Fool on the Hill

by Matt Ruff

  Actually, one sprite did see the Rats, yet said nothing: it was Laertes, the angry brother of Saffron Dey. He had been out walking in the Rain yesterday when something fell stinging into his eye; today his mind felt strangely . . . clear. He saw two of the vermin scuttle out from under the big dish machine carrying an object like a cherry bomb between them. He raised an eyebrow and went back to his business.

  Until the explosions began.

  IV.

  Lightning struck the Clock Tower at precisely noon. The bolt—crackling and blue—contacted the pinnacle of the Tower, but the whole structure seemed to surge briefly with electricity; the Clock stopped, hands frozen at twelve. A frightened murmur ran through the crowds below.

  “Jesus, Larretta—” Curlowski began.

  “Shut up!” The Mastermind wrung her hands in despair. The clouds boiled darkly in the sky above, and fog was creeping steadily up The Hill; to an observer standing on the crest of Libe Slope, the world would seem to end just below West Campus. “Damn it!” Larretta demanded of the weather. “Why did you have to pull this today? We had history made, here!”

  Curlowski was shouting to the Architects surrounding the Dragon now: “Get the wings folded! Get them down! Oh, f—”

  The wind gusted; another, louder murmur escaped the crowd. Larretta turned around and her heart broke.

  The Dragon was tottering.

  A moment later, it fell.

  V.

  The deep friers in the south end of the kitchen were the first things to go; those standing nearby heard a low blatting noise followed by a whoosh! and the oil was blazing. Half a breath later a sequence of explosions—it was impossible to count how many—rocked the place from end to end, damaging equipment, shattering pipes, spreading more flames. Throughout the Straight an alarm sounded as fire doors swung automatically shut. The human occupants of the building began a speedy exodus, and none so quick as the kitchen workers. A panic gripped the cooks, the pantry staff, the student help, sending them running. Someone hit a black EMERGENCY button on the wall in passing, activating mounted extinguisher jets that doused the friers, but other than that there was no attempt at fire control: the Big People just wanted out.

  Which left the sprites alone on a sudden battlefield filled with smoke, steam, and a host of enemies. “To arms!” the cry went up, as the Rats swarmed out in full force now, swords and bows drawn for the kill. Caught by surprise and in no small state of shock, the Little People reacted slowly at first, and were nearly overrun. Yet even as the first swords were crossed, Macduff arrived at the south end with one of the groups from upstairs (Puck was no longer among them). They counted not so much for reinforcement value as for the sense of battle-readiness they brought with them.

  “Aye, ye bastards!” Macduff cried, striding into the smoke unperturbed and impaling a Rat on his sword. “Aye!”

  The killing began in earnest.

  VI.

  The crowd watched the Green Dragon topple. Many of them had been present to see last year’s Dragon fall as well, had seen it land in a wreck, frame snapping under its own weight.

  Curious that it did not happen that way this time. The Dragon’s carven talons touched the ground and splayed out instead of breaking; the short arms bent to absorb the shock of landing. We didn’t design those to be flexible, Curlowski thought, his heart beating a little faster. The snout of the beast kissed the earth, yet rather than accordion in on itself, the neck—which had also not been designed to be flexible—bent smoothly, so that the Dragon’s chin rested comfortably on the grass. The wings ceased to flap in the wind and folded up neatly against the body. And the tail . . . the Dragon’s tail, which had originally connected to the whole at a ninety-degree angle, now ran smoothly out with no hint of such a sharp bend. The Architects who had been walking under it scurried out, and when the last of them moved away it became impossible to tell where the juncture was, or what had happened to the wheels beneath the main body structure.

  The thing no longer looked like an artificial construction. In the dimming light, it began to look more and more like it might be alive, or almost alive.

  Larretta caught her breath. As did Curlowski. And Modine. And the other Architects. And the campus police. And the crowd. They were all waiting for something to happen; they all knew, somehow, that something would. But none of them saw the sandaled figure perched on the roof of Goldwin-Smith Hall, a figure who had left his Writing Desk and come down to the World to take a ringside seat at this Story.

