David Eddings - The Losers

The Losers by David Eddings

Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi

i

Mrs. Muriel Taylor was thirty-eight years old when she found that she was

pregnant. Mrs. Taylor was a pale, almost transparent woman of Canadian

background, who, until that startling discovery, had lived in a kind of dreamy

reverie filled with semiclassical music and the endlessly reworked verses to

which she devoted two hours every afternoon and never allowed anyone to read.

The pregnancy ran its normal course, although Mrs. Taylor had miscarried twice

before. She laid aside her poetry and devoted herself wholly to the life within

her, seeming almost to wish at times that she might, like some exotic insect, be

consumed from within by it and fall away like a dead husk at the moment of

birth.

She labored with the selection of a suitable name for her unborn son (for he

would surely be a boy) as she had never before struggled with the surly

intransigencies of language, emerging finally with the one name that would lift

her still-womb-drowsing infant above the commonplace, beyond that vast, ever-

expanding mob of Joeys and Billies and Bobbies and Donnies. She would, she

decided, call him Raphael, and having made that decision, she fell back into her

drowse.

And in the usual course of time she was delivered of a son, and he was

christened Raphael.

Mr. Edgar Taylor, Mrs. Taylor's husband, was a man best described as gray-his

hair, the suits he wore to the office, even his face. Mr. Taylor was an

accountant, much more at home with columns of figures than with people, and the

sudden appearance of an heir, the product of his somewhat tepid passion, seemed

to stun him. He gave up all outside activities so that he might hurry home each

night to watch his son, not to touch him or speak to him, but simply to watch in

a kind of bemused astonishment this prodigy that he and his wife had somehow

wrought.

The Taylors lived in Port Angeles, a small, damp city on the extreme northwest

coast. The peninsula below it is given over in large part to a national park,

roadless and pristine; and the city thus has an insular character, cut off from

the sprawling bustle of Seattle, Tacoma, and the other population centers of the

state by a deep, island-dotted sound. All significant travel to and from Port

Angeles is by ferry. The nearest major city is Victoria in British Columbia, a

curiously European metropolis where Mr. Taylor had traveled on business some

years earlier and had met and intermittently courted Mrs. Taylor. In due time

they had married and he had brought her back across the twenty-six miles of

intervening water to the dank clamminess of Port Angeles with its rain and fog

and its reek of green hemlock logs lying low in the salt waters of the bay.

From the beginning Raphael was one of those rare children, touched, it seemed,

by a singular grace that gave everything he did a kind of special significance.

As an infant he seldom cried, and he passed through the normal stages of early

childhood with a minimum of fuss. His mother, of course, devoted her entire

existence to him. Long after he had matured to the point where her constant

attentions were no longer necessary-or even desired-she was forever touching

him, her hand moving almost of its own will to lingeringly caress his face or

his hair.

Perhaps because of that special grace or perhaps because of some long-forgotten

gene in his makeup, Raphael avoided the pitfalls that almost inevitably turn the

pampered child into a howling monster. He grew instead into a sturdy, self-

reliant little boy, gracious to his playmates and polite to his elders. Even as

a child, however, he was adept at keeping his feelings to himself. He was

outgoing and friendly on the surface, but seemed to reserve a certain part of

himself as a private sanctuary from which he could watch and say nothing. He did

well in school and, as he matured, developed into that kind of young man his

infancy had promised-tall, slimly muscular, with glowing, almost luminous eyes

and pale blond hair that stubbornly curled in spite of all efforts to control

it.

Raphael's years at high school were a time of almost unbearable pride for Mr.

Taylor as the young man developed into that boy athlete who comes along perhaps

once in a generation. Opposing coaches wept on those golden autumn afternoons as

Raphael, knees high, the ball carried almost negligently in one hand, ran at

will through their best defenses. Important men in the lumber company where Mr.

Taylor worked began stopping by his desk to talk about the games.

"Great game, Edgar," they'd say jovially. "Really great."

Mr. Taylor, his gray face actually taking on a certain color, would nod happily.

"Young Rafe really gave it to them," they'd say. "He's a cinch to make all-state

this year."

"We think he's got a good chance," Mr. Taylor would say. Mr. Taylor always said

"we" when talking about Raphael's accomplishments, as if, were he to say "I," it

might seem boastful.

