Fool on the Hill (46 page)

DAWN OF THE IDES: THE DEATH

I.

Five
A.M.
, pre-dawn of the March Ides.

Blackjack woke from nightmare. He’d crawled into a dark place out of the wind to sleep and at first did not remember where he was. A dog crouched near him, its scent mixing and fusing with the scent of another dog from his dreams.

“Luther?” he said, confused.

“It be Rover. Rover Too-Bad.” The Puli was a blacker outline against the black velvet of the sky, still unblemished by first light. The moon had set an hour ago.

“What do you want?” Blackjack demanded testily, secretly glad to be awakened. He retained no shred of what had passed through his mind during sleep, but it had not been pleasant. There had been blood in the nightmare, much of it his own. . . .

“I an’ I be sent to tell you ‘bout an ‘emergency assembly’ Boss-Dahg be callin’ at sunrise. Everyone be there, he say: dahg, caht, whatever.”

“Assembly? What the hell for? It’s not time yet for the graduation ceremonies and I’m damned if I’d go to them anyway. I want more sleep, thank you. Or, hmmm—” He sniffed; the scent of rat was surprisingly strong in the air. “—hmm, maybe an early breakfast would be nice.”

“Blackjack,” said Rover, “why you give me shit, eh? T’ink I an’ I
want
to bother you? Listen—meetin’ called by Boss-Dahg. The Dean. You have to go.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” Blackjack said warningly.

“There’s been a death, Blackjack. A killin’. Do you understand that?”

“A killing? Human or animal?”

“Bulldahg. Some Bulldahg torn to pieces.”

“Torn to pieces by what?”

“That’s why Boss-Dahg call assembly. Some t’ink it was dahg wit’ the rabies, even wolf, but others . . . it be very bad, Blackjack. You remember
Lady Bucklette, Collie bitch wit’ long teeth? She goin’ aroun’ half the night, tellin’ everyone who listen that mongrels do this t’ing, ‘mongrel agitators’ she say.”

Blackjack understood at once the need for an assembly. Bad enough to have a rogue predator loose on The Hill, but if Purebred began to turn against mongrel in suspicion . . . “There’ll be no end to trouble,” he finished the thought.

“You come now, Blackjack?” Rover asked him. “I an’ I got others to find.”

“Sure, I’ll come,” the Manx agreed. “But what do you think it was, Rover? Could there really be a wolf here?”

“I an’ I don’t know ‘bout wolf,” replied the Puli, “but this be one big mother, wolf or not. I an’ I see the body—Jah love, Bulldahg torn apart.”

II.

“Order!” Excalibur III, Sheepdog and Dean of Canine Studies, barked fiercely at Ezra Cornell’s statue. “Quiet down, why don’t you!”

The sun was just creeping over the horizon, and the scene on the Arts Quad was very similar to that seven months ago at the initial Dog’s Convocation, but with about twenty times the hostility. The mongrels had once again drawn into a tight, protective knot, with the campus cats—on direct request from the Dean—placed unwillingly in a ring around them, to create a buffer zone. Many Purebreds were openly antagonistic, and Bucklette the Collie continued to exhort them.

“Damn it!” Excalibur fumed. “I want order!”

With some difficulty his Doberman aides got him turned around to face the crowd, after which his pleas for order had a much greater effect. Bit by bit the assembled dogs quieted, but the silence, when achieved, was a very uneasy one.

“That’s better!” said the Dean, squinting beneath the thatch of hair that covered his eyes. “Now what the jolly hell is going on here, eh? Have we got the jolly rabies, one of us? Frothing? Feral? Speak up!”

“It’s anarchy!” Bucklette spoke up.

“Anarchy?” beneath Excalibur’s sternness there was a note of fear. “What’s this?”

“It’s no secret!” the Collie went on. “We all know they’ve got it in for us.”

“
They
who?” piped up Denmark from among the mongrels. “Which they are you referring to?”

“Jus’ so, sister,” added Rover Too-Bad, the only Purebred to openly cross party lines. “I an’ I would also like to know.”

“Listen to me!” Bucklette appealed to those around her. “Listen, it’s
common knowledge that certain dogs take a very negative view of the Fourth Question. With no concept of or respect for proper scholarship, it shouldn’t surprise us that they’d resort to organized violence.”

“What’s all this ‘us’ and ‘they’ garbage?” Denmark demanded. “You—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence!” Bucklette snapped ("What intelligence?” muttered a tabby on Blackjack’s right). “You mongrels are nothing but a bunch of self-segregating snobs who live in the past and try to blame Purebreds for your feelings of paranoia. We don’t ostracize you, you ostracize yourselves, and I for one am sick and tired of having to be afraid every time I run into one of your packs. I don’t want revenge taken on me for imagined prejudices that I never had anything to do with.”

