Fool on the Hill Read Online Free PDF Page A

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