Fool on the Hill

by Matt Ruff

  “Purebred or mongrel, you idiot!”

  Sureluck stared at her. “Can you smell the difference?”

  “Well,” the Collie faltered, “well no, but you’re supposed to be an expert witness.”

  Sureluck glanced discreetly at the mongrels. “How did it go?” he said. “‘My dam raised puppies, not miracle-workers.’ I’ll know what it is when we track it down, not before.”

  “Hmmph,” exclaimed Denmark. “An honest dog. How about that?”

  “Maybe you’re just too old,” Bucklette suggested. “Maybe your nose can’t be trusted anymore. I still say it was mongrel agitators. Everyone knows you can’t trust them.”

  “Enough of that.” Gallant, the St. Bernard, stood glowering behind her. “You’ve had your say, why don’t you quiet down for a while, now?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I say so, because I’m tired of your manure, because I’m a big dog too and can quarter you as easily as any wolf.”

  “Oh! Maybe you killed the Bulldog, then!”

  “Eh?” Sureluck broke in. “Oh no, didn’t I mention, I don’t believe I’d ever scented this dog before. And I’ve been around here a long time. Of course, if the Dean wishes I’d be happy to double-check everyone.” He sniffed loudly. “Say, who’s been eating rats and farting?”

  “Oh yea, oh yea,” Dean Excalibur said abruptly, once more confused and trying to catch up with the conversation. “Did somebody say something about a search party?”

  THE SPIDER’S WEB

  I.

  The sun came up high and bright, the sky dear at first but smelling of another storm in the making. All over North and West Campuses, and in student apartments in Collegetown and down the Hillside, the weekly ritual began, the deciding whether or not to blow off classes and start the weekend early.

  For the Architects at least it was an easy choice: their studies were suspended for Dragon Day, freeing them to concentrate on the last-minute business before the noon Parade. By ten-thirty many of them were already gathered on the Arts Quad, most in costume, many drinking steadily, working up toward critical mass. Costumes ranged from simple green greasepaint on the hands and faces to elaborate cardboard shells in the shapes of famous buildings. One extra-tall undergrad came as the Tower of Babel; he mingled with the crowd, quite drunk, making sexist remarks to the women and accusing the men of multiple acts of bestiality. Because he spoke in Esperanto and because the smile never left his face, nearly everyone felt flattered by his gibberish and complimented him in turn.

  Campus security was out early, high-strung after yesterday’s pandemonium, watching for any sign of further trouble as more and more people drifted into the Quad. By quarter past eleven a fair cross-section of Arts, Ag, ILR, Hum Ec, and Hotel students were out waiting, along with delinquent faculty, Bohemians, Blue Zebras, and a handful of zealous Engineers acting as forward spotters. Following tradition the Dragon would begin its journey in the Sibley Hall parking lot, come around the side of the building into the Quad, cut over past Lincoln Hall to East Avenue, and travel down to the Engineering Quad. There the Engineers would attack it, throwing mudpies, tomatoes, rotten cabbage—aerodynamically sound rotten cabbage—and, if the weather changed radically over the next half hour, snowballs. Then, unless the Dragon was overwhelmed—and the only Dragon ever to fall down, last year’s, had done so without any help from the Engineers—it would complete the circuit, right on Campus Road, right again on Central Avenue, and so back up to the Arts Quad for burning.

  “Good day for it,” Curlowski commented, overseeing the connection of the Dragon’s tail to the rest of the body. Midway through the linkup a cat without a tail and two dogs hurried by; Modine bent to pet them, but they avoided him neatly and continued on, moving with a purpose.

  Larretta Stodges, the Mastermind, strode across the parking lot, elbowing her way through the crowd of onlookers. “Is everything going all right?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Curlowski told her. “The weather’s perfect: not a breeze since early this morning, no clouds, and not freezing cold like last year.”

  “There’s a storm coming,” Larretta responded, not so pleased as he. “Can’t you smell it?”

  “Guess I don’t have a nose for storms. It looks fine, and the radio said—”

  “Never mind the radio. How’s the Dragon holding up?”

