Fool on the Hill (24 page)

“You put something in my tea,” George realized, paranoia pouncing like a tiger that had been creeping up through the brush all this time. “What did you put in my tea, Calliope?”

“Something to expand your mind a little,” Calliope told him, herself remaining unchanged, distinct. “And to help you defend yourself.”

“Defend my . . . oh—oh, hey,
no!
”

With a click of claws and teeth, the dragon figurine had begun to uncoil. It pulled itself out straight, wings flapping, sapphire eyes flickering with some ignited inner spark. George shied back from it.

“What the fuck, Calliope!” he cried out. “What—”

“I told you when I first came to you,” she replied, calmly, “that I had a few things to teach you. Consider this a lesson.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think I want a lesson. Could you please—”

“Writing without paper, George. Just think about writing without paper and you’ll be fine, probably.”

She stood up.

“Wait a minute!” George commanded. “Don’t you go anywhere!”

“I’m already gone,” Calliope said. “See you after class.” Her form blurred and faded out; her robe, empty, dropped to the floor.

George did not even bother to marvel at the vanishing trick, but merely
accepted the fact that he was on his own and turned his attention to the dragon, which was now drawing air into its mouth and expanding like a balloon.

“Good God,” George exclaimed, as the creature attained the size of a small dog and continued to grow. The dragon ceased to draw air and fixed its eyes on him with a hiss. It tensed as if to spring. George did not waste time gawking. Without thinking about it he brought his legs up hard against the underside of the coffee table, upending it. The dragon, the typewriter, and Pandora’s Box were catapulted into the air to land with a crash by the far end of the sofa. The coffee table itself flipped over and shriveled up like a deflated rubber raft, cycling through three shades of indigo before it evaporated altogether.

A weapon. He needed to find a weapon, quickly. While the dragon untangled itself from the wreckage of the typewriter and the manuscript pages of
Porcelain Messiah
hovered near the ceiling like giant moths, George made a hurried scan of the room. He saw nothing that might serve as a club or mace, nothing sharp—once upon a time he had actually had a replica of a Viking battle-ax hanging on the wall, but that had long since been sent to rust in a Tompkins County junkyard. Desperate, George’s eyes lighted on Calliope’s fallen robe, and, vaguely remembering an old fairy tale where a prince had used a fair maiden’s girdle to leash a monster, he dove for it.

The dragon came at him even as he snatched up the robe. George held the garment out to his side, waving it like a bullfighter’s cape in the hope that the beast might be distracted. But the dragon, borne on a whisper of silver wings (it didn’t seem to need a wind at its back after all) did not even hesitate; it ignored the robe and went straight for George’s chest. Only at the last moment did the storyteller swing the robe around to use as a shield.

Ivory fangs and claws parted the material easily; the dragon’s head poked through the hole in the robe, mouth open for a bite. George ducked back, at the same moment gripping the robe by the thick fold of the hem, using that as a garrote to wrap around the monster’s neck. Incredibly, it seemed to work; all at once the dragon began flapping its wings in reverse, jerking its head around and hissing as if it were really short of breath. It even seemed to shrink a bit. Suddenly overconfident, George yanked harder on the ends of the hem, willing it to constrict still more and choke the beast.

“That’s it! That’s got you, you—” George’s cry of victory was cut short as the dragon simultaneously spat smoke in his face and tore at his arm with one wildly swinging claw. Beneath the sudden pain the storyteller felt his grip loosen, and before he could lose it entirely he used the robe as a sling to hurl the monster into a corner. Then he staggered, eyes watering fiercely, arm bleeding from three deep gouges.

With a fresh whir of wings the dragon was up and moving again. George beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen, where multi-hued rays of sunlight streamed in through the window, every color in the spectrum being represented
except the normal yellow-white of mid-morning. It would have been quite beautiful to stand and watch, really, had he the time.

