VI.
“Where are you, Jack?” the Black Knight bellowed, staggering along the first-floor corridor of Goldwin-Smith Hall. Ragnarok had the mace in his right hand, while his left rested against his chest like a beloved but broken toy. Walking the corridor was like walking the depths of a tomb, and the Bohemian watched each dark classroom doorway. But the President of Rho Alpha Tau failed to appear; Ragnarok reached the center of the building and paused, listening. To his right, wide steps descended to a lobby where doors opened on the Arts Quad. Sounds from the battle outside echoed dimly in the Hall.
Gunshots; and at the same instant Jack Baron materialized from behind a bust of the Hall’s sponsor, rocketing the sledgehammer overhand at Ragnarok’s skull. The Black Knight side-stepped the blow, sweeping a knee up into Jack’s stomach. The Rho Alpha grunted, doubled over . . . and then, half letting go the sledgehammer, seized Ragnarok’s wounded hand and squeezed it tight.
“Painful?” Jack inquired. The Black Knight let out a roar and crashed bodily against the Rho Alpha, spilling them both down the steps, Jack still gripping the broken hand for most of the tumbling way down. At the bottom they rolled apart; above the agony of his ruined fingers Ragnarok realized that he had once again lost his weapon. It lay halfway up the steps, too far to reach.
Jack Baron laughed as he got to his feet, sledgehammer secure in his grasp. “What’s the matter, partner? Drop something?”
Not three feet behind him, another open staircase, narrower, steeper, descended into the basement. A handmade sign taped to a pillar announced that this was the south entrance to the Temple of Zeus Coffeehouse.
“You’re disappointing me, Ragnarok,” Jack taunted. Outside, more gunshots. “This is too easy. I thought you were supposed to be a killer, sold your soul to the Devil.”
“A killer,” Ragnarok whispered, his eyes narrowing, burning. “A killer, is that what you want?”
“Come and get me,” Jack said, and lightning struck on the Quad, the flash coming in through the windows on the doors, dazzling the Rho Alpha Tau President for half a second. In the time it took him to blink Ragnarok had crossed the distance between them, landed one punch to stun him a half-second more. Standing too close for the sledgehammer to be any use, the Black Knight seized Jack Baron by the throat with one hand and began slamming his head up against the pillar.
“Is this . . . what . . . you want?” Ragnarok shouted at him, accenting each slam. The Coffeehouse sign slipped to the floor, flecked with blood.
“Is this what you want?” he shouted again, turning, pivoting Jack around toward the narrow staircase. At the last moment Jack’s eyes refocused, he seized Ragnarok in a clumsy bear hug, and once more they tumbled together.
The southern doors of the Temple of Zeus burst their hinges as Ragnarok and Jack plunged through, not as two separate combatants but as a single coil of fury, a symbiotic union of hate. Like a giant’s skittleball they rolled into the Coffeehouse proper, scattering chairs and tables. From a shelf along one wall a pantheon of Greek statue replicas—some missing arms, some missing legs—watched this action; a plaster Apollo seemed especially attentive, as if recording the moment for posterity.
Only Ragnarok got up from the floor. Jack was flat out on his back, blood all over his face, eyes blinking rapidly like defective shutters. The Black Knight stood straight and tall, sledgehammer in his good hand, and placed one boot on the Rho Alpha Tau President’s chest, steadying him as a lumberjack steadies a chopping block from which an ax is about to be pulled.
“If you want it,” the Black Knight said softly, “you’ll have it. Partner.”
“No,” Jack croaked, too weak to move, too weak to do anything. “No, please . . .”
And Ragnarok tucked the sledgehammer beneath his arm, freeing his hand, freeing it to swipe at his eye, where fury burned in a single teardrop. Outside the Dragon screamed, and the windows set high up near the ceiling of the Coffeehouse broke and fell inward, even as Ragnarok wiped his vision clear.
“Now,” the Black Knight said, taking the sledgehammer in hand again. He raised it above his head, paused for an instant, a blacksmith ready to strike. “Now I win.”
Jack Baron screamed aloud, a scream that rose as the sledge descended . . . and cut off abruptly as it struck.
