New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (28 page)

12

N
IGHT IS IRREGULAR.
What is not done in the daytime becomes possible at night: murder and sex and thought.

Night gives size and power. A two-handed sword becomes a sickle. An aimed arrow fills with fire. A five-foot four-inch demoniac, racing through the night on a bicycle, sees a moon-cast shadow thirty feet long and wishes everyone could see the truth. The hand is freed to write what the tongue cannot speak. Thirty yagoots and other ne’er-do-wells achieve satori. And One is filled with a sense of his own ineffability and is enabled thereby to wait, albeit impatiently, for a bit of attention.

* * *

Almost everyone was in place. The boys were shoving and sitting and badmouthing each other. The instrumentalists were gathering with their tubs and mouthbows. There was a natural rock pocket on one side of the fire. The boys sat on the slope on the other side of the fire.

Ralph said, “And may I present Caspar and Daisy Smetana. They are the owners of Green Mountain Resort, and extremely friendly hosts.”

“I am honored,” said Villiers, salaaming. “Our entertainment is simple. I hope you will enjoy it. Ralph—give me a hand with this log. We’ll see that you have as good a seat as there is to be had.”

Villiers dropped his spoons in his pocket and waved for Ralph to set down his mandolin. They picked up the short log and carried it up the hill. Villiers picked a good spot and they set the log down.

Fred tooted on the kazoo and called, “Come on, Tony. We’re waiting.”

A round of applause from the audience.

Villiers said, “You’ll excuse us. We have to make music now.”

The Smetanas nodded permission.

As they circled the fire, Villiers turned to Ralph and said, “If your reforms run into trouble, bear in mind that there is a big universe outside the Tanner Trust.”

Ralph said, “I’ve been wondering about that recently.”

Caspar and Daisy Smetana seated themselves and looked down the hill. The band was almost ready to begin. Villiers produced his spoons and inserted them between his fingers.

Caspar said, “He said nothing, nothing.”

“Maybe he didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, that’s not right. When the music is over, I go up and speak to him.”

The music began.

“It’s loud,” said Caspar.

“I think I like it,” said Daisy. “Now, shh.”

* * *

Dreznik abruptly rose to his knees. His eyes moved alertly and then he ran low through the grass for the wood’s edge. He paused there, cocking his head at the unusual sounds he heard carried by the wind.

Then careful step by careful step, he followed the forest edge toward the rocks in which he had seen Villiers build his trap. One firm step after another.

At the first rock, he stopped. He looked around the edges of it and then up at its irregular top. He could hear the windblown music intermittently. The fire was hidden behind rock and trees.

He jumped for a handhold on the rock face and missed, hands scrabbling. He banged his knee. He stepped back and tried again. His fingers caught and held and he wriggled at the length of his arms for a moment and then swung and reached a hand higher. He found a solid hand-sized outcropping and pulled himself up. In a moment he was on top of the rock.

He crouched there, feeling snakelike, tongue going
flick, flick, flick
in his mind. A lengthening of the neck and look to the left. Through the trees he could see some of those sitting and listening to the music, faces reflecting inner and outer fire. An over-the-shoulder to the right. Wind stirring trees in the dark and silent rocks.

He went tip, tip, tip on his toes, delicately picking his way along the high face of the rock line. Pause, jump. Very sure-footed, Dreznik was.

He stopped. He knelt. He could see the musicians. They had stopped playing and were laying their instruments down. All but the one with the mandolin. He was still plunking and waving it. He apparently found it useful in conversation.

Just in front of Dreznik and about four feet lower was Villiers’ trap. It was the natural place for a less wary man to lie. Dreznik sneered at Villiers.

* * *

Near the end of any long-term project, there comes an inevitable moment when the end can be seen, but the hand cannot move. If the hand moves, the project will be over, and that is a momentous thing to wish. Something inside suspects that anticipation may be better than memory, and wants to hold on to anticipation for a last moment.

But, after all, there is something a trifle pointless about sitting in the dark on a cold forest hillside, especially when you know events will move on without you. Elmo Kuukkinen sighed and rose.

He knew Dreznik’s resting place when he came to it. The ground was warm and the grass wilted from his heat. Dreznik, thank Heaven, was gone.

