Fool on the Hill (13 page)

She skipped along playfully, pausing beneath a cluster of trees in the northeast corner of the Quad, where mist and shadows mingled freely. She drew out her whistle, gently clutching the tiny charm in one perfect fist, and blew. It made no discernable sound, but the area before her glowed hazily, the mist forming itself into a phantom image of George.

“So that's what you look like,” said Calliope, smiling. Physical appearance meant nothing to her emotionally; her eyes were such that she could see any person as perfectly attractive, just as she, with her special magic, could appear perfectly beautiful to them. But she did want to get a glimpse of him before actually seeking him out, for curiosity's sake if nothing else.

Done looking, she waved the apparition away and strode across the grass until she stood on the walkway between the two Quad statues. Andrew D. White gave her a stern look as she threw off her robe and stood naked except for the mocassins. These too were kicked away as she began to dance, a wild, Dionysian ballet the like of which had never been seen on any stage. Before long the wind began to blow, sighing a melody among the branches of the trees and beneath the eaves of the buildings. The wind did not part the mist and so none could see what was going on, but a number of the sprites heard the wind-song and wondered what it could mean. Zephyr's Grandfather Hobart remained frozen at the top of McGraw Tower throughout the performance, frightened for some reason he could not fathom. The wind blew around George's house as well, and he too paused to listen—but not in fear.

How long the dance went on is as uncertain as the hour of Calliope's arrival, but it ended at midnight. She landed back between the statues with a great somersault just as the Clock began to strike. While the chimes tolled out the change of days, Calliope looked from Andrew to Ezra, as if daring them to make a move. They did not. Then the chimes ceased and she quickly gathered up her robe and shoes, laughing as she ran back the way she had come.

“I'm here, George,” she called to the night. “I'm here.”

VII.

“Is this dreamlike enough for you, Blackjack?”

“It's interesting, I'll grant you that.”

It was mid-dawn on the morning of the twenty-sixth, and Luther and Blackjack moved through a world of white, a thick fog that was the last gasp of the preceding three days' weather. Even at that moment the rising sun was beginning to burn the fog away, but for the time being it
was
like part of a dream, like moving through a tunnel to a hazy world that was slowly being brought into focus.

The two animals had walked most of the night, entering Ithaca under a dark gloom that almost prevented them from realizing they'd come to a town. Passing through the deserted Commons, the air had been rich with Luther's “Heaven smell,” and as they reached the foot of The Hill the mongrel had proclaimed joyously that they were almost there, almost there. Once again Blackjack had been patient and polite in his response, but somehow he'd expected the Divine environment to be better lit.

Now, in a moment of perfect stillness, a gateway loomed up ahead of them. “Heaven's Gate!” exclaimed Luther. “It's the Gateway to Heaven, Blackjack! We found it!”

“St. Peter must still be sleeping,” Blackjack observed quietly. Luther paid him no mind, running up to the Gate and barking in glee.

“We're there! We made it!”

“Are you sure?” asked Blackjack, examining the Gate closely. It was a rather plain construction of stone, with a wrought-iron span across the top. Not a trace of pearl.

While Luther barked and capered beneath the arch, Blackjack went over to the wall on the left side of the Gate. The fog was thinning rapidly, and the Manx was able to make out the words on a plaque:

SO ENTER

THAT DAILY THOU MAYEST BECOME

MORE LEARNED AND THOUGHTFUL

SO DEPART

THAT DAILY THOU MAYEST BECOME

MORE USEFUL TO THY COUNTRY AND TO MANKIND

Intrigued, Blackjack crossed to the other side of the Gate and examined the companion plaque:

THIS STRUCTURE DEDICATED

TO THE CONTINUED SUCCESS

OF THE CORNELL UNIVERSITY

BY ITS PRESIDENT

ANDREW D. WHITE

1896

“University?” said Blackjack. “Luther, this is—”

“We made it! We made it!”

The Manx could not go on. It took no great power of empathy to see how ecstatic Luther was over their arrival at “Heaven” Blackjack would not rob him of this brief happiness. He would be forced to face the truth soon enough on his own.

Or so Blackjack thought.

