A Glass of Sand and Stars

By J.S. Mawdsley

What's the worst thing that can happen to a neurotic academic whose classes have just been canceled? A surprise visit from his fiancee and mother-in-law-to-be.

 

This is the fate of Soren, a seminary student and teacher who was betrothed years earlier to a cousin he barely knew. The cousin, Winnie, is an energetic girl, longing for adventure, not the staid life of academia. Soren's only hope is his best friend and classmate, Ollie, who might be more than he—or she—appears. But Ollie has problems of his—or her—own thanks to a busted telescope and her—or his—crush on the best lens maker in town. But what they all must decide is whether love is a matter of contract or something magical written in the stars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.S. Mawdsley
• Release date: Nov 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215343951

J.S. Mawdsley

We’re a husband and wife novel writing team and have been since about a month after our marriage in 2007. He’s a teacher of education law. She’s a Librarian. Being able to write together so happily once made a friend remark that we are as mythical as unicorns. J.S. Mawdsley live in Ohio, where they share their house with half a dozen dying houseplants, and their yard with a neighborhood cat named Eugene, a mother deer and her fawn, affectionately known as the Countess and Cherubino, and a couple of blue jays, Henry and Eleanor. 

Book preview

Map 1

The City of Oasestadt

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Map 2

The Kingdom of Odeland

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Chapter 1

I ’ve been looking over the enrollments, my dear boy, and strictly speaking, it’s not looking good, I’m afraid. Proctor Elbert shifted his bulk awkwardly in his chair. Then he folded his pink little hands over his broad, purple sash and smiled apologetically up at Soren.

Are you sure, sir? Soren leaned forward over the wide, marble-topped desk, trying to catch a glimpse of the enrollment list over the stacks of manuscript pages and ink-stained blotting paper. Could you check again?

Elbert frowned down at the scroll, as if it required supreme effort to see it past all his chins. Check again, my dear boy? Whatever for? I know the enrollments of all the Overschool classes off the top of my head. He pulled a dry quill from his inkstand and tapped it nervously against his palm. If that’s all then, I did have some writing to do this morning. Thought I’d polish up my little monograph, you see.

This, Soren thought to himself, was almost certainly a ruse to get him out of the office. The Proctor had a marvelous talent for coming up with topics for research. Where he failed as a scholar, though, was in actually finishing anything he ever started.

As far as anyone at the Seminary knew, Elbert had been polishing up his little monograph for the better part of a decade. Soren remembered when it was going to be A Refutation of the Trofast Heresy, with Special Attention Paid to Textual Problems. A few years ago, about the time Soren was finishing up at the Overschool and applying to continue on at the Superior School, Elbert had told him (and everyone else) that the monograph would instead be A Textual History of the Leafa Halig Leoth, Systematized, and Including Diagrams. Now it seemed that Elbert had something grander in mind, exploring the history of all the holy books of every branch of the Ivich religion, which probably meant that it would be another ten years before anyone got to read it.

That lazy approach to scholarship might have been forgivable, as far as Soren was concerned, if Elbert had at least applied himself to his job as Proctor, or chief administrator, of the Superior School. But Elbert wasn’t terribly good at that, either. Soren had once been forced to teach a First Year Scripture Knowledge class in a courtyard for three weeks because Elbert had forgotten to assign him a lecture hall. At the best of times, Soren tried to avoid seeing the proctor, but Elbert had sent a message over to Soren’s rooms, saying that they needed to discuss the Introduction to Eschatology seminar Soren was supposed to be teaching for the Spring term.

Please, sir, could you check again?

Elbert heaved a massive sigh and scowled as he looked over the scroll, carefully and methodically. The only sound was the persistent dull roar of voices from the Shrine Square. Like most of the senior faculty, Elbert had a window overlooking the holy shrine. This was considered an honor, though sometimes Soren wondered how anyone could ever write, or read, or even think with that never-ending commotion just a few yards away. There was a constant, low undercurrent of pilgrims singing hymns, punctuated here and there with the shouts of icon sellers and the decidedly worldly oaths of camel drivers and teamsters. It was nearly enough to make one feel sorry for the proctor. Soren decided that if Elbert could see his way to letting the seminar run, then he would be willing to revise his view of the man, and consider that he was doing the best he could in his job, in view of the distractions he had.

The proctor looked up and tapped his fat palm with the quill again. Four students, my dear boy. I can’t run a seminar—even an upper-level one for the Overschool—with only four students. Not efficient, you see? With six or seven, I might let it slide. Strictly speaking, of course, it’s supposed to be eight. That’s the rule. But if there were seven, or even six, we might imagine that some more boys might sign up. And as proctor, I can make exceptions to the rules, since that is rather my job. But four is a bit much of an exception, you have to agree.

I just don’t understand it, sir, Soren protested. He could hear the nasal note of wheedling desperation in his voice, and he nearly hated himself for it. He cleared his throat and, in a lower tone that he imagined sounded firmer and manlier, he went on. I just don’t understand, sir, because during this term I’ve had six students tell me they were going to take it. He started ticking the names off on his hands. Egon, Amand, Detlef—

Elbert interrupted. Detlef, sohn von Filibert? He changed his mind. Said he’d rather study Textual History. The Proctor’s fat lips quivered for a second with the self-satisfied grin of a man who knows his own seminar won’t have to be cancelled. And Egon, sohn von Horst, will not be here this term, as you may recall.

