The Grass is Always Greener

by Greg Porter

First published April 13, 2021 in Litbreak Magazine

O Muse, aid me in the telling,

 not of Phrygian fields fertile with bones

nor of besieged Saguntum razed 

nor of Rome’s fall to two warring men once friends,

all told in countless tale and ode, 

but of the well-quenched fields of

Fenshire, parched for knowledge,

in which an American, a Frenchman, 

and a porter daringly trod,

an epic tale of lost mind and soul

 here set down first.

If Henry’s time at Harvard was any indication as to how life at Porter’s College would be conducted—it wasn’t. The College, part of a network of variously similar institutions all under the umbrella of Fenshire University, England, operated under the assumption that, as the oldest subsidiary of the oldest academic institution in Europe, it had provided the developmental foundations for the subsequent burgeoning of colleges worldwide. This was true insofar as each indebted nation adhered to the English tradition of free thought and so thought that they should be free of English influence. Thus, when Henry arrived at Porter’s College, he was thoroughly unaccustomed to the improperly absurd nature of English collegiate tradition and woefully unprepared for the trouble he would soon find himself in.

Henry had heard that dinners at Porter’s College were always a pleasant affair, but it seemed that he had somehow misunderstood the fundamental definition of ‘pleasant’. He was in a magnificent 17th-century hall whose oil portraits of prominent long-dead intellectuals and donors adorned the mahogany walls. The hall’s beams arced high above his head to support the weight of the roof whose painted biblical scene told the story of Noah, divinely inspired to build an ark to insulate himself against God’s fury unleashed on the wicked and ignorant. For some obscure reason known only to the hall’s architects, however, Noah was painted in the likeness of a blond-curled youth, with such ornaments as the Victoria Cross affixed to his brown tunic, medals he almost certainly never received from God. Instead of animals, pink-faced cherubs gazed adoringly at Noah from the portholes of the ark. Henry looked back down at the plate before him. He supposed he was in for a treat, but somehow haddock fish cakes with mashed peas didn’t seem like it. He took a cautious bite of the fish cake and found that he struggled to understand how anyone could consider this ‘pleasant’. He set down his knife and fork.

A stooped old man stood up at the head of the hall toward which all the tables were facing. He looked nearly as ancient as the hall itself, though far less grand: even the lines on his face arced and crisscrossed one another like the beams over his head. This was in stark contrast to the dark, straight-ironed suit he wore which, if anything, made him look pathetically modern. When he spoke, however, it was with a voice strong and vibrant, quite ill-befitting of his appearance.

“Opus Dei cum nobis est precamini…”

Henry was thoroughly taken aback by this speech and leaned over to the boy next to him.

“What’s he doing?”

“It’s tradition for the Master of the College to conclude dinners with a prayer in Latin. Just go with it.”

Once the Master concluded, everyone stood up, which Henry took as a sign that dinner was over. He moved quickly toward the doors, eager for some air. Once outside, Henry’s first thought was that the College really was exceptional. The descending western light accentuated the shadows of the monumental Gothic cathedral standing irresolute across the grassy square. At the head of the square was a Victorian structure behind whose towering white columns the College’s fellows resided. And directly opposite this stood the impenetrable gates and stone battlements that marked the entrance to the College. The gates of Porter’s College had been commissioned by King Henry V, VI, or VII (nobody could remember which) to protect the learned from the baser facts of the outside world and were now valiantly guarded by the local porter.

Henry stepped onto the grass; it was the first truly pleasant thing he had encountered all day, light and springy beneath his feet. He intended to sit there for a long while and he had barely taken two steps onto the square when a shout turned him around.

The Master was angrily shuffling toward him, gesticulating wildly. What he was yelling about was unclear, but as he got closer, Henry found he still couldn’t understand: “Excedo gramen! Excedo gramen!” Henry had no idea what to make of this bizarre affair so stood still which only seemed to make the Master wilder still. He was practically foaming at the mouth as he spit the incomprehensible words at Henry and his anger nearly bent him double so that he looked ready to tuck himself into a ball.

