by Matt Ruff
Small dark shapes came swarming over the burial mound after him. All the storyteller could think of was Gulliver and the Lilliputians. He scrambled backwards, groping for some sort of weapon. One hand clutched a stone and hurled it, felling two of his opponents.
The Rats returned fire. George’s chest became a pin-cushion; only luck saved him from a serious puncture or the loss of an eye. He continued to retreat, yanking the miniature bolts out of himself as another volley flew.
All at once he felt something cold and hard beneath him. He gripped it in his fists: an iron bar, left lying in the grass. Using the small crosspiece at one end of the bar like a mallet head, he swept through the advancing ranks (he still could not clearly see what they were), batting them right and left like croquet balls.
Crossbow bolts were no longer flying; now it was the Rats who were airborne. Suddenly overmatched, they routed, scattering for safety, and George let them go with one last swing. “Send something bigger next time!” he called after them, only later reflecting that this might not have been a wise thing to say.
Bleeding from a dozen pin-sized wounds, the storyteller stood up and continued his walk. Coming to The ‘Yard’s northern fringe, he found Calliope’s present easily enough; the moon led him right to it. Though the PANDORA stone was no more, the spearhead that Calliope had thrust into the bole of an oak tree on her way out of town still remained. Its exposed portion glimmered like a beacon.
George grabbed at it and tried to pull it out, succeeding only in slicing a finger. The spear blade wanted to cut something, yet the oak held it fast. George had another idea. He raised the iron bar, inserting it into the square socket at the base of the spearhead.
It fit perfectly.
“OK,” George said. “OK, I think I understand.”
“Understand?” a chuckling voice said behind him. “You make it sound as if you really do know something. But then I didn’t choose you for humility; that’s not a storyteller’s trait.”
George turned, pulling as he did the bar which was now a shaft, drawing the spearhead out of the oak easily, revealing the inscription: Fractor Draconis.
“Who are you?”
Mr. Sunshine smiled from his seat atop a squat tombstone. His sandaled feet were crossed one over the other, and in his hair a circlet of laurel leaves rustled with the wind.
“Someone very old, that’s who I am,” Mr. Sunshine said. “And a Storyteller. You’ve guessed that much correctly.”
“You put me in a fairy tale.” George replied. “That’s what all this is, isn’t it, a fairy tale brought to life?”
“Close enough. I didn’t have to Meddle much to fit you in the Story, though. You’re a very lucky coincidence for me, George—if I’d ever Written about Ithaca before I’d have to wonder if the Monkeys had something to do with you. Your first and middle initials are almost too much to believe.”
“St. George,” the storyteller nodded, a last piece of the puzzle falling into place for him. “And the Dragon Parade’s tomorrow.”
“Now that I had a little more of a hand in,” admitted the Storyteller.
“So the Princess is asleep,” George continued, “and what happens next is the Dragon comes to life somehow, and I kill it to save her and the town from—” But here he stopped, for Mr. Sunshine had burst out with a familiar-sounding laugh.
“I kill it,” the Storyteller repeated, amused. “Ego! Ego! We’re not rewriting Romeo and Juliet here, George. It’s my Story, and no one said you’re obliged to survive it, or live happily ever after with the woman. I like tragedy; after all, I’m Greek.”
“But your fairy tale’s about a Saint, with the Brothers Grimm thrown in for good measure, so how Greek . . .”
“My Story,” the Storyteller insisted, “is about a Fool on a Hill, a Fool who has put the wind at his beck and call, a Fool who accepted without question when his Uncle told him that artists were the only beings other than the gods who could grant immortality. Which is a dangerous attitude to take, whether you’re Greek pagan, Christian, or Jew.”
“But if you’re a storytelling pagan,” George countered, “it’s the only attitude to take.”
More laughter. “Pity you aren’t really immortal, George—I have a feeling we’d have made good friends. Same pride, same spirit of hanging on to the end, never admitting defeat. Who knows, maybe the Fool who rushes in really can save the day"—he raised an eyebrow—"or at least die in a truly interesting fashion, one worthy of a Story.”
