She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Unrefined

By Michael Ostrogorsky

They say dreams are metaphors for our lives. Could be. Certainly would explain how strange our dreams are. Although I can never understand why I keep losing my clothes in my dreams. While everyone else goes about their business mostly fully clothed.

Could be dreams are something else entirely. Something special. I have come to believe dreams are windows into parallel universes. Dreams are windows that give us glimpses into the lives of our alternate personas in any number of alternate realities. This would explain why the me in my dreams never seems to be me, exactly. Inevitably the me in my dreams is a variation on the theme of me. Older. Younger. Richer. Stupider. Better looking. More hair. Different. But still me. This interpretation of our dreams would be kinder to the world of our reality. Better looking, maybe, but my alternates in the parallel universes of my dreams are typically dumber, slower, and denser. Or just more obtuse. Sometimes I have parrots. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I have a car. Sometimes I don't. And when I do, invariably I can never remember where I parked my car. I seem to ride the bus a lot in my dreams. Or trains or boats or planes.

I believe there must be a way to take advantage of these windows into the multiverse. A way for us to manipulate our dreams to allow us to actually travel through the windows of our dreams into these alternate realities. If only our dreams weren't so fleeting, I could chase after the woman of my dreams.

The same woman keeps appearing in my dreams. I always get jarred awake before I discover her name, or even where she lives. But she always returns. Like she's tempting me to follow her. And damn if I don't want to. I just need to figure out how. This woman spends considerable time with my alternate personas, in various alternate realities. I think I would recognize her if I bumped into her on the streets of Seattle, but because I've never seen her in my reality, I don't know who she is.

The woman of my dreams is invariably tall, athletic, vivacious, educated, and charming. I recognize her when I see her in her various manifestations. She never chides me for losing my clothes or forgetting where I parked my car. On occasion, she even has a parrot. Because I seem to know her in these alternate realities I never think to ask her who she is, or even ask her name. We go on grand adventures in these dreams. Trips to Paris. Cross country ski trips. Cruises and camping. Sometimes we live in these huge mansions, so big I get lost in them. I cherish my time with her. I just need to figure out a way to bring her back to my reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Ostrogorsky
• Release date: May 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463156001

Michael Ostrogorsky

Michael Ostrogorsky, Ph.D.s, History & Archaeology. Publisher. Blue Parrot Books. Parrot and coffee bean wrangler. Living in Seattle with two parrots. One of the parrots is big, blue, and a princess. A princess who just happens to be a witch. A witch with a coffee addiction. A witch named Princess Tara.Book One of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Blue Tara; Or, How Is a Hyacinth Macaw Parrot Like a Tibetan Goddess? now available.Book Two of the Princess Tara Chronicles, The Princess Witch; Or, It Isn't As Easy to Go Crazy As You Might Think, now available.Book Three of the Princess Tara Chronicles, completing the Blue Tara Trilogy, Parrots and Witches; Or, Love. Desire. Ambition. Faith. Without Them, Life Is So Simple, Believe Me, now available.Book Four of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Part One of the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Refined, now available.Book Five of the Princess Tara Chronicles, Part Two of the Kālarātri, or Black Night Trilogy, She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Unrefined, now available.How do you defeat a goddess who controls death and time? Can you? Find the answer in the hair-raising head-lopping caffeine fueled conclusion to the Kālarātri or Black Night Trilogy, She Was the Kind of Person That Keeps a Parrot, Book Six of the Princess Tara Chronicles, NOW AVAILABLE!

Book preview

Introduction

They say dreams are metaphors for our lives. Could be. Certainly would explain how strange our dreams are. Although I can never understand why I keep losing my clothes in my dreams. While everyone else goes about their business mostly fully clothed.

