George Mills.

by Stanley Elkin.

To Joan

PART ONE.

1.

Because he knew nothing about horses. Not even-though he made wagers-how to what would not then have been called handicap them. Betting the knight, his money on the armor, the intricate chain mail like wire net or metal scrim, being's effulgent Maginot line, his his stake on the weighted mace and plate mittens, on the hinged couters and poleyns, on vambrace and cuisse and greave, banging the breastplate and all the jewelry of battle for timbre and pitch like a jerk slamming doors and kicking tires in a used car lot. Not even betting the knight finally so much as his glazed essence, his taut aura. (And in winter something stirring and extra in the smoke pouring through the fellow's ventails, as if breath were a sign of rage or what would not then have been called steam a signal of spirit.) But nothing about horses. Under their fortressed heads and jousting pads, their lumpish disfiguring raiment, perhaps not even what they looked like, in his head a distorted image of frailty, an extrapolation from their pointy hocks and slender shanks and still more slender pasterns of something more scaffold than beast. stake on the weighted mace and plate mittens, on the hinged couters and poleyns, on vambrace and cuisse and greave, banging the breastplate and all the jewelry of battle for timbre and pitch like a jerk slamming doors and kicking tires in a used car lot. Not even betting the knight finally so much as his glazed essence, his taut aura. (And in winter something stirring and extra in the smoke pouring through the fellow's ventails, as if breath were a sign of rage or what would not then have been called steam a signal of spirit.) But nothing about horses. Under their fortressed heads and jousting pads, their lumpish disfiguring raiment, perhaps not even what they looked like, in his head a distorted image of frailty, an extrapolation from their pointy hocks and slender shanks and still more slender pasterns of something more scaffold than beast.

A sissy sir far far down the primogenitive pecking order, a younger son way, way below the salt. (This to become a great joke between them later in Wieliczka.) It just so happening that he was all the lord, his father, could spare at the time. Anyway, who even knew what they were talking about? Franks? Franks? ("Crusade" not even coined yet.) Still, how did one answer G.o.dfrey of Bouillon? Well, as his father himself said, G. of B.-they were cousins-could be answered, but an emissary? An ("Crusade" not even coined yet.) Still, how did one answer G.o.dfrey of Bouillon? Well, as his father himself said, G. of B.-they were cousins-could be answered, but an emissary? An envoy? envoy? An envoy was very heady and impressive stuff. You didn't muck about with envoys, you didn't make waves with what would not then have been called the Geneva Conventions. An envoy was worth An envoy was very heady and impressive stuff. You didn't muck about with envoys, you didn't make waves with what would not then have been called the Geneva Conventions. An envoy was worth curteis curteis and that was that. Frankly, he thought his dad was a little jealous. Having spies and envoys and proconsuls was a little like being in two places at once. Cla.s.s. A surrogacy his pop, the lord for all his staff and retinue, could not even imagine until the man appeared, sailing up the Humber into Northumbria in the swan-necked, jib-lashed, cursive-prowed ship the very week the river had become navigable again. Listening patiently, even curiously, to the fellow's strange pitch. To come along. To go with them the thousands of miles to Jerusalem with all the men he could muster in their Sunday-go-to-battle best. And for what? What for? (The reasons not much clearer really in the emissary's note.) The fuzzy spiritual politics of Christianity? Oh? And would have turned him down flat, sent him packing in his boat, but then he glimpsed the emissary's retainers carousing in the minor hall with his knights and he understood how good it must feel, how grand to command such surrogacy, to live the remote, levered, long-distance life! and that was that. Frankly, he thought his dad was a little jealous. Having spies and envoys and proconsuls was a little like being in two places at once. Cla.s.s. A surrogacy his pop, the lord for all his staff and retinue, could not even imagine until the man appeared, sailing up the Humber into Northumbria in the swan-necked, jib-lashed, cursive-prowed ship the very week the river had become navigable again. Listening patiently, even curiously, to the fellow's strange pitch. To come along. To go with them the thousands of miles to Jerusalem with all the men he could muster in their Sunday-go-to-battle best. And for what? What for? (The reasons not much clearer really in the emissary's note.) The fuzzy spiritual politics of Christianity? Oh? And would have turned him down flat, sent him packing in his boat, but then he glimpsed the emissary's retainers carousing in the minor hall with his knights and he understood how good it must feel, how grand to command such surrogacy, to live the remote, levered, long-distance life!