“Promise me,” George pressed him, “promise me Aurora gets to live if I win.”
“Promise you? Oh, please, I—”
“It’s a good ending, damn it! Save your damn tragedy for some masochist who’ll get off on it, not me.”
“Patience, George. The Ending hasn’t even been Written yet. But if I were you, I’d be more worried about the Dragon than the Lady.”
“I’ll win,” George insisted. “I’ll win whether you want me to or not. But when I win, Aurora gets to live, OK? Deal?”
“Go home and get some sleep,” the Greek Original said. “Tomorrow I’ll call you when it’s time, and we’ll write the last Chapter together.”
“Wait—” George reached out, to restrain him or run him through with the Spear, it did not matter which, for all at once Mr. Sunshine flickered like a projected image and faded out.
“No, no, no!” George cut the air with the Spear blade as if trying to bleed it. “You come back here! You come back here!”
Fool or Saint, he received no answer, not even a mocking laugh, and all was still in The Boneyard except for a light breeze that wafted the scent of hills, and rain, and laurel.
Book Four
THE IDES OF MARCH
1866—AT THE HILL’S CREST
. . . And so at the last they reach the top, the gullied pasture that is the crest of The Hill. There are no school buildings here yet, no students, but Mr. Sunshine can sense them like phantoms still to be. The thing he does not sense, no matter how hard he squints into the Future, is the one thing that would make his Story idea complete.
“No Dragon,” he sighs. “Not even a statue of one. Maybe at Oxford . . .”
“Ahem,” says Ezra Cornell, his boots caked with mud, his strength sapped by the long climb.
“Well Hades,” continues Mr. Sunshine, ignoring him. “Hades, I’ve got this much, I suppose I could Meddle out a Dragon. Did you say"—all at once Cornell is present again—"that you planned to have instruction in every study?”
“Eventually,” Cornell agrees. “But as you can see, there’s not much to see right now, so I’d really appreciate it if we could—”
“Engineering?” Mr. Sunshine presses him. “Architecture and design?”
“Of course engineering and architecture. What—”
“Then that’s it.” The Greek Original withdraws into his own musing. “A budding architect or engineer, sort of fellow who likes building things. I could send Calliope to inspire him. And it could be a yearly event, a college tradition, the Annual Snow Dragon, maybe . . .”
“My dear sir,” Cornell tries once again, “I’m cold. I would like to go home now.”
“Certainly,” Mr. Sunshine surprises him by saying. “Certainly, you need your rest. You have a great undertaking in the works here—and I have quite a Story.” He hands Ezra the lantern. “Build your University well, Mr. Cornell. I have interesting things in mind for it.”
“Do you?” Cornell sounds less than fascinated; his thoughts are already on the long walk down to town. He is more than a little surprised when Mr. Sunshine vanishes into thin air a moment later; even before that, he is startled by Mr. Sunshine’s last words to him.
“There will have to .be women here, of course, “the Greek Original says in parting. “Your plan for coeducation is a good one. If Denman Halfast gives you any more trouble warn him that he’d better start listening to reason or risk waking up one day with the ears of an ass.”
He smiles, fading.
<
br /> “I can still do that, you know . . .”
Fading.
Gone.
And then Cornell is alone, and all is still on The Hilltop except for a light breeze that wafts the scents of hills, and rain, and laurel.
DAWN OF THE IDES: THE DEATH
I.
Five A.M., pre-dawn of the March Ides.
Blackjack woke from nightmare. He’d crawled into a dark place out of the wind to sleep and at first did not remember where he was. A dog crouched near him, its scent mixing and fusing with the scent of another dog from his dreams.
“Luther?” he said, confused.
“It be Rover. Rover Too-Bad.” The Puli was a blacker outline against the black velvet of the sky, still unblemished by first light. The moon had set an hour ago.
“What do you want?” Blackjack demanded testily, secretly glad to be awakened. He retained no shred of what had passed through his mind during sleep, but it had not been pleasant. There had been blood in the nightmare, much of it his own. . . .
“I an’ I be sent to tell you ‘bout an ‘emergency assembly’ Boss-Dahg be callin’ at sunrise. Everyone be there, he say: dahg, caht, whatever.”
