Fool on the Hill (47 page)

HOBART TELLS A FINAL TALE

I.

Eldest sprite Hobart let out a low moan.

“Julius? . . .”

Zephyr sat on the edge of the bed—a padded matchbox with four headless Strike Anywhere posts—and wiped his brow with a cold sponge. Hobart jerked beneath the covers, exhibiting more movement than he had in months, but his eyes remained unfocused.

“The fever seems to be breaking,” Butts, the physic, observed. “That’s a hopeful sign, at least.”

Zephyr shrugged noncommittally. Her face was drawn and tired, and she bore the look of one who has lost or is on the verge of losing everything, hope included.

“He’s been speaking in his sleep ever since he was brought here,” she said. Her voice was cold, like old embers. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes, but the signs . . . well, to this practiced eye, I’d say he might very well wake up—”

“I’ve had enough of practiced eyes,” Zephyr interrupted. “Most of them seem to be in need of more practice. Two months ago you were telling me almost the very same thing, that he would either wake up soon or die, and either way it would be over and done with. Two months ago Hamlet was reassuring me that any day they’d find Puck, and that would be over too. And now . . . now, can your practiced eye tell me when they’ll find Hamlet?”

Despite her words there was little anger in her tone; Zephyr had no energy for a proper fury. Nonetheless Butts backed away nervously and said no more.

“I’m going to fly up to the Tower,” Zephyr told him, dropping the sponge into a thimble of water. “I have to tend to the Chimes. Watch him until I get back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Buns, not unhappy to see her go. Her temper had become frightful lately.

Zephyr exited the healing rooms quickly, following a passageway that ran above the false ceiling of the Straight’s main lobby. Though she passed many sprites she knew she paused to speak to none; those few who attempted a greeting of their own were ignored. Puck would have recognized her mood, had he been there—it was the same mood that had consumed her the day she had led him on a ragtag chase through the skies down to The Boneyard. At her core Zephyr felt cheated, in the same way she had felt cheated by Puck’s infidelity with Saffron Dey. Fate had robbed her, with no explanation, of her lover and a good friend, and put her grandfather deep in coma; yet unlike a straying boyfriend, she could not kick Fate out of her bed or deny it her presence. That was the hardest thing: not having a concrete being to blame for her troubles.

A hidden stair took her upwards, to the highest reaches of the building. There was no hangar, but a hatch opened at one of the roof peaks, and there was moored the gossamer glider, newly repaired, bucking in the swelling wind as if anxious for flight.

The weather surprised her; the sky had been perfectly clear a few hours ago, yet now clouds threatened from all directions, leaving only a small pool of sunlight that centered directly over the crest of The Hill. Lightning flashed in the distance; the storm looked to be a nasty one.

Zephyr climbed into the pilot’s sling and slipped the moorings. The wind took the glider immediately, yanking it into a climb. Zephyr banked toward the Tower—the Clock said ten to noon—her thoughts turning once more to Puck, and then, for the first time in a long time, to George. There was another one that Fate had, in a sense, robbed her of. Oh, she understood well enough now the truth that sprite and human could never match, yet it would be nice,
kind
, if she could talk with him about all her other losses. Surely he would be sympathetic, even though, now that he was in love, she found it difficult to imagine that he would have any real problems of his own to face.

Wondering where George might be—and keeping one eye on the approaching cloud bank—she winged up to the Tower, paying no mind to the crowds swarming on the Arts Quad, and certainly not noticing the two tiny figures below her who were racing with utmost speed toward the very building she had just left.

II.

“
Go.!
”

A freshman with a knapsack slung on his back knelt in front of the Straight to tie his shoelace, and Puck and Hamlet each caught hold of the end of one of the shoulder straps. The shoelace-tier finished his business and
stood back up without the slightest inkling that he now carried two invisible piggy-backers. Moving with a stride greater than the broadest-jumping sprite could hope to match, he hopped up the Straight’s front steps and shoved through the swinging doors, headed for Oakenshields Dining.

“Jesus, Troilus, and Cressida!” Puck cried out, as the freshman turned sideways to squeeze past a fat woman and nearly brushed him off. “Walk right, why don’t you?”

