Fool on the Hill Page 12

  But while history might be made to repeat itself, it never stopped moving. With most of the hard-core Bohemes graduating this year (including Lion-Heart and his bankroll), he had begun to wonder how long it would take before the remainder drifted apart or collapsed into a clique. He wondered about the dorm, too, how it would fare without such wonders as Z.Z. Top’s electronic Jew’s Harp.

  Even as Lion-Heart pondered Bohemia’s role in Risley and larger society, Calliope appeared out of the mist, revealed for a moment in the glow from the dorm.

  “Ho . . .” Lion-Heart gasped frozen by the sight of her. The shot glass dropped from his hand and the ground lapped up the rest of the Midori.

  “Ho?” Calliope caught his gaze and smiled, tearing his heart. For she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen, ever would see, and yet he suddenly knew with an iron-clad certainty that she was not to be his. When she teasingly blew a kiss at him, Lion-Heart lost all control of himself.

  “Who are you?” the King of the Bohemians demanded, springing forward to catch her. “At least tell me who you are. . . .”

  “I’m just a dream on a lonely night,” said Calliope, laughing. As he reached out to grab her she spun, the cloak/kimono slipping easily through his fingers, and then she simply wasn’t there anymore. He stumbled and fell hard to the ground.

  “Wait!” he called into the mist, not sounding very much like a King now. “Wait . . .”

  Her laugh echoed once in the distance—she sounded as if she were crossing the bridge—and faded. Lion-Heart thought about chasing after her and soon rejected the idea, knowing he could never catch her unless she wanted him to. And besides, he was just drunk enough to believe that something bad might happen to him if he became too persistent and annoyed her.

  “Go easy on him, though,” the Bohemian King said thickly, struggling to his feet. “Whoever it is you did come here for.” No sooner was he standing than Myoko came around to the front lawn looking for him, and Lion-Heart thought he had never been so glad to see anyone.

  “Are you real?” he asked her, still dizzy from the fall.

  “What?” Myoko glided up to him. “You been into something heavy tonight, Li?”

  He didn’t answer, but reached out gently to touch her, as if fearing that she too might whirl and vanish. He clasped her hand in his, marveling at the feel of solid flesh and bone; he brushed his fingertips against her cheek.

  “What is it?” Myoko asked, surprised and flattered by the expression of awe on Lion-Heart’s face. He’d gone through a cold phase recently, being short on affection in the past week or so; now it seemed to have passed.

  “You are real,” Lion-Heart said, taking her in his arms and kissing her. And so they remained, clasped together with the faint sounds of the party drifting over to them from the courtyard, for the better part of an hour. When at last they ended their embrace and turned to go inside, all memory of Calliope had been erased from Lion-Heart’s mind. He had seen no one that night but Myoko, and he loved her.

  VI.

  The Arts Quad was deserted when Calliope got there. It shouldn’t have been; even with the majority of the night’s activities—wild parties in particular—taking place at the dormitories, fraternities, and sororities, there should have been a few scattered individuals passing through Central Campus at any given time until well after midnight. But the Lady was in a mood to dance, to dance but not to be seen, and so all those who would otherwise have walked through the Quad suddenly got it in their heads to take a different route to wherever they were going.

  She skipped along playfully, pausing beneath a cluster of trees in the northeast corner of the Quad, where mist and shadows mingled freely. She drew out her whistle, gently clutching the tiny charm in one perfect fist, and blew. It made no discernable sound, but the area before her glowed hazily, the mist forming itself into a phantom image of George.

  “So that’s what you look like,” said Calliope, smiling. Physical appearance meant nothing to her emotionally; her eyes were such that she could see any person as perfectly attractive, just as she, with her special magic, could appear perfectly beautiful to them. But she did want to get a glimpse of him before actually seeking him out, for curiosity’s sake if nothing else.