Soren nodded glumly. One day towards the end of the previous term, young Egon had switched the weak malt beer at breakfast with a barrel of very expensive Leorniac aged mead. Classes had to be canceled due to excessive hilarity on the part of the student body in the morning, and the urgent need of many boys to be near the privies in the afternoon. As a result, the Proctor of the Overschool and the Chancellor of the Seminary had decided that Egon would benefit from the opportunity to spend a term at home in order to sober up, as it were. Soren wouldn’t have cared one way or another, except that Egon had been very keen on taking the Eschatology seminar.

Please sir, said Soren, his voice rising again, I was counting on the stipend for teaching two classes.

Oh, that reminds me, said the proctor, looking down at the scroll again. Proctor Guntram at the Underschool isn’t sure he’ll be needing quite so many sections of Scripture Knowledge this spring. Enrollment isn’t looking good.

If the proctor had slapped Soren, or dropped a cart of camel dung on his head, he could not have so thoroughly stunned and disheartened him. But...but sir! I was really counting on the money. As he always did whenever he became angry, excited, or flustered, Soren began waving his hands about in wide, frantic gestures. I have an apartment across the square, sir, and I really don’t see how I can keep up with the rent. And I did plan on eating next term, sir. I suppose I should mention that. And of course I’ve been trying to save up for—

Elbert leaned back, causing his wide, leather chair to squeal in protest. I don’t understand this mania you young men have for living on your own. A distant, fond smile illuminated his fat face. Why, in my day, we lived in the dormitories straight through until ordination. Sometimes after that. And you know what? Best years of my life. Truly, my dear boy, best years of my life.

Twenty minutes later, after listening helplessly to a series of the proctor’s most tedious and well-worn anecdotes, Soren stumbled down the narrow stairway and into the blistering sunlight of the wide Shrine Square. In front of him, rising massively in three stone tiers, was the great Shrine of Uleflecht, a wonder of the world and the holiest site in all of Odeland, sacred to the Glaube faithful. But Soren saw it every day, and he had seen it every day for more than half his life, so he barely glanced up at it. Off to the right, where the Pilgerweg, or Pilgrims’ Way, entered the square, another hymn started as a group of pilgrims got their first sight of the shrine. Weeping with joy, they kissed their palm branches and their icons and lifted up their hands in prayer. But new groups of pilgrims arrived every hour, all week long, during the cooler winter months. Soren had seen this same little scene played out hundreds of times. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his long, black coat and shuffled off to the other side of the square, staring despondently at the ground.

No classes, he said to himself, hardly able to believe that something so awful could happen. Not a single class. No money at all.

He would still be responsible for paying his own tuition as a student in the Superior School. And his rent, of course. That would have to come out of the little nest egg he had been trying to build for when he was ordained. If he was ordained, of course. Soren still hadn’t made up his mind whether he really wanted to become a priester or not. He could go to work as a scribe for the king or a clan chief or one of the big merchant houses. But whatever he chose to do, it would have been easier if he had managed to save up a little money. Now he was going to have to spend everything, just to make it through to the Summer term.

He was at the northwest corner of the shrine, waiting as a line of salt carts clattered by, and sneezing at the dust, when a high, boyish voice called his name. Turning, he saw a little figure, also in black, waving at him and bouncing up and down to be seen over the heads of taller people. Even before he could see the face clearly, he knew it was Ollie, another Superior School student and his best friend at the Seminary.

Soren felt so miserable, though, that for a brief moment he considered pretending he hadn’t seen Ollie so he could go off and mope by himself. After some quick reflection, however, he decided that it would be much better to have some company while he moped, so he waved back and walked over to join his friend.

Ollie stood half a foot shorter than Soren and had fine features that made him look like he was ten years younger than his true age. The fact that he didn’t seem capable of growing a beard didn’t help. Some people made fun of him for that, but Soren never had. There was something oddly appealing to him about the way Ollie looked. The boy wasn’t handsome, exactly, but there was something interesting about his looks all the same. Soren couldn’t quite figure out what it was, but it was a topic that he tried to keep himself from thinking too much about.

At the moment, unfortunately, Ollie’s delicate features were twisted into a scowl. He looked as worried as Soren felt.

When they met in the press of the crowd, they each said to the other, at the exact same moment, What’s wrong?

It’s my classes, said Soren.

It’s the telescope, said Ollie simultaneously.

Soren demanded that Ollie go first, and Ollie insisted that Soren go first, instead. Soren, feeling generous, let Ollie win the argument, and started explaining about the dire prospects for his two classes. And look at this, he fretted, flapping his hands about. I’m gesticulating wildly now. And I’m sweating, too. I think I may need to go lie down for a while.

We could go sit in the loggia, suggested Ollie, pointing to the long, shaded arcade that ran across the front of the main Seminary buildings and the law courts.

