of the School of Diplomacy. I have seen and done things you can scarcely dream of. If you could, nightmares would plague your sleep like crotch lice at a Sornese whorehouse. I decide the curriculum, the punishments, and who fails or graduates. I am the very last person you wish to test, because it is a test you will most assuredly fail. You had best get in line, or I will be on you like…”

  “Sornese crotch lice?”

  Dean Kelsey’s face was devoid of emotion. “If you were half as clever as you think you are, you might actually make a decent agent. As it is, I doubt you will last a single semester.”

  Garran shrugged and grunted. “I don’t know; there seem to be some people who are very invested in my education.”

  “Yes, Agent Ward’s sponsorship. You might think having him in your corner makes you immune to failure, but I decide who graduates this academy regardless of his prestigious position. In these halls I am a god, and I will smite you with my righteous fury if you displease me.”

  “I’m not a religious man, but that statement strikes me as a bit sacrilegious.”

  Color rushed to Philip’s face, but he maintained a neutral tone. “You will report to Groundskeeper Kent every day after classes for the next month for extra duty in addition to your dorm’s hall maintenance for failing inspection. Now, get out of my office.”

  Garran returned to his dorm and found it empty. He assumed everyone must be at breakfast, something that had completely slipped his mind. Garran lay out on his bunk, opened the university rule book, and began to read, taking an occasional sip of his pilfered alcohol. It carried a strong taste of residual ink, but it was not too bad and did the job.

  It was not long before his housemates began shuffling back into the dorm. They cast him some harsh glares and whispered conspiratorially amongst themselves.

  “Holy crap,” someone called out, “is Holt actually reading, or did someone get him a picture rule book?”

  Garran ignored the jokester and ensuing laughter at his expense. Having little interest in memorizing the hundreds of rules and policies, Garran flipped through his manual and picked out things of importance.

  “Holt!” Garran looked over the top of his book and saw Martin standing in the doorway. “Come with me.”

  Garran closed his book with a sigh, tossed it onto the small nightstand next to his bed, and followed the prefect.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Dean Kelsey said you are to report to the groundskeeper for punishment.”

  “He said after class!”

  “Since there are no classes, that means you start after breakfast and will continue until supper. After supper, you will join your dormmates for hall detail.”

  “How am I supposed to get any studying done if all my waking hours are spent working?”

  “I know this is going to be a struggle for you to understand and probably impossible for you to comply with, but it is fairly simple. Stop acting like a jackass!”

  The two of them crossed the open school grounds and took a path that cut through one of the university’s many parks. The path led to a clearing where a small cabin stood surrounded by several sheds, two of which were larger than the home was.

  “Toby!” Martin called out as they approached.

  A deep, reverberating voice came from one of the larger buildings. “Who dares enter the dragon’s lair?”

  “What the hell was that?” Garran asked.

  “That was Toby.”

  “Is he a giant?”

  “No, he’s a lunatic.” The prefect led Garran toward the door. “You two should get along great.”

  “You’re handing me over to a madman?”

  “Toby used to be a professor, but a tile slid off one of the roofs and hit him on the head, and he hasn’t been right since. The school put him ‘in charge’ of the grounds, but it’s mostly an honorary position to make him feel needed and to keep him out of trouble. There is an entire maintenance crew doing most of the real work.”

  Martin opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit barn. Garran poked his head through and tried to peer into the shadowy recesses and corners before entering. It was a skill he had learned after about the third time Dwight floored him with a hurled beer bottle when he ignored his chores and came home late. The number of people trying to kill him of late did not help to reduce his paranoia. Crates were stacked on the floor, and shelves full of tools, tiles, and various objects filled the barn-like structure. Along one wall, racks held pipes that must have been fifteen feet long and four inches in diameter.

  The dreadful voice echoed out of one of the pipes. “You dare to enter the home of Toby the Terrible? Now you shall die!”

  “Toby, stop screwing around,” Martin ordered. “I have someone for you.”

  Garran spotted movement at the far end of the pipes as Toby threaded his way through pallets of grass seed and fertilizer and emerged from the dark interior. Toby was a big man who looked to be near forty and smelled as if he had not showered in months and was not scheduled to do so for at least a few more weeks. His russet hair and beard stuck out wildly and contained enough dirt and seed to support a small garden. It made Garran homesick for a moment.

  “Have ya brought me another troublemaker?”

  “Toby, this is Garran. He’ll be helping you out for the next month and probably however long he manages to stay at the university before he gets himself thrown out.”

  “Oh, he sounds like a bad one. I like putting the bad ones to work.”