“Oh burn in hell!” George cried, kicking open the refrigerator door and slamming the dragon a good one on the nose as it buzzed into the kitchen. The storyteller continued to back away, hurling utensils, spice jars, Hi-C cans—anything that came to hand—in his wake, none of it slowing the monster for more than a moment. Tossing one last juice can, George ducked into the rear hallway. Knowing he would never make it to the back door of the house (and not sure where he would run to if he got outside), George cut into the bedroom instead and tried to shut the door behind him. Close on his heels, the dragon got one claw and half a snout inside the room; two quick slams of the door convinced it to back off.

Door shut and latched—for whatever a two-bit latch was worth—George waited for the inevitable tear and splinter as the monster tried to claw through the very wood of the door itself. What he heard instead was even more ominous—a steady sucking noise as the dragon drew more air. It was expanding again. George suffered a sudden vision of a lion-sized dragon bursting through the door to drag him down with no further struggle possible.

Writing without paper. Think about writing without paper.

“All right!” cried George, abruptly angry. He pounded on the door himself a few times, for attention. “All right! You want to play, want to be a real live dragon, fine! I’m going to be the goddamned White Knight, we’ll see how you like that!”

To himself he said:
This is a story, a fantasy; anything can happen. You will close your eyes. you will turn around, and you will open your eyes again. When you reopen them, there will be a sword on the bed.

He closed his eyes. He turned, and opened his eyes again.

The bed was breathing. Charcoal-grey coverlets bulged in and out with a steady rhythm. Both pillows had flattened themselves out against the headboard as if terrified of something, but he could see no weapon.

“Damn it!” George said. “I asked for a sword.”

His head felt light enough to float, but still he concentrated, growing more and more angry as the sword refused to appear. Then came a moment—a crossover moment—when all fear, all thought of the dragon vanished, leaving only a sharp fury at a story that was not turning out the way he wanted it to.

“There is a
sword
,” George said definitively, “on the
bed.
"

Wind gusted suddenly in the room. With a low ripping noise a seam opened in the coverlet, and a sword hilt—an ornate hilt with a white rose superimposed on a red cross on the pommel—forced its way up out of the mattress. It rose to a height of six inches above the surface of the bed, revealing a sharp blade beneath it, and stopped, waiting now to be drawn.

The dragon too stopped, stopped drawing air, and George did not wait
any longer. With legs more muscular than those he had woken up with in the morning, he sprang onto the bed. Strong hands—warrior’s hands—grabbed the sword by the hilt and drew it free. The four-and-a-half-foot blade cast its own glow, multi-hued like the sunlight.

“All right,” George called, assuming a batter’s stance. “You can come in now.”

The bedroom door exploded off its hinges. The dragon, bigger than lion-size, came in trailing smoke like a locomotive. This time George stood firm when it tried to blind him, stood firm in the midst of the whirlwind that the monster’s now-huge wings created. His fear was gone, he was in control of the story, and nothing need bother him if he didn’t wish it to. He merely waited—not too long—as the dragon gathered itself for the attack.

“Come on,” George whispered, and the dragon pounced, mouth gaping wide, claws extended and locked to tear him apart. Still he did not falter, weapon ready, waiting, waiting one more second.

The dragon came in, screaming triumph. Even as it did, Stephen George brought up the sword in a perfect arc, slicing the air in two, and lopping off the beast’s head with an explosion of sparks that seemed to fill the world.

II.

He did not start awake. It was a calm awakening, with Calliope nestled in his arms, her eyes closed, her lips pursed in a smile and a gentle snore. Careful not to disturb her, George pulled free and got out of bed.

What had he been dreaming about? Already it was frustratingly vague, though the memory might jog free again in some future dream. Something about a Box . . . and being wounded. He glanced absently at his arm and noticed three white lines, like scratches that were nearly healed.

Shaking his head in confusion, George drew on his pants and went out to the kitchen to make breakfast. Through the door to the living room he caught a glimpse of his typewriter, sitting patiently on the coffee table. He had a story to finish today, he remembered, a story about a plumber in hell.

He was packing toast into the toaster when there came a knock at the front door. That did make him start; his arm jerked and sent a carton of orange juice tumbling to its doom.

Standing in a newly formed puddle, George shook his head once more, smiling, for of course there was nothing to get excited about. It was only the mailman, arrived at last.

THE HALLOWE'EN PARTY

I.

