Fool on the Hill (32 page)

BEFORE THE STORM

I.

Ragnarok dropped by Risley on the twenty-first of December, the first true day of winter (and the last day of final exams). The campus had been emptying steadily over the past week, becoming almost completely deserted by now, and as the Bohemian Minister of Defense drove up to the dorm unannounced he would not have been surprised to find everyone gone. But it so happened that the Queen of the Grey Ladies had had a particularly late neuro-bio final, and she and Lion-Heart were out on the front lawn just saddling up to leave.

“Ragnarok!” Myoko cried happily as he drove into view.

Lion-Heart, remembering a certain tumble down a flight of steps, took a more restrained tone: “So, you’re back, eh?”

“Had some thinking to do,” Ragnarok said, killing the bike’s engine and dismounting.

“Had some moping to do, you mean,” Lion-Heart responded. “Almost two months’ worth, by my count. You could have at least dropped word once in a while that you were still alive.”

Ragnarok tried to shrug off this dig. “I could have, but I didn’t. So are you guys all that’s left, or is somebody else still around?”

“Now who might you be wondering about?” mused the Bohemian King. “The Top left days ago. Panhandle, Aphrodite, and Woodstock are gone too; I think they were going to check out Atlantic City. And Fujiko’s over at Tolkien House for the duration. That what you wanted to know?”

“Stop it,” Myoko warned. Then to Ragnarok she said: “Preacher moved downtown almost a week ago. He’ll be in Ithaca housewatching for a professor for most of vacation.”

“Is Jinsei staying with him?”

“I don’t know. I suppose she might be.”

Ragnarok nodded. “You have an address, or a phone number?”

“
No,” said Myoko. “I’m really sorry. If you’d only come by a few days sooner . . .”

“Right.” He turned back toward his bike. “Guess I’ll have to do some searching around downtown.”

The Grey Queen caught his arm. “Wait,” she said. “Why don’t you come with us, instead? Lion-Heart and I rented a chalet up the Lake a bit, and I’m sure we’d both love to have you spend Christmas with us. Wouldn’t we, Li?”

“It’d be a trip and a half, I’m sure,” said Lion-Heart. “What the hell, Rag, she’s probably got a point. There’s bound to be tension at least for a while even if you do find Preacher. The chalet’s only about ten miles away; you come along and have a good Christmas, and Preacher’ll have a good Christmas, and then if you can’t wait you can always drive down and look for him after New Year’s.”

“I don’t know if I can wait even that long,” Ragnarok told him seriously. “I’ve been having these nightmares . . .”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Myoko,·reaching out to stoke his hair, like a mother with a son. “You need some of Lion-Heart’s special eggnog. You’ll sleep just fine then, you’ll see.”

“No. No, I—”

“Look, Rag,” Lion-Heart interjected, “I don’t know if you heard the latest weather report, but the queen bitch of snowstorms is on its way down from Maine, right this minute. New Hampshire and Vermont are already getting buried, and the first dusting is due in Tompkins County in about twelve hours. Which is why we’ve really got to move it, because once the heavy stuff starts the roads are going to be locked up tight. You catch that? By sundown it won’t matter whether you're in Ithaca or not, because if Preacher’s smart he won’t be leaving his house for days.”

“I’ve still got twelve hours . . .”

“Don’t be silly!” Myoko exclaimed. “If you don’t find him, then what? That place you live in doesn’t even have hot water, does it? Now how am
I
supposed to have a merry Christmas, knowing that one of my friends is freezing himself to death?”

By steady degrees they wore him down—Myoko’s arguments were the most convincing, because she kept stroking his hair—and at last he gave in, against his better judgment. Ragnarok’s creams over the past week had left him with a very bad feeling.

“Don’t worry yourself so,” Myoko chided him. “You’ll see Preacher again soon enough, I promise.”

In a literal sense, of course, that was absolutely right.

II.

George hired a gleaming white Eldorado for the trip, and Aurora drove, as the storyteller had never troubled himself to get a license. They did not leave immediately, but having packed their things into the trunk took a leisurely cruise around The Hill. They ranged from one end of the campus to the other, marveling at familiar and unfamiliar sights alike, enjoying each other’s company throughout. Aurora switched on the radio as they were tooling along the fringes of the Cornell Plantations, and that was how they happened to catch the weather report.

“Oops,” Aurora said. “We’re going to have to move it if we don’t want to get caught in that.”

“No rush,” George assured her. “The storm won’t bother us.”

She looked at him, and he smiled. “You’re positive about that?” she asked.

“As sure as kites can fly,” he promised.

Just to play it safe, they struck west immediately, making one last pass through the heart of the campus. As they turned onto East Avenue, George laid a hand on Aurora’s shoulder.

“Stop the car,” he said.

She braked and brought the Eldorado to a halt right in front of Day

Hall. “What is it?”

“Just want to wish a buddy of mine Merry Christmas. Over there.” He pointed. “That’s the dog that got me out of The Boneyard.”

Luther turned at the sound of the car door opening, and recognized the storyteller’s scent even before he saw his face. George intended only a meager offering of gratitude, but from the dog’s point of view it was quite a moment, for to him the Eldorado seemed nothing less than a chariot of white fire, reeking with the hills-and-rain smell of Heaven.

“Hey, hey, good to see you too!” George said, as the dog ran up to him, barking. He stepped out of the car and swept Luther up into his arms, at which point the mongrel nearly drowned him with sloppy licks.

“You’re right,” Aurora observed. “He
is
your buddy.”

An idea struck him, “Hey,” George asked, “do you think your parents would mind if we brought home an extra guest?”

“If they don’t mind you they won’t mind him. But what about his owner?”

“I don’t think he’s got one,” George said. “There’s no collar on him, and besides, he doesn’t act like he has an owner. Know what I mean?”