  “Hey-ho,” Mr. Sunshine spoke to the clouds. “Let’s clear the field, shall we?”

  The wind screamed; lightning flashed anew, lighting up the Sibley Hall Dome. A second bolt hit an old tree on the Quad, scattering branches and breaking the crowd’s paralysis. A stampede began, identical to the stampede at the Straight; as the thunder crashed over them like a wave, even Public Safety forsook their duty and scrambled to escape.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Sunshine said. “Run home, run hide. And sleep.”

  Doors flew open on the buildings surrounding the Quad; more refugees swarmed out. A group of Bohemians led by Lion-Heart linked arms and fought against the press of the crowd. Even with this safety precaution Z.Z. Top, well oiled on cheap beer, managed to become separated from his companions. While the rising tide of panic forced the others to abandon him in a rush for Risley, he blundered into the bushes along the western face of Lincoln Hall, crawled under, hid his face in the dirt, and passed out, waiting on the end of the world.

  The fog crested The Hill and crept over the floor of the Quad; the spider’s web was almost sealed.

  VII.

  Hobart’s group came out in DMO, Dish Machine Operations. This was a long rectangular area near the north end of the kitchens. Along one wall was the Dish Machine itself. Directly opposite it was a conveyor belt that brought in trays and dishware from the two dining areas. Running parallel to the last twenty feet of the belt was a trough through which water jetted constantly. Uneaten food scraps, napkins, and other garbage were dumped into the trough before the dishes were run through the Machine. Water swept the debris down the trough and into a nasty-looking device aptly named The Grinder, after which it was never seen again.

  Both the Dish Machine and the conveyor belt had shut down immediately after the explosions; steam now hissed from within the Machine’s belly. Water still jetted in the trough, however, and The Grinder pounded on at full speed, making the stilled conveyor belt a distinctly dangerous place for a battle.

  “Somebody help me, here!” Hamlet cried, as a sprite faded beside him on the belt, leaving him to face two Rats on his own. Puck, where are you when I need you? He ducked back around a dirty drinking glass, parrying desperately. The Rats pressed him hard, not letting him off the defensive, and Hamlet found himself being backed toward the edge of the trough. “Damn it! Somebody!”

  But the other sprites within hearing distance had problems of their own; Hamlet was not the only one outnumbered. He twisted to avoid a sudden sword thrust and felt empty space at his heels; he heard the rush of the water.

  Something crashed into the Rats from behind, sending one tumbling past Hamlet and into the trough, where it was swept away. The other tried to turn toward this new assailant but was dead before it completed the motion.

  “Jesus, Troilus, and Cressida,” said Hamlet, “that was—”

  He stopped, seeing the face of his savior. And the expression he wore.

  “So you’re alive,” Laertes greeted him, hand tight around his sword hilt. He continued, in the most conversational of tones: “And where’s the sprite who murdered my sister? Is he here too?”

  “Murdered your sister?”

  “Puck!” The point of Laertes’ pinsword quivered. “Where is Puck?”

  “What are you talking about, Laertes?” Hamlet said warily. “Puck didn’t kill Saffron. The rats in—”

  “The Rats are everywhere,” said Laertes, and Hamlet saw the madness in his eyes.

  �
�You’ve gone insane,” he whispered, wonderingly. “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Oh no,” came the reply. “No. My mind is clear. Very clear. I think maybe you’re the insane one, Hamlet. But I know just the thing for that. . . .”

  Laertes attacked without warning, but Hamlet parried automatically, redirecting his thrust so the sword point passed without touching him. Laertes continued forward, slamming bodily into Hamlet. Together they tumbled over the edge into the trough.

  The water jet was cold and strong, the floor of the trough slick with muck. They began to slide, struggling to hold on to their swords, grappling, rolling over and over as they were drawn inexorably toward the maw of The Grinder. Hamlet caught a glimpse of it, a huge grey metal hulk just ahead. The trough emptied into a square vertical opening like a mouth in The Grinder’s side. Directly over the mouth was a sign: SMALL BONES ONLY!