He would send Guillalume; the one who knew nothing about horses. (G.o.dfrey's emissary spoke of barons, earls, dukes and princes, of counts and marquis, of all the king's men, of all graduated picture card aristocracy and rulerhood, of all blue-ribbon force. No Irish need apply.) Guillalume. Send Guillalume. Gill could go. Him. His out-of-the-picture card, below-the-salt son. A great joke on G.o.dfrey and his envoy, or fun with the Franks.

(This all by oral tradition of course, the hand-me-down history of a millennium of Mills raconteurs, impossible to check, particularly the motives of the lord, his pop. But what else could it have been? What else could it be? Although as Millses, almost a thousand years of enlisted men and their NCO'd vision behind them, they understood well enough, had often enough heard, had had drummed into them, had even themselves-the NCO's proper-often enough said that some a.s.sholes never never get the message. So much of it could have been bulls.h.i.t, horses.h.i.t, scuttleb.u.t.t, c.r.a.p, the dreary speculation of barracks lawyers. Particularly the motives part. But finally, a thousand years later, George didn't see it that way. What George thought now was that Mills must have had it from Guillalume himself. Hadn't his own Harvard second lieutenant come across man to man, GI to GI, in Inchon that time, the two of them on patrol, the woods full of gooks and the Harvard guy actually spelling him at the wheel of the Jeep? So George thought that great great great great great to the umpteenth power Grandfather Mills got the lowdown from Guillalume somewhere between a rock and a hard place in old Wieliczka.) get the message. So much of it could have been bulls.h.i.t, horses.h.i.t, scuttleb.u.t.t, c.r.a.p, the dreary speculation of barracks lawyers. Particularly the motives part. But finally, a thousand years later, George didn't see it that way. What George thought now was that Mills must have had it from Guillalume himself. Hadn't his own Harvard second lieutenant come across man to man, GI to GI, in Inchon that time, the two of them on patrol, the woods full of gooks and the Harvard guy actually spelling him at the wheel of the Jeep? So George thought that great great great great great to the umpteenth power Grandfather Mills got the lowdown from Guillalume somewhere between a rock and a hard place in old Wieliczka.) If Guillalume even knew. If he had been let in on the joke. If anything, even a wink, had pa.s.sed between them on the occasion of the summons: "Guillalume." "My lord?" "You're to travel a journey with this man." "With this man, sire?" And the emissary, "Oh no, my lord, not with me. me. I've arrangements to make in Mercia and Saxony, business in Scotia and Friesland. He'll have to cross the Channel with his men and horses and join G.o.dfrey's forces at the Meuse at the Waal channel of the lower Rhine." And Gill: "The Meuse? The Waal channel of the lower Rhine?" I've arrangements to make in Mercia and Saxony, business in Scotia and Friesland. He'll have to cross the Channel with his men and horses and join G.o.dfrey's forces at the Meuse at the Waal channel of the lower Rhine." And Gill: "The Meuse? The Waal channel of the lower Rhine?"

"He'll be there, sir."

"Good, my lord."

But he knew nothing about geography either.

And Greatest Grandfather Mills probably even less. Pairing the two of them, Greatest Grandfather hand-picked most likely by Guillalume's lord, the Dad, probably arbitrarily, spied at the stables, say, where the man had been accustomed to see him-though not notice him, not conscious conscious of him-always there, always around, for that was where the horses.h.i.t was, always there and always reeking of horse so that Guillalume's father somehow a.s.sociated the smell of the man with a knowledge of the beast. Hence the promotion-the irony being that he had never made yeoman, only yardman, and this, the stink of horse his credentials, making him the first Mills in history to be enlisted and promoted at the same time, their yardman-yardbird Founder. of him-always there, always around, for that was where the horses.h.i.t was, always there and always reeking of horse so that Guillalume's father somehow a.s.sociated the smell of the man with a knowledge of the beast. Hence the promotion-the irony being that he had never made yeoman, only yardman, and this, the stink of horse his credentials, making him the first Mills in history to be enlisted and promoted at the same time, their yardman-yardbird Founder.

And the father playing it that that straight at least, or what would be the point of the joke? It never even occurring to him to wonder what if they got lost. Because what value a surrogacy if they could not even find the spot where the surrogacy was to begin? straight at least, or what would be the point of the joke? It never even occurring to him to wonder what if they got lost. Because what value a surrogacy if they could not even find the spot where the surrogacy was to begin?

