Ellison, Harlan - Paladin of the Lost Hour

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Harlan Ellison - Paladin of the Lost Hour

PALADIN OF THE LOST HOUR

by HARLAN ELLISON

THIS WAS AN OLD MAN. Not an incredibly old man; obsolete, spavined; not as worn as thesway-

backed stone steps ascending the Pyramid of the Sun to an ancient temple; not yet arelic. But even so, a

very old man, this old man perched on an antique shooting stick, itshandles open to form a seat, its spike

thrust at an angle into the soft ground and trimmedgrass of the cemetery. Gray, thin rain misted down at

almost the same, angle as that atwhich the spike pierced the ground. The winter-barren trees lay flat and

black against analuminum sky, unmoving in the chill wind. An old man sitting at the foot of a grave

moundwhose headstone had tilted slightly when the earth had settled; sitting in the rain andspeaking to

someone below.

"They tore it down, Minna.

"I tell you, they must have bought off a councilman.

"Came in with bulldozers at six o'clock in the morning, and you know that's notlegal. There's a Municipal

Code. Supposed to hold off till at least seven on weekdays,eight on the weekend; but there they were at

six, even before six, barely lightfor godsakes. Thought they'd sneak in and do it before the neighborhood

got wind of it andcall the landmarks committee. Sneaks: they come on holidays, can you imagine!

"But I was out there waiting for them, and I told them, 'You can't do it, that'sCode number 91.03002,

subsection E,' and they lied and saidthey had special permission, so I said to the big muckymuck in

charge, 'Let's see yourwaiver permit,'and he said the Code didn't apply in this case because it was

supposed tobe only for grading, and since they were demolishing and not grading, they could

startwhenever they felt like it. So I told him I'd call the police, then, because it came underthe heading of

Disturbing the Peace, and he said . . . well, I know you hate that kind oflanguage, old girl, so I won't tell

you what he said, but you can imagine.

"So I called the police, and gave them my name, and of course they didn't getthere till almost quarter

after seven (which is what makes me think they bought off acouncilman), and by then those 'dozers had

leveled most of it. Doesn't take long, you knowthat.

"And I don't suppose it's as great a loss as, maybe, say, the Great Library ofAlexandria, but it was the last

of the authentic Deco design drive-ins, and the carhopsstill served you on roller skates, and it was a

landmark, and just about the only placeleft in the city where you could still get a decent grilled cheese

sandwich pressed veryflat on the grill by one of those weights they used to use, made with real cheese

and notthat rancid plastic they cut into squares and call it 'cheese food.'

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Harlan Ellison - Paladin of the Lost Hour

"Gone, old dear, gone and mourned. And I understand they plan to put up anotherone of those mini-malls

on the site, just ten blocks away from one that's already there,and you know what's going to happen: this

new one will drain off the traffic from theolder one, and then that one will fall the way they all do when

the next one gets built,you'd think they'd see some history in it; but no, they never learn, And you should

haveseen the crowd by seven-thirty. All ages, even some of those kids painted like aborigines,with torn

leather clothing. Even they came to protest. Terrible language, but at leastthey were concerned. And

nothing could stop it. They just whammed it, and down it went.

"I do so miss you today, Minna. No more good grilled cheese." Said the veryold man to the ground. And

now he was crying softly, and now the wind rose, and the mistrain stippled his overcoat.

Nearby, yet at a distance, Billy Kinetta stared down at another grave. He could see theold man over there

off to his left, but he took no further notice. The wind whipped thevent of his trenchcoat. His collar was

up but rain trickled down his neck. This was ayounger man, not yet thirty-five. Unlike the old man, Billy

Kinetta neither cried norspoke to memories of someone who had once listened. He might have been a

geomancer, sosilently did he stand, eyes toward the ground.

One of these men was black; the other was white.

# # # #

Beyond the high, spiked-iron fence surrounding the cemetery two boys crouched, staringthrough the

bars, through the rain; at the men absorbed by grave matters, by matters ofgraves. These were not really

boys. They were legally young men. One was nineteen, theother two months beyond twenty. Both were

legally old enough to vote, to drink alcoholicbeverages, to drive a car. Neither would reach the age of

Billy Kinetta.

