John Barth - Giles Goat-Boy

"I do not !"

Stoker shook a finger at her. "Don't argue with the Grand Tutor, dear: you're only a Graduate. Hey, George, is she really a Graduate?"

I considered her frowning face. Despite the racket and wild motion I sensed a good peculiar power in myself: a clarity of muscle, a tonus of thought, such as I'd rarely or never known. "She may not actually have Commencèd yet, as Max thinks. I haven't learned enough to tell. But I'm sure she must be a Candidate…"

My last words were lost on Stoker, who coming to a crossroads marked by direction-signs skidded to a halt and sprang off the motorcycle. Anastasia however was moved enough to lower her eyes, ignoring the riotous action before us. Stoker's purpose in stopping, it developed, was to give the signpost a quarter-turn, "purely on principle," as he later declared: a principle for the sake of which he not only sacrificed his hard-held lead but risked his life as well — bullets raised dust-puffs near his boots as the others flashed by, and clipped into the signboard over his head.

"Do you believe me?" I asked her.

Wanly she smiled. "I think you're being polite. But I appreciate it — very much." She raised her eyes. "I've hardly even thought of Graduation! Much as the boys used to argue about it at Uncle Ira's, when they came to see me. I used to hope and hope they'd pass the Finals. Whether they hoped so or not."

"Didn't you want to pass too?"

"Oh, I guess I've thought of it. Lots of times." Now that the line of motorcycles had passèd, the air was quiet but for their fading backfire, and I could hear her without straining to listen. "But I know how silly the idea is, for me, so I've never dared wish for it really. Imagine me passing the Finals, after all I've done!"

"Do you believe in Graduation, Anastasia?"

"Believe in it?" Her expression was shocked. "I'd die if I didn't! Could I go on living if I didn't, after something like tonight on the beach?"

"Then you ought to believe what Enos Enoch said: passèd are the raped …" I turned a finger in the hair upon her neck-nape. " For they shall be my virgin brides …"

"I believe in Enos Enoch," she said quietly. "I really do."

I smiled. "But not in me. Why don't you believe in me too?"

She wrinkled her brow. "I want to, George! Honestly. But you're so different from Enos Enoch. You don't seem to hate Maurice very much, and you talk so strangely. And look what you're doing now — " She removed my hand from her hair. "As if you were any ordinary fellow! Enos Enoch wouldn't do that."

Stoker came back from his work upon the roadsign (which now showed quite altered directions) in time to catch the famous name. "She should've been an early Enochist," he said to me. "Put her in the arena, she'd make love to the lions — just to keep 'em off the others, you know." He restarted our engine and turned onto a small dirt road, which he declared would get us to our destination ahead of the others. Then he shouted from the side of his mouth, with what seemed to me deliberate nonchalance: "Hey, why not pass her yourself, if you're the Grand Tutor? You already examined her on the bridge, I understand."

"That's rather witty," I said, ignoring Anastasia's embarrassment. I explained, however, that while I was beyond question a Grand Tutor, I had not as yet begun actually Tutoring, it being necessary in Max's opinion as well as my own to matriculate as a common student and undergo the dread Finals myself before descending into WESCAC's Belly, changing its AIM, and thus bringing peace of mind to the entire student body. Indeed, to the best of my recollection Max had never mentioned the passage or failure of individual students in connection with my program, though it seemed to me (now I considered it) as proper work for a Grand Tutor as preventing Campus Riot III — perhaps even properer. I would think further on the matter. In any case, it was not my impression that Grand Tutors and Examiners were quite the same: my task, as I saw it, was not to pass or flunk anyone myself, but merely to point the way to Commencement Gate — which I must discover myself before leading others thither.

Thus I spoke, freely and eagerly as never before, sensing for the first time the power of my chosen role and wondering, even as I spoke, whether I had interpreted correctly the obscure message on my PAT-card: Pass All Fail All . I was pleased to see Anastasia listen with whole attention, if diverted eyes.

"That nutty Spielman!" Stoker marveled, much amused (we were obliged to move less swiftly on the rough dirt road, and so could speak without shouting). "What a prize he's made out of you: a billygoat persuaded he's Enos Enoch!"

I shook my head vigorously. "No, no, you're wrong all around. In the first place Max didn't persuade me: he's a fine advisor, and I owe him my whole education, almost; but it was I who told him I'm the Grand Tutor. He still doesn't believe me as much as he needs to, hard as he tries. He wants it to be true; he suspects it might be; but I'm the only one so far who knows it is."

"You're Max's boy, though," Stoker insisted. "Where'd you get the notion you should change WESCAC's AIM?"

I admitted that it was indeed Max who had first proposed that particular labor, the worth whereof however I fully affirmed. All I had known was that I must rescue studentdom: from what, and how, I depended on experience — as well as my advisor — to clarify.

"How about your deportment?" Stoker challenged. "That's Max's doing too, isn't it?"

"Beg pardon?" I mistook him to have asked which department of New Tammany College I intended to matriculate in, and it occurred to me that I'd given no thought to the choice of a suitable major since my discovery, some months earlier, than no program in Herohood was listed in the Undergraduate Catalogue. I would have to consult Max on the matter before I registered.

"I mean your silly morals," Stoker said. "Where'd you get the idea you shouldn't have a go at Stacey, if not from Max? You said yourself you'd like to, and you can see she's willing."

"Maurice!" Anastasia held her ears.

"Wasn't it Max who told you you couldn't be a stud-buck if you want to be Enos Enoch?"

"Now look here," I said firmly, "that's another mistake you all keep making, and Max too. I may be a Grand Tutor — I am the Grand Tutor! — but I'm not Enos Enoch, and I don't want to be." Anastasia looked at me wonderingly. "Enos Enoch was Shepherd Emeritus, and I'm the Goat-Boy. There's a big difference."

"By George, we'll have a drink on that!" From his trouser-pocket Stoker drew a black flask, unscrewed the top with his teeth, and forsook a clear chance at a strolling possum to tip himself a drink. Then he offered it to me.

"Grand Tutors don't drink," Anastasia said. It was half plea, half challenge; I responded by accepting the flask.

"They do when they're thirsty."

Stoker cheered. Anticipating water, I choked on the scalding stuff I swigged, a dark liquor manufactured, so Stoker explained, in the Powerhouse itself. Yet it promised splendid things against the chill night air, and I managed a second swallow before returning the flask. Anastasia turned away with a sniff.

"You're all right, George!" Stoker said. "I'm glad Max didn't ruin you altogether."

I was firm. "That's enough about Max. He's a good man, and I'm glad for his advice. Wouldn't listen to anybody else's." I tapped my chest. "But I'm the Grand Tutor, not him."

"Exactly! My sentiments exactly." Stoker whacked my shoulders. "A grand old man, but limited, you know? What worried me, the way you pulled your virtue back there, I thought he might actually have clipped you…"