And that was that. The two of them, who had none, left to their own devices. The one who knew nothing about horses or geography and the other with no notion of geography and only a stableboy's notions about manure.

Though somehow they managed not only to find the Channel but to cross it. Tracing, very likely, the Humber as it flowed to the sea and crossing in a good-sized oarboat-water plow, sea shoe, whatever their awed poetic term for it must have been-which would accommodate the horses. Then, in Europe, Guillalume throwing himself completely on Mills's mercy, though it wouldn't have appeared that way to Mills, who, though in the lead, took for granted that it was Guillalume's job to get them to wherever the h.e.l.l it was that the Waal channel of the Meuse met the lower Rhine, who a.s.sumed he went first to blunt danger's brunt and who did not once question Guillalume's failure to give a single command. Guillalume's error like his pere's-- pere's-- total reliance upon Mills's equine stench. Though the stableboy actually had a theory about horses. It was this: That total reliance upon Mills's equine stench. Though the stableboy actually had a theory about horses. It was this: That they they knew what they were doing. And this an empirical judgment. Hadn't he seen them returning riderless to the stable again and again? Mountless mounts? And watched their thrown or fallen riders lagging two or three hours behind reeling like drunks? Thinking: Leave it to the 'orses. Great snooty brutes. Droppin' their dirt where they please. Leave it to the bleedin' 'orses. Knowin' their 'unger-though they didn't have this dialect in those days-an' tossin' off even fine gentlemen, be dey ever so well turned out, like dey 'ad no more weight than toys. Cor blimey, leave it to the f.u.c.kin' 'orses. The stableboy's theory of horses being an exact paradigm of his theory of great men--Guillalume included. knew what they were doing. And this an empirical judgment. Hadn't he seen them returning riderless to the stable again and again? Mountless mounts? And watched their thrown or fallen riders lagging two or three hours behind reeling like drunks? Thinking: Leave it to the 'orses. Great snooty brutes. Droppin' their dirt where they please. Leave it to the bleedin' 'orses. Knowin' their 'unger-though they didn't have this dialect in those days-an' tossin' off even fine gentlemen, be dey ever so well turned out, like dey 'ad no more weight than toys. Cor blimey, leave it to the f.u.c.kin' 'orses. The stableboy's theory of horses being an exact paradigm of his theory of great men--Guillalume included.

So each leaving it to the other in mutual unconditional surrender and deputation. Guillalume leaving it to Mills and Mills to Guillalume and the horses. Even Guillalume's horse, as much a stranger to Europe as either of the men, involved in the delegation of responsibility, it devolving at last upon the lead horse-Mills's-to get them to that fabled cusp where the Waal channel of the Meuse met the lower Rhine.

Thus missing their turn-off entirely. Failing to hang a right in the Netherlands, sticking to the flat country, the topography of least resistance, a good green graze across northern Europe, Mills's horse out for a pleasant month-of-Sundays stroll-it was high summer now-and taking the rest along with him. And pleasant enough for Guillalume and Mills, too. So many new sights to see, so many strange new fruits and raw vegetables to eat and queer tongues to hear. And that year-it was 1097-the weather absolutely beautiful, a mild winter, a fresh and pleasant spring, a cool and perfect summer, the delightful climate prelapsarian and Nature never more generous. As though the biblical seven fat years had been squeezed into one delicious obese season. b.u.mper crops all over Europe that time, so lush the barbarous landowners and peasants thought the G.o.ds Wodin, Odin, Thor and Christ had been placated forever, and flashing their hospitality like fathers of brides, shining it on whomever they saw, our friends, the strangers, now so irrevocably lost that Guillalume himself, by-pa.s.sing Mills, had begun to leave it to the horses.

They spoke of it. Why not not leave it to the horses? Look how well they had served them so far. Taking them from the rough, chunky dissolution of the Northumbrian winter through the evolving spring and developing summer of western Europe fifteen miles a day closer to whatever pitch-perfect paradise lay at the end of their journey. As if they possessed some tropism for grace which sifted them through danger and past all pitfall's parlous, aleatory, dicey circ.u.mstance, a daily accretion of joy, incremental as snow rolled downhill. Horse-sensing the continent's gravitational pull and advancing along the ebb tides of earth so that-though they were actually climbing longitudes and lat.i.tudes and grazing a very orbit of the tonsured globe-they seemed to be proceeding in that rich alluvial trough between beach and sea, skirting not only danger but even ordinary difficult country. leave it to the horses? Look how well they had served them so far. Taking them from the rough, chunky dissolution of the Northumbrian winter through the evolving spring and developing summer of western Europe fifteen miles a day closer to whatever pitch-perfect paradise lay at the end of their journey. As if they possessed some tropism for grace which sifted them through danger and past all pitfall's parlous, aleatory, dicey circ.u.mstance, a daily accretion of joy, incremental as snow rolled downhill. Horse-sensing the continent's gravitational pull and advancing along the ebb tides of earth so that-though they were actually climbing longitudes and lat.i.tudes and grazing a very orbit of the tonsured globe-they seemed to be proceeding in that rich alluvial trough between beach and sea, skirting not only danger but even ordinary difficult country.