Just then, a fat, bald man in a pinstripe vest and bow tie ran out of the dining hall. He waddled over to the pair, panting and wiping his sweaty hairline with a handkerchief. “‘e’s telling yoo to get off ze grass! Get off yoong man!”

“Oh, is that what he’s saying? Sorry, I must have misunderstood him,” Henry retorted.

“Mittere in exsilium hic!”

“What’s he saying now?”

The bald man became puzzled as he replied, “I zink he’s saying ‘e’ll kick yoo out for zis or send yoo into exile; izer way, I don’t zink it’s veery promising.”

“What, for stepping on the grass?!”

“Just give me a second.” The man approached the Master and exchanged a few words with him. The Master continued gesticulating at Henry as they talked before finally giving him a last look of loathing and shuffling away. The bald man turned back to Henry.

“Yoo must be new ‘ere. Only university fellows are allowed to step on ze grass. For anyone elze to do it, iz…unfazomable. Iz tradition.”

“So I can’t step on the grass anywhere? I have to keep to the walkways?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Feeling it was pointless to argue the matter after the display of the Master, Henry asked, “What’s with the guy speaking another language?”

“Ah, yez, about zat…‘e only speaks Latin. Conducts graduations, dinners, conversations, anyzing in Latin. And come to zink of it not very good Latin. Doezn’t understand a lick of Eenglish so I ‘ave to translate for ‘im. I’m Sisserot by ze way: iz French. And zat waz Lord Old’am of Surrey, Master of ze College.”

“Seems like a pleasant fellow. I’m Henry.”

“Well, Henry, just be careful around ‘ere. Zere’s a lot more to know about Porter’s College zan just knowledge, yoo know,” he said with a wink as he bustled off after his Master.

Absolute absurdity! Henry thought as he strode off to the gates. If there was any sense in the tradition, he might have been able to overlook it, but he couldn’t possibly be so lowly as to not be allowed on grass; he had attended Harvard, after all, and their grass was just as good and open to the public. The injustice of it was almost more than he could stand.

He reached the gates and turned into the Porter’s Lodge, intending to ask for recommendations for a decent pub at which he might get a drink. Upon entry, however, he found a man staring glumly at the wall behind Henry; Henry might not have walked in at all, for the man didn’t make the slightest movement.

“Excuse me, sir, but I was wondering if you—”

The man jerked out of his reverie to stare intently at Henry. “What did you just call me?”

“Um, ‘sir’?”

The porter’s face broke into a wide smile; he jumped off his chair, walked around the counter, and embraced Henry as a brother. Henry was alarmed by this sudden display of affection and tried to push away, but it was no good, the man’s emotion was too strong.

“My dear boy, you have no idea how long I’ve waited to be addressed as such.”

“Wait, what? I just wanted to know—”

“Sit, dear boy, sit, and let me explain it to you.” Henry sat, somewhat reluctantly as he wondered whether English beer was good enough to warrant this much trouble. “Nobody has addressed us porters with that much respect since the College’s founding. In fact, we used to hold so much authority that King Henry V, VI, or VII (I can’t remember which), named the College after us and appointed us the noble guardians and protectors of its secrets. It was our job to defend the College from the townsmen that frequently tried to overrun it. But as the years passed, things became more peaceful and we were no longer needed unless to monitor the tourists or free a kid who locked themselves in their room. Eventually, people stopped calling us ‘sir’ and our once noble title of ‘porter’ was retained only out of tradition.”

“Oh, I’m—I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do,” Henry said, hoping that the porter would deem him useless to his cause.

However, at Henry’s words, his eyes widened in delight and he exclaimed, “But my dear boy, there is! Do you have any plans tonight?”

“Well, I wanted to go get a drink.”

“Great! Come with me to the Battered Trolley tonight and I’ll introduce you to a few people, and you can get your drink.”

