Fool on the Hill

by Matt Ruff

  “Ever read Fariña?”

  “Fariña?”

  “Richard Fariña. Went to Cornell in the late Fifties and raised some hell with this dude Kirkpatrick Sale from the Sun; the two of them would have made prime Bohemians. After graduation Fariña married Joan Baez’s sister and wrote this wild novel about college and hell-raising in general. Motorcycle accident killed him two days after the book was published.”

  “Perfect timing.”

  “Really. I should be so lucky. Anyway, the novel’s protagonist is a very Fariña-type guy named Gnossos Popoudopolos, and Gnossos has this theory about virginity being spiritual . . . .”

  “Is this like your theory about the nobility of gay people?”

  “Hey, Fariña knew that of which he spoke. The idea, see, is that you can screw every man and woman in the jolly United States of America and still be a virgin. The membrane only breaks when you make love.”

  “But you’ve made love, haven’t you?” Aurora asked. “With Calliope?”

  “That’s true.”

  “And I’ve never even screwed anybody.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So how is Fariña’s theory possibly relevant to our situation?”

  “Well, it isn’t,” George said. swallowing a long draught of Leidenschaft von Heiliger. “But it’s bad luck to pass up any chance at a literary reference. Beside, it’s a great damn book.”

  “Sure it is,” said Aurora. “Finish that drink and teach me how to seduce you.”

  IV.

  “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to go through the graveyard.” It had been Jinsei’s idea to climb The Hill in a show of pure defiance against the snow, but now, at the lower entrance to The Boneyard, she balked. “Look, the plow hasn’t even been through there,” she pointed out. “And I’ll bet the drifts are pretty deep “

  “At least we won’t have to dodge cars,” Preacher replied. They had been walking in the road, for the plow that had cleared University Avenue had inadvertently erected a scale rendition of the Alps above the only sidewalk.

  “We’ll get our boots wet,” Jinsei countered.

  “No matter. Look, Jin, that snow’s virgin. Don’t you want to be the first to walk on it?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “You scared of what’s buried under?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe a little. Aren’t you?”

  “No point to it. Dead body’s like a waxwork, lady. Might as well get uptight over a scarecrow or a dresser’s dummy.”

  This did not seem to comfort her a great deal; smiling gently, Preacher clasped her hand and took a step toward the cemetery gates.

  “Come on, Jin,” he said. “Let me tell you another secret: as long as you walk in under your own steam there’s nothing to fear. When they hire six guys to carry you in, that’s the time to wig out.”

  He tugged lightly on her arm and she relented, following him through the gates. Just beyond, a group of snowbound mausoleums jutted out of the side of a slope, like a great townhouse for the dead. Jinsei spied this with more than a little apprehension, but of course it was not the dead she ought to have been afraid of. Not at all.

  Kicking up small clouds of snow, they turned left when they could, and headed unwittingly toward the north end of The ‘Yard.

  V.

  George undid the last button on Aurora’s blouse and slipped it back, revealing the warm pale shoulders beneath. He thought to himself that that was an odd word, pale—a word that could be positive or negative depending on the context, one that could describe everything from death to the forehead of a medieval princess.

  Ah, literary to the last. He bent his head and began kissing her breasts. Time went away for a while, like a tactful fade in a romance novel; when it came back they were both naked, lay pressed together on the quilts. They had kissed and touched and explored one another and now the Moment was upon them.

  “This might hurt some.” George warned her. “Since you've never done it before.”

  Beneath him, Aurora smiled. “Did you read that in some book, too?”

  “Read it in a lot of books. Had a few friends describe the pain to me, too. In detail.”

  “Same here.” Her lips parted to kiss his shoulder. “But right now,” she said, “right now I feel very . . . relaxed. I don’t know if I could hurt, feeling like this. Maybe that’s what the wine was for.”

  “Maybe,” George agreed. There was nothing more to say; he went into her with a kind and dreamy gentleness. There was no pain.

  VI.

  “Jesus!”