“Calm down and get ready to move,” Hamlet suggested, as they passed through the second set of doors into the main lobby. Imminent Dragon Parade notwithstanding, the Straight was packed, some students here for lunch, others hoping to make a withdrawal from the bank to pay for this weekend’s partying. The lobby floor was a shifting mass of heavy feet, yet the two sprites dropped to it anyway, clutching at the freshman’s pants legs to slow their fall. The Cornellian felt the tug and hitched at his jeans, and then Puck and Hamlet were loose on the floor, weaving and dodging through the forest of feet. Twice Hamlet was nearly stepped on; a girl in an Angora sweater and matador boots almost did for Puck, but her boyfriend came up behind her and swept her fortuitously off the ground at the last moment.

At the base of one of the walls, beneath a bench, a secret door gave access to one of the sprite passageways. Safe inside, they rested only a moment before rushing up to the healing rooms. Like Zephyr before them, both ignored the sprites they passed, but they got a good deal more attention in return. Ghosts often do. Macduff, leader of the ill-fated Lab Animal Freedom Raid, watched Puck and Hamlet go by in astonishment and turned to follow them. So did his brother Lennox.

And so it happened that all four sprites came bursting into the healing rooms, all babbling questions at once. Puck, by virtue of having the loudest voice, managed to get the amazed physics and attendants to show them where the Eldest was quartered. The babbling died down abruptly as they were ushered in.

Hobart was sitting up in the bed.

III.

“Not trace,” Rover Too-Bad commented, nose to the ground. “Not single trace of it. I an’ I be t’inkin’ our wolf, he long gone.”

“Pity,” said Blackjack, not feeling very pitying at all. “I can still smell rat just fine. Anyone for lunch?”

The three of them—Blackjack, Rover, and the mongrel Denmark—were on a dirt trail on the south side of Fall Creek Gorge; the suspension bridge was just ahead on their left. They had been combing this general area for some hours now, the search hampered by the fact that only Rover knew the
scent they were trying to pick up. Most of the dogs at the assembly had trotted first thing to West Campus to get a whiff near where the killing had taken place. Denmark, however, had wanted to get clear of the Purebreds as soon as possible, and Blackjack simply didn’t care to bother with the Slope.

“I wish we could stop and eat,” Denmark said now. “But if this ‘wolf’ isn’t found soon . . .”

“You’re nervous about Bucklette, aren’t you?” asked Blackjack.

“All ‘Breds make me nervous.” He glanced at Rover. “Most ‘Breds, mean. That St. Bernard did surprise me this morning, speaking up like he did.”

“Jus’ so,” said the Puli. “Maybe, Denmark, there be hope yet for us all.”

“But is there?” replied the mongrel. “One or two dogs taking a stand isn’t exactly overwhelming. Sometimes I wonder if life isn’t meant to be a setup. Things like the Fourth Question, the density of some dogs—it almost seems designed to keep the old feud going. Maybe it isn’t meant to end.”

“Jah love, Denmark, you really believe the world could be designed in such a way? I an’ I t’ink not—”

“‘Design?’” interrupted Blackjack. “‘Meant?’ Spare me, please. Basic animal nature is a good enough explanation for all this Purebred-and-mongrel nonsense. You don’t have to go dragging superstition into it. That’s just the mentality that got this mess started in the first place. Why not try being a little bit feline in your outlook? You might rest easier.”

“Never talk God to a cat,” said Denmark, quoting an old proverb.

“If there is a God,” the Manx retorted, “and if He’s really on the ball, then obviously He must have intended me not to believe in Him. Which would mean that, out of the three of us, I’m the only one content to fulfill my role in this life without pestering Him with stupid questions. Am I right?”

Denmark fell silent, either considering or sulking. They moved on a little farther, coming closer to the bridge. Across the gorge they could see the approaching clouds, hear muted thunder.

“That storm looks foul,” said Blackjack.

“This whole place is foul,” said Denmark. The words were his last. All at once the wind changed, bringing a new scent, causing Rover to start and Blackjack to bristle in sudden recognition. Only Denmark did not sense the danger immediately.

A mound of rotting leaves on the slope to their right exploded, and death fell snarling among them, white fur and teeth.

IV.

