by Matt Ruff
Even then a full-blown incident might have been avoided, if Lenny had done the sensible and unsatisfying thing and kept walking. But Jinsei’s presence made that a hard choice, besides which Lenny Chiu had more courage in him than might be expected of a brain. He stooped down and sealed his own doom by retrieving the apple core instead of his glasses, turning on Shelton with an anger that his small frame could not quite hope to live up to.
“You apologize,” he demanded. “Now.”
Bobby Shelton chose his response with care.
“You go fuck yourself,” came the reply. And as an afterthought: “Chink.”
Lenny brought this arm up and wingéd the apple core back at Bobby. The return throw was not as strong, but just as accurate as the opener. The core flew on a direct bead for Shelton’s face . . . and then the football player’s right hand snatched it out of the air, no more than two inches from his nose. Pass intercepted.
And still events might have gone no further. As President of the House, Jack Baron maintained absolute authority over his brethren; a single word would have been sufficient to call Shelton off. Later he would wonder at length why he did not do this, what passing lunacy or compulsion kept him from giving the word of command that would bring Bobby Shelton to heel as effectively as a leash. Instead he watched in silence while the football player closed his fist around the apple core, crushing it. There was almost no flesh left on the fruit, yet so strong was his grip that juice ran from the cracks between his fingers. Lenny Chiu saw this and his courage wavered.
Smiling, Bobby Shelton glanced briefly at Jack, double-checking that he had free rein; Rho Alpha Tau’s President made no motion to stop him. Shelton’s attention returned to Lenny.
“You’re all done,” he said.
III.
“Did you say pool?” Ragnarok shouted above the din. Adult Eastern’s lead guitarist was tearing through a high-volume solo, and what room she left for other noise was mostly filled by Z. Z. Top, arguing with the Dance Organizer about whether bringing his burro onto the dance floor constituted a safety hazard or not.
“Pool,” Panhandle agreed, stepping closer around a press of Grey Ladies. He held up a shiny bit of metal. “Key to the game room upstairs. You look kind of bored, figure a rack or two of Eight Ball’d be just the thing.”
“Dollar a game?”
“Sounds fair.”
“You’re my man,” Ragnarok said.
They elbowed their way to the exit. After the clamor of the Memorial Room, the Straight Lobby seemed almost church-quiet.
“So tell me the truth,” Panhandle asked, “How come you never dance at these things?”
“Just not my kind of excitement,” the Black Knight told him. They turned right, toward the steps up to the game room, but all at once Ragnarok stopped and cocked his head. Adjusting his sunglasses on his head, he stared across the Lobby at the front door.
“What?” Panhandle said.
IV.
“This man is hurtin’ for certain,” Bill Chaney observed wryly.
Lenny Chiu was down on the ground, for the third, but unfortunately not last, time. Though hurt indeed, he didn’t look that bad; Bobby Shelton had been careful to keep his punches below the neckline and above the waist, so the only visible damage was a scrape on the heel of Lenny’s hand, where he had skinned himself falling. Now Jinsei leaned over him, trying to see how bad off he really was and at the same time convince him to stay down.
“Better listen to her,” Shelton advised, as Lenny shrugged Jinsei’s arm away and started struggling to his feet again. “Aren’t you people supposed to be smart? Don’t push your luck with me.”
Lenny made it all the way up and launched himself at the football player, arms pinwheeling. One wild swing actually got through, a clip on the side of the Rat brother’s head, and then Shelton lost control of his temper and hit Lenny three times. The computer jockey crumpled—this time for keeps—blood running from his lip and nose.
Now it was Jinsei’s turn to run forward, shouting something like “Stop it! Stop it, you leave him alone you—” Chaney caught her, holding her back easily, laughing, but still she managed to turn her head toward jack Baron and scream “Stop it!” At last some of Jack’s sense returned to him. He remembered where they were, how easy it would be for one or more of the revelers at the dance to step outside for some fresh air, how easy it would be for a Sun reporter to get downwind and escalate this into an Inter-Fraternity Council–sponsored nightmare. Things had already gotten ridiculously out of hand.
“Bobby,” he said. But for once Shelton was not of a mind to rein in immediately.
