The Valley

Well into the start of the semester, our weekly meetings at Professor Wiseman’s (retired) had narrowed down to a core group. For most newcomers, the Professor’s stories are not quite what they imagined, or hoped for, when they heard about the group. The veterans among us found today no different but we never could put it past the professor to tell something unexpected—or the same story twice. It was a mid-October night and the ground outside was soggy, the last vestiges of light hanging on to the sky. It had rained all week, only now petering out; but, the rain still landed with a soft but forceful thump against the winter garden’s glass windows. Bruno had attended to our arrival by preparing a comfortable fire in the room, which added to the gothic charm of the old mansion. He left us be while he went to fetch the Professor.
 The junior students chatted about upcoming midterm exams, while the rest of us plotted our escape from the asylum. We all had on our mind the recent news from the parliament, that they would soon stop subsidizing universities. While those of us from families of higher standing were not too concerned, the lesser students did worry about their scholastic futures. There certainly was sentiment that the government’s subsidies were diluting the integrity of the universities, so this was a welcome change. And whether it had anything to do with the military buildup is anyone’s guess.
 Upon his arrival, the Professor gave us his customary, salutational bow before hobbling over to his chair next to the fireplace; those on the periphery of the room, not wanting to be left out, sensed the excitement and hurriedly found a place among one of the many sofas. The Professor raised a hand to signal his start: “A very warm welcome, all of you who have decided to join me today,” his eagle eyes scanning the faces. “This weather today reminds me of a story from my great-grandmother’s time. Though, I will have you all know, no, she isn’t from here but rather a small valley in the south—which these days experiences far too much tourism for my taste,” he winces as if the thought of tourists causes him great anguish. I think I know which valley he’s talking about, but there are quite a few famous ones in the south. One student asks which valley. “Yes, an excellent inquiry, and, I must say that I have no desire to beleaguer this point, but it must be mentioned that even her family was not a native to that valley. You see, she was the descendant of Huguenots who fled France in the sixteenth-century. They did not first flee to the valley but gradually emigrated there over successive generations.” Sensing the unrest amongst the students, the Professor gave a brief pause to let the accumulated tension dissipate.
 “You know, we were just learning about the Huguenots in Mr. Ducharme’s lecture,” one student said to no one in particular.
 “Part of my family on my dad’s side is also descended from Huguenots.”
 One or two made mention of ‘mixing blood’ sentiments, but kept them out of reach of the Professor.
 Such comments floated around until the Professor gave a small quiver of his head down to his leg, like a involuntary spasm, signaling that he wished to continue. Bruno cleared his throat.
 “While I am sure some of you may have your own judgments about the traditions of the Huguenots, I implore you to keep an open mind today,” he earnestly said. His eyes surveyed the room once again. Most showed no great reaction, a few shrugged, and others gave a nod. Only one student nodded a little too eagerly.
 “The family had largely converted to Reformed by my great-grandmother’s time; nonetheless, they still retained a few old traditions before attending church. It was common practice to make a small offering to the nearby river, believing it would appease the local river spirits. You see, our family had settled on a small nook overlooking the river, with a large field between the river bank and the family home. On one occasion, my great-grandmother neglected to make an offering. Whether this was out of sloth or neglectfulness I cannot say. So, on that day after attending church and coming home late at night, my great-grandmother noticed a steady fog seep down into the valley. The late summer air turned boreal. Now, she claims that she heard someone calling her voice, … When she looked for the source of the sound her eyes wandered down to the river. There, she claims, was a spectral apparition in the form of her great-grandmother rising forth from the middle of river,” he paused for a moment but no one dared protest. I noticed his ears perked up ever so slightly. “To the end of her days she made an offering to the river twice a day without fail, even as the rest of the family gradually moved on.”
 As if by divine comedic timing, the simultaneous clap by the Professor and the sudden deluge that hit the glass roof of the winter garden caused quite a fright to most of the students. Overjoyed with himself, the Professor gave a hearty chuckle.
 It proved necessary for us to escort the female students back to their dorm, which was near the river that ran through the university, home that night.