[Celuien]

Anakron walked away, cloak billowing in front of a distracted, nervous troll. The professor scrambled off in the direction of the library and disappeared. Nichole and Panakeia sat on a bench to think, elbows propped on knees, heads resting on hands and paws.

Time passed in silence, finally broken by a frustrated Panakeia. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she cried. "Look at me. I'm a walking anakronism now. There's no way I'll be let out of Mordor like this. Even if I did get away, I'd be sent back as soon as anyone saw me. I've got to find some way to change back into myself again."

Nichole was a hopeless optimist. "Maybe the professor will do it. He changed you in the first place. He should be able to change you back."

Panakeia was more realistic. "Able and willing are different things. It's my fault Anakron is here, and my fault that he was scolded about the course. Add that to my original offenses and I'm lucky if he doesn't change me into a frog. You're a nice girl, Nichole, but awfully naive. Where are you from?"

Nichole sighed. "That's just it. I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. Not really. Other than a few scattered pieces, I don't remember anything before I came here. Somehow, though, I think I'm an anakronism myself." Her eyes gazed far away. "There was a city, a vast city built of metal and glass. Towers reached to touch the sky by day, and at night, there were lights shining by the edge of a wide black river. The lights were mirrored there in the dark water until dawn came and the towers stretched out to greet the sun again." Nichole fell into musings.

Panakeia looked at her thoughtfully. "You must have loved that place very much."

"I don't know. I suppose I did, but not enough. The last thing I remember of the city was moving quickly beside the river. I think I was driving. Something hit me from behind and I flew toward the lights. Everything went black. Then comes the strangest thing of all. I know I was given a choice of two doors. One would have sent me back to pick up where I left off. The other, well, the other sent me here. And so it's my own fault that I'm here, although I'm certain that Mordor wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I picked the second door. That's all I remember of my old life. That and the letters you saw me scribbling in my notebook. Otherwise, I might as well have been born at the edge of a Mordorian gravel pit with a shovel in my hand."

"What a strange story," Panakeia murmured. "I hope you find your way home one day."

"I hope so too." Nichole continued in a cheerful tone. "But let's get back to your problem. I was thinking, maybe we could ask the author what to do."

"The author? You mean Illamatar?"

"I don't know exactly what I mean. But we're all in a story after all. Our whole lives are a story. Someone has to be writing it, right? So let's ask the author."

Suddenly, there came the sound of clicking on a keyboard followed by a loud 'ding.' A small boy riding a bicycle materialized out of nowhere. He walked up to Nichole and handed her an envelope. "Message for you," he said and pedaled away, disappearing as quickly as he arrived. Nichole tore open the envelope with shaking hands.

"What does it say?" Panakeia asked eagerly.

Nichole read the note aloud. "I haven't given you free will for nothing. Do you think I write out every minute of your lives for you? How uncanonical. You'll have to figure this one out for yourselves, but I'll give you hints along the way if you look for them. Signed, The Author P.S. There are some interesting shops around campus. Why don't you check them out?" She looked at Panakeia. "Not very helpful, is it?"

"Not very. But we'll have to look at those shops. There must be something there."

Panakeia glanced up to see the professor hurrying towards them with a stack of books. "What can I do, what can I do?" he said. "I could speak on futility, and that is what I spoke about, but what now? How can I create an entirely new course in just one day and do it by tomorrow? How, how? I don't know anything about feudalism."

Panakeia was about to remark that he didn't know much about the futility of sales either, but checked herself. The troll looked too sad and pitiable to tease. "I don't know. Why don't you just read something out of one of those books and then cut the class short? You'll have satisfied Anakron by teaching about feudalism and given yourself a few days to rework the course."

"That is an excellent idea. We will reconvene at once. Follow me back to the classroom." They hurried along, calling to the other students as they spotted them. Soon, the entire group was back in their seats.