“Imagined prejudices?” cried out another mongrel who was missing half an ear.

“If we’re paranoid,” questioned Denmark, “how is it that you’re the one who’s always afraid?”

“I asked you not to insult my intelligence!”

“Well I’m sorry, my dam raised puppies, not miracle-workers.”

“You insolent—”

“Order!” Dean Excalibur overrode them again. “Order, order, order, this is going too fast and I’m getting confused! Now I don’t want any more quibbling, I want bloody facts.
Slow
facts.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” one of the Dobermans put in, “but we have an expert witness ready, if you’d like. Sureluck?”

A very ancient and dilapidated Bloodhound detached himself from the throng of Purebreds and came forward, moving slowly but not without dignity. Excalibur squinted at him.

“At your service, sir,” the Bloodhound said respectfully.

“Eh? Who’s this fellow?”

“His name is Sureluck,” a Doberman explained.

“He’s rabid, you say?”

“No sir, not at all. He’s a
witness
, sir.”

“Well, he certainly doesn’t
look
rabid. I see no foam, no—”

“Begging your pardon, sir. Sureluck
isn’t
rabid. He’s the one who found the body, and he’s done some sniffing around for us.”

“The body? What body?” Then, after a pause during which one could almost hear the Sheepdog’s scattered thoughts crawling back toward each other across the battlefield of his mind: “
OH!
Oh,
that
body, of course! The Bulldog, you mean. Jolly good! And tell me, do we know who this Bulldog was?”

Sureluck answered: “Yessir, Sergeant Slaughter has already identified the victim as one of his own.” Slaughter, who sat ringed by Boxers, affirmed this.

The mongrel Denmark turned to one of his companions. “Beats all,
doesn’t it?” he commented discreetly. “'Bred victim, ‘Bred witnesses, a ‘Bred bitch howling for blood, and a half-senile ‘Bred running the whole show. You suppose we’ll get to play any part at all?”

“Half-senile my wagging tail,” came one response. “Try three-quarters.”

“Oh Denmark,” said another, “the Accused is a very important role, didn’t you know that? So’s Martyr.”

“Where and when did you find the body, Surelatch?” Excalibur was asking. “Begin at the beginning, end at the end, don’t go too fast, and all that. . . .”

“It’s Sureluck, sir,” the Bloodhound corrected him patiently. “Well, I was out scrounging for a bite to eat some good time before dawn—the moon was still high, sir—and my wanderings took me down by the Western Campus. I smelled blood, sir, and at first I thought some kind Master had thrown out a steak or two, but I soon discovered I was mistaken. He’d been ripped in pieces—the Bulldog—torn in half, and then again, and partly eaten, I’m afraid.” The Bloodhound’s tone was calm and almost matter-of-fact, but more than a few of his listeners were horrified. Bucklette could barely contain herself.

“That’s barbaric!” she snapped, growling accusingly at the mongrels. “But not entirely surprising!”

There were answering growls; caught in the middle, the cats tensed nervously, ready to scoot out of the way and mind their own business should a riot erupt.

“Sir?” said Sureluck, tensing a little himself.

“Yes, please excuse me,” replied Excalibur. “Order!” he demanded. “Please continue, Shotluck.”

“Yessir. As you may have guessed, sir. I’m not very fast going upslope, and I knew you’d want to be informed as soon as possible. Fortunately I was able to find Rover, there, in the vicinity.”

“I an’ I be visitin’ the Lady Babylon,” offered the Puli. “Long may she live.”

Sureluck continued: “I sent Rover up-Hill right away with the news. As for myself, I sniffed around carefully a bit longer, trying to see where the killer might have gotten to. I had to be most careful, of course—it must have been a very large animal.”

“What about a pack?” queried Bucklette impatiently. “It could have been a pack, couldn’t it?”

“A pack?” echoed the Bloodhound. “Oh no, no, it was one animal, I’m quite sure. I picked up only one scent.”

Another Purebred spoke up. It was Skippy, the Beagle, for once too frightened to hop about: “Was it . . . was it really a wolf?”

“Eh? No, no, no, a dog, I should think. How would a wolf get here?”

Bucklette again: “What kind of dog?”

“A big dog, as I said.”

“Yes, as you said, but what kind of big dog?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question. The four-legged kind, what other kind is there?”

“Purebred or mongrel, you idiot!”

Sureluck stared at her. “Can
you
smell the difference?”

“Well,” the Collie faltered, “well no, but you’re supposed to be an expert witness.”