“No.” Aurora smiled. “But then I’m not a storyteller, so I’ll trust you. Go ahead, bring him along if he wants to come.”

George tapped Luther’s nose with a finger. “What about it, dude?” he
asked. “Want to come to Wisconsin? It’s a long ride, but when you get there you’ll get to see about six billion cows.”

Once again Luther relied on empathy rather than actual comprehension, but this time the message was easy enough to fathom: the saint in whose arms he rested was offering to take him up to Heaven in the white chariot. Perhaps it would even be the real Heaven this time. Luther was acutely aware that he might be in for another disappointment, but he also remembered the summoning of the winds. If anyone could take Luther to Heaven, this man could.

Yet he could not forget about Blackjack. The Manx had been furious enough at being left to struggle out of that snowbank alone, nor had he believed Luther’s explanation later. To just take off now without at least saying good-bye would be terrible, but Luther knew he had no time to waste. Chariots of fire wait for no one—you must ride, or not.

“What do you say, guy?” George asked, setting Luther down on the ground. “My lady and I have to get going.”

In a quick decision that he later regretted—but all hard choices bring some regret—Luther leaped aboard the chariot and was suffused by the Heaven scent. George climbed in as well, slammed the door, and they were off.

Oh Blackjack, Blackjack, I hope you can forgive me .
. . .

But wait, there was something: As the car slowed to turn another corner, Luther spied a familiar Beagle through the Eldorado’s rear window.

“Skippy!” Luther called out mentally, “Skippy, look over here!”

“Hi, Luther!” Skippy replied, turning and racing alongside the car. “Hey, what are you doing in that thing? Huh? Huh?”

“Listen to me!” the mongrel said urgently. “I need you to take a message to Blackjack.”

“Why can’t you take it to him? You going somewhere, Luther? Huh? Huh? Where are you going? Huh? H—”

Running at top speed to keep pace with the car, Skippy suffered an abrupt face-first encounter with a mailbox. A resounding
whap!
marked the interruption of his curiosity.

“Listen to me!” Luther called back to the dazed Beagle as he receded into the distance. “Please get this! Tell Blackjack that I got invited to Heaven. Tell him I’ll come back. Tell him I promise to come back. Have you got that?”

But Skippy was too far and too befuddled to answer, if indeed he’d gotten it. Luther settled down in the back seat, already wondering if he’d made the wrong choice.

I’ll come back and see you, Blackjack. I promise.

III.

But of course reunions are notoriously chancy things. Often it seems as if the most likely meetings are those least desired; the unwelcome guest always comes back for seconds.

The storm struck Ithaca that night at quarter past ten, bringing misfortune as well as snow and ice. The Messenger found a perch in the high branches of a dark oak, the same oak into which a fair Lady’s hand had hurled an ancient spearhead.

Strengthened by the cold, the Messenger kept a tireless watch on a hole that the recent earth tremor had opened in the ground. The white marble square, unmoved for more than a century, had fallen into this hole and lay in pieces at the bottom, beside another long-undisturbed object.

The object was a box, a cube no more than half a foot to a side, composed of black iron. Once the box might have been used to safe-keep jewelry, coins, any number of harmless things. But someone had shut it up tight, sealing its seams and cracks most carefully, wrapping the whole with a special silver band that remained untarnished after decade upon decade of burial.

The packed soil had served as an effective warden for many years. Now the earth had opened, exposing Pandora’s Box to any and all who might happen by. The whirling snow would re-cover it, briefly, but all that really remained to be done was for some unlucky soul to break the seals and lift the hinged lid, unleashing the real storm.

It wasn’t long before someone did just that.

Book Three

PANDORA'S BOX

1866—INSIDE THE BONE ORCHARD

It is in the north end of The Bone Orchard that the Plot really begins to come together for Mr. Sunshine. He crouches over the site of Ithaca's only live burial, a spot marked only by a ring of seven round white stones—enchanted stones, he senses
.
The other, more conventional markers surrounding the site lean away like the petals of a budding grey flower, but their lean is not nearly so
pronounced as
it will be a century from now.

Mr. Sunshine places his palm against the damp earth, understanding what it is that lies beneath. Its presence here is wholly fortuitous, nothing to do with any of his previous Meddlings on Earth, but—as much an opportunist as
an originator, like all storytellers—he immediately sees
its potential uses
for the Plot he is weaving.

“Animation,” he says. “Animation, that's wonderful, I can have some
good times with that. And if .
. .”

He trails off thinking:
Stephen Titus George. St. George. And animation. Hmmm . . .

Standing behind him like an impatient valet, Ezra Cornell clears his throat several times.

“Getting a bit late,” Cornell hints, wondering what in hell he is doing here in the first place. “Getting a bit cold, too.”

“Hold this,” Mr. Sunshine says, handing him the lantern. Cornell takes it obediently and waits while the Greek Original bends low over the site and does something Meddlesome with his hands.

“Better,” Mr. Sunshine says a moment later, standing and taking the lantern again. “More appropriate, considering.”

“Heh-em,” Cornell throat-clears once more. “I really think .
. .
"

“Onward and upward,” Mr. Sunshine interrupts him. He pats Ezra on the shoulder companionably. “You like climbing The Hill, I know
you do. Good for the circulation, good for the lungs. I'd wager your middle name is Sisyphus, you love climbing
so
much.”

“Yes,” Cornell agrees, eyes glazing for a moment. “Yes, I love it.”

“Good.” Mr. Sunshine nods. “Double-time, then.”

“Double-time. Yes
. . .”

They move off, and now the scene has changed. The center of the budding grey flower is no longer a ring of stones, but a solitary, still-enchanted

marker. A white marble square bearing a single, appropriate word:

PANDORA