Fool on the Hill (49 page)

“Murdered your sister?”

“Puck!” The point of Laertes’ pinsword quivered. “Where is Puck?”

“What are you talking about, Laertes?” Hamlet said warily. “Puck didn’t kill Saffron. The rats in—”

“The Rats are everywhere,” said Laertes, and Hamlet saw the madness in his eyes.

“You’ve gone insane,” he whispered, wonderingly. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Oh no,” came the reply. “No. My mind is clear.
Very
clear. I think maybe you’re the insane one, Hamlet. But I know just the thing for that. . . .”

Laertes attacked without warning, but Hamlet parried automatically, redirecting his thrust so the sword point passed without touching him. Laertes continued forward, slamming bodily into Hamlet. Together they tumbled over the edge into the trough.

The water jet was cold and strong, the floor of the trough slick with muck. They began to slide, struggling to hold on to their swords, grappling, rolling over and over as they were drawn inexorably toward the maw of The Grinder. Hamlet caught a glimpse of it, a huge grey metal hulk just ahead. The trough emptied into a square vertical opening like a mouth in The Grinder’s side. Directly over the mouth was a sign:
SMALL BONES ONLY
!

Not two feet from the dropoff a melon rind had gotten jammed sideways in the narrow trough. Hamlet and Laertes were very nearly carried right over this low barrier, which would have been the end of both of them. Instead they fetched up against it. Hamlet had a second to ponder the ludicrousness of this salvation—spared by a melon rind! Then he and Laertes drew back from each other and raised their weapons.

Somehow they had exchanged swords during the tumble. Hamlet felt an absurd flash of annoyance—
This is no time to be picky
—but the matter quickly became academic. In a lightning move, Laertes disarmed him before he had a chance to make a single attack. The pinsword vanished into The Grinder.

Hamlet was defenseless; Laertes tensed for a final thrust. “
Very
clear,” he said, and chaos slammed into them.

Two Rats and another sprite had fallen into the trough farther up. They arrived unannounced, struggling fiercely, and the weight of their impact dislodged the melon rind. Hamlet felt himself begin to slide again and made a valiant leap; using a Rat’s head as a springboard he launched himself up the side of the trough, catching onto the lip with both hands.

“Yaaah!” he grunted, straining to pull himself up and out. Fingers clutched at his foot; he glanced down and saw that it was Laertes. All the rest—melon rind, Rats, sprite—had washed into the maw.

“Jesus and Troilus!” Hamlet cried. He swung his free foot, and, by some lucky chance, caught his enemy square in the face. Laertes gasped and lost his grip. He uttered one last word of protest—"
Clear!
"—and then The Grinder ate him whole. A whirlpool of water and chopping blades drowned out any screams he might have uttered.

Exhausted, wanting only to rest, Hamlet pulled himself back onto the conveyor belt, back into the dubious safety of battle.

VIII.

Far up the length of the belt, near the beginning of the trough, Hobart slew a Rat and found himself momentarily alone. All around him were the sounds of combat, but swirls of steam made everything into vague shadows, isolating him. He rested briefly and thought back, for a last time, to that other long-ago battle in The Boneyard.

A familiar echo in his mind:
Ho-bart
. . .

The crossbow bolt struck him in the left breastbone, piercing him clean through and out the back. Hobart grunted, muscles tautened near to snapping by the sudden pain; he felt his heart try vainly to continue pumping around the impalement.

Ho-bart
. The General of the Rats materialized out of the steam, limping as always, crossbow cradled in his arms.
Thresh ends you
.

Hobart fell to his knees. His life wanted to swim away but he would not let it, holding back death for a few bare seconds with the heat of sudden fury that flared in him. Of course it made infinite sense that it should happen this way, that Rasferret’s special envoy should be here to deliver his demise. And the thought that his death would bring satisfaction to the Grub—that was what infuriated him, gave him a last strength.

The Rat General came nearer; Hobart looked up, into his eyes.
Thresh ends you
. . .

“And
Hobart
ends
you
,” the sprite said softly. In a supreme effort he drove his sword upwards, striking the absolutely surprised Rat in the abdomen. Thresh let out a squeaking scream and dropped the bow.

“Can your master see us?” Hobart choked out. “Tell him I think his time is short.”

Still screaming, Thresh clutched at the sword in his belly. He swayed, staggered too far, and fell into the trough. The water carried him away. To The Grinder.

Hobart slumped onto his side. Eldest sprite of The Hill, veteran of the First Great War with Rasferret the Grub, and one-time secret admirer of Jenny McGraw, he exhaled a last breath and faded from this world.

IX.