Ragnarok let out a breath.
Wind gusted through the broken windows.
And Jack, eyes wide, looked to the right, to the place where the sledgehammer had struck the floor, leaving barely three inches to spare.
“Surprise, you son of a bitch,” Ragnarok said. “I win.”
Jack’s eyes rolled up in his head. His head dropped sideways in a faint.
A moment later, with a satisfied smile on his face, the Black Knight of Bohemia did the same.
VII.
Leaving Aurora at the base of the statue, hoping he would not be made to pay for leaving her unprotected, George raced forward while the Dragon still choked on the Spear. In its convulsions it stood almost upright, though it had no rear legs to support itself. Skirting the monster, George passed beneath one mammoth wing—it was like running beneath an eclipse—and hurried to snatch up the kite, which danced ahead of him for a moment, propelled end over end over the grass by the gale the Dragon’s movements kicked up.
“Got you!” George said, grabbing it by the crosspiece, and the ground erupted in a shower of dirt two feet to his left as the Dragon thrust down with a claw.
The Dragon’s head swung down, its eyes seeking to pin George with their blue intensity; the impotent thuk-thuk-thuk of the firetank valve kept a steady beat. The claw struck again, tearing up more landscaping. Ceorge rolled to avoid it, felt something hard beneath his back.
The ball of kite twine.
That was even better than the kite.
“Try this on for size,” George said, grabbing the ball, hurling it as he had hurled the Spear, giving it just the right twist of the wrist. The ball shot upwards, twine unraveling behind it in even coils, and as it flew into the Dragon’s mouth three of these coils fell around the shaft of the Spear, drawing tight.
“Finished!” George yelled, standing up, dodging away. “You’re finished!”
Again it was the tail that got him. Bullwhip quick, bullsnake sinister, it knocked his legs out from beneath him with more force than a line tackle. Now the Dragon claw descended at leisure, not smashing down but scooping up.
“I smell Epilogue,” Mr. Sunshine said, as talons closed like an iron fist around the prone storyteller, picking him up. George shook his head dizzily as the monster grabbed him, saw the kite on the grass again. Too far; couldn’t reach it.
Didn’t matter.
The Dragon, Spear jutting out of its mouth like a headless lollipop, lifted him up so it could see better as it crushed the life out of him. George did not meet its eyes, those eyes that were the blue that is the hottest part of a flame. No; he let his head loll back while the claw tightened around his torso, cutting off his air. He lolled his head back and looked at the sky, studying it, as if searching for a familiar face there. And though he could not turn in place, could not speak the magic phrase, still he managed to smile.
Come on, he thought, feeling the first of his ribs begin to crack, come on . . .
A new wind, one not caused by the beating of the Dragon’s wings, began to blow. The kite stopped dancing on the floor of the Quad and began to rise, purposefully, a slender umbilicus of twine still tethering it to the Spear shaft.
Thuk-thuk-thuk, went the fire tank valve.
Have you now, have you now, have you now, went the babble of Rasferret’s thoughts.
Up, up, went the kite, up, above the Quad, above the Princess, above Saint George, above the Green Dragon. Reaching for the clouds.
In those clouds, electricity gathering, gathering . . .
“Now George lifted his head, met the Dragon’s gaze. Smiled the fiercest smile he knew.
Finished, Rasferret thought.
Finished, Geo
rge agreed.
“BEN FRANKLIN!” a slurring voice boomed. It was neither storyteller nor Storyteller, but the Bohemian Z.Z. Top, who rose from enchanted sleep beneath the bushes by Lincoln Hall to let out a drunken bellow.
“Ben Franklin says burn in hell, burn in hell, BURN IN HEIL!” he roared and George thought Come on and Mr. Sunshine said “Aah . . .”and Rasferret thought No, NO, cannot, MUST NOT— as lightning struck the kite, incinerating it. Like a moving finger the crackling bolt continued to Write, dancing down the string, finding the metal Spear shaft at its far end, so much like a lightning rod. There was a last cry NO! from the Grub that seemed to stretch out for eternity as blue fire—a gift from another Saint, Elmo—danced over the skin of the beast from nose to tail.
