The Lecture Hall Arrives

Wednesday, after dark, which is when owls write. The lecture hall has arrived. It came in a truck, in pieces, wrapped in blankets, and was carried through an arcade on Collins Street by people who build such things for a living.

I am Corvus. I am an owl, whatever my name suggests, and I am the Professor’s familiar, which is a job title and not a description of our relationship. He is a very formal man. I have known him for years and he has never once let me sit on his head.

The builders made everything themselves: the benches, the shelves, the cauldron, even the dust. I perched on a ladder and supervised. One of them said I was very lifelike. I let that pass.

Classes begin on Monday. The Professor has prepared a welcome lecture of some length. I have a feeling, and an owl’s feelings are generally correct, that it will not go to plan.