Fool on the Hill (27 page)

They were at the far end of the Slope now, beneath Willard Straight Hall by the loading dock for Oakenshields Dining. A delivery truck with a chrome rooster for a hood ornament had backed up to the dock, and a fat man was offloading a stack of bloodstained white boxes. Even with the wind blowing in the wrong direction it was not hard to guess what they contained.

“Time for brunch,” Ruff announced, licking his chops.

Luther looked at the fat man. “Will he give us scraps?”

Again, Ruff would have laughed if he could. Instead, leaving Luther to gape at his actions, the philosopher sprang forward, charging up to the dock. He took the trucker by surprise; barreling between the human’s legs he caught him off balance, sending him sprawling, then hurled himself at the stack of boxes. The top one tottered free and broke open, spilling uncooked chicken halves across the dock.

“Jay-sus!” exclaimed that fat man, thinking at first that a low-flying whirlwind had struck him. It was only when Ruff had grabbed a chicken between his teeth and trampled back over the fellow—squashing a pudgy nose beneath a damp paw—that he realized what was afoot.

“Oh fowl,” chanted the Setter as he raced back to Luther, while a steady gush of human profanities flooded the dock behind him. “Oh fearless chicken thief Oh thundering heart Oh drool Oh brunch Oh life is
so
grand—”

V.

Sitting in front of the fire while the sky brightened outside, Preacher told Jinsei what he knew about Ragnarok’s childhood—not all that much, for Ragnarok had never been one to open himself up, even to the closest of friends. Preacher told her about Ragnarok’s father, Drew Hyatt; about the loss of Drew’s wife to bone cancer when his son was only two; about his slow descent into a lonely and hateful obsession as his son came of age. Most of all, he told her about the Klan, an organization that was dangerous not, as Jinsei had always thought, because of its embodiment of an almost mythological evil, but dangerous, rather, because the evil it embodied lay tooth and jowl with human nature.

“And Ragnarok was quite the little Klanster at first, when he was growing up. You figure it’d have to be like the Boy Scouts with a few extras tossed in. Cross-burning must beat hell out of merit badges, especially for a kid.”

“How could he break out of that?” Jinsei asked. “Being raised that way. He
changed,
I know he changed, but how?”

“Don’t really know.” Preacher shrugged. “Could be something big happened to help shake him up, but knowing the way he is now, I always figured it was just like that old saying, you can’t keep a good man down. Sooner or later I guess he was
bound
to shake it off, you know, unless it killed him first. ‘Course he’s still one of the most violent people I’m likely ever to know personally, but more than once I’ve been glad to have him on my side in a fight.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“Right. You understand, though, that’s one thing he’s never made peace with himself on, and I suppose he’d go through torture before he ever admitted there was the least bit of good in him. Kind of a strange fellow to be best friends with sometimes, I have to admit.”

Jinsei made no response to this.

“What’re you thinking?” Preacher asked, after a moment.

In answer, she resumed tracing the lines of his palm with a finger.

“Problem,” she said.

Preacher nodded, closing his hand over hers. “Problem,” he agreed.

VI.

The Irish Setter tore into his purloined chicken. Luther looked on enviously but received no offer to join in: though a good dog, Ruff let nothing come between him and his food.

“The Romance of the Bone,” he began, “is the epic tale of Everydog’s search for his lost Bone. Not a dry bone, not a bleached bone, but a Bone"—he ripped the drumstick free of the chicken carcass—"meaty and brown, crunchy with marrow, delicious on the tongue.”

Trying hard not to drool, Luther asked: “That’s his
love,
a Bone?”

“Well, it’s a symbol. Everything in The Romance of the Bone is symbolic: the Bone isn’t actually a lover, it
symbolizes
love. Though of course if you wanted to, you could make it symbolize almost anything that a dog would desire enough to go on a quest for. It could be love; it could be knowledge; it could even be the glories of Heaven itself. Desire,
obsession,
that’s what the Bone really symbolizes, beyond all else.”

“And does Everydog find it in the end?”

“Eventually. First there are trials, of course, dozens of enemies trying to keep him from his goal, all of them allegorical: he faces other dogs named Doubt, Fear, and Indecision, for example, a swarm of hornets called Rabies, a wild boar named Distemper. But at the last Every dog reaches the Ivory Butcher Shop where his Bone awaits him. . . .”

“And they live happily ever after?”

“For a minute. He finds the Bone, picks it up, savors it, and then, having tasted its splendor, wakes to find that the entire quest has been a dream.”

“What!?” said Luther. “But that’s such a
cheat!
"

“Not at all,” Ruff told him. “It’s a wonderful story.”

