Fool on the Hill

  Perhaps it was time he gave up renting and simply bought a house in Ithaca; he had money enough. But he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of putting down roots here, even tentative ones. He was still young enough to consider himself a wanderer, and as Uncle Erasmus had once said, wanderers rent or flop, they never buy. Besides, this particular house was where he had been living—with three friends—back when his first book, The Knight of the White Roses, had been published. He had read the Times Book Review every Sunday on this very porch, watching his novel climb the bestseller list a notch at a time until it reached a peak at number three, outdone only by Jackie Collins and the latest Stephen King.

  He got himself a Coke out of the refrigerator and came back out on the porch to watch the storm. The rain smelled fresh and clean, like the promise of an exciting new year. And though neither George nor anyone but a certain Mr. Sunshine could know it in advance, this year would be the most exciting Ithaca had ever seen.

  Oblivious to this, George sat on his porch, and drank his Coke, and made daydreams out of the rain. He wondered about the book he would write this year, and he wondered—not too desperately—whether love would find him at last and let him rest for a time. But he smiled all the while he was thinking about it, because at the core he was happy enough just to be alive and watching the storm, and this one thing made him special.

  In other places, both far and near, others had begun to turn toward Ithaca. New students, old students, vacationing professors, soon it would be time for them to come and bring Cornell out of hibernation, give it life for another year.

  But not all who traveled the road to The Hill that late August came in search of learning, and not all of them were human.

  LUTHER ON THE ROAD TO HEAVEN

  I.

  Blackjack crouched perfectly still in a dark corner of an abandoned basement. His breathing was soft and controlled; his whiskers did not move, his claws did not tap the floor, his tail did not twitch. He had, in fact, no tail at all.

  The rat was about ten yards off to his left, still moving carefully, but beginning to believe that the coast was clear. Blackjack fought hard to control his eagerness. He had been waiting motionless for almost an hour now, and didn’t want to blow it with a stray sound or thought. Keep cool, that was the ticket. And when the rat had moved away from the wall, toward the middle of the floor where it was more likely to become disoriented, he would pounce.

  A minute or so later the rat began to do just that. It picked up the smell of food, a rancid scrap of cheese lying amidst other debris left behind by some passing wino. There was cat scent in the air as well, which a more cautious rodent might have noticed, but the lure of the cheese was strong and by the time this rat recognized its peril it would be too late.

  One uneven portion of the floor was awash with sunlight. The building above had been almost completely destroyed in a fire, and the sun’s rays leaked in through a gash in the basement ceiling. The rat paused at the shore of this bright lake, sniffing the air and making a final decision. The cheese was on the far side.

  Wait, Blackjack cautioned himself, careful not to let the thought slip outwards. Wait until he’s in the light and blinded. Then creep up as close as you can and . . .

  “Blackjack?”

  The word came from the direction of the partially collapsed basement stairs. The rat froze, thought it over for perhaps a second, and bolted for home.

  “Fuck.” Blackjack launched himself forward, knowing he was already too late. The rat caught a glimpse of the coal-black Manx bounding after it and put on an extra burst of speed, reaching safety with room to spare. Blackjack skidded to a halt in front of the rat hole and pawed at it in vain.

  “Blackjack?”

  The cat turned around, seething. A mongrel dog—a bitch—stood at the foot of the stairs, watching him.

  “This had better be good, Riva,” Blackjack warned her. Had he been using speech, he would have been almost shouting. “You just cost me lunch.”

  “Malcolm wants to see you,” she told him. His eyes widened just the tiniest bit, but his anger over the lost rat did not diminish.

  “Malcolm wants to see me, eh? Good for him. You go tell him I’ll drop by when I get a chance. Like maybe next week.”

  “Malcolm wants to see you now,” Riva insisted.

  Blackjack considered another retort, but thought better of it. Cats—street cats, at any rate—had no fear of dogs, but Malcolm was the baddest of the bad in this neighborhood. It would not be wise to cross him, or his messenger. Likewise, he would not have sent for Blackjack unless something truly important had come up.