  Preacher took a step and suddenly sank waist deep in snow. Jinsei immediately gripped his arm with both hands and prepared for a struggle, for it seemed almost as if something had grabbed Preacher from below in an attempt to drag him under.

  “It’s all right,” Preacher assured her. “Just stepped in a hole. I’m OK.”

  “Can we please get out of this place?” Jinsei pleaded, still gripping his arm.

  “Sure, right up . . .” Preacher started to pull himself up when his foot caught on something. “Wait. Hang out a second.”

  He pulled his arm loose of her, then turned and stepped full into the hole, knocking out some more space for himself. He bent down and dug.

  “Preacher, what—”

  “Something here . . .” He gave a hard tug, freeing something from the earth. He held it up triumphantly.

  Jinsei blanched, thinking at first that Preacher had somehow dredged up a piece of corpse, though on closer inspection she saw that the object was actually a box—a black iron box, a cube no more than half a foot to a side, wrapped with a single silver band.

  VII.

  Approaching the pinnacle, the two lovers abandoned the quilts and rolled precipitously close to the edge of the hayloft, groaning in comfortable uncomfortableness at the feel of the uneven wood planking. George found himself once again in a state of awe, for where making love to Calliope had been smooth and perfect, this present coupling was marvelously amateurish and sloppy—and all the better for that. He reveled in the reality of it.

  Very near the summit now, somebody’s arm or leg struck the bottle of Leidenschaft von Heiliger, sending it flying. It did a bombs away and sprayed red wine all the way down, smashing to bits on the floor below. Neither of the lovers even noticed.

  VIII.

  “Preacher, I really wish we could go somewhere else to open that. . . .”

  “Hang out,” Preacher responded.

  Paper thin, the silver band tore easily. He unwound it from the box, offering it to Jinsei. She would not take it; shrugging, Preacher folded it and placed it in the pocket of his longcoat.

  “Preacher, I think . . .”

  But he did not hear her, so fascinated was he with the riddle of the box. All the seams had been carefully scaled with some sort of solder, but the solder was brittle with time and chipped away easily enough. Using his thumbnail, Preacher cleaned off most of it, then began to raise the lid of the box.

  Even as he did, something with wings and talons of ice struck him on the side of the head and sent him sprawling.

  IX.

  George and Aurora cried out together, as did the wind, ever George’s ally. Shrieking, it took hold of the barn and shook it like a toy.

  “Again,” Aurora whispered, when the earth had stopped moving.

  X.

  “What is it?”

  Preacher pushed himself up on one hand, using the other to touch his bloodied forehead. The box had been knocked away and had landed on its side in the snow a few yards beyond him, open just a crack. It was not the box that held his or Jinsei’s attention anymore, however, but rather the strange bone-pale bird that had settled on top of it.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Preacher said, as Jinsei knelt beside him and pressed a handkerchief on his wound. The bird had to be the most unnatural-looking creature he had ever laid eyes on, like a crystalline statue somehow animated to life.

  The Messenger steadied
itself on the tilted surface of the box. It watched the man and woman warily; it had been watching them ever since they had first entered The Boneyard. Preacher had been permitted to pick up the box and break the Seals, but now that that was accomplished the Messenger would kill him—kill both of them—to protect the contents.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Jinsei hissed. Preacher nodded, took her hand, and together they backed away, turning to run as soon as they had gotten a reasonable lead. The Messenger made no move to follow them but did not take its eyes off them, either; it studied their retreat most attentively.

  From within Pandora’s Box, another creature studied them as well.

  MESSAGES, AND A PARLIAMENT OF VERMIN

  I.

  “All right,” Mr. Sunshine said eager at his Writing Desk. “All right, George has his Princess, the Princess has her George, and the box is open. Now, what’s next . . .” He riffled his Notes. “The dog! That’s right, the dog!”