There was no sea of course, only the flat and fertile plains, pastures, arbors, and orchards-a green garden of agriculture in which the peasants and farmers seemed engaged in some perpetual in-gathering, a harvest like a parable, as astonishing to themselves as to Guillalume and Mills who, in what was not then even England, had, in that wet and misty bronchial climate, seen b.u.mper crops merely of gra.s.s, measly grains, skinny fruit. Here it was the actual skins and juices of fruit staining the farmers' flesh and beards, all their up-shirtsleeved bucolic condition, their breechclouts puddle-muddied at the knees with a liquid loam of opulent fermentation, a liquor of citrics, a sour mash of rotting-because there was too much much to in-gather, vegetables discarded half eaten-potato and cabbage, squashed squash, cuc.u.mber and carrot, a visible strata of vegetable artifact, a landscape of the overripe like a squishy gravel of flora. The horses leading them through all this, grazing at sweet-toothed will, chewing in surfeited content from the broad green groaning board of earth. And so satiated finally that they-the horses-seemed to bloom beneath them-Guillalume reminded of his father's quilted cavalry-the former nags filling to Clydesdale dimension (Guillalume and Mills, too, heavier now), and gradually reducing their pace, the fifteen miles a day diminishing to thirteen, to a dozen, to nine, to a sluggish seven, so that they seemed at last barely to progress at all, managing, even as they moved, merely to keep abreast of the countryside, to pace the farmers and landlords and peasants on foot, appearing to convoy them, cordon them off in some National Guard relation to their fields, creating-they (all of them: the horses, Guillalume, Mills, the in-gatherers) wouldn't know this-the illusion of some governmental sanction to strikebreakers, say. So slow and easy that it would have been embarra.s.sing to all of them had conversation not been struck up. Guillalume leaving this to Mills, too. (It wasn't the old confidence-Gill reeked of horse too now and knew better-but laze, all avuncular, subruminative, long Christmas dinner sloth.) to in-gather, vegetables discarded half eaten-potato and cabbage, squashed squash, cuc.u.mber and carrot, a visible strata of vegetable artifact, a landscape of the overripe like a squishy gravel of flora. The horses leading them through all this, grazing at sweet-toothed will, chewing in surfeited content from the broad green groaning board of earth. And so satiated finally that they-the horses-seemed to bloom beneath them-Guillalume reminded of his father's quilted cavalry-the former nags filling to Clydesdale dimension (Guillalume and Mills, too, heavier now), and gradually reducing their pace, the fifteen miles a day diminishing to thirteen, to a dozen, to nine, to a sluggish seven, so that they seemed at last barely to progress at all, managing, even as they moved, merely to keep abreast of the countryside, to pace the farmers and landlords and peasants on foot, appearing to convoy them, cordon them off in some National Guard relation to their fields, creating-they (all of them: the horses, Guillalume, Mills, the in-gatherers) wouldn't know this-the illusion of some governmental sanction to strikebreakers, say. So slow and easy that it would have been embarra.s.sing to all of them had conversation not been struck up. Guillalume leaving this to Mills, too. (It wasn't the old confidence-Gill reeked of horse too now and knew better-but laze, all avuncular, subruminative, long Christmas dinner sloth.) "Ask after them, Mills."

"I haven't their language, m'lud."

"Smile. Offer fruit."

"They've fruit enough, sire. It's a nation of flatulence here. Did not the breezes quicken the air as soon as it's fouled we should die of the farting sickness, sir."

"Well do something, man. It's too nuisance-making to ride beside them on this cushion of silence."

