A heavy fog hung over the spires of Trinity College, obscuring the famed architecture in a gray shroud. The outlines of the medieval buildings could just be glimpsed past coils of razor wire stacked six feet high along the barricaded college gates. A porter stood guard, bowler hat incongruous with the submachine gun clutched in his gloved hands.
The quiet was broken by the rumble of an approaching truck. The porter gestured curtly, and two more emerged wearing the formal uniforms of old, now toting weapons instead of letters for students long gone. With a grind of metal, the gates opened just enough for the food delivery, then clanged shut again.
The porters exchanged words with the driver as packages were offloaded. Their breaths frosted in the chill air, fading into the mist along with scattered voices from the world outside the college walls. But within those walls, traditions persevered – the shuffle of academics in their gowns hurrying to High Table, silver candlesticks lining the medieval hall, portraits of erudite benefactors gazing over an isolated outpost where rituals of civility carried on as both refuge and resistance against the lawless ruins beyond.
The porters stood ready to defend it, their antique dignity overlaid now with a siege mentality. The ancient institution was an ark, and they the watchmen guarding against the flood. Come what may, they would perform their duty until the end. The weighted gates closed. The fog wrapped Trinity in its veil once more.
Mark Carrigan 