  The main body of the Dragon reared up vertically forty-five feet, and the inner wooden frame was set on wheels, like a siege tower. The skin was thick canvas, overlaid with dark green paper-plate scales. Set atop the body was the specially designed head, flame-thrower in place; below the jawline two taloned arms jutted from the body, large and menacing. The Dragon’s wings were also canvas, like the skin, but of a lighter weave and rigged to collapse against the body should the wind become too strong. On the ground, now fully connected, the Dragon’s tail stretched out another thirty feet behind it. It had no wheels but would be lifted and carried by a select group of Architects standing inside, while a second group pulled the body along with ropes.

  “It’s holding up very well,” Curlowski said, justifiably proud. “Better even than expected. I thought there might be some trouble with the head, but the extra weight from the flame tank doesn’t seem to have hurt the balance.”

  “So we’re ready to go at noon?”

  “Barring a disaster. Listen, though . . .” He lowered his voice.” . . . that flame tank’s still got me a little worried.”

  “Why? All the kinks were worked out of the design two nights ago. There shouldn’t be any problem.”

  “It’s not the design I’m talking about.” Curlowski lowered his voice still more, to a whisper. “There’s a fire marshal here, you know. For the burning, afterwards.”

  “And?”

  “Well come on, Larretta. This fire-breathing business was never officially approved. If a fire marshal’s watching and that thing starts spuming at the crowd . . .”

  “The angle of fire is way above everyone’s head. You know that, you helped build it. Unless Mary Poppins comes sailing by on her umbrella, there’s no danger to—”

  “I know there’s no danger,” Curlowski interrupted, “and you know there’s no danger, but what’s the fire marshal going to say?”

  The Mastermind pondered this; it was an unsettling thought, that the marshal might shut them down in the middle of the Parade.

  “No,” she decided. “No, he wouldn’t cancel the Parade, but he might make us stop and take the tanks out. We’ll have to keep it a secret until we get to the Engineering Quad. One good blast to scare the daylights out of them and I don’t care what happens afterwards.”

  “All right,” Curlowski agreed. “If worse comes to worse we can always send somebody up to pull the tanks.”

  “Right.” Already Larretta had put the problem behind her. She glanced at her watch. “Thirty-three minutes until we start. How long is the Parade supposed to take?”

  “An hour, maybe an hour and a half to complete the circuit. Why?”

  “My nose. I’ve got a bad feeling about this storm. . . .”

  II.

  The storm surrounded Ithaca in a shrinking ring, like a spider’s web drawing tight. Barely had Curlowski commented on the calmness of the air when the wind did pick up, blowing uncertainly, now this way and now that, bringing clouds from every direction. Mr. Sunshine—letting the style of the Story override his personal taste in weather—guided them in, spun the web.

  Now it is, of course, difficult to imagine a city the size of Ithaca becoming isolated from the outside world. A small town, some rural backwater out in Iowa, perhaps, could conceivably vanish off the face of the earth without anyone noticing, at least for a while. But a city of thirty thousand souls, with a major university and a smaller college on opposite hills, is another matter entirely. There are telephone calls, deliveries, commutings in and out every day, every hour. Ithaca, most would agree, could not be cut off without somebody taking no
tice very quickly.

  Yet that is exactly what happened. As the Ides marched on, as the storm drew nearer, as the web tightened, Ithaca began to sever its ties with the surrounding country. It became enchanted, a darkly enchanted fairy city; fewer and fewer communications passed in and out, and travelers chose another Road, to another place.

  One of the last beings to enter the enchanted city before the web closed completely came on four legs.

  III.

  The sign said ITHACA—2 MILES, and though Luther could not read it, he knew that his journey was almost over. Ragged and lean from many long weeks on the Road, he padded along a deserted stretch of Route 79, the same road he and Blackjack had come into Heaven on the first time.

  Heaven was just ahead of him now, rich and rain-smelling; Hell followed close on his tail. From this vantage point it was already possible to see the rapidly converging clouds, thick and grey and darkening near to black at the horizon. Lightning flickered within them, and cold fog swept the ground below, eating up the visibility. Terror of the storm kept Luther moving at a brisk pace, yet he knew it would overtake him long before he reached The Hill.