For Mrs. Taylor, however, the whole period was a time of anguish. There was

always the danger of injury, and with morbid fascination she collected gruesome

stories of fatalities and lifelong maimings that occurred with hideous

regularity on high-school football fields across the nation. And then there was

the fact that all the sportswriters and the disgusting man who broadcast the

games over the local radio station had immediately shortened her son's name to

Rafe-a name that smacked of hillbillies or subhuman degenerates slouching along

in the shadows and slobbering over thoughts of unspeakable acts. Each time she

heard the name, her soul withered a little within her. Most of all, however, she

feared girls. As Raphael's local celebrity increased so did her dread. In her

mind Mrs. Muriel Taylor saw hordes of vacant-minded little trollops lusting

after her son, their piggish eyes aflame with adolescent desire and their

bubble-gum-scented breath hot and panting as they conspired-each in her own

grubby little soul-to capture this splendid young man. Mrs. Taylor had, in the

dim reaches of her Canadian girlhood, secretly and tragically suffered such

pangs for an oafish campus hero, so that she knew in her heart of hearts to what

lengths the predatory adolescent female might go, given such a prize as this

most perfect of young men, this-and she used the word only to herself in deepest

privacy-this angel.

Young Raphael Taylor, however, avoided those girls his mother most feared as

adroitly as he avoided opposing tacklers. This is not, of course, to say that he

was celibate. It is merely to say that he devoted his attentions to certain

local girls who, by reputation and practice, were in no position to make lasting

demands on him. For the most part he avoided those girls who might, by the

sacrifice of their virtue, have been able to make some kind of viable claim upon

him. Once, though, in the summer of his sixteenth year, there was a girl whom he

had deeply and desperately loved; but her family had moved away, and he had

suffered, but had been safe.

During the fall of Raphael's senior year in high school, Mr. Taylor developed a

serious shortness of breath. Despite his wife's urgings, however, he put off

visiting the family doctor, maintaining that his condition was just a recurrence

of an old bronchial complaint that had plagued him off and on for years.

On a splendid Friday afternoon in late September Port Angeles hosted their

traditional rivals from across the sound. As had been the case since his

sophomore year, Raphael dominated the game. Although it was obvious from the

very beginning that he would carry the ball at least twice during every series

of plays, the opposing players were unable to stop him. He scored three

touchdowns during the first half, and when the visitors opened the second half

with a booming kickoff, he scooped up the ball deep in his own end zone,

reversed direction, and feinting, spinning, and dodging with the grace of a

dancer, he started upfield. Every opponent on the field, even the kicker, tried

to stop him, but he was unstoppable. For the last thirty yards before he crossed

the goal line, he was absolutely alone, running in solitary splendor with all

tacklers hopelessly far back.

The home fans, of course, were screaming wildly. And that was the last thing

that Mr. Taylor ever heard. He had risen excitedly to his feet to watch his

glorious son run the full length of the field, and the sound of the cheers

surrounded him. The massive heart attack was like a great blow to his chest, and

he toppled forward, dying with those cheers fading like distant thunder in his

ears.

The funeral was very sad, as funerals usually are. Mrs. Taylor bore up bravely,

leaning on her golden-haired son. After all the ceremonies and condolences, life

once again returned to near normal. Mr. Taylor was so close to being a nonentity

that he was scarcely missed at the place where he had worked, and even his

widow's emotion at his passing might best be described as gentle melancholy

rather than overwhelming grief.

Raphael, of course, missed his father, but he nonetheless played in every game

that season. "He would have wanted it that way," he explained. He was touched,

even moved almost to tears by the moment of silence dedicated to his father just

prior to the game the Friday after the funeral. Then he went out onto the field

and destroyed the visiting team.

Mr. Taylor's affairs, of course, were in absolute order. Certain wise

investments and several insurance policies provided for the security of his

family, and his elder brother, Harry, a Port Angeles realtor, had been named

executor of his estate. Harry Taylor was a bluff, balding, florid-faced man with

a good head for business and a great deal of sound, practical advice for his

brother's widow. He took his responsibilities as executor quite seriously and

visited often.

