Fool on the Hill

by Matt Ruff

  “You weren’t there. You didn’t see—”

  “I don’t have to see. Try to be less violent, that’s fine. I’ll rest easier. But it’s OK to forgive yourself, too.”

  “No. No, it isn’t, you don’t understand. Too much of the Klancraft . . . if I let myself off the hook, ease up once then the next time I face down somebody like Jack I’ll be patting myself on the back, good job. And then . . . then don’t you see what would happen? I’ll never be anyone’s knight in shining armor. I’m like them; I don’t have the stuff for it. Too much of my father in me.”

  Jinsei, looking unconvinced, touched the left temple of his sunglasses with a finger. “Could you please take these things off?” she said, then did it herself before he could reply. “That’s better. You have pretty eyes, you shouldn’t hide them.

  “Listen, Rag, no one’s asking you to be a knight or a saint. You can leave that job to somebody else. What I need you for . . . well, I’d like to have you as a friend. I need one now, especially with Preacher gone. I need somebody I can talk to about what happened on New Year’s Eve. But it won’t be much use if that somebody is eating themself up inside.”

  “I’m not as good a person,” Ragnarok insisted, “as you seem to think I am.”

  And at this she laughed, and caught him completely by surprise by punching him playfully in the arm. “You bullshitter,” she said. “You must be from the Carolinas, I’ve never heard such crap from anyone up North.”

  “Huh,” was all he could reply to this. “Huh.”

  “So listen, I’m getting cold, what do you say we hop back on your bike and . . .”

  “Jinsei?”

  “Oh my God,” she said, not looking at him now, looking beyond him, to the road at the far side of the bridge. He turned to see, and there at the second curve, the one that vanished around The Hill, a corona like the glow from approaching headlights was filtering through the trees—but blue, the glow was blue. Like the color of the hottest part of a flame.

  “That’s strange,” Ragnarok commented. He was about to say something more but the truck came into view around the curve, blue headlights and all, and suddenly Jinsei was doing the talking.

  “Get on the bike,” she told him. “Get your bike started, come on, come on, let’s go!"

  “What’s the matter? Wh—”

  “Come on!” Ragnarok found himself in motion; Jinsei astounded him again by grabbing him and half-shoving, half-dragging him to the parked motorcycle. Catching her urgency, he threw a leg over it, felt her climb on behind him. He gave the kick-start a try and got only a weak sputter.

  The truck rounded the near curve, turning onto the bridge. Ragnarok looked into the oncoming headlights, less than forty feet away, and froze, hypnotized. “Eyes,” he said. “They look like eyes . . . .”

  “It killed Preacher!” Jinsei shouted into his ear. “Go!"

  She raised a hand and pinched his neck, hard. He came alive, realizing their peril, and with the truck bearing down for the kill hit the starter again. Another sputter. Furious, Ragnarok bent the bike to his will and gave it a third kick, third to pay for all. This time the engine caught with a bellow. He twisted the throttle and they shot forward, skidding on a patch of ice, not quite losing control, making a giddy assault on Fall Creek Drive.

  “All right,” Ragnarok said, when the bike had steadied somewhat. “All right, all right.” The road was slick and eager to spin them out, but even at a careful pace they were in the clear now. The Drive started out on an incline, and even at low speed there was no eighteen-wheeler running that could keep up with a motorcycle.

  “Faster!” Jinsei commanded. He checked the rear-view mirror and saw that, possible or not, the truck hadn’t dropped behind yet. It took the incline without a grumble—without any engine-noise at all, as a matter of fact—and gained ground rather than losing it.

  “Jesus. Jesus, that’s not a Mack, that’s a trout!” He told the road ice to go screw and burned the throttle again, making the bike fly. The truck kept pace, drawing on, no more than fifteen feet behind now.

  The Drive was narrow, with the gorge on one side and a row of houses on the other. There was barely enough room for one vehicle, and it occurred to Ragnarok that if a car were to come along moving the other way, the rig would be forced to stop . . . unless it drove right through it.

  “It’s still gaining!”