“Assembly? What the hell for? It’s not time yet for the graduation ceremonies and I’m damned if I’d go to them anyway. I want more sleep, thank you. Or, hmmm—” He sniffed; the scent of rat was surprisingly strong in the air. “—hmm, maybe an early breakfast would be nice.”
“Blackjack,” said Rover, “why you give me shit, eh? T’ink I an’ I want to bother you? Listen—meetin’ called by Boss-Dahg. The Dean. You have to go.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Blackjack said warningly.
“There’s been a death, Blackjack. A killin’. Do you understand that?”
“A killing? Human or animal?”
“Bulldahg. Some Bulldahg torn to pieces.”
“Torn to pieces by what?”
“That’s why Boss-Dahg call assembly. Some t’ink it was dahg wit’ the rabies, even wolf, but others . . . it be very bad, Blackjack. You remember Lady Bucklette, Collie bitch wit’ long teeth? She goin’ aroun’ half the night, tellin’ everyone who listen that mongrels do this t’ing, ‘mongrel agitators’ she say.”
Blackjack understood at once the need for an assembly. Bad enough to have a rogue predator loose on The Hill, but if Purebred began to turn against mongrel in suspicion . . . “There’ll be no end to trouble,” he finished the thought.
“You come now, Blackjack?” Rover asked him. “I an’ I got others to find.”
“Sure, I’ll come,” the Manx agreed. “But what do you think it was, Rover? Could there really be a wolf here?”
“I an’ I don’t know ‘bout wolf,” replied the Puli, “but this be one big mother, wolf or not. I an’ I see the body—Jah love, Bulldahg torn apart.”
II.
“Order!” Excalibur III, Sheepdog and Dean of Canine Studies, barked fiercely at Ezra Cornell’s statue. “Quiet down, why don’t you!”
The sun was just creeping over the horizon, and the scene on the Arts Quad was very similar to that seven months ago at the initial Dog’s Convocation, but with about twenty times the hostility. The mongrels had once again drawn into a tight, protective knot, with the campus cats—on direct request from the Dean—placed unwillingly in a ring around them, to create a buffer zone. Many Purebreds were openly antagonistic, and Bucklette the Collie continued to exhort them.
“Damn it!” Excalibur fumed. “I want order!”
With some difficulty his Doberman aides got him turned around to face the crowd, after which his pleas for order had a much greater effect. Bit by bit the assembled dogs quieted, but the silence, when achieved, was a very uneasy one.
“That’s better!” said the Dean, squinting beneath the thatch of hair that covered his eyes. “Now what the jolly hell is going on here, eh? Have we got the jolly rabies, one of us? Frothing? Feral? Speak up!”
“It’s anarchy!” Bucklette spoke up.
“Anarchy?” beneath Excalibur’s sternness there was a note of fear. “What’s this?”
“It’s no secret!” the Collie went on. “We all know they’ve got it in for us.”
“They who?” piped up Denmark from among the mongrels. “Which they are you referring to?”
“Jus’ so, sister,” added Rover Too-Bad, the only Purebred to openly cross party lines. “I an’ I would also like to know.”
“Listen to me!” Bucklette appealed to those around her. “Listen, it’s common knowledge that certain dogs take a very negative view of the Fourth Question. With no concept of or respect for proper scholarship, it shouldn’t surprise us that they’d resort to organized violence.”
“What’s all this ‘us’ and ‘they’ garbage?” Denmark demanded. “You—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence!” Bucklette snapped ("What intelligence?” muttered a tabby on Blackjack’s right). “You mongrels are nothing but a bunch of self-segregating snobs who live in the past and try to blame Purebreds for your feelings of paranoia. We don’t ostracize you, you ostracize yourselves, and I for one am sick and tired of having to be afraid every time I run into one of your packs. I don’t want revenge taken on me for imagined prejudices that I never had anything to do with.”
“Imagined prejudices?” cried out another mongrel who was missing half an ear.
“If we’re paranoid,” questioned Denmark, “how is it that you’re the one who’s always afraid?”