Coming up the meadow was the sound of a music unlike any he had ever previously heard. He could see the fire glow above the camp hollow, but he could not distinguish individuals. Then the moon swept out from behind a billboard of clouds and threw his shadow thirty feet down the slope. He felt himself standing in the spotlight. Kuukkinen dived to the ground and froze and after a minute the moon went away. Ostriches know what they are about.

Kuukkinen sighed. He had to go unseen. He had to avoid Dreznik or subdue him—somehow—if he encountered him. He had to make his score on Villiers. But then he thought of the seven royals he had already won and life still seemed possible to him.

He scurried off to his left where the meadow rolled and held forest and then rolled and dipped again to the road. It was a wandering gentle slope.

He kept low and worked his way down the meadow. He used the protection of the land curve, the tiniest shoulder, the grass, a single tree. He moved from one to another, turning himself invisible every time the moon winked at him.

At last he came to the final little hill. He lay cheek flat-pressed to the ground. On the other side of the hill sat an applauding audience.

The music stopped as he lay there. He crawled inch by inch to the hill crest and looked over. Fire. Silhouetted backs, some standing. Guillaume, Finch, and a little man he didn’t know, all talking to Villiers. Just above them, what appeared to be a small pink cloud, swooping and diving. The crowd cheered it on.

There was a tree just below him on the slope and he edged toward it. Villiers was looking all around him. Guillaume and Finch had alerted him.

Kuukkinen thought of waiting until Villiers’ back was turned. A matter of step, step, step, and he’d be just another member of the audience. And then, step, step, step, and Villiers would be just an arm-length away.

But no, he would wait. He put a steadying hand to the tree and blended into its shadow.

Sproing
. Rope hands lifted him high into the air and dangled him. He was helplessly held. Captured.

The audience turned and applauded.

* * *

Admiral Beagle stood, legs nautically well-spread. The sword point was stuck in the dirt, and the Admiral leaned on his hands. His eyes were cocked up the hill. He could hear the noise from Villiers’ camp, degenerate and foreign. He thought of the poor young men whose minds were being twisted, and of their innocent parents. He thought of his own betrayal. He thought of Villiers. (And he didn’t smile.) He thought of the Emperor. (He smiled.) He thought of the truth. He thought of the right. He thought of the good. Wrath rose within him.

He took a deep breath and hefted the sword in his two good hands. He cleared his throat and his mind, and started up the path. As he moved, the music stopped.

* * *

Near the end of any long-term project, there comes an inevitable moment when the end can be seen, but the hand cannot move. If the hand moves, the maybes will be answered—and some maybes are less attractive than others. Something inside knows that anticipation is better than memory, and wants to hold on to anticipation one last moment. But I’ve said this before.

The hand moved.

When they had finished playing, Fred perched on a rock and looked about him. He looked at the plonk, hanging about waiting to talk to Villiers. It apparently considered Villiers its primary target for conversion. Fred didn’t look at David, who was leaning against the same rock. Should he tell him to go away? He looked at Smetana, talking to Villiers, and then his eye was caught by two well-dressed but disheveled strangers coming up the path. He didn’t look at David.

Gillian, hand unsteady, heart unsteady, head unsteady, edged the note toward him. It moved toward him, slowly, of its own will. Her hand slowed even more and then in a last movement, she thrust the paper forward until it nudged Fred’s hand.

His head turned. He looked at the paper. He looked up at her and then back at the paper. At last, he took it.

He smoothed it between two fingers. Then he opened it, not knowing what to expect.

The note said:

I’m Gillian U. I know about agrostology.

He read it again.

* * *

Torve looked at Villiers expectantly. “Was fun,” he said. “When do I
Frobb
?”

“Not yet,” said Villiers. “We’ll give everybody a few minutes to recover.” He nodded to Smetana. “Mr. Smetana. Did you enjoy what you heard?”

“It was all right,” Smetana said. Then slowly, “Different.” He had begun to redden. He was right in thinking that it is best to approach possible embarrassment squarely. On the other hand, he found the fact of embarrassment embarrassing, and so he blushed.