  “Oh Blackjack, please be alive when I get there,” Luther pleaded, moving still more quickly. Memories of recent dreams haunted him, dreams in which he came upon the savaged corpse of his old friend, and standing over it another, larger beast, sometimes the light-and-shadow-demon Raaq, sometimes the Purebred Dragon. I’ve been waiting for you, mange. . . .

  The wind shifted suddenly, purposefully. For the barest instant it blew directly from The Hill, and Luther caught a brief whiff of a familiar scent, a scent he was no doubt meant to catch.

  “He is waiting,” Luther whimpered. “He is waiting for me, he’s there ahead of me, just like in the dreams. . . .”

  Was it a test, a last test of courage from God or Raaq? I will not kill another dog, even my enemy. But if the Wolfhound was waiting, and found him, as he no doubt would find him . . .

  “It’s hopeless,” he told himself. “I'm dead. I’m a dead dog.”

  Yet he did not slow or falter in his course, did not let the knowledge of coming death overwhelm him. During his journey he had thought long about many things, among them Ruff’s philosophy about the purpose of life. Maybe it was all just a story, an entertainment for God and His angels. Luther believed at least that there must be some plan, a plan he did not understand but would not turn against.

  “But I’m afraid. I’m so afraid, Blackjack, please, please be still alive.”

  The first clouds were directly above him, now, and the leading edge of the fog snaked chillingly between his legs . . . like tendrils of smoke from the breath of a monster. He kept moving.

  HOBART TELLS A FINAL TALE

  I.

  Eldest sprite Hobart let out a low moan.

  “Julius? . . .”

  Zephyr sat on the edge of the bed—a padded matchbox with four headless Strike Anywhere posts—and wiped his brow with a cold sponge. Hobart jerked beneath the covers, exhibiting more movement than he had in months, but his eyes remained unfocused.

  “The fever seems to be breaking,” Butts, the physic, observed. “That’s a hopeful sign, at least.”

  Zephyr shrugged noncommittally. Her face was drawn and tired, and she bore the look of one who has lost or is on the verge of losing everything, hope included.

  “He’s been speaking in his sleep ever since he was brought here,” she said. Her voice was cold, like old embers. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Yes, but the signs . . . well, to this practiced eye, I’d say he might very well wake up—”

  “I’ve had enough of practiced eyes,” Zephyr interrupted. “Most of them seem to be in need of more practice. Two months ago you were telling me almost the very same thing, that he would either wake up soon or die, and either way it would be over and done with. Two months ago Hamlet was reassuring me that any day they’d find Puck, and that would be over too. And now . . . now, can your practiced eye tell me when they’ll find Hamlet?”

  Despite her words there was little anger in her tone; Zephyr had no energy for a proper fury. Nonetheless Butts backed away nervously and said no more.

  “I’m going to fly up to the Tower,” Zephyr told him, dropping the sponge into a thimble of water. “I have to tend to the Chimes. Watch him until I get back.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied Buns, not unhappy to see her go. Her temper had become frightful lately.

  Zephyr exited the healing rooms quickly, following a passageway that ran above the false ceiling of the Straight’s main lobby. Though she passed many sprites she knew she paused to speak to none; those few who attempted a greeting of their own were ignored. Puck would have recognized her mood, had he been there—it was the same mood that had consumed her the day she had led him on a ragtag chase through the skies down to The Boneyard. At her core Zephyr felt cheated, in the same way she had felt cheated by Puck’s infidelity with Saffron Dey. Fate had robbed her, with no explanation, of her lover and a good friend, and put her grandfather deep in coma; yet unlike a straying boyfriend, she could not kick Fate out of her bed or deny it her presence. That was the hardest thing: not having a concrete being to blame for her troubles.

  A hidden stair took her upwards, to the highest reaches of the building. There was no hangar, but a hatch opened at one of the roof peaks, and there was moored the gossamer glider, newly repaired, bucking in the swelling wind as if anxious for flight.

  The weather surprised her; the sky had been perfectly clear a few hours ago, yet now clouds threatened from all directions, leaving only a small pool of sunlight that centered directly over the crest of The Hill. Lightning flashed in the distance; the storm looked to be a nasty one.

