Disturbance Layer

That autumn, the rain in London seemed endless. I stood in the corridor of the Department of Archaeology, watching the grey sky outside, droplets gathering on the glass and blurring the outline of the Thames. It was my second semester of my master's degree, specialising in the application of GIS in archaeology.

“Have you read Professor Linus Alder's new paper?” my classmate Emma asked, leaning over with a cup of steaming coffee in her hand.

I nodded, without taking my eyes off the window. “The GIS analysis of Roman road networks in Britain, it's brilliant.”

“More than brilliant, it's revolutionary,” Emma said, blowing on her coffee. “How can he be so clever and yet so… distant?”

I turned towards the classroom, but her words stayed with me. Distant was indeed my first impression of Linus, and it had lasted for a full year.

Linus Alder was an associate professor in our department, in his early forties, tall and slender, always dressed in crisply pressed shirts and dark trousers. His teaching was almost severe in its rigour, yet always flawless in content. I first saw him in the opening lecture of Introduction to Spatial Archaeology, standing at the front of the room with complex GIS layers projected behind him.

“Archaeology is not a romantic adventure,” he said, his voice calm and precise, “it is a rigorous science. Every data point, every spatial analysis, must be exact.”

I was drawn to him immediately, that cool, rational presence pulling at me like a magnet. Yet no matter how often I asked questions after class, or how carefully I demonstrated my understanding in assignments, his responses remained professional and distant. He answered patiently, pointed out weaknesses in my analysis, but never crossed the boundary of lecturer and student.

Then Theo Blackwood arrived.

Theo Blackwood was a newly appointed lecturer, responsible for field methods and practice. In complete contrast to Linus, he swept into the classroom with a burst of energy. In his forties, solidly built, with skin darkened by years of outdoor work, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened whenever he smiled.

“Just call me Theo,” he announced in the first session, his voice booming. “Out in the field, titles don't matter. What matters is what you find, and how you record it.”

At first, I felt nothing in particular towards Theo, only that he was perhaps a little too enthusiastic. Then I began to notice something odd, he seemed to avoid me.

It happened in the GIS lab. I was adjusting a 3D model of a Roman villa site when Theo came in with a group of undergraduates to guide them through drone data processing.

“Look at this area here,” Theo said, pointing at the screen. “From this orthophoto you can see that this linear feature, possibly a wall foundation, stands out clearly in the near infrared band…”

I was sitting nearby, half expecting him to greet me with the same easy smile he gave everyone else. Instead, he never looked my way, as if I didn't exist. When our eyes did meet, he quickly looked away.

It kept happening. In the corridor, in the library, in the department café, whenever other people were around, Theo chatted warmly with everyone except me. When no one else was there, he would offer a brief greeting, then leave in a hurry.

I began to believe that he disliked me, perhaps even hated me. The thought confused and hurt me, as I could not remember ever offending him.

“Maybe you're being too sensitive,” Emma said one lunchtime, poking at the quinoa in her salad. “Theo is friendly to everyone, maybe he just hasn't noticed you.”

“No,” I insisted. “He's deliberately avoiding me. Last week in the collections room, he came in, saw it was only me, and turned straight back out.”

Emma shrugged. “Maybe he was just busy.”

But I could feel the intention behind it. Every avoidance, every averted glance, felt like a small thorn in my heart. Ironically, this sense of being ignored made me think about Theo even more, more than my admiration for Linus.

--------------------

In early November, the department announced the winter field project. It was based in Dorset, in south west England, investigating the relationship between an Iron Age settlement and later Roman occupation layers. I was selected as one of ten students, with Linus and Theo as co leaders.

“This is our first attempt to integrate high precision GIS with systematic excavation,” Linus said at the project briefing, the red dot of his laser pointer moving across the screen. “Theo will oversee field methods and recording, and I will handle spatial data collection and analysis.”

Theo stood on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “We'll be using total stations, drones and ground penetrating radar,” he added, “but don't forget, in the end it still comes down to our eyes and hands. Technology is a tool, not the goal.”

I sat in the third row, watching the two of them. Linus stood straight, focused, while Theo looked relaxed but alert. They were so different, yet oddly complementary.

After the meeting, students drifted out one by one. I slowed down deliberately, pretending to organise my notebook, hoping for a chance to speak to Linus. He was at the front, shutting down the equipment.

“Professor Alder,” I said, walking over, “about the multispectral analysis you mentioned, I wanted to ask…”

He looked up, his grey eyes behind his glasses unusually deep. “Yes, go on.”

I asked about the relationship between vegetation indices and subsurface features. He listened carefully, then took a photocopy of a paper from his briefcase.

“This article might help,” he said, his finger tracing a chart on the page. “Pay attention to how the author adjusts the NDVI values.”

I took the paper, our fingers brushing briefly. For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes, then it was gone.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded and began packing his things. “In the field, you'll assist Theo with recording and data entry. Any questions?”

“No,” I replied, though inside I felt disappointed. He had assigned me to work with Theo, not with him.

As I left the classroom, I almost collided with Theo, who was waiting outside with a field notebook in his hand. He clearly froze when he saw me.

“Oh, hi,” he said, his voice lower than usual.

“Theo,” I nodded politely, about to walk past.

“Wait,” he called, hesitating. “For the field project, can you use Trimble GPS equipment?”

“I learned the basics last semester.”

“Good,” he said, his eyes landing on my shoulder rather than my face. “I might need your help with that. I… I need to go.”

He left almost as if he were running away. I stood there, more convinced than ever that he had some kind of problem with me.