“Um, I’m not so sure. I was going to get a drink somewhere—”

“No, no, I insist you come––besides, it has the best beer in town,” the porter interrupted.

Henry really didn’t want to meet anyone related to a disgruntled porter, but he also looked so hopeful that Henry felt he couldn’t refuse. “Uh, ok, no yeah I’ll come.”

The porter embraced him again. “Thank you so much! My name is William, by the way: William King. But you can call me Will for short. And you are?”

“Henry.”

“Henry,” Will repeated as he looked at the gates outside the Lodge.

“Yeahhh, I’m going to go now, but I guess I’ll see you later.”

Will jerked out of his reverie. “Oh, okay, we’ll meet at the pub in a half hour. Should be a fun night,” Will said as he winked.

“Right. See you,” and he walked out of the Lodge and back toward the grassy square.

Really, what was the deal with everyone winking when they ended a conversation? Henry thought. If it was tradition, then it was certainly a strange one, although after the grass incident, Henry supposed that nothing would surprise him.

After twenty minutes of pointless meandering, Henry thought he’d better make his way to the Battered Trolley. He walked through the door set into the gates and came out to an entirely different world. Whereas Porter’s College was quiet and tranquil (unless the Master was yelling), the world outside was swarming with tourists, none speaking a common tongue, but all giving rise to one unified hum. They stopped here and there on the cobblestone path to take pictures of the College’s battlements, their backs turned on the merely century-old shopfronts opposite the more mature stones that comprised the College. Many waited for their turn at a picture in front of the gate, above which was mounted: ‘Purveyors of Fine Learning since 55 B.C.’, a testament to the eternal influence of Roman tourism.

It was not just his ears assaulted by the constant buzz of incomprehensible talk that bothered Henry, but the smell that afflicted him, as well. A veritable moat ran around the outside of the College, separating it from the rest of the town. Its stagnant, muddy water provided a comfortable home for moist grass, insects, and algae, all of which conspired to rankly fill the air with the scent of mildew. Henry was quite unaccustomed to this and, as he crossed the bridge onto the street, vaguely wondered whether the College’s gates hadn’t been designed to keep out more than just people.

It didn’t take him long to reach the Battered Trolley, a shabby pub with peeling red paint and a sign overheard depicting a dented, overturned shopping cart. As soon as Henry entered, he was greeted by a roar of drunken talk and laughter. Will, standing up from the furthermost table nearest the bar, walked over to him.

“Henry, so glad you could make it. Here, have a drink,” he said as he thrust a beer into Henry’s hands.

“What kind of beer is this? I was kind of hoping to get my own.”

“Ah, there’ll be plenty of time for that later,” he said, ignoring the question. “Come, let me introduce you to everyone.” And he led Henry over to the table where five others were sitting. “Gentlemen, this is Henry. Henry, these are some of the town’s locals.”

“Hello, how are you?”

One of them, a man with an uncouth brown beard and wild eyes replied, “Ay’m dowin’ weyll, ‘anks ma’e.”

To which Will, misunderstanding, replied, “You most certainly are not!”

“Weyll, if Ay waws doeen’ you, Weyll, Ay wouldn’ be doeen’ weyll,” the brown-bearded man laughed. Henry barely understood a word of what the man was saying: there was no way this man was a local, he spoke so differently from those in the College.

Once the laughter had settled, Will said, “I think it should happen tonight.”

“I’m sorry, what’s happening tonight?”

Will looked at Henry for a couple of seconds before answering: “Well, we’re gathering together some people for an assault on Porter’s College.”

Henry, taking a sip of his quite superb beer, choked. “What?! What do you mean an assault on the College?”

“Just what it sounds like. We intend to overthrow the Master.”

Suspecting some kind of a joke, Henry looked around at the quite serious faces ranged before him before saying, “You’re crazy, all of you. You can count me out of this.” He strode over to the bar and stood in between a tall, lean man with a long face and an even longer nose heartily downing a glass of dark Guinness and a fat, hooded man sipping a glass of red wine.