  “Soon,” Blackjack relented. “I’ll be there soon. You go tell Malcolm—”

  “I ain’t yours to order about!” snapped Riva, who had little patience with felines. “Malcolm says come back with me, so you come. Now.”

  “What is it? What does he need to talk to me about?”

  “Come and ask him yourself, damn it! You think I know?”

  But Blackjack stared at her, and in a moment she dropped her eyes. “It’s Luther,” she told him. “Something gone wrong with Luther.” The Manx nodded, or performed the feline equivalent of a nod. The news did not surprise him; a lot of things had gone wrong with Luther lately.

  “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll come with you . . . but Malcolm owes me a rat.”

  II.

  A word about animals, and telepathy.

  Many storytellers, from Aesop to Richard Adams, have spun tales in which animals hold conversations with one another. There is little evidence of this in real life, however; while some animals can produce an amazing variety of distinct sounds, and some sort of basic communication is possible through this, the idea of two dogs barking back and forth about the meaning of life is a fairly laughable one. It is no wonder then—never having overheard two horses discussing their sexual difficulties—that most people view animals as less intelligent than humankind, if still lovable.

  In fact, all living creatures—human beings included—are born with a latent power of telepathy. The power never develops in most humans, however, because speech takes the place of its main function. It is in those animals most closely associated with humanity—cats and dogs in particular—that telepathy becomes a refined and useful tool.

  However, while cats and dogs are able to “think” to one another without difficulty, there are a number of important differences in their perception. One of these differences is that cats are, for some unknown reason, able to understand human speech, whereas dogs are not. Some cats also learn to read—another impossibility for dogs—although obtaining and manipulating books is obviously difficult for them.

  A great dichotomy has sprung up because of this. Dogs, able to empathize with human emotions but not comprehending the complexity of human thought, have come to hold human beings in awe and think of them as at least partially divine. Cats, on the other hand, after witnessing the magnitude of human foolishness for centuries, have grown aloof and individualistic, dealing with human beings only—or so they think—on their own terms. Cats are also far less religious and superstitious than dogs; Blackjack was a hardcore atheist.

  It might seem at first that such diametrically opposed groups would be forever at war. But, despite a general lack of respect, close friendships between individual cats and dogs do occur from time to time. Just such a relationship existed between Blackjack and Luther, and it was for the sake of that relationship that Blackjack went to see Malcolm right away that day, instead of delaying long enough to get even for the loss of the rat.

  It was out of the same feeling of friendship, furthermore, that Blackjack ultimately wound up joining Luther on a quest, a quest to find something that the Manx did not even believe existed.

  Heaven.

  III.

  Malcolm held court in the decaying shell of an abandoned church. ("Abandoned” was a word that could be applied to the majority of the buildings in this neighborhood, one of the poorest ghettoes of the S
outh Bronx.) Riva led the way, though Blackjack knew it well enough. As they approached the church’s front steps, several lazing dogs—all of them mongrels—turned to look. At the sight of the Manx they all shied back a little.

  One of the first things Blackjack had done after taking up residence in this area had been to get into a scrap with a notorious dog by the name of Fearless Bledsoe. Bledsoe was an avowed cat-hater, and upon first seeing Blackjack with Luther he had flown into a rage. As a result of the ensuing fight, Blackjack had a long scar etched permanently into his left flank. Fearless Bledsoe, however, now went by the name of No-Balls Bledsoe, and rumor had it that he had not so much as glanced at a cat since.

  “You can all stop shaking,” Blackjack said (thought-said) to the dogs as he climbed the church steps, secretly proud of his reputation. After what he had done to Bledsoe, there wasn’t a stud within five miles who didn’t get nervous when he sauntered by.

  Except Malcolm.

  They entered the church. Most of the pews had been overturned by vandals; none were undamaged. Several fierce-looking mongrels crouched among the ruins, and at the head of the nave Malcolm himself lounged before the shattered altar, flanked by the four best-looking bitches in the neighborhood.

