by Matt Ruff
She leveled out at an altitude of about thirty feet and flew after George, who had reached the bottom of Libe Slope and was crossing West Avenue into the temporary ghost town that was West Campus. She had closed more than half the distance to him when a low droning reached her ears. Recognizing the sound, Zephyr looked for cover to hide behind, but there was none close enough. A moment later a propeller-driven biplane pulled even with the glider.
“Hello, Zeph,” Puck called to her. His plane was a single-engine scale model, the type hobbyists build and fly by remote control. In this case, however, the miniaturized controls were located in the cockpit. “Long time no see. I’ve been hoping we’d bump into each other up here.”
“Goodbye,” Zephyr replied curtly, yanking the glider’s nose up. This slowed the craft’s speed considerably, and Puck, unable to copy the maneuver without stalling his engine, shot past her. The biplane began a wide U-turn while Zephyr lowered the nose again and headed for the bottom of the Slope, calling on the wind for extra speed.
“Come on, Zeph!” Puck pleaded. “I just want to talk to you!”
“I don’t want to talk to you!"
She sailed over West Avenue and under the arch between Lyon and McFaddin Halls, then hung a sharp right, hoping to lose Puck among the West Campus dormitories. George, who had also gone through the arch but continued on straight, paused in mid-step as the glider passed near, though of course he could neither see it nor hear it. He did hear the drone of Puck’s biplane a few seconds later, but dismissed it as a mosquito and kept walking.
“Come on, Zeph!” Puck shouted again. But instead of answering, Zephyr began weaving between buildings, pulling tight turns and other acrobatics in an attempt to shake him off. Puck brought the biplane up to full throttle and hung on. He was a good pilot, as good as she, and knew that eventually she’d have to give up.
But he’d forgotten about her tenacity, and her friendship with the wind. The wind kept Zephyr’s glider moving at an incredible speed, while giving no similar aid to the biplane; it was all Puck could do to keep pace with her. Then, after making a particularly tight turn, he saw Zephyr pass between two close-growing trees. Barely a hairsbreadth of space existed between them, but a convenient breeze spread the branches to make room for the glider. Zephyr passed through the opening, and Puck attempted to follow.
The branches closed up in front of him.
“Terrific,” said Puck. He tried to pull up and succeeded only in stalling his engine; the biplane plunged belly first into the branches. For a few seconds all was tumbling and chaos, and then, by some miracle, the plane reemerged on the far side of the trees with its wings and propeller intact. It was still stalled, however, and immediately went into a dive.
“Terrific,” Puck said again, as the biplane stubbornly refused to level out. It was too heavy to glide effectively, and with the ground rushing up to meet him like a relative at a family reunion, there was no time to restart the engine. He was going to crash into the sidewalk.
“Terrific,” Puck said, for what should have been the third and final time.
The wind saved him. It billowed up underneath the biplane like a cushion, forcing it to straighten out, holding it steady. Puck wasted no time asking questions; he pounded the starter button until the propeller kicked over and began to turn. As soon as it did, the wind cushion faded, leaving him to fly on his own power again.
“Are you all right?” Zephyr asked. The glider was alongside him now, close enough so that they didn’t have to shout over the drone of the biplane’s engine.
“I’m still breathing,” Puck told her, not ready to concede anything more than that. “You are a nasty one when you get upset, you know that, Zeph?”
“It’s your own fault.” Now that it was clear that he was all right, some of Zephyr’s anger came creeping back in a muted form. “That thing’s a death trap, anyway. You should know better than to trust physics. If I hadn’t talked the wind into saving you—”
“Saving me!? You’re the one who got me into trouble in the first place.”
“Yes, well,” Zephyr protested in a lame voice, “you could have gotten into trouble yourself just as easily. And then where would you have been?”
“I have a parachute,” Puck informed her, although this, too, sounded a bit lame. They fell silent for a moment, banking left to avoid another cluster of trees. A sparrow looked up at the sound of the biplane and chirped.