Will walked over to him and, lowering his voice so that the others at the table, the lean man, and the hooded man couldn’t hear, said, “‘They make a desert and call it peace.’ Tacitus. It’s tradition that the porters know Latin, and in the College’s nearly 900 years, nobody, in my opinion, has described the College’s influence better. I know how this whole thing sounds, but we’re serious.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are, but I hope you’ll understand if I can’t role play with a bunch of bearded dudes to assault a fortress like it’s the Middle Ages again.”

“Mate, I realize they’re not the easiest to understand, but they’re in this for much the same reason I am. But what they want more than anything is knowledge. These are men who never had the money to learn and so the gates were closed to them. And me, well, maybe this will finally re-initiate conflict with the town and I can become useful again.”

“But why do I have to be a part of this?”

“You certainly don’t have to be, but just think: have you not been wronged there before?” Will shrewdly asked.

“I mean, I got yelled at for stepping on the grass, but it’s fine, I’m over it.”

“Are you though? Are you sure you wouldn’t want the chance to sit on that grass?”

“I mean, sure, but it’s just grass.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah, pretty sure it’s just grass.”

“Well, I’ll let you think about that. If it really is just grass to you, you can leave. But if you feel differently, feel free to join us.” Will walked back to the table.

Really, it was just grass, a pointless monoculture found all over England. Yet, the look on the Master’s face had evidenced something more––it was not just a monoculture, it was an idea. It seemed that he intended the College to operate according to ideals inimical to those of freedom and variability, concepts to which Henry had grown rather accustomed while at Harvard.

“Well, glad you’ve decided to rejoin us,” Will said as Henry returned.

“I like the beer here.”

“Fantastic. So back to business. George, you’ll be bringing around twenty up from Corpus Virginis College to join us at the spot?”

A man with closely shorn gray hair and gray stubble replied, “Ay, we shool’ be ‘ere eyn tweynty meyney’s.”

“Wonderful. And the rest of you can do the same?”

The brown-bearded man replied, “Wey’ll eeach breen’ arown’ ‘e same ohp fruhm Deyveyneyty Colleyge; shooldn’ ta’e too lawn’.”

“Alright, perfect. We should be able to travel the river under cover of darkness then. Go gather everyone now and we’ll meet at the spot in twenty minutes.”

They all got up and exited. Henry and Will lagged behind and something that didn’t quite make sense to Henry rose to the forefront of his mind: “Will, why are we—” he lowered his voice as the hooded man from the bar walked past them—“attacking the College by river when we can just walk over the bridge and through the door?”

“My dear boy, are you mad? We can’t just walk over the bridge and through the front gate. We can only approach by stealth otherwise everyone will be made aware of us. So we travel down the river, climb the embankment, and then go through the front gate, bypassing the bridge completely. It’s much too obvious.”

Henry said nothing to this; besides, they seemed passionate about this plan and it really wasn’t his business to offer his input being a mere guest in the company.

It took around ten minutes for them to reach the little boat tied to a post in the grassy embankment. As Henry climbed in, Will stood atop the levelly reinforced stern with a long metal pole in hand, one end split in two directions resembling something close to a metal IUD. Henry supposed this must be what pushed the boat forward since he couldn’t see any oars.

They waited about fifteen minutes for the others to arrive out of the dark’s descending mist, by which time the town had assumed its nightly glow and the stench of the river had become quite unbearable. Will pushed their tiny vessel through the static water at the head of a fleet of similarly sized boats, their number impossible to know in the thick gloom. Will obviously knew the way, though, because the bridge so desperately avoided loomed out of the mist and he began to maneuver their boat to the opposite shore. As Henry climbed out, he heard the similar gentle bumps of ten, twenty, maybe more, boats docking, the water lately so still now lapping at their sides and spilling over onto the well-quenched grass.

The grass, as if eager to see how it all unfolded, muffled the approaching marauders’ footsteps. Once they had scaled the tiny embankment and stood before the impenetrable gates, Will, at the head of the men, withdrew a large, rusty key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock. There was a resounding click and the gates swung wide to admit them.

