Fool on the Hill (21 page)

For two years the Bohemian King had sought the overthrow of the House; yet in the end he played no part in the matter. The very same day that he toasted Shen Han, Noldorin, and Lucius in the garden of Lothlórien, the downfall of Rho Alpha Tau was set in motion. Ragnarok, not Lion-Heart, was its instrument, and it began, ironically enough, on the steps of Willard Straight Hall, shortly before midnight.

JINSEI AND THE BLACK KNIGHT

I.

Evening came to that well-hilled part of the World, but in an even loftier place, in Mr. Sunshine’s Library, it remained as bright and Saturday-afternoonish as always. The breeze still smelled pleasantly of laurel; the lowing of cattle and the distant lyre-chords continued to accompany the clacking of the Typewriters.

The Storyteller had shoved over one of the Monkeys again, taken its place at the Typewriter devoted to “Fool on The Hill.” Calliope and George were already together; she had him well in hand. Now it was time to add another layer to the Tale, bring another Character to the fore.

Mr. Sunshine Typed:

Set Ragnarok up against Jack Baron.

Having Written this he paused briefly, then added:

Ragnarok’s trial is not George’s trial.

Almost immediately he shook his head at the redundancy. Obviously their trials were not the same. No need to waste Words—William Strunk, E. B. White, and the Chinese Emperor Shih Huang Ti had all been in agreement on that.

“I must be getting Old,” said Mr. Sunshine to the Monkey. The Monkey had no comment.

Obviously their trials were not the same; they were very different Characters. Yet just as a classic heroic tale needs a Saint, an unabashedly White-Hatted and periodically naive champion of romantic love, so too it isn’t quite complete without that other, more dubious, good guy: The Black Knight.

II.

The computer jockey’s name was Lenny Chiu, and he stood just over five feet in his black dress shoes. He wore no tuxedo—Jinsei had convinced him to go for a less formal and more comfortable style—but he carried himself regally, like a prince on his way to the palace ball He perhaps had reason to feel special, for Jinsei had fished him out of a sea of seemingly cloned Engineering students with matching steel-rimmed glasses, no-nonsense work shirts, and multi-function programmable calculators. They were not steadies in any sense of the word, just dating; but if Jinsei did not give much thought to the possible future of their relationship, Lenny certainly did, and this added an extra spring to his step.

Jinsei, dressed simply in a clean white jumpsuit that reflected the moonlight, thought only of having fun. Since the first week when Ginny Porterhouse had introduced her to the campus—an introduction that included Ragnarok and Preacher—her workload had been without respite. Tonight represented her first real chance to just relax and enjoy herself, and she planned to do so. Walking hand in hand with the wind ruffling her hair, Jinsei too felt a touch regal—though Princess was not quite the title she would have chosen. A Lady of the Court, perhaps.

The royal function she and Lenny had chosen to honor with their presence was the semi-annual Cornell Asian-Americans United (CAAU) Dance, which had got going at half past ten and was now in full swing. Inside Willard Straight Hall’s Memorial Room, Adult Eastern—a good band, if no match for Benny Profane—played to an enthusiastic audience: Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Western Orientals in pressed tuxedos and long cotton dresses. The Bohemians were there too, of course, accompanying the Grey Ladies and making as much of a scene as possible. Lion-Heart and Myoko calmly ruled the dance floor; Z. Z. Top threw toast at the band; Preacher discussed Third World politics and any-world sex with a Taiwanese exchange student; Woodstock got drunker than a fish and made a general nuisance of himself.

Jinsei and her date walked up the steps of the Straight together, laughing, and at that same moment the front doors of the building swung outward. A cake-slice of music slipped through the opening, and with it three brothers of the Rat Frat, Rho Alpha President Jack Baron leading the pack. At his side was Bill Chaney, the House Treasurer, and directly behind him, Bobby Shelton, a lineman for the Big Red football team who weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred and thirty pounds. Shelton was in the process of demolishing an apple he’d smuggled out of Oakenshields late-night dining; so intent was the football player on this bit of food that he very nearly ignored the Asian couple and kept to his own business.

Then Jinsei’s laugh drew Bobby’s attention and almost as a reflex he
launched the apple—now little more than a core—through the air with a flick of his wrist. It struck Lenny Chiu hard in the side of the head, stunning him and sending his glasses spinning away.

