Free Fool on the Hill by Matt Ruff Page B

roughly northwesterly direction. This particular morning they had come upon a town, the name of which they never learned. They had passed through a residential area—rows of neat houses, each with its own well-kept yard and garage—and were now nearing its center. Blackjack was unusually calm after their stroll through the peaceful neighborhood—which had been mercifully free of petting children and hose-spraying old men—but Luther found himself growing suddenly tense. His anxiety took a quantum leap when he saw a white van cross through an intersection about two blocks ahead.
    “I can feel Raaq in this place,” Luther began to say. “Maybe we should—”
    “Oh, hell!”
    “What is it?” said Luther, thinking that Blackjack must have smelled danger too, or seen something.
    “Heat,” Blackjack told him. “Just caught a whiff of it. There’s a puss in heat around here. A street puss, if I’m lucky.” He looked at Luther hopefully. “It’s kind of tempting, you know. Would you mind if I just nipped off for a moment and . . .”
    “There’s danger here, Blackjack,” Luther replied. “Can’t you feel it? Raaq . . . Raaq’s somewhere close.”
    “Raaq,” the Manx repeated, unimpressed. “Well listen, Luther, isn’t Raaq only supposed to bother dogs? I mean, he’s your devil, not mine. So I don’t have anything to worry about. And if he does show up, I’ll hit him broadside while he’s concentrating on you and knock him senseless.” A poorly constructed chain of logic, but Blackjack was in a hurry to get laid now and didn’t want to waste time arguing ever nonsense.

    Luther looked away, disappointed. “OK, Blackjack,” he said. “You go ahead, if you want to think I’m being superstitious. I’ll wait here for you as long as I can. But if something does happen—”
    “Please, please don’t try and make me feel guilty, Luther. I came with you on this trip, didn’t I? And I promise I’m going to stick by you until we find your Heaven, but right now I want a little heaven of my own. That’s not too much to ask, is it?” He began backing away in the direction of the heatscent, all the while looking at Luther with wide, imploring eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it. Cats don’t take that long anyway and I can be fast when I’m pressed for time. I’ll be right back.”
    “Go on, then,” Luther said flatly. “But it’s a mistake, Blackjack. This is a bad place.”
    “We’ll be gone soon enough,” Blackjack called back, vanishing into an alley.
    Luther crouched nervously beside a telephone pole, not at all reassured by Blackjack’s words. He watched the street, wondering from which direction Raaq would come at him, and in what form.
    Directly above him, a handbill had been stapled to the pole. Luther glanced at it once and then ignored it. Perhaps Blackjack could have made sense of it, but to him it was just a meaningless collection of symbols.
    The handbill read:
    ATTENTION
    Town Ordinance #101-bb
    passed 4/13 this year:
    Due to a large number of incidents involving stray animals, a revised leash law has been passed by City Hall. Any dog or cat discovered roaming free within the town limits will be taken to the Animal Shelter. If the animal has a collar with proper identification, the owner will be contacted and a fee imposed for return of the animal.
    Unclaimed animals, and those without any identification, will, after a period of thirty (30) days, be either sold or destroyed.
    LEASH YOUR PET—IT’S THE LAW
    II.
    Half an hour later, Blackjack had still not returned. Luther found himself caught in a great dilemma, for trouble had arrived, and though he wanted to run, he was not at all certain that he could find Blackjack, or that the Manxwould be able to find him. But to stay here much longer might bring even worse consequences.
    Luther remained crouched beside the telephone pole. Across the street, two German Shepherds lounged—not too casually—in front of a vacant lot.