The first Ministers and Grey Ladies arrived at the Tolkien House Hallowe'en Revel shortly after 10:00
P.M
. Turning their mounts over to attendants the Bohemians hurried inside, glad to get out of the weather, which threatened rain before long. Within, a string of fairy lights lit a path through the “Mathom” hall and back to the elevator, for of course the party was being held in the underground Garden of Lothlórien, where the starry sky remained free of clouds.

By eleven o'clock the Revel was in full swing, good cheer and alcohol flowing freely. Then at eleven-thirty the party skipped a beat with the arrival of Stephen George and Calliope. They wore costumes designed by the Lady herself, Prince Valiant for him, Little Bo Peep for her; a good many Bohemians and I louse brothers went to bed later dreaming of sheep.

Then midnight. Precisely at twelve o'clock, after much coaxing and arguing with her boyfriend, Aurora Smith entered Tolkien House—and that was when the real Revel began.

II.

“It's just that I don't see the point in us going to a party where I don't know anybody,” Brian Garroway said, as the obsidian-lined elevator descended to the cellars.

Aurora adjusted a picnic basket on her arm—for she had come as Little Red Riding Hood—and asked him: “Didn't you see those people who rode past us coming through the woods? Those were Bohemians.”

“I don't know any Bohemians,” Brian informed her. Perhaps one of the things making him so testy was the outfit Aurora had thrown together for him at the last minute. A set of blue drapes had been converted to a cape, and
a loaf of French bread thrust under Brian's belt like a short sword. A hastily-scribbled tag pinned to his collar explained:
I AM THE EARL OF SANDWICH.

“Well,” said Aurora. “I can introduce you to a few. I met some in that course on Jonathan Swift I took last year.”

“Swift. It figures.”

In the sub-cellars, two dwarves waited just outside the elevator to receive them.

“Hi there!” Aurora beamed, stepping away from Brian. “Is this where . . .” She trailed off as she saw the zombie-like expressions on the dwarves' faces. Both stared off into the distance as if paralyzed by some recent vision. Yet even as Aurora was about to wave a hand in front of one of their faces, they spoke.

“Follow the lights,” the first said, wistfully.

“Take care crossing the bridge,” added the second. Neither of them looked at her.

“Um-hum,” said Brian, examining each dwarf in turn. He had never touched drugs himself and never would, but he knew a heavy buzz when he saw one. “So what have you all been into?”

The first dwarf sighed a lover's sigh. “The Lady . . .” he whispered, and said no more.

“Aurora,” Brian started in again, glancing sharply at her. “I'm really not sure—”

But she tugged impatiently at his arm, anxious to get to the party. “Come on,” she insisted, and began following the line of lanterns that lit a path across the otherwise pitch-black cellars.

“Aurora!” His voice was stern but she kept right on moving, forcing him to run after her; in fact he didn't catch up until she had nearly reached the bridge.

“Aurora,” he asked her when he had pulled even with her again, “are you really certain we should be going to a party where even the door checkers are stoned?”

She ignored the question. “What's this, now?” she said, as they came upon the chasm. The lanterns on the bridge were perched precariously to one side, leaving as much room for walking as possible.

“Aurora!” Brian grabbed her arm as she stepped onto the bridge. She turned on him suddenly, yanking her arm free and inadvertently kicking one of the fairy lamps into the gulf. It tumbled end over end, quickly blowing out, but not before they both saw it fall a frightening distance. If the unlit lantern struck bottom after that, they did not hear it.

“Jesus Christ,” Brian Garroway—not one to casually break the second commandment—said, peering into the chasm. “What the heck is this?”

Aurora took advantage of his distraction and got moving again. Brian followed after her—stepping carefully, to be sure—this time not catching her
until she was across the bridge and beyond. There even Brian had to shut up momentarily, stunned by his first glimpse of the wonder that was the Garden of Lothlórien, home of the Revel.

III.