  Zephyr climbed into the pilot’s sling and slipped the moorings. The wind took the glider immediately, yanking it into a climb. Zephyr banked toward the Tower—the Clock said ten to noon—her thoughts turning once more to Puck, and then, for the first time in a long time, to George. There was another one that Fate had, in a sense, robbed her of. Oh, she understood well enough now the truth that sprite and human could never match, yet it would be nice, kind, if she could talk with him about all her other losses. Surely he would be sympathetic, even though, now that he was in love, she found it difficult to imagine that he would have any real problems of his own to face.

  Wondering where George might be—and keeping one eye on the approaching cloud bank—she winged up to the Tower, paying no mind to the crowds swarming on the Arts Quad, and certainly not noticing the two tiny figures below her who were racing with utmost speed toward the very building she had just left.

  II.

  “Go.!”

  A freshman with a knapsack slung on his back knelt in front of the Straight to tie his shoelace, and Puck and Hamlet each caught hold of the end of one of the shoulder straps. The shoelace-tier finished his business and stood back up without the slightest inkling that he now carried two invisible piggy-backers. Moving with a stride greater than the broadest-jumping sprite could hope to match, he hopped up the Straight’s front steps and shoved through the swinging doors, headed for Oakenshields Dining.

  “Jesus, Troilus, and Cressida!” Puck cried out, as the freshman turned sideways to squeeze past a fat woman and nearly brushed him off. “Walk right, why don’t you?”

  “Calm down and get ready to move,” Hamlet suggested, as they passed through the second set of doors into the main lobby. Imminent Dragon Parade notwithstanding, the Straight was packed, some students here for lunch, others hoping to make a withdrawal from the bank to pay for this weekend’s partying. The lobby floor was a shifting mass of heavy feet, yet the two sprites dropped to it anyway, clutching at the freshman’s pants legs to slow their fall. The Cornellian felt the tug and hitched at his jeans, and then Puck and Hamlet were loose on the floor, weaving and dodging through the forest of feet. Twice Hamlet was nearly stepped on; a girl in an Angora sweater and matador boots almost did for Puck, but her
boyfriend came up behind her and swept her fortuitously off the ground at the last moment.

  At the base of one of the walls, beneath a bench, a secret door gave access to one of the sprite passageways. Safe inside, they rested only a moment before rushing up to the healing rooms. Like Zephyr before them, both ignored the sprites they passed, but they got a good deal more attention in return. Ghosts often do. Macduff, leader of the ill-fated Lab Animal Freedom Raid, watched Puck and Hamlet go by in astonishment and turned to follow them. So did his brother Lennox.

  And so it happened that all four sprites came bursting into the healing rooms, all babbling questions at once. Puck, by virtue of having the loudest voice, managed to get the amazed physics and attendants to show them where the Eldest was quartered. The babbling died down abruptly as they were ushered in.

  Hobart was sitting up in the bed.

  III.

  “Not trace,” Rover Too-Bad commented, nose to the ground. “Not single trace of it. I an’ I be t’inkin’ our wolf, he long gone.”

  “Pity,” said Blackjack, not feeling very pitying at all. “I can still smell rat just fine. Anyone for lunch?”

  The three of them—Blackjack, Rover, and the mongrel Denmark—were on a dirt trail on the south side of Fall Creek Gorge; the suspension bridge was just ahead on their left. They had been combing this general area for some hours now, the search hampered by the fact that only Rover knew the scent they were trying to pick up. Most of the dogs at the assembly had trotted first thing to West Campus to get a whiff near where the killing had taken place. Denmark, however, had wanted to get clear of the Purebreds as soon as possible, and Blackjack simply didn’t care to bother with the Slope.

  “I wish we could stop and eat,” Denmark said now. “But if this ‘wolf’ isn’t found soon . . .”

  “You’re nervous about Bucklette, aren’t you?” asked Blackjack.

  “All ‘Breds make me nervous.” He glanced at Rover. “Most ‘Breds, mean. That St. Bernard did surprise me this morning, speaking up like he did.”