Fool on the Hill: A Novel

FOOL

ON THE

HILL

FOOL

ON THE

HILL

MATT RUFF

Grove Press

New York

Copyright © 1988 by Matt Ruff

Cover artwork © Dietrich Ebert

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-0-8021-3535-3

eISBN 978-0-8021-9362-9

Grove Press

an imprint of Grove Atlantic

154 West 14th Street

New York, NY 10011

Distributed by Publishers Group West

groveatlantic.com

A DEDICATION:

to the Bohemians, with gratitude,

to the Grey Ladies, with affection,

and to Lady Chance,

with deepest love

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Cornell University is a real place, of course, and any number of interesting true stories could be, and have been, told about it. But Fool on The Hill, while making mention of a number of actual events and local legends, is first and foremost a work of fiction. The Cornell depicted within these pages is a shadow Cornell, like the real one yet unlike it; the characters who live and love here never existed, though perhaps they could have.

History buffs are warned in advance that even where the author has strayed into the realm of real events, these have often been altered to better suit the story. One example that requires mention has to do with the ’69 black students’ takeover of Willard Straight Hall. In this book, the mythical fraternity Rho Alpha Tau is credited with the Saturday morning commando raid in which a group of whites attempted to retake the building; in real life, the majority of the raiders were from Delta Upsilon. Despite the substitution, the author in no way means to imply that D.U. is in any other way similar to his Rho Alphas. Hopefully no fraternity is, though it might be nice to find a real Tolkien House out there somewhere.

Thanks are due to the following individuals and organizations, with apologies to anyone I’ve forgotten: Professors Bob Farrell, Alison Lurie, Lamar Herrin, and Ken McClane of the Cornell English Department, as well as my agent, Melanie Jackson, and my editors, Anton Mueller and Morgan Entrekin, for seeing this book through to the light of day; the City of Ithaca, Cornell University, and Prudence Risley Residential College, for giving me something to do for four years; Jeff Schwaner and Lisa V. for best friendship, poetry, and cheap beer when I needed it; Susan Hericks for being the only real saint in town; Thalia for motherly advice; Suzie Q. for loss of innocence, Julie K. for loss of confidence, and Muffy for the real McCoy; Chuck for more cheap beer; and Jenny New Wave for just being himself.

Thanks also to Erica Ando, who I really did write a book for; to the people at the Dewitt Historical Society who helped me do some last-minute research; to Brad Krakow of Risley Dining, who kept me wired on free coffee; to the Risley Hall maintenance staff, who number with the angels; and finally to the members of Cornell Public Safety and the Ithaca Police Department, who helped out on some technical stuff and who are actually far more relaxed and less Clint Eastwood–like than depicted here. Should they ever get around to sending my girlfriend’s fingerprints back, I will like them even better.

LIST OF MAJOR CHARACTERS

Stephen Titus George, a storyteller

Aurora Borealis Smith, a nonconformist’s daughter

Mr. Sunshine, a Greek Original

Calliope, the most beautiful woman in the world

The Bohemians

Lion-Heart, The Bohemian King

Myoko, Queen of the Grey Ladies

Ragnarok, Bohemian Minister of Defense

Preacher, Bohemian Minister of Ministry

Z.Z. Top, Bohemian Minister of Bad Taste

Fujiko, a Grey Lady

Woodstock, Bohemian Minister of Impetuousness

Panhandle, Bohemian Minister of Lust

Aphrodite, Bohemian Minister of Love

Other Human Beings

Jinsei, Ragnarok’s love and Preacher’s lover

Walter Smith, Aurora’s father

Brian Garroway, Aurora’s boyfriend

Officer Nattie Hollister, an Ithacop

Officer Samuel Doubleday, an Ithacop

Shen Han, Amos Noldorin, and Lucius DeRond, the Three Presidents of Tolkien House

Larretta, Curlowski, and Modine, the three Architects

Catherine Reinigen, Aurora’s friend

The Sprites

Hobart, Eldest and keeper of the Chimes

Zephyr, his granddaughter

Puck, Zephyr’s lover

Hamlet, Puck’s best friend and romantic counselor

Saffron Dey, Puck’s mistress

Canines and Felines

Luther, a mongrel dog

Blackjack, a Manx cat

Excalibur III, bewildered Sheepdog and Dean of Canine Studies, Cornell University