So he asked directions. Speaking in the universal tongue of pet.i.tion, greenhorning himself and his master. "Moose?" he said. "Wall channel of the lower Rhine? Moose? G.o.dfrey of Boolone? Wall?" The words making no more sense to him-they were in Friesland, they were in Angria, in the Duchy of Billungs, in Pomerainz-than they did to them, but the sound of distress clear enough. Even if Mills knew that the distress was feigned, who had begun to suspect-though not yet acknowledge aloud to Guillalume-that the horses were no Christians, that the horses had betrayed them, gotten them lost, and that long since, and who asked for directions-might even have asked for them even if Guillalume had not instructed him to speak-merely to be polite, to demonstrate with each rise in the pitch of his voice that he and his companion were foreigners, that they came as friends to kill the Islamic hordes for them. (Having absorbed at least this much of their mission from Guillalume.) "Moose? Wall? Killee killee smash b.a.l.l.s son b.i.t.c.hee pagan mothers? Killee killee bang chop for Jeezy? Which way Moslem b.a.s.t.a.r.ds?"

And everyone smiling, offering food, sharing lunches from wicker baskets spread out on white cloths in the open fields--picnics. (It was Mills who introduced the concept of picnics to England, bringing this foreign way of dining back to Blighty like Marco Polo fetching spaghetti from China.) Slaps on the back all round and the wine pa.s.sed. And always during those idyllic seven fat months well met, hospitalitied as candidates and, when they had run out of toasts-always before they ran out of wine: the b.u.mper crops, the vintage year-they were returned the mile or couple of kilometers or verst and a third to where they'd met, where Mills had first spoken his gibberish of good intention, always careful, though they did not travel in armor, to lean down from their mounts to shake hands in the trendy new symbol of emptyhandedness and unarmedness that they'd picked up on their travels. Or, though they wore no visor, to try out the rather rakish novelty salute which was just then coming in among the better cla.s.s of knights. Although more and more of late some did not seem to know (It was Mills who introduced the concept of picnics to England, bringing this foreign way of dining back to Blighty like Marco Polo fetching spaghetti from China.) Slaps on the back all round and the wine pa.s.sed. And always during those idyllic seven fat months well met, hospitalitied as candidates and, when they had run out of toasts-always before they ran out of wine: the b.u.mper crops, the vintage year-they were returned the mile or couple of kilometers or verst and a third to where they'd met, where Mills had first spoken his gibberish of good intention, always careful, though they did not travel in armor, to lean down from their mounts to shake hands in the trendy new symbol of emptyhandedness and unarmedness that they'd picked up on their travels. Or, though they wore no visor, to try out the rather rakish novelty salute which was just then coming in among the better cla.s.s of knights. Although more and more of late some did not seem to know what what to make of their toney salutes, but smiled anyway, enjoying the sight of grown men banging themselves on the forehead with the flats of their hands. to make of their toney salutes, but smiled anyway, enjoying the sight of grown men banging themselves on the forehead with the flats of their hands.

And then, often as not, the salutes were unreturned and the proffered hand ignored. And after a while it was taken again, but turned over, examined as carefully as if it were about to be read, and later as gingerly as if it were a rope or a chain, and once or twice it was actually bitten.

"Bleedin' wogs," Mills would say, turning in his saddle to wink at Guillalume.

Which was how they ultimately discovered that they were lost.

"Mi-ills," Guillalume said one evening when they had tucked in in one of the barns where the farmers permitted them to stay.

"M'lud, m'lord?"

"I was just thinking...Have you noticed how no one will shake hands with us anymore or return our salutes?"

"No cla.s.s, guv. They're a bolshy lot."

"Well perhaps, Mills, but it occurs to me that they haven't the custom."

"Just what I was sayin', your lordship."

"Well, but don't you see, see, Mills? If they haven't the custom, then it's very likely no one's Mills? If they haven't the custom, then it's very likely no one's shown shown it to them." it to them."

"I 'ave."

"Yes, certainly, but if real real knights had been by, cam knights had been by, campaigners--well, it's just that one would have thought they'd have seen it by now. They're not a stupid stupid people. Look at the stores in this barn, think of the delicious produce we've seen them grow, the delightful cuts of meat they've shared with us, all the fine stews." people. Look at the stores in this barn, think of the delicious produce we've seen them grow, the delightful cuts of meat they've shared with us, all the fine stews."

"Yar?"