Sureluck glanced discreetly at the mongrels. “How did it go?” he said. “‘My dam raised puppies, not miracle-workers.’ I’ll know what it is when we track it down, not before.”

“Hmmph,” exclaimed Denmark. “An honest dog. How about that?”

“Maybe you’re just too old,” Bucklette suggested. “Maybe your nose can’t be trusted anymore. I still say it was mongrel agitators. Everyone knows you can’t trust them.”

“Enough of that.” Gallant, the St. Bernard, stood glowering behind her. “You’ve had your say, why don’t you quiet down for a while, now?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I say so, because I’m tired of your manure, because I’m a big dog too and can quarter you as easily as any wolf.”

“Oh! Maybe
you
killed the Bulldog, then!”

“Eh?” Sureluck broke in. “Oh no, didn’t I mention, I don’t believe I’d ever scented this dog before. And I’ve been around here a long time. Of course, if the Dean wishes I’d be happy to double-check everyone.” He sniffed loudly. “Say, who’s been eating rats and farting?”

“Oh yea, oh yea,” Dean Excalibur said abruptly, once more confused and trying to catch up with the conversation. “Did somebody say something about a search party?”

THE SPIDER'S WEB

I.

The sun came up high and bright, the sky dear at first but smelling of another storm in the making. All over North and West Campuses, and in student apartments in Collegetown and down the Hillside, the weekly ritual began, the deciding whether or not to blow off classes and start the weekend early.

For the Architects at least it was an easy choice: their studies were suspended for Dragon Day, freeing them to concentrate on the last-minute business before the noon Parade. By ten-thirty many of them were already gathered on the Arts Quad, most in costume, many drinking steadily, working up toward critical mass. Costumes ranged from simple green greasepaint on the hands and faces to elaborate cardboard shells in the shapes of famous buildings. One extra-tall undergrad came as the Tower of Babel; he mingled with the crowd, quite drunk, making sexist remarks to the women and accusing the men of multiple acts of bestiality. Because he spoke in Esperanto and because the smile never left his face, nearly everyone felt flattered by his gibberish and complimented him in turn.

Campus security was out early, high-strung after yesterday's pandemonium, watching for any sign of further trouble as more and more people drifted into the Quad. By quarter past eleven a fair cross-section of Arts, Ag, ILR, Hum Ec, and Hotel students were out waiting, along with delinquent faculty, Bohemians, Blue Zebras, and a handful of zealous Engineers acting as forward spotters. Following tradition the Dragon would begin its journey in the Sibley Hall parking lot, come around the side of the building into the Quad, cut over past Lincoln Hall to East Avenue, and travel down to the Engineering Quad. There the Engineers would attack it, throwing mudpies, tomatoes, rotten cabbage—aerodynamically sound rotten cabbage—and, if the weather changed radically over the next half hour, snowballs. Then, unless the Dragon was overwhelmed—and the only Dragon ever to fall
down, last year's, had done so without any help from the Engineers—it would complete the circuit, right on Campus Road, right again on Central Avenue, and so back up to the Arts Quad for burning.

“Good day for it,” Curlowski commented, overseeing the connection of the Dragon's tail to the rest of the body. Midway through the linkup a cat without a tail and two dogs hurried by; Modine bent to pet them, but they avoided him neatly and continued on, moving with a purpose.

Larretta Stodges, the Mastermind, strode across the parking lot, elbowing her way through the crowd of onlookers. “Is everything going all right?” she asked.

“Couldn't be better,” Curlowski told her. “The weather's perfect: not a breeze since early this morning, no clouds, and not freezing cold like last year.”

“There's a storm coming,” Larretta responded, not so pleased as he. “Can't you smell it?”

“Guess I don't have a nose for storms. It looks fine, and the radio said—”

“Never mind the radio. How's the Dragon holding up?”

The main body of the Dragon reared up vertically forty-five feet, and the inner wooden frame was set on wheels, like a siege tower. The skin was thick canvas, overlaid with dark green paper-plate scales. Set atop the body was the specially designed head, flame-thrower in place; below the jawline two taloned arms jutted from the body, large and menacing. The Dragon's wings were also canvas, like the skin, but of a lighter weave and rigged to collapse against the body should the wind become too strong. On the ground, now fully connected, the Dragon's tail stretched out another thirty feet behind it. It had no wheels but would be lifted and carried by a select group of Architects standing inside, while a second group pulled the body along with ropes.

“It's holding up very well,” Curlowski said, justifiably proud. “Better even than expected. I thought there might be some trouble with the head, but the extra weight from the flame tank doesn't seem to have hurt the balance.”

“So we're ready to go at noon?”

