Fool on the Hill

by Matt Ruff

  “What . . . what was that?” he stammered. He rested his head on Fujiko’s shoulder, shaking. Around them the ring of stones began to dim, their magic no longer needed.

  “I don’t know,” Fujiko answered, a tear running down her cheek. “I don’t know, but Preacher and Jinsei are going to be walking right into it.”

  V.

  The white sheet had become animate at a touch, and now, as the obsidian-walled elevator rose swiftly up to the main floor, it wrapped itself around the Rubbermaid like a living shroud. The sheet was a spur-of-the-moment thing, a casual addition; the Rubbermaid’s search for a weapon was more deliberate.

  On the first floor, seeking an exit, the mannequin discovered the Michel Delving Mathom-Hole. The Rubbermaid surveyed its collection of relics, each marked with its own label: THIS IS THE HORN OF BOROMIR; HERE IS ANDURIL, THE SWORD THAT WAS BROKEN. In one case that drew the ‘Maid’s particular attention lay a long black mace shod with iron. The label pronounced THIS WEAPON WAS WIELDED BY THE LORD OF THE NAZGûL, THE WITCH-KING OF ANGMAR.

  Glass shattered as the Rubbermaid thrust plastic hands into the display case like a weasel puncturing an eggshell, groping for the treasure within. The mace was solid, with a good heft. The Rubbermaid swung it once as a test, sending another glass case crashing to the floor, then hurried out into the night in search of prey.

  VI.

  Preacher actually spent a good long time necking in the front doorway of the Library before finally disentangling himself from Jinsei. The beckoning voice of the head librarian interrupted their reverie, and with a last peck Preacher turned and set out across the Arts Quad. It was 11:22.

  He might have gone down the Slope, crossing Fall Creek Gorge along Stewart Avenue and so coming to Tolkien House that way; instead he chose to cross the Gorge on the suspension bridge. Ultimately it made little difference. Preacher’s movements as soon as he left the Library were tracked most closely, and compensated for.

  Oblivious to his own peril, he half walked, half floated past McGraw Hall, whistling some or other love song that he’d heard that morning on the radio, snow swirling blithely around him. He cut left between White and Tjaden Halls, laughing out loud when he slipped on a patch of ice and almost fell. In front of the Johnson Art Museum he paused to listen to the wind chimes. In the cold winter air they made a flat, haunted sound, but Preacher found them cheerful. He found damn near everything cheerful tonight.

  The bleak—but cheerful, oh so cheerful—glow of one of the campus Blue Light Emergency Phones marked the way down to the suspension bridge. The Phones had been installed several years ago after a series of at-gunpoint rapes. That had been a nervous time, back then; the rapist had been black, and Preacher, who was often abroad at night, had been stopped on no less than four occasions by Campus Safety. In the end the best efforts of the police had done nothing but drive the criminal to other hunting grounds, which turned out to be enough. Near the end of Preacher’s freshman year the rapist attacked one Donna Winchell of Cayuga Heights. Like her assailant, Donna Winchell carried a handgun, and in the crunch she turned out to be a hell of a lot faster on the draw than he was.

  But Preacher did not think of any of this as he descended the metal-and-timber stair into the Gorge. He gave only a glance to the second Blue Light Phone at the bottom of the steps, with its instruction sticker: PHONE IS NOT DEAD. TIME DELAY. PLEASE WAIT FOR ANSWER.

  Still over a hundred feet from the floor of the Gorge, the suspension bridge hung elegantly, spanning the gulf with a quiet grace. The twin support cables were ice-encrusted and stretched away in perspective like beams of frozen light. A fresh layer of snow lay unblemished on the walkway, pure and white, the few random patches swept bare by the wind glittering with imbedded quartz. Preacher took a step onto that virgin layer, and remembered something his Orientation Counselor had told him during his first week here: They say you’re not a true Cornellian until you’ve kissed and been kissed on the suspension bridge. This Preacher had never done; he would have to bring Jinsei down here sometime, perhaps tomorrow on the way back from Tolkien House.