  “It can’t be!” said Ragnarok, although it was. The motorcycle hovered up near sixty now, the suspension bridge shot by on the right and was gone like a bad memory. Just ahead the Drive curved, and the Bohemian said a quick prayer that it wouldn’t be too slippery.

  Almost . . . the motorcycle started to slide and Ragnarok gave it an extra goose, his left boot kissing off leather against the ground. The bike hung on, but now an intersection loomed ahead, no choice other than to slow down a little and hope a sharp right might shake the pursuit.

  The truck nearly had them there, coming around the curve itself with minimum skidding, hugging the road in defiance of momentum. It should have jackknifed, slammed sideways into the tennis courts that now lined the right side of the road, but the trailer stayed obediently with the cab. The wheels labored against the ice and asphalt, the engine remaining eerily silent; it was the pigs, the screaming of the pigs, that proved loudest.

  The intersection: Ragnarok took it at forty, again only barely avoiding a fatal slide. He made it tight and reaccelerated as soon as they were out of it. The rig, not bothering to slow, swung a much wider turn. This time the trailer fishtailed out, caving in the side of a parked car, knocking a NO PARKING AT ANY TIME sign clear off its post and sending it wickering through the window of a house.

  They were on Thurston Avenue now, North Campus, the road was a flat-out run with Risley, the East Avenue Bridge, and Central Campus dead ahead. Cashing in the last of his luck, Ragnarok took the bike up as high as it would go, sixty, seventy, eighty . . . Risley was past before he even had a chance to think of pulling in there.

  “Still coming!” Jinsei shouted. There were no other vehicles on the road, not a one, though the hour was not so late. Too convenient . . . it was an open dragstrip, with a few nighthawk pedestrians to watch the unlikely sight of a jet black motorcycle being gradually overtaken by a motorless truck. The screaming of the pigs had become a demon-chorus now, the name of this rig is Legion. . . .

  “Haven’t got us yet, partner!” Ragnarok cried. They were across the East Avenue Bridge in a twinkling, the truck only ten yards back now, seven . . . “Hang on, Jin!”

  He cut right, riding the sidewalk down between Rand and Lincoln Halls, certain to Jose control and kill them both, keeping the bike upright despite this certainty. The truck followed them, zigzagging impossibly, scraping off paint and metal but not crashing, not jackknifing. And Ragnarok did the impossible as well, kept just ahead.

  Down and onto the Arts Quad, snow under the tires now, snow tinged blue by headlights that were far too close. The rig surged forward but Ragnarok would not let it catch them, he willed a last bit of speed out of the motorcycle even though the throttle was as far open as it could go. Running out of options, he cut a beeline for the opening between McGraw and White Halls, while a trio of undergraduates scattered before the approach of the hunt.

  “The Slope,” Ragnarok whispered, beneath the screaming of the pigs. “Let’s see how you like the Slope, partner.”

  It came on, closing the gap, two yards, one. The truck’s front grille was weeping with snow kicked up by the motorcycle’s rear wheel when they broke between the two grey buildings and all at once faced the drop-off of Libe Slope. Coming right up to the edge, Ragnarok simultaneously released the throttle and made a hard turn. The bike refused the maneuver; Jinsei cried out as it threw them both, ground falling away, wind and sky rushing around them.

  The truck did not even try to save itself. Pursuing them to the last, it hurtled suicidally over the lip of the Slope, knocking the riderless motorcycle out of its way before losin
g all control. At last it jacknifed, throwing up great gouts of snow and turf as it cracked over on its side. The horn gave a blast as it slid down the Slope, momentum carrying it all the way down to West Avenue, where it came to a battered rest beside Baker Hall. Windows began to open all over the dorm; and as the startled residents looked out at the wreckage, the squealing of the pigs could still be clearly heard.

  As Jinsei’s senses came back to her she felt the cold comfort of a snowbank on her limbs. Her hands flew automatically to her throat, but no, that had been another night. Opening her eyes carefully, she strove to sit up . . . not a bone broken, somehow.