"b.u.t.ter. And, what do they call it, cheese? cheese? Yes, cheese. I've kept my eyes open, Mills. That b.u.t.ter and cheese are made from ordinary cow's milk. Yes, cheese. I've kept my eyes open, Mills. That b.u.t.ter and cheese are made from ordinary cow's milk. We We don't do b.u.t.ter, don't do b.u.t.ter, we we don't do cheese. This is an advanced technological civilization we've come upon here. And don't do cheese. This is an advanced technological civilization we've come upon here. And wine. wine. They do that out of fruit." They do that out of fruit."

"They never."

"Oh they do, Mills, yes. Out of fruit."

"Bleedin' Jesus."

"But they haven't the handshake, they haven't the salute."

"No manners."

"Quite right. One suspects one is off the beaten track, rather. I don't think our our fellows have been by. I think we're lost." fellows have been by. I think we're lost."

But what could they do? If they were lost and had left it to the horses-as both now openly confessed-and the horses had taken them deeper and deeper into ever more amicable country, what could they do but leave it entirely entirely to the horses? Mills articulating that if horses knew anything-hadn't he seen them return to the stables riderless?-it was the main chance, their own steedly interests. They had done pretty well by them thus far. Why shouldn't they do even better? Take them into even finer country? Guillalume's fright seemed tuned by the moonlight. to the horses? Mills articulating that if horses knew anything-hadn't he seen them return to the stables riderless?-it was the main chance, their own steedly interests. They had done pretty well by them thus far. Why shouldn't they do even better? Take them into even finer country? Guillalume's fright seemed tuned by the moonlight.

"What?" asked Mills.

"They'll take us to Horseland."

"To Horseland, sir?"

"Someplace where there are no no riders, where the hay grows wild as meadowgra.s.s. Carrying us through the better weather as if we ambled along the Gulf Stream or the tradewinds of earth." riders, where the hay grows wild as meadowgra.s.s. Carrying us through the better weather as if we ambled along the Gulf Stream or the tradewinds of earth."

And a few days later-still high summer-someone twisted Mills's fingers when he extended his hand.

"Here you!" Mills shouted at him, pulling his hand back. "f.u.c.kin' barbarian!"

They had come-or Mills thought they had-to the Duchy of Barbaria. Guillalume, once the sense of Mills's word forcibly struck him, could not conceive of where they now were as a place given over to any sort of organization at all. He intuited, and spoke of this in whispers to Mills, that there would be no kings, no barons or dukes here, no knights allegiant, no sheriffs, no treasury to exact taxes or a yield of the crop, no astrologer or priest and, if there were armies, no officers to lead them.

"No law," Guillalume said, "only custom. No rule, only exception. No consanguinity, only self. No agriculture, only Nature; no industry, only repair; no landmark; no--"

"Shh," Mills cautioned, and pointed fearfully toward the man who had pulled his fingers. The barbarian had turned and, making some shrill signal, whistled his horse from the dark forest where it had been foraging. It was eighteen hands at the very least and its upper lip had been torn from it violently, leaving a visible picket of filed, pointed teeth. Its flanks were scored with a crust of wounds, a black coping of punishment, its entire body studded, random as stars, with war wart, bruise. The man placed his shoe deep in a ledge of whittled horseflesh and pulled himself up on its back where he sat in a bare saddle of calloused lesion and looked down on Mills and Guillalume, shook his finger at them and laughed, baring teeth which perfectly matched the horse's own. He lashed viciously and wheeled.

"We'll double back," Guillalume said.

"How?"

They had in fact left the last roads behind them weeks before and since then had traveled cross country through fields, along stubbly verge, vague property. They had come to rivers-not for the first time; they had been coming to rivers since crossing the Channel; always, so north were they, the current had been gentle, little more than oblique pull, the minor tug and Kentucky windage of a just now bending inertia-shallow enough-leave it to the horses-to wade across. But it was not even Europe now, not even the world. They were no place cultivated, months away from the frontier, beyond all obedient landscape, behind the lines, surrounded by a leaning, forbidding stockade of trees, so stripped of direction they quibbled left and worried right and troubled up from down. Bereft of stance, they indiscriminately mounted each other's horses and hot-potato'd the simplest decisions.

"Shall we try the blue fruit?"

"The blue? I should have thought the silver."

"Maybe the primrose." But there was little sweetness in any of them, or in the flesh of fish or hares. There was a saline quality in everything they ate now, an essence not so much of condiment or seasoning as of additive, long-haul provision, the taste of protected stores, the oils that preserved and kept machinery supple, the soils and salts that extended meat. They were always thirsty.