One of them said, "Let's take the old man."

The other responded, "You think the guy in the trenchcoat'll get in the way?"

The first one smiled; and a mean little laugh. "I sure as shit hope so." Hewore, on his right hand, a leather

carnaby glove with the fingers cut off, small roundmetal studs in a pattern along the line of his knuckles.

He made a fist, flexed, did itagain.

They went under the spiked fence at a point where erosion had created a shallow gully."Sonofabitch!"

one of them said, as he slid through on his stomach. It wasmuddy. The front of his sateen roadie jacket

was filthy. "Sonofabitch!" He wasspeaking in general of the fence, the sliding under, the muddy ground,

the universe intotal. And the old man, who would now really get the crap kicked out of him formaking

this fine sateen roadie jacket filthy.

They sneaked up on him from the left, as far from the young guy in the trenchcoat asthey could. The first

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Harlan Ellison - Paladin of the Lost Hour

one kicked out the shooting stick with a short, sharp, downwardmovement he had learned in his tae kwon

do class. It was called the yup-chagi.The old man went over backward.

Then they were on him, the one with the filthy sonofabitch sateen roadie jacketpunching at the old man's

neck and the side of his face as he dragged him around by thecollar of the overcoat. The other one began

ransacking the coat pockets, ripping thefabric to get his hand inside.

The old man commenced to scream. "Protect me! You've got to protect me . . .it'snecessary to protect

me!"

The one pillaging pockets froze momentarily. What the hell kind of thing is that forthis old fucker to be

saying? Who the hell does he think'll protect him? Is he asking usto protect him? I'll protect you,

scumbag! I'll kick in your fuckin' lung! "Shut'imup!" he whispered urgently to his friend. "Stick a fist in

his mouth!" Thenhis hand, wedged in an inside jacket pocket, closed over something. He tried to get

hishand loose, but the jacket and coat and the old man's body had wound around his wrist."C'mon loose,

motherfuckah!" he said to the very old man, who was stillscreaming for protection. The other young man

was making huffing sounds, as dark as mud,as he slapped at the rain-soaked hair of his victim. "I can't . .

. he's all twisted'round . . . getcher hand outta there so's I can . . . " Screaming, the old man haddoubled

under, locking their hands on his person.

And then the pillager's fist came loose, and he was clutching for an instant a gorgeouspocket watch.

What used to be called a turnip watch.

The dial face was cloisonné, exquisite beyond the telling.

The case was of silver, so bright it seemed blue.

The hands, cast as arrows of time, were gold. They formed a shallow V at preciselyeleven o'clock. This

was happening at 3:45 in the afternoon, with rain and wind.

The timepiece made no sound, no sound at all.

Then: there was space all around the watch, and in that space in the palm of the hand,there was heat.

Intense heat for just a moment, just long enough for the hand to open.

The watch glided out of the boy's palm and levitated.

"Help me! You must protect me!"

Billy Kinetta heard the shrieking, but did not see the pocket watch floating in the airabove the astonished

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Harlan Ellison - Paladin of the Lost Hour

young man. It was silver, and it was end-on toward him, and the rainwas silver and slanting; and he did

not see the watch hanging free in the air, even whenthe furious young man disentangled himself and

leaped for it. Billy did not see the watchrise just so much, out of reach of the mugger.

Billy Kinetta saw two boys, two young men of ratpack age, beating someone much older;and he went for

them. Pow, like that!

Thrashing his legs, the old man twisted around -- over, under -- as the boy holding himby the collar tried

to land a punch to put him away. Who would have thought the old man tohave had so much battle in

him?

A flapping shape, screaming something unintelligible, hit the center of the group atfull speed. The

carnaby-gloved hand reaching for the watch grasped at empty air onemoment, and the next was buried

under its owner as the boy was struck a crackback blockthat threw him face first into the soggy ground.