Could be dreams are something else entirely. Something special. I have come to believe dreams are windows into parallel universes. Dreams are windows that give us glimpses into the lives of our alternate personas in any number of alternate realities. This would explain why the me in my dreams never seems to be me, exactly. Inevitably the me in my dreams is a variation on the theme of me. Older. Younger. Richer. Stupider. Better looking. More hair. Different. But still me. This interpretation of our dreams would be kinder to the world of our reality. Better looking, maybe, but my alternates in the parallel universes of my dreams are typically dumber, slower, and denser. Or just more obtuse. Sometimes I have parrots. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I have a car. Sometimes I don't. And when I do, invariably I can never remember where I parked my car. I seem to ride the bus a lot in my dreams. Or trains or boats or planes.

I believe there must be a way to take advantage of these windows into the multiverse. A way for us to manipulate our dreams to allow us to actually travel through the windows of our dreams into these alternate realities. If only our dreams weren't so fleeting, I could chase after the woman of my dreams.

The same woman keeps appearing in my dreams. I always get jarred awake before I discover her name, or even where she lives. But she always returns. Like she's tempting me to follow her. And damn if I don't want to. I just need to figure out how. This woman spends considerable time with my alternate personas, in various alternate realities. I think I would recognize her if I bumped into her on the streets of Seattle, but because I've never seen her in my reality, I don't know who she is.

The woman of my dreams is invariably tall, athletic, vivacious, educated, and charming. I recognize her when I see her in her various manifestations. She never chides me for losing my clothes or forgetting where I parked my car. On occasion, she even has a parrot. Because I seem to know her in these alternate realities I never think to ask her who she is, or even ask her name. We go on grand adventures in these dreams. Trips to Paris. Cross country ski trips. Cruises and camping. Sometimes we live in these huge mansions, so big I get lost in them. I cherish my time with her. I just need to figure out a way to bring her back to my reality.

Addendum: The woman of my dreams is named Mary. The night after I wrote this introduction Mary came to me in a dream and told me her name.

Prologue

Jean! I screamed, when Abigail materialized before my eyes, holding Jean’s limp body in her arms. Blue Tara, Michael, Charlie, and the others appeared behind her. I wanted to run to Jean and Blue Tara, but Kali held the blade of her sword against my neck. Abigail lay Jean’s unconscious body on the grass at her feet. She raised her hand toward Blue Tara. Blue Tara tossed Abigail her sword.

You fools! Kali cried out. You are too late. What has been set in motion can not be stopped. They are coming. Your world is ending.

I craned my neck to glare at Kali. Who are they? I wondered. Could things actually get any worse, I thought to myself?

Kali’s long red tongue flicked out of her mouth. She chortled in response. Hell is empty. And all the devils are here.

The miserable have no other medicine, but only hope, I retorted.

From Red Square I heard one of the bells of Gerberding Hall ring. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. Five o’clock. A second bell rang. The phone slipped out of my fingers and crashed to my feet. A third bell rang. The glee on Kali’s face turned to shock. The blade of a sword whistled past my ear and plunged into Kali’s skull directly between her eyes. Abigail’s sword. Kali’s sword fell away from my neck to clatter onto the pavement. I looked up to see Abigail’s arm extended forward, as if she’d thrown a javelin at a heptathlon. Goose bumps rolled down my back when I realized how close the sword came to my head. Kali’s fiery red eyes turned to smoldering black coals. Kali’s body slumped over the fountain’s concrete rim. I grasped the grip of Abigail’s sword. Kali’s head slipped off the blade. Her body splashed into the pool. The fourth bell rang. I squeezed my eyes closed in anticipation of the fifth bell. Stop! I pleaded.

She Was Not Quite What You

Would Call Refined

Chapter One

Part One

I squeezed my eyelids shut until I felt tears dribble down my cheeks. I stopped my breath. My brain dampened all my senses to focus on my ears, waiting for the clanging of a bell to penetrate my eardrums. My legs swayed, precipitous. A wave of anxiety swept over me. My hands grasped the sides of a lectern in front of me for support. I resigned myself to whatever fate befell me. Wait. What? My fingers traced the lectern’s polished wood edges. I waited for the inevitable clang of the bell. Something was not right. Confusion pushed into my darkened brain. My fingers caressed the polished wood.