The professor stood at the head of the room. "Class, a most grievous error has been called to my attention. It would appear that I have been given the wrong course title. Thus, I have been teaching the right class to the wrong course." A chorus of chuckles erupted, all quickly silenced by a glare from the troll. "However, all is not lost. This will be our final meeting, in which I shall propound to you the information required by our administration and then conclude with a final exam. All grades that I have given you will stand, which means, Panakeia, that you still receive an A, although you must take the new final to prove participation in the new course material. We will now begin."

For the next hour, the professor read out of books on lords and ladies, nobles and serfs, princes and paupers. Panakeia was bored to tears, but she did prefer the new material to the old. Only once did the professor slip into his old lecture, when he remarked on the futility of marketing to peasants when money was controlled by the nobility. This, of course, led to a discourse on futility and pointlessness in a futile system, but only briefly; the professor quickly switched back to feudalism at the loud meowing of a cat.

The professor shut his book. "We will now take the final." He passed out a single sheet of paper, face down. "Do not turn your paper over until given instruction to do so. Are you ready?" Ignoring several shouts of "No," he said, "You may begin." Papers flipped over with a noisy rustle to reveal four questions:

1. What is your name?

That was easy enough. Panakeia wrote her name.

2. What is your favorite color?

Another easy question. Lime.

3. What is your quest?

Simple. To get out of Mordor.

4. Has this course helped your quest? Give examples. (Extra credit)

Panakeia thought for a minute before writing yes. Examples were slightly harder. She decided to list the emptying of her sample case. It was much easier to carry without its heavy contents. Besides, she felt better about herself without the burden of dubiously useful products. And that was a relief too.

She handed in her exam. The professor hardly glanced at the paper before writing 105% at the top of the page. "A+" he hissed.

"Does this mean you could, well, maybe see your way clear to changing me back?"

He glared and waved her out of the room. "No." She left the classroom, slamming the door behind her.

Nichole followed a few seconds later. "That has to be the easiest final exam ever written. What do you think? Should we go look for those shops now?"

"Sounds like a good idea." They walked to the shopping district with no clear idea of what they were searching for, but glad to be doing something other than sitting in class.

They walked and walked. Then Nichole gripped Panakeia’s arm and pointed at a tiny storefront. “Look. Do you think that’s what we’re looking for?” Psychic Readings. 10 Trolls. Also see us about our special services. All problems solved. A neon hand blinked in the window.

Panakeia had her doubts but didn’t have any better ideas. “I guess we’ll find out,” she said.

Inside, they met a woman who wore almost as much jewelry as Panakeia. A brightly colored bandana covered her wild hair. Skirts swishing, she approached the pair and blinked at Panakeia’s strange appearance. “Read your palm? Tell your future?” she asked in a thickly accented voice.

“Actually,” Panakeia said, “we were hoping you could help me with this.”

“With what?”

“This. Someone put a spell on me or something. I’m not really a chimpanzee. Can you help?”

The fortuneteller gulped. “I can fix anything. Follow me. Alone.” The last word was directed at Nichole.

Panakeia smiled at her friend. “Wish me luck.” She walked into a back room with the fortuneteller.

Shouts and flashes of light came from the room, followed by a hush. The fortuneteller emerged. “You may come in now,” she said dramatically, waving her arm at the door. Nichole rushed back anxiously. And there sat Panakeia, no longer a chimp, but not looking quite the way Nichole remembered her, either. Her makeup was gone and, most noticeably, her hair was no longer blonde.

The fortuneteller spoke rapidly, losing her accent in her excitement. “It worked. I can’t believe it, but it worked. She’s back. But she’s back the way she naturally appears. She wasn’t very happy about her hair at first, but it’s better than being a monkey, she must admit.”

Nichole smiled. “I sort of like your hair that way.”

Panakeia wasn’t convinced. She thought that she looked too much like an older version of her conscience for comfort. But there was nothing to be done and it was true, at least she wasn't a chimp. She paid the fortuneteller and walked back to the dorm to await further instructions from Anakron. She hoped that she would soon be on her way home.