  Done looking, she waved the apparition away and strode across the grass until she stood on the walkway between the two Quad statues. Andrew D. White gave her a stern look as she threw off her robe and stood naked except for the mocassins. These too were kicked away as she began to dance, a wild, Dionysian ballet the like of which had never been seen on any stage. Before long the wind began to blow, sighing a melody among the branches of the trees and beneath the eaves of the buildings. The wind did not part the mist and so none could see what was going on, but a number of the sprites heard the wind-song and wondered what it could mean. Zephyr’s Grandfather Hobart remained frozen at the top of McGraw Tower throughout the performance, frightened for some reason he could not fathom. The wind blew around George’s house as well, and he too paused to listen—but not in fear.

  How long the dance went on is as uncertain as the hour of Calliope’s arrival, but it ended at midnight. She landed back between the statues with a great somersault just as the Clock began to strike. While the chimes tolled out the change of days, Calliope looked from Andrew to Ezra, as if daring them to make a move. They did not. Then the chimes ceased and she quickly gathered up her robe and shoes, laughing as she ran back the way she had come.

  “I’m here, George,” she called to the night. “I’m here.”

  VII.

  “Is this dreamlike enough for you, Blackjack?”

  “It’s interesting, I’ll grant you that.”

  It was mid-dawn on the morning of the twenty-sixth, and Luther and Blackjack moved through a world of white, a thick fog that was the last gasp of the preceding three days’ weather. Even at that moment the rising sun was beginning to burn the fog away, but for the time being it was like part of a dream, like moving through a tunnel to a hazy world that was slowly being brought into focus.

  The two animals had walked most of the night, entering Ithaca under a dark gloom that almost prevented them from realizing they’d come to a town. Passing through the deserted Commons, the air had been rich with Luther’s “Heaven smell,” and as they reached the foot of The Hill the mongrel had proclaimed joyously that they were almost there, almost there. Once again Blackjack had been patient and polite in his response, but somehow he’d expected the Divine environment to be better lit.

  Now, in a moment of perfect stillness, a gateway loomed up ahead of them. “Heaven’s Gate!” exclaimed Luther. “It’s the Gateway to Heaven, Blackjack! We found it!”

  “St. Peter must still be sleeping,” Blackjack observed quietly. Luther paid him no mind, running up to the Gate and barking in glee.

  “We’re there! We made it!”

  “Are you sure?” asked Blackjack, examining the Gate closely. It was a rather plain construction of stone, with a wrought-iron span across the top. Not a trace of pearl.

  While Luther barked and capered beneath the arch, Blackjack went over to the wall on the left side of the Gate. The fog was thinning rapidly, and the Manx was able to make out the words on a plaque:

  SO ENTER

  THAT DAILY THOU MAYEST BECOME

  MORE LEARNED AND THOUGHTFUL

  SO DEPART

  THAT DAILY THOU MAYEST BECOME

  MORE USEFUL TO THY COUNTRY AND TO MANKIND

  Intrigued, Blackjack crossed to the other side of the Gate and examined the companion plaque:

  THIS STRUCTURE DEDICATED

  TO THE CONTINUED SUCCESS

  OF THE CORNELL UNIVERSITY

  BY ITS PRESIDENT

  ANDREW D. WHITE

  1896

  “University?” said Blackjack. “Luther, this is—”

  “We made it! We made it!”

  The Manx could not go on. It took no great power of empathy to see how ecstatic Luther was over their arrival at
“Heaven” Blackjack would not rob him of this brief happiness. He would be forced to face the truth soon enough on his own.

  Or so Blackjack thought.

  “Listen!” Luther said suddenly, ceasing his barking. Now that he took the time to notice, Blackjack realized that there was water running nearby. And that wasn’t all—somewhere up ahead, chimes had begun to play.

  “The angels need music lessons, I think,” Blackjack couldn’t resist saying, as a bad note disrupted the melody. Once again Luther paid no attention to him.

  Together they passed through the Gate and padded around the great bulk that was Cascadilla Dorm. Following the music, they crossed over Cascadilla Creek Bridge into Central Campus.

  “I smell dogs,” said the Manx. “Lots of them.”

  “Of course you do, Blackjack. But don’t worry, there can’t be any trouble here, not in this place. Do you smell Moses at all?”

  “How could I . . . I mean, no, I don’t smell him.”

