Fool on the Hill

by Matt Ruff

  Luther looked away, disappointed. “OK, Blackjack,” he said. “You go ahead, if you want to think I’m being superstitious. I’ll wait here for you as long as I can. But if something does happen—”

  “Please, please don’t try and make me feel guilty, Luther. I came with you on this trip, didn’t I? And I promise I’m going to stick by you until we find your Heaven, but right now I want a little heaven of my own. That’s not too much to ask, is it?” He began backing away in the direction of the heatscent, all the while looking at Luther with wide, imploring eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it. Cats don’t take that long anyway and I can be fast when I’m pressed for time. I’ll be right back.”

  “Go on, then,” Luther said flatly. “But it’s a mistake, Blackjack. This is a bad place.”

  “We’ll be gone soon enough,” Blackjack called back, vanishing into an alley.

  Luther crouched nervously beside a telephone pole, not at all reassured by Blackjack’s words. He watched the street, wondering from which direction Raaq would come at him, and in what form.

  Directly above him, a handbill had been stapled to the pole. Luther glanced at it once and then ignored it. Perhaps Blackjack could have made sense of it, but to him it was just a meaningless collection of symbols.

  The handbill read:

  ATTENTION

  Town Ordinance #101-bb

  passed 4/13 this year:

  Due to a large number of incidents involving stray animals, a revised leash law has been passed by City Hall. Any dog or cat discovered roaming free within the town limits will be taken to the Animal Shelter. If the animal has a collar with proper identification, the owner will be contacted and a fee imposed for return of the animal.

  Unclaimed animals, and those without any identification, will, after a period of thirty (30) days, be either sold or destroyed.

  LEASH YOUR PET—IT’S THE LAW

  II.

  Half an hour later, Blackjack had still not returned. Luther found himself caught in a great dilemma, for trouble had arrived, and though he wanted to run, he was not at all certain that he could find Blackjack, or that the Manx would be able to find him. But to stay here much longer might bring even worse consequences.

  Luther remained crouched beside the telephone pole. Across the street, two German Shepherds lounged—not too casually—in front of a vacant lot. They were watching him. A Boxer had been with them earlier, but he had hurried away down a side street as soon as Luther had been spotted.

  Now, at last, Luther understood what a Purebred really was. The Shepherds did look alike. and their coats were sharp and clear, as opposed to the random, muddied coloration of the mongrels Luther had grown up with. He could see how such dogs might develop a certain pride in themselves—they were beautiful, no denying that.

  But Raaq was in them. or he had been in them before and left a mark on their hearts, and that dimmed their beauty to nothing. Have you killed others of your kind? Luther would have asked them, had he not been so afraid. Other dogs? I think you have. And that thought that Malcolm had warned him about—Mange—filled the Shepherds’ minds like poison as they watched him.

  Luther looked at the alley, wondering how far Blackjack had had to go to find the puss.

  “Blackjack?” Luther said with sudden hope. as he heard a noise in the alley. But it was only a newspaper blown by a light breeze. Then the breeze died, leaving the paper scattered on the sidewalk like a dirty white shroud.

  Blackjack, Luther thought to himself. Blackjack, where are you?

  And where were the people” Surely some kind Master would save him if the Shepherds chose to attack. But there were no people on this street, no one coming in or out of the stores.

  It was as if someone-Raaq?—didn’t want him to escape.

  More noise from the alley. It was definitely an animal this time, and Luther knew he had waited too long, because it was a big animal, too big to be Blackjack.

  A Great Dane padded out of the alley. The Dane stood almost three feet high at the shoulders, more than a foot taller than Luther.

  “Hello, mange,” it said.

  Luther began to move then. He walked along the sidewalk, away from the Dane, and the big dog did not attack him. It simply followed him, at a distance of about ten feet. Across the street the Shepherds had stopped lounging, and they too were trailing him.

  Luther walked, slowly gaining speed as panic took him.

  “Hello, mange.”

  The greeting came from a vacant lot on his right. He had thought to turn in there, but saw that a Golden Retriever and two Schnauzers were waiting for him. He kept on straight past the lot. The Retriever and the Schnauzers fell in beside the Great Dane.