No nightly mist clung to the grounds: the walls had done their job well. Illuminated by the dim glow of the pathway’s lamps, Henry could see the glittering stained-glass facade of Porter’s Chapel, and across the blackened grass were a few dozen shadowy shapes ranged in a line that might have been part of the exterior of the Fellows’ Quarters. As the men moved forward into the courtyard, however, one of the shadows across the way broke formation and began to walk around the grassy square toward them. Henry could not make out who it was, but now noticed that each of the shadows was moving, constantly repositioning as if in restless anticipation. They weren’t shadows: they were men. And unless Henry was much mistaken, they were waiting for them.

All the while, the singular shadow kept to the path, sometimes coming within inches of the grass but never seeming to touch it. It was fat, and waddled slightly as it walked.

Once Sisserot stood before them, he pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his shiny dome, and announced: ‘Ello, my friends. Yoo didn’t zink we wouldn’t be ready for yoo, did yoo? Yoo reelly should choose your meeting places more carefully.”

Meeting place? Nobody was near them in the bar except—except a fat, hooded man sitting next to their table at the counter.

“I soogest yoo all leave now. Lord Old’am is een ze library, well-guarded by my students. Soon, after years of groveling and translating zat fool’s teerrible Latin, I will become ze Master of ze College, w’ezer ‘e wants me to or not, and I’ll be damned if I let a crowd of shopkeepers ruin this. Yoo, ‘Enry, right?” His eyes singled Henry out from the rest. “Yoo don’t ‘ave to ‘elp zis pazetic excuse of a porter anymore. Come wiz me and you’ll ‘ave all ze rewards of a fellowship, eencluding—” he made one broad sweep of his hand—“access to ze grass.”

The perfectly geometric plot of grass seemed darker in this moment as if it was absorbing the dim lights around the square and leaving only shadows in its wake, a nightly allure that promised to accept and care for Henry and later vomit forth the shadow of his being in a detritus of books, dissertations, and peer-reviewed articles to forever stand sentient over its closely-shaven, hallowed blades. But the illusion was broken by Will’s anxious expression: Will, cast to the side, useful only as far as tradition permitted today.

“Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”

Sisserot grimaced. “So be eet. I’ll be in ze library eef yoo need me. Allow me to eentroduce yoo to my students.”

All at once, the shapes on the other side of the square began to walk the bordering paths toward the motley townsmen. At least a few dozen of them, ranged in two neat lines, stopped before them, donning black gowns and all with books in hand.

“Oh, and please take care not to step on ze grass. Good luck,” he said as he retreated behind the scholarly phalanx toward the library.

**********

Now, Calliope, I sing of the battle by which Melpomene and Thalia, your two sisters lately so different, are now one in Discord. Around the square they fought with the books and arms of Phoebus and Mars and, each man having proven their part, with the gods permitting, shall not fall short in the telling.

Brave Turner was the first who, charging the collegiate ranks like the Huntress’ Boar, fell many books in one swoop. While the ill-prepared learned quickly gathered their recently trampled pages, Bravery found its equal in noble Christopher who, having riffled through his book, found the page he sought and asked: ‘What came first, the cow or the calf?’ Turner, failing to match his strength with mind, fell upon the ground in agony of perpetual thought, slain by Phoebus’ and Minerva’s sacred art. But brothers Jackson and Selwyn, as alike in countenance as they were in lesser mind, jumped upon Christopher and, renting his book from the unwilling hand, threw it upon the grass. Unable to reach without violating the hallowed ground, noble Christopher put forth his foot, withdrew it, and put it forth again, without end, as Tantalus’ waters are wont to do in the shades below. And so the agonizing circle was complete.