  Searching inside his Desk for a piece of Stationery (not, of course, ordinary stationery), he scrawled a quick Message. Then, folding it twice, he wended his way through the Monkeys to a dim corner where a Mail Chute waited with open mouth. The Chute bore this symbol: ????? and the legend: UNDERWORLD CORRESPONDENCE ONLY.

  “Not quite like the old days,” Mr. Sunshine said wistfully, as his Message made an uncertain descent down the dark Chute. “But still, that takes care of that. Now . . .”

  II.

  Just after dusk on that same Christmas Eve, Mrs. Smith called from Madison to announce that she would not be home for another day at least, though she felt terribly about missing the holiday with her family and gave all her love to Aurora. Sensing a golden opportunity, Walter and George built a cozy fire in the hearth and conspired to introduce Aurora to what Lion-Heart had always called the Dubious Art of Getting Stoned; after the briefest hesitation, she turned out to be an excellent pupil. The three of them were soon giggling like cheerful idiots, hugging one another, and tossing off non sequiturs a mile a minute. Even Luther managed to join in the fun. He could not puff a joint, of course, but he stuck close to Walter—of whom he had grown quite fond, thinking him an archangel—who obligingly exhaled in his direction.

  Luther had at last found contentment: more food than he had ever seen before, warmth, dry shelter, and kind Masters. Surely he must, finally, be in Heaven. True, he had encountered no other dogs here, nor had he seen any during the entire chariot ride up, but for the time being he was so overwhelmed by comfort that he asked no questions. He had even ceased to worry about Blackjack, though he knew he must soon find a way to get a message to him.

  Now, as his shaggy head tingled strangely in response to the smoke, Luther felt the divine power of Heaven close in around him. The room grew bright; Luther’s eyes were drawn to the space right before the fireplace, where, as casual as you please, an aging mongrel materialized out of thin air. It was a dog he knew well, a dog who had protected him and given him love when he was only a pup. A dog he had initially set out for Heaven to find.

  “Moses!” Luther cried, his deepest hopes realized. “Moses, I found you!”

  Moses did not speak, but turned almost immediately and began walking out. Luther followed him, leaving the humans to their laughter.

  “Moses, Moses, where have you been? I missed you more than anything! I—”

  Moses led him down a short hall into the kitchen, where a gust of wind blew open the back door. The older dog marched straight outside, unmindful of the cold. Luther stayed close on the heels of his sire. Long minutes they walked, deep into the night, until the Smith house became a mere twinkle of distant warmth and light. Only then did Moses stop and turn once more.

  “Oh, Moses!” said Luther, who had kept up a joyous babble the whole time. “Moses, it’s so good to be here with you.”

  The old mongrel looked at him with deepest regret.

  “You gotta leave this place, Luther,” he said.

  III.

  The creature crept out of the iron box shortly after nightfall. Small, twisted, utterly loathsome in appearance, it was no wonder his enemies had called him Grub. At last released, his first thought was to vent his anger on the prison that had confined him for so long. Yet to his great fury he discovered that he could do nothing to the box; the act of sustaining himself for more than a century had drained him of his magic, and he was now powerless.

  Hateful, hateful, hateful! How could he wreak his revenge, without magic? To be free and still helpless was even greater torture than confinement. . . .

  Rasferret.

  The Messenger waited patiently on the snow behind him, wings folded.

  Rasferret, a bargain for you.

  The Grub quailed at the sight of the ice bird, for he was a coward at heart, and without magic he could no more defend himself than he could attack. Only the mention of a bargain kept him from fleeing, whatever good that might have done.

  And so in that cold place of the dead, the Messenger passed on the Word that Mr. Sunshine had given it, communicating in a silent tongue. Rasferret listened, growing bolder as he heard the terms of the offered bargain. Was it revenge he craved? He would have it. Did he need fresh magic to accomplish that revenge? That too would be his, in greater amount than he had ever known before—and with it he could slay and destroy to his heart’s content. Only one catch was placed on the deal: that an opponent would be raised up against him, not a sprite but one of the Big People, a man with great power and will of his own. The Grub would have magic to fight him, but to keep it he must win the battle. If he failed, he would forever after be powerless.

