A meandering conversation.
I was surprised to be visited by the Professor last night, not least because there's about three feet of snow around the castle and every step risks dislodging immense and very sharp icicles from the trees. I know they are sharp. I sharpened them. They should help keep hungry Ferals away during this cold weather. The Professor made it to the castle okay but then he rang the bell. The icicles above the door missed him by inches.
Well, it seems there has been a new year, which came as a surprise because I had no idea the old one had already worn out. They just don't make years like they used to. When I was younger they lasted far longer, I'm sure. This 'new year' was the reason for the Professor's visit and he assures me that it's traditional to ply all guests with whisky until they can take no more. A new tradition, apparently, and one I suspect he's just invented. He also voiced the somewhat bizarre opinion that attempting to kill visitors with sharpened icicles is antisocial. What else am I supposed to do with all those icicles? If they weren't meant to be used as weapons they wouldn't be shaped like that.
I poured a whisky and asked if he'd like anything in it. He held the glass up to the light, stared at it for a moment and said "Yes. More whisky". This was going to be an expensive visit. Oh well, he doesn't visit often and he's far more entertaining company than the barely literate villagers in the local pub.
"Shouldn't you be out hunting for ghosts?" I asked.
He took a large gulp of whisky. "In this weather?"
I nodded in sage agreement. "Ah, so the cold weather makes ghostly activity unlikely, you think?"
"Not necessarily." He turned his back for a moment and strolled across the room, past the drinks cabinet. "It does, however, make ghosthunter activity unlikely. Ghosts are already dead. I am not and I'm in no hurry." He had not visibly paused at the cabinet yet when he returned to his seat his glass was full. I've never managed to work out how he does that.
"You braved the weather to get here though." I poured myself a glass of Chateau Dume AB+ and took a seat facing him.
The Professor raised his glass. "You have whisky. Ghosts don't." His face became serious. "Although you might have hit on something there. I've wondered why ghosts appear mainly on calm still nights when it's warm outside, or in sheletered places like buildings. Maybe it's not the ghosts. Maybe the findings reflect the comfort zones of the people looking for them." He sipped at his whisky. "It's not likely to change, though, unless some seriously masochistic people take up investigating. Electrical storms should increase ghostly activity due to all that energy in the air but it's not a friendly environment for people, nor for equipment."
I considered mentioning that Dume Castle isn't much of a friendly environment and it's packed with ghosts. Some nights you can't move without getting covered in ectoplasm. I kept quiet because he'd have the place filled with cables and all sorts of machinery if he found out. Anyway, the ghosts all seem to disappear whenever he arrives. I wonder if he's related to Death? It was time to change the subject because that line of conversation could get awkward.
"I found a name for Dumelet," I said. "He's now Caligula Dume."
The Professor's face darkened. "You said you wouldn't tell anyone about that revolting middle name of mine."
"Relax, nobody knows. I'll tell everyone he's named after my great-uncle. You and I are the only ones who know he's also named after you."
"Well." He considered this for a moment. "As long as you're sure." He handed me his empty glass. "I think this calls for a drink."
I left the glass on the table and brought the bottle over. He was likely to finish it anyway. I brought my bottle of AB+ too, since this looked like turning into a long drinking session.
Glasses recharged, I resumed the conversation. "What is it about your middle name that you hate so much? I think it's a fine name. There have been several Caligula Dumes in the past. One was Italian, as I recall."
"I wouldn't be at all surprised to find the Roman emperor by that name was a relative of yours. I hate the name because I went through hell at school with it. Romulus Caligula Crowe. You can imagine what the other kids made of that."
"No. I can't. I never went to school and neither will little Caligula." I allowed myself a little smile at the thought of what he might consider 'school dinner'. "Dume education remains within the castle. It's tradition."
"Homeschool, eh? Probably for the best. Modern education produces too many who spend all their time with CDs and DVDs but can't spell either of them."
"True. The villagers here spend a lot of time and money putting up signs but few of them know what the signs say. They find the butcher and baker shops by smell. They don't find the library at all."
Our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Senga, bleeding. Caligula had escaped again. I handed the Professor a cattle prod and we went searching. His surprise at the weapon was answered when we found little Caligula, munching his way through some wood panelling in the Wood Room, which is now called the Splinter Room. A little judicious prodding forced him back to his own room which fortunately has a steel door.
With Caligula back in place, the Professor decided it was time to head home. He left, muttering something about considering cryptozoology, and shut the front door a little too hard. The sound of falling icicles resounded through the swamp.
Never mind. It's still cold enough to grow some more.