“Listen!” Luther said suddenly, ceasing his barking. Now that he took the time to notice, Blackjack realized that there was water running nearby. And that wasn't all—somewhere up ahead, chimes had begun to play.

“The angels need music lessons, I think,” Blackjack couldn't resist saying, as a bad note disrupted the melody. Once again Luther paid no attention to him.

Together they passed through the Gate and padded around the great bulk that was Cascadilla Dorm. Following the music, they crossed over Cascadilla Creek Bridge into Central Campus.

“I smell dogs,” said the Manx. “Lots of them.”

“Of course you do, Blackjack. But don't worry, there can't be any trouble here, not in this place. Do you smell Moses at all?”

“How could I . . . I mean, no, I don't smell him.”

“Neither do I. But there are so many . . .”

A strong scent of approaching dogs up ahead. Blackjack tensed automatically. Luther glanced into a puddle and noticed for the first time that the rain and damp had washed away his mud-disguise.

“Oh no! I'm—”

“There's nothing to be afraid of in this place, remember?” Blackjack said soothingly, casually sliding his claws out.

“But it just occurred to me, Blackjack. What if God's a Purebred?”

“I thought God was supposed to be more like a human being. Like one of the Masters, you'd say.”

“Well . . .”

They topped a rise, and saw two dogs coming toward them. Luther relaxed immediately; one of the dogs was a mongrel, the other a Purebred, and they were not hostile to one another. The Purebred, a young Beagle, seemed very high-strung for some reason, jumping about as though the damp sidewalk were too hot for him, but it had nothing to do with antagonism. The thought-word
mange
was nowhere in his mind, not that Luther could see.

“Hello there,” said the mongrel, nodding to them.

“Hiya!” piped the Beagle pup, whose name, they soon learned, was Skippy. “Hey, I've never seen you guys before. You new around here? Huh? And hey, Mr. Pussycat, what happened to your tail? Huh? Huh?”

“Hello,” Blackjack replied to the mongrel, retracting his claws halfway. He eyed the Beagle reservedly.

In front of them, the last of the fog melted away all at once, and the light of the rising sun struck McGraw Tower, for an instant wreathing it in a halo. Luther caught his breath at the sight.

“We made it,” he said once more.

With a discordant clang, the Chimesmaster shifted into her second song for the morning.

Book Two

TALES OF AUTUMN

1866—OUTSIDE THE BONE ORCHARD

They begin climbing The Hill along a dirt track that will one day be known as University Avenue, but which for now is just more nameless mud soup. The going is hard yet Mr. Sunshine forges ahead—carrying a bright lantern he did not have with him when they set out from the Ithaca Hotel—still oddly unimpeded by the condition of the road. And Ezra, several decades from being a spritely youth, keeps close at Mr. Sunshine's heels, driven by an indescribable compulsion that first bloomed in him when he was invited on this night trek.

Their conversation is appropriately strange. Sometimes Mr. Sunshine asks question about Ithaca or the planned University, sometimes he speaks knowledgeably about them, and sometimes—this is surely the strangest thing of all—he will, after Ezra answers a query, nod and then
add
an extra fact or two as if he had known more than Cornell all along. And some of his comments are hopelessly beyond comprehension.

One such comment pops out as they come upon the gates to the City Cemetery. Gazing farther up the road, beyond the glow of his lantern, Mr. Sunshine says: “The Black Knight will live near here, in a Black House. Hmm, wonder what I can do with him?”

Turning his attention to the Cemetery, he continues by asking: “What's this place called?”

“I don't know that there is an official name,” replies Ezra. “Though it's often referred to as The Bone Orchard. A nickname of sorts.”

“Bone Orchard,” Mr. Sunshine rolls the words on his tongue, testing their feel. “Bone Orchard, nice idea, but a bit of a bumpy mouthful, don't you think? It could be shorter.”

Cornell shrugs. “People will call it what they will.”

“People can change their habits,” Mr. Sunshine says, “over time. I like cemeteries, though; I've had some good Stories involving them. You don't mind if we walk through The . . . Boneyard, do you?"

Again, the feeling of compulsion at the request.

“Not at all, sir,” Ezra answers. “Not at all.”