  Now it was worse. Now they were talking about him.

  “Kind of runty-looking, isn’t he?” This from one of the Schnauzers, who was actually a good bit smaller than Luther.

  “Sort of,” the Great Dane agreed. “But I’ll bet he’s got some fight in him.”

  “All manges do,” said the Retriever. “Where do you suppose he came from?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Manges are everywhere. There’s too damn many of them.”

  “What do you think Dragon’ll do with him?”

  “That isn’t hard to figure out.”

  “I’d feed him to Cerberus, if I were Dragon.”

  Forced to listen to them, Luther suddenly heard other words, deeper down in his mind where his best memories lay. Moses’ words.

  “You don’t ever kill another dog, don’t ever even fight with one. A day may come when you feel pressed, when you feel there ain’t no other way out, but remember that a dog that lets Raaq into his heart is dead anyhow.”

  “But Malcolm says—"

  “Don’t you listen to Malcolm. Malcolm ain’t anything special, nothing special at all. Just think how easy it is to give yourself over to hate, and then remember that the easy thing is never the right thing. Never. And that’s what Malcolm’s all about.

  “You mark me well, Luther. God gave a dog four legs so he could run, and he gave him a mind so he could pick the right way to run. You know which way that is?"

  “Any way but Raaq’s way."

  “That’s right. You keep that well."

  “—stupid mange, I wonder if he’ll beg as much as the last one.” Luther quickened his pace still more. Up ahead was an intersection, and if he bolted at just the right moment he might yet escape. They had him flanked, but so far the Shepherds hadn’t tried to cut in front of him. A quick zigzag into a convenient alley and he could—

  The Boxer, the one that had been with the Shepherds before, appeared on the sidewalk at the intersection, panting heavily. He was followed by a Dalmation, an Irish Setter, and a Bull Terrier.

  There was no way out, now. The Shepherds crossed the street, closing the ring tightly around him. Luther backed up against a storefront—a butcher shop, it happened to be—and waited as the other dogs moved in toward him.

  “Hello, mange,” the Boxer said.

  III.

  “State your pedigree, Booth.”

  The Cocker Spaniel cowered in the center of a narrow courtyard which had been formed incidentally from the placement of several connecting buildings, most of them warehouses. No windows overlooked the courtyard, and the only exits were one padlocked back door and two alleyways, one of which was blocked off by a chain-link fence. The air in the place was still and hot, and the walls and ground were stark in the noon sunlight. A pack of various kinds of Terriers had arrayed themselves along one wall like a jury, and two Bull Mastiffs stood guard at the open alleyway; various other Purebreds stood or crouched in random places. At the far end of the court, three Doberman Pinschers ringed a high mound of gravel. Sitting atop the mound was the dog that had just thought-spoken—an Irish Wolfhound, the largest of the breeds. It measured nearly seven feet from nose to tail, and stood a yard high at the shoulders. Its coat was pure white, and unlike some of the other dogs in attendance, it wore no co
llar.

  “Booth!” the Wolfhound exclaimed when the Spaniel did not answer immediately. “State your pedigree!”

  Still the Spaniel hesitated, and a Bulldog with only one ear ran up and nipped at his flank.

  “Dragon’s given you an order!” the Bulldog said, barking furiously at the same time, “Answer him!”

  This only terrified the Spaniel further and the Bulldog began snapping at his flank again, driving him around in a circle. The other dogs watched this with great amusement.

  “Judas!” the Wolfhound finally said, and the Bulldog came to immediate attention. “Leave him be.”

  “Of course, Dragon. As you wish.” The Bulldog gave one more bark and backed off. The Spaniel was now bleeding from a tear in its hind leg.

  “Now, Booth . . .” the Wolfhound began.

  There was a disturbance at the entrance to the courtyard. A new pack of dogs had arrived, led by a Boxer and a Great Dane. Luther was in the pack, forcibly hidden in the center. He was to be a surprise. The guards allowed the pack to enter, and after a quick glance the Wolfhound paid no attention to them.