  The strength of magic began flowing back into Rasferret’s body even before the Messenger concluded, and having tasted of it the Grub could not refuse the deal, no matter what the eventual consequences. He flexed his newfound power by warping the prison-box into an unidentifiable wreck of metal, making the lid-hinges pop like breaking bones.

  Well, well. In the blink of an eye he had shed his helplessness. But his power was not yet complete—he was made to understand that the magic would accrue gradually, peaking some two and a half months from now on the Ides of March, when the crucial battle would take place. Between then and now there was much work to be done. He had never killed a human before; he would have to practice.

  IV.

  “Leave?” Luther protested. “But I just got here!”

  “Don’t you give me that look, Luther. It’s not my fault. You got a part to play, back on that Hill you came here from. Not a big part, but it’s what’s wanted.”

  Luther glanced back toward the distant house. “But they brought me here. I can’t make the trip alone.”

  “Why not? You already did it once. Only difference is you won’t have the cat with you this time, but you’ll manage fine enough without him. I’m not saying it won’t be a trial to you, mind—the Road’s got longer, and you can be sure Raaq is still angry at you for getting away from him. But like I say, you’ll manage.”

  “But do I have to leave right now?”

  “What’d I always teach you? Did it ever pay for a dog to put off a hard task?”

  “No,” Luther replied despondently. “But—”

  “You’ve gone and used one ‘but’ too many already, Luther. Now—”

  “Listen to me!” Luther insisted, with an abrupt burst of anger that was completely unlike him. “This whole thing—the reason I left home in the first place—was to find you again. And after all I’ve gone through you show up just to tell me how I have to leave a place where I’m finally happy.”

  “Spirit,” Moses observed, showing the first bit of good humor since his sudden appearance. “You changed, Luther. You’re not the innocent little pup I left behind me. I wager it’s the Road that changed you—could be it’ll change you more before it’s done with you. But any way you look at it, you don’t need me anymore.”

  “I want to be with you. Will you walk with me?”

  “I’ll show you where to pick u
p the scent. Beside that . . . well, I’m a ghost, Luther. What you want to spend time with me for?”

  “I told you . . .”

  “That’s a kind thing,” Moses said. “You missing me so much. But it makes no difference, you see, ‘cause you were wrong. You can’t walk to Heaven, Luther. It may come to you, sometime, but—”

  “You mean this isn’t Heaven, either?”

  “Guess you ain’t lost all of your innocence. Course it ain’t Heaven. Heaven’s like nothing you could ever expect, Luther. Neither is death, come to that. And a wise dog, he don’t waste his time looking for either one.”

  “One of the philosophers I met told me it was good to waste time doing things like that . . . following obsessions. Especially when I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Well . . . when you don’t know what else to do. But I just told you what you ought to be about, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” Luther admitted.

  “Just so. Come on now and I’ll show you where to start.”

  V.

  Even as Luther was engaged in the curious reunion with his sire, many hundred miles to the cast Rasferret the Grub was busy setting up a little reunion of his own. Reunion, of course, is not quite the right word; recreation would be more accurate.

  Riding on the back of the Messenger, the Grub relocated to a different part of The Boneyard, away from the place where he had been so long entrapped. As the moon rose in a cold are above the horizon, he used his magic for a Summoning. Some hours later, near midnight (Luther had by this time bade a regretful farewell to Moses and set out on his new journey), Rasferret had himself set down atop a jutting stone rectangle that bore the words:

  DEDICATED TO THE LOVING MEMORY OF HAROLD LAZARUS

  1912–1957

  BY HIS ADORING WIFE

  GOD GRANT HIM REST

  This tombstone, as mentioned before, was capped by a gargoyle figurine. It was onto the shoulders of this figurine that Rasferret settled himself, and to say whether gargoyle or Grub had the more horrendous countenance would be difficult. The Messenger set down nearby, perching in a lower place. When all was ready Rasferret brought his Parliament to order with a silent command.