He tried to rise, but something stompedhim at the base of his spine; something kicked him twice in the

kidneys; something rolledover him like a flash flood.

Twisting, twisting, the very old man put his thumb in the right eye of the boyclutching his collar.

The great trenchcoated maelstrom that was Billy Kinetta whirled into the boy as he letloose of the old

man on the ground and, howling, slapped a palm against his stinging eye.Billy locked his fingers and

delivered a roundhouse wallop that sent the boy reelingbackward to fall over Minna's tilted headstone.

Billy's back was to the old man. He did not see the miraculous pocket watch smoothlydescend through

rain that did not touch it, to hover in front of the old man. He did notsee the old man reach up, did not see

the timepiece snuggle into an arthritic hand, didnot see the old man return the turnip to an inside jacket

pocket.

Wind, rain and Billy Kinetta pummeled two young men of a legal age that made themaccountable for

their actions. There was no thought of the knife stuck down in one boot,no chance to reach it, no moment

when the wild thing let them rise. So they crawled. Theyscrabbled across the muddy ground, the slippery

grass, over graves and out of his reach.They ran; falling, rising, falling again; away, without looking

back.

Billy Kinetta, breathing heavily, knees trembling, turned to help the old man to hisfeet; and found him

standing, brushing dirt from his overcoat, snorting in anger andmumbling to himself.

"Are you all right?"

For a moment the old man's recitation of annoyance continued, then he snapped his chindown sharply as

if marking end to the situation, and looked at his cavalry to the rescue."That was very good, young fella.

Considerable style you've got there."

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Harlan Ellison - Paladin of the Lost Hour

Billy Kinetta stared at him wide-eyed. "Are you sure you're okay?" He reachedover and flicked several

blades of wet grass from the shoulder of the old man's overcoat.

"I'm fine. I'm fine but I'm wet and I'm cranky. Let's go somewhere and have a nicecup of Earl Grey."

There had been a look on Billy Kinetta's face as he stood with lowered eyes, staring atthe grave he had

come to visit. The emergency had removed that look. Now it returned.

"No, thanks. If you're okay, I've got to do some things."

The old man felt himself all over, meticulously, as he replied, "I'm onlysuperficially bruised. Now if I

were an old woman, instead of a spunky old man, same agethough, I'd have lost considerable of the

calcium in my bones, and those two would havedone me some mischief. Did you know that women lose

a considerable part of their calciumwhen they reach my age? I read a report." Then he paused, and said

shyly, "Comeon, why don't you and I sit and chew the fat over a nice cup of tea?"

Billy shook his head with bemusement, smiling despite himself. "You're somethingelse, Dad. I don't even

know you."

"I like that."

"What: that I don't know you?"

"No, that you called me 'Dad' and not 'Pop.' I hate 'Pop.' Always makesme think the wise-apple wants to

snap off my cap with a bottle opener. Now Dadhas a ring of respect to it. I like that right down to the

ground. Yes, I believe weshould find someplace warm and quiet to sit and get to know each other. After

all, yousaved my life. And you know what that means in the Orient."

Billy was smiling continuously now. "In the first place, I doubt very much I savedyour life. Your wallet,

maybe. And in the second place, I don't even know your name; whatwould we have to talk about?"

"Gaspar," he said, extending his hand. "That's a first name. Gaspar.Know what it means?"

Billy shook his head.

"See, already we have something to talk about."

So Billy, still smiling, began walking Gaspar out of the cemetery. "Where do youlive? I'll take you

home."

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Harlan Ellison - Paladin of the Lost Hour

They were on the street, approaching Billy Kinetta's 1979 Cutlass. "Where I liveis too far for now. I'm

beginning to feel a bit peaky. I'd like to lie down for a minute.We can just go on over to your place, if

that doesn't bother you. For a few minutes. A cupof tea. Is that all right?"

He was standing beside the Cutlass, looking at Billy with an old man's expectant smile,waiting for him to

unlock the door and hold it for him till he'd placed hisstill-calcium-rich but nonetheless old bones in the

passenger seat. Billy stared at him,trying to figure out what was at risk if he unlocked that door. Then he

snorted a tinylaugh, unlocked the door, held it for Gaspar as he seated himself, slammed it and

wentaround to unlock the other side and get in. Gaspar reached across and thumbed up the doorlock

knob. And they drove off together in the rain.