THE FIRST WEEK

I.

Monday, 5:50
A.M
.

George cracked an eyelid at the first light of dawn. Still half asleep, wrapped snugly in a wool blanket against the morning chill, he was filled with a sudden elation, as if he had just embarked on some grand adventure. In a sense he had—he was due to teach his first class at 10:10 this morning—but there was something more, something that his waking half could not quite grasp.

A sparrow sat on his bedroom windowsill, peeping in at him, perhaps hoping for a bit of bread. George smiled at the bird, then glanced at the kite which was propped against a chair just to the right of the window . . . and again he felt that strange elation.

Something’s coming,
the part of him that was still sleeping thought.
Something’s going to happen.

School’s going to happen,
his waking half replied, and promptly rolled over to get another hour’s rest.

Outside the wind stirred briefly, startling the sparrow into song.

II.

Monday, 6:30
A.M.

The delivery crew for the Cornell
Daily Sun
had already been on the job for nearly an hour. The masthead almanac for that first day of classes looked like this:

Weather

Miraculously

Warm and Dry;

Enjoy It

While It Lasts

The lead-off for the Sun’s
SUPER-EXPANDED EDITORIAL PAGE
read:

Wanted—One (1) So-Spill Dragon

IT MIGHT SEEM APPROPRIATE on this first day of instruction for the
Sun
to offer some words of encouragement to newcomers just beginning their studies at Cornell. We at the
Sun
pride ourselves on freshness and originality, however, and since every variety of encouragement has already been offered umpteen times in the past, this year we’ve decided not to bother. Besides, a
Sun
poll taken only last week reveals that the Big Issue on everyone’s mind—first year students included—has nothing to do with academics. Rather it concerns the raising of the legal drinking age from nineteen to twenty-one, effective this December first. The Questions: Is there life without the weekend bar scene? Will Collegetown survive? Will we, the under-twenty-one crowd, survive without a good round of doubles to buck us up after a failed prelim?

There can be no doubt but that lack-of-alcohol crises will occur. All we can do is try our best to avoid emotions-shattering situations and occurrences wherever possible. Case in point: the annual Green Dragon Parade. As returning Cornellians will know, this is a mid-March event in which a gigantic Dragon, constructed by the incoming class of the Architecture school is taken on a circuitous tour of Central Campus and then burned to ashes on the Arts Quad. This traditional event, first dreamed up by Willard Straight ‘0 1, has been carried out faithfully and flawlessly every year—until last spring, when the oversized beast collapsed in on itself before getting ten feet from its starting point. Filled with shame, the Architects descended on the Collegetown bars to drown their sorrows. One favored hangout, the Fevre Dream Tavern, reported its entire stock of liquor depleted more than an hour before last call. The booze did its job, it seems; there were a number of disturbances of the peace reported, but no suicides. The Archies were too numbed to think of gorge-hopping.

But this year, a retreat to the bars
won’t be possible.
With pub owners increasingly vigilant for fake I.D., defeated Architects and the like will find themselves our of luck. As a public service, therefore, the
Sun
is asking those concerned to already start thinking ahead to March. We need a few good women and men who can build a
real
dragon, one that will stand tall and not collapse or fall over until it’s supposed to. And while we’re on the subject, let’s everybody study hard, pass those prelims, and put some style into those term papers. In the end we at the
Sun
are sure we’ll all find that Diet Coke goes down just as smoothly as a Manhattan—when it’s a victory celebration.

III.

Monday, 8:05
A.M
.

Fujiko screamed as her alarm clock went off, and the exquisite anguish of a Southern Comfort hangover settled around her head like a vise. She groped around in the semi-darkness for a weapon, came up with a hockey stick—her ex-boyfriend had left it to her as a remembrance—and reduced the clock to its component parts with one good swipe.

After sluggishly pulling on a bathrobe and pawing through three drawers to find a towel, she stepped into the hall—and screamed again, as the sudden light nearly blinded her. Across the hall Z.Z. Top wandered out of his own room, clad in yellow swim trunks and extra-dark Wayfarer glasses. His foot struck a copy of the
Sun
that had been thrust halfway under his door, scattering it in a flurry of newsprint. He paid it no mind.