“Barring a disaster. Listen, though . . .” He lowered his voice.” . . . that flame tank's still got me a little worried.”

“Why? All the kinks were worked out of the design two nights ago. There shouldn't be any problem.”

“It's not the design I'm talking about.” Curlowski lowered his voice still more, to a whisper. “There's a fire marshal here, you know. For the burning, afterwards.”

“And?”

“Well come on, Larretta. This fire-breathing business was never officially approved. If a fire marshal's watching and that thing starts spuming at the crowd . . .”

“The angle of fire is way above everyone's head. You know that, you helped build it. Unless Mary Poppins comes sailing by on her umbrella, there's no danger to—”

“I know there's no danger,” Curlowski interrupted, “and you know there's no danger, but what's the fire marshal going to say?”

The Mastermind pondered this; it was an unsettling thought, that the marshal might shut them down in the middle of the Parade.

“No,” she decided. “No, he wouldn't cancel the Parade, but he might make us stop and take the tanks out. We'll have to keep it a secret until we get to the Engineering Quad. One good blast to scare the daylights out of them and I don't care what happens afterwards.”

“All right,” Curlowski agreed. “If worse comes to worse we can always send somebody up to pull the tanks.”

“Right.” Already Larretta had put the problem behind her. She glanced at her watch. “Thirty-three minutes until we start. How long is the Parade supposed to take?”

“An hour, maybe an hour and a half to complete the circuit. Why?”

“My nose. I've got a bad feeling about this storm. . . .”

II.

The storm surrounded Ithaca in a shrinking ring, like a spider's web drawing tight. Barely had Curlowski commented on the calmness of the air when the wind
did
pick up, blowing uncertainly, now this way and now that, bringing clouds from every direction. Mr. Sunshine—letting the style of the Story override his personal taste in weather—guided them in, spun the web.

Now it is, of course, difficult to imagine a city the size of Ithaca becoming isolated from the outside world. A small town, some rural backwater out in Iowa, perhaps, could conceivably vanish off the face of the earth without anyone noticing, at least for a while. But a city of thirty thousand souls, with a major university and a smaller college on opposite hills, is another matter entirely. There are telephone calls, deliveries, commutings in and out every day, every hour. Ithaca, most would agree, could not be cut off without somebody taking notice very quickly.

Yet that is exactly what happened. As the Ides marched on, as the storm drew nearer, as the web tightened, Ithaca began to sever its ties with the surrounding country. It became enchanted, a darkly enchanted fairy city; fewer and fewer communications passed in and out, and travelers chose another Road, to another place.

One of the last beings to enter the enchanted city before the web closed completely came on four legs.

III.

The sign said
ITHACA—2 MILES
, and though Luther could not read it, he knew that his journey was almost over. Ragged and lean from many long weeks on the Road, he padded along a deserted stretch of Route 79, the same road he and Blackjack had come into Heaven on the first time.

Heaven was just ahead of him now, rich and rain-smelling; Hell followed close on his tail. From this vantage point it was already possible to see the rapidly converging clouds, thick and grey and darkening near to black at the horizon. Lightning flickered within them, and cold fog swept the ground below, eating up the visibility. Terror of the storm kept Luther moving at a brisk pace, yet he knew it would overtake him long before he reached The Hill.

“Oh Blackjack, please be alive when I get there,” Luther pleaded, moving still more quickly. Memories of recent dreams haunted him, dreams in which he came upon the savaged corpse of his old friend, and standing over it another, larger beast, sometimes the light-and-shadow-demon Raaq, sometimes the Purebred Dragon.
I've been waiting for you, mange
. . . .

The wind shifted suddenly, purposefully. For the barest instant it blew directly from The Hill, and Luther caught a brief whiff of a familiar scent, a scent he was no doubt meant to catch.

“He
is
waiting,” Luther whimpered. “He is waiting for me, he's there ahead of me, just like in the dreams. . . .”

Was it a test, a last test of courage from God or Raaq?
I will not kill another dog, even my enemy
. But if the Wolfhound was waiting, and found him, as he no doubt would find him . . .

“It's hopeless,” he told himself. “I'm dead. I'm a dead dog.”

Yet he did not slow or falter in his course, did not let the knowledge of coming death overwhelm him. During his journey he had thought long about many things, among them Ruff's philosophy about the purpose of life. Maybe it
was
all just a story, an entertainment for God and His angels. Luther believed at least that there must be some plan, a plan he did not understand but would not turn against.

“But I'm afraid. I'm so afraid, Blackjack, please,
please
be still alive.”

The first clouds were directly above him, now, and the leading edge of the fog snaked chillingly between his legs . . . like tendrils of smoke from the breath of a monster. He kept moving.