  He took a second step, felt the vibration of the bridge under his weight . . . and another, much fainter vibration in answer. If he ever felt so much as a tickle of fear it was then, as he peered through the falling snow and caught his first glimpse of the white-sheeted shape coming toward him from the far end of the bridge. But the shape was alluring as well as unsettling. The white wrap moved hypnotically, as if dancing not at the mercy of the wind but with its own will. Preacher could not help but wonder what sort of person was hidden within, so strangely garbed.

  “Good evening to you,” Preacher said in greeting, as they met near the middle of the span. “Happy New Year.”

  The shape paused, turned toward him as if to speak. The sheet flew open with a snap, revealing the Rubbermaid all bedecked in black leather, and Preacher’s last coherent thought was My God, her eyes are glowing. Then the

  Nazgûl mace swung up with deadly force, striking him full on the side of the head, blasting thought and balance to fragments. Preacher was felled like a tree, the flower Jinsei had given him flying out of his grasp. The Rubbermaid stepped over his prone form and readied the mace for a second swing, but none was needed.

  The blow had spun Preacher completely around. Lying flat out against the snow, he saw through one unfocused eye the distant gleam of the Blue Light Phone. He no longer comprehended what it was for, but tried to crawl for it anyway. He got all of three feet before the Rubbermaid reached down, grabbing him by the collar and the belt, lifting him up, above the safety-fencing of the bridge.

  “Gunnh,” Preacher mumbled from a broken jaw, vaguely sensing the long drop beneath him. One randomly flailing hand found and gripped a hank of the Rubbermaid’s hair, which was long and silky. Jinsei, he thought lovingly.

  Jinsei, his mind repeated, and the Rubbermaid hurled him into the void, Jinsei, he was falling, tumbling, it felt like flying, the wind rushing past him, Jinsei I lov— and a final shock as he plunged into the icy waters of Fall Creek, sharp rocks beneath the water, and beneath the rocks darkness, and long sleep.

  The Rubbermaid did not even wait for Preacher to strike bottom. Mace in hand, it headed for Uris Library in search of Jinsei, Rasferret’s second practice victim. It was 11:35.

  VII.

  Fairy lanterns illuminated the frozen surface of Beebe Lake, where the full company of The Hill’s sprites skated, danced, and cavorted, laughing and making merry as they anticipated the New Year. Only one remained aloof from the festivities: Hobart, who seemed to have aged tremendously since Halloween. Well wrapped in furs, he stayed near the edge of the lights, muttering to himself. Despite frequent requests he would tell no stories this night, though there was one tale he needed to tell.

  Puck was matching riddles with Hamlet when Zephyr came to find him.

  “What’s the matter?” Puck asked, seeing the concern in her eyes. She said nothing, only pointed off to where Hobart stood alone, half-shivering. Even from a distance the pallor of his face was frightful. “Is he sick?” asked Puck.

  “I don’t know,” Zephyr told him. “He hasn’t been sleeping well, I think.” She caught his hand. “He says he want to speak to you. Alone.”

  For no good reason at all Puck felt the first twinges of a growing unease at the base of his spine. “He wants to speak to me alone? What about?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. It has something to do with a favor he wants from you.”

  “A favor . . .” Puck licked his lips nervously. He could not refuse, of course—in addition to being Zephyr’s grandfather, Hobart was, of course, Eldest, and you did not withhold a favor from the Eldest.

  “All right,” he said, after a long hesitation. He excused himself to Hamlet, gave Zephyr’s hand a squeeze, and moved deliberately over to Hobart’s shivering form.

  “You called for me, Hobart?” Puck greeted him. At first the old sprite, staring into the heart of one of the lanterns, did not
seem to notice his presence. Only when Puck touched him gently on the shoulder did he look up.

  “Good,” Hobart said to him, speaking barely above the level of a whisper. “Good.”

  “Zephyr—” Puck began, that unease rising another notch. “Zephyr said you had a favor to ask of me.”

  “A favor.” Hobart nodded. “I need an ear.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “A listening ear. I have something I need to pass on, to an ear I can trust. One who can help me decide what needs to be done.” He drew a long breath, and coughed deep in his chest.

  “Are you all right, Hobart?”

