The Furies. Katie Lowe
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the glass of a framed etching lying on the desk. I followed the path, black ink on creamy paper: a woman tied at the stake, staring into the eyes of some great hulking beast with curling, twisted horns and broad wings. Behind her, three ghouls, arms reaching for her neck.
A silence fell. I realized he was waiting for a response. ‘That sounds … Great.’
‘Super,’ he said, with all the brightness of a department store Father Christmas. ‘And do you have any questions for me?’
‘Can I have a look at that?’ I said, reaching for the picture. I caught myself and pulled my hand away.
‘This? Well, of course.’ He paused. ‘It only arrived this morning. I’ve been wanting to procure a copy since I joined the faculty.’ He handed me the frame, and I placed it on my lap, leaning in to examine the beast’s feathers and scales, his mad, wild eyes, his used-car salesman smile. The flames curled up and around the woman’s feet, rising to meet the hair that fell long down her back. ‘Margaret Boucher,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I suppose you’ve heard the history of Elm Hollow, haven’t you?’
I looked up. ‘I’ve read the prospectus.’
‘Oh, no. The prospectus is the sales brochure. Accurate, of course,’ he said, with a wry smile. ‘But it’s the rather sanitised version. Most of the faculty are drawn to this place for one reason or another from our school’s history – it’s tempting ground for the academic.’ He lowered his voice, a confidential whisper. ‘My interests, for instance, lie in the witch trials that took place on the grounds in the seventeenth century. Quite possibly in this very spot where we’re sitting now.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Oh, quite serious, yes. The wych elm you passed on your way in marks the spot where she was burned.’ I stared at him, but he went on, cheerfully. ‘It was believed – though I’d stress that this is medieval belief, not fact – that this was fertile ground for all kinds of sorcery. Many well-known folk myths originated here, though the references to Elm Hollow have faded away with time. A very good PR job on the school’s behalf, I think.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. It was a real frenzy, for a time. And occasionally, so they say, since – though that’s not really my area, being a medievalist and all. Still, it’s not uncommon for curious guests to arrive on the grounds, seeking an audience with the Devil himself.’ He chuckled, and leaned back in his chair. ‘Instead, they meet Mrs Coxon on reception, and they don’t seem to hang around long after that.’
He let out a sudden cough, as though catching himself. ‘Anyway – this piece is one I’ve been trying to procure for quite some time. A copy, mind, but a very good one. But don’t worry,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It’s not all devils and roaming beasts around here, at least as far as I’m aware. Let’s get your timetable sorted and find out what the future has in store for you.’
I left the office clutching an oddly sparse timetable. ‘We expect our students to fill these free hours with pursuits which will help them to become well-rounded young women,’ the Dean had said as I stared down at it, confused.
I’d enrolled in both the practical Visual Arts class, and Aesthetics, a more theoretical module – as well as English Literature and Classics, a subject not offered at my previous school, but which I’d loved as a child, when Dad would fill my mind with tales of Medusas and Minotaurs as I drifted into sleep. I had taken the maximum four courses students were permitted to study, and wondered what I’d do with all that spare time; imagined myself friendless, hiding behind books.
The corridor stretching towards the English department – a class for which I was by now a good twenty minutes late – was an area where the school showed its age, though it seemed still to possess a shabby dignity, an almost sombre blankness, as though pulled from another time.
Gone were the sex-ed pamphlets in wire racks, the sugar paper displays in childish lettering; gone were the painted breeze-blocks and papier-mâché displays, the keyed lockers and scuffed linoleum floors. Instead, I walked a warm, low-ceilinged corridor with step-worn carpets, passing wooden doors with office hours taped beneath each tutor’s name.
It was far too warm for September – but the heating, I would soon discover, was turned on only from September to Christmas, leaving us to spend the first few months of the academic year sweating through our shirts, the second peering at teachers through the mist of our breaths.
Finding the class, I was uncomfortably aware of a thin sheen of sweat on my brow, jumper stuck grimly to the skin under my backpack. I knocked on the door, and peered inside.
The students stared at me, eyes assessing, judging my place in the natural order. I gripped the door a little tighter, fingers turning red, then white. The tutor – Professor Malcolm, the only tutor I have encountered before or since who insisted on such a title, though with what qualification I am still yet to find out – was a squat, balding man with oddly tiny features, a button nose top-and-tailed by thin lips and black, bird-like eyes.
‘I’m … I’m new,’ I said, nervously.
‘Well, sit then. And try to learn something.’ He turned back to the board, resuming his talk, as I shuffled between the rows and took a seat. I tried to catch up, glancing at the open books and scrawled notes on the desks beside me. ‘And, as Blake concludes, “Thus men forgot that All deities reside in the human breast.” What do we think this means?’
Met with silence, he sighed. I raised my hand. He sighed again. ‘Yes?’
‘… Blake finds morality and religion too … Too restrictive. He thinks it goes against the spirit of man.’ I blushed, furiously, realizing as I spoke what I’d done. The silence was cool, relentless – one of the many weapons, I would learn, that the students of Elm Hollow possessed.
He paused. ‘And you are?’
‘Violet,’ I whispered, my betrayal hanging heavy on the air.
He cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Excuse me?’
‘My name is Violet,’ I said again, a little louder: a croak.
He nodded, and went on, as I shrank into my chair.
‘Man is a wild and occasionally savage, sexual thing,’ he said, affecting his previous drone which seemed designed to counteract the content of his words, the emphasis falling always on the wrong beat. I looked around, surprised at the absence of titters or comments in response to the mention of sex, but the class was silent. Only then did I see the girl from before – the girl with the bright, red hair – three seats away, staring back.
I looked back down at the desk, names and doodles carved into the wood. When I finally met her eye she raised an eyebrow and smiled. I felt myself about to become a punch-line – but, unable to see anyone else watching, braced for the laughs, I returned a dim half-smile, a weak attempt at nonchalance.
She pointed at the tutor, rolling her eyes, and smiled; mouthed ‘dickhead,’ and turned back to face the board. She slid lower into her chair, and began rolling a cigarette from a tin hidden on her lap beneath the desk, perfectly still, but for the dexterous, whipping movement of her pale, thin fingers, chipped black nails catching tobacco scraps beneath.
I lost myself in thought, the class dull, air growing thick with impatience. By the time the bell rang, I was in something like a trance. As I slid my notebook and pen back into my backpack, I looked around, feeling myself watched. But it seemed I had been forgotten, my presence no longer of interest – and the girl with the red hair was gone.
Wednesday afternoons were reserved for extra-curriculars, and as I had none, I spent the rest of the day exploring my new campus, wandering by the grand Great Hall where the choir practised some mournful, gorgeous song.
I walked the long, high-ceilinged corridors of the Arts building, where drama students lurked in thickets, launching into soliloquies, echoes overlapping. In music rooms violinists practised beside pianists, the same rippling passages played time