by Matt Ruff
He did not respond, instead asking another question: “What’s the price?”
“The price?”
“I think you know what I mean.” He spoke softly, as of a matter that was of great importance but beyond his control. “You’re too good to be true. When we finally get our clothes back on, is the conversation going to be perfect, too?”
She kissed his neck. “We don’t have to get dressed for that.”
“We’ve read all the same books, haven’t we? And our likes and dislikes are almost exactly the same, just different enough to give us something to talk about. Somehow I know that’s true. I know your name, too. But when did you tell it to me?”
Calliope was breathing softly into his ear now. It took an effort to keep speaking.
“Tell me what the price is!” George insisted, gripping the windowsill so tightly that his fingers nearly snapped from the strain. “You look perfect, you are perfect, and you came out of nowhere. So what’s the bad news? Does Mephistopheles collect my soul in six months, or what?”
Calliope laughed. “You’re already in love with me, George,” she said to him, in a kindly tone and with no trace of vanity. “Why bother being so curious? Even if it meant your death, you couldn’t help your feelings. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” George whispered.
“But you still want to know more.”
“Will it mean my death? Is that the cost?”
“It might,” Calliope said seriously. “Oh, you won’t die on my account, though you might prefer it. We’ll be lovers for a time, and I’ll teach you a few things, and set a few other things in motion. When my job is done I’ll leave, without warning, and then you’ll want to die, but he won’t let you, not then.”
“He?”
“You’re caught, George. Caught in a Story, or a Daydream, you could say. Whether it ends happily or in a nightmare depends entirely on you.”
“Wait,” George said. “Wait, I don’t understand this part.”
“Don’t worry yourself,” Calliope told him, turning him around. “There’ll be plenty of time for understanding. The Story goes on for a long time yet. In some ways it hasn’t even really begun.”
“What are you, then?” he asked. “The Prologue?”
Calliope smiled. “That’s very close, George,” she said. “Very close.”
She drew him in, and together they brought in the sunrise.
TWO HOUSES
I.
On a bright morning some two weeks later, a Bohemian envoy composed of Lion-Heart, Myoko, and Z. Z. Top set out from Risley on a diplomatic mission up Fraternity Row. It was Sunday, and the members of the Society for Pre-Renaissance Mayhem were out on Risley’s front lawn in full battle armor, whacking each other with wooden swords and clubs; Lion-Heart saluted them as he came out.
“Nice day,” he said, saluting the sky as well.
“Great day to die,” the Top added; not five yards away, a sword-swinger went down under the combined assault of three clubbers. “Bet Myoko could kick all their asses, though.”
“Thank you, dear,” replied the Queen Grey Lady. She took Lion-Heart’s arm and they set off on their journey.
The nearest Greek House was of course Zeta Psi, just across the street. The Zetas’ lawn boasted a rusty Civil War cannon, a token of former hostilities between Zeta Psi and Risley. Two ears ago, however, after the Bohemians declared eternal war on Rho Alpha Tau, an unofficial Risley-Zeta peace treaty had been negotiated.
“Where’re we going today, anyway?” asked the Top. “You got some beef to settle over at the Rat Frat?”
“There’s always a beef to settle with them,” Lion-Heart said darkly. “We’ve got other business today, though. This other frat wants to make us all honorary members.”
“Honorary members? Hell, Li, Bohemia can’t go Greek.”
“That’s what I thought at first. But this frat is special.”
“How special? Greek is Greek.”
“It’s Tolkien House,” said Lion-Heart.
Z. Z. Top did a double take. “They want us as brothers?”
“And sisters,” Lion-Heart replied, clasping Myoko’s hand. “I met one of their acting Presidents—they’ve got three instead of one—Friday night down at the New Wave. Fellow name of Shen Han. Interesting character; he was drinking a Tequila Sunset.”
“Sunrise,” Myoko corrected him.
“No, Sunset. Brandy instead of grenadine. Just offbeat enough, you know? I liked him.”
“But why do they want us to link up with them?” asked the Top.