  Ragnarok was already on his feet. Limping badly, he lurched across the face of the Slope to the twisted wreck of his motorcycle. It was not the vehicle he wanted, but the black mace still held in the tube rack on its side. He yanked this free and turned toward the dead truck.

  “No . . .” Jinsei tried to warn him. She had no voice, the strength had gone out of it. Filled with the old fury, drawing his own power from that, Ragnarok tumbled and slid down to the Avenue. The blue was fading from the truck’s headlights as he approached it—they phased to a more normal yellow-white and then went out completely.

  “I don’t know who you are, partner,” the Bohemian shouted, hefting the mace, “but if you’re not already dead you’re going to be very sorry. . . .”

  His leg twisted under him but he refused to let it give, he dragged himself forward on his good leg. Reaching the toppled cab, he circle the front grille, ready to dash out what was left of the windshield and get at whatever remained of the driver . . . and what he saw very neatly made him drop his weapon.

  There was no one in the cab.

  No one at all.

  He shuddered with a sudden chill, and then his leg did give, spilling him to the ground, cold and hard and far more real than what he was seeing in front of him.

  One of the back doors of the trailer fell off with a crash. Pigs flooded out. Now it sounded as if they were laughing.

  HAMLET SEES A GHOST

  I.

  The Hill’s sprites had, by this time, begun to realize that something was wrong. A pattern of disappearances had begun in January, when two of the Little People out searching for Puck had vanished. Winter had devoured them, seemingly; a second search had provided no hint as to their fate, though it did create four more missing. By early February no less than thirty-five sprites were unaccounted for, an average of one per day since New Year’s. Eldest Hobart, who alone could have given full explanation for the disappearances, still lay in feverish slumber within the walls of the Straight.

  That his army remained a secret, its number now swollen to many times the original twenty Rats, pleased Rasferret to no end. If the Big People were proving resourceful, at least his original enemies remained as blind and unsuspecting as they had been a century ago. Oh, they sensed their peril, there was no doubting that, but by the time they realized the source of the danger it would be too late. Until that final confrontation, death would continue to stalk them stealthily, taking one or two at a time, leaving no trace.

  Death came calling for Hamlet just past dusk on the sixth of February. It found him home.

  II.

  Snow was falling again, dusting the frozen surface of Beebe Lake, dusting the roof of the tiny hut at the tip of Hamlet’s island. It stood alone, a far call from any other sprite habitation. More than a few concerned friends—Zephyr among them—had suggested that it might not be wise to remain in a place so isolated while sprites continued to vanish on a daily basis. Hamlet had only smiled; he liked his solitude, and should some bogie with sharp teeth wish to disturb him, it would face a loaded crossbow wielded by an extremely good shot.

  But Hamlet was not carrying his crossbow that evening as he stepped out of his hut; he left it inside along with his sword. Holding a fairy lantern in either hand, he braced himself against the cold and walked the short distance to where his model battleship, the Prospero, hulked out of the ice. Puck had once asked him what he would do with the ship during winter, and Hamlet’s answer was that he might just put it on runners, making an iceboat out of it. So he had; but the latest freeze had caught him by surprise, and the runners were now locked firmly beneath the lake surface until the next thaw. Unable to free it, Hamlet checked often to make sure that neither damp nor frost got at the engines, which he had assembled using parts purloined with great difficulty from the Cornell physics labs.

  A twine ladder hung down the side amidships. Hamlet took the lanterns up one at a time, clipping the first onto a line halfway to the bow. It cast a green glow over the deck, which was slick with frost and canted slightly to starboard; Hamlet was forced to step carefully.

  He took the second lantern and went below decks. The battleship was hollow, the interior one long hold that contained both the engines and the retracting catapult. Hamlet found a book for the lantern near the stern and had a look at the engine turbines. They were actually quite well protected against the elements, thickly oiled and wrapped in scavenged strips of plumbing insulation. But here . . . something had been at the insulation since his last visit, tearing it to get at the greased machinery beneath. He bent closer, noticing no immediate damage to the turbines; the vandal, probably an animal of some sort, must have been scared off.