“I bet Everydog wouldn’t think so. Going through all that trouble, finally getting the Bone, and then having to wake up. That must have been terrible for him.”

“That would depend on how he looked at it. What about you and your quest to find Heaven? Do you feel terrible that you didn’t find it?”

“Of course I do! All the miles we walked, nearly getting killed by a pack of Purebreds—no offense—and now it turns out that we didn’t even get away from the prejudice—”

“You look at it the wrong way, then,” Ruff told him. “
I
first heard your story from Denmark, and I thought to myself, what a shame, but also, how wonderful. I retold the tale to some other dogs who came to me for entertainment, and they were amused, or stunned, or saddened, but they
enjoyed
it, every one of them.”

“But what does that have to do with
my
feelings about it? What do I care if some stranger enjoys hearing about me?”

“Luther, Luther . . . the lesson of Everydog . . . the meaning of life . . .”

“Is what?”

“
It’s
all
a story
,” the Setter exclaimed. “The whole world: Oh sun Oh sky Oh wind Oh trees Oh dogs and cats, it’s
all
a story, a grand entertainment.”

“An entertainment for who?”

“For
God,
silly. For God, for His Kennel, for Raaq, maybe.”

Luther’s eyes narrowed. “
Raaq
is entertained by torture and death . . .”

“And you think God isn’t? You think He can’t appreciate tragedy and horror? Life, with all its miseries and joys, is a story—Dr rather a Story—with God as the listener, and we mortals as the plot. Doesn’t it make sense? And doesn’t it explain why we can’t keep the Bone for more than a moment, why the dream has to end so another can begin? Who could enjoy a Story where everyone was perfectly happy?”

“Crazy,” said Luther, after this speech. “I was right, you philosophers are
all
crazy. I pity you, if that’s what you think of God.”

For a third time, Ruff would have laughed if he could.

“Pity
me?
” he said, crunching a chicken bone contentedly. “No, don’t waste pity on me. The lesson of Everydog, the meaning of life, whether you believe it or not . . . it holds me up, elevates me. In the most terrible of times, with everything turned against me, I can marvel at the knowledge that my struggle is part of the Story. And I still suffer, that’s part of the Story too, but the suffering is balanced by wonder . . . and my times of happiness become even more wondrous.

“No, don’t pity me. Pity those who can’t understand The Romance of the Bone, can’t see the purpose behind the up-and-down plot of their lives . . . pity yourself, if you can’t, other dogs if they can’t, or cats, or sparrows, or Oh the beasts of the field, or even the Masters.

“Yes . . . even the Masters.”

VII.

“How bad is it,” Jinsei asked, “if I’m attracted to you?”

“About as bad as if I’m attracted to you,” said Preacher. “Not so bad for us. But for Rag . . .”

“You think he’d take it really badly.”

“Well hell, I’m no Psychology major, never had the bullshit tolerance to handle Freud, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Rag talks a blue streak about women sometimes. But with Rag, the real way you know he wants something bad is, some part of him takes over and busts ass to make sure he
doesn’t
get it. With you, first he steps in and saves the day from Jack Baron and his Rat buddies, it gets looking like you’re more than just a little grateful, then tonight—
last
night—he asks you out and then gets drunk for the first time in a year, goes out of his way to be an asshole—”

“But I don’t want him,” Jinsei said. “Not as more than a friend. Maybe I
thought I wanted more, that night with Jack . . . but I think it was just needing somebody at the time I was more upset that night than I’d ever been before about anything, and Ragnarok was there. Before that night, though, when I first met the two of you, that day with Ginny Porterhouse—
you’re
the one I thought about afterwards, not Ragnarok.”

Preacher grinned. “Well well . . .”

“Don’t,” Jinsei stopped him, when it sounded as if he might make a joke. “Please don’t. I know he’s a good friend, and I don’t want to see him hurt either, so if you think this would be a bad idea then fine. But don’t make light of it.

“Fair.” The grin took a step back; Preacher appeared to think it over, but his fingers were already twining and untwining in her hair, long before he spoke. “Discretion,” he finally said, “discretion, I’m not so bad at that game. How about you?”

She leaned forward and kissed him, lightly, trying it out. She had wiped most of the cat-makeup off her face a while ago, but the faint impression of felinity that remained had an effect that was, well, not very conducive to further rational discussion. Jinsei drew back a little and they shifted position, Preacher’s hand dropping from her hair to her back, stroking, one of her hands coming up to touch his face.

It was during the second, longer kiss that they realized they were not alone. A Greek tragician with a demonic sense of timing could not have arranged it better: Jinsei’s gasp as she noticed Ragnarok standing in the Cowcliffes’ archway, the suitably guilty expression of shock on Preacher’s face as he too looked around, Ragnarok’s usual lack of any identifiable expression, dark lenses, as always, hiding his eyes. The Black Knight held Preacher’s longcoat in one hand, half outstretched like an offering, the tightness with which he gripped it the only clue to his feelings.

That he should be up and about at all, rather than crashed out at Tolkien House with several unconscious hours and a bad hangover still ahead of him, was miracle enough. That he should have come and found them, and at just this particular moment, was almost too much to accept. Jinsei and Preacher were frozen in place, speechless, all too aware of their hands on each other. Ragnarok was likewise unmoving though he did sway a little on his feet his body’s bout with the alcohol far from over. He stared at them, and they back at him, for what might have been a full minute or more.

Then a door slammed somewhere and the tableau was broken. Preacher's longcoat dropped to the floor; Ragnarok’s fist, empty, opened and closed twice. Then he was gone down the hall, something out of sight of the two lovers making a tremendous crash as it was knocked over. The slam of the front door as it was thrust open, not quite hard enough to break the glass; the hiss as it eased closed again. The gunning of a motorcycle, which had somehow not been heard in its approach.

After that, silence.

ALL-NIGHTER

I.

November passed quickly. A busy month for a University—many long tales could be told about what transpired between All Saints’ Day and Thanksgiving, but a summary should suffice: George and Calliope’s love affair continued while Preacher and Jinsei’s blossomed; Hobart the sprite grappled with constant nightmares about The Boneyard while Luther the mongrel struggled against despair; Blackjack ate well and was in general one of the most content individuals in Ithaca.

Ragnarok became the scarcest Bohemian on The Hill. Following the tableau in Cowcliffes, he spoke to no other Minister or Grey Lady for weeks; there were scattered sightings of him, brief glimpses of a black-clad figure dodging quickly through the between-class throngs, but no contact. Lion-Heart posted sentries at a number of auditoriums where Ragnarok was due to attend lecture, but he either came in disguise or skipped entirely. Preacher and Jinsei’s efforts to see him were similarly in vain.

The last Thursday of the month drew on, and those Cornellians who could manage it departed for a holiday at home with family and friends. Among those who remained on The Hill, though, were two people who had pressing business with each other, though they did not know it.

Mr. Sunshine did a lot of spare Typing that Thanksgiving weekend.

II.

“But why can’t I come with you?” George asked, as Calliope packed her duffel bag.

“Oh, George . . . don’t look so frightened. This isn’t it. I’ll be back in two nights, and I’m sure you can survive that long without me.”

“I just thought we’d spend Thanksgiving together, is all. Mashed potatoes, Cornish game hens. . . .”

She smiled. “No turkey?”

“I hate turkey. You know that. You know everything about me, and nine times out of ten you feel the same way. Look, how can I be sure . . . I mean, you said it would hurt me when you finally left, make me feel like dying, and if you were to just take off for keeps now after telling me you’d be back, I . . .”

“I swear to you, George, I will come back this time.” She faced him, took the silver whistle from about her neck and pressed it into his hand. “Here, wear this. It’s good luck, and you can be sure I wouldn’t leave without it even if I were planning to sneak out on you.”

George absorbed this, then slipped the chain over his head and clutched the whistle tight in his fist, a gesture that would become compulsive over the next few weeks. “All right,” he said, “all right. But what am I going to do all by myself tomorrow night?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something,” Calliope said. She kissed him on the tip of his nose. “Or something will find you.”

And that was how George came to be shopping alone in Egan’s Suresave Grocers the next morning, where he bumped into Aurora Smith. Actually she spotted him first; it was the first she’d seen of him since Halloween night, and so embarrassing was the memory of what had happened that she very nearly snuck by without saying hello. But George was in rare form that Thanksgiving morn: with two jars of Vlassic pickles, a gallon jug of milk, an impulsively selected slab of feta cheese, and a huge frozen bird balanced in his arms—he had not thought to get a grocery cart for himself—he cut an amusing figure, and when one of the pickle jars slipped with a crash to the floor and George yelled “Shit!” Aurora could not help but laugh.

“Vinegar splashes all over my new sneakers,” George said to her by way of greeting, “and you get cracking up over it. Thanks a lot.”

“Sorry, but you’re
hopeless,
George!” She held her sides and struggled to gain control of herself. “Why don’t you get a cart for all that?”

“Too practical. How you be, lady?”

When a fresh wave of giggles had subsided, Aurora told him: “Pretty good, really. Say, that’s a funny-looking turkey.”

“It’s a goose,” George explained. “They were all out of Cornish game hens.”

“Having a quiet Thanksgiving with your girlfriend?”

“Alone, actually, Calliope took off for a couple days. Some kind of private business to take care of.”

“Well that’s not right,” Aurora said. She paused as if to consider, and just then the milk jug began to slip from George’s grasp. “Here, I’ll carry that,” Aurora offered, and grabbed it, only to have the other Vlassic pickle jar tumble to earth and shatter.

Now they both got laughing. An obviously displeased grocery boy
appeared from behind a stack of three-liter Coke bottles and gave them the evil eye; the fellow seemed so upset over the broken pickle jars that George took pity on him, offering him the feta. “Protein,” the storyteller said. “You won’t be so pale.”

Later, outside in the parking lot, their respective purchases packed carefully in non-slip grocery bags, Aurora and George lingered and talked for a few moments.

“So how come you aren’t back home in Montana for Thanksgiving?” George asked her.

“Wisconsin,” she corrected. “I was supposed to go back yesterday, but when Brian and I got to the airport there’d been some sort of a computer mix-up. The reservation desk only had one ticket for us, and every flight between now and Sunday was booked solid. I made Brian go by himself.”

“You miss going home?”

“Well . . . Christmas will be here soon enough. My father seemed kind of upset when I called to say I wouldn’t be coming. He’s been wanting to talk to me about something since August, but we’ve never gotten the chance. . . . Listen, would you like to come up to Balch tonight and have dinner with me? I can pick you up; I’ve got Brian’s car.”

“Can I bring my goose?” George asked. “Not to insult your turkey, or anything, but I wanted something greasy.”

“Tell you what: you give me the goose, I’ll put it in the oven right next to my turkey. We’ll have leftovers for the next month.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

“Good then,” she said. “You want a lift home right now?”

“Sure thing.”

She led the way to Brian Garroway’s car, which—though George did not recognize the make—was a very practical-looking vehicle; it was brown, and probably got great gas mileage. They stowed their groceries in the back trunk and Aurora had wandered around to the driver’s side to let herself in when a thought seemed to strike her.

“Oh hey . . .” she told him, “we won’t be eating alone tonight. My friend Cathy Reinigen stayed up too, so she’ll be with us.”

“Fine,” said George. Aurora’s tone was innocent enough, yet for some reason he was reminded for the first time of their intimacy in the Garden, and Calliope’s question after:
Did you enjoy it?

Hiding a sudden blush, he climbed into the car beside her and they drove off.

III.

Catherine Anne Reinigen turned out to be a real trip and a half, to use a Bohemian expression. They ate dinner in her room, a cavernous double with
an immaculately clean white carpet. The door was plastered with a collection of tracts, Bible passages, and religious artifacts—George was frankly surprised not to see the finger bone of St. John taped up beside the memo board. Every inch of space on the wall above Catherine’s bed was likewise filled, and featured a series of pen-and-ink drawings of the Holy Saviour. An amazing variety of representations was displayed: the traditional Western Jesus with long hair and beard, Jesus as a black man, Jesus in a three-piece suit handing out Bibles to stockbrokers on Wall Street, a hippie Jesus playing electric guitar alongside Jimi Hendrix, Jesus sitting in the backseat of a Brooklyn cab, Jesus’ face framed by a television screen, an American Gothic—style portrait of Jesus standing in front of a farmhouse with a hoe in his hand and Mary Magdalene at his side, and—this one George found particularly interesting—Jesus as a Teamster.

“So where do you get your inspiration?” Cathy Reinigen asked him during dinner. This was a not untypical question for someone first meeting him, and George gave his not untypical response: he made something up on the spur of the moment.

“Roses,” he told her. “Every morning I have a half dozen fresh-cut white roses brought to my house. Of course when I was younger I couldn’t afford roses, so I kept a window box full of poppies instead, but I’ve moved up since then.”

“Roses? What do you do with roses?”

“Sniff them, naturally. Your olfactory cortex—your smelling center—is located just off the Dinsmore lobe in the right hemisphere of your brain, which is where all creative thinking takes place. You studied this in Bio, didn’t you? The idea is if you stimulate the old olfactory, it sort of gives a jump start to the Dinsmore lobe, and all at once you’re coming up with story ideas faster than you can write them down. Now I know how strange that must sound, but it’s documented fact; Hemingway did African violets three times a day, except when he was boxing.”

“That’s amazing.”

“That’s reality,” said George, keeping a poker face. He took a side-glance at Aurora and saw from her smug expression that she wasn’t buying any of it, but she seemed amused by the tale, which was just as good.

“So tell me,” Cathy went on. “Your latest novel,
The Knight of the White Roses
. . . is that title an allusion to—”

George nodded. “Clever. You found me out.”

“Well,” Cathy smiled, feeling enlightened. “I guess that just shows how limited critical analysis really is. I never would have figured that out in a classroom.”

“That’s why I, don’t trust English teachers,” George confided. “Did you read the book?”

“The
Knight?
Yes, that one I read. It’s a shame my roommate isn’t here—she
was going to eat with us, but she’s out on a date—and she’s in love with every one of your novels.”

“What did you think of the one you read?”

“Me? . . . I . . . that is to say . . .” She hesitated, as if groping for a polite response.

“She thought it was great,” Aurora spoke up. “She told me so. It got her Dunsmore lobe all excited.”

“
Dinsmore
,” George corrected.

“No, no,” Aurora recorrected. “
Dunsmore.
That’s the lobe in the left hemisphere that
enjoys
the story. You must have learned about it in Bio; it’s due south of the optic cortex. If you stimulate it with enough good literature your nose starts to grow longer.”

“Oh yeah,” George said. “Now I remember.”

“I
liked
your novel,” Cathy inserted, glancing confusedly at the both of them. “It’s just that I was sort of . . . disappointed in the way you handled a few of the characters.”

“Like who?” George asked seriously.

“Well, for example, Abbot Mattachine.”

“But the Abbot was a good Joe. I thought the way I had him save the Knight from the tax collectors was pretty nifty.”

“There was that business with him and the choirboys, though . . .”

George shrugged. “Lots of abbots had business with choirboys. Even a fantasy novel has to touch base with reality once in a while.”

Cathy Reinigen cleared her throat. “It’s not that I’m a moralist-reconstructionalist,” she said, borrowing a phrase from a long-ago freshman seminar. “And I certainly wouldn’t want to infringe on your notions of realism by insisting that characters should always be properly punished; real people get away with crimes every day. It’s just that to me, the very best stories are those where the author gets a strong moral message through no matter what actually happens to the characters in the end. Do you understand?”

George nodded. “The big problem with messages like that,” he told her, “is that you can make them clear as a bell, in letters ten feet high, impossible to miss, and readers still don’t get the point. Shakespeare was a kick-ass storyteller, but look what’s happened to
Romeo and Juliet.
Almost everyone forgets that the play was a
tragedy.
Tragedy, that means Fate doesn’t like you, but nine times out of ten it’s you who makes the final screwup. These days we call a lovesick man a ‘Romeo’; you’d have to be pretty sick, though, to really want to
be
Romeo. He was a punk kid; in the story he kills two people in a passion and he’s directly responsible for the death of a third. In the last scene he kills himself over the loss of a woman who isn’t even dead, and then she wakes up and follows his example. The double suicide is the unforgivable part; it’s not touching, it’s dumb. They gave up hope, and that means it’s not even a love story, it’s an immaturity story.”

“Mature people despair,” Aurora suggested.

“Never completely,” George insisted. “Mature people make mistakes, they have breakdowns, they lose, but they never stop looking for the chink in the wall of Fate. The only time they suicide is to save another life; otherwise it’s just quitting. That’s a children’s escape.”

“But Romeo and Juliet loved each other so deeply—” Cathy began.

“If that were true,” said George, “they both would have come out of the tomb alive. Even Juliet’s real death wouldn’t have broken Romeo permanently. Hell, do you think Abbot Mattachine would have cashed it in over the death of one choirboy, when there were so many others in the world?”

“Well now that,” Cathy Reinigen said, beginning to look annoyed, “that is an entirely different case.”

“Oh, but it
isn’t
,”
George insisted. “That’s the other thing you’ve got wrong . . .”

They argued back and forth about it for some minutes more without resolving anything until Aurora tactfully changed the subject. No matter, it had been enough; Mr. Sunshine must surely have overheard them, for what happened later in the evening seemed a most amazing coincidence, the ever-moving wall of Fate bending itself to get George and Aurora alone again, unchaperoned.

IV.

A thick fog—another reminiscence of Lothlórien, but cold and damp, as genuine November fogs tend to be—rose up to cover The Hill shortly after nightfall. Some time after that thee figures emerged from a door beneath the Balch Arch. Following dessert Aurora had suggested, much to George’s surprise, that they all go down to the Fevre Dream in Collegetown for a beer. Even more to his surprise, Cathy Reinigen agreed wholeheartedly with the idea, offering to pay for the pitcher.