An Apology

November 11, this year
Gonzaga University, Spokane, WA
8:45am PST

Astrid Finnley is a forty-seven-year-old professor of mythology and linguistics at Whitworth University in Washington State. She has shoulder-length, dark brown hair with a thick swathe of grey draping over her left eye, full shapely lips, crisp blue eyes and too-much-time-in-the-library pale skin. Striking. She’s not overweight and yet she’s not athletic. Maybe a little exercise would be good, she often thinks. She’s been called gorgeous, mostly by her mother and a few friends, but she does not believe it. Or more accurately, she doesn’t give two shits. She’s smart, thorough and has a tireless insistence on follow-through. Her father had given her a copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology when she was twelve. And that damn book started it all. The telling of human truth through gods and goddesses, through heroes and monsters, from Olympus veiled in the clouds above to the pits of Pluto and the underworld of Hell—and humans trapped between. Myth obsessed her. She received her doctoral degree in May of her 29th year. A month later she stood on the Giza Plateau in Egypt in the bright sun with a pencil behind her ear, a book under her arm and a whining British tour guide describing the medieval punishments for those caught trying to climb the Great Pyramid without permission. (Astrid ended up hiring a short, brown skinned Egyptian tout to guide her to the top later that night.) The year that followed was a tour through antiquity. She visited as many ancient sites and known mythological attractions as she could. The places that filled her days. The stories that haunted her dreams.

Professor Finnley’s expertise is primarily focused on Greek and Roman myths. But she has discovered folk-tales, whether Asian, Middle Eastern or, of late, the legends and beliefs of the indigenous peoples of the Americas. She even loves some of the invented mythologies from her favorite authors such as Tolkien, King and many others. Game of Thrones, not so much— too needlessly peaceful.

Astrid closes the door behind her and turns toward the stairs. She imagines the Washington Grant Board continuing to scoff at her research. Tears threaten to appear. Cold air drafts through the hall and she’s reminded of wearing three layers during her time here as an undergrad. The place still needs to be insulated, she thinks. Gonzaga’s administration building, or more recently renamed College Hall, was built in 1898. Old, in relative terms. The Pacific Northwest of the United States isn’t particularly known for its ancient cathedrals or centuries of culture. Certainly the indigenous tribes of the Northwest Plateau left behind a wealth of artifacts and tradition, but no Great Pyramid, or cliff dwellings like those found in the American Southwest. So a hundred-plus-year-old building in the center of Spokane, Washington is kind of a big deal. As long as Astrid could remember, she wanted to go to a school that had the feel of something solid. Halls with ghosts in the walls. Stone, mortar, old. A structure that possessed character—a living past. Beyond the brick building on all sides, in this young part of the world, is urban sprawl, strip malls and structures devoid of art.

She pauses a moment and allows the familiar atmosphere of the hallway to fill her head with memories—hot coffee, early morning hunger pangs, chilled to the bone, sleepy from late night study group. Fletcher Cowling, musician, the college boyfriend enters her thought. She put an expiration date on him moments after their first kiss. Though they were together for nearly two years, and the sex was knee-weakening-magnificent (the conversation not so much), she knew he would never outlast her academic ambition. Besides, he was too pretty—tall, athletic, angelic face, and she always felt she did not match up to his aesthetic, especially in social settings. She wasn’t fond of makeup and the latest fashion. Better stated, she did not want to try. She knew he loved her, perhaps too much. Astrid recognized his sincerity, but even back then she was all too aware of his limited understanding of her—of even himself—never mind love. She nicknamed him Pothos after one of the Greek gods of love. Fletcher considered the title both sweet and appropriate. After all, what boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate being elevated to god status by his beloved. Astrid shakes her head. Pothos in Greek means desire, but more accurately, the god represented man’s yearning beyond what he is capable of—beyond understanding. Astrid smiles sadly, hoping that he never looked further into myth and discovered her sardonic irony. Perhaps he is, to this day, still delighted with the thought of the short and nerdy lover-girl in college who proclaimed him a god.

She misses him. Ghosts. This building has ghosts indeed.

And today—today must be her punishment for her overly pedantic, far reaching aspirations—for using her head and not her heart. Years of research into an ancient culture that the world has not recognized—and could very well change the direction of humankind—and she’s branded a fool. Sacrificing her personal happiness for the expansion of her learning, all for what? Today it ended.

Midway down the stairs she hears the tap of footsteps above and then her name, “Professor Finnley? Professor, may I have a word?”

Chairman Molmer.

Astrid stops and without turning she says, “Dr. Molmer, I think I’ve had enough embarrassment for today.”

“I dare say you have,” he replies, his voice almost a whisper. “And for good reason.”

Astrid still does not look at him. An angry smile, then, “Fuck you, Chairman. You people are sheep.” She turns and glares, giving up on holding back her tears, “Thank you for funding my project and the opportunity to study a world-changing culture, but you and your board can remain in the dark and ignorant. I’m through for today.” Astrid straightens the strap of her heavy bag on her shoulder and begins to descend again.

Molmer says, “Professor Finnley, please, don’t mistake me—there is much more to share with you.” His voice is urgent and quiet. He takes a few steps down the stairs toward her. “I know you’ve been through a lot over the last few years while working on this project. I don’t know how you managed to keep going after the horrible accident.” He pauses. His expression winces slightly, as if he wishes he had not mentioned the event. “Please forgive me, Professor. Won’t you please accompany me to my office?” Astrid stops and looks up. Molmer’s plaid blue bow tie is crooked. His coat is the color of weak coffee. Astrid’s manuscript is under his arm. “The day is still young and there’s much to share.” She looks at his greying beard and horn-rimmed glasses. Molmer then whispers with a gentle smile, “Please, a few short minutes. And an apology.”