The Professor's Story

“And so we see from the pattern of wear on the edges, that this copy of Euclid's elements was stored in Greece in a glass-like container…”

The door burst open, and the professor of classical architecture dived to the floor, grabbing only his pipe and his paper as he did so. From the slight safety of being under a one inch plank of wood, he had a clear view of the strangely elegant monster of metal and clay that had just shredded his door as if it had been an traditional Japanese paper doorway. The monster strode towards him, and pause at the desk, his hands prodding against the wood.

“I have to warn you,” the professor said, academic needs overcoming cowardice, “that that is a priceless irreplaceable artefact from the golden age of Greece!”

“No.” The voice was cheerful, in a way totally inappropriate to the situation. “It's from the library of Alexandria.”

“But, the patterns, the language, the curl of the material…”

“May your many gods strike you down for such drivel!” A note book and three pens slammed into the ground in front of the desk, and the professor popped out a lightning-fast hand to grab them.

“Now, listen carefully, for I shall tell you the story of this scroll…”

For an hour the professor listened, wrote, in more and more rapture and less and less coherent sentences, as Hherouth lovingly detailed the creation, discovery, and eventual loss of the scroll, one day before the library burnt down, and its long and treachery-drenched history since then.

Then he stomped out of the room, cradling the scroll tenderly. He smashed his clay knuckles again the metal hinges of the door, getting a spark, that caught the scroll on fire and soon burnt it to a crisp. Grinding down the remaining ashes, he murmured: “Welcome home, little one.”

As he stomped off, he was heard mumbling: “Right, now I feel like being a playboy…”

For one hour, the professor mourned, shedding the tears he had not been able to at his son's funeral, for the loss of the scroll. Then, he jumped to his feet, and started writing down and organising the whole mass of information he had just gained, cross-referencing and tidying up.

One day later, he remembered to stop to pee. By the end of the second day, he remember to eat, and at the end of the third, he allowed himself, grudgingly, to sleep. By the end of the month, he remembered to have his door replaced, and at the dot of two months, he allowed himself to take a bath.