“That’s another thing,” Zephyr said. “You’re too noisy and too easy to see.”
“Maybe. But human beings have a way of not noticing obvious things. Even that George character—”
“Don’t you say a word about George!” Zephyr warned.
“Fine. But people don’t scare me, Zephyr. They really don’t.”
“What about animals? They notice you. Most of them would probably be too scared to do anything, but a pack of crows, or an owl . . .”
“God, Zephyr, are you really that worried about me?” Puck grinned at her, and she gave him a black look. “Well listen, I was thinking about crows and owls myself, so I got Cobweb to help me rig something up.”
He brought the biplane up a few feet so that she could see two black cylinders that were mounted under the lower wings.
“What are they?” Zephyr asked. Like all sprites, she was fascinated with weapons.
“They’re mini-cannons. Cobweb hooked them up to an electronic firing circuit and loaded them with buckshot. Should be enough to stop an owl.”
“Or blow your own wings off.”
“Maybe. But there’s always my parachute. . . .”
Zephyr looked at the cannons again. They certainly were an interesting idea-even if they were also dangerous—and she had to admit that no similar weapon could be mounted on the glider.
“Neat, aren’t they?” Puck asked, reading her thoughts.
“Pretty neat,” Zephyr admitted. “I—”
As if suddenly awakened from a dream, she realized that George was no longer in sight. Both glider and biplane had begun to drift out of West Campus in the direction of Fall Creek Gorge. Without bothering to say goodbye, Zephyr broke formation and began angling back in the direction of The Boneyard, where she knew George would be by now.
“What—?” Puck said, abruptly finding himself flying alone.
“Go home, Puck,” Zephyr called back to him. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Terrific,” said Puck, watching her speed away. He opened up the throttle once more and turned to follow her. “Jesus, Troilus, and Cressida—here we go again!”
VI.
The thing to remember, George, is that artists are magical beings. They’re the only people other than the gods who can grant immortality. . . .
The Boneyard was located below Stewart Avenue, about halfway down the side of The Hill. George had discovered the place several years ago, and had visited it regularly ever since, using it for inspiration. He would walk among the tombstones, pausing frequently, reading names, dates, epitaphs, and asking himself questions: What was this person like? How did she die? It says here she was married; were they happy together? This one over here died young; did he enjoy what time he had? What did he do on his sixteenth birthday?
Hundreds of tombstones here; hundreds of stories, each individual one far too long to ever tell in its entirety. But every so often George would see something that would stick in his mind, maybe just an unusual name, and the next time he sat down to write, that person would become part of a new tale, one step closer to eternity.
Strangely, for all the time he had spent in The Boneyard, he was constantly discovering new things. On this particular day he came across two unusual stones that he had somehow never noticed before. One was a standard rectangular piece of marble that bore the words:
DEDICATED TO THE LOVING MEMORY
OF HAROLD LAZARUS
1912–1957
BY HIS ADORING WIFE
GOD GRANT HIM REST
The inscription was
kind enough, even a little touching, but the embellishments were grotesque. Beneath GOD GRANT HIM REST was an etching that depicted some sort of demon with a bow and arrow chasing after a doe. More demon figures floated in the upper corners of the stone, and the whole was topped by an intricately carved gargoyle figurine that leered at the onlooker.
George shook his head, trying not to laugh. Poor Harold Lazarus. What had he done to deserve such a monument? Or had his wife just had exceedingly bad taste?
“What do you say, Harold?” George asked, crouching down beside the stone and taking out a notepad. “How’d you like to live forever?”
He made a rough sketch of the gargoyle, softening the features so that it looked unlucky rather than fierce. Underneath the sketch he wrote: “LAZARUS—HAS ADORING BUT TACKY WIFE.” George had no idea what story might come out of it, but he would endeavor to give back some of Harold’s dignity.
