The Chronicles of Nevin Reasoner: The Complete Duology

by Thomas Lombard

  “Mr. Thompson,” Nevin paused. “It is scholarly efforts like yours that make me regret this is only a pass/fail course. By any standard, you deserve an A grade, both as a student and as a concerned human being.” The class responded with a vigorous applause, which now thoroughly embarrassed the young man.

  Nevin waited for quiet and addressed the class again. “Until last night, I wasn’t sure what topic we should discuss for our last session. There is no shortage of problems or marvelous scientific advances in our world, but I thought it would be great if we could go out with a bang. It occurred to me that’s just what we are facing—maybe the biggest bang of all. Our country is on poor political terms with nearly all countries in the Middle East and North Korea. Many of our national leaders seem willing to fight another war to retain our access to imported crude oil, the natural resource upon which much of our scientific advancement is dependent. The arsenals for our respective countries include an array of chemical weapons, a dozen types of bombs and guns with infrared scopes. For the first time in history, night fighting for the infantry is as feasible as daytime. Science is playing a greater role than ever before in military strategy. Even nuclear weaponry is back on the table. What do you think about these applications of science to your world?”

  Nevin looked around the class. No one responded or seemed likely to volunteer, which slightly disturbed him. Maybe he was grandstanding too much, something that he always tried to keep under strict control. Eventually he spotted a frowning face half way up the center section of seats. “Ms. Harmon. I see you look puzzled. What do you think science offers us in this scenario?”

  The student squirmed in her seat, visibly uncomfortable about being singled out. Nevin knew that she was a freshman, less than a year from high school, and was probably intimidated by today’s unusually large audience. He tried to put her at ease.

  “Ms. Harmon, forget that all of these people are here and just talk to me. You’ve done that before without undue suffering, I think. Now tell me how science can help resolve impending war.”

  “Gee, Professor Reasoner...I don’t think I know. Sometimes this stuff you talk about is over my head and I don’t know what to think.”

  “Ms. Harmon,” Nevin replied in a patient voice, “We have talked in my office and I believe you have answers to these questions. If you think this stuff is over your head, then lift your head higher. Now tell me, what are your immediate thoughts about the scientific implications of this political dilemma over oil reserves.”

  The young woman’s face turned more serious. She slightly tilted her head to one side and weakly waved a hand before she spoke. “Well, it seems sorta like we need their oil too badly. We should find another place to get some.”

  “What if there were no other sources?”

  “Well...I guess I would find something else to take its place. The oil, I mean.”

  “That makes sense, Ms. Harmon. What are some things we use a lot of oil for?” Nevin proceeded to engage the young student in a conversation where he asked questions to which she had ready answers. She suggested the use of alternative fuel sources like propane, electricity and solar power. In response to more provocative questions, she got around to an idea about revamping the nation’s trucking system to dedicated routes. He posed a final question to her.

  “That’s an interesting idea, Ms. Harmon. How would you limit trucks to their own roadways.”

  “I suppose I can think of a couple of ways,” the student replied, now unembarrassed and engrossed in the dialogue. “We could use those big median strips on freeways. The cars would use the regular freeway lanes and the center median would only have trucks or maybe truck-trains. Maybe another thing we could do is re-use old train tracks. It wouldn’t be a big deal to convert railroad tracks to handle trucks only.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Harmon. Perhaps we could sell the used train tracks to Mr. Thompson. He could recycle it in his steel mill and make up some of the money he’ll lose on pollution control.” The entire class laughed, appreciating the lively exchange of ideas. Nevin thoroughly enjoyed these moments and it was this very experience he would miss most. There was no substitute for this interaction, at least in his life. A lump in his throat started to come back.

  After pacing along the front row of seats, Nevin placed an arm on the lectern and faced the class. He tried again to look at every face. Without prepared notes or forethought for handling this situation, his discomfort rose with the increasing emotional climate that charged the room. He looked down and clasped his hands together, lightly thumping his chest. It was an awkward moment and he was not sure just what to say.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, today’s class was an example of both the pleasure and importance that comes from being a teacher. As Mr. Thompson and Ms. Harmon have shown, all I have to do is ask questions. The answers are in your heads.”

  Bodies stirred in their seats and several of the students started looking at each other as if they were seeking someone to stand up and speak for them. Nevin detected this and wanted to spare them, or maybe himself. He spread his arms in a gesture of openness and collected their attention once again. “Just so we don’t get too sentimental about this being our last class, I want to thank you for being good students. And as a last tribute to your good work, I am going to let you out early. With a wave, he added, “Thank you all and good-by.”

  Nevin slowly turned to leave but halted as he heard the beginning claps of applause. An ovation mounted. He put a hand on the lectern and turned to face the class as the entire assemblage rose to a standing applause. Many of the students were teary-eyed, but all of them were touched by this teacher’s unconditional regard for their opinions and ideals. A little taken aback by this tribute, he was momentarily confused about what to do next. Then he did what they all would have predicted, he smiled meekly and gave an unpretentious wave as he quickly left the classroom.