The death of a leader is rarely insignificant; when such a death occurs during wartime it carries even more import, sometimes in a supernatural as well as mundane sense. Coincidentally or not, the moment of Hobart’s passing marked the critical point in the Battle for the Straight. It was in that same moment that the Swede woke up.

In a remote corner by the south end of the kitchens, the Swede opened his eyes and shook his head to clear it. One of the explosions had knocked him cold, and in the panic the other Big People had left him behind. He pushed himself up on his arms now, an awakening giant. He sat up . . . stood. And looked around. His already severely addled brain was addled still more by the ringing in his ears, and he saw everything.

He saw the sabotage.

He saw the fires, and the smoke.

He saw the sprites, fighting for their lives.

He saw the Rats.

His eyes widened, and a berserk rage worthy of Beowulf himself flowed into him.

“
Vermin!?
” the Swede growled, from deep in his hairy chest. “Vermin in
my
kitchen?
DUH-HYUN!
”

A meat tenderizer the size of Norway hung within easy reach. The Swede grabbed it, swung it once to test its weight, and blasted the nearest Rat into Valhalla. Another dozen and a half had been annihilated before either of the warring sides realized what was going on. Then the sprites, not sure what to make of this avenging colossus, began to cheer.

“Little Peoples,” cried the mad chef, “follow me!”

Wielding the tenderizer in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other, the Swede strode forward and put the enemy to a rout.

“Aye!” said Macduff.

X.

Everything was ready, now. The spider’s web had closed.

Ithaca lay dreaming under its enchantment; it had been cut off, forgotten without and within. The humans in the town, with but a few exceptions, were caught by a magic slumber similar to the one that had taken Aurora Smith, and Sleeping Beauty before her. In the Straight the fire alarm wailed on, but no engines would come in answer to it; just as well that the Swede was on the job, for a little longer anyway. Shortly he too would crouch down, lower his head, and dream of vanquished Rats like so many Grendels. The sprites were wide awake and fighting for all they were worth, but animals, again with only a couple of exceptions and excluding Rasferret’s Rats, were likewise affected by the magic, and slept. The Green Dragon lay awaiting the spark of life.

Time.

On the roof of Goldwin-Smith Hall Mr. Sunshine cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered a single word to the wind.

“George.”

GEORGE'S ASCENT, AND WHAT HAPPENED DOWNTOWN

I.

George
.

The storyteller opened his eyes and was lying in his bed. Waking felt unreal, yet the events of last night had been no dream—without sitting up he could see the Spear, standing erect and ready for action against the bedroom wall. Dim grey light leaked in through the window, and even this poor illumination was enough to make the spearhead glimmer wickedly.

“Time,” George whispered to himself, getting up. His head was very light. Almost floating. “Time.”

He tiptoed naked into the bathroom—
How did I get home last night?
—and bent over the sink, splashing water on his face. It was cold and rinsed the sleep from his eyes, but did nothing for his head. He felt as if he had taken a hit of something.

Why? To help suspend my disbelief? Make it easier to write without paper?

Easier . . . his own overconfidence was one of his greatest dangers. Back in the bedroom, hefting the Spear, he felt invincible, every inch the knight. He would control the Story, fight the good fight, defeat the Dragon. Aurora would live. All very easy.

Sure.

Yes, sure . . . but as long as there was an outside chance his pride was only leading him to a fall, there would be no harm in hedging his bets. The Spear made a formidable-looking weapon, but it might be wise to bring along something else, something that harnessed the wind.

Dressing, he glanced around the room, trying to remember where he'd left his kite.

II.

High in the McGraw Hall belfry, Rasferret the Grub laughed ecstatically. He was in the power seat now; his Sense had returned to him, and now The Hill
and the city below were laid out in his mind with all the clarity of a highlighted map. His magic was at a pinnacle, ready to take on all comers. And there would be only one.

He knew of the events at the Straight, had Sensed them, but the death of Thresh and the Swede-authored rout did not concern him in the least. Hobart was dead, too—at last!—and one lost battle meant little. His Rats were everywhere, pressing home their attack throughout the campus, in many places overwhelming their enemies. The sprites were, ultimately, doomed.

Stephen Titus George remained the only stumbling block in the path to victory. And yet, Sensing him, Rasferret was again struck by the apparent weakness of his opponent. What magic he had in him was hardly a threat; nor was he physically anything special. Whereas the Grub had magic in abundance, and the perfect—perfect—vehicle for animation lying practically at his feet.

He is nothing
, Rasferret chuckled to himself.
How easy it will be to kill him, and how foolish to think he could be any sort of threat to me. How could he be?