That winter, when the question of college arose, Mrs. Taylor faced the issue

with dread. Money was not a problem, since her husband had carried a special

insurance policy with some very liberal provisions to guarantee his son's

education. There were also scholarship offers from as far away as southern

California, since Raphael had twice been named to the all-state football team.

In the end, however, the question was deferred by the young man's rather

surprising decision to attend the local junior college. He had many reasons for

the choice, not the least of which was his full realization of what anguish an

abrupt separation would cause his mother, coming as it must so soon after her

bereavement.

And so it was that Raphael continued to play local football, his uncle Harry

basked in reflected celebrity, and his mother enjoyed the reprieve the decision

had granted her.

At the end of two years, however, the decision could no longer be put off.

Raphael privately considered his options and independently made his choice.

"Reed?" his uncle said, stunned.

"It's a good school, Uncle Harry," Raphael pointed out, "the best school in this

part of the country. They say it's one of the top ten colleges in the United

States."

"But they don't even have a football team, do they?"

"I don't know," Raphael replied. "I don't think so."

"You could go to Stanford. That's a good school, too."

Raphael nodded thoughtfully. "Yes," he agreed, "but it's too big."

"They've got a good team. You might even get a chance to play in the Rose Bowl."

"Maybe, but I think I'd rather go to Reed. I've had a lot of fun playing

football, but I think it's time I moved on to something else, don't you?"

"Where is this college located?" Mrs. Taylor asked faintly.

"Portland," Raphael replied.

"In Oregon?" Mrs. Taylor asked even more faintly.

Raphael nodded.

Mrs. Taylor's heart sank.

ii

Portland, the city of the roses, bestrides the banks of the Willamette River

near where that stream joins the Columbia. It is a pleasant city, filled with

trees and fine old Victorian houses. The campus of Reed College, where Raphael

was enrolled, lies somewhat to the east of the river, and has about it a dreamy,

timeless quality. The very buildings that rise from the broad lawns identify the

place as a college, since such a random collection of Georgian manors, medieval

cathedrals, and starkly modern structures of brick and glass could exist for no

other reason.

In his car of recent vintage with its backseat filled with the new and expensive

luggage his mother had bought and tearfully given him, Raphael Taylor pulled

rather wearily into the student parking lot and stopped. The trip had been quite

long, and he was unaccustomed to freeway driving. There was, however, an

exhilaration about it all. He was on his own for the first time in his life, and

that was something.

Thanks to his uncle's careful correspondence with the registrar and the bursar,

all arrangements had been made well in advance, and Raphael knew precisely where

his dormitory was located. With his jacket under his arm and two suitcases

rather self-consciously swinging at his sides, he walked across to the manselike

solidity of the dorm, feeling a certain superiority to the small crowd of

bewildered-looking freshmen milling uncertainly around in front of the

administration building.

His room was on the third floor, and Raphael was puffing slightly as he reached

the top of the stairs. The door at the end of the hall was open, and billowing

clouds of smoke were rolling out. Raphael's stomach turned cold. Everything had

gone too well up until now. He went down the hall and into the smoke.

A young man with olive skin and sleek black hair brushed by him carrying a large

vase filled with water. "Don't just stand there, man," he said to Raphael in a

rich baritone voice. "Help me put this son of a bitch out." He rushed into the

room, bent slightly, and threw the water into a small fireplace that seemed to

be the source of all the smoke. The fire hissed spitefully, and clouds of steam

boiled out to mingle blindingly with the smoke.

"Damn!" the dark-haired man swore, and started back for more water.

Raphael saw the problem immediately. "Wait," he said. He set down his suitcases,

stepped across to the evilly fuming fireplace, and pulled the brass handle

sticking out of the bricks just below the mantelpiece. The damper opened with a

clank, and the fireplace immediately stopped belching smoke into the room. "It's

a good idea to open the chimney before you build the fire," he suggested.

The other man stared at the fireplace for a moment, and then he threw back his

head and began to laugh. "There's a certain logic there, I guess," he admitted.

He collapsed on the bed near the door, still laughing.

Raphael crossed the room and opened the window. The smoke rushed out past him.

