Page 30 of An Arcane Education
The trail doesn’t extend very far into the woods, andwhen it curves to loop back to the clearing, I slow. I don’t want to leave yet. The clarity that being among nature gives me compels me to stay here for a while longer. I walk for another minute before I glance to my left and notice a much less obvious path worn through the underbrush that indicates others—or maybe just animals—walking this same direction.
Telling myself that I’ll be fine as long as I follow the worn trail, I climb over the railing to veer off the main path and walk directly into the woods, ignoring the signs that instruct walkers to stay on the trail. The underbrush is just dense enough to be interesting, but not dense enough to pose an obstacle.
As I walk, I note interesting landmarks to find my way back—a large boulder split in half, a pair of initials carved into a tree, and massive oyster mushrooms on a dead stump—while making a list in my head of what I plan to do about this whole situation with my dad. I’ll call Mom and subtly prod at the subject, for starters. Then maybe I can go to the library and see if there are old yearbooks from the academy. After that, I might be able to find others who knew my father and speak to them.
The unofficial trail I’ve taken, which twists and turns so much through the trees that I almost lose it a few times, ends at a large clearing in the woods. It’s an empty circle of grass, no trees or brush to cover the ground nor the gray sky. It’s an unusual thing to stumble across, and I can’t help but make my way around the perimeter.
I know I should head back to campus, but something tugs at my gut, and I find myself walking deeper into the thicket of trees.
There’s no path this time, but I make sure to mentally note items I can use as unofficial trail markers for myself. I’m not sure why I’m wandering besides pure curiosity, and it only takes a few minutes for an unnerving sensation to overwhelm my mind and body.
Something feels wrong.
It’s not a sound or a sight or anything I can articulate, but there’s a notable shift in the atmosphere that makes my stomach twist. It’s not far off from the feeling I got when I was hiking and realized I was being followed.
The heavy presence of the forest, previously calming, suddenly feels crushing, almost threatening, like I’m somewhere I don’t belong.
I stop walking, listening for any indication that I might not be alone, but there’s nothing. The sounds are the same as they were ten minutes ago. The uneasiness lingers as I turn around and find my way back to the circular clearing, and it all but dissipates when I start back on the pathway to the main trail.
I brush my hands over the goosebumps raised on my arms and shake off the strange sensation, trying to convince myself that I’m imagining things after a week of stress and exhaustion, brought on by the shocking revelation about my father.
But my intuition never lies. The energy in the forest had shifted from welcoming and peaceful to foreboding. Reasoning with my overactive thoughts, I convince myself that there was likely an animal, a predator of some sort, watching me from where I couldn’t see it. Never mind that I’m not sure whether there are any animals on this island at all.
It doesn’t matter, I think. I went where I shouldn’t have, and the experience is over now. I only have to worry about three things right now—surviving my last class of the day, investigating my father’s attendance here, and mentally preparing for my first college party tomorrow.
CHAPTER 12
When I walk to the library after my last class of the evening, the atmosphere is charged with new significance. My father has been here. He walked these same pathways. He probably sat in this same library, hunched over a textbook at the tables like countless other students.
Anywhere between twenty-five and thirty years ago, he may have held the same textbooks that are currently weighing down my backpack.
I step across the threshold of the library, and almost half of the seats inside are taken. I had expected it to be emptier on a Friday night after only the first week of classes, but that certainly isn’t the reality. I should probably be doing the same thing, getting ahead on studying, but my studies have been eclipsed by something more important for the time being.
I make my way upstairs first, checking both of the information desks before concluding that AJ isn’t on shift tonight. As much as his presence would lighten my mood,I’m also slightly relieved by the fact that I won’t have to explain this bizarre circumstance to anyone else yet.
I peruse the maze of shelves on my own for a few minutes before deciding it’ll be easier to ask someone for what I’m looking for.
The woman at the desk looks up when I approach, brushing her long, blonde hair behind her shoulder. “Hi, can I help you?”
“Yes, I was wondering if the library happened to have old yearbooks. I’m doing some research on a family member who used to attend,” I explain. It’s not entirely a lie.
“Absolutely! Here, let me show you.”
I thank her and follow her to the back of the massive open room, past the dozens of rows of heavy wooden shelves and up to the second floor. Finally, she turns into a row and gestures toward a shelf.
“You’ll find all of the previous Arcadia Academy yearbooks here,” she states. “Anything else I can help you find?”
“Actually, I was wondering if there happened to be a list of professors who are here this year as well.”
She gives me a curious look but doesn’t ask questions. “I could get you a copy of the course catalogue. That’ll list all the current professors and administrators.”
“That would be perfect, actually. Thank you so much for your help.”
She flashes me a smile and sets off, then returns a few minutes later with a couple double-sided sheets of paper that list the names of the administrators and professors, the program(s) they teach in, and where their offices are.
I thank her again, and then I’m on my own, scouring the labels of the yearbooks that go back to the early-1900s, calculating in my head what years my father may have attended here. I end up grabbing four consecutive yearbooks then walk around the library looking for an isolated space to sit.
I peek into a doorway along the back wall of the upstairs level and find a small room that’s entirely empty. There’s a sign on the wall that designates it as the “Silent Study Room.” The dark, patterned walls hold dozens of photographs of campus, former faculty, and club group photos, and the room itself simply consists of two long wooden tables with chairs arranged neatly around them. In the center of the room, there’s a small chandelier with Edison bulbs. The only other light comes from one massive window on the far wall that looks over the west side of campus.