My brain began to register the incongruity of my fingers pressing into polished wood just at the moment the raucous clanging of a bell tore through my eardrums. My eyes popped open, as if to allow the sonic wave an avenue to escape my head without exploding my skull. My hands jerked in surprise. A splinter caught my finger. Ouch! I cried out. I stuck the finger to my lips to sooth the sharp pain.

You do not belong here, I heard a voice call out to me.

The clamorous metallic clanging dissipated from my brain. My eyes focused on the scene before me. Instead of Drumheller Fountain and the sweeping vista of Mount Rainier, a sea of questioning eyes stared back at me. A hundred pairs of eyes from a hundred students standing at attention. A few of the students at the front of the ensemble stared, curious, at my finger raised to my lips. I gazed across the hall to the clock hanging on the back wall. Five o’clock. Oh. My. God! I exclaimed. I stood at the head of the history lecture hall on the second floor of Denny Hall, the old gothic brownstone history faculty building on the U Dub, University of Washington, campus on the edge of Seattle. I stood ready to teach my five o’clock Introduction to U.S. History 102 class.

The last reverberations of the clanging bell floated out wide open windows on the rays of streaming spring sunshine bathing the lecture hall. The students, all one hundred of them, slapped their right hands against their chests. They thrust the one hundred right hands into the air above their heads, palms forward. In unison, one hundred throats cried out Dear Leader! Again. And again. I squeezed my eyes shut in a futile attempt to keep from drowning in a nauseous sonic sea as the waves of chant engulfed the hall. My hands grasped the lectern again to steady myself. The students dropped onto their chairs. I forced my eyes open. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the department chair, Dr. Glenn Hackman, peering through the glass window in the door to the lecture hall. His face wore a district frown.

I averted my eyes from Hackman’s scowling face to scan, frantic, my lecture notes spread across the lectern. For some reason, I couldn’t recall the lecture one hundred pairs of expectant probing eyes waited for me to deliver. I realized I had failed to salute Dear Leader at the bell as all faculty are expected to. I was pretty sure that was the source of Hackman’s displeasure. I was also pretty sure I would hear about that from the chairman himself. As an adjunct professor of history facing tenure review, I dreaded the black marks that could torpedo my pending promotion.

Professor? I glanced up to see a hand raised, tentative, over a woman’s head in the first row directly in front of me. I stared transfixed at the hand. The woman’s arm waved back and forth. A tinge of recognition tickled the back of my brain. Professor? the woman repeated. My eyes followed the woman’s arm down to her lithe black leather clad body. Dark skin. Long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. A svelte dark body wrapped in dark black leather.

Yes. . . yes? I responded, my voice weak and tenuous.

Are you okay, professor? the woman asked, the expressive coal black eyes set in her Halle Berry face radiating concern. Her raised hand dropped to her lap.

I pulled my eyes away from the woman to search for the seating chart I knew I would find on my lectern. I checked the first row. Kay. Yes? I repeated. . . . Kay?

Are you okay, professor? Want me to notify the department secretary?

My eyes involuntarily squeezed shut again. The image of a stunning black phantasm drifted through my brain. Recently, my daydreams seemed to grow in expression and clarity to the point where I had difficulty discerning reality from fantasy. With the dreams came ferocious headaches that seared the recesses of my skull. I brushed my fingers across my cheeks to wipe away the tears I felt sure everyone in the hall could see. The woman named Kay commenced to stand. I grasped the lectern to steady myself. I forced a smile. Please stay seated! I barked.

Kay dropped back into her seat. With a wink of her eye, she mouthed the words, ‘You do not belong here, professor’.