  “Not in the least. So little sleep lately. Nightmares . . . you think they can get no worse, and then they do. Your plane carries two passengers, doesn’t it?”

  “My biplane? You know it does. I brought Zephyr here in it.”

  “Good. Good.” Hobart straightened up, seeming to regain a bit of his former strength. “I want you to fly me back to the Tower. We’ll have a drink, and a long talk. And then we’ll see if either of us can sleep.”

  VIII.

  At Uris Library, the letter R was at long last finished and done with. Rhetta Woolf had gone up into the stacks to take care of some last-minute business, leaving Jinsei to tidy up behind the circulation desk. Jinsei did this effortlessly, whistling to herself thinking how she would soon be with Preacher.

  Loud noises are always startling in a library, ordinarily a storehouse of soft whispers, and when the crash came, it was startling indeed. It jibbered in a splintering echo from the direction of the lobby, suggesting cataclysmic images: Superman hurling a glassed-in phone booth out a third-story window, an angry rhino taking issue with a chandelier. A silence followed which was not so silent as before.

  “Mrs. Woolf?” called Jinsei, who had jolted upright at the sound, dropping a pack of borrowers’ cards to the floor. Her hand strayed to a convenient telephone; the number of Campus Safety was taped right on the back of the receiver. Then curiousity got the better of her, and, moving gingerly, she slipped out to the lobby to see for herself what had happened.

  Apparently nothing had, at first glance. The lobby was multi-leveled; from where Jinsei stood, wide steps led down to the checkout desk; to the right of the checkout, the main doors remained shut and undamaged. Off to Jinsei’s left, a narrower stair climbed upwards, giving access on one landing to the Andrew D. White Reading Library.

  The door to the White Library rattled in its frame, as if some prankster had hold of the knob on the other side.

  “Who’s there?” Jinsei called, feeling foolish. Like the main doors, the entry to the White Library was made of glass, and she could see without moving that there was no one touching it within. Still . . .

  She ascended the stair to the landing, drawn as if by a magic spell. The door continued to rattle; standing before it, she peered inside, straining, for the lights were out and it was difficult to see. Even so, enough light filtered in from the lobby and the outer windows for Jinsei to make out an amazing fact: it was snowing in there, actually snowing! And of course what had happened should have been obvious at that point, but for an instant she was completely taken by the illusion, it truly looked as if it were snowing indoors, and then the Tower Clock began to chime midnight.

  “Magic,” Jinsei whispered, hardly realizing she had said it. As the New Year became reality, she laid her hand on the knob and pushed the door inward. A blast of cold air greeted her as she stepped inside.

  IX.

  As the Clock chimed its twelfth chime, Puck angled the biplane in for a final approach, a single wing-light his only aid in targeting the hangar entrance. “You did leave the doors open, didn’t you?” Puck asked, but Hobart made no response; he had been silent throughout the fight.

  In fact Hobart did say one thing, as they swept in toward the Tower pinnacle and the beam of the wing-light confirmed that the hangar doors were open. He said: “Something is not right here.” It was a mutter only, and Puck never heard it.

  Then with a single bump they were landed inside, braking to a stop. The wing-light pierced the darkness, picking out the wreckage of Hobart’s glider at the rear of the hangar.

  “Jesus, Troilus, and Cressida,” Puck muttered. “What did you do to that, Hobart?”

  One again Hobart made no answer. The Eldest was otherwise occupied, sniffing the air. The hangar was crisp and cold, smelling principally of fresh snow, but beneath that there was another smell, far less pleasant.

  “Hobart?” asked Puck, for he too had caught the underscent. “What is—”

  “The Fates!” Hobart swore, coming suddenly to life. “Get us out of here! Get us out of here right now!”

  “What—” Puck began to say, and then the first Rat leapt up on the biplane’s left wing, sword drawn to kill. Puck did not balk at the absurdity—a Rat on two legs, wielding a weapon—he merely brought up his own sword, which lay unsheathed on the floor of the cockpit, and caught the Rat coming in, piercing it through the breastbone. It twisted away into the darkness with a squeal, wrenching Puck’s sword out of his hands.