  Not two feet from the dropoff a melon rind had gotten jammed sideways in the narrow trough. Hamlet and Laertes were very nearly carried right over this low barrier, which would have been the end of both of them. Instead they fetched up against it. Hamlet had a second to ponder the ludicrousness of this salvation—spared by a melon rind! Then he and Laertes drew back from each other and raised their weapons.

  Somehow they had exchanged swords during the tumble. Hamlet felt an absurd flash of annoyance—This is no time to be picky—but the matter quickly became academic. In a lightning move, Laertes disarmed him before he had a chance to make a single attack. The pinsword vanished into The Grinder.

  Hamlet was defenseless; Laertes tensed for a final thrust. “Very clear,” he said, and chaos slammed into them.

  Two Rats and another sprite had fallen into the trough farther up. They arrived unannounced, struggling fiercely, and the weight of their impact dislodged the melon rind. Hamlet felt himself begin to slide again and made a valiant leap; using a Rat’s head as a springboard he launched himself up the side of the trough, catching onto the lip with both hands.

  “Yaaah!” he grunted, straining to pull himself up and out. Fingers clutched at his foot; he glanced down and saw that it was Laertes. All the rest—melon rind, Rats, sprite—had washed into the maw.

  “Jesus and Troilus!” Hamlet cried. He swung his free foot, and, by some lucky chance, caught his enemy square in the face. Laertes gasped and lost his grip. He uttered one last word of protest—"Clear!"—and then The Grinder ate him whole. A whirlpool of water and chopping blades drowned out any screams he might have uttered.

  Exhausted, wanting only to rest, Hamlet pulled himself back onto the conveyor belt, back into the dubious safety of battle.

  VIII.

  Far up the length of the belt, near the beginning of the trough, Hobart slew a Rat and found himself momentarily alone. All around him were the sounds of combat, but swirls of steam made everything into vague shadows, isolating him. He rested briefly and thought back, for a last time, to that other long-ago battle in The Boneyard.

  A familiar echo in his mind: Ho-bart . . .

  The crossbow bolt struck him in the left breastbone, piercing him clean through and out the back. Hobart grunted, muscles tautened near to snapping by the sudden pain; he felt his heart try vainly to continue pumping around the impalement.

  Ho-bart. The General of the Rats materialized out of the steam, limping as always, crossbow cradled in his arms. Thresh ends you.

  Hobart fell to his knees. His life wanted to swim away but he would not let it, holding back death for a few bare seconds with the heat of sudden fury that flared in him. Of course it made infinite sense that it should happen this way, that Rasferret’s special envoy should be here to deliver his demise. And the thought that his death would bring satisfaction to the Grub—that was what infuriated him, gave him a last strength.

  The Rat General came nearer; Hobart looked up, into his eyes. Thresh ends you . . .

  “And Hobart ends you,” the sprite said softly. In a supreme effort he drove his sword upwards, striking the absolutely surprised Rat in the abdomen. Thresh let out a squeaking scream and dropped the bow.

  “Can your master see us?” Hobart choked out. “Tell him I think his time is short.”

  Still screaming, Thresh clutched at the sword in his belly. He swayed, staggered too far, and fell into the trough. The water carried him away. To The Grinder.

  Hobart slumped onto his side. Eldest sprite of The Hill, veteran of the First Great War with Rasferret the Grub, and one-time secret admirer of Jenny McGraw, he exhaled a last breath and faded from this world.

  IX.

  The death of a leader is rarely insignificant; when such a death occurs during wartime it carries even more import, sometimes in a supernatural as well as mundane sense. Coincidentally or not, the moment of Hobart’s passing marked the critical point in the Battle for the Straight. It was in that same moment that the Swede woke up.

  In a remote corner by the south end of the kitchens, the Swede opened his eyes and shook his head to clear it. One of the explosions had knocked him cold, and in the panic the other Big People had left him behind. He pushed himself up on his arms now, an awakening giant. He sat up . . . stood. And looked around. His already severely addled brain was addled still more by the ringing in his ears, and he saw everything.