"It's a good thing you came by when you did," the dark-haired man said. "I was

well on my way to being smoked like a Virginia ham." He was somewhat shorter

than Raphael, and more slender. His olive skin and black hair suggested a

Mediterranean background, Italian perhaps or Spanish, but there was no Latin

softness in his dark eyes. They were as hard as obsidian and watchful, even

wary. His clothing was expensive-tailored, Raphael surmised, definitely

tailored-and his wristwatch was not so much a timepiece as it was a statement.

Then the young man looked at Raphael as if seeing him for the first time, and

something peculiar happened to his face. His eyes widened, and a strange pallor

turned his olive complexion slightly green. His eyes narrowed, seeming almost to

glitter. It was as if a shock of recognition had passed through him. "You must

be Edwards, right?" His expression seemed tight somehow.

"Sorry," Raphael replied. "The name's Taylor."

"I thought you might be my roomie."

"No. I'm two doors up the hall."

"Oh, well"-the stranger shrugged, making a wry face-"there goes my chance to

keep the knowledge of my little blunder a secret. Edwards is bound to smell the

smoke when he gets here." He rose to his feet and extended his hand. "J. D.

Flood," he said by way of introducing himself.

"Rafe Taylor," Raphael responded. They shook hands. "What were you burning,

Flood?"

"Some pieces of a packing crate. I've never had a dormitory room with a

fireplace before, so I had to try it. Hell, I was even going out to buy a pipe."

He raised one eyebrow. "Rafe-is that short for Raphael?"

"Afraid so. It was a romantic notion of my mother's. You wouldn't believe how

many school-yard brawls it started."

Flood's face darkened noticeably. "Unreal," he said. That strange, almost

shocked expression that had appeared in his eyes when he had first looked at

Raphael returned, and there was a distinct tightening in his face. Once again

Raphael felt that momentary warning as if something were telling him to be very

careful about this glib young man. In that private place within his mind from

which he had always watched and made decisions, he began to erect some

cautionary defenses. "And what does the J.D. stand for?" he asked, trying to

make it sound casual.

"Jacob Damon Flood, Junior," Flood said with distaste.

"Jake?" Raphael suggested.

"Not hardly."

"J.D. then?"

"That's worse. That's what they call my father."

"How about Damon?"

Flood considered that. "Why not? How about a martini?"

"Is it legal? In the dorm, I mean?"

"Who gives a shit? I'm not going to start paying any attention to the rules at

this late date."

Raphael shrugged. "Most of my drinking has been limited to beer, but I'll give

it a try."

"That's the spirit," Flood said, opening one of his suitcases and taking out a

couple of bottles. "I laid in some ice a bit earlier. I make a mean martini-it's

one of the few things I've actually learned." He busied himself with a silver

shaker. "Any cretin can swill liquor out of a bottle," he went on with a certain

brittle extravagance, "but a gentleman boozes it up with class."

Flood's language seemed to shift back and forth between an easy colloquialism

Raphael found comfortable and a kind of stilted eastern usage. There was a

forced quality about Flood that made him uncomfortable.

They had a couple of drinks, and Raphael feigned enjoyment, although the sharp

taste of nearly raw gin was not particularly to his liking. He was not really

accustomed to drinking, and Flood's martinis were strong enough to make his ears

hot and the tips of his fingers tingle. "Well," he said finally, setting down

his glass, "I guess I'd better go get moved in."

"Taylor," Flood said, an odd note in his voice. "I've got a sort of an idea. Is

your roommate up the hall an old friend?"

"Never met the man, actually."

"And I've never met Edwards either-obviously. Why don't you room in here?" There

was a kind of intensity about the way Flood said it, as if it were far, far more

important than the casual nature of the suggestion called for.

"They don't allow that, do they?" Raphael asked. "Switching rooms, I mean?"

"It's easy to see you've never been in a boarding school before." Flood laughed.

"Switching rooms is standard practice. It goes on everywhere. Believe me, I

know. I've been kicked out of some of the best schools in the east."

"What if Edwards shows up and wants his bed?"

"We'll give him yours. I'll lie to him-tell him I've got something incurable and

that you're here to give me a shot in case I throw a fit."

"Come on." Raphael laughed.

"You can be the one with the fits if you'd rather," Flood

offered. "Can you do a convincing grand mal seizure?"