  “. . . let’s make this simple,” he continued. “I asked you for your pedigree, but we both know it, don’t we? Your sire and dam were both Purebred Spaniels, correct?”

  “Y-y-yes,” the Spaniel said. He was not terribly bright, and close inbreeding had given him a peculiar mental defect—the telepathic equivalent of a stutter.

  “What was that?”

  “Y-yes, Dr-dr-dragon.”

  “And your grandsires? All Spaniels?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “How many generations back? How many that you know for certain?”

  “Seh-seh-seven. M-maybe eh-eight.”

  “That’s pretty good,” the Wolfhound told him. “Eight generations. That’s even better than old Judas, there.” The Bulldog glowered at this, but did not protest. “You’re a real Purebred, Booth. And tell me, what is the law for Purebreds?”

  “N-n-n-not . . . n-not t-t-to . . .”

  “Not to what?”

  “N-not to m-m-mate outside the br-br-br-br-”

  “Breed! Breed!” snapped Judas.

  “-br-br-breed.”

  “Very good, Booth.” The Wolfhound showed teeth that were nearly as white as his coat. “And what is your crime?”

  The Spaniel did not reply.

  “Come on, Booth,” the Wolfhound cajoled him, warning back Judas with a glance. “What is your crime?”

  “I-I b-broke the br-br-breeding l-law. I . . . huh-huh-had re-luh-lations . . . w-with a b-b-bitch outside m-my br-br-breed.”

  “ ‘Had relations.’ ” The Wolfhound pulled the corners of his mouth back so far that he seemed to be smiling. Then, with sudden fury: “You impregnated her, you idiot! And by impregnating her, you forced me to destroy what was otherwise a perfect animal.”

  “Destroy?” Luther said, trying to see better over the dogs that surrounded him. “What does—”

  “Shut up, mange,” the Great Dane said sharply.

  In the center of the courtyard, the Spaniel had begun to cringe again. “Dr-dr-dragon,” he tried to say. “Dr-dragon, i-i-it—”

  “You broke the breeding law, Booth,” the Wolfhound overrode him. “You broke the highest law there is. Now tell us, tell everyone here, what is the penalty for breaking the highest law?”

  “I know!” Judas piped up. “A dog who breaks the breeding law, who risks the creation of manges, has betrayed the entire Purebred Order as well as his own breed. For this treason he shall be torn apart, even as he sought to tear apart the foundations of decency.”

  The Wolfhound nodded.

  “Cerberus,” he said.

  At the word, the three Dobermans stood up as one. Luther caught a clear view of them and immediately noticed something strange, both in the way they moved and in the way their eyes looked. He watched them stride forward and circle the Spaniel. Even when the three were not making identical motions, they seemed to be moving eerily in tandem with one another . . . almost as though they were possessed of a single mind.

  “Dr-dragon!” the Spaniel pleaded, pawing vainly at the ground as if to dig a hole to hide in. “Dr-dr-dragon, p-please! Wh-when Assa d-d-died, you pr-promised t-t-to g-g-get m-me someone n-n-new: Y-you pr-pr-promised: I-I-I-I c-couldn’t w-wait any-muh-more: I-is th-th-that s-s-so bad? I-i-is th-th-tha—”

  “Gut him,” ordered the Wolfhound. The Dobermans fell on the Spaniel from all sides.

  Luther closed his eyes and turned his head away. This did not prevent him from hearing the sounds, but fortunately the execution took only a moment. During that moment, a strange thing happened; Luther felt his fear slipping away, to be replaced by an oddly spiritual calm. Moses’ words began echoing in his mind again.

  “Enough!” the Wolfhound commanded, and the Dobermans backed off, their teeth and muzzles bloody. What was left of the Spaniel did not much resemble a dog, or any other animal for that matter. The Dobermans returned to their places surrounding the mound, and one of the Bull Mastiffs came forward to drag away the carcass.

  “So,” said the Wolfhound, “what’s the next order of business?”

  The Great Dane in front of Luther barked tentatively.