The other stone had no humor in it. It was set on the top of a small rise, and in comparison to the stones around it—expensive, tall things that looked like scale reproductions of the Washington Monument—it was hopelessly crude. It didn’t even have a definite shape, but appeared rather as if someone had started with a boulder and knocked bits and pieces off until it was small enough to be used as a marker. Likewise, the inscription had been chiseled in the roughest manner, but was still legible. George stared at it for a long time.
HERE LIES ALMA RENAT JESSOP
BORN APRIL 2 3, 1887
DIED APRIL 2 3, 1887
HER FATHER LOVED HER
The sky continued to darken. The rain would not wait much longer, and George still wanted to visit a particular spot at the far north end of The ‘Yard. But for a few moments more he stood before the stone, studying its rough, hammer-hewn surface, until at last he understood.
“You son of a bitch,” he whispered, awed. “You made it for her yourself.”
VII.
“This place is supposed to be dangerous, you know,” said Puck, trying to keep up with Zephyr as she weaved among the gravestones. They had landed the glider and plane back by the entrance to The Boneyard and begun following George on foot. Puck could no longer remember the reason for this, but reflected that it couldn’t have been an intelligent one. “It has rats in it.”
“You’re not afraid of rats, are you?” Zephyr asked him.
“No, of course not. Not if there are only a few of them, anyway. I know how to take care of myself.”
Zephyr laughed for the first time since he’d been with her that day. “If you’re hinting that I don’t know how to take care of myself,” she said, “just remember who taught you fencing.”
“Your Grandfather taught me. You were just a sparring partner.”
“Yes, but you never beat me in practice, did you? Not once . . . oh, come on, Puck! If you insist on tagging after me at least try to run a little faster.”
Puck grunted and tried to put on extra speed, but Zephyr moved extraordinarily quickly even without her glider. And Puck had a bigger load to carry—in addition to his sword, he also bore a needle-firing crossbow that seemed to gain weight with every step.
“Listen, Zeph,” Puck wheezed, nearly tripping over a blade of grass. “I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .”
“The answer is no, but what do you want?”
“Well, Cobweb and I and a bunch of others were thinking of holding another Lab Animal Freedom Raid in a couple weeks, and I was wondering if you wanted to—”
“No thank you,” Zephyr cut him off. “That’s just a big prank anyway, and you know it. Why don’t you ask Saffron Dey? I’m sure she’d love to go with you.”
“Look, Zeph, Saffron . . . Saffron’s a hell of a nice sprite, and all, and I have to admit that I was a little taken with her for a while, but when you get right down to it, she’s not even in your class!”
“You think so?” Totally disinterested.
“I know so! Look, I’m really sorry if your feelings were hurt, but I can’t believe you’re still upset. . . .”
“Upset!?” She threw a look back over her shoulder that would have curdled root beer. “Upset! You were doing it with her in a display case, for God’s sake! How do you expect me to feel?”
“So it was in a display case, so what? Nobody could see us! Nobody except Cobweb, of course, and he traded me two thimblefuls of tequila so he could w—”
Puck trailed off abruptly, wondering not for the first time what wrong he had committed that his tongue should run so very much faster than his brain. Zephyr said nothing further, simply picked up the pace even more until Puck was nearly hyperventilating.
Ahead, a concrete walkway spanned a narrow, stream-filled gully. George was just crossing it, drawn by something on the other side. Zephyr hurtled after him, energetic as ever, while Puck plodded doggedly in her wake.
They both felt it at the same time.
It was a presence, a cold radiation that came at them from across the gully, as if a small black sun had been placed somewhere on the other side. Both sprites stopped dead in their tracks, sudden terror rolling over them like thunder.
“What is it?” Zephyr whispered, as if afraid of being overheard.
“I don’t know.” Puck had set down his crossbow and was shivering. “It’s bad . . . there’s something very bad over there.”
Across the gully, George continued to walk along unconcernedly.