"I don't know. I've never tried."

"The whole point is that we get along fairly well together, and I don't know

diddly about Edwards. I know that you're white, but I haven't got any idea at

all about what color he is."

"Is that important?" Raphael said it carefully.

Flood's face suddenly broke into a broad grin. "Gotcha!" he said gleefully.

"God, I love to do that to people. Actually, it doesn't mean jack-shit to me one

way or another, but it sure as hell does to old J.D. Sooner or later somebody

from back home is going to come by, and if words gets back to the old pirate

that his son has a nigger roommate-his word, not mine-thee shit will hit thee

fan. Old J.D.'s prejudiced against races that have been extinct for thousands of

years-like the Hittites-or the Wends."

"It won't work out then, Damon," Raphael told him with a perfectly straight

face. "My mother's Canadian."

"That's all right, Raphael. I'm liberal. We'll let you come in through the back

door. Have Canadians got rhythm? Do you have overpowering cravings for northern-

fried moose?"

Raphael laughed. The young man from the east was outrageous. There was still

something slightly out of tune though. Raphael was quite sure that he reminded

Flood of someone else. Flood had seemed about to mention it a couple of times,

but had apparently decided against it. "All right," he decided. "If you think we

can get away with it, we'll try it."

"Good enough. We'll drop the Rafe and Jake bit so we don't sound like a

hillbilly band, and we'll use Damon and Raphael-unless you'd like to change your

name to Pythias?"

"No, I don't think so. It sounds a little urinary."

Flood laughed. "It does at that, doesn't it? Have you got any more bags? Or do

you travel light?"

"I've got a whole backseat full."

"Let's go get them then. Get you settled in."

They clattered downstairs, brought up the rest of Raphael's luggage, and then

went to the commons for dinner.

Damon Flood talked almost continuously through the meal, his rich voice

compelling, almost hypnotic. He saw nearly everything, and his sardonic wit made

it all wryly humorous.

"And this," he said, almost with a sneer as they walked back in the luminous

twilight toward their dormitory, "is the `most intelligent group of

undergraduates in the country'?" He quoted from a recent magazine article about

the college. "It looks more like a hippie convention-or a soiree in a hobo

jungle."

"Appearances can be deceiving."

"Indeed they can, Raphael, Angel of Light"-Flood laughed-"but appearance is the

shadow at least of reality, don't you think?"

Raphael shrugged. "We're more casual out here on the coast."

"Granted, but wouldn't you say that the fact that a young lady doesn't wear

shoes to dinner says a great deal about her character?"

"Where's your home?" Raphael asked as they started up the stairs.

"Grosse Pointe," Flood said dryly, "the flower on the weed of Detroit."

"What are you doing way out here?" Raphael opened the door to their room.

"Seeking my fortune," Flood said, flinging himself down on his bed. Then he

laughed. "Actually, I'm putting as much distance as possible between my father

and me. The old bastard can't stand the sight of me. The rest of the family

wanted me to go to Princeton, but I preferred to avoid the continuous

surveillance of all those cousins. A very large family, the Floods, and I have

the distinction of being its major preoccupation. All those dumpy female cousins

literally slather at the idea of being able to report my indiscretions back to

old J.D. himself."

Raphael began to unpack.

"J.D.'s the family patriarch," Flood went on. "The whole damned bunch genuflects

in his direction five times a day-except me, of course. I suppose I've never

really forgiven him for tacking that `Junior' on me, so I set out to be as

unlike him as I could. He looks on that as a personal insult, so we don't really

get along. He started shipping me off to boarding schools as soon as I lost my

baby teeth, though, so we only irritate each other on holidays. I tried a couple

years at Pitt, but all that rah-rah bullshit got on my nerves. So I thought I'd

saddle up old Paint and strike out for the wide-wide west. What do you say to

another drink?" He sprang up immediately and began mixing another batch of

martinis.

Their conversation became general after that, and they both grew slightly drunk

before they went to bed.

After Flood had turned out the light, he continued to talk, a steady flow of

random, drowsy commentary on the day's events. In time the pauses between his

observations became longer as he hovered on the verge of sleep. Finally he

turned over in bed. "Good night, Gabriel," he murmured.