Then one morning Mills refused to mount, refused to advance further. "They've betrayed us," he said. He meant the horses. And he laughed bitterly. "So this is Horseland!"

"There is is no Horseland!" his superior said. "Get on your beast, Mills." no Horseland!" his superior said. "Get on your beast, Mills."

"Why should I? You said yourself there's no law here, no kings or treasury. We ride each other's horses, share and share alike. We discuss lunch, decide dinner, choose the blue fruit or the primrose. Why should I? You said yourself--"

"Exactly! I said. I I did. Listen to me, my Mills. I'm your superior, just as that barbarian we saw was mine. Learn this, Mills. There are distinctions between men, humanity is dealt out like cards. There is natural suzereignty like the face value on coins. Men have their place. Even here, where we are now, at large, outside of place, beyond it, out of bounds and offside, loosened from the territorial limits, they do. It's no accident that Guillalume is the youngest son for all it appears so, no more accident than that you are the Horses.h.i.t Man. It isn't luck of the draw but the brick walls of some secret, sovereign Architecture that makes us so. It's as simple as the scorn in my voice when I talk to you like this, as natural as the italics my kind use and your kind don't. Now do as I tell you, get on your horse. No, wait." did. Listen to me, my Mills. I'm your superior, just as that barbarian we saw was mine. Learn this, Mills. There are distinctions between men, humanity is dealt out like cards. There is natural suzereignty like the face value on coins. Men have their place. Even here, where we are now, at large, outside of place, beyond it, out of bounds and offside, loosened from the territorial limits, they do. It's no accident that Guillalume is the youngest son for all it appears so, no more accident than that you are the Horses.h.i.t Man. It isn't luck of the draw but the brick walls of some secret, sovereign Architecture that makes us so. It's as simple as the scorn in my voice when I talk to you like this, as natural as the italics my kind use and your kind don't. Now do as I tell you, get on your horse. No, wait."

"Sir?"

"Have I hurt your feelings? Have I saddened you? Because I didn't mean--There can can be respect, you know; there can be affection, be respect, you know; there can be affection, n.o.blesse oblige. n.o.blesse oblige. So come on, Mills, bear up, So come on, Mills, bear up, carry carry on. We'll get back on our horses and--What is it?" on. We'll get back on our horses and--What is it?"

"You've doomed me," Mills said. "You've cursed my race."

It was so. Mills apologized silently to the sons he was yet to have-if they ever got out of this mess-for the heritage he was yet to give them, grieved for the Millsness he was doomed to pa.s.s on, for the frayed, flawed genes-he thought blood-of the second-rate, backseat, low-down life, foreseeing-if he ever got out of this mess-a continuum of the less than average, of the small-time, poached Horses.h.i.t Man life, prophesying right there in what Guillalume himself had told him could not have been Horseland all the consequences to others in the burdened b.e.s.t.i.a.lity of his blackballed loins.

"Come on, let's go then," Guillalume said.

"I'm staying," Mills said.

"What? Here? Here?"

"I don't wish on no one the injury of my life."

"What are you talking about?"

Mills explained, sulking, and Guillalume laughed. "Well, that's a good one all right," he said, "but it comes a little late after what you told me on the journey. Unless you were lying of course--or boasting."

"What I told you?"

"In the ripe times, when we cruised geography, when we lay in our sweet, wine-stained straw and listened to the music and watched the girls dance. Not one as pretty as your own, you said. The damage is done. Your son will have been born by now. The generations are unleashed. Get back on your horse."

But he didn't. He simply walked off deeper into the forest. He could hear Guillalume call, "Mills? Mills! I'm still your master."

"I don't think you've jurisdiction in Horseland," he shouted back.

"Mills? Mills? I have something to tell you. Mills? We're not lost!" The stableboy turned around. All he could see was the green armor of the woods. And then Guillalume appeared in a green archway he'd made by pushing back two thin saplings. "We're not lost," he said again.

"I am."

"Oh, I don't know where we are, I don't claim that, but we're not lost. Being lost is the inability to find the place you want to be. I'm going to tell you something. I knew the turn-off."

"What?"

"I knew the turn-off. You were in the lead. I didn't signal. I let let you miss it." you miss it."

"But why?"

"You must promise never to tell anyone."

"Who would I tell?"

"Promise."

"There's no one to tell. There's only barbarians around and I don't speak a.s.shole." Guillalume looked at him. "All right. I promise."

