The golden sunbeams radiated through the halls of Rover College and caressed the blooming autumnal flowers that splayed the grounds of the once-abandoned fortress. A faint smell of warm morning coffee and a trace of cigarette smoke flowed like a gentle stream throughout the men’s dormitory. Following this stream, one would find the source to be the Resident Hall Director’s office, whose oaken walls were illuminated by the rising star.
“Raphael Lewis, class of ’36, correct?” asked the Hall Director cooly, looking through the documentation spread out on his desk.
“Yes, sir!” answered Raphael vivaciously. “I’ll be studying theology here for the next four years.”
“Theology… is that right? I can’t say I’m an expert on the subject myself. I go to church on Sundays, I say my prayers, that’s all a man really needs. Anything more seems, dare I say, pedantic.” The Hall Director snuffs out his cigarette and continues, “Although, I suppose Sunday service can’t be held without some minister. At the very least, I’ve picked up some semantical knowledge here and there. For instance, Raphael: the one that heals… Quite a strong name, don’t you think?”
“I suppose, sir. Mother once told me that I was christened Raphael so that I can one day follow father into the ministry. Instead of healing flesh, my purpose is to heal the malady that infects the soul.”
“I see… Your father, does he happen to be Pastor Gerald Lewis?”
“Ye-yes, sir,” Raphael responded with hesitation. He paused for a second and asked, “Do you know my father?”
“Not on a personal level. He is quite popular on the radio, you see; always raving about the end of the world and how the depression was God’s punishment for our iniquity.” The Hall Director furrowed his brows and stared into Raphael’s eyes. “Will you be following in his footsteps?”
“Not entirely—no. Yes, I hope to join the ministry one day; although, truth be told, I’m not sure what else is out there; but I wouldn’t say that I buy into his Edwardian rhetoric. Hellfire, brimstone, and such pathos never sat well with me. It’s much too cynical.” Raphael spent a few seconds trying to formulate his thoughts and continued, “I think the current times are less of a punishment and more of a test: like Job. Times are bad now, it may even get worse, but I think it may be for the best. Humanity needs to fall in order to rise to greater heights, I think.”
“I see…,” the Hall Director rose from the chair and shook Raphael’s hand. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”
The main grounds of Rover College were situated between the ruined stone walls of Fort Oever that eyed the New England shore. The fortress and its lighthouse were founded in the 17th century by Dutch traders who wished to capitalize on the American fur trade; however, after the Treaty of Westminster, the settlement was eventually abandoned for the greater turn of a century. In the early 19th century, the abandoned fortress was renovated in order to be the foundation of the budding college. Originally, the college was given the title Oever College in honor of the Dutch fortress; however, due to the difficulty of pronunciation, the founding membership decided on the more Anglican and, therefore, far more agreeable name of Rover College.
An average listener of such history may imagine the landscape of the institution to be a discombobulation of warring aesthetics, from the stony architecture of the Dutch fortress to the Art Nouveau decor of the renovated conservatory. However, the current ensemble of such infrastructure leaves a setting that can best be described as Rackhamesque in appearance. The faculty of the college rejected the evolution of industrial academia that permeated from research institutions, nor did they particularly romanticize the Gothic tenacity of classical studies; but rather, the state of the college can be described as an intangible nostalgia the elderly feel when recounting the days of their youth. Indeed, the atmosphere of the college wasn’t far different from the illustrations of a children’s story book. Instead of the typical hauntings of ghouls and ghosts that was common rumor of such aged institutions, students rather feared the evocations of bogarts that roamed the halls and sirens that enchanted students into the ocean, never to be seen again.
The still waters of the shore reflected the comforting light of the full moon that pierced the darkness of the night sky. Instead of the bustling humdrum Raphael heard throughout his first day, all he could hear was the crashing waves and the humming of Zephyr’s lullaby. He sat on the beach and fed bread scraps to wandering swans that passed by him.
“I’m sorry, my friend, but Prince Siegfried hasn’t been around these parts,” said Raphael softly. He pulled out a second piece of bread from a cloth bag. “But hopefully this will help you on your journey to unite the two spirits. Please, if you may be so kind, may you take this over to your friend Sir—Duck? A duck? A pekin duck nonetheless!” Raphael got up from his resting spot and walked towards the duck. “Now, what do we have here? Did you swim all the way over from New York? Or did the swans hire you to find Siegfried and Odette? Nevertheless, I am impressed, you winged mercenary.”
In the darkness, Raphael heard a somber incantation that calmly engulfed the sounds of night until it was the leading voice. “Where is that song coming from?” Raphael thought to himself. “What creature can produce such intoxicating solemnity? Is this what the angels sang when Adam and Eve were banished from Paradise?”
By the time Raphael escaped his thoughts, he noticed the duck waddling towards the abandoned lighthouse that proudly stood at vanguard against the coming tide. He gazed at the lighthouse and noticed a small light that flickered into the night. “A light? I thought we weren’t permitted to enter the lighthouse ruins. It might collapse at any moment! Come, Sir Duck, join me and I’ll reward you with another piece of bread.”
Raphael picked up the duck and walked towards the lighthouse. Each step the song became more solemn, and yet more commanding. By the time Raphael reached the ground floor, his heart became entwined with the tune as if each beat was the heart’s desperate yearning. Yearning for what? Raphael couldn’t say. Carrying the duck, he slowly crawled up the stairs until he reached the watch room at the tower’s zenith.
When Raphael reached the top of the tower, all he saw in the glimmering candlelight was a single woman surveying the horizon. He crept across the room, trying to further make out her features. Through the darkness, all he made out was a wooly, plaid coat and hair that was like a diadem of golden lycanth that crowned her nobility. He was trapped in stupefaction until a single quack rang the lighthouse like a bell.
By the time the singer turned around, all she saw was a single, falling white feather.