Gallant, a St. Bernard

Skippy, a Beagle

Rover Too-Bad, a Rastafarian Puli

Bucklette, a right-wing Collie bitch

Rex Malcolm, King of Luther and Blackjack’s home neighborhood

Black Hats

Rasferret the Grub

Thresh, a Rat, General of Rasferret’s army

The Green Dragon

The Rubbermaid

The Messenger

Dragon, an Irish Wolfhound

Jack Baron and the brothers of Rho Alpha Tau

Laertes, the vengeful brother of Saffron Dey

Cameo Appearances

Denman Halfast IV, Ithaca’s premier slumlord

Fantasy Dreadlock and the Blue Zebra Hooter Patrol

Joe Scandal, a black activist

and

Ezra Cornell as himself

FOOL

ON THE

HILL

1866—TWILIGHT IN THE VALLEY

Mr. Sunshine first enters the city near dusk of a spring day in 1866, after heavy showers have turned its dirt roads and streets to mud soup. This is not the sort of weather that Mr. Sunshine prefers, but he is drawn on by a smell, a sweet smell that cannot be covered or washed away by the scent of fresh rain: the smell of Story.

The city lies in a valley along the shore of a long lake, and takes its name from a Greek island so distant as to be little more than a dream. Ithaca, home of the fabled Ulysses. Mr. Sunshine appreciates this name, for he, like it, is Greek, a Greek Original in fact. When he was younger he got around quite a lot in the World, but these days he spends most of his time in his Library, except when he feels the urge to go out and hunt up new material.

And so it happens that he walks east into the heart of the city along Owego—soon to be renamed State—Street, while the sun sets behind him and all around gas lamps are lit against the coming darkness. Crossing Fulton Street a horse and buggy have become hopelessly mired, but Mr. Sunshine passes through the mud unhindered. Likewise he is unhindered by the Ithaca citizenry, who would surely form a mob if they were to notice his odd dress—the ancient sandals on his feet are alone enough to mark him as some sort of freak. Yet while he sees and is seen by many people on his walk into town, he receives no unwanted attention, encounters no trouble.

Along Corn Street two policemen are chasing a renegade hog; formerly the family garbage disposal at a nearby house, the swine has decided to try life as a freelander. Mr. Sunshine watches it charge up the block, cops floundering in tow, and then, turning away, takes his first long look at The Hill. There are many hills surrounding the city, but only one is of concern to Mr. Sunshine. This hill, The Hill, rises along the east edge of downtown Ithaca. It is cut by two Gorges, Cascadilla and Fall Creek, but other than these natural wonders there is little to recommend it . . . yet.

But there will come a man there, Mr. Sunshine thinks, looking down the paths of the Future not quite so easily as he looks down this quagmired street, a man of daydreams, in love with love, a man with a kite and the name of a saint. And a woman with the name of a princess, who could use what he might give her . . .

He sees other Characters besides these two: a peculiar pack of modern-day knights who will ride up this very street, a dog in search of Heaven, a faerie with a flying wing of pinewood and gossamer. But they will be a long time coming yet; the Story which has drawn him will not have its true start for over a hundred years. It is all right; it will give him time to prepare, to Meddle a bit.

Twilight. The last glow of day leaches from the sky, revealing star-studded velvet. There is no moon, which Mr. Sunshine finds depressing, but one can’t have everything. By gaslight he nears the intersection of Owego with Aurora Street, where the Ithaca Hotel stands (it, along with dozens of other neighboring buildings, will burn to the ground during an all-night conflagration five years hence). Two men stand out front of the Hotel arguing, or rather, finishing an argument.

You’re a goddamned fool, the shorter, wider man shouts, "if you think the people of Ithaca will sit still at the creation of an—an Oberlin within their borders!"

Co-education is a sound plan, replies the other man more calmly. He is tall, dressed in a black coat and top hat, a man of wealth with a grey beard as long as his adversary’s face. "I doubt our fellow Ithacans will complain once they see the University in operation. In time we hope to offer instruction in every study . . . to any person, male or female."

Well you may rest assured, Sir, the short, stout fellow says with a note of finality, "that none of my children, male or female, will ever patronize such an institution."

No doubt, the tall man agrees. By ‘every study,’ I do not, of course, mean to include the study of how to act like a pompous ass, which is the only study to which your offspring are likely to be inclined.

So much for civilized discussion. The short man puffs out his cheeks as if trying to explode and take the tall man with him; when no blast is forthcoming, he makes a gesture with his hands that is seldom seen in these parts, turns to go, tangles his feet, and falls flat out in the mud. Once again wishing he were a bomb and failing, he picks himself back up, dripping mire and horse manure from his own not inexpensive black coat, and stomps away (squelch, squelch, squelch) into the gathering gloom.

Mr. Sunshine moves closer, letting himself be noticed, though the tall man, seeing him, still registers no surprise or shock at his outfit. Denman Halfast, the tall man explains by way of greeting, indicating his retreating adversary. Local landowner; if only his mind had expanded along with his property holdings he might be a pillar of the community.

And your name, Sir?

Cornell. The tall man tips his hat, then coughs; he is not a young man, and hasn’t been for a long time. Ezra Cornell.