The feel of his own power, ready for use, washed away all cautionary fear Rasferret might have had. The storyteller did not feel dangerous, therefore he wasn't dangerous. Nor was he moving very quickly—it would be some small time yet before he found his way up to the Quad.

In the meantime, the Grub focused his Sense on downtown Ithaca, searching for any still-wakeful beings in the slumbering city with whom he might amuse himself while he was waiting. It did not take long to find some, or to figure out something to do to them.

III.

“Don't close your eyes, Doubleday!” Hollister barked, bolt upright behind the wheel of the patrol car. She struggled to keep her own eyes open, fought the fear that wanted to hustle her into the nearest house and put a locked door between her and the Outside.

“Huh! Jesus, I'm tired,” said Doubleday (it was about the fifteenth time he had said it in the past ten minutes). “What the hell is going on in this town?”

Hollister did not reply; she knew no more than he did. They had been out on Route 13, stopped for coffee at Mano's Diner, when the storm had passed overhead. Thunder rattled the windows and as the sound died away two thoughts struck the patrons simultaneously: first, that it might be very dangerous to go out, and second, that the chairs and booths in which they sat made extremely comfortable resting places. So nice, so
safe
, to just nestle back and relax . . .

Nattie Hollister had almost let herself go under. What stopped her fall into sleep was a sudden vision of the mannequin, the impossibly alive mannequin that had nearly killed her on New Year's Eve. And so she was struck by a third thought: It's out there.

She brought her fists down against her thighs as hard as she could, and used the blossoming pain to fight her way back up, onto her feet. She slapped Doubleday to break his descent, and dragged him toward the exit past others who were already snoring.

Now they drove. And fought the spell. Across his lap Doubleday held a shotgun.

“Check and make sure that's loaded,” Hollister instructed him.

“I already did. Twice.”

“Check it again.” Groggily, Doubleday did as he was told. Hollister swung the car carefully to the right, turning onto State Street. She kept a light touch on the accelerator; the fog thickened conspiratorially in front of the headlights, throwing back glare and nearly blinding her.

“Loaded,” Doubleday said. He looked out his window and could see no other signs of illumination; the city's power seemed to be out. “So . . . where are we going, anyway? The station house?”

Hollister considered. The station house seemed a good choice, but they had already tried radioing in and gotten no answer. Besides, headquarters was not where they were needed.

“We're going up The Hill,” she told him. “Whatever's wrong, that's where it's coming from. I can feel it, can't you?”

After the briefest pause, Doubleday nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Jesus. Jesus, I'm tired.”

IV.

The building stood dark on East Clinton Street, not far from The Commons: City Police Headquarters, repository of local law and order. Repository, also, of evidence from unsolved murder cases.

The building stood dark, offering no comfort to the passerby—if there had been any passersby—and nothing should have moved in its silence. Nattie Hollister and Sam Doubleday were out driving, and the rest of the force had succumbed to enchantment: they snored at their desks, lay slumped in hallways, nodded over dispatches. Nothing should have moved, save for brows furrowing in nightmare.

Nevertheless, the front door of the station house swung open, and a figure exited into the fog. It was no cop, but it had donned a parody of a uniform: an oversized policeman's jacket hung from its shoulders, and on its head was a regulation cap set at a rakish angle.

Its eyes glowed blue; it wore a plastic woman's grin.

V.

George stepped out onto his porch, Spear in one hand, kite in the other. The fog formed a curtain around the house, thick but not impenetrable: he could make out vague shapes. Lightning shot a glow through the mist as if a giant flashbulb were popping at some distance; the thunder was unmuffled.

George took another two steps and the wind sliced through the curtain. A path opened for him as far as the curb, and one shadow-shape resolved itself into the figure of Ragnarok in full black regalia, sitting astride his motorcycle.

“Afternoon, George,” the Black Knight said. “Or whatever this is.” He glanced at the Spear, then nodded at the dragon kite. “Nice.”

“Ragnarok?”

“Nice,” Ragnarok repeated. There was something different about him, and after a moment's thought George realized that it was the absence of sunglasses. He had been too preoccupied to notice last night at the hospital, but Ragnarok's eyes were intense and surprisingly humane after their long time in hiding. “So George, you need a lift somewhere?”

“This is going to sound like a stupid question,” George responded, “but what are you doing here, Ragnarok?”

“Doing?” The Bohemian seemed perplexed by the question. “Doing . . . well . . .” He rubbed one eye with a dark-gloved fist. “Unfinished business, I guess. Tell you the truth, I'm still trying to figure out who put my motorcycle back together.”

He looked so lost that George asked no further questions of him. Careful of the Spear, he climbed on the back of the bike, saying: “OK, let's go.” Ragnarok gunned the throttle and they drove off, up The Hill, up to the Quad.