“Son of bitch tagged me, Jack,” Shelton replied, rubbing the side of his head, trying to shake off a buzzing noise that had settled in his left ear. He gave Lenny a not-too-gentle nudge with his foot. “Come on, asshole. Get up again. I want one more round with you.”
“Bobby!” Jack Baron repeated impatiently. But then several things happened in rapid succession.
Shelton, still ignoring Jack’s word of command, bent down and grabbed Lenny by the collar. As if aggravated by the motion, the buzzing in his ear grew louder, changing to a roar . . . and now he was not the only one who heard it. Jack Baron froze at the sound, his veins filling up with ice; Bill Chaney let go of Jinsei and turned toward the source of the noise. Jinsei took the chance to run once more to Lenny’s aid, and that was when the doors of the Straight crashed open, vomiting forth a black-garbed demon on a motorcycle. With the bike’s throttle wide open Ragnarok sideswiped Chaney, then flew off the edge of the steps, landing safely at the bottom on two wheels. He swung the cycle around in a controlled skid, braking and bringing it to a halt no more than ten feet from the locked doors of the Campus Store.
Eyes wide, Shelton stood back up, forgetting all about Lenny with the appearance of this new enemy. He spent a brief moment sizing Ragnarok up, the lesser evolved part of his brain clicking over twice and throwing all circuits into the red. Then he charged.
“Here I come!” he bellowed, springing down the steps and stampeding with more enthusiasm than he’d ever shown on a football field. Ragnarok dropped the motorcycle’s kickstand and cut the engine in one motion. Perfectly calm, he stepped off the bike, removed the black mace from the side rack. Readied himself. Then Bobby Shelton was on him, eyes blazing, arms raised to deflect an overhead swing.
“Here you go,” Ragnarok whispered, coming from below, driving the head of the mace end-on into Shelton’s lower abdomen. The football player’s stomach muscles were rock hard, but even rock will yield to the force of a jackhammer; he doubled over, all the air going out of him in a whoosh. Ragnarok disentangled his arm and stepped forward, aiming a wide-are swing at the back of Bobby’s right knee. Once, twice he struck, and on the second blow the leg gave and Shelton fell, crashing to earth with all the grace of a collapsing mountain.
Now Bill Chaney came on, easier meat by far. Ragnarok stood motionless and gave him two free swings, neither of which seemed to have any effect. Then the Bohemian Minister of Defense took his turn, not even bothering to use the mace; he decked Chaney with an old-fashioned right cross instead. Chaney did not go down like a collapsed mountain; he went down like a duck at a Coney Island shooting gallery, splat, flat, just like that.
Jack Baron had not moved. He remained on the front steps of the Straight—where Jinsei also still stood, looking at Ragnarok with complete shock on her face—mustering all the cool he had in him. There were two down, one to go, but the president of Rho Alpha Tau did not intend to be that one.
“Why don’t you come over here Jack?” Ragnarok called to him, his voice emotionless, almost dead. “Show me your best move.”
“No,” Jack said, forcing a cold smile. “I don’t think so. You’d have a bit too much advantage with that club you’re holding.”
Ragnarok gestured at Lenny, who was sitting up, bloody. “How much advantage did Shelton have on him, Jack? How many pounds? Seventy-five? A hundred?”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, if you intend to beat me to death, you’ll have to do it without provocation.”
This brought a soft chuckle. “Oh, you’re good Jack, you really are. Sound innocent even with your hand stuck in the cookie jar. Maybe that’s why Lion-Heart never managed to get even for Pearl—it’s not in him to fight down and dirty, even against a born dirty-fighter. But you’ve never really gone up against me before, have you?”
“I’m thrilled to finally see what I’ve been missing.”
“Oh, you aren’t thrilled,” Ragnarok said seriously. “You’re scared shitless. It’s taking everything you’ve got not to shake. And the thing that’s bothering you the most is that you can’t read me at all.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “The shades have got you going, too. You’re wondering what the fuck’s going on behind them, wondering how the fuck I can see. Most of all you’re wondering exactly where I’m looking right now. That’s got your balls up.”
“And you said I was good.” came the reply.