  “Hello, cat,” Malcolm said. He was part German Shepherd, part Doberman, and part Mastiff . . . with a trace of timber wolf, if you believed the stories, which Blackjack didn’t.

  “I have a name,” replied Blackjack. “Use it.”

  “Little testy today, cat? Let’s see . . .” He concentrated for a moment. “Has somethin’ to do with a rat you didn’t catch, mayhap?”

  “Yes,” said Blackjack uneasily. For the most part telepathy was only useful for discerning projected thoughts, but Malcolm was one of those rare animals who could actually probe into another mind—how deeply, only he knew.

  “And mayhap,” Malcolm continued, “you think it’s my fault.”

  “Oh, it’s her fault,” said Blackjack, indicating Riva. The bitch snarled at him. “She’s the one who scared the rat away. But since she was on your business, and since she seems to be your property—”

  “My property? Oh, cat, you hurt my feelings. Bitches as property . . . that’s a ‘Bred notion if I ever heard one. An old mix like me has got better things to do than own other dogs.”

  Blackjack looked at the four bitches gathered around the altar. When their time of heat came, no stud was permitted to touch them without Malcolm’s invitation and approval.

  “You’re so liberated,” Blackjack said.

  “We-e-ell . . . nobody ever promised I was perfect, cat. But just so as you’ll know what a generous fellow I am . . .” He turned to one of the dogs among the fallen pews. “Get this tom something to eat.”

  The dog vanished into what had originally been the church sacristy, returning a moment later with not one, but three dead rats dangling from his mouth. He deposited them on the floor at Blackjack’s feet.

  “They’re a little stiff,” apologized Malcolm, “but they’re plump, too. Lot of plump rats around here lately.”

  “What’s wrong with Luther?” Blackjack asked. A gift of three whole rats made him suspect the worst.

  “He wants to go lookin’ for Moses.”

  “Oh . . .” Moses was Luther’s sire. He was also deceased. A car had run him down three days ago, and just yesterday morning his body had been removed by two men in a sanitation truck. “He wants to go visit the garbage dump?”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” Malcolm said. “But I looked him through real careful, and now I’m thinkin’ that mayhap he’s got a longer trip in mind. A much longer trip.”

  “And how do I figure into this?”

  “You’re his friend, cat. Closest thing to family he’s got now that Moses passed on. It’s your job to watch out for him.”

  “My job . . .” Blackjack’s anger returned; he did not appreciate having responsibility forced on him. “Just roll that thought back, Malcolm. I like Luther, but I’m not going anywhere with him.”

  “Talk him out of it, if you can. But if he walks, so do you, cat. The world’s a hungry thing; mayhap it wants to eat Luther for breakfast, and I don’t plan on lettin’ that happen. I owe Moses that much.”

  “But I,” Blackjack insisted, as if explaining something to a retarded kitten, “I don’t owe Moses anything.”

  Malcolm stopped lounging and stood up on all fours, facing him. For the first time the dog showed signs of losing his own temper.

  “You listen, cat, and listen careful. I won’t repeat myself. You’re gain’, even if you got to walk Luther halfway ’round the world. Hell, that dog’s got no fight of his own. And he ain’t never been told about ’Breds—Moses didn’t want him to know. How long you figure he’d last without someone to watch his back? Now you, cat, you got fight enough for two or three.”

  “Don’t try to flatter me,” said Blackjack. But he was softening.

  “I ain’t flatterin’ you, cat,” Malcolm replied. “I’m just tellin’ you what I see. You’re like a glass to me, you know. The glass gets too cloudy to look through in parts, but those parts that I can look through . . . well, you ain’t quite worth flatterin‘, but I wouldn’t be in an all-fire hurry to throw you on the junk heap, either. And Luther, he’s goin’ to need your help if he leaves this place.”

  No response.

  “You got your own tongue, cat?” Malcolm asked. “Or are you just noddin’ your head without mavin’ it?”

  “I’ll talk him out of leaving,” Blackjack said, more to himself than to Malcolm. “No need for either of us to go anywhere. I’ll talk him out of it.”