  * * *

  Still feeling awkward about the heartfelt ovation just shown by his students, Nevin walked rapidly down the corridor before finally halting to take a deep breath. Collecting himself again, he hurried to the stairs leading down to the basement level where his office was located.

  Nevin needed to avoid personal exchanges right now because he was not very good at it. He was quite uncomfortable with emotional scenes. He was not crying at least, but he thought he could. Maybe he was, or nearly so, as he fought a sniffle. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned down the corridor toward his office. His mind started to fill with competing thoughts. What was he going to do now? Where would he go? How would he support himself? Would he have to sell his computer? He had to think through his dilemma and sort out these questions.

  As he drifted along the corridor, he saw someone standing by his office door. At first, it appeared to be an adolescent boy, but as he neared the door he saw that it was a mature man maybe four feet tall wearing an old fashioned tunic and breeches. When they made eye contact, this curious looking fellow appeared to be trembling. Nevin looked him over. He had a bloody cut on his arm, a bruise on the side of his head and some difficulty holding himself up. Nevin reached out to help the man stay upright and said, “I’m Nevin Reasoner. Can I help you?”

  The diminutive, oddly dressed stranger stammered, “I...I have been...delivered here from Antrim.”

  Chapter 6

  Delusion

  “You have been delivered? Here?” Nevin looked down at the man, not sure what to make of him.

  Nevin was about six foot in height but never thought of himself as tall, yet he towered over this much smaller man. While concerned that his relative size might be intimidating, many thoughts ran through Nevin’s mind to explain this person’s unusual size. This fellow was perfectly proportioned, so his small size did not appear the result of a genetic anomaly. Perhaps he was a foreign exchange student or maybe a visiting faculty member from another country where physical stature was uniformly smaller. But his reference to a “delivery” seemed odd. And he looks as though he ha
s been injured. “Do you mean that you are making a ‘delivery?’ A package or something? The service entrance is at the rear of the building.”

  “No, S-Sir...,” the man stammered. I am what has been delivered here. My name is Anson. I had to escape from the attack in my village. Now, I fear I am in need of aid. The deliverance spell seems to have sapped my strength...”

  The odd little man started to reel, using a hand to brace himself against the doorframe. Nevin reached out again to catch him and then led him into the office. “Come in here and sit down.”

  Nevin was perplexed. It was evident this man had been through some kind of traumatic experience. Not sure how to help him, it seemed best to start at the beginning. “Anson, is it? Just what happened to you? What kind of help do you need?”

  After Nevin succeeded in getting Anson seated, he dragged his swivel chair from behind the desk and seated himself. For a minute, he looked over his strange visitor, once again noticing his injuries. “Let me take a look at your arm, Anson. It looks like we need to take you to the infirmary.”

  Nevin started to stand, but Anson put up his hand, “No. Please indulge me, Sir. I just need to rest a bit and collect myself before I can proceed any further in this strange place.” Anson patted the cut near his left temple with his fingers. Confirming that the wound was neither grievous nor bleeding, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes as if to gather his thoughts. Nevin shook his head in puzzlement, still no closer to understanding this curious situation.

  “How did you hurt yourself?” Nevin asked.

  “I’m not sure, Sir Nevin...if that is the proper way to address you. Either a Gilsum pike or maybe the fall on the hedge...Maybe both.”

  “Pike? You mean a spear? You were injured by a spear? Did somebody attack you with a spear?”

  Anson nodded.

  “Someone was chasing you with a spear and ran you into a hedge?”

  “Well...turn it around and that would describe the basics of it, yes.”

  “Where did this happen? Here, on the campus?”

  “Oh…no, Sir. In Huxley. My village was besieged by Gilsum soldiers and they had me marked for death. I’m afraid our war with Gilsum has finally found its way into our towns.”

  Nevin abruptly sat back in his chair, studying the possibility that this man was delusional. If so, his delusion seemed rather well detailed. Too detailed to be caused by the minor head wound. Could this behavior be drug induced? “I see,” Nevin said. “Maybe I should call Campus Security so they can look for your attacker.”

  “No, please. There were no attackers here. I delivered myself here from Huxley and I believe I am safe now. My wounds are not serious and I have ample skills to care for it, but I must rest first if you can indulge me. My head is spinning so…May I rest here briefly—and ask you questions?”

  Nevin nodded, but not without a look of apprehension.

  “Sir,” Anson asked timidly. “Is it you who is titled ‘Nevin…the Reasoner’ and is this your chamber? Are you…a High Mage?”

  Nevin did not know whether to be amused or fearful at these unusual questions. A closer look at his visitor’s face revealed eyes that were red and highly irritated, but they still conveyed a compelling mien of sincerity and innocence. It was difficult to know whether to reinforce the man’s delusion or reinforce the reality about their time and place. Nevin did not know a lot about psychology, having long dismissed that field as a pseudo-science. It might have been instinct or a quick analysis of observations, but Nevin decided that this man was not a threat.