“I asked you not to insult my intelligence!”
“Well I’m sorry, my dam raised puppies, not miracle-workers.”
“You insolent—”
“Order!” Dean Excalibur overrode them again. “Order, order, order, this is going too fast and I’m getting confused! Now I don’t want any more quibbling, I want bloody facts. Slow facts.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” one of the Dobermans put in, “but we have an expert witness ready, if you’d like. Sureluck?”
A very ancient and dilapidated Bloodhound detached himself from the throng of Purebreds and came forward, moving slowly but not without dignity. Excalibur squinted at him.
“At your service, sir,” the Bloodhound said respectfully.
“Eh? Who’s this fellow?”
“His name is Sureluck,” a Doberman explained.
“He’s rabid, you say?”
“No sir, not at all. He’s a witness, sir.”
“Well, he certainly doesn’t look rabid. I see no foam, no—”
“Begging your pardon, sir. Sureluck isn’t rabid. He’s the one who found the body, and he’s done some sniffing around for us.”
“The body? What body?” Then, after a pause during which one could almost hear the Sheepdog’s scattered thoughts crawling back toward each other across the battlefield of his mind: “OH! Oh, that body, of course! The Bulldog, you mean. Jolly good! And tell me, do we know who this Bulldog was?”
Sureluck answered: “Yessir, Sergeant Slaughter has already identified the victim as one of his own.” Slaughter, who sat ringed by Boxers, affirmed this.
The mongrel Denmark turned to one of his companions. “Beats all, doesn’t it?” he commented discreetly. “'Bred victim, ‘Bred witnesses, a ‘Bred bitch howling for blood, and a half-senile ‘Bred running the whole show. You suppose we’ll get to play any part at all?”
“Half-senile my wagging tail,” came one response. “Try three-quarters.”
“Oh Denmark,” said another, “the Accused is a very important role, didn’t you know that? So’s Martyr.”
“Where and when did you find the body, Surelatch?” Excalibur was asking. “Begin at the beginning, end at the end, don’t go too fast, and all that. . . .”
“It’s Sureluck, sir,” the Bloodhound corrected him patiently. “Well, I was out scrounging for a bite to eat some good time before dawn—the moon was still high, sir—and my wanderings took me down by the Western Campus. I smelled blood, sir, and at first I thought some
kind Master had thrown out a steak or two, but I soon discovered I was mistaken. He’d been ripped in pieces—the Bulldog—torn in half, and then again, and partly eaten, I’m afraid.” The Bloodhound’s tone was calm and almost matter-of-fact, but more than a few of his listeners were horrified. Bucklette could barely contain herself.
“That’s barbaric!” she snapped, growling accusingly at the mongrels. “But not entirely surprising!”
There were answering growls; caught in the middle, the cats tensed nervously, ready to scoot out of the way and mind their own business should a riot erupt.
“Sir?” said Sureluck, tensing a little himself.
“Yes, please excuse me,” replied Excalibur. “Order!” he demanded. “Please continue, Shotluck.”
“Yessir. As you may have guessed, sir. I’m not very fast going upslope, and I knew you’d want to be informed as soon as possible. Fortunately I was able to find Rover, there, in the vicinity.”
“I an’ I be visitin’ the Lady Babylon,” offered the Puli. “Long may she live.”
Sureluck continued: “I sent Rover up-Hill right away with the news. As for myself, I sniffed around carefully a bit longer, trying to see where the killer might have gotten to. I had to be most careful, of course—it must have been a very large animal.”
“What about a pack?” queried Bucklette impatiently. “It could have been a pack, couldn’t it?”
“A pack?” echoed the Bloodhound. “Oh no, no, it was one animal, I’m quite sure. I picked up only one scent.”
Another Purebred spoke up. It was Skippy, the Beagle, for once too frightened to hop about: “Was it . . . was it really a wolf?”
“Eh? No, no, no, a dog, I should think. How would a wolf get here?”
Bucklette again: “What kind of dog?”
“A big dog, as I said.”
“Yes, as you said, but what kind of big dog?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question. The four-legged kind, what other kind is there?”