  “Neither do I. But there are so many . . .”

  A strong scent of approaching dogs up ahead. Blackjack tensed automatically. Luther glanced into a puddle and noticed for the first time that the rain and damp had washed away his mud-disguise.

  “Oh no! I’m—”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of in this place, remember?” Blackjack said soothingly, casually sliding his claws out.

  “But it just occurred to me, Blackjack. What if God’s a Purebred?”

  “I thought God was supposed to be more like a human being. Like one of the Masters, you’d say.”

  “Well . . .”

  They topped a rise, and saw two dogs coming toward them. Luther relaxed immediately; one of the dogs was a mongrel, the other a Purebred, and they were not hostile to one another. The Purebred, a young Beagle, seemed very high-strung for some reason, jumping about as though the damp sidewalk were too hot for him, but it had nothing to do with antagonism. The thought-word mange was nowhere in his mind, not that Luther could see.

  “Hello there,” said the mongrel, nodding to them.

  “Hiya!” piped the Beagle pup, whose name, they soon learned, was Skippy. “Hey, I’ve never seen you guys before. You new around here? Huh? And hey, Mr. Pussycat, what happened to your tail? Huh? Huh?”

  “Hello,” Blackjack replied to the mongrel, retracting his claws halfway. He eyed the Beagle reservedly.

  In front of them, the last of the fog melted away all at once, and the light of the rising sun struck McGraw Tower, for an instant wreathing it in a halo. Luther caught his breath at the sight.

  “We made it,” he said once more.

  With a discordant clang, the Chimesmaster shifted into her second song for the morning.

  Book Two

  TALES OF AUTUMN

  1866—OUTSIDE THE BONE ORCHARD

  They begin climbing The Hill along a dirt track that will one day be known as University Avenue, but which for now is just more nameless mud soup. The going is hard yet Mr. Sunshine forges ahead—carrying a bright lantern he did not have with him when they set out from the Ithaca Hotel—still oddly unimpeded by the condition of the road. And Ezra, several decades from being a spritely youth, keeps close at Mr. Sunshine’s heels, driven by an indescribable compulsion that first bloomed in him when he was invited on this night trek.

  Their conversation is appropriately strange. Sometimes Mr. Sunshine asks question about Ithaca or the planned University, sometimes he speaks knowledgeably about them, and sometimes—this is surely the strangest thing of all—he will, after Ezra answers a query, nod and then add an extra fact or two as if he had known more than Cornell all along. And some of his comments are hopelessly beyond comprehension.

  One such comment pops out as they come upon the gates to the City Cemetery. Gazing farther up the road, beyond the glow of his lantern, Mr. Sunshine says: “The Black Knight will live near here, in a Black House. Hmm, wonder what I can do with him?”

  Turning his attention to the Cemetery, he continues by asking: “What's this place called?”

  “I don’t know that there is an official name,” replies Ezra. “Though it’s often referred to as The Bone Orchard. A nickname of sorts.”

  “Bone Orchard,” Mr. Sunshine rolls the words on his tongue, testing their feel. “Bone Orchard, nice idea, but a bit of a bumpy mouthful, don’t you think? It could be shorter.”

  Cornell shrugs. “People will call it what they will.”

  “People can change their habits,” Mr. Sunshine says, “over time. I like cemeteries, though; I’ve had some good Stories involving them. You don’t mind if we walk through The . . . Boneyard, do you?"

  Again, the feeling of compulsion at the request.

  “Not at all, sir,” Ezra answers. “Not at all.”

  THE FIRST WEEK

  I.

  Monday, 5:50 A.M.

  George cracked an eyelid at the first light of dawn. Still half asleep, wrapped snugly in a wool blanket against the morning chill, he was filled with a sudden elation, as if he had just embarked on some grand adventure. In a sense he had—he was due to teach his first class at 10:10 this morning—but there was something more, something that his waking half could not quite grasp.

  A sparrow sat on his bedroom windowsill, peeping in at him, perhaps hoping for a bit of bread. George smiled at the bird, then glanced at the kite which was propped against a chair just to the right of the window . . . and again he felt that strange elation.