“You are good. I just laid out two of your brothers without a sweat, and inside that head of yours you’re figuring I’m probably going to do the same to you, but you’ve managed not to panic.”
“You’re not that frightening.”
Ragnarok pivoted suddenly, lashing out with a boot. Chancy gave a cry and flopped over, clutching his side.
“Might have sprung a rib there.” mused Ragnarok. He turned back to Jack. “You sure you’re not frightened?”
The Rho Alpha Tau President made no reply, but his cool was slipping away visibly. Next to him Jinsei made a strange sound in her throat.
“You should be frightened,” Ragnarok continued, beginning to walk closer as he spoke. “My old man sold his soul to the Devil, you know that? Bet you didn’t. Sold his soul, sold a good piece of mine in the bargain. You ought to be frightened, Jack. Because I know the Devil, and I know where you live."
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“Gets dark up there at night, up around Fraternity Row,” answered Ragnarok. He stood now at the foot of the Straight steps, smiling like a pallbearer. “They’ve got streetlamps and all, but streetlamps have a peculiar way of breaking. On a dark stretch of road, cloudy night, a white man dressed in black would be nearly invisible if he kept his head down. You might not ever see him coming.
“But it might not even be you he’s coming for. Cars have a way of breaking down too, just like streetlamps—especially those fancy cars fraternity boys drive. Boom, one night your Porsche just won’t start, no way to pick up your girlfriend, so she walks over to the House to meet you instead, and now she’s on that dark stretch of road, all alone. . . .”
His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, full of genuine threat. Jack’s cool drained off entirely.
“You shut up!” he told Ragnarok, trying to back his words with real fury, but terror undercut it. “You shut up with that talk! If anything ever happens to Alison. . .”
Ragnarok nodded sympathetically. “It’s different, isn’t it? When it’s someone you know, maybe even care about, instead of just some drunk chick at a shagging. When it’s you and yours on the block instead of a stranger up against someone twice his size. When you don’t have control.”
He set his foot on the lowest step, and Jack flinched, convinced now that Ragnarok meant to club him down, worse.
“Stay away from me! You stay away, there’s people right inside there, some of them could come out any time now.”
“No one’s come out for a while,” Ragnarok observed, rising another step. “Who knows, maybe they really like the band. Or maybe someone’s detouring them.”
“What about out here?” Jack countered, backing up. “It’s not so late, people go by all the time. . . .”
“I know. Do you see them?”
He looked around, and he did see them, a small group, maybe four or five, watching from a safe distance.
“Hey!” he shouted, almost shrieked. “Hey, don’t just stand there! Call Public Safety! Call Safety, goddamnit!”
“Twelve patrol cars loaded with lthacops,” Ragnarok assured him, “couldn’t keep me from breaking your jaw if I moved fast enough.”
Jinsei’s voice, soft but urgent: “No. Stop.”
Jack looked around at the swinging doors, too late to dive inside to safety, for Ragnarok had him backed up against the side of the building now. The mace came up slowly, head pressing firmly against Jack Baron’s Adam’s apple, pinning him.
“The big surprise,” said Ragnarok. “is I’m not going to put a scratch on you. All I want is your jacket.”
“My what?” Strained; he was having trouble breathing.
“A trade. Pride for pride. Your House jacket for his bruises.”
Jinsei again, close at Ragnarok’s side, imploring: “Lenny’s hurt. This won’t help him.”
Ragnarok did not ease off. “Your jacket. Now.”
“All right!” Jack caved in. “All right, fine, here, take it!” And he was struggling out of the Rho Alpha Tau blazer, Ragnarok drawing back the mace to let him do it.
“Good,” the Bohemian said, when the blazer lay at his feet.
Shorn, a touch of bravado returned to Jack Baron: “Aren’t you going to make me apologize now? Grovel?”
“Not worth the trouble. But when you get home and start thinking about all the ways you want to get even with me, remember how you felt a minute ago. You can feel that way again. With cause.”
And Ragnarok stepped back, letting Jack hurry past, only sticking his foot out at the last moment. The Chief Rat tripped, stumbled, rolled down the steps, bruising an elbow and tearing up the sleeve of the silk shirt he was wearing.
“You bastard,” he whispered, pulling himself up.