Torve said, “Soon I will
Frobb
.”

Experimentally, he went, “
Thurb
.” Heads craned immediately. “See, Tony,” he said. “They are ready.”

“Not yet,” said Villiers.

Smetana said, “We’ve met before, Mr. Villiers. You should remember. It was several years ago, on Livermore.”

An intolerable burden to place on someone—to expect him to recognize you. Smetana had all the more reason to blush because Villiers was looking at him with total nonrecognition.

“It is unforgivable of me,” said Villiers, “but I must beg your pardon, sir. It is true that I have been on Livermore on more than one occasion. I don’t recall having made your acquaintance, however. Are you sure that we have met?”

Smetana nodded. “I am sure.”

“My apologies, then. Your name does have a familiarity about it, but not your face, and I am generally good about faces. Well, allow me to consider us old friends.”

A fatal streak of the democrat flawed Villiers. Roll bok ball with anybody, he would. Acknowledge anyone who claimed acquaintance. One could hope that he would know better.

The plonk was becoming increasingly restive through this idle chitchat. Claude felt that now that the music was concluded he was owed attention that he was not receiving. He was in favor of postponing Torve’s exhibition and had applauded Villiers for suppressing the Trog. But not to replace it with this.

“Villiers. Hey, Mr. Villiers.”

It was two strangers crossing the camp. They waved at Villiers urgently.

Villiers turned. “Guillaume,” he said. “Finch.”

And indeed it was they. They had learned that the long way around is the long way around. But arrived they had. They made their way around the fire and through the people to Villiers.

In desperation, Claude said, “Would you accept omniscience, Mr. Villiers? Or should I say, Charteris? Would that convince you? For instance—” He paused. “For instance, I know that the boy over there thought to be one David Clodfelter is really a girl named Gillian U.”

A dramatic announcement. Claude’s voice had power to carry and more heads were turning in the direction of their little stage. Instant theater.

Fred, a peripheral presence, lifted his head. “I know that,” he answered Claude. “Sorry. It doesn’t count.”

He looked at the note and then at Gillian. She looked silently back at him and he felt the pressure to answer.

“I’m thinking about it,” he said at last. After a minute he added, “Do you really?” She nodded.

Smetana said, “The plonk talks! It talks! Hinkle was right. Hinkle was right. The Solimões Factor is vindicated.”

He threw up his arms and jumped up and down, totally delighted. Everybody should espouse three or four harmless crank theories for the pure pleasure of having something harmless to be cranky about. And when a theory of this sort proves correct, it is a true moment for celebration.

Villiers looked at Smetana. By that time the full audience was enjoying the middle portion of their evening’s entertainment. Smetana did a clog step. The secret nights of review of the old days had kept him sharp. None of the usual embarrassment when an old trooper steps out after twenty years of retirement.

“I do know you, sir,” said Villiers. “How unforgivable of me. You’re
Pickles
Smetana! Pickles and Daisy. Pickles and Daisy. I loved you when I was young.”

“You did?” Smetana asked, abruptly ending his dance. There was only brief applause, but then tastes must be educated.

“Be quiet!” said the plonk. “Pickles and Daisy are
not
the topic of conversation.”

For a god, he was singularly lacking in patience. But inexperience must be granted concessions.

Smetana appeared ready to dance again. (Hinkle was right. Hinkle was right.)

Finch shot one look at Smetana, another at the plonk, and seized Villiers’ arm.

“Is time yet?” Torve asked.

“Not yet,” said Villiers.

“Anthony, listen!” said Finch. “You’re in danger, and we’ve come to warn you. Solomon ‘Biff’ Dreznik is out there in the night. I fear he means you injury.”

“Dreznik? Here?”

“Yes.”

“You two go away,” said the plonk. “Now, Villiers, my patience is wearing very very thin.”

Villiers cocked his head and looked at Finch. “Philip,” he said, “you aren’t trying to mislead me, are you? I’m aware that you want to win.”

“I do, but not that much.”

“This is suspicious news for you to arrive with.”

“It’s true.”

Guillaume nodded. “Mr. Villiers, Dreznik was watching you from the meadow this afternoon. You had better run while you can.”