"Wrong archangel," Raphael corrected. "Gabriel's the other one-the trumpet

player."

"Did I call you Gabriel?" Flood's voice had a strange, alert tension in it.

"Stupid mistake. I must have had one martini too many."

"It's no big thing. Good night, Damon." Once again, however, something in the

very back of his mind seemed to be trying to warn Raphael. Flood's inadvertent

use of the name Gabriel seemed not to be just a slip of the tongue. There was a

significance to it somehow-obscure, but important.

In the darkness, waiting for sleep and listening to Flood's regular breathing

from the other bed, Raphael considered his roommate. He had never before met

anyone with that moneyed, eastern prep-school background, and so he had no real

basis for judgment. The young men he had met before had all come from

backgrounds similar to his own, and the open, easy camaraderie of the playing

field and the locker room had not prepared him for the complexity of someone

like Flood. On the whole, though, he found his roommate intriguing, and the

surface sophistication of their first evening exhilirating. Perhaps in time

Flood would relax, and they'd really get to know each other, but it was still

much too early to know for sure.

iii

Raphael's next few weeks were a revelation to him. Always before he had been at

best a casual scholar. His mind was quick and retentive, and neither high school

nor the community college he had attended had challenged him significantly. He

had come to believe that, even as on the football field, what others found

difficult would be easy for him. His performance in the classroom, like his

performance on the field, had been more a reflection of natural talent than of

hard work; everything had been very easy for Raphael. At Reed, however, it was

not so. He quickly discovered that a cursory glance at assigned reading did not

prepare him adequately for the often brutally cerebral exchanges of the

classroom. Unlike his previous classmates, these students were not content

merely to paraphrase the text or the remarks of the instructor, but rather

applied to the material at hand techniques of reason and analysis Raphael had

never encountered before. Amazingly, more often than not, the results of these

reasonings were a direct challenge to the authority of the text or of the

instructor. And, even more amazingly, these challenges were not viewed as the

disruptions of troublemakers, but were actually encouraged. Disturbed and even

embarrassed by his newfound inadequacy, Raphael began to apply himself to his

studies.

"You're turning into a grind," Flood said one evening.

Raphael pulled his eyes from the page he was reading. "Hmmm?"

"You study too much. I never see you without your face in some damned book."

"That's why we're here, isn't it?"

"Not hardly." Flood threw one leg over the arm of his chair. "A gentleman does

not get straight A's. It's unseemly. Haven't you ever heard the old formula?

`Three C's and a D and keep your name out of the newspapers'?"

"No. I hadn't heard that tine." Raphael's mind was yearning back toward the

book. "Besides, how would you know here? They won't let us see our grades." That

was one of the peculiarities of what was called the "Reed experience."

"Barbarous," Flood snorted. "How the hell can we be expected to maintain a

proper balance if they don't let us see our grades? Do you realize that a man

could screw up? Stumble into so many high grades that his reputation's ruined

for life?"

"I wouldn't worry too much about that, Damon. I don't think you're in any

danger."

"Don't get shitty." Flood got up quickly. "Let's go out and get drunk-see if we

can get arrested or something."

"I've got an early class tomorrow." Raphael turned back to his book.

"Talk to me, goddammit!" Flood said irritably, snatching the book from Raphael's

hands. "What the hell are you reading, anyway?"

"Kierkegaard." Raphael reached for his book.

"The Sickness unto Death," Flood read. "Now there's a cheery little title. What

class is this for?"

Raphael shrugged. "It came up in a discussion. I thought I ought to look into

it."

"You mean it's not even required?" Flood demanded incredulously, tossing the

book back. "That's disgusting, Raphael, disgusting."

"Different strokes," Raphael said, finding his place again and settling back to

his reading. Flood sat watching him, his black eyes as hard as agates.

And then there was the problem of the girl. She sat across the room from him in

one of his afternoon classes, and Raphael found his eyes frequently drawn to her

face. It was not that she was exceptionally beautiful, for she was not. Her face

was slightly angular with strong bones, and she was quite tall with a coltish

legginess that made her seem somehow very young. Her voice, however, was a deep,

rich contralto with a vibrance, a quality, that stirred Raphael immeasurably

David Eddings - The Losers

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: