Giles Goat Boy (31 page)

“Do you believe me?” I asked her.

Wanly she smiled. “I think you’re being polite. But I appreciate it—
very
much.” She raised her eyes. “I’ve hardly even
thought
of Graduation! Much as the boys used to argue about it at Uncle Ira’s, when they came to see me. I used to hope and hope they’d pass the Finals. Whether
they
hoped so or not.”

“Didn’t you want to pass too?”

“Oh, I guess I’ve
thought
of it. Lots of times.” Now that the line of motorcycles had passed, the air was quiet but for their fading backfire, and I could hear her without straining to listen. “But I know how silly the idea is, for me, so I’ve never dared
wish
for it really. Imagine
me
passing the Finals, after all I’ve done!”

“Do you believe in Graduation, Anastasia?”

“Believe in it?” Her expression was shocked. “I’d
die
if I didn’t! Could I go on living if I didn’t, after something like tonight on the beach?”

“Then you ought to believe what Enos Enoch said:
Passèd are the raped
 …” I turned a finger in the hair upon her neck-nape.
“For they shall be my virgin brides …”

“I believe in Enos Enoch,” she said quietly. “I really do.”

I smiled. “But not in me. Why don’t you believe in me too?”

She wrinkled her brow. “I
want
to, George! Honestly. But you’re so
different
from Enos Enoch. You don’t seem to hate Maurice very much, and you talk so strangely. And look what you’re doing now—” She removed my hand from her hair. “As if you were any ordinary fellow! Enos Enoch wouldn’t do that.”

Stoker came back from his work upon the roadsign (which now showed quite altered directions) in time to catch the famous name. “She should’ve been an early Enochist,” he said to me. “Put
her
in the arena, she’d make love to the lions—just to keep ’em off the others, you know.” He restarted our engine and turned onto a small dirt road, which he declared would get us to our destination ahead of the others. Then he shouted from the side of his mouth, with what seemed to me deliberate nonchalance: “Hey, why not pass her yourself, if you’re the Grand Tutor? You already examined her on the bridge, I understand.”

“That’s rather witty,” I said, ignoring Anastasia’s embarrassment. I explained, however, that while I was beyond question a Grand Tutor, I had not as yet begun actually Tutoring, it being necessary in Max’s opinion as well as my own to matriculate as a common student and undergo the dread Finals myself before descending into WESCAC’s Belly, changing its AIM, and thus bringing peace of mind to the entire student body. Indeed, to the best of my recollection Max had never mentioned the passage or failure of individual students in connection with my program, though it seemed to me (now I considered it) as proper work for a Grand Tutor as preventing Campus Riot III—perhaps even properer. I would think further on the matter. In any case, it was not my impression that Grand Tutors and Examiners were quite the same: my task, as I saw it, was not to pass or flunk anyone myself, but merely to point the way to Commencement Gate—which I must discover myself before leading others thither.

Thus I spoke, freely and eagerly as never before, sensing for the first time the power of my chosen role and wondering, even as I spoke, whether I had interpreted correctly the obscure message on my PAT-card:
Pass All Fail All
. I was pleased to see Anastasia listen with whole attention, if diverted eyes.

“That nutty Spielman!” Stoker marveled, much amused (we were obliged to move less swiftly on the rough dirt road, and so could speak without shouting). “What a prize he’s made out of you: a billygoat persuaded he’s Enos Enoch!”

I shook my head vigorously. “No, no, you’re wrong all around. In the first place Max didn’t persuade me: he’s a fine advisor, and I owe him
my whole education, almost; but it was I who told
him
I’m the Grand Tutor. He still doesn’t believe me as much as he needs to, hard as he tries. He
wants
it to be true; he suspects it might be; but I’m the only one so far who knows it is.”

“You’re Max’s boy, though,” Stoker insisted. “Where’d you get the notion you should change WESCAC’s AIM?”

I admitted that it was indeed Max who had first proposed that particular labor, the worth whereof however I fully affirmed. All I had known was that I must rescue studentdom: from what, and how, I depended on experience—as well as my advisor—to clarify.

“How about your deportment?” Stoker challenged. “That’s Max’s doing too, isn’t it?”

“Beg pardon?” I mistook him to have asked which
department
of New Tammany College I intended to matriculate in, and it occurred to me that I’d given no thought to the choice of a suitable major since my discovery, some months earlier, that no program in Herohood was listed in the Undergraduate Catalogue. I would have to consult Max on the matter before I registered.

“I mean your silly morals,” Stoker said. “Where’d you get the idea you shouldn’t have a go at Stacey, if not from Max? You said yourself you’d like to, and you can see she’s willing.”

“Maurice!” Anastasia held her ears.

“Wasn’t it Max who told you you couldn’t be a stud-buck if you want to be Enos Enoch?”

“Now look here,” I said firmly, “that’s another mistake you all keep making, and Max too. I may be a Grand Tutor—I
am
the Grand Tutor!—but I’m not Enos Enoch, and I don’t want to be.” Anastasia looked at me wonderingly. “Enos Enoch was Shepherd Emeritus, and I’m the Goat-Boy. There’s a big difference.”

“By George, we’ll have a drink on that!” From his trouser-pocket Stoker drew a black flask, unscrewed the top with his teeth, and forsook a clear chance at a strolling possum to tip himself a drink. Then he offered it to me.

“Grand Tutors don’t drink,” Anastasia said. It was half plea, half challenge; I responded by accepting the flask.

“They do when they’re thirsty.”

Stoker cheered. Anticipating water, I choked on the scalding stuff I swigged, a dark liquor manufactured, so Stoker explained, in the Powerhouse itself. Yet it promised splendid things against the chill night air,
and I managed a second swallow before returning the flask. Anastasia turned away with a sniff.

“You’re all right, George!” Stoker said. “I’m glad Max didn’t ruin you altogether.”

I was firm. “That’s enough about Max. He’s a good man, and I’m glad for his advice. Wouldn’t listen to anybody else’s.” I tapped my chest. “But
I’m
the Grand Tutor, not him.”

“Exactly! My sentiments exactly.” Stoker whacked my shoulder. “A grand old man, but
limited
, you know? What worried me, the way you pulled your virtue back there, I thought he might actually have clipped you …”

“Oh, for pity’s sake!”

“No, really! I thought that might be your own equipment on your belt there.”

Without bothering to recount its history I declared the amulet-of-Freddie to be older than myself, and asserted further that so far from being castrate I knew my studly endowment to be greater than any buck’s in the herd, and than Max’s and the Beist-in-the-buckwheat’s too. Though not of the magnitude of either Croaker’s or the late G. Herrold’s. Rest his mind. Which observations led me—

“I’ll just try another sip, if you don’t mind …”

“Do!” Stoker urged.

“Thank you.”

Which observations, I went on to declare, led me to suppose myself at least as well hung as my most generous host and chauffeur, he being white-skinned under his soot. If not better, in view of his short stature. No offense intended.

“Show us!” Stoker cried. “Get the flashlight, Stacey!”

“George,
don’t!
” Anastasia’s angry plea came just in time, for I was nowise loath to test my supposition. “He’s only teasing you. He wants to make a fool of you.”

“Why? Because his
is
better? How do you know, till you’ve compared us?”

She tried over Stoker’s laughter to explain that I misunderstood the question, which was one rather of modesty than of fact.

“Ah,” I said appreciatively. “You mean I shouldn’t boast. Excuse me, I haven’t learned all your manners yet. But that makes sense. Excuse me, Mr. Stoker: didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No offense! No offense! Oh, what a party we’ll have tonight!”

Anastasia shook her head and tried again. “It’s not an offense to
him,
one way or the other! I mean, knowing Maurice, I guess he
might
be disappointed or something if his was smaller—but that’s not what I mean either!”

Stoker guffawed.

“It’s just not proper, in the presence of a lady!” she cried. Then she added quickly, “I don’t mean you meant anything
naughty
by it …” The labor of articulation made her frown. “I realize you were brought up
differently
, just as Croaker was …”

I protested (the liquor burning well from my throat to my belly) that I was not so ignorant of West-Campus manners as all that: had I not that same evening rebuked
her
for displaying across the Georgian River her own escutcheon? But plainly there was a crucial difference between the cases: my reproach had not been for the display of beauty as such—to which none could reasonably object without advocating that her face be covered as well, and her fine-modeled arms and dainty pasterns, not to mention all the countless other of nature’s charms, from rainbows to thistle-blossoms. Nay, it was the
motive
I protested, not the deed: her intent, as I’d mistaken it, to compromise the Grand-Tutorial chastity enjoined on me by Max …

“I knew it!” Stoker said triumphantly.

“But I had no such thing in
my
mind just now,” I said. “Naturally I’d be complimented if you thought all my parts were handsome, too-poor G. Herrold used to like them, rest his mind, and I’m pleased enough with them, I guess. But beauty’s not the point here: the question was a simple one of size. I can’t see where propriety comes in.”

“Don’t you understand, woman?” Stoker chided her. “That’s just how her mind works, though, George: she thinks you want to put it in her.”

“I do
not!
” Anastasia cried, at the same moment that I declared, “I
do!
” Not a little impatient at her consternation, I said, “Didn’t I make that clear? I’d like nothing better than to mate with you if I weren’t the Grand Tutor. Which I am! I don’t even know for sure if Max is right about this chastity business; I’ll have to decide for myself. If I decide he’s right, nobody can tempt me; if I decide he’s wrong, nobody can stop me.”

“Hear! Hear!” Stoker said.

I smiled gravely upon the excellent girl. “Especially I think it would be good to bite you in the belly, Anastasia—not really to hurt, you understand. Your belly is very attractive. Very.”

In a small and uncertain voice she said, “Thank you.”

“Provided you
wanted
me to,” I added, as a particular admonition to
Stoker and by way of demonstrating what I took to be Grand-Tutorial judiciousness. “That’s something none of you seems to consider: to mate or whatever with a doe that’s not in heat—a
girl
I mean of course—is not right at all. No buck would ever do such a thing. You couldn’t
make
him.”

Stoker shook his head. “Stacey could make him.
Everybody
mates with her: chancellors, uncles, laundrymaids, billygoats—everybody! And yet she’s never been in heat in her whole life.”

“Isn’t that odd! Why do you suppose that is?” It was she I asked, but seeing she’d hidden her face at the disclosure, I tactfully changed the subject. “Do you remember what your goat-friend’s name was, that you mated with? I’m sure I’d know him if he was one of our studs.”

I was astounded to see her wail into tears; nor would she permit me to calm her with my hand, but pushed it from her withers as if I had offended her, and whipped her head from side to side.

“Now stop!” I told her. “I don’t see why you’re crying!” I rather wished Max were there to advise me, despite the pleasures of independence I’d been feeling; for though I found Maurice Stoker more interesting and challenging than repugnant, I had no illusions about his straightforwardness. Now he said, “What’s to see? You admit you used to bugger old Sambo back there, and then you tell my wife she’s not worth biting in the belly! Don’t you think the girl’s got feelings?”

“That’s all wrong! Don’t you believe him, Anastasia: he’s a regular Dean o’ Flunks, and I’m the Grand Tutor! I’d
love
to bite your belly. I really would!”

“Even Max could hardly object to that,” Stoker remarked.

“So what if he did? Anything I do, that’s what a Grand Tutor
should
do. If I bite your wife in the belly, it’s
right
to bite her in the belly!” Not to have Anastasia think my words mere idle rhetoric or dutiful apology, I went at her forthwith, sliding to my knees and boring my face past her hands into her midriff. Despite the sidecar’s jolting and for all her wrench and wriggle (which I took for a kind of pouting with the whole body), I contrived to fasten through the cloth of her shift upon a pinch of that admirable, most soft place, which I clenched gently but unremittingly in my teeth until her writhing ceased and her hands no longer thrust but only clutched my hair. I felt us wheel round a bend, but was that determined she must affirm the rightness of whatever I did—a rightness, it occurred to me as I bit,
by definition
—I’d not have let go even when we jerked now to a halt, had not the roar of other motors suddenly enveloped us. Relinquishing my tender gobbet I raised
my head and blinked in a flood of light: we were drawn up on a graveled apron before a huge iron door, let into a steep dark hillside and guarded by a pistoled host, sooty as their master. They grinned, as did the riders thronging in from various roads to skid up near us, at the wide amazement on the face that rose from Anastasia’s lap. But the only laugh was Stoker’s, which, when the engines quit, the massive door gave back, iron and ringing as itself.

“So we’re home!” Stoker cried. “Have to finish your meal later, old chap!” To the door-guards he shouted, “Open her up!” and to his aide on the nearest cycle (in which Max rode, but would not return my greeting), “Tell Sear we’ve got one dead Frumentian and one doped one he should have a look at. And a goat-boy, too, if he’s interested.”