Then, with a sound like the end of the world, the Green Dragon exploded.
VIII.
A tremor shook The Hill, rolled down to the town below. The enchantment shivered and broke, and as one the human and animal populations of Ithaca twitched, sighed, and eased into a more natural state of sleep. In the world of the wakeful, Rasferret’s Rat troops lost their battle courage in the blink of an eye and fell into a shrieking rout before the remaining sprites.
In the open-air belfry of the Clock Tower, Zephyr stood beside the half dozen bodies of the Rats that had found their way up to her; she watched the Dragon blow apart and cheered its demise even as she screamed in fear for George, who was lost in the glare of the blast. Yet all at once there was another sound behind her. She whirled to face a new opponent . . . and boggled at the sight of the dark diamond shape that came sailing out of the fog, crash-landing in the middle of the belfry.
Zephyr lowered her sword, her arm stiff from exertion. The fog was evaporating, and in the growing visibility she studied this second, miraculously unroasted kite with curiosity. It jittered here and there, and all at once a corner lifted and Puck crawled out from under, looking disheveled.
“Hey there, Zeph,” he greeted her, smiling sheepishly. “How’s it going?”
IX.
Pieces of the Dragon littered the Quad, spreading smoke in the wind. Near the center of the blast a hot, fragmented fire burned, and it was in the midst of this inferno that George had fallen, knocked semi-conscious by the explosion. He felt the heat around him, tried dazedly to crawl to safety, managed as much as to kick away the remnants of the Dragon claw that had held him, but no more; the last of his energy was spent. He collapsed and began to go under as the smoke thickened.
Then Luther came running. Barking in alarm as he dodged through the burning debris, he revived George with a series of sloppy licks, drenching his face until he lifted his head weakly, shook it. For all the acridness of the smoke, Luther could still smell the scent on him, the Heaven scent of hills and rain.
Taking a firm grip on George’s arm with his teeth, he once again began to lead the storyteller out.
X.
“The end,” Mr. Sunshine pronounced, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. “Or almost.” He gazed across the Quad at the far statue and winked. “Told you it’d be a good Story, didn’t I, Ezra? Now, just a little cleaning up to do around here and then I think I’ll see how World War III is coming along. . . .”
A KISS AT DAYBREAK
It was early morning of the next day when the town of Ithaca reconnected fully with reality, and became once again just an ordinary part of the world, however ordinary that ever is. One by one the townspeople awoke, and like a cat who had dreamt remembered nothing of what had taken place the day before. Even if some suspected an important occurrence, no evidence remained to help them puzzle it out. Nattie Hollister and Sam Doubleday, for example, started from sleep at about nine o’clock in the front seat of their undamaged cruiser, stiff but uninjured, wondering how they had come to be parked out front of the head shop on State Street. Ten yards away at the beginning of The Commons, the remnants of the mannequin and the corpse of the Wolfhound had been swept away, carried off by the receding fog. Ragnarok opened his eyes in his dark, unvandalized house, wondering how he had sprained his left hand. And Jack Baron . . . well, the circumstances of his waking were somewhat indelicate; it is enough to say·he wondered where his clothes had got to.
The town awoke, but first up, ahead of everyone, was a pale-cheeked Princess who preceded even the dawn. As the sun rose in the east she stood on the crest of The Hill, seeming to lead the new day above the horizon, the hospital gown she wore glowing like the finest of dresses in the rose light of daybreak.
She walked across the Arts Quad, illuminating it, illuminating the ashen debris of the Dragon that lay on the otherwise unscarred Hilltop. Remnants of yesterday’s Parade, nothing special . . . but the storyteller was not here, he had wandered some distance once he had escaped the fire, so Aurora moved on, seeking him out. The new day was warm and fine, more like June than March. She walked out by the Slope and passed the Johnson Museum, pausing to listen to the wind chimes, then continuing on along the same route that Preacher had taken to his death. But this morning it was safe, safe as daydreaming.
She found her love on the suspension bridge, covered with soot, looking more dead than alive. The dog had curled up to sleep beside him, offering what warmth he could to a kind Master. At Aurora’s approach Luther opened his eyes and barked a joyous welcome, recognizing her. She bore the Heaven scent now as strongly as the storyteller, and the mongrel began to hop about like a young Beagle, certain that she would set all things right.