Even then a full-blown incident might have been avoided, if Lenny had done the sensible and unsatisfying thing and kept walking. But Jinsei’s presence made that a hard choice, besides which Lenny Chiu had more courage in him than might be expected of a brain. He stooped down and sealed his own doom by retrieving the apple core instead of his glasses, turning on Shelton with an anger that his small frame could not quite hope to live up to.

“You apologize,” he demanded. “Now.”

Bobby Shelton chose his response with care.

“You go fuck yourself,” came the reply. And as an afterthought: “Chink.”

Lenny brought this arm up and wingéd the apple core back at Bobby. The return throw was not as strong, but just as accurate as the opener. The core flew on a direct bead for Shelton’s face . . . and then the football player’s right hand snatched it out of the air, no more than two inches from his nose. Pass intercepted.

And still events might have gone no further. As President of the House, Jack Baron maintained absolute authority over his brethren; a single word would have been sufficient to call Shelton off. Later he would wonder at length why he did not do this, what passing lunacy or compulsion kept him from giving the word of command that would bring Bobby Shelton to heel as effectively as a leash. Instead he watched in silence while the football player closed his fist around the apple core, crushing it. There was almost no flesh left on the fruit, yet so strong was his grip that juice ran from the cracks between his fingers. Lenny Chiu saw this and his courage wavered.

Smiling, Bobby Shelton glanced briefly at Jack, double-checking that he had free rein; Rho Alpha Tau’s President made no motion to stop him. Shelton’s attention returned to Lenny.

“You’re all done,” he said.

III.

“Did you say pool?” Ragnarok shouted above the din. Adult Eastern’s lead guitarist was tearing through a high-volume solo, and what room she left for other noise was mostly filled by Z. Z. Top, arguing with the Dance Organizer about whether bringing his burro onto the dance floor constituted a safety hazard or not.

“Pool,” Panhandle agreed, stepping closer around a press of Grey Ladies. He held up a shiny bit of metal. “Key to the game room upstairs. You look kind of bored, figure a rack or two of Eight Ball’d be just the thing.”

“Dollar a game?”

“Sounds fair.”

“You’re my man,” Ragnarok said.

They elbowed their way to the exit. After the clamor of the Memorial Room, the Straight Lobby seemed almost church-quiet.

“So tell me the truth,” Panhandle asked, “How come you never dance at these things?”

“Just not my kind of excitement,” the Black Knight told him. They turned right, toward the steps up to the game room, but all at once Ragnarok stopped and cocked his head. Adjusting his sunglasses on his head, he stared across the Lobby at the front door.

“What?” Panhandle said.

IV.

“This man is hurtin’ for certain,” Bill Chaney observed wryly.

Lenny Chiu was down on the ground, for the third, but unfortunately not last, time. Though hurt indeed, he didn’t look that bad; Bobby Shelton had been careful to keep his punches below the neckline and above the waist, so the only visible damage was a scrape on the heel of Lenny’s hand, where he had skinned himself falling. Now Jinsei leaned over him, trying to see how bad off he really was and at the same time convince him to stay down.

“Better listen to her,” Shelton advised, as Lenny shrugged Jinsei’s arm away and started struggling to his feet again. “Aren’t you people supposed to be smart? Don’t push your luck with me.”

Lenny made it all the way up and launched himself at the football player, arms pinwheeling. One wild swing actually got through, a clip on the side of the Rat brother’s head, and then Shelton lost control of his temper and hit Lenny three times. The computer jockey crumpled—this time for keeps—blood running from his lip and nose.

Now it was Jinsei’s turn to run forward, shouting something like “Stop it! Stop it, you leave him alone you—” Chaney caught her, holding her back easily, laughing, but still she managed to turn her head toward jack Baron and scream “Stop it!” At last some of Jack’s sense returned to him. He remembered where they were, how easy it would be for one or more of the revelers at the dance to step outside for some fresh air, how easy it would be for a
Sun
reporter to get downwind and escalate this into an Inter-Fraternity Council–sponsored nightmare. Things had already gotten ridiculously out of hand.

“Bobby,” he said. But for once Shelton was not of a mind to rein in immediately.

“Son of bitch tagged me, Jack,” Shelton replied, rubbing the side of his head, trying to shake off a buzzing noise that had settled in his left ear. He
gave Lenny a not-too-gentle nudge with his foot. “Come on, asshole. Get up again. I want one more round with you.”

“Bobby!” Jack Baron repeated impatiently. But then several things happened in rapid succession.