The millionaire, Mr. Sunshine nods, not offering his own name in return. One of the founders of the Western and Union Telegraph. I know of you. And did I hear you say something about the opening of a University?

Up there. Cornell points to The Hill, little more than a shadowshape now; the sun is vanished entirely below the horizon and full dark is minutes away.

Up there, Mr. Sunshine echoes, nodding again. It makes sense. "Many people will come here in the future. Many Characters . . ."

I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, says Cornell. You’re a traveler?

Sometimes, Mr. Sunshine agrees.

What brings you to Ithaca?

Story, comes the answer. I’m a Storyteller, looking for a new Tale to pick up on.

Ezra Cornell frowns ever so slightly. Storyteller. You write fictions?

I Write, yes. You don’t approve?

Well, Cornell clears his throat, I do appreciate fine literature—

So do I, says Mr. Sunshine. I especially like dabbling with the classics: Chaucer, the Norse Sagas, the lives of the Saints, Shakespeare, Greek mythology of course—

—of course, Cornell butts back in, but I’ve always thought popular fictions to be a waste of time and learning.

No need to fear, then, Mr. Sunshine assures him. You must understand, I’m no ordinary storyteller, no hack toying with cheap fabrications. I’m a Story­teller; I Write without paper, and all my fictions, Ezra, are true.

Cornell looks at him quizzically, not understanding, and Mr. Sunshine responds with a smile.

It’s all right, the Greek Original says. "Come, walk with me. I wish to see this Hill of yours . . . and see what I can do with it."

BOOK ONE

THE ROAD TO THE HILL

THE PATRON SAINT OF DAYDREAMS

I.

On a windless summer day in an uncertain year, more than a century after the founding of Cornell, a man who told lies for a living climbed to the top of The Hill to fly a kite. He was a young man, a surprisingly wealthy one even for a professional liar, and he lived alone in a gaudy yellow house on Stewart Avenue.

The liar (who was also known as a fiction writer) walked up Libe Slope at a brisk pace, so used to the incline that he barely huffed and did not puff at all. Halfway to the top he paused to check the sky; it promised rain, but not for a while. He continued his climb.

It was a Sunday, and he was on his way to the Arts Quad, which he unabashedly believed to be the heart of the University. During the year the Quad saw more activity than any other part of campus, from the Greek Festival in September to the burning of the Green Dragon in March, and besides, the Arts Quad was where it had all started. The first three University buildings to be erected—Morrill, White, and McGraw Halls—sat at the crest of The Hill like old grey men, keeping a weary eye on the town below. Just south of them the McGraw Chimes Tower poked at the sky from the side of Uris Library, another sentinel. The Chimes were a heartbeat to go with the heart, though that beat was sometimes off-key.

The Arts Quad was also one hell of a place to fly kites, even on a day with no wind.

Reaching the top of the Slope, the man who told lies for a living passed between Morrill and McGraw. Squat boxes, the two Halls were a tribute to Ezra Cornell’s total lack of aesthetics—and they also went a long way toward explaining why more artistically minded architects had been hired to design most of the other University buildings.

Once on the Quad, the professional liar saluted the memorial statues of Ezra Cornell and Andrew White, and sat down in the grass to assemble his kite. At this hour—the hands on the McGraw Tower clock stood at five past noon—he was the only person up here. Cornell was going through its annual hibernation, the hiatus between the time when the last summer students left and the first regular students arrived for the fall term. The largely residential North and West Campuses were ghost towns now; Central Campus was occupied only by a smattering of professors here and there, most of whom were still in bed, visions of research grants dancing in their heads.

The dogs were out, though. As always. Back in the late Thirties a man named Ottomar Lehenbauer, one of the original stockholders in the Ford Motor Company, had donated two million dollars to Cornell’s Engineering School. Because Lehenbauer Hall would have been a bumpy-sounding mouthful—and perhaps a bit too German-sounding for that day—the Board of Trustees convinced Ottomar to set a different condition on the donation. After thinking it over he created a codicil that granted free run of the campus to any and all dogs, be they stray or otherwise, for as long as this University shall endure. Due largely to the codicil, the canine population on The Hill had grown until it was now about three times the average for that part of New York State.

The man who told lies for a living looked up from his kite and saw a St. Bernard eyeing him from beneath a tree. He gestured to it, at the same time reaching into the Swiss Army bag that hung over his shoulder. He brought out a handful of dog biscuits and scattered them on the ground.

You hungry? he asked the dog. The Bernard got up, trotted over unhurriedly, and after a quick sniff ate the biscuits. Then it flopped down and allowed itself to be petted.

Good boy, the man who told lies for a living said, scratching the Bernard’s stomach. It’s always nice to have some company. You want to hear a story about how I got to be rich and famous?