“Oh, George,” Aurora said, kneeling beside him and cradling his head.
“Poor George . . .” He did not stir as she touched him, did not seem even to be breathing.
Aurora didn’t worry about this, though; she knew what to do.
“Because I love you,” she said, an enchantment of her own making, and kissed him. A tremor ran through the bridge that even Luther felt. Called back from slumber the storyteller opened his eyes, reached up his arms to embrace her, and returned the kiss. They stayed that way a long time.
“Hooray!” Luther said, yelping, hopping about in a perfect imitation of Skippy. “Hooray! Hooray!”
And as if this happiness were not enough, the mongrel looked down at the near entrance to the bridge and saw something which nearly bowled him over. The bodies of Denmark and Rover Too-Bad had vanished with the fog as sure as the Wolfhound’s, but another animal that should by all rights have been a corpse had appeared, fur muddy and unkempt, badly scarred, and as always lacking a tail.
“BLACKJACK!” Luther burst out, racing down to meet him, his feelings one with paradise now.
“Oh shit!” the Manx responded, as Luther knocked him down with a barrage of sloppy dog-kisses. “Shit, no more water, please, Luther Luther, don’t bark so loud, I have a splitting headache for Christ’s sake! Luther, would you please stop it!”
But Luther wouldn’t, and Blackjack was forced to suffer the affection while uttering many a “Shit!” and “Fuck off, would you please?” On the bridge, the two human lovers continued their embrace, while the sun came up and chased away the remaining chill from the air.
“Jesus,” George whispered. He did not know how he had come to be here in the early hours of the morning, with the breeze from the gorge tangling his hair with Aurora’s, but it surely felt grand. “Jesus, what a day to be alive.”
EPILOGUE
I.
March gave way to April, and April to May. On the last day of that month Aurora Borealis Smith graduated the Cornell University, along with two dozen Bohemians and several thousand more normal people. George stood in the stands, no longer a Writer-in-Residence but a free agent again; he would travel west from here with his Lady, to where an eventual wedding awaited them both, and whatever might come after that.
The canine graduation went less smoothly. Tension over the Fourth Question of Ultimate Wisdom—and other related issues—had reached the breaking point, but The Hill’s mongrels still had a long crusade ahead of them, a crusade of many years. Luther and Blackja
ck would see much of it, for they remained in Ithaca the rest of their days; they lived long and fairly well on the occasional purloined chicken, though Blackjack never really got used to all the rain.
The Bohemians scattered to find their various fortunes. Lion-Heart and Myoko went to Europe to found a dynasty; Z.Z. Top ended up shearing sheep in Tierra del Fuego, though how he got there is something of an epic tale in itself. Ragnarok, purged of the burden of his past though he did not quite understand how, roamed for a while and eventually settled in the Midwest. He and Jinsei remained lifelong friends.
Late that August, on a particularly hot night, Rho Alpha Tau burned to ashes, as the Dragon had before it. It was no small coincidence that the Brother responsible for the fire, nodding off with candles still lit on a paper-strewn table, had drunk himself to sleep with a couple of bottles of retsina; nor that so many of the Rho Alphas, homeless now and under investigation by the Inter-Fraternity Council, came to bad ends. Jack Baron was not spared, though his reckoning was the most abrupt: he was simply yanked from the stream of history one evening, like a character edited out of the last pages of a novel. He was not missed.
The sprites lived on in secrecy as they always had, helping the University keep its files straight, seeing to it that alumni got their student loan repayment notices right on schedule. The romance of Zephyr and Puck remained something of a roller coaster, and many more stories could be told about them; but suffice it to say, for now, that though they never suffered another War, between themselves they saw a fair amount of combat.
And Rasferret the Grub? Who could say? Perhaps he faded into nothing when the Dragon was defeated; perhaps, bereft of all magic, he fled and hid in lonely places for the rest of his wretched life. One thing sure, on The Hill he was never seen nor heard from again, and as far as the Little People were concerned, that was all that mattered.