Huh? I grunted. I pondered the meaning of the preposterous words that wafted across the space between us. What the fuck does she mean, I don’t belong here? I glanced over my shoulder at the chalkboard behind me. I studied the words ‘Dr. Aeson Introduction to U.S. History 102 Reconstruction’ scrawled across the board in big bold black letters with what I was pretty sure was my handwriting. Where else would I be if not here in the history lecture hall of the U Dub’s Denny Hall, the turn of the last century gothic pile of brown rock that served as the university’s history faculty building? My eyes scanned my lecture notes spread out across the lectern. Compromise of 1877. Fall of Reconstruction. I shuffled through the notes. I wracked my brain trying to remember where I ended my last lecture.

The door to the lecture hall opened. My eyes popped up in response to the intrusion. I watched Dr. Hackman enter, his hand resting on the back of one of the most striking co-eds I had ever seen. At least I assumed, from the books nestled in her arms, she was a student. All one hundred heads of the one hundred students spread before me turned their one hundred pairs of eyes to examine the woman striding besides Dr. Hackman into the room. The hall fell so still I could hear the chins of the male students hit their desks. Hackman bent over to whisper to a female student seated in the front row. Her face flushed. Her eyes gaped wide in surprise. The student snapped her Introduction to U.S. History 102 textbook shut. She grabbed her notebook and her purse. She jumped out of her chair to scurry out the door. A broad grin across his face, Dr. Hackman waved the new student toward the empty seat. He glanced at me. Please come see me after class, Professor Aeson, Hackman demanded, in the eminently superior faux British accent picked up on a Rhodes scholarship to Oxford during his graduate school days. Hackman retreated for the door.

I nodded, absentminded, my eyes glued to the new student. Settled behind her desk, the woman gazed up at me with a look that could hypnotize a brahman bull. Good evening, professor, she greeted me. A vivacious gleaming smile broke across her face. Roxanne, she added.

Wha. . . What? I replied, sheepish.

My name is Roxanne, the new student clarified.

I could swear Roxanne winked at me. Why are women winking at me? I wondered. I stared dumbfounded into her gleaming ruby red eyes. Huh. . . miss. . . huh, Roxanne, I managed to mutter. Are you in the right class? I glanced at the chalkboard behind me to assure myself I was in the right class. Agelessly older than the typical Introduction to U.S. History student, Roxanne stuck out in the predominately freshman class like a geoduck on a platter of clams.

Yes, professor, Roxanne replied with a grin. Dr. Hackman will explain everything to you after class.

He will? My eyes broke free from Roxanne’s to sweep down her athletic body, slumped, uncaring, back in her chair, unlike the other ninety-nine students sitting, stiff, pens in hand hovering, expectant, over blank white notepads. Of course he will, I muttered. I raised my hand to brush my hair back out of my eyes. I froze, hand to my forehead. I stared out into the sea of one hundred pairs of quizzical eyes studying me. I lowered my hand to glance at my palm, not sure what I expected to see. Not even sure what I was looking for. I combed my fingers back through my hair. How long since I had this much hair, I wondered? A ticking sound tickled my ear. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. An awkward stillness settled over the lecture hall so deep I swear I could hear the clock hanging on the back wall ticking away.

Are you okay, professor? Roxanne asked, her voice cutting into my brain and reverberating around my skull so sharp I thought I might get a nosebleed. I noticed Kay smirking at me.

I forced myself to look at the clock on the back wall, to keep my eyes from falling captive to Roxanne’s alluring body. I could see the eyes of my students drifting from me to Roxanne. I wasn’t sure which part of her seemed more odd. Her ageless age? Her self-confidence and savoir faire? Her physical attributes captivated me. Easily the tallest person in the hall. An explosion of intense red hair erupted from her head, so fiery red I imagined I saw wisps of smoke circling around her head like a halo. I had never seen a person, a creature, any creature, so red as this woman. The words to an old song drifted through my head. ‘You don’t have to wear that dress tonight. . .’ Skin baked red as the Australian outback. But not sunburned red. More like the skin of a perfectly waxed Washington red delicious apple. Delicious was the word I was looking for. Roxanne’s black capris and skin tight red sweater didn’t so much shield her uniqueness as accentuate her attributes. Her lone adornment was some sort of carved ivory talisman hanging from a gold chain draped around her neck.

