Underground - Chapter 1

 

It had been raining for four days, but the clouds still did not seem satisfied. Tears poured from the grey skies above in sheets without the tiniest sign of stopping. Beads took free falls from the ledge of the library’s roof like loose pearls from a necklace and pooled in puddles that were already beginning to conjoin.

 

I looked down at my phone again and sighed.

 

Meet me at the den. 5:00 p.m.

 

This means walking four blocks in the rain, in a thin jacket, with temperatures already threatening to reach the negatives. I had brightly forgotten the new stack of bus tickets on the counter beside my front door in the morning; but come to think of it, the clock above them was more captivating in telling me how dead I was going to be after bursting into the lecture hall.

 

Closing my phone without another glance at the message, I stepped out the doors of the library into a bleak spring’s afternoon. Though the first day in the season of awakening already passed half a month ago, no sign of resurrection came from the trees. The tall figures still lined the streets uniformed and bare, except that they no longer donned capes of snow and ice. That was something to look forward to; for I detested Winter as much as the frown on my hieroglyphics professor’s face. A combination of puddles and mud formed by the non-stop precipitation covered the roads and sidewalks in splotches, occasionally disturbed by passing cars and mischievous children in their little rain boots. The rain, of course, continued to pound down on the world below.

 

With one swift motion, a dark umbrella bloomed above me with a loud “boom”, immediately followed by the rhythmic drumbeats of water droplets as they attacked the thin fortress. Within a few steps, I reached the bottom of the steps leading away from the library, away from warmth and the perplexing symbols.

 

My name is Samuel Kade, but people like to call me Sam. I was a full-time student enrolled in historic linguistics at the University of Toronto, one of the best destinations for post-secondary education. Already more than half way through the year, the course has taken a full turn for the worst - we were to study and understand the way too complex ancient texts of Asia. I was only too glad to be partially Asian and have had some history with those horrific characters.

 

Only in my first year into the long and miserable trek for my PhD, I’m already blasé with this type of lifestyle. Projects, essays, and any other sort of torment one could possibly think of were carelessly thrown at us like darts. The professors and their malicious assistants must have enjoyed seeing us suffer, for the waves just kept on smashing down on those who survived from drowning in the last assault. Even though I had been complimented (more than once) to be gifted in the field of ancient languages and texts, I still found myself exhausted, if not a bit annoyed, at my new life in university. A vacation somewhere far from this world of words would be nice; but that has to come after my assignment on the Chinese Xia tomb inscribing.

 

Upon mentioning my “gift” in this field, I would like to state that I am not technically talented in any way; it is simply my upbringing that holds me at an advantage over the many others studying with me.

 

My childhood was full of traveling and education on the most exotic dialects. My parents’ occupations forced us to occupy an itinerary lifestyle; my father, a bold European mixed blood, was an archaeologist while my mother, a beautiful Chinese mixed blood, specialized in ancient texts similar to myself.

 

I have long noticed the fact that both of my caregivers were not of pure lineage; but upon query, neither seemed willing to spill out anything about my ancestry. It nagged at my curiosity at first, but I got used to obscurity on the topic and soon lost interest. After ten years, I hardly even took time to contemplate it anymore. Come to think of it, I don't remember a time where there was a family gathering; in fact, I don’t think I have ever heard anything about or from other parts of the family aside from a few uncles on my mother’s side.

 

Anyways, since I have such a messed-up background, I am a mix of the mixed bloods; which means I may have the blood from every part of Eurasia coursing through my veins. Many would think that I am quite odd in believing this, but upon realization of my crazy and immense lineage, I felt a responsibility to understand more about the world; and the first step in doing so is to understand the variety of dialects on this tiny globe. About why I chose to study the historical, and perhaps dead (or half-dead) languages, most likely would have been the influence from my paternal side with his passion for the past.

 

The steady beats of rain seemed to ease as I approached the last road before my destination - a good old Canadian Tim Horton’s. I peered under the side of my umbrella, through the fence of falling droplets and at the pedestrian lights. The red hand glowed brightly in contrast to the grey streets in its background. There still seemed to be a few seconds left before the light to my right would give in to the blinking.

 

I puffed into my blushing palms in a futile attempt to revive the numb fingers hidden underneath crumbled sleeves. A bad idea it was, I realized, to not remain dressed in full winter gear - if anyone knew Canada well enough, they would realize that three out of four seasons here were renowned for their insanely low temperatures. If not for constant movement, I doubted I would still be able to feel my legs. I scowled at my naivety for jumping into the conclusion of finally having a warm spring this year.

 

Within a blink, the pedestrian lights across the street finally yielded a genial white. Allured by the thought of finally reaching a place with a habitable temperature again, my feet rushed towards the other side of the road at a speed I was not sure I was capable of reaching.

 

Without any sort of warning, a hand shot out and grabbed my shoulder from behind and flung me backwards less than a millisecond after contact. My shout was not even able to escape my mouth by the time I began flying. The person used so much force that I almost landed back on the sidewalk. The umbrella escaped from my clutch sometime during my flight through the air and flew towards a puddle at where I was before, some ten meters away from my landing place.

 

Before my umbrella was able to hit the ground, a black van leapt from the line of halted cars and bulldozed over the spot I was at a second ago, without a single honk or minimal attempts of slowing. The car drove by so fast I would not have been able to identify it as an automobile if not for its location on a road. Muddy water sprang from the puddle in ribbons and splashed outwards as if a surging tidal wave. My shield from the rain finally, swinging inertly like a large bird, landed in what was left of that puddle. A figure, probably male, dressed in a long black overcoat stood with his back facing me, arm still in the throwing position.

 

Whoever drove that car had the message clear - they wanted me dead.