  “You better eat those rats, then. His mind’s set tight, and you’ll need a full stomach to even budge it.”

  But Blackjack had lost his appetite.

  “Where is Luther, anyway?” he asked.

  “Luther’s down the block, at that building where they used to have all the meat,” said Malcolm. “He’s on the roof.”

  IV.

  “Luther?”

  Blackjack entered the former House of Morris Butcher Shop, one of the last stores in the neighborhood to close. There was a dog sitting just inside the doorway, but it was not Luther.

  “Get out of my way, Isaac,” Blackjack warned, as the mongrel blocked the entrance.

  “You get out,” Isaac commanded, shaky but possessing enough hatred to make up for it. Isaac and Fearless Bledsoe had come from the same litter. “Ain’t no need for you here, cat.”

  “Malcolm sent me to talk to Luther,” the Manx told him. After a pause he added: “I would have come on my own anyway, sooner or later.”

  “Malcolm sent you to talk to him? What is he, crazy?”

  “Why don’t you go ask Malcolm that yourself? Look, my friend’s on the roof, so just get—”

  Isaac bared his teeth . . . and reeled back, bleeding from a slash across his muzzle.

  “Stupid,” Blackjack said, retracting his claws. Isaac scurried out of the way like a spooked puppy. “Don’t ever threaten a cat unless you mean business. That was your brother’s mistake.”

  He walked on toward the back of the shop without another word, and Isaac gave him no further trouble. Blackjack sniffed the air, detecting the ghosts of Kosher Bacon and Liverwurst Past. The smell was even stronger in the back room, and Blackjack remembered pleasantly how the head butcher had used to feed him scraps. That butcher had been a capital fellow, for a human being—he’d never made Blackjack beg or do tricks for the food, nor had he ever tried to pet him. You could almost come to respect a human like that, one who let you keep your dignity and still eat.

  He found the stairs leading up and began to climb, his stomach growling . . . now he wished he had eaten the three rats, or at least one of them. The stairs led to the roof, which had actually been the second floor once. The original roof had collapsed, and only one wall remained standing, the one overlooking an alley on the left-hand side of the butcher shop. Luther was there, gazin
g down at the alley through a jagged hole that had originally been a window. He was a medium-sized dog, his short-haired coat a confused mottle of black and white.

  “Luther?”

  “Blackjack,” Luther greeted him without looking up. He projected his thoughts softly and distinctly, as Moses had taught him to do. “You came. I knew you would.”

  “It—it wasn’t actually my idea. I didn’t even know you were up here until Malcolm told me. Er . . . why exactly are you up here, Luther?”

  “I was just looking at the spot where Moses died. He crawled into the alley after he’d been hit, you know.”

  “Did he?”

  “He spent his whole life,” Luther continued, the thought tinged with reverence and sorrow, “his whole life trying not to be a bother to anyone. In the end I think he didn’t want to leave his body lying in the street.”

  “I doubt anyone would have cared,” said Blackjack, moving up to sit next to him. “Not in this neighborhood. I am sorry about it, you know. I know I told you that before, but I meant it.”

  “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. It’s not your fault he’s dead. Raaq’s the one to blame.”

  “Who?”

  “Raaq. The Deceiver.”

  “Oh.” Blackjack was really not in a mood to discuss the canine version of Satan.

  “He’s not the same as Death, you know,” said Luther, who was in a religious mood. “But the two of them do travel together. Death’s job is to collect all the souls. It’s Raaq who does the actual killing, though. Whenever a car hits a dog, Raaq is the driver. Oh, it’s a human—a Master—but for that one instant, he becomes Raaq. And the car becomes Raaq, too. . . .”

  “Luther,” Blackjack interrupted gently.

  “. . . He makes dogs fight one another, makes them sick. He’s in the rabies. He makes litters come out stillborn. He—”

  “Luther!"

  “Huh!?” Luther jerked his head around, as if shaking off a particularly bad dream. “Wh-what did you say?”