  “You said your name is Anson, right? Well, Anson, there are no mages here. I am not a ‘High’ anything. That’s why I got stuck with a small basement office.”

  “But all these books,” questioned Anson, glancing around with a look of amazement. Pointing to the shelves, he asked, “Could this be your village library?”

  “These are my books, part of my personal library. I guess our ‘village library’ is a much bigger building with a lot more books than this. Hundreds of thousands of volumes.”

  Nevin’s mind raced to consider the possible explanations for Anson’s unusual choice of words and references. Hempstead was a college town, often visited by persons from diverse cultures anywhere in the world. This fellow might be a visiting relative of a foreign student or faculty member, and maybe arrival by plane or taxi or some other conventional mode of transportation was viewed as a “delivery.” That was plausible. It was also plausible that such a visitor might have no experience with a real library. But where did he get speared by a “gilsum pike?”

  “As far as me being a ‘mage,’” Nevin continued. “I suppose I’d rather think of myself more as an ‘aspiring sage.’”

  “A ‘Sage’? Oh yes, of course,” Anson nodded. He weakly closed his eyes and started to totter in his seat.

  “You’ve got to get some help, especially for that bruise on your head,” Nevin said as he stood up. “It looks like you’re becoming a little woozy. Do you have any friends or relatives I can call?”

  Anson gave a sudden look of dismay as he tried to steady himself. “Please, Sir. I do not wish to become a ‘woozy’ of any size. I would be in your debt if you could show me to a place where I can rest. I am sure I know no one in this place.”

  Nevin had to do something to help this person. He got out a small first aid kit from one of the desk drawers. “OK, Anson. Let me try to help you. The first thing we have to do is take care of this cut on your arm.” Using some hydrogen peroxide and cotton gauze, Nevin cleaned the wound. “This cut is not bleeding any more, but it might be a good idea to get a tetanus shot or some antibiotic treatment. Since you say you don’t know anyone here, I’ll take you to my apartment so you can rest for a while. Then we’ll take it from there. Is that all right with you?”

  Anson nodded, obviously grateful for the aid. Nevin helped him to rise and led him out of the office into the corridor. Several feet away walked one of the building maintenance staff, a man dressed in gray pants and shirt, hands on his hips, obviously piqued. Using a mop handle to steer a large wheeled pail, he pushed the pail down the corridor. The small metal wheels made a surprisingly loud combination of squeaks and grating sounds, fitting the man’s mood. Anson eyed him apprehensively, taking notice of the name “Al” embroidered on an oval patch just above the right pocket.

  Al was quite a bit older than either Nevin or Anson, and midway between them in height. Once he recognized Nevin, Al slightly altered the course of his pail and stopped directly in front of them. After giving a brief quizzical look at the unusually short man dressed in odd-looking clothes, Al blurted, “You know what those bastards did this time, Professor? They peed in my sink! A bathroom is only fifty feet away and they have to pee in my damn sink!” The irate maintenance man turned to Anson and said pleadingly, “Can you tell me where the hell somebody would have to come from to do something like that? Do people do that where you come from?” It was a rhetorical question as Al walked off, muttering “bastards” repeatedly. A little mop water spilled every time he gave the pail a vigorous push by the mop handle.

  Nevin shrugged his shoulders and Anson smiled weakly as they resumed their progress toward the exit. Anson sent a wary glance back at the man dressed in gray, fairly certain he was the alchemist from the deliverance room. He figured Al must be on his way to use the stringed staff on the illegitimate youths that had so angered him.

  * * *

  Nevin’s apartment was in a rooming house a block from the science building. By now, Anson was so groggy that he just walked willingly at Nevin’s side as they left the building, occasionally reaching out to steady himself on Nevin’s arm. He intuitively trusted this towering man and felt safe under his guidance, so Anson shut his mind to the sights and sounds around him as they walked. He never remembered actually entering Nevin’s apartment.

  Anson lay resting on the couch in the one-bedroom apartment, while Nevin sat at the kitchen table pondering this peculiar situation.
He was pretty sure this curious small man who called himself “Anson of Huxley” was not dangerous. Most of his story pretty hard to comprehend, but there had to be a logical explanation. Nevin finally decided that the next thing to do was call the police and see if there was any report of a missing person, possibly a small mental patient.

  He made calls to the town police, county sheriff and state police. Not only did he fail to get any leads, he sounded to the police like he was having his own problems with reality. They did not respond very positively to questions about little people who were escaped mental patients with spear wounds. Maybe he should take a different approach and try to find out something about the places called “Gilsum” and “Huxley.” He went from the kitchen to the front room, with his thrift store furnishings of a shabby couch, desk, two wobbly end tables and a small aquarium with several goldfish. A nested stack of empty cardboard boxes sat in a corner. Located about the apartment was an impressive variety of houseplants, including several ferns, philodendrons and Nevin’s prized ficus. Opposite the couch, where Anson was now sound asleep, was an old rear projection television set. A laptop computer was open on the desk.