  Now from all around them in the dark shadows of the hangar came the sounds of swords being drawn, crossbows being cocked. The full complement of Rasferret’s Rats had been waiting here for over an hour, in the hope that the master of the Tower might return alone, or in such scant company as to be an easy mark. Fate had handed them a splendid opportunity.

  “Turn us around!” Hobart was shouting, his own sword out, ready to defend. Puck, unarmed, was turning the plane, praying that the creatures would not think to shut the hangar doors. As long as the escape route remained open there was a chance, no matter how outnumbered they were; the biplane had a couple of good surprises in it.

  Crossbow bolts struck the wings and fuselage of the plane as it swung around. One lucky shot smashed the wing-light; now the only illumination, what there was of it, came through the hangar doors. Emboldened, the Rats pressed forward. Some came at the sides of the plane, and Hobart fought wildly with these, finding strength in panic. A good many others moved to block the exit; as the plane completed its turn, Puck could see them, silhouetted against the opening.

  As Hobart struggled behind him, crying out as he was wounded, the younger sprite reached low in the cockpit to find an almost forgotten switch—the switch connecting to the mini-cannons. You’ll probably blow your own wings off, he remembered Zephyr saying about them. And maybe I will, he thought now.

  “Happy New Year, you bastards.” He flipped the switch and the biplane jumped. Fire licked from beneath the lower wings, the blast resounding like a great cymbal crash. Eleven Rats were killed instantly, ripped apart by flying buckshot; a twelfth was blown clean out of the hangar.

  Puck saw his chance. Keeping one eye on a nasty web of cracks in the lower right wing assembly, he throttled the biplane forward. But at least one of the Rats had some intelligence after all—the hangar doors were sliding rapidly closed, pulled by hidden counterweights. Already the opening seemed too narrow. Refusing to be trapped inside, Puck shoved the throttle to full and went for it anyway.

  Both wing assemblies sheared clean off.

  X.

  The door snicked shut behind her. Jinsei stood on the green-carpeted floor of the White Library, staring at the gaping ruin of the north bay window. Here was the source of the crash: a man-sized hole had been punched through the glass. Wind and snow funneled in through the breach, dusting the Library. So it was no magic trick, after all. But there was magic here, of a darker sort.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Cast-iron gantried bookstacks rose up two tiers high along the Library walls. It was from the upper tier, hidden in darkness, that the sound came.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Jinsei should have been frightened, then. She should have asked herself just what precisely had punched such a large hole through the north window, should have turned, should have run. Instead, her earlier fear dissipated and, careful not to step on any broken g
lass, she made her way to the northwest corner of the room, where a circular stair led up to the tiers.

  Tap—

  Foot on the first step, face trance-like, some deep part of her trying to warn her to flee, her body paying no heed to the warning.

  —tap—

  Passing the lower tier, halfway up, climbing faster and faster.

  —tap.

  And now she had reached the top, stepped out onto the high tier. A few more brisk paces and she had come to a catwalk that reached from the west wall of the room to the east. Here she paused.

  At the far end of the catwalk—which was not far at all, for the White Library is long but narrow—a pale sheet, ghostly in the darkness, stretched between two bookshelves like a shower-curtain. The sheet swung back and forth, beckoning her. Hidden behind it was the source of the sound, a rapping of metal against metal.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Three long strides and Jinsei stood directly before the curtain. Again she paused, that inner voice screaming, shrieking at her. Unmindful, her left hand rose to pull aside the sheet. Her fingers brushed the fabric, which seemed almost alive.

  From somewhere higher came another sound, like a muffled gunshot. Jinsei’s hand faltered.

  The sheet swept aside anyway. The Rubbermaid uncoiled from behind it, swinging the mace upwards in a diagonal arc. If Jinsei had hesitated in the slightest—if she had taken time to scream, for example—the police might well have found her body lying beside the broken window, snow-frosted, head dashed open.

  She did not hesitate; she threw herself backward with the blessed speed of reflex. Even so the first swing might have finished her, had her feet not chosen that same moment to tangle beneath her. She fell flat on her back on the catwalk, the mace stroke whipping past her as she tumbled, the tip of the weapon brushing the tip of her nose like a lover’s caress.