  A Rat detached itself from the darkness of the forward hold while Hamlet was occupied. In silence it crept toward him, sword already drawn, meaning to run him through the back. If it had been alone, it might well have succeeded. But already a host of other Rats, having found Hamlet’s hut deserted, were scrambling up the sides of the battleship, scrabbling across the deck. Hamlet heard the patter of gnarled feet, heard the crash as one of them slipped and fell, and shut a look upwards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the gleam of approaching steel.

  The Rat lunged at him. but he had already sidestepped, snatching for the lantern on the wall. As the Rat stumbled past, Hamlet swung the fairy lamp, shattering it across the vermin’s snout. Green witchfire poured out over its eyes, igniting the fur on its head into a blazing green mane. Blind and in agony it spun about, and with a quick reversing maneuver Hamlet impaled it on its own sword.

  The Rat landed dead beside the engine turbines, but its fellows were at the deck hatch and starting to descend into the hold. As the fairy fire from the broken lantern spread, licking at the grease and insulation, Hamlet yanked at the engine start cord. All the power the turbines could produce would not lift the Prospero out of the ice—nor would that do him any good even if it were possible-but he did not have it in mind to move the whole ship, only a part of it.

  The engines started on the second try. The insulation had lit and was burning most cheerfully; racing flame and foes, Hamlet ran the length of the smoky hold, bowling over the first Rat down the ladder. Leaping onto the catapult platform he thumbed a switch; a section of the bow deck swung open above him—sending a trio of unsuspecting Rats over the sides—and the platform began to rise.

  Rats filled the hold, confused in the smoke. Some edged warily toward the fire, some hesitated at the base of the ladder, some surged up to the bow in search of Hamlet. They were too late; the platform had already risen out of their reach. Then a cable burned through and the engines died, sputtering. The platform stopped, three-quarters of the way to the open deck. Hamlet climbed the catapult arm but found himself trapped; Rats swarmed around the opening in the deck. One leveled a crossbow at him.

  Fire reached the Prospero’s fuel tank. The explosion was a small one, but it did blow a hole in the stern of the ship and incinerate a number of Rats. It also triggered the catapult firing mechanism. Hamlet was abruptly airborne. He made a poor projectile, describing a most peculiar arc as he tumbled head over heels through the air.

  These events happened so suddenly and in such rapid succession that, when Hamlet landed unhurt in a thatch of dead reeds on the far end of his island, he very nearly convinced himself that he’d been sleepwalking. Smoke drifting on the wind and
a flickering glow from the direction of the Prospero spoke against this notion, however, and he got to his feet carefully, terrified that his bones might realize their error and break in retrospect. If he had landed on the ice . . .

  Moving shakily, he dropped down onto the lake surface and made a beeline for the northern shore, counting on the snow to cover his passage. If the Rats had not thought to post scouts, he might just make it, catching a ride with a passing squirrel upslope to Helen-Newman Hall, where a few of his cousins lived.

  The Rats had posted scouts. Two of them lay dead at the edge of the bank, stabbed from behind. A ghost stood over them, cleaning his sword.

  “Evening, Hamlet,” the ghost greeted him. “Good to see you’re still in one piece.”

  For the second time in a very short period, Hamlet wondered if he might be dreaming. “You’re dead,” he informed the ghost. “Or at least, you’re supposed to be.”

  “Well so are you, eh?” The ghost nudged one of the Rat corpses. “I’ve been keeping an eye on them, but by the time I figured out what they were after it was too late to warn you. Good thing you still had some luck coming to you.”

  Sounds reached them, footfalls from across the ice. The surviving Rats had abandoned the Prospero and were renewing their search for Hamlet.

  “Come on, old friend,” the ghost said, sheathing his sword. “It’s time we went someplace a little safer. Hurry, now!”

  Confused to a point where he could hardly think straight, Hamlet gave up thought altogether, shrugged, and followed the ghost into the night. Behind them the snow swirled, the Prospero burned, and the Rats raged, furious over the loss of their prey, and fearful, too, of the punishment that was sure to result from their failure. Thresh was not a forgiving General.