"They sent us to fight in a holy war. We would both probably have been killed. That's why I let you go on when we came to the turn-off. Let's be be barbarians, Mills. barbarians, Mills. They They don't have younger sons. Perhaps they don't even have stableboys." don't have younger sons. Perhaps they don't even have stableboys."

This was ten centuries ago. Greatest Grandfather Mills wasn't born yesterday. His master may well not have had jurisdiction in the-to them-lawless land not to which they'd come but to which they'd been translated by the footloose, fancy-free horses. There were no typewriters then, no room at which an infinite number of monkeys at an infinite number of keyboards in infinite time might have knocked out Hamlet, Hamlet, but, in a way, the just two horses in the just seven months had done just that--not but, in a way, the just two horses in the just seven months had done just that--not Hamlet, Hamlet, of course, but Adventure, Adventure itself, bringing them through the random, compa.s.sless, ever swerving obliquity of tenuously joined place and across the stumbled, almost drunken vaulting of nameless-to them nameless-duchies and borders and diminishing jurisdictions to this--the at last ragged, corey chaos of alien earth. What else was Adventure if it was not only not knowing where one was but where one of course, but Adventure, Adventure itself, bringing them through the random, compa.s.sless, ever swerving obliquity of tenuously joined place and across the stumbled, almost drunken vaulting of nameless-to them nameless-duchies and borders and diminishing jurisdictions to this--the at last ragged, corey chaos of alien earth. What else was Adventure if it was not only not knowing where one was but where one could could be, not only not knowing where one's next meal was coming from but even what color it was likely to be? be, not only not knowing where one's next meal was coming from but even what color it was likely to be?

Mills understood this, as he'd understood, was way ahead of, Guillalume's heartbreaking explanation of fixed men, of the mysteriously gravid and landlocked quality in them that forbade all yeasty rise and usurpation and that put even self-improvement perhaps and the transmigration of privilege certainly-he was not convinced so much that Guillalume was his master as that someone someone was-out of the question. It was only this-that someone was-that kept him from slicing Guillalume's throat. Let him rave in his precious italics. (Let's was-out of the question. It was only this-that someone was-that kept him from slicing Guillalume's throat. Let him rave in his precious italics. (Let's be be barbarians, Mills! Oh barbarians, Mills! Oh do do let's!) He had Guillalume's younger son number. And even understood what was behind the let's-be-barbarians c.r.a.p: the principle of bought time--the sly, unspoken notion that at any moment death could elevate him, like the man who wins the pools, the death of brothers, Guillalume's long-shot hope. Whereas for him, for his lot, death would merely hammer him-them-more deeply into place, delivering as it would mere heirloom, his father's-got from let's!) He had Guillalume's younger son number. And even understood what was behind the let's-be-barbarians c.r.a.p: the principle of bought time--the sly, unspoken notion that at any moment death could elevate him, like the man who wins the pools, the death of brothers, Guillalume's long-shot hope. Whereas for him, for his lot, death would merely hammer him-them-more deeply into place, delivering as it would mere heirloom, his father's-got from his his father who got them from his-nasty tools of the Horses.h.i.t trade. father who got them from his-nasty tools of the Horses.h.i.t trade.

Of course he would go with him. It was only for a bit of a sulk that he'd wandered off into the woods within woods where Guillalume had found him.

So he knew his life and, dimly, the lives of his progeny, knew that all men are the founders of their lines, was reconciled, however uneasily, to what seemed to him his excellent educated guess about his fate--to be first among little guys, little men: G.o.d's blue collar worker. To serve, to travel for others; to see much of the world without in the least knowing what stood behind whatever had been left outside, up front, there for all his furlough'd, sh.o.r.e-leave'd fellows-the waterfront bars and strange hoosegows and chief points of interest, all its-the world's-Tours Eiffel and Empire State Buildings, all its Chinatowns and interesting cathedrals, the capital sights of the capital cities, the velvet ropes around rooms open to the public in palaces, congresses, parliaments in session, a subliminal taste of the foreign for Mills and his kind who would, as Mills had just missed doing, be sent off to fight in foreign lands, serve overseas, living for years at a time perhaps in the trenches and foxholes of French or Indo-Chinese or Korean earth itself, or cooped up in j.a.panese and German and Holy Roman Empire and Hanseatic prison camps, internment a certainty, and some even to be buried there or, missing in action, never found, but never, no matter the duration, to learn the language or the customs--not even a gawker race of unwelcome men, history's not even peeping Toms.