For once in his life, the Black Knight did not break any speed limits.

VI.

Up ahead
, Luther told himself.
Just up ahead.

Almost home, almost back in Heaven now. Except that he came alone it was just like the first time, fog shrouding everything, the town quiet around him. Luther longed to climb up, pass through the arched gate and stand again on the top of The Hill, but did not rate his chances on making it even so far as the foot; for this
wasn't
the first time, and now death waited in ambush for him. As he padded along State Street not a block and a half from the beginning of The Commons, the mongrel's nose came alive with the scent of his adversary.

Just ahead, he's waiting, any second and you'll be face to face. And then, even if
you were a fighting dog, it would be death for you. Your only chance is to run, run away now, hope you're faster and he loses the trail. . . .

Luther let his mind waver and wheedle, but his legs carried him forward without faltering. For he was, finally, a good dog, and not without courage; he would not back out so near to the end.

A few more steps, a few more and the fog will clear, and you'll see—

“Mange . . .”

The fog did not clear; but it thinned, enough at least to see the now-dark digital clock at the west end of The Commons, and the animal that crouched at the foot of it. Luther had become rib cage–thin during his long walk and expected to find Dragon in similar condition, yet the first sight of him was still a shock.

“You look like Raaq,” Luther exclaimed, resolve draining away to terror, and he was abruptly very sorry that he had not run when he could.

“No,” the Wolfhound replied, baring his teeth. “Not Raaq. Not a devil. I'm an executioner, mange. Yours.”

“An executioner. And look what killing's done to you. Your soul belongs to Raaq, now.”

“He may have my soul, but I have my life. And my revenge. I'm going to tear you limb from limb, mange. Slowly. Will you actually just stand there and let me do it, without resisting?”

The Wolfhound studied him for a moment.

“You're worried about the cat, aren't you?”

“Where is Blackjack?” asked Luther, fearful of the answer. “Did you—”

“I wanted to have him here,” Dragon replied. “His body, I mean. To show you. But you'll never see him again, mange. Even if you've convinced yourself that you're going to get past me somehow, have no doubt about that. He fell. He fell a long way.”

“Cats are good at taking falls.”

“Not this fall. And they aren't much for swimming. He's dead.”

“But you don't have his body.” Luther felt a sudden, irrational hope. “You didn't actually see him dead, did you?”

“He's dead,” Dragon repeated.

“You aren't sure, are you? You don't have proof.”

“He's
dead
, I know he's dead, and I don't need to prove anything.” Rage kindled in him. The cat was certainly done for—nothing could have survived that drop—but damn this mange for planting the slightest seed of doubt. “He's
dead
. Now it's your turn.”

Dragon got off his haunches and came on, moving swiftly but not running. “I think you might fight,” he said, when he had closed half the distance between them. “I think the pain might make you frightened enough to fight me.”

In that moment Luther was not sure whether he would fight, or try to
run, or simply stand his ground and be slaughtered. What he finally did do, without knowing why, was ask one last question.

“How did you get away from the ‘catchers, Dragon?” he asked.

And Dragon stopped, seizing on a sudden inspiration.

“'Catchers aren't so terrible,” the ‘Wolfhound replied. “They have soft throats, mange.”

Luther understood, and was horrified, as Dragon had wanted him to be.

“You killed a
Master?
You killed a
human being?
”

“Two of them, mange. One ‘catcher, and another on the road, a woman. I was hungry, so very hungry . . .”

“You're damned,” Luther told him. “You're damned for this.”

“Funny, being damned doesn't frighten me. It makes me feel stronger. But if it disgusts you so much, why not fight me? I'd like that. Take out your revulsion on me. Try.”

“No,” Luther said, with no hesitation. “I won't kill another dog, not even you. Never. Raaq will not have my soul.”

“Coward. Simple little pup—”

“You lie” the mongrel pronounced firmly. “You're so much bigger than I am, I refuse to fight you, and yet still you'll kill me, even though I've done you no wrong. Who's the coward, Dragon?”

“Coward or not, you're a dead dog,” the Wolfhound told him, but before he could spring, they were both distracted by a sound.

Boots against concrete. Footsteps.

Something was walking toward them along Cayuga Street, hazy in the fog.

“Would you like to see how I kill a human being, mange?”

“No.” Luther begged. “No, Dragon, you can't.”

“It's easy,” The Wolfhound assured him. “But you can always try and stop me.”

“Dragon,
NO!
”

Too late. The Purebred was already in motion, teeth bared. Luther barked a warning to the approaching Master but the human seemed not to hear and came right on. In that moment Luther was caught on the horns of a greater dilemma than he had ever known before.