Most of the benches in the cool, vaulted darkness were occupied. The nearest one had four Underschool boys crammed together on it. Three of them were copying the answer to an algebra problem onto their wax homework tables. The fourth one—who had actually done the work—looked up and saw Ollie and Soren coming. He alerted the others, and they all ran off toward the Underschool dormitories, leaving the bench open. Soren and Ollie watched them go; the latter laughing at them, and the former muttering under his breath about the serious decline in standards at the school.

I don’t understand it, sighed Soren as they took a seat. Why wouldn’t people want to take a seminar in Eschatology? It’s all about a huge dragon that rises from a hidden cave and scours the earth with flame. What sort of a teenage boy doesn’t want to study that? But you know how many I’ve got in the class? Four. What’s wrong with boys these days that they don’t want to study Eschatology?

It’s a sign of the end times, no doubt. Ollie nodded. Have you considered seeing if any of the Doctors or Docents need an assistant this term?

It was a good idea. The money for being an assistant wasn’t quite as good as for being a Lector and teaching basic classes, but it would be something to tide him over through the spring. He even had an idea whom he could ask. Turning to Ollie with a hopeful smile, he asked, What about your dad?

Doctor von Erdmann, Ollie’s father, was a prominent member of the faculty.

Sorry, said Ollie with a shrug, but I’m his assistant, and I don’t think he can afford a second one right now. That’s part of the problem, you see. But why don’t you go up and talk to Doctor von Elkhardt right now, or perhaps Docent Gisbert? I don’t think either of them has an assistant for the spring, yet.

What? Just go up and talk to them? Soren wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Can’t I write them each a note and slip it in their boxes?

Ollie rubbed his eyes. I suppose if you want to do it that way, you can. But it’ll be much more effective if you ask them directly. You’ll seem more assertive.

Exactly, said Soren. I don’t want to raise any false expectations. If I slip a note quietly into their boxes at the tea lounge, they’ll know exactly what sort of a man they’ll be getting with me.

He fanned himself with one long, floppy sleeve. In reply, Ollie rolled his eyes.

Did you remember we’ve got that lecture today? Ollie asked. Seeing Soren’s confusion, he added helpfully, You know, The Role Magy in Ivich Doctrine?

What? Oh, bugger. No, I forgot.

Did you remember to write your essay? Luckily, I got mine done before we had the problem with the telescope.

Freeze it all to the Void. I meant to write it this morning. I really did.

Doctor von Borchardt, who taught Advanced Ivich Doctrine, had secured a special guest lecturer the previous week—a real hillichmagnar. A genuine angel, in other words, or a sorceress to the unenlightened. This was, the doctor pointed out, a unique opportunity for the students.

Unfortunately, the sorceress in question was not a gifted lecturer, and she hadn’t performed any spells to liven things up. Unless, of course, she had been using some kind of sleeping spell on the class. Soren wasn’t the only member of the seminar who had nodded off during her previous lecture. He had therefore missed the doctor’s essay assignment until Ollie told him about it afterward. And now, thanks to the summons to see Proctor Elbert, he had forgotten about it.

I suppose, he said, that I could go to the scriptorium and write it now, really quickly.

But he did not feel like moving, so he didn’t.

For a few minutes, they sat in the shade, trying to move as little as possible and watching the ever-changing drama of the Shrine Square. More pilgrims were arriving, and nearby a group of older women in the white and blue robes of pilgrims haggled loudly with an icon painter. He claimed his miniatures of Uleflecht were done with real gold leaf, but the women were skeptical and said it looked like yellow paint with some sand thrown in to make it glitter. Soren was fairly sure the women were right.

A few dozen yards away from that little scene, a scuffle broke out near the doors to the law courts. A plaintiff and defendant in some case had unfortunately arrived for their hearing at the exact same moment, and now their respective teams of attorneys were struggling to keep them apart. The plaintiff shouted something about a boundary marker being moved, and the defendant threatened to drop said marker on the plaintiff’s head.

At last, Ollie and Soren grew bored of the scene. Soren said, Ah, the ever-changing tapestry of life in Oasestadt. What were you saying about the telescope?

Ollie slumped back against the pitted, ancient sandstone wall of the main lecture building. It’s broken. Remember that sandstorm last week?

Soren nodded. Sandstorms were a part of life in the desert. Some people said that if you’d never gotten lost in a storm less than a hundred yards from your own front door, you weren’t a real Oasestadter. Actually, Soren was the only person who said that. It made him feel better about the time when, blinded completely by flying sand, he had staggered bravely home from the scriptorium, only to discover, after he had started peeling off his sand-encrusted clothing, that he had gone into the wrong apartment building entirely. The screams still echoed in his memory.

Well, Father left the window open in the observatory, continued Ollie, and our main telescope fell over. The housing is broken and the stand is bent.

Kuhlbert can fix that, though.

Indeed he can, but one of the lenses is cracked, and another was scored so badly by the sand I don’t think we’ll be able to salvage it.

Sounds expensive. Soren, who was starting to get nearsighted, had a pair of little round spectacles at home. He didn’t dare wear them in public, though, and not just because he was