“That’s just right,” replied Ragnarok. “Now take your people and get the fuck out of here.”
He did as he was told, levering Shelton to his feet, helping up Chaney. With the action over, the knot of spectators dissolved, going their various ways, but Ragnarok did not take his eyes off the Rat brothers, not when Jinsei laid a hand on his arm, not even when Z. Z. Top at last came out to see what was happening. In his heart of hearts, the Minister of Defense, the Black Knight of Bohemia, tended a flame of perfect hatred for the retreating trio.
But even more than that, he hated himself.
SLEEPTALKING
I.
In her high-security single in Balch Hall (nicknamed the Nunnery for its standing as one of the last all-female dorms on campus), Aurora Borealis Smith lay deep in dream. It was a pleasant vision, no trace of nightmare; in it, she lived the life of a tree spirit in the enchanted wood of Stephen George’s book. She danced among oak and maple, flew up above the highest branches on invisible wings, watched the sun set over a long pond not unlike Beebe Lake . . . and on the far bank, a storybook knight in shining armor flew a kite in the evening breeze.
“Why not go over and introduce yourself to him?” suggested Walter Smith, who was a tall willow in the dream. “He looks like an open-minded sort of fellow. Not so stubborn as some.”
“Oh, Daddy . . .” Aurora turned over in her sleep, unconsciously bumping the night table beside her bed. A torn envelope fluttered over the edge, and with it the folded card that had come inside. The card was silvery and imprinted on the outer cover were the words:
AN INVITATION . . .
These two words written in some odd flowing script, and so too the continuation on the inside:
The Lady of Tolkien House
Invites You to
A Hallowe’en Revel
Ten O’Clock, Hallowe’en Night
Dress Casual or
Come as Your Favorite Elf
+ + + + +
No RSVP Required;
Bring a Guest
An Enchantment Promised for All
At the bottom was an imprint of a white rose.
Earlier in the evening Aurora had shown the invitation to Brian, discussed it with him. He ha
d been mostly negative, reminding her that the Cornell Christers would likely have a Halloween outing planned.
“Besides, I don’t know that a fraternity party is the sort of thing we’d enjoy,” Brian had told her.
“We have lots of friends in Houses,” Aurora protested. “And anyway, Tolkien House is supposed to be something special. Didn’t you ever hear of it?”
“I guess not. But ‘The Lady of Tolkien House?’ You sure this isn’t some kind of joke? It is still a little bit early to be sending out Halloween invitations.”
“I don’t think it’s a joke,” said Aurora, studying the card. “Don’t you think it’s too pretty for a prank?”
“But who would have sent it? We don’t know anyone in Tolkien House, do we? . . .”
So it had gone, back and forth for nearly half an hour. At the end Brian had stepped out of the argument by reminding her again that it was still a ways to go until Halloween, and they could decide what they were doing later. Aurora knew from experience that by the time “later” rolled around Brian would probably have made other plans for the both of them, but this time, she thought, she would insist on having her way no matter what.
An Enchantment Promised for All . . .
In the dream, the sun sank completely, vanishing behind a lone hill on the horizon. The knight began reeling in his kite.
“Yes ma’am,” commented Walter the Willow, “fellow like that might know the rule of give and take. No sense fighting over little things.”
“But who is he?” Aurora asked.
“Why don’t you go ask him? Maybe he’s waiting for someone to go ask him.”
“Oh, Daddy . . .” Aurora repeated. But even as she spoke she was rising into the air, catching the wind and skimming above the surface of the pond, hurrying to catch up to the knight.
II.
Hobart was alone in the Clock Tower, drinking. He had gone down into the drop-shaft, where slowly descending weights had originally driven the gears of the Clock before its connection to an electric motor. Sitting on a ledge with his legs dangling over a dark gulf—a safety cord tied around his waist to prevent him from tumbling into oblivion in a stupor—he took long draughts from a thimble mug. The drink was a special mixture of alcohol, hash oil, and various magic herbs; used properly, in liberal amounts, it brought about visions, often visions of lost friends or loved ones. Hobart did not make a regular habit of it, considering himself too old for such artificial fancies, but once in a very long while he put aside his maturity and indulged.