“I’ve dreamed a great deal,” Hobart told them, sitting on the edge of the bed, flexing his bedsore muscles. “Dreamed and dreamed. And learned. Yes, I
understand a great many things now that I didn’t before. Or think I understand.”

His eyes found Puck’s, and the younger sprite thought Hobart looked strangely revivified, stronger and more alive, despite his long sleep, than he had on New Year’s Eve when they had flown into ambush at the Tower.

“Rasferret the Grub is alive, of course,” Hobart said. “We did not kill him at the end of the Great War—that part of the history is a lie.”

Shock registered on the faces of Macduff and Lennox. Butts the physic gasped aloud, though he was a simple fellow, not much for stories, and knew less than any of them about the War. Of the other sprites in the room—and a good many of them had come crowding in to see the miraculously recovered Eldest; physics, attendants, and patients from elsewhere in the healing rooms—their reactions ranged from startlement to barely controlled terror. Only Puck and Hamlet seemed impassive, unsurprised by the revelation. Perhaps they had been doing some dreaming of their own. Why else had they both awakened this morning with the sudden inspiration to end their period of hiding and come here?

“You remember the story I told on Halloween, the Death Story Laertes so wanted to hear?” Hobart spoke directly to Puck and Hamlet, but a good number of the others also nodded. “Most of the details were correct: the final assault on The Boneyard involved two contingents, one large one to draw off Rasferret’s main force, a second smaller one led by Eldest Julius to take care of the true business at hand. But we did not go in with the intention of killing the Grub—we were afraid to try that, not even sure it could be done.

“No, we tricked him instead, attempted something so unexpected that perhaps its very unexpectedness is what allowed it to succeed. We imprisoned him. We hunted him down, drew him out with his own overconfidence by pretending to fall back immediately before his magic and his personal guard. A series of our own illusion magics completed the trick—Rasferret was trapped in a box, a magic box designed to hold him, alive but powerless.

“We put him in the box, then put him in the ground. It was far more difficult than you can ever imagine. The Rats did not let us alone for a moment, and there was the rainstorm raging around us, and . . . and Rasferret himself. He did not go quietly. Every seam and crack of the box was sealed in such a way that his own magic could not get out, but there was a hole in the seal, and through that hole he performed one last animation. It happened just as we had finished digging a deep enough pit for the box, just as we were lowering it in. My own crossbow—I do not know why it happened to be mine—turned in my hands, fired of its own volition.” Hobart touched his left breastbone gravely. “Julius was struck right here, through the back and out again through the front. He faded almost instantly.

“There’s little enough to tell, beyond that. The breach in the seal was fixed with panicked swiftness; the box went into the ground. We filled in the
hole, and then those few who remained alive tried to make an escape, for still the Rats did not give up. And only I—a very young sprite in those days—actually got out of The Boneyard. Only I knew the secret of what had really been done. Before long the Rats
did
disperse, either dying or returning to their original form, I’m not sure which. But The Boneyard remained a haunted place, and in time I saw to it that a ring of magic stones was placed over the burial site, stones enchanted to frighten off animals and sprites. I did not think that the Big People would desecrate one of their own graveyards, and did not worry about them digging up the box. Perhaps I should have worried; but perhaps I was not meant to. In any case, Rasferret the Grub was never killed, though I had hoped after a century that he might simply have died in his box. Yes, I hoped that very much.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Butts the physic spoke up, after a long silence. “But what exactly does this mean to us?”

“Rasferret’s got out, of course,” Puck spoke up.

“And he has enough Rats assembled,” added Hamlet, “to destroy us all.”

“Good God!” Macduff exploded. “Och, we’re not prepared for war. If—”

“We’re a sideshow,” said Hobart, and all attention turned back to him. “It’s one of the understandings I’ve come to,” he continued. “We didn’t kill Rasferret the Grub then, and we’re not going to kill him now. He’s got another purpose, he’s someone else’s foil—just whose I’m not sure.”

“What are we supposed to do, then?” piped up Lennox.

“Organize and defend ourselves as best we can,” said Hobart. “Until Rasferret is killed, or his power broken—if it’s broken—we’re all in very grave danger.” He stood shakily and buckled on his sword, which had lain beneath his bed for the past two months. “One way or another, there’s going to be a great killing before this day is over.”