A great pavilion, a long, open tent of leaf-green canvas on grey ash posts, had been erected in a clearing among the trees, and within it a fully stocked bar, wood-finished in such a way as to suggest that it had just sprouted up out of the ground. Though the bar came equipped with all the modern conveniences—and all the best labels—everything had been carefully camouflaged so as not to detract from the atmosphere of the Garden. Of course some anachronisms were inevitable; Z. Z. Top, dressed head to toe in combat gear, sat playing Beer Hunter with a six-pack of Schlitz, one can of which had been given a good shaking-up.

Outside the pavilion, Bohemians mingled with House brothers mingled with Grey Ladies mingled with other miscellaneous guests. Some danced to the music of an impromptu band that played a cross between medieval minstrel tunes and jazz fusion; some just drank and talked. Wrapped in a Roman senator's toga, Grey Lady Fujiko stood deep in conversation with Noldorin, the Tolkien House co-President who had granted an honorary House membership to all Bohemia in return for a chance to meet her. So far they seemed to be hitting it off pretty well, and throughout the Garden barely a couple could be seen who didn't look either happy or too blitzed to care.

While Aurora studied the faces, Brian turned his gaze to the sky above. Like Lion-Heart before him, Brian penetrated the illusion immediately.

“A dome,” he said aloud, not unimpressed. “An underground dome.”

Another House President, Shen Han, passed near just then and overheard Brian's words, but he did not respond, just as he had made little response to Lion-Heart's questions. What could he have said? Of course the stars shining above the Garden were a projection, and Shen Han knew well the secret controls that could make them dim or brighten, knew too how to moderate the rest of Lothlórien's climate: the wind, the fog—which now curled seductively around the guests' ankles—the temperature. What he did not know was the actual mechanism employed, for neither he nor any other Tolkien brother had ever seen so much as a single machine or projector, though some had searched; wherever and whatever they were, they must have been of marvelous construction, for they never seemed to need maintenance or repair. In fact the House had pretty much maintained itself from the time it was first built, according to legend. But that was not the sort of legend guests were likely to appreciate, or believe.

“George!” Aurora called, spotting a familiar figure. Brian returned to earth; Shen Han passed on his way.

“Hey, slugger,” George greeted her, walking up. His Prince Valiant cape billowed behind him; unlike Brian's, it did not look as if it belonged in a window. “What brings you here?”

“I got an invitation in the mail,” she explained. “From the Lady of Tolkien House.”

“The Lady?” said George, an uneasy expression crossing his face.

“Yes, And of course we couldn't pass up a chance to see what this place is like.” She glanced at Brian. “Could we?”

“No,” Brian agreed. “No, of course not. How's your new girlfriend doing, George?”

George's expression went from uneasy to startled. “Where did you hear I had a girlfriend?”

“There was a paragraph on it in last Tuesday's
Sun.
Something about a mystery lady who none of the photography staff have managed to get a picture of.”

“Really?” Aurora spoke up. “Can we meet her? Is she here?”

“She's here,” said George, “Though at the moment she's disappeared on me.”

“Disappeared?”

“It's kind of odd, unless you've known her for a while. The fog swirled up really high for just an instant when we came into the Garden, and then she was gone. Like the Shadow. I'm sure she'll turn up eventually, but in the meantime I guess it's at least a partial blessing. Calliope has a funny effect on people whenever we're out in public together.”

“The dwarves by the elevator . . .” Brian mused. George nodded.

“Right, the dwarves, that's just what I'm talking about.”

“Well,” said Aurora, “we really
will
have to meet this . . . Calliope. If she shows up come find us. We'll be here for a while.”

“Maybe not that long,” Brian tried to amend, but Aurora had already added a farewell and moved off to get a closer look at something interesting she'd spied among the trees. Once again Brian went to pursue her, his exasperation peaking; yet he had barely taken the first few steps after her when a leg thrust out to trip him, bringing him tumbling to the ground.

A wild cackle rang in Brian's ears as he pushed himself up. Furious, he turned to look at the prone form of the Bohemian Woodstock, who lay beside him in the grass, a flagon of ale in one hand, a half-smoked joint in the other, both legs outstretched. Woodstock's head was tilted way back and it looked as though he might laugh himself into a stroke.

“Very funny,” Brian said, rising to a crouch and brushing dirt off his pants. The word
asshole
rose to his lips but did not slip out. “You jerk,” he added instead.