  Something’s coming, the part of him that was still sleeping thought. Something’s going to happen.

  School’s going to happen, his waking half replied, and promptly rolled over to get another hour’s rest.

  Outside the wind stirred briefly, startling the sparrow into song.

  II.

  Monday, 6:30 A.M.

  The delivery crew for the Cornell Daily Sun had already been on the job for nearly an hour. The masthead almanac for that first day of classes looked like this:

  Weather

  Miraculously

  Warm and Dry;

  Enjoy It

  While It Lasts

  The lead-off for the Sun’s SUPER-EXPANDED EDITORIAL PAGE read:

  Wanted—One (1) So-Spill Dragon

  IT MIGHT SEEM APPROPRIATE on this first day of instruction for the Sun to offer some words of encouragement to newcomers just beginning their studies at Cornell. We at the Sun pride ourselves on freshness and originality, however, and since every variety of encouragement has already been offered umpteen times in the past, this year we’ve decided not to bother. Besides, a Sun poll taken only last week reveals that the Big Issue on everyone’s mind—first year students included—has nothing to do with academics. Rather it concerns the raising of the legal drinking age from nineteen to twenty-one, effective this December first. The Questions: Is there life without the weekend bar scene? Will Collegetown survive? Will we, the under-twenty-one crowd, survive without a good round of doubles to buck us up after a failed prelim?

  There can be no doubt but that lack-of-alcohol crises will occur. All we can do is try our best to avoid emotions-shattering situations and occurrences wherever possible. Case in point: the annual Green Dragon Parade. As returning Cornellians will know, this is a mid-March event in which a gigantic Dragon, constructed by the incoming class of the Architecture school is taken on a circuitous tour of Central Campus and then burned to ashes on the Arts Quad. This traditional event, first dreamed up by Willard Straight ‘0 1, has been carried out faithfully and flawlessly every year—until last spring, when the oversized beast collapsed in on itself before getting ten feet from its starting point. Filled with shame, the Architects descended on the Collegetown bars to drown their sorrows. One favored hangout, the Fevre Dream Tavern, reported its entire stock of liquor depleted more than an hour before last call. The booze did its job, it seems; there were a number of disturbances of the peace reported, but no suicides. The Archies were too numbed to think of gorge-hopping.

  But thi
s year, a retreat to the bars won’t be possible. With pub owners increasingly vigilant for fake I.D., defeated Architects and the like will find themselves our of luck. As a public service, therefore, the Sun is asking those concerned to already start thinking ahead to March. We need a few good women and men who can build a real dragon, one that will stand tall and not collapse or fall over until it’s supposed to. And while we’re on the subject, let’s everybody study hard, pass those prelims, and put some style into those term papers. In the end we at the Sun are sure we’ll all find that Diet Coke goes down just as smoothly as a Manhattan—when it’s a victory celebration.

  III.

  Monday, 8:05 A.M.

  Fujiko screamed as her alarm clock went off, and the exquisite anguish of a Southern Comfort hangover settled around her head like a vise. She groped around in the semi-darkness for a weapon, came up with a hockey stick—her ex-boyfriend had left it to her as a remembrance—and reduced the clock to its component parts with one good swipe.

  After sluggishly pulling on a bathrobe and pawing through three drawers to find a towel, she stepped into the hall—and screamed again, as the sudden light nearly blinded her. Across the hall Z.Z. Top wandered out of his own room, clad in yellow swim trunks and extra-dark Wayfarer glasses. His foot struck a copy of the Sun that had been thrust halfway under his door, scattering it in a flurry of newsprint. He paid it no mind.

  “Good morning,” Fujiko fumbled out, just to be polite.

  “Bullshit,” replied the Top.

  They entered the bathroom together, Fujiko ignoring, as was Risley custom, the sign on the door that said MEN. The only shower was in use (a steady chorus of Sex Pistols tunes competed with the sound of flowing water), and Preacher sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting his turn. Woodstock, the newly-installed Bohemian Minister of Impetuousness, lay flat out in a semi-daze alongside the row of sinks.