  “I know you do.” The prefect turned to Garran. “Do what Toby tells you, or there are far worse details to put you on. He’s all yours, Toby.”

 
; Garran watched Martin leave before turning back to his new supervisor. “That’s a neat trick with the pipes.”

  Toby flashed a deranged smile. “Was ya scared?”

  “I thought maybe you were a giant.”

  “Giant Toby, wouldn’t that be neat?”

  “Um, sure. What are those pipes used for?”

  “Oh, them’s for things like irrigation and gutter drains. I heard some ships use pipes so crews can talk between decks. You want to give it a try? Come on! Just hold on until I get set.” Toby scurried back behind the pipes and called out, “Go ahead!”

  Garran put his mouth up to a pipe’s opening but hesitated when he heard a huffing sound coming from the far end. A putrid stench struck him in the face with the force of a swung fist. Garran reeled back, coughing and gagging.

  Toby burst out from around the pipes pumping a blacksmith’s bellows like an accordion. “I farted in the pipe and blowed it in your face!” he crowed and danced a jig while laughing uproariously.

  Garran, bent double and bracing his hands on his knees, joined in Toby’s maniacal laughter. “Martin was right, Toby, you are a lunatic, and we are certainly going to get along great. So, what’s on the agenda?”

  Toby jammed a finger up his nose and examined his findings before wiping it on his filthy shirt. “Huh?”

  “What are we doing today?”

  “Oh, we gotta plant some flowers for Miss Marla Kelsey.”

  “Miss Kelsey—the dean’s wife?”

  Toby bobbed his head up and down. “She’s real nice. Loves to bring me cookies and cake while I’m working.”

  “It sounds delightful. What do you want me to do?”

  “Grab a couple of those bags and toss them in the wheelbarrow.”

  Garran found the wheelbarrow near one wall and loaded it with the fertilizer. Toby added a pair of pruning shears and a small spade and slung a hoe over one shoulder. Garran trailed behind Toby, pushing the wheelbarrow laden with a hundred pounds of steer manure across the grounds. His arms ached, and he was sweating profusely by the time they reached the dean’s manor.

  White stucco sheathed the two-story manor, and iron-gray slate tiles capped its gabled roof. The university grounds were immaculate, but the lawns and gardens surrounding Dean Kelsey’s home achieved a level nearing perfection. Every plant, flower, and shrub created a sense of perfect symmetry of form, contour, and color. The grass was dense and cut to a height that did not vary, and not a single weed marred its pristine blanket.

  Toby led his new helper to a patch of rosebushes. Garran could detect their heady scent long before he knelt in the island of mulch in which they resided. A few blades of grass had invaded the island and flaunted their green shoots. Toby directed Garran to pluck out the grass, ensuring to pull the root with it lest it return, while he used the clippers to tame the wilder, thorny branches seeking to extend their influence beyond the gardener’s strictly imposed boundaries.

  Not until the flowerbed was completely clear of all invaders did Toby instruct him to lay a fresh covering of manure. Two hours into their work, a matronly woman appeared bearing a tray of drinks and cookies. She was well vested in her fifties, but she still held the vestiges of her once youthful beauty.

  “I brought you boys some lemonade and cookies,” she said.

  “Thank you, Miss Kelsey,” Toby returned and took the glass in one hand and three treats with the other.

  “You are quite welcome. It is the least I can do for the wonderful work you perform.” She turned to Garran. “You must be Toby’s new helper. Garran Holt is it?”

  Garran picked up the glass from the tray but stayed his hand as he reached for a cookie. “Yes, ma’am, how did you know my name?”

  “Philip mentioned you when he came home this morning to pick up something he had forgotten. You left quite an impression on him.”

  “Tell him thank you for me.”

  “It was not a compliment.”

  Garran tilted his head and grinned. “Are you sure?”

  Marla pursed her lips to stifle her bemusement. “I will have to see about getting more lemons. I have a feeling I will be seeing you around quite a lot.”

  “If I can expect this kind of treatment, I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Perhaps I should not encourage you.”

  “It wouldn’t do any good. Cookies and lemonade are but a drop in the flood driving my self-destructive nature.”

  “Just be careful you do not drown.”

  The moment Marla left them alone, Garran slipped his bottle of booze from his pocket and added a liberal dose of it to his lemonade, tinting the cloudy beverage with a hint of blue. Garran gave a satisfied grunt at the refreshing flavor of the spiked drink and committed the mixture to memory for future enjoyment.