With a sigh, I forced my eyes to return to my lecture notes. I lifted a couple of sheets. I stared at the next. A sheet of white paper, blank except for one line of text scrawled across the page in bold black letters. ‘Om Tare Tuttare Ture Soha’. I recognized the Blue Tara mantra, the battle cry for a cult of religious fanatics infesting Seattle who worshipped a bird deity while fomenting resistance to Dear Leader and his New American Order. I peered up at the class. My eyes swept across the sea of impassive faces poised to consume whatever regime approved dictates I chose to feed them. Apparently one face was not like the others. My eyes fell upon Kay’s face, her eyes, suspicious, gazing up at me. I tucked the subversive paper under my lecture notes. Compromise of 1877, I mumbled. I looked up at the students. I launched into my lecture. You should know from your reading that Samuel Tilden won the popular vote in the election of 1876. . .

A voice interrupted me. You do not belong here, the voice insisted.

My eyes swept across the lecture hall searching for the source of the voice. What the fuck? I blurted out.

Several students in the front couple of rows gasped. A student in one of the back rows bolted out of his chair. Om tare tuttara tura soha! he cried out. The subversive rushed toward me. A male student. Typical nondescript freshman. Young. Standard freshman garb. Sneakers. Blue jeans. Purple and gold U Dub sweatshirt.

The wheels of my brain churned. I tried to comprehend why a religious fanatic would attack a simple adjunct professor like me. What the fuck, I muttered again. I held my breath. The student rushed toward me. My hands gripped the lectern to brace for collision.

The student brushed past me. He slid to a stop at the chalkboard. Grabbing a marker, he scrawled across the board, over my name, yelling the words out as he wrote, Om Tare Tuttara Tura Soha. I recognized the handwriting from the furtive sheet of paper hiding in my lecture notes. Finished, the student dropped the marker to the floor, his face flush with uncertain accomplishment. Turning to face the class, the subversive raised his arms in triumph over his head. His mouth opened, prepared to pronounce a manifesto. The words froze in his throat, eyes wide in shock, when two black clad campus cops burst through the door, waving semiautomatic pistols in their outstretched hands.

Halt! one of the cops needlessly yelled, the insurgent already standing frozen before the chalkboard.

One word, Om. . . escaped the fanatic’s gaping mouth, the only word the cops allowed the student to utter. I dived behind the lectern at the jarring clap of a gunshot. I craned my neck to stare at the student, blank lifeless eyes staring back at me. My mind tried to comprehend a third eye that appeared in the student’s forehead. Except the third eye was not an eye. I stared dumbfounded at a stream of red blood gushing out the bullet hole. My chin settled to my shoes. The subversive’s body slumped to the floor. My butt slumped to the floor. This lecture hall did not seem to me to be any place I wanted to be.

∆∆∆

The cops raced past me to the subversive’s body. They searched the corpse’s clothing. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Dr. Hackman rush into the room. He yelled, Class dismissed! I grimaced. Needlessly yelled, I thought. A deathly silence like a funeral pall settled over the lecture hall. Hackman pointed one arm toward the door. He spun his other arm around and around like a traffic cop. Quickly students! he called out. Professor Aeson will resume his lecture at his next class, he assured the students fleeing out the door. I climbed unsteady to my feet. I scooped up my lecture notes, my body shaking, remembering the seditious page of paper hiding in the notes. I hurried toward the door with a wary eye to the cops examining the corpse. I realized Roxanne, alone of all the one hundred students, still sat in her chair in the front row of an otherwise empty lecture hall. I halted, my eyes mesmerized by hers. Dr. Aeson, a voice called out. Roxanne’s hypnotic eyes refused to release their grip on mine. Dr. Aeson! the voice persisted. A hand clasped my shoulder. Startled, my eyes broke free from Roxanne’s. Hackman stepped between me and Roxanne. His hand squeezed my shoulder. If you will, Dr. Aeson. My office, he commanded.