  “Hello, Aleister,” the Wolfhound greeted him. “You have something for us?”

  The Dane and the other dogs who surrounded Luther moved aside, revealing him to the crowd. The Wolfhound’s eyes widened, and the Dobermans began barking in earnest.

  “Mange,” said the Wolfhound gleefully. “Aleister, you’ve found us a mange."

  “Oh, well, it wasn’t just me,” the Dane disclaimed, trying to seem modest. The Boxer and the two Shepherds looked at him in irritation. “I had help capturing him.”

  “We shall have to reward all of you, then. Where did you find him?”

  “Right out in the street,” the Boxer interjected before the Dane could reply. “He was just sitting there, like he was waiting for something.”

  The Wolfhound digested this. “Could he have been waiting for another mange? Or a group of them?”

  “I don’t know, Dragon.” The Boxer looked nervous, as if he were afraid of being punished for the oversight. “I suppose it’s possible. I’m sorry, we didn’t wait around to see.”

  “We’ll have to make a search later on, then. After we’ve taken care of this one. Can’t have manges wandering loose in the town.” He focused his attention on Luther. “Step forward, mange.”

  Still inexplicably calm, Luther did as he was told, moving to the place the Spaniel had occupied. Blood stained the ground before him.

  “What is your name, mange?” the Wolfhound asked.

  “They call me Luther.”

  “You say ‘they’—were there others with you before you were captured?”

  “I’m the only . . . the only ‘mange’ . . . that I know of in this place.”

  The Wolfhound squeezed his eyes down to slits, concentrating.

  “You’re lying,” he said. “No, not exactly . . . but you are hiding something. You were traveling, traveling with a companion. Who was it? What type of animal?”

  He can see into me, Luther realized. Just like Malcolm. But his sight isn’t as strong as Malcolm’s was.

  “Why don’t you figure it out for yourself?” Luther challenged him. “If you can.”

  “Do I detect a touch of impertinence? Or is that a show of courage?”

  “You mean to kill me,” Luther replied. “I don’t have to look into your mind to see that. You’ll fancy it up and make a big deal of it, maybe, just so you can have some fun, but in the end it’ll still be dog killing dog. Raaq is in your hearts, all of you, and I guess it doesn’t make any difference if I’m ‘impertinent’ or not.”

  Several of the Terriers howled in amusement at this, while the Dobermans growled continuously. The Wolfhound merely nodded.

  “Impressive speech. My name is Dragon, if you haven’t already gathered that. I am Pack Leader of this dom
ain. I don’t suppose I have to tell you your crime, do I?”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “You are a mange. An unnatural and disgusting intermingling of breeds meant to be kept forever separate. Under our law, your very existence is a crime.”

  Now Luther barked mirthfully. “If you mean to say that I committed a crime by being whelped, you must think I’m God. Creation is His responsibility.”

  “The crime,” continued the Wolfhound, “is punishable by destruction.”

  “Destruction is God’s responsibility too. Dogs can only murder. That’s what you really meant, isn’t it?”

  Dragon studied him. “You have spirit, mange. Much more than Booth did. Can you fight?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You can’t, or won’t? I somehow find it hard to believe that you’re a coward.”

  “I won’t join you in killing. Raaq may take my life, but he won’t have my soul in the bargain.”

  “Not a coward, then. Merely stupid. That’s another mange quality. You see now why we have to be so stringent in our breeding regulations.”

  “Booth didn’t look all that smart,” Luther observed.

  “Booth was a sad exception to the rule,” replied the Wolfhound. “But in a way that’s your fault, too. The more manges in the world, the fewer Purebreds, and the smaller each Purebred line. Booth’s ancestors were forced to breed too closely, due to a shortage of Spaniels in the area.”

  “And it backfired,” Luther pressed him. “So maybe it’s not such a good system.”

  “Oh, mange. Even a crippled Purebred is infinitely superior to your kind, don’t you understand that?”

  But Luther refused to be baited. “If that’s true,” he said, “then you must have to check out every new member of your Order carefully, to make sure his ancestors were all all right. . . .”