Yet, those two friends, Lewis and Carol, seeing from afar the brothers’ triumph, quickly engaged them in the three-pronged logic of Aristotle. Leaving the two to their fruitless deductions, young Carol was set upon by brutish Anthony who, attempting to take Carol’s book for his own, tore it in the struggle. The shreds fluttered softly to the ground, and Carol, whose dissertation was within the ruined tome, wept, his mind broken, for the words he had set down over three years now as if they had never been. Lewis, mourning the loss of his friend, cried: ‘O gods, allow me to avenge my fallen brother,’ and thus said, turned his sight toward his challenger. Opening the treatise before him, he asked: ‘Do you see that stone at your feet?’ But Anthony, being far-sighted, could not see the indicated stone. Aware of his opponent’s impending doom, the bold scholar pressed his advantage, asking: ‘If you fail to perceive the stone so clearly there, does that mean you have no true perception of anything else, including yourself?’ Anthony, broken by thought best left to gods, sank to the ground in a perpetual crisis of being. But bearded Harry, most learned of the town and well-versed in German thought, questioned: ‘Boot eyf yoo can see ‘e stone, and ‘erefore yoo eyxeys’, yoo perceeve heym and so, eeveyn eyf awnly ‘roou your ayes, ‘e eys now able to perceeve ‘imseylf. Awre naw’ owr perceyptions based awn ‘ose of u’ers?” Unlucky Lewis, unable to understand the dialect of the man, could not answer the incomprehensible question and, never having failed to answer a question before, was broken by the failure of his perception.

While the ignorant and enlightened alike strove, Will and Henry, equal to the scholars in armed mind, left in their wake many broken after fierce debate. At last, having pushed through the swelling hordes, they gained the seclusion of the library distantly echoing with the sounds of the pitched battle below. Here were highest shelves of innumerable books and forgotten secrets, topped with marble busts of the College fellows, even one of Sisserot, all looking upon the Master below, bound to his shelf of books. Sisserot himself stood beneath his own, angrily desiring that title which was refused him. Will, however, understanding Latin, was able to discern the dead words and, sensing a weakness, challenged the unwitting fellow to a test in the scholarly grammar. Foolish Sisserot obliged and performed well at first, but, having spent many years translating the poor language of the Master, had all but forgotten the proper Classical tongue. Bested again and again by him long overlooked, Sisserot lay crumpled at the Master’s feet, his mind utterly spent.

When the Master had been freed, he offered them payment, but Will said: ‘It is not money I desire but simply the privileges and honor of my office bestowed upon me once more.’ The Master accepted this and, turning to Henry, asked his term, to which Henry replied: ‘I only want to sit on the grass.’ Will relayed this message to the Master who, growing stern, paced to and fro, a furious battle raging in his head, as the Phrygians and the Achaeans fought with neither side prevailing for many years. Finally, the tenth year arrived, and with it the Master’s refusal of this demand in the name of tradition. But, if Henry would consent to becoming a fellow of the College, he might be granted the right to walk upon the grass. Having accepted this term, Henry was made a fellow. And partly to disperse the warring students below, and partly because he needed room for his future bust, Henry hurled the laconic head of Sisserot from the balcony into the middle of the beleaguered defenders. As it hit the stones, the marble head split from the shoulders and the students, recognizing the omen, fled in disarray to their respective rooms.

The townsmen invoked Victory and, about to storm the forbidden corridors of knowledge above to take what they deserved, were driven back by Will, honor and glory returned to his title. Back beyond the stone battlements and impenetrable gates of Porter’s College they were pushed and, because they had failed at the last, unrest still festered amongst the people.

But Will valiantly defended the College and its secrets for many years thereafter until age bestowed on him the ill-matched pair of wisdom and death, and he made his solitary journey to the shades below. And Henry, amongst the scattered detritus and broken minds of the battle around, took his place in the middle of the square and, picking up a book left upon the blades, settled down for what promised to be a long while.

But my Muse has gone for a beer,

and so no more may be said

of what became of Henry and the minds dead;

now this tale of eternal Fenshire must close,

though it will be told 

in a new way, many years hence,

when my Muse is sober once more.