Through all of this the timepiece made no sound, no sound at all.

# # # #

Like Gaspar, Billy Kinetta was alone in the world.

His three-room apartment was the vacuum in which he existed. It was furnished, but ifone stepped out

into the hallway and, for all the money in all the numbered accounts inall the banks in Switzerland, one

was asked to describe those furnishings, one would comeaway no richer than before. The apartment was

charisma poor. It was a place to come whenall other possibilities had been expended. Nothing green,

nothing alive, existed in thoseboxes. No eyes looked back from the walls. Neither warmth nor chill

marked those spaces.It was a place to wait.

Gaspar leaned his closed shooting stick, now a walking stick with handles, against thebookcase. He

studied the titles of the paperbacks stacked haphazardly on the shelves.

From the kitchenette came the sound of water running into a metal pan. Then tin on castiron. Then the

hiss of gas and the flaring of a match as it was struck; and the pop of thegas being lit.

"Many years ago," Gaspar said, taking out a copy of Moravia's TheAdolescents and thumbing it as he

spoke, "I had a library of books, oh,thousands of books -- never could bear to toss one out, not even the

bad ones -- and whenfolks would come to the house to visit they'd look around at all the nooks and

cranniesstuffed with books; and if they were the sort of folks who don't snuggle with books,they'd always

ask the same dumb question." He waited a moment for a response and whennone was forthcoming (the

sound of china cups on sink tile), he said, "Guess what thequestion was."

From the kitchen, without much interest: "No idea."

"They'd always ask it with the kind of voice people use in the presence of largesculptures in museums.

They'd ask me, 'Have you read all these books?'" He waitedagain, but Billy Kinetta was not playing the

game. "Well, young fella, after a whilethe same dumb question gets asked a million times, you get sorta

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Harlan Ellison - Paladin of the Lost Hour

snappish about it. And itcame to annoy me more than a little bit. Till I finally figured out the right

answer.

"And you know what that answer was? Go ahead, take a guess." Billy appearedin the kitchenette

doorway.

"I suppose you told them you'd read a lot of them but not all of them."

Gaspar waved the guess away with a flapping hand. "Now what good would that havedone? They

wouldn't know they'd asked a dumb question, but I didn't want to insult them,either. So when they'd ask

if I'd read all those books, I'd say, 'Hell, no. Who wants alibrary full of books you've already read?'"

Billy laughed despite himself. He scratched at his hair with idle pleasure, and shookhis head at the old

man's verve. "Gaspar, you are a wild old man. You retired?"The old man walked carefully to the most

comfortable chair in the room, an overstuffedThirties-style lounger that had been reupholstered many

times before Billy Kinetta hadpurchased it at the American Cancer Society Thrift Shop. He sank into it

with a sigh."No sir, I am not by any means retired. Still very active."

"Doing what, if I'm not prying?"

"Doing ombudsman."

"You mean, like a consumer advocate? Like Ralph Nader?"

"Exactly. I watch out for things. I listen, I pay some attention; and if I do itright, sometimes I can even

make a little difference. Yes, like Mr. Nader. A very fineman."

"And you were at the cemetery to see a relative?"

Gaspar's face settled into an expression of loss. "My dear old girl. My wife,Minna. She's been gone, well,

it was twenty years in January. " He sat silentlystaring inward for a while, then: "She was everything to

me. The nice part was that Iknew how important we were to each other; we discussed, well, just

everything. Imiss that the most, telling her what's going on.

"I go to see her every other day.

"I used to go every day. But. It. Hurt. Too much."

They had tea. Gaspar sipped and said it was very nice, but had Billy ever tried EarlGrey? Billy said he

didn't know what that was, and Gaspar said he would bring him a tin,that it was splendid. And they

chatted. Finally, Gaspar asked, "And who were youvisiting?"

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