“That’s what we’re going to find out, Tasteless. Main reason I brought you along is because I figured you’d get a kick out of it. Lord of the Rings still your favorite story?”
“I just reread it for the twelfth time last week.”
“Good, then. This should be fun.”
Tolkien House, so named because it took as its inspiration J. R. R. Tolkien’s fantasy world, was at once one of the most famous and least known of Cornell’s fraternities. Located far off the beaten track, the House was not generally open to visitors. That the Bohemians had been invited to become members en masse could only mean that something big was afoot; Lion-Heart had an idea or two what the something might be, but kept quiet about it.
They followed Thurston Avenue to its end, then left street and sidewalk behind and turned onto a dirt path leading into a thickly wooded area. Each of them had a sense of stepping into another world; the trees were especially tall, forming a thick canopy overhead that blocked out most of the sky. Not for nothing was Tolkien House known as the only Elvish Greek House.
They came upon it suddenly. The path led inwards for perhaps forty yards and opened without warning into a clearing. The fraternity stood revealed before them like some great stone fortress out of time. It was huge, seeming to strain the boundaries of the clearing; in some places the surrounding trees crept within five feet of the House. At either end of the building, which was roughly rectangular in shape, sat a squat tower, the names chiseled into blocks in their foundations: MINAS ANON on the right, MINAS ITHIL on the left.
“Too much,” breathed the Top, finding it hard to take in.
“Funny, though,” Myoko said a little less dazzled. “There are no cars parked out front. Is it legal for a fraternity not to have cars?”
Lion-Heart smiled. “Maybe they have a stable.”
The main entrance was a great arched doorway, the double doors made of iron-banded oak. TOLKIEN HOUSE, read the inscription on the keystone, GIFT OF A LADY. And below that, in some strange language: Pedo mellon a minno.
Myoko again: “Don’t rich women usually endow sororities?”
“Maybe she was funky,” Lion-Heart suggested. He turned to the Top. “What’s that ‘Pedo mellon’ stuff?”
“It’s Elvish,” Z. Z. Top explained. “Tolkien invented a lot of fantasy languages, you see. He was what you call a philologist, and—”
Lion-Heart held up a hand to cut him off. “Can you translate it?”
“Sure. It’s a password-type thing. ‘Say “friend” and enter.’ “
“Friend,” said Lion-Heart, reaching for one of the heavy iron knockers. The doors swung inward before he could touch them, revealing a dim grey-stoned corridor within. No one waited inside; the doors had apparently opened themselves.
“Invisible butler,” Lion-heart commented. “I like it.”
They stepped inside, none of them being terribly surprised when the doors closed unaided behind them. They found themselves in a shallow alcove; a stuffed thrush eyed them from atop a coat rack. Left of the coat rack another door was set into the wall, and above it a plaque which read: ENTRY HALL AND MICHEL DELVING MATHOM-HOLE.
“Mathom-Hole?” Lion-Heart queried.
“It’s a kind of museum,” explained Z. Z. Top. “Run by hobbits.”
“Hobbits?”
“Little people with hairy feet. They eat and smoke a lot, but they’re cool.”
“Welcome to Middle-earth,” he said.
II.
The Presidents of Tolkien House were three: Shen Han, Amos Noldorin, and Lucius DeRond. Each had on a simple robe, and in token of their office each wore a ring set with a single gem: Shen Han’s bore a ruby, Noldorin’s a white opal, and Lucius’ a sapphire. They awaited their guests in the west end of the “Mathom-Hole,” which was actually a huge central hall with a great arched skylight. Sunlight from above reflected off dozens of display cases, each of them containing objects from Tolkien’s epic. These objects were all meticulously labeled and their history given, with one exception: lying on a pedestal at the exact center of the hall was a seamless glass case, and within it a broad, shining spearhead. It was not identified.
“Thank you for coming,” Shen Han greeted them, striding forward with the other two Presidents at his side. He shook hands with Lion-Heart and made introductions all around. “I hope before you leave we can convince you to throw in with us.”