Shelton, still ignoring Jack’s word of command, bent down and grabbed Lenny by the collar. As if aggravated by the motion, the buzzing in his ear grew louder, changing to a roar . . . and now he was not the only one who heard it. Jack Baron froze at the sound, his veins filling up with ice; Bill Chaney let go of Jinsei and turned toward the source of the noise. Jinsei took the chance to run once more to Lenny’s aid, and that was when the doors of the Straight crashed open, vomiting forth a black-garbed demon on a motorcycle. With the bike’s throttle wide open Ragnarok sideswiped Chaney, then flew off the edge of the steps, landing safely at the bottom on two wheels. He swung the cycle around in a controlled skid, braking and bringing it to a halt no more than ten feet from the locked doors of the Campus Store.

Eyes wide, Shelton stood back up, forgetting all about Lenny with the appearance of this new enemy. He spent a brief moment sizing Ragnarok up, the lesser evolved part of his brain clicking over twice and throwing all circuits into the red. Then he charged.

“Here I come!” he bellowed, springing down the steps and stampeding with more enthusiasm than he’d ever shown on a football field. Ragnarok dropped the motorcycle’s kickstand and cut the engine in one motion. Perfectly calm, he stepped off the bike, removed the black mace from the side rack. Readied himself. Then Bobby Shelton was on him, eyes blazing, arms raised to deflect an overhead swing.

“Here you go,” Ragnarok whispered, coming from below, driving the head of the mace end-on into Shelton’s lower abdomen. The football player’s stomach muscles were rock hard, but even rock will yield to the force of a jackhammer; he doubled over, all the air going out of him in a whoosh. Ragnarok disentangled his arm and stepped forward, aiming a wide-are swing at the back of Bobby’s right knee. Once, twice he struck, and on the second blow the leg gave and Shelton fell, crashing to earth with all the grace of a collapsing mountain.

Now Bill Chaney came on, easier meat by far. Ragnarok stood motionless and gave him two free swings, neither of which seemed to have any effect. Then the Bohemian Minister of Defense took his turn, not even bothering to use the mace; he decked Chaney with an old-fashioned right cross instead. Chaney did not go down like a collapsed mountain; he went down like a duck at a Coney Island shooting gallery, splat, flat, just like that.

Jack Baron had not moved. He remained on the front steps of the Straight—where Jinsei also still stood, looking at Ragnarok with complete shock on her face—mustering all the cool he had in him. There were two down, one to go, but the president of Rho Alpha Tau did not intend to be that one.

“Why don’t you come over here Jack?” Ragnarok called to him, his voice emotionless, almost dead. “Show me your best move.”

“No,” Jack said, forcing a cold smile. “I don’t think so. You’d have a bit too much advantage with that club you’re holding.”

Ragnarok gestured at Lenny, who was sitting up, bloody. “How much advantage did Shelton have on him, Jack? How many pounds? Seventy-five? A hundred?”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, if you intend to beat me to death, you’ll have to do it without provocation.”

This brought a soft chuckle. “Oh, you’re good Jack, you really are. Sound innocent even with your hand stuck in the cookie jar. Maybe that’s why Lion-Heart never managed to get even for Pearl—it’s not in him to fight down and dirty, even against a born dirty-fighter. But you’ve never really gone up against me before, have you?”

“I’m thrilled to finally see what I’ve been missing.”

“Oh, you aren’t thrilled,” Ragnarok said seriously. “You’re scared shitless. It’s taking everything you’ve got not to shake. And the thing that’s bothering you the most is that you can’t read me at all.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “The shades have got you going, too. You’re wondering what the fuck’s going on behind them, wondering how the fuck I can see. Most of all you’re wondering exactly where I’m looking right now. That’s got your balls up.”

“And you said
I
was good.” came the reply.

“You
are
good. I just laid out two of your brothers without a sweat, and inside that head of yours you’re figuring I’m probably going to do the same to you, but you’ve managed not to panic.”

“You’re not that frightening.”

Ragnarok pivoted suddenly, lashing out with a boot. Chancy gave a cry and flopped over, clutching his side.

“Might have sprung a rib there.” mused Ragnarok. He turned back to Jack. “You sure you’re not frightened?”

The Rho Alpha Tau President made no reply, but his cool was slipping away visibly. Next to him Jinsei made a strange sound in her throat.

“You should be frightened,” Ragnarok continued, beginning to walk closer as he spoke. “My old man sold his soul to the Devil, you know that? Bet you didn’t. Sold his soul, sold a good piece of mine in the bargain. You
ought
to be frightened, Jack. Because I know the Devil, and
I know where you live.
"