Yes, sir! I snapped a reply back, deferential, once I realized who was talking at me. Hackman scurried out the door. I fell in behind Hackman to follow him across the hall into the history department office.

Trouble? the department secretary, Nancy, asked, a remorseful look across her face. Nancy DaFoe. She made middle age look attractive. Someone who clearly took care of herself. I threw her a weak and wordless smile in response. I liked Nancy. All the adjunct faculty liked Nancy. I fantasized about asking her out on a date. Best friend any of us adjuncts had in the department. She took care of us grunts. Snappy dresser, too. Couldn’t understand how she could afford the Brooks Brothers suits she favored on what I was pretty sure was a crappy salary. She had money anyway. Most likely a husband, though she always came alone to department parties. I never once saw a wedding band on her ring finger.

Dr. Aeson! Dr. Hackman’s admonishment snapped me out of my daydream.

I jumped into Hackman’s office. Yes, sir! I responded. I bowed my head, submissive. I was sure I was in trouble for something. I faced tenure review at the end of the term. Like most adjunct faculty in my position, I’d lick Hackman’s Salvatore Ferragamo shoes if that’s what I needed to do to curry his favor. I knew Hackman could afford his snappy dress because I saw his paycheck on Nancy’s desk one time I happened to be in the office while she passed out checks. I stepped toward the visitor’s chair I knew parked in front of Hackman’s Georgian mahogany leather top campaign desk, acquired on a conference trip to London. I prepared to settle into the chair. I found Roxanne already seated. Huh? I grunted in confusion, wondering how she beat me into Hackman’s office.

Dr. Aeson! Hackman called out again. I turned to face Hackman. I figured some kind of superiority complex caused him to feel the need to yell at subordinates standing right in front of him. Hackman only called me ‘Dr. Aeson’ when visitors were in earshot. Otherwise he just called me, as he did the other adjuncts, by our first names. Dr. Aeson, he repeated, this time more subdued. I want to introduce your newest student to you. Hackman waved toward the woman sitting in the visitor’s chair. Dr. Aeson. Please meet Roxanne.

I turned to Roxanne, her hand extended to me. I grasped her hand. A bolt of excruciating pain raced up my arm and tore through my brain to bounce around the inside of my skull. My legs wobbled. Roxanne cracked a wry smile. Headache, professor?

Part Two

The wheels of Dr. Hackman’s executive padded leather office chair squeaked as he leaned forward to rest his chin on his folded hands. I stared at the ends of his red silk bow tie dangling loose from his unbuttoned shirt collar. I wondered why Hackman would call me into his office just to introduce a new student, unusual as she might be. I was a tad irritated that Hackman was still present in the history office after hours. Hackman left his office compulsively at five o’clock each and every day. I could set my watch by him, if I had one. I would see Hackman walking out of the history office undoing his bow tie as I started my five o’clock introduction class across the hall.

I am the first to admit, I am not a morning person. I jumped at the chance to teach evening classes so I could sleep in mornings. Plus, I thought I could earn a few brownie points with Hackman and the tenured faculty that I could cash in come time for tenure review. The tenured faculty who had real lives outside the university preferred not to teach evening classes. So I taught two evening classes, twice a week. Five and seven o’clock. For an added bonus, more often than not I had the history office to myself, free of Hackman and the other tenured faculty. I’ve been known to poke through Hackman’s mailbox at times. And the inter-office memos to the university administration regarding personnel matters that Hackman dropped on Nancy’s desk for her to type up the following morning.

Staring across Hackman’s desk at his bow tie, I tried to suppress a frown. Who still wore bow ties in this day and age, for chrissakes? I wondered.

Isn’t this just a lovely day? Dr. Hackman remarked, his lips spread into an uncharacteristic wide grin.