“We’ll definitely have to see about that,” Lion-Heart replied. He looked around the hall admiringly. “Impressive.”
“It’s nothing,” Shen Han assured him. “There are other things in the House that you’ll barely be able to believe. We’ll have one of the brothers give you the Grand Tour later.”
“Who built this?” asked Myoko, gazing in wonder at the skylight, which would have served well as the hull of a glass-bottomed frigate.
“The Lady built it,” Noldorin answered.
“The Lady?”
“That’s the only name we have for her,” Shen Han explained. “The House Founder has always been anonymous. In a way it fits; magic dies with no mystery, and magic is what we’re all about. All that’s known for sure is that she loved Tolkien’s work. favored the University . . . and had enough money to make dreams happen.”
“How long ago was the House founded?” inquired the Top.
“They laid the first stones in thirty-six,” Lucius responded. “But the finishing touches stretched on into the mid-Fifties.”
“That can’t be,” Z. Z. insisted.
“Oh?”
“The Lord of the Rings wasn’t published until nineteen fifty-five, and that was over in England . . . not even The Hobbit was in print until the late Thirties. How could your Lady model a House on a set of books that didn’t exist yet?”
Shen Han only smiled. “Like I said: no mystery, no magic. Would any of you care for drinks?”
Sunlight flashed on silver as Noldorin raised his ring-hand. Somewhere near an unseen chime sounded; in answer, a chubby man no more than four feet tall came scurrying into view.
“Ori here is the House butler,” Shen Han introduced him. “He’ll take your orders.”
Ori bowed low to the Bohemians, and Myoko had to suppress a giggle. The fellow wore a colorful pointed cap, and sported a well-kept beard of incredible length.
“I’ll take some Mlidori,” Lion-Heart told him. “In a shot glass.”
“The same,” said Myoko.
“Black Label Light,” the Top requested, “with a twist of lemon.”
“As you wish,” Shen Han said. “The usual for us, Ori. And you can bring the drinks to . . . well, where shall we entertain our guests?”
“The Wood,” Noldorin suggested.
“The Wood,” Lucius echoed.
“Lothlórien,” explained Shen Han, In answer to Myoko’s curious expression. “In Tolkien it was a great Elven forest.”
“Where is it?” Z. Z. Top asked. “Out hack?”
“Oh no,” Shen Han replied. “We do have a fairly extensive woodland surrounding the House—to make It seem more remote, you understand. But it wouldn’t do to have Lothlórien outside; it might rain when we wanted to have a party.”
“You’re not saying it’s inside?"
Again Shen Han smiled. While Ori hurried away to get the drinks, he lifted a ring-adorned hand and pointed to a nearby door.
“The elevator,” he told them, “is that way.”
III.
Lion-Heart had seen a good many elevators in his day, with all manner of interior decor, but this was his very first encounter with one that utilized stone. The inside walls were sheathed in black, mirror-like obsidian, and the door was a thick slab that slid open and shut God knew how. The control buttons were translucent, genuine-looking jewels. Altogether it had a decidedly unelevator-like appearance, which he supposed made sense in this place.
The stone box carried them downwards, until Lion-Heart felt certain they were deep underground. How there could be a forest . . . but he would have to wait and see.
“Khazad-dûm sub-cellars,” Shen Han announced as the elevator smoothed to a halt and the slab-door slid open. He took an oil lantern from a stand just outside and lit it; when the elevator door closed again behind them, they found themselves in a pool of light surrounded by blackness. Smooth stone floor stretched off as far as the eye could see in all directions, with no sign of wall or ceiling; even the elevator shaft was no more than a square stone column rising out of sight above them.
“This has ceased to be real,” pronounced the Top, his mind imagining an impossibly large space around them. One thing sure, this was no ordinary basement.
Shen Han offered him another smile. “The cessation of reality has barely begun. This way, please.”
“How do you know what the right direction is?” Z. Z. Top asked, as they were led into the darkness. “Shouldn’t you get something more powerful than that lamp? We don’t want to get lost.”
