Odin's Murder

“Ooh, yeah,” the voice from behind me cuts under the class discussion. “Arch your back like that, just a little more.”

A crash of noise stops the lecture, the hollow bang of a hand meeting a metal desk top. The entire class turns to look in Ethan’s direction. His hand is in a rigid fist, the tips of his ears red. He’s staring at Marcus with murder in his eyes.

Dr. Anders turns, frowning, and eyeballs Ethan.

“Oh, pardon me!” Faye’s voice is bright, artificial. She shifts her chair, a delicate scratch on the floor, nothing like the noise still bouncing around the silent room. “I have a question. About what you said earlier, about phrases and words in common usage?”

“Yes?” The professor is scanning the room.

“How long can an idiom or concept survive? Like, passed down?”

“Can you be specific?” He looks to Marcus, then back to Ethan, whose lips are moving in a silent whisper, like he is praying. Counting, maybe?

“In The Origins of Appalachian Folktales, Johann Vangarde refers to Odin as the ‘Rune-smith,’ implying that the god made them, not just gained their meaning. There are only two other places that I have seen that particular phrase; one was published six years ago, and seems to rely heavily on Vangarde’s work—”

Dr. Anders’ eyes narrow at Faye.

“—and the other is on a stone from the mid-ninth century, excavated in June of last year.”

“Ah. Well, I doubt that you have managed to read every treatise on Norse runes, Miss Jarvi, but your question is valid. You’re asking how long can a word or idiom stay in common usage?”

My roommate’s mouth pouts tight, but she nods. I have no idea what she’s babbling about, but it’s working. Ethan’s fingers are uncurling from his fists, and the class and the teacher are no longer eyeing him.

“Let’s look at Shakespeare,” Dr. A. continues. “In Othello, written over four hundred years ago, Iago says ‘jealousy is a green-eyed monster.’ We still use the phrase ‘green with envy’ today.”

“But Shakespeare is still in print, and has been performed this whole time. How is that an oral tradition?” Faye counters.

“Another issue you have to consider is independent re-invention. Take Pascal’s Triangle. Any of you geniuses here good at math, too?”

Several hands wave.

“Binomial co-efficients,” Danielle says with a smirk. Know-it-all.

“In Iran, it’s called Khayyam’s Triangle,” continues our teacher,

‘and was postulated five centuries before Pascal. And in China, Yang Hui’s Triangle. All independent observations of the same principle.”

“But that’s not—” Faye fidgets in her seat. The crows at the window rustle in agitation.

“Miss Jarvi, you obviously have an agenda here. And while I am very interested in your question, this is not the place for personal postulations. Come by my office when I’m not in class, I’d love to discuss this more with you.” Dr. Anders smiles at her.

“It’s not a personal postulation!” She stands. “There are several papers written on the uniqueness of—”

“Sit down, Faye,” the professor says. He’s not smiling anymore. The rest of the class watches their argument, mesmerized.

“How can you—”

“You are disrupting my class, Miss Jarvi. Another word and I’ll ask you to leave.”

Faye shrinks into her seat, red faced, looking too young and too small to be in this classroom. She says nothing more through the lecture.

After class I gather my things and follow Ethan and Danielle into the hallway. We wait by the staircase for Faye, but she rushes down the stairs, her chin jutted out in anger.

“What’s her problem?” Danielle asks. “She acts like she’s never gotten the smack-down by a teacher before.”

“Probably hasn’t,” I say. “Home-schooled.”

“That explains a lot,” she says. “So what did your brother want with the dean?” She smiles at my confusion. “I saw him at the library. He was asking at the front desk where the office of the Dean of Arts and Humanities was.”