“Good morning,” Fujiko fumbled out, just to be polite.

“Bullshit,” replied the Top.

They entered the bathroom together, Fujiko ignoring, as was Risley custom, the sign on the door that said
MEN
. The only shower was in use (a steady chorus of Sex Pistols tunes competed with the sound of flowing water), and Preacher sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting his turn. Woodstock, the newly-installed Bohemian Minister of Impetuousness, lay flat out in a semi-daze alongside the row of sinks.

“Jesus,” Woodstock moaned. Another victim.

“Which?” the Top inquired, joining him on the floor.

“Bacardi one fifty one,” said Woodstock. “Backgammon for flaming shots.”

“I’m going to throw up,” Fujiko announced. She staggered into a toilet stall and began to do just that.

“Who’s in the shower? asked the Top.

“Jim Taber and Ben Hull,” Preacher told him. “Both of them a lot more lively than this Bohemian this morning, sounds like.”

“It’s your choice of breakfast cereal,” suggested Woodstock.

“What about the tub? Anybody using that?”

“There’s a lemon tree in the tub,” Woodstock informed him. As if to prove the truth of his words, he produced a sickly-looking lemon from his bathrobe pocket and began sucking on it.

“A lemon tree,” the Top repeated. “How did—”

Preacher raised an eyebrow. “You really want to know?”

“No. Fuck it. Hey, anybody got a beer?”

IV.

Monday, 11:15
A.M.

“Heaven, did you say?”

“—Gannett Medical Clinic, donated by the Gannett Foundation in honor of Frank E. Gannett, class of eighteen ninety-eight. Its main function is the prevention of unwanted human pregnancies. . . .”

Luther, Blackjack, and a ragtag group of mongrels and Purebreds new to the University followed after a silver-furred tabby named Sable, who served as their tour guide. Already they had made their way up to the Agriculture Quad, across Fall Creek to North Campus, down and around Fraternity Row to the West Campus dorms, and up again through Collegetown. Now they padded along Central Avenue, headed back toward the Arts Quad.

Sable dutifully reeled off the facts and dates concerning each building they passed, not really caring how much of it penetrated. In truth the dogs in the tour group did not pay much attention to what the puss was saying, preferring to either gape at their surroundings or talk among themselves. Only Blackjack remained attentive. He busily studied Sable, who earlier had informed him quite candidly that she would soon be going into heat.

“. . . on our right is the Olin Hall of Engineering, financed by a gift from Frankin W. Olin, class of eighteen ninety-six. It opened in October of nineteen forty-two. . . .”

“Yes, Heaven,” Luther responded to the mongrel beside him. “That
is
what this is. It has to be; it
smells
like Heaven, and besides, Blackjack and I traveled too far for it not to be.”

“I don’t mean to argue with you, friend,” said the mongrel, whose name was Denmark, “but I traveled a long way to get here too. Only I didn’t come for angels, I came for knowledge. This is a learning-place, you see; special, but surely not Heaven. You must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

“
You
must have taken the wrong turn,” Luther insisted.

“Och, but I heard it was a learnin’-place too,” said Nessa, a Scottish Terrier bitch. “They’ve got a series of Questions, they do, that one has to answer. I suppose that means it’s like Heaven, in a manner of speakin’—the answerin’ of big Questions has a certain divine ring to it.”

“Questions?” asked Luther.

“. . . this huge building coming up on our left,” said Sable in the backround, “is Willard Straight Hall, opened in November of nineteen twenty-five, and dedicated to Willard Dickerman Straight of the class of nineteen oh one. The building is home to a number of human student organizations, and one of the University dining halls is located here. Dogs are not permitted in the dining area, and it isn’t a good place to beg for scraps anyway. . . .”

“They got Five Questions,” said Joshua, another mongrel. “The dogs
who run this place, that is. And before you go talking about ‘divine rings,’ you’d best check out exactly what those Questions are. The fourth one’s a long way from being Godly, for some of us.”

“The Fourth Question?” Luther repeated. “I don’t understand any of this. This is
Heaven.
It’s got to be.”