“We know the way,” Noldorin assured him. “More light, less mystery.”
“Mmm. I understand . . . if we could see better, it’d spoil the illusion.”
“Or terrify you,” Lucius suggested.
Even as he spoke, Lion-Heart drew in his breath. Before them the floor abruptly dropped away, as into a chasm, and only a slender, railless bridge of stone continued on.
“No way,” the Top protested, his maximum level of suspension of disbelief reached. The light of the lantern revealed no bottom to the gap in front of them, but he knew that it was impossible—impossible—for an actual canyon to have been excavated down here. “What is it really, six feet deep?”
His question went unanswered. “Take care not to fall in,” was all Shen Han would say, as he led them single file over the bridge. For the briefest of instants Z. Z. Top was tempted to make the ultimate test and leap over the side. There could be no real danger . . . but then Z. Z. heard a sound like wind moaning beneath him, and his courage faltered.
At the far end of the bridge they found a short corridor, and at the end of that a pair of stone doors that Shen Han thrust open with the help of Noldorin. The Bohemians passed through and found that they had just stepped out of a hillside into a wooded glade.
A light breeze was blowing, and above them hung a night sky full of stars.
IV.
“A dome,” Lion-Heart said, penetrating this illusion immediately, though not through any flaw in its quality. “Like the Hayden Planetarium, underground and bigger.” He turned to Shen Han. “How far can I walk down here before the sky touches the ground?”
“You could experiment and find out.” Shen Han replied. “But why do it? It’s a paradise here, if you let it be. We have complete control over the climate: we can make it colder, warmer, more or less windy, we can weave a fog, conjure up a meteor storm for a light show, even make it rain if the mood strikes us.”
“Can you make a sunrise?”
“Starshine is more peaceful.”
“I’ll bet,” put in the Top. “And a day sky wouldn’t seem so realistic, would it? Where are the projectors at?”
“Do you really want to spend so much time asking unimportant questions?” came the reply.
Lion-Heart laid a hand on Z. Z. Top’s s
houlder. “No,” he said for both of them. “You’re right, a little mystery will be good for us.”
Shen Han nodded respectfully, dousing the lantern at the same moment. Here there was no need for it; night sky or no, Lothlórien had enough light—light from unknown and best-left-unquestioned sources—to see one’s surroundings. Real trees grew in the forest, beautiful trees with pale grey bark and golden flower blossoms among their leaves; how they were sustained in this odd witchlight was yet another mystery.
The Bohemians were given a brief tour. Lion-Heart guessed that this brevity was due in part to the fact that, whether or not Shen Han wanted to discuss it, the underground paradise had a fairly limited area; enough room for relaxation, but not enough for an extended hike. The three Presidents each pointed out their favorite features of the forest: a fountain formed of uncut stone, with a tiny brook leading away from it; a giant mushroom that would have been more at home with Lewis Carroll than Tolkien; an Enchanted Circle of bright stones. Through it all there was a sound of almost-singing in the air, as if a chorus were being hummed in the background by creatures that could not quite be seen.
At the last the tour group came into a clearing surrounded by a tall hedge. The brook from the fountain ran through here, and beside it stood a water-filled silver basin set into a low pedestal. The basin and pedestal were central to the clearing, and no doubt intended to be the main attraction, but most of the attention was stolen from them by a tall figure leaning against a hedge across the brook.
“What the hell is that?” the Top burst out.
“That,” Shen Han replied, sounding sheepish for a change, “is the Rubbermaid. Our mascot, sort of.”
“That thing is from Tolkien?” Myoko asked doubtfully.
“Not fucking likely,” Z. Z. Top answered her. “Unless he wrote a porno novel that nobody knows about.”
The Rubbermaid did look like something out of a blue novel or movie, not very Tolkienish at all. A tall, pale mannequin with dark hair and a frighteningly exaggerated bust-line, it was garbed in black leather in the manner of a dominatrix. Its plastic arms were outstretched, and gloved hands offered a bowl that contained something the Bohemians could not see from where they stood.