‘What the fuck?’ I thought to myself. One of my students just got shot down right in front of me and my entire classroom, and Hackman was going on about the weather. I stared at a forefinger of Hackman’s hand twirling one of the ends of his bow tie. I suppressed a laugh. Hackman struck an unimpressive figure. An English history professor of not much note, in spite of his Rhodes scholarship, Hackman acquired the department chairmanship only because he seemed the least threatening option to the other tenured faculty. I always thought he tried to cover his physical mediocrity with his fake British accent and impressive British clothing. Physically, Hackman was on the slender side. Average height. Average hair, albeit well coiffed. Average nerd. Sported Burberry suits which he purchased from some suit of the month club in Britain. I’ve seen the boxes.

A lovely day indeed, Professor Hackman, Roxanne replied.

Nancy shuffled into the office with a metal folding chair in her hands. Here you go, Jason, she said. I smiled a thank you. I liked the fact Nancy was not one for formality. She handed me the chair. What a terrible experience, Nancy added, patting my shoulder. What has this world become? So sorry you had to go through that. Nancy threw me a sorrowful look retreating from the office.

Terrible experience? Hackman inquired, his thin eyebrows furrowed, questioning.

I dropped onto the chair. The shooting. . . I started to mutter.

Had to be done, Roxanne interjected. She placed a hand on my knee. I trembled. An electric wave of sybaritic energy washed through my body to crash into my skull. I stared at Roxanne. I stared at her hand grasping my knee. I am sorry you had to experience that, she added.

Huh? I mumbled.

Why yes. Terrible. Just terrible, Hackman responded flatly. But here we are.

Huh? I mumbled again. I glanced at Hackman. Roxanne’s hand rubbed my knee. I could feel my face flush.

I do not normally introduce new students to my faculty, Hackman continued. My eyes fell to Roxanne’s hand rubbing my knee. But Roxanne is not just any student.

She’s not? My eyes jumped up to Roxanne’s inquisitive eyes, studying me above a gleaming ivory smile spread across her face. My eyes dropped to her hand still rubbing my knee.

Roxanne is an agent, Hackman said.

What? I stared back at Hackman.

A secret agent. Hackman grinned at me like a teenager sharing the details of his first date. My eyes, bulging out of my skull, bounced back and forth between Hackman and Roxanne. Roxanne is an undercover agent for the regent of Seattle working to root out the insurgents here on campus trying to overthrow the regime.

Insurgents? Overthrow? I protested. What are you talking about?

You just witnessed the insurgents in action, Professor Aeson, Roxanne remarked. Her hand gripped my knee. Her ruddy lips, curled up into a broad smile, drooped into a pronounced frown. An historian like you should not deny the evidence of your own eyes.

Evidence? I retorted. All I saw was a hapless religious nut, who, from what I know, worships an animal deity. Just a simple animal lover. Don’t they worship a parrot? Or something. I shook my head. Hardly seems like a capital offense. I pressed my fingers to my eyes, trying to ease the pain in my head.

Ideas, professor, Roxanne retorted.

What?

Worse than any animal deity. These fanatics worship an idea.

An idea? I’m sure Roxanne saw the confusion in my eyes. What idea?

Freedom.

What freedom? I responded, my tone sardonic.

My, my, Professor Aeson, Hackman chided me.

Roxanne’s lips spread into a wry smile. She squeezed my knee. Freedom from the regime. That is why these fanatics are so subversive and so dangerous. That is why they need to be rooted out and eradicated by any means necessary.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I tried to shake out the pain engulfing my brain that seemed to emanate from Roxanne’s hand at my knee. I began to wonder how I should interpret Roxanne’s continued grasp of my knee. Can’t deny I was flattered. The muscles of her taut body rippled under her skin-tight sweater in a seductive sort of way when she leaned toward me. What the heck. I decided to press my luck. I dropped my hand from my face to my knee. My fingers brushed Roxanne’s. An electric shock of sensuous excitement raced up my arm, followed by a wave of goosebumps. I realized that Hackman could not see our hands because of his desk. They’re just nature worshipers, I insisted, forcing a grin. Simple pagans. Hardly subversive revolutionaries.

Come now, Jason, Dr. Hackman interjected. His addressing me in the familiar