  It was a long and exhausting day, but the simple work was rather refreshing. Garran never had any real objection to working; he only resisted the thought of someone else having authority over him while he did it, something he did not feel with Toby.

  Toby finally released him just before the dinner bell rang. Garran received several looks as he passed through his house’s common room and several hostile glares when he entered his dorm and flopped onto his bunk.

  “Dammit, Holt, you smell like crap!” Aniston complained, his voice coming out nasally through the bandage.

  Garran waved disinterestedly. “Yes, your concerns over my hygiene have been noted and summarily ignored.”

  “No, I mean you literally smell like shit.”

  “Oh, yeah, I had to put some down in Dean Kelsey’s flowerbed today.”

  “Did you lie in it yourself? Go wash up for God’s sake!”

  Garran closed his eyes. “Can’t, too tired, and we have hall duty in a couple of hours.”

  “We wouldn’t have hall duty if you weren’t a disgusting pig!”

  Garran brought a finger to his lips. “Shhh, people are trying to sleep.”

  Garran feigned sleep while listening to the angry mutterings of his dormmates. Their hostility toward him was rising and was nearing the level he desired. They would act soon, probably tomorrow night, especially after they failed inspection again thanks to him. It was a tricky gambit, but big wins required taking big risks, and Garran was never afraid of taking chances no matter how severe the potential outcome.

  ***

  Something heavy struck Garran in the back, rousing him from his sleep. He rolled off his bunk and found one of his shoes tangled in the blankets with him.

  “Get up, Holt!” Aniston barked. “Martin is on his way.”

  “Meh,” Garran grunted and made a halfhearted attempt to make himself presentable for inspection.

  Garran was tucking the edges of his blanket under his mattress when Martin barged into the dorm ringing his bell. He immediately sought out Garran and marched straight to his bunk.

  “Relax, gentlemen, I see no reason to waste more time than necessary since Garran provides sufficient demerits to put you on hall detail.” Angry mutterings and grumbling filled the room as Martin made a cursory inspection of Garran’s area. “Twenty-five demerits; I’ll make a note that you are actually showing improvement. If you manage to last the full four years, you might eventually make it through an inspection without penalty at this rate.”

  “I am adaptable.”

  Martin leaned in and sniffed. “Is that alcohol on your breath? Consuming alcohol while attending the university is an expellable offense.” He looked closely at Garran’s mouth. “Why do you have blue lips?”

  “Why do you have such seductive, child-bearing hips?”

  Martin ignored the stifled chortles. “I don’t know why you think you can flaunt the rules and behave like an animal, but I will make it my personal pleasure to see you expelled from this program and the university and return you to the backwoods mountain village from whence you came. If you care at all about your future here, just seeing me will fill you with dread.”

  “I already dread seeing you coming, but
I do love watching you walk away.” Garran waggled his hips for emphasis.

  The prefect tucked his journal under his arm and made for the door. “Enjoy another night of extra duty, gentlemen, compliments of Garran Holt.” He stopped in the doorway and turned back. “This is the last day until classes start. After tomorrow, your extra duty is really going to cut into your study and leisure time. I sure hope you can all sustain your grades, or it might be you who pay for Garran’s behavior if it continues unchecked.”

  “Martin, here’s another expellable offense for you,” Garran called out and loudly broke wind.

  Martin ignored the outburst, but Garran did get varying reactions from his dormmates. Several fought to contain their laughter, but others were not nearly as amused, chief amongst them was Aniston. The unofficial room leader exchanged conspiratorial looks with several of his friends. He knew in that wordless discourse that he had reached the limits of their tolerance.

  Garran looked around the room and smiled. “You hear that? He said I was improving. Today is a good day. Well, I best get to work. Toby wants to get the gutters cleaned out before it rains. See you all tonight at the floor-buffing party.”

  He had planted and watered the seeds of insurrection, and they would not take long to grow. Aniston and his friends would need a little time to foment a plan of action and sway the more timid students into participating. Whatever they chose to do would almost certainly happen tonight. They simply could not afford to allow him to continue running amok.

  ***

  Garran found Toby already loading several lengths of pipe onto a long cart designed to accommodate the long tubes along with gutters, a ladder, and other smaller components. At Garran’s approach, Toby grinned and waved. Garran returned his greeting, stepped into the large shack, and grabbed a few things he needed.

  “Whatcha got there?” Toby asked when Garran dropped some additional fittings into the cart.

  “I need to fix a drainpipe at my dorm. Can you spare me for a while? I’m not sure how long it will take.”

  “Oh, sure, you go on and do whatever ya need to do. I’m not one of those types to loom over and dictate everything.”