“Huh?” Woodstock brought his laughter under control and tried to focus on Brian, as if he'd only just noticed him. “jerk?”

“Glad you enjoyed my fall. I could have broken my neck . . . or yours.”

“Enjoyed?” Woodstock repeated. “You? . . . No.” Giggling, he jabbed a finger at a bare patch of ground behind Brian. “Little man . . . only this high.” He held his hands half a foot apart as a visual aid, spilling the contents of the flagon on himself. “Only this high, I swear.”

“Of course,” said Brian. And then, at the top of his lungs: “Aurora!”

She was nowhere to be seen. Leaving Woodstock behind in a fresh fit of laughter, Brian got up and headed down a path he thought she might have taken. Passing two House brothers and a trio of sorority sisters imported from Alpha Phi, he arrived in short order at the clearing that contained the Enchanted Circle, a wide ring of colored stones believed by the brothers to possess a special protective power. A woman lay within the ring, passed out from too much wine. A very pretty woman, Brian noted, but not his; nor was there anyone else in the clearing, conscious or unconscious, whom he could ask about Aurora. Nearly at his wit's end, he caught a flicker of red out of the corner of his eye. Peering into a place at the clearing's edge where the trees seemed to draw particularly close together, he saw it again, more clearly this time: a figure in a red cloak and hood, moving deeper into the wood. Brian called out but the figure did not turn.

Anxious not to lose her again, Brian padded across a thin carpet of fog and entered the trees. He did not pause to check his bearings, or keep track of landmarks; the idea of getting lost in an underground wood was ridiculous. But the trees grew closer together and before long the sky could no longer be seen through the branches. Ahead, the figure in red had all but vanished from Brian's sight, as the fog rose higher, obscuring the view.

“Aurora!” he shouted. Aurora, stop! Wait for me!”

She did not stop; she walked on, into a thick band of fog that completely engulfed her. Suddenly afraid, Brian thought to turn back, back to the pavilion where he might find a brother to help him navigate these impossible woods. But when he looked around, all directions had become the same, fog growing thicker in all quarters, and he realized that he did not know the way out.

IV.

“Puck, stop teasing him! Let's go.”

“Just another minute, Zeph . . .” The sprite made another face at Woodstock, watched him roar with laughter and pound his fist against the ground. Puck was fascinated; only rarely had he actually been seen by one of the Big People, and even then a reaction such as this was most unusual.

“This is silly, Puck,” Zephyr reasoned with him from her hiding place behind a shrub. “What if he decides to step on you?”

“I'd be surprised if he could stand up,” Puck replied. But he had tired of the game, and so with a final nose-thumbing, he bade farewell to the Bohemian and rejoined Zephyr. “Where to now?” he asked her.

“Let's go over to the Circle. Grandfather's supposed to be telling stories.” Puck nodded agreement, and together they made their way along the same path that Brian Garroway had gone rushing down not long before. The two sprites were careful to keep well to the side of the trail, lest they be trampled by some other passing human. Little feet carried them at a slower pace, but in due course they came to the clearing and the ring of magic stones.

Aphrodite, the: Bohemian Love-Minister, still lay unconscious within the Circle. Unafraid, a milling group of sprites clustered freely around her, some even using her as a giant sofa; one sprite stood calmly on Aphrodite's neck, trimming locks of her hair for later use in weaving.

Puck and Zephyr mingled with the crowd. Unlike the humans, sprites wore no costumes on this holiday, for why should invisible, magical creatures bother to dress up as spirits and hobgoblins? Sifting through the faces Puck spotted Hamlet, garbed in his regular oak-leaf garment, pinsword at his side; he was chatting leisurely with Jaquenetta, the animal-handler who had been with them on the night of Cobweb's and Saffron's deaths. Farther off, near the edge of the Circle, Zephyr's Grandfather Hobart and two other sprites were assembling a storyteller's chair, a construction of Popsicle sticks and tongue depressors that resembled a lifeguard station.

“Hobart looks pretty happy,” Puck observed, watching the old sprite give orders to the younger two.