“Wait until the Convocation on Friday. Wait and see if you still feel the same way after that.”

“. . . we now angle to the right, and as we do you can clearly see Sage Chapel just ahead of us. Humans gather in this edifice on Sunday mornings to waste time. . . .”

Sable led them between Sage Chapel and the Campus Store, toward a strange encampment behind the Day Hall administration building. Ducking out of the way of a pimply-faced Freshman who was in a big hurry to get somewhere, Sable purposefully brushed against Blackjack, stirring him. She was not in heat—not yet, not yet—but Blackjack might have tried something anyway if Luther had not broken off from his debate with Joshua and turned to them.

“Hey,” said Luther to Sable, studying the haphazard collection of trenches and barbed wire just ahead of them. “What’s that?”

“They call it Hooterville.”

“Hooterville?” Luther could not help but be pleased by the sight of it. The trenches and scattered sandbag lean-tos had a desolate quality to them that reminded him of the burned-out buildings back home. “What’s a Hooterville?”

“It’s part of an ongoing protest,” Sable explained. “Protesters are human beings who complain about the way things are so that other human beings can get annoyed and kill them without feeling too badly about it. Eventually the cause of justice is supposed to be served by this.”

“Oh,” said Luther, without the slightest understanding. He paused to look at a sign at the edge of the encampment, made of warped plywood and painted with human words he could not read:

WELCOME TO HOOTERVILLE!

One of the last bastions of sanity in a world of crazed conservatism.

We, the members of the Blue Zebra Hooter Patrol, Cornell’s only benign terrorist organization, believe in the principle of thought provocation through non-violent confrontation.

To this end, we as a group provide a continual thorn-in-the-side to the Cornell administration, thus encouraging both the

University staff and the student body to daily question the status quo.

This Week’s Major Issues:

1) Divestment from all companies doing business in racist South Africa.

2) Affirmative action and increased minority admissions.

3) Self-defense training for baby seals. (It
can
be done).

GET IN GEAR AND THINK!!!

V.

Monday, 11:20
A.M.

“Kind of lets you know you’re at Cornell, doesn’t it?” observed Z.Z. Top.

“Can’t imagine it being anywhere else,” George agreed, taking another bite of his sandwich. The two sat with their backs against a cement bunker, surrounded by the gentle devastation of Hooterville. Fantasy Dreadlock, the leader of the Blue Zebras and a former Bohemian, had designed the encampment to represent all the world’s ugliness, while at the same time symbolizing the struggle to hold on and eventually set things right again. Three separate trenches gouged their way across what had once been green lawn and gravel walkway; blunted barbed wire was strewn around more or less at random. Set on a slight rise at the center of the camp was a spring-loaded cannon that aimed straight up, and which was capable at a moment’s notice of filling the air with propaganda leaflets or whatever else came to mind. Scattered throughout the area were the Blue Zebras, in their distinctive blue-and-white-striped jumpsuits, and with them other prominent members of the Cornell community: Joe Scandal, Resident Housing Director of the Africana dorm, Ujamaa, took lunch with Fantasy herself; the treasurer of Gay People At Cornell (Gay PAC) argued heatedly with Brian Garroway and one of the heads of Cornellians for Christ, while Aurora watched from the far side of a trench; the editorial staff of the
Sun
played stud poker in the shade of a sandbag wall. At the fringe of the encampment stood two officers of the Cornell Safety Division—watchdogs guarding against an unlikely peasant revolt—drinking coffee and exchanging jokes with the Zebras.

The creation of Hooterville, a year and a half ago, had initially been approved by the administration during a period of student unrest. At the time it had seemed a small enough concession to appease a number of people; those in charge of the decision had also seen nothing wrong with concentrating the campus radicals in an area where they could be watched. The one
thing no one in power had counted on, of course, was that it would last so long. Since its inception, however, Hooterville—not to mention the Zebras—had in some way figured into over three-quarters of the demonstrations, debates, and rallies on campus. And the Blue Zebras not only supported protests, they looked for them. Earnestly. Where the Bohemians preached the gospel of unorthodoxy, Fantasy and her Zebras spread the good word about conflict and dissent—much to the administration’s chagrin.