“How can he stay over there?” Zephyr wondered aloud. She too had begun to shiver. “Can’t he feel how bad it is?”
“Maybe he can’t. And maybe if he can’t feel it, it can’t hurt him.”
“Do you think it knows we’re here?” Zephyr said.
As she spoke, two graveyard rats, big ones, sprinted out of hiding from behind a nearby tombstone. Puck saw them coming and scooped up his crossbow, managing to kill one with a shot that was more luck than skill. The other rat continued charging forward, leaping into the air at Zephyr as soon as it was close enough.
“Zeph!” Puck shouted. “Look ou—”
But she was already turning, sword in hand.
VIII.
George had found what he was looking for.
It was a plain white marble square laid flat against the ground, more a plaque than a proper gravestone, and weathered by many years. He had no idea why such an unremarkable thing should seem so special to him, yet it was true that he had never visited The Boneyard without coming by here to look. One strange thing he’d noticed—all the other standing gravestones in the area had sagged, seeming to lean away from this one like petals from the heart of a strange flower. Surely that was just coincidence, but it added to the illusion that this was, well, the center of something.
The stone bore no date, and only a single name, seven letters carved by some long-ago hand:
PANDORA
George hunched over the burial site, feeling nothing but a strange and inexplicable fascination. Zephyr or Puck, placed in the same location, would have died instantly of fright, but George merely thought to himself: What story does this one hold? It almost made him wish he could really resurrect the past, rather than just make up fictions. What story? I’ll bet you it’s a good one, whatever it is.
He ran his fingers over the marble surface, tracing each letter. Lightning flashed in the distance.
IX.
Zephyr cleaned her sword with a piece of a dead leaf. She had killed the rat in one stroke, sidestepping and piercing it through the heart as it finished its leap.
“You see?” she said to Puck when her sword had been resheathed. “I can take care of myself.”
“Sure,” Puck said, still shaken. The bad feeling from across the gully had subsided a little but remained in the background, like a lingering nightmare.
“There’s one thing I’m curious about,” Zephyr went on. “It doesn’t look like many people get buried here anymore, does it? Most of the space is already taken. But then why would there be rats? Don’t they need lots of fresh . . . you know.”
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“I couldn’t tell you, Zeph. But there’ve always been lots of rats in The Boneyard. Always. It really isn’t safe to stay here. More of them will probably be coming this way soon.”
“Let’s go home, then,” Zephyr said, after a pause. “I want to go home now.”
She had lost all interest in tailing George, at least for today, something for which Puck was silently grateful. He didn’t delude himself, though, knowing that he still had a long way to go before he would be back in her good graces.
They scurried back the way they had come, keeping a sharp eye out for rats, and it was only when they were airborne again—Zephyr with the help of an uphill gust of wind—that Puck began to feel safe.
X.
George made it home just ahead of the storm. No sooner had he set foot on his front porch than rain began thundering off the sidewalks and car rooftops hard enough to raise mist. This was accompanied by an amazing electrical show.
It being Sunday there was no mail—thankfully; the flow of fan and hate mail was slow but steady, and it took a lot of time to read—but his landlord had left a note on his door:
TENANT,
PLUMBER COMING SOMETIME DURING THE WEEK TO INVESTIGATE LEAKS. WINDOW REPAIRMAN NEVER THERE WHEN I CALL; PERHAPS YOU COULD TRY. AS FOR THE OTHER, I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU MEAN BY “ROACHES IN KITCHEN.” WE FUMIGATED ONLY LAST JANUARY.
YOUR LANDLORD,
DENMAN HALFAST IV
George smiled ruefully and shook his head. Denman Halfast . . . he remembered one time when he had given the man a copy of one of his books. It had been returned a week later, with the same sort of impersonal note: “TENANT, TOO FANTASTIC AND TOO MUCH PROFANITY. YOUR LANDLORD . . .”