The dog barked noncommittally.

Oh, come on. It’s a good story, really. And it’s got a beautiful woman in it. Seven years’ worth of beautiful women, in fact. What do you say?

The dog barked again, sounding more positive.

Good! That’s the spirit! the professional liar said. The liar’s name was Stephen Titus George, though on the cover of his first book this had been shortened to S. T. George. A critic—a very kind critic—had taken things one step further, referring to him as St. George.

This was more appropriate than anyone would ever know.

II.

I never knew my parents, George began, assembling the kite as he spoke. "I grew up with my Uncle Erasmus. Erasmus was sort of the family black sheep because of his profession, but he was also the only one who’d take responsibility for a kid that wasn’t his. He was a sculptor, talented, high on ambition, though actually he made most of his money selling concrete animals, which you’d think wouldn’t be too profitable but hey, we were living in New York City. Three days a week he’d drive his van out from Queens to Manhattan, set up a table on some busy sidewalk, five dollars apiece for solid cement squirrels, chipmunks, pigeons—Urban Jungle Art, he called it. Most impractical souvenir I’ve ever heard of—who wants to lug a concrete pigeon around the sights all day?—but the tourists were crazy about them, especially the Southerners. Never took Erasmus more than three hours to sell out his entire stock, and then he’d come home and fill up the molds again, make another batch. Left him plenty of time to do the sculpture he really wanted to do, and we never went hungry.

"He turned me on to the arts when I was still very young. ‘The thing to remember, George,’ he used to say, ‘is that artists are magical beings. They’re the only people other than the gods who can grant immortality.’

That got me psyched, you know? Everyone wants to be like God, at least until they reach puberty. For a while I tried sculpting, but it wasn’t really to my taste. Then one day I had to write a short story for a sixth-grade English competition, and something just clicked. I went and asked my Uncle if he’d mind my becoming an author, and he gave me his blessing, bought me a ballpoint pen for my very own. So I started writing, slowly and without much talent at first, but—

The Bernard raised his head and barked twice.

I’ll be getting to the lady in just a minute, George promised. "Be patient. Now as I was about to say, my biggest problem in the beginning was that I was too content with my life. Writers need anxiety to draw on for inspiration; if everything’s going peachy, you’re sunk. Fortunately in my case, puberty came early.

"In my sophomore year of high school, I fell absolutely and hopelessly in lust with a girl named Caterina Sesso. I’d like to say I fell in love with her, but I won’t lie to you: ‘lust’ is the honest term. She was an Italian, and in those days Italian girls were all the rage. Later on redheads came into vogue, and just now the fad is Asians, but in high school the state-of-the-art girlfriend was an Italian. All of which is racist and sexist as hell, but I’ve never actually met anyone who didn’t have a preference, have you?

"Caterina was Italian, but she was also Catholic (the two sort of go together), which was a bad break for me. Catholic girls are all taught to avoid lust, and things were made even worse in my case because I came from a semi-Protestant background. I tried all the normal approaches and she refused to have anything to do with me. Then, after torturing myself over her for weeks on end, I sat down with my pen and wrote her a story. Twenty-three pages. And it was good, too—best thing I’d written up to that time. I typed it up, Xeroxed it, and gave a copy to Caterina.

Four months later, on my sixteenth birthday, she gave in and had sex with me. (Here the Bernard barked again, and George nodded.) "I know. Surprised me too. It wasn’t just the story that did it, you understand, but that definitely opened the door, convinced her to give me the time of day. We went together for a while, and then the night I turned sixteen there was this party at my Uncle’s with all my friends. When that broke up around midnight, Caterina and I wandered over to Flushing Meadow Park. We sat and drank beer until two, and then we lay down underneath that big steel globe they built for the World’s Fair, and started making out, and just kept going.

Next thing we knew it was sunrise, and someone had come along and stolen the leftover beer.

The Bernard barked twice, questioningly.

"What happened then? Well, for a week I couldn’t write a single word. Life was perfect, not a care in the world, so I had nothing to drive me. That problem solved itself quickly enough, though—after her next confession Caterina decided that we’d committed a mortal sin, and broke up with me.

I spent the next seven years, right up to today, trying to get back to that birthday night under the World’s Fair globe.

Bark.

"Simple. My luck did a complete reverse. Maybe I broke a mirror without realizing it. All I know for certain is that every time I got near a woman after that I thought about how it’d been with Caterina and wound up trying too hard, scaring them off. But my writing style kept getting better and better, mostly from all the practice.

"When I was seventeen a woman I’d never seen before ran up and kissed me on Fifth Avenue, then took off before I even knew what had happened; I went home and wrote my first published short story. Just before the end of high school I saw a redhead tooling around the neighborhood in a Corvette and The New Yorker paid me three hundred dollars for the result. And then I came here.

Sophomore year at Cornell I fell madly in lust again, this time with a Taiwanese punker. Incredible-looking woman. I wrote her a novel over Christmas vacation. Burned off four hundred pages in a month. I didn’t get to sleep with her, never even knew her name, but the book got published and it bestsold. So did the next two books . . .

The Bernard stood up and shook itself furiously.

Swear to God! George told it. Why would I lie to a dog? When I go home to Queens for visits my Uncle just smiles at me. ‘You sure took after me, didn’t you, George?’ he says. ‘It’s a good thing your father isn’t still around, or he’d probably accuse me of some funny business.’ I’m twenty-three years old, I have enough money to live off for the rest of my life, the critics like me, I’m graduated with extra honors, and now Cornell’s taken me on as a writer-in-residence. And all for the want of a steady girlfriend.

Wagging its tail, the dog licked George’s hand. Whined.

No, said George. "Not unhappy. How can you be depressed in a world where a man makes a living selling concrete wildlife? Lonely, maybe. Sometimes. Restless all the time. But I have this theory, see, that Whoever’s in charge is setting me up for something big—Moby-Dick, Part Two, with wheels, say, a novel to change the course of history—and once I get it done, the Editor will ease up and let me have sex again, maybe even fall in love for real. Only, after about a month of perfect bliss, He’ll turn around again and give me something else to be anxious about . . ."

The kite was now fully assembled. George held it up so the Bernard could see. It was a traditional diamond shape, with the head of a dragon painted on a white background, and red rays projecting out from the head. A red and black tail trailed from the bottom.

I just picked it up last night, George said. Let’s see how she flies, eh?

He stood up and the dog began to bark again. There was still not so much as a ghost of a breeze in the air.

I know, I know. Don’t you worry. I may not have much luck with women, but the wind and I are old lovers.

And while the Bernard looked on doubtfully, George stared up into the sky, as if searching for a familiar face there. He began to turn in place, holding the kite in one hand and a spool of heavy twine in the other, facing first west, then north, then east, then south. Three times around he turned, smiling all the while, as if casting a spell that was as amusing as it was powerful. In a sense he was casting a spell, though whether it was fueled by magic or coincidence he could never have said. All he knew was that it worked.

He stopped turning and gazed deep into the face of the sky once more. Come on, George coaxed softly, and the wind began to blow. It came out of the west where it had been waiting all along, and lifted up the kite with unseen hands. The Bernard began barking furiously.

Something else, isn’t it? Scared the shit out of me the first time I did it. Now that I’m used to it, though, it’s kind of fun.

He stood and listened to the wind, the wind which probably would have blown anyway but which never failed to come when he called, not since his Uncle Erasmus had taken him to fly his first kite when he was twelve.

Maybe it’s not so strange, eh? he said. Hell, in a book or a story I can make the wind blow just by typing a single sentence. And you figure the world, real life, that’s just another story, one that doesn’t need to be written down on paper.

George laughed and winked at the Bernard, while above them the kite soared higher and higher, a dragon in a diamond cage trying its wings for the first time.

III.

George is feeling lonely again, Zephyr observed from where she stood in the McGraw Tower belfry.

Is he? her Grandfather Hobart said absently. Hobart was busy making his daily inspection of the chimes. That’s nice.

It’s a very optimistic lonely, Zephyr added, but still lonely. She sighed and rested one hand comfortingly on the hilt of her sword, which was actually a two-inch stickpin that had been set into a miniature ivory handle. Zephyr too was a miniature, only a half-foot tall and invisible to human beings, save for the very drunk and the very wise. There were many names for her race—elf, gnome, faerie, Little People—but sprite was the common term. There were well over a thousand sprites living on The Hill, anonymously helping the humans run things.

I wish there was something I could do for him, said Zephyr. It was part question, and when Hobart didn’t immediately offer any suggestions she whirled around, intending to be furious—but of course Hobart wasn’t the sort of person you could bring yourself to be furious with.

Grandfather! she whined, settling for mock anger. Are you listening to me?

With one ear, Hobart told her. No offense, dear, but you’ve been repeating more or less the same thing for the past six months.

Do you think it’s wrong of me? Zephyr asked seriously.

To love a human being? No. If that were a crime, I’d be more guilty than you. I loved one too, in my time. Why do you think I’ve spent the past century taking care of these bells? He looked affectionately at the chimes. Dear sweet Jenny McGraw. How I do miss her.

Zephyr leaned forward, interested. Was she beautiful?

To my eyes, at least. Not, mind you, as beautiful as your Grandmother Zee, but very close.

Did she . . . did she ever see you?

On her deathbed I think she might have. Consumption took her while she was away traveling the world; she came back to Ithaca to die. I was her most constant companion during her final days, more constant than her own husband. And toward the very end, I think, when she’d really begun to slip away, she seemed to take notice of me.

Hobart’s eyes grew distant, and a little sad.

That’s the problem with loving a human being, he said. Most of them can’t see you except in extreme circumstances, and even then they don’t always believe what they’re seeing. Dear Jenny . . . I’m almost sure she thought I was nothing more than a hallucination.

I think George could see me, said Zephyr. I don’t think he’d have to be drunk or dying, either. He’s not crazy, but he . . . he has strong daydreams.

Strong daydreams. Hobart chuckled. "And what if this daydreamer could see you, what would you do then? You can’t consummate love with a giant, dear. Several times I tried to imagine what it might have been like between Jenny McGraw and myself, and the picture I got was rather embarrassing, to say the least. Some things really aren’t meant to be."

But . . . if only there were something . . .

As for that, Hobart went on, "why do you feel you have to do anything for him? You say he’s lonely, but look. He’s laughing down there."

But he was just talking to a dog. People never talk to animals unless they’re lonely.

Your own father used to hold conversations with ferrets.

"Yes, but Father understood ferrets."

Did he really? It always seemed to me that if he’d really understood them, he wouldn’t have wound up being eaten by one. But perhaps I’m just too old and muddleheaded to see the truth of it.

Zephyr lowered her eyes. Now you’re making fun of me. You really do think I’m silly, don’t you?

No more so than the rest of us, Hobart assured her. It’s just that the best you can hope to accomplish is to find George a human woman to fall in love with. But that’s a job best left to Fate. I can tell you from experience that a sprite meddling in the personal affairs of a human almost always brings bad luck.

But we always—

"Personal affairs. There’s a difference between helping the University Administration keep its files straight and playing matchmaker. Meddling in that area causes more trouble than it’s worth, Zephyr. Ask Shakespeare if you don’t believe me."

Then what am I supposed to do?

Let him handle his own business. He’s got the wind on his side; he’ll do all right. And once you fall in love again—with a sprite, this time—it won’t hurt nearly as much as it does now.

Hobart paused for emphasis, then added: Puck’s been asking about you.

Puck’s an idiot, Zephyr said automatically.

Puck has his faults. He has his good points, too. You used to know that.

Maybe I’m not the same as I used to be.

Hobart shrugged.

As you wish, he said, knowing that there was no point in arguing. But I can tell you honestly, finding Zee was the best thing that ever happened to me.

The best thing, Zephyr repeated. But you still tend Jenny McGraw’s chimes, don’t you?

Well . . .

When George leaves, I want to follow him in the glider. Is that all right?

I suppose, Hobart said with a sigh. But he’ll probably go down to The Boneyard. I don’t want you in there, not even flying overhead.

Fine. If he does go there I’ll just turn around and come back. I promise. OK?

All right, Hobart agreed, uneasily.

He went back to his inspection of the chimes, while Zephyr stood at the edge of the open-air belfry, unmindful of the seventy-foot drop.

Grandfather Hobart?

Yes?

What’s so bad about The Boneyard? What’s in there?

For a long time he didn’t answer.

Nightmares, Hobart said finally. Old nightmares.

IV.

George stayed on the Quad for the better part of an hour. When he finally reeled in the kite and disassembled it, the wind did not stop. It blew steadily, summoning cloud after cloud until the sky was steely grey. The rain was much closer now.

Give me an hour, George petitioned the clouds. I want time for a walk. He cocked his head as if listening for a reply, then put the pieces of the kite back into the Swiss Army bag and started heading back the way he had come. So long, buddy, George said to the St. Bernard, which had wandered back under the tree. Thanks for your company.

As he passed Ezra Cornell he snapped another salute, smiling at the thought of the legend: it was said that if a true virgin passed between the Quad statues at precisely midnight, Ezra and Andrew would come to life and shake hands with each other. Oversized footprints painted on the path between the two statues paid tribute to the notion. But you’d have a hard time deciding what to do if I came by, wouldn’t you? George thought. Once as a teenager and then seven years of abstinence, a man’s virginity might spontaneously regenerate after all that time. Hell, some people develop a third set of teeth.

Pondering this, George left the Arts Quad behind him and hurried down Libe Slope toward The Boneyard, while in the sky the clouds took a vote and decided to hold their water a little longer.

V.

The glider, an ancient contraption of pinewood and gossamer, was stored in a secret hangar in the Tower peak above the belfry. Zephyr reached it by means of a hidden ladder and staircase. At the top of the stairs she pulled a lever in the wall, setting in motion a group of counterweights that opened the outer hangar doors.

Sitting in the farthest recesses of the hangar, the glider looked about as aerodynamically sound as a winged sneaker. Designed to be as invisible as the sprites, the glider’s pinewood frame was anorexically thin, and the gossamer wings—woven from Midsummer’s Eve lake fog—shimmered only slightly even in the brightest daylight. The single passenger rode in a narrow sling suspended beneath the main body of the craft, controlling direction by pulling on two threads . . . but it was the wind that did most of the steering.

Zephyr climbed into the sling without hesitation or fear. She loved to fly; it was certainly a more convenient method of transportation than walking or squirrelback. Why the great majority of sprites remained earthbound was a mystery to her.

Puck did a lot of flying, she knew—though his was a more mechanical and less magical bent—but she purposely tried not to think about that now. She had refused to see or speak to Puck for months since she’d caught him fooling around with Saffron Dey inside one of the display cases in Uris Library. Coincidentally or not, her feelings for George had first surfaced at about that time.

Zephyr launched the glider with a thought. Like George, she too was on intimate terms with the wind, and didn’t even have to bother spinning around to summon it. She merely called to it in her mind and a river of air flowed into the hangar, floating the glider gently out, like a cork leaving a bottle in slow motion. The hangar faced north, giving her a splendid view of the Quad as she entered the open air; then she banked to the right, descending in a series of wide spirals around the Tower.

Be careful of the weather! Hobart shouted to her as she passed the level of the belfry. And remember—stay away from The Boneyard!

Zephyr raised one hand to wave, not bothering to yell back that she’d understood, and then she was lower, circling the clock faces of the Tower. I love you, Grandfather, she thought, at the same time wishing that he wouldn’t worry about her so much. But old sprites seemed prone to worry, and at 172 years of age, Hobart was the oldest surviving sprite on The Hill (Zephyr, only 40, was just finishing adolescence), old enough to have seen action in the Great War of 1850 against Rasferret the Grub, the most terrible conflict in remembered history. Zephyr wished he would learn to relax.

She leveled out at an altitude of about thirty feet and flew after George, who had reached the bottom of Libe Slope and was crossing West Avenue into the temporary ghost town that was West Campus. She had closed more than half the distance to him when a low droning reached her ears. Recognizing the sound, Zephyr looked for cover to hide behind, but there was none close enough. A moment later a propeller-driven biplane pulled even with the glider.

Hello, Zeph, Puck called to her. His plane was a single-engine scale model, the type hobbyists build and fly by remote control. In this case, however, the miniaturized controls were located in the cockpit. Long time no see. I’ve been hoping we’d bump into each other up here.

Goodbye, Zephyr replied curtly, yanking the glider’s nose up. This slowed the craft’s speed considerably, and Puck, unable to copy the maneuver without stalling his engine, shot past her. The biplane began a wide U-turn while Zephyr lowered the nose again and headed for the bottom of the Slope, calling on the wind for extra speed.

Come on, Zeph! Puck pleaded. I just want to talk to you!

"I don’t want to talk to you!"

She sailed over West Avenue and under the arch between Lyon and McFaddin Halls, then hung a sharp right, hoping to lose Puck among the West Campus dormitories. George, who had also gone through the arch but continued on straight, paused in mid-step as the glider passed near, though of course he could neither see it nor hear it. He did hear the drone of Puck’s biplane a few seconds later, but dismissed it as a mosquito and kept walking.

Come on, Zeph! Puck shouted again. But instead of answering, Zephyr began weaving between buildings, pulling tight turns and other acrobatics in an attempt to shake him off. Puck brought the biplane up to full throttle and hung on. He was a good pilot, as good as she, and knew that eventually she’d have to give up.

But he’d forgotten about her tenacity, and her friendship with the wind. The wind kept Zephyr’s glider moving at an incredible speed, while giving no similar aid to the biplane; it was all Puck could do to keep pace with her. Then, after making a particularly tight turn, he saw Zephyr pass between two close-growing trees. Barely a hairsbreadth of space existed between them, but a convenient breeze spread the branches to make room for the glider. Zephyr passed through the opening, and Puck attempted to follow.

The branches closed up in front of him.

Terrific, said Puck. He tried to pull up and succeeded only in stalling his engine; the biplane plunged belly first into the branches. For a few seconds all was tumbling and chaos, and then, by some miracle, the plane reemerged on the far side of the trees with its wings and propeller intact. It was still stalled, however, and immediately went into a dive.

Terrific, Puck said again, as the biplane stubbornly refused to level out. It was too heavy to glide effectively, and with the ground rushing up to meet him like a relative at a family reunion, there was no time to restart the engine. He was going to crash into the sidewalk.

Terrific, Puck said, for what should have been the third and final time.

The wind saved him. It billowed up underneath the biplane like a cushion, forcing it to straighten out, holding it steady. Puck wasted no time asking questions; he pounded the starter button until the propeller kicked over and began to turn. As soon as it did, the wind cushion faded, leaving him to fly on his own power again.

Are you all right? Zephyr asked. The glider was alongside him now, close enough so that they didn’t have to shout over the drone of the biplane’s engine.

I’m still breathing, Puck told her, not ready to concede anything more than that. "You are a nasty one when you get upset, you know that, Zeph?"

It’s your own fault. Now that it was clear that he was all right, some of Zephyr’s anger came creeping back in a muted form. That thing’s a death trap, anyway. You should know better than to trust physics. If I hadn’t talked the wind into saving you—

"Saving me!? You’re the one who got me into trouble in the first place."

Yes, well, Zephyr protested in a lame voice, you could have gotten into trouble yourself just as easily. And then where would you have been?

I have a parachute, Puck informed her, although this, too, sounded a bit lame. They fell silent for a moment, banking left to avoid another cluster of trees. A sparrow looked up at the sound of the biplane and chirped.

That’s another thing, Zephyr said. You’re too noisy and too easy to see.

Maybe. But human beings have a way of not noticing obvious things. Even that George character—

Don’t you say a word about George! Zephyr warned.

Fine. But people don’t scare me, Zephyr. They really don’t.

What about animals? They notice you. Most of them would probably be too scared to do anything, but a pack of crows, or an owl . . .

God, Zephyr, are you really that worried about me? Puck grinned at her, and she gave him a black look. Well listen, I was thinking about crows and owls myself, so I got Cobweb to help me rig something up.

He brought the biplane up a few feet so that she could see two black cylinders that were mounted under the lower wings.

What are they? Zephyr asked. Like all sprites, she was fascinated with weapons.

They’re mini-cannons. Cobweb hooked them up to an electronic firing circuit and loaded them with buckshot. Should be enough to stop an owl.

Or blow your own wings off.

Maybe. But there’s always my parachute . . .

Zephyr looked at the cannons again. They certainly were an interesting idea—even if they were also dangerous—and she had to admit that no similar weapon could be mounted on the glider.

Neat, aren’t they? Puck asked, reading her thoughts.

Pretty neat, Zephyr admitted. I—

As if suddenly awakened from a dream, she realized that George was no longer in sight. Both glider and biplane had begun to drift out of West Campus in the direction of Fall Creek Gorge. Without bothering to say goodbye, Zephyr broke formation and began angling back in the direction of The Boneyard, where she knew George would be by now.

What—? Puck said, abruptly finding himself flying alone.

Go home, Puck, Zephyr called back to him. I don’t want to talk to you.

Terrific, said Puck, watching her speed away. He opened up the throttle once more and turned to follow her. Jesus, Troilus, and Cressida—here we go again!

VI.

The thing to remember, George, is that artists are magical beings. They’re the only people other than the gods who can grant immortality . . .

The Boneyard was located below Stewart Avenue, about halfway down the side of The Hill. George had discovered the place several years ago, and had visited it regularly ever since, using it for inspiration. He would walk among the tombstones, pausing frequently, reading names, dates, epitaphs, and asking himself questions: What was this person like? How did she die? It says here she was married; were they happy together? This one over here died young; did he enjoy what time he had? What did he do on his sixteenth birthday?

Hundreds of tombstones here; hundreds of stories, each individual one far too long to ever tell in its entirety. But every so often George would see something that would stick in his mind, maybe just an unusual name, and the next time he sat down to write, that person would become part of a new tale, one step closer to eternity.

Strangely, for all the time he had spent in The Boneyard, he was constantly discovering new things. On this particular day he came across two unusual stones that he had somehow never noticed before. One was a standard rectangular piece of marble that bore the words:

DEDICATED TO THE LOVING MEMORY

OF HAROLD LAZARUS

1912–1957

BY HIS ADORING WIFE

GOD GRANT HIM REST

The inscription was kind enough, even a little touching, but the embellishments were grotesque. Beneath GOD GRANT HIM REST was an etching that depicted some sort of demon with a bow and arrow chasing after a doe. More demon figures floated in the upper corners of the stone, and the whole was topped by an intricately carved gargoyle figurine that leered at the onlooker.

George shook his head, trying not to laugh. Poor Harold Lazarus. What had he done to deserve such a monument? Or had his wife just had exceedingly bad taste?

What do you say, Harold? George asked, crouching down beside the stone and taking out a notepad. How’d you like to live forever?

He made a rough sketch of the gargoyle, softening the features so that it looked unlucky rather than fierce. Underneath the sketch he wrote: ­LAZARUS—HAS ADORING BUT TACKY WIFE. George had no idea what story might come out of it, but he would endeavor to give back some of Harold’s dignity.

The other stone had no humor in it. It was set on the top of a small rise, and in comparison to the stones around it—expensive,