  He saw the sabotage.

  He saw the fires, and the smoke.

  He saw the sprites, fighting for their lives.

  He saw the Rats.

  His eyes widened, and a berserk rage worthy of Beowulf himself flowed into him.

  “Vermin!?” the Swede growled, from deep in his hairy chest. “Vermin in my kitchen? DUH-HYUN!”

  A meat tenderizer the size of Norway hung within easy reach. The Swede grabbed it, swung it once to test its weight, and blasted the nearest Rat into Valhalla. Another dozen and a half had been annihilated before either of the warring sides realized what was going on. Then the sprites, not sure what to make of this avenging colossus, began to cheer.

  “Little Peoples,” cried the mad chef, “follow me!”

  Wielding the tenderizer in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other, the Swede strode forward and put the enemy to a rout.

  “Aye!” said Macduff.

  X.

  Everything was ready, now. The spider’s web had closed.

  Ithaca lay dreaming under its enchantment; it had been cut off, forgotten without and within. The humans in the town, with but a few exceptions, were caught by a magic slumber similar to the one that had taken Aurora Smith, and Sleeping Beauty before her. In the Straight the fire alarm wailed on, but no engines would come in answer to it; just as well that the Swede was on the job, for a little longer anyway. Shortly he too would crouch down, lower his head, and dream of vanquished Rats like so many Grendels. The sprites were wide awake and fighting for all they were worth, but animals, again with only a couple of exceptions and excluding Rasferret’s Rats, were likewise affected by the magic, and slept. The Green Dragon lay awaiting the spark of life.

  Time.

  On the roof of Goldwin-Smith Hall Mr. Sunshine cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered a single word to the wind.

  “George.”

  GEORGE’S ASCENT, AND WHAT HAPPENED DOWNTOWN

  I.

  George.

  The storyteller opened his eyes and was lying in his bed. Waking felt unreal, yet the events of last night had been no dream—without sitting up he could see the Spear, standing erect and ready for action against the bedroom wall. Dim grey light leaked in through the window, and even this poor illumination was enough to make the spearhead glimmer wickedly.

  “Time,” George whispered to himself, getting up. His head was very light. Almost floating. “Time.”

  He tiptoed naked into the bathroom—How did I get home last night?—and bent over the sink, splashing water on his face. It was cold and rinsed the sleep from his eyes, but did nothing for his head. He felt as if he had taken a hit of something.

  Why? To help suspend my disbelief? Make
it easier to write without paper?

  Easier . . . his own overconfidence was one of his greatest dangers. Back in the bedroom, hefting the Spear, he felt invincible, every inch the knight. He would control the Story, fight the good fight, defeat the Dragon. Aurora would live. All very easy.

  Sure.

  Yes, sure . . . but as long as there was an outside chance his pride was only leading him to a fall, there would be no harm in hedging his bets. The Spear made a formidable-looking weapon, but it might be wise to bring along something else, something that harnessed the wind.

  Dressing, he glanced around the room, trying to remember where he’d left his kite.

  II.

  High in the McGraw Hall belfry, Rasferret the Grub laughed ecstatically. He was in the power seat now; his Sense had returned to him, and now The Hill and the city below were laid out in his mind with all the clarity of a highlighted map. His magic was at a pinnacle, ready to take on all comers. And there would be only one.

  He knew of the events at the Straight, had Sensed them, but the death of Thresh and the Swede-authored rout did not concern him in the least. Hobart was dead, too—at last!—and one lost battle meant little. His Rats were everywhere, pressing home their attack throughout the campus, in many places overwhelming their enemies. The sprites were, ultimately, doomed.

  Stephen Titus George remained the only stumbling block in the path to victory. And yet, Sensing him, Rasferret was again struck by the apparent weakness of his opponent. What magic he had in him was hardly a threat; nor was he physically anything special. Whereas the Grub had magic in abundance, and the perfect—perfect—vehicle for animation lying practically at his feet.