Mythology Abroad

by Jody Lynn Nye

  Holl was adamant. “Nothing to do with us. We’re natural creatures. We’ve always kept to ourselves, live and let live.”

  Keith shook the shoe at him. “Well, what about this? You saw what they looked like yesterday. They were about to fall apart. Now the heels have grown back. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” he reasoned.

  “Yes, and where there are balloons, there’s hot air,” Holl retorted.

  “Well, do you have any idea what to look for, to tell if there are other Little Folk in this place?”

  “No, I have not. You’re the one with all the experience with looking for bogeys. I’ve lived in one place all my life, and you’ve been everywhere else I’ve visited so far, and that’s not much.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Mackenzie knows about her little helper. I’m going to ask her.”

  “She’ll think you’re as mad as I do.”

  Keith grinned. “You know, that’s exactly what everyone used to say, and somehow I connected up with you guys, so I’m just going to keep on asking.”

  He put the question delicately to their hostess, expecting her to be disconcerted by the concept of magical folk, but instead, Keith was the one surprised. As soon as she ascertained what her American guest was asking, Mrs. Mackenzie burst into merry laughter. “Have I got a what roaming around my house? I polished your shoes, lad. They were in foul state after your night on the stanes, when you came in so late. My poor clean floor! I’d also bought a repair kit for my boy’s boot heels, and there was enough left to patch yours. They were all to pieces, I saw. So, you were looking for the whippitie-stourie, were you?”

  Keith seized his manual of Scots dialect from his back pocket and started to thumb through it. “A ‘house brownie’? Um, I suppose something like that.”

  Mrs. Mackenzie kept on laughing, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, until Keith had turned as red as his hair. “Nowt of it, lad. Look here.” She led them through the dining room to the kitchen. Keith and Holl followed the sound of her chortling down the hall.

  “I didna ken this oun, so I guessit t’be yours. It’s too late to rescue.”

  From her nest next to the stove, the slim female Siamese blinked adoring blue eyes up at Keith. Under her sable paws, she held her prey, one of Keith’s gray wool socks. Delicately, the cat dipped her head, and dragged a few fibers out of the sock, swallowed them, and did it again, like a child playing “he loves me, he loves me not.”

  “She’s eating my sock,” Keith said incredulously.

  “Ach, she does that,” complained the landlady. “Loves wool, she does. There’s nothing we can do about it. It’s scold her and scold her all the time, and nowt comes of it. It’s a wonder she doesn’t chase down the sheep for their fleece. She must have slippit in when I fetched out your boots. I’ll clear out a drawer for you to keep them safe from now on.”

  Holl started laughing. Keith was outraged at the destruction of his clothes, but disappointed that there was no more to the mystery than a shoe-shining landlady and a sock-eating cat. “There you go, Keith Doyle. One more legend of the Fair Folk relegated to children’s tales.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Mackenzie nodded. “If you wanted the true Fair Folk, you ought to look for them under the moonlight when the milk runs. That’s what my gran used to tell me. Now, come and have breakfast. All this wild jumping at conclusions has no doubt left you ravening.”

  Chastened, Keith went back into the dining room, and took his place at the table. A homely clatter erupted from the kitchen. Soon, heralded by the appearance of the female cat, who was still holding part of Keith’s sock in her mouth, Mrs. Mackenzie emerged with a tray. Keith matched stares with the cat, who took her prey out into the hall.

  “There, that ought to fill you,” the woman said maternally, setting a full plate before him and ruffling his hair.

  Keith took some toast out of the toast rack before it could cool and buttered it. “Thanks. By the way, what’s the holed stone out beyond the garden? There’s traces of white in the bowl. I saw it sort of reflected in the moonlight from above on the way back from the circle, and I went down to look at it.… Um, did I say something wrong?”

  Mrs. Mackenzie had started like a rabbit. Before she answered, she looked right, left, and over her shoulder as if someone might be listening to her right there in her dining room. “It’s old,” she said at last. “Ancient as time. My gran, who owned this farm, had the custom passed to her by her gran, and so to me, to pour the first milking there every full moon. I’ve done it for years.”

  “For prosperity, and so on?” Keith asked, surprisingly calm. She nodded. “To propitiate the bodach? And the cream of the well, too?”

  “The what?” Holl asked skeptically, looking from one to the other.

  “Water drawn from a well on the first night of the new moon,” Keith explained.

  “That’s right.” Mrs. Mackenzie was embarrassed. “It’s my ain silly superstitions, but I’m amazed that anyone understands how it is.”

  Keith put on his most persuasive and trustworthy face. “Come on, Mrs. Mackenzie. Tell me the rest. I study this kind of thing. I’m interested in it. I read a lot about legends and things. I promise we won’t laugh. We take it very seriously.”

  She seemed a bit shamefaced, twisting a fold of her tweed skirt between her fingers, and wouldn’t meet the boys’ eyes. “Seems silly to tell you all,” the landlady continued, “but I haven’t stopped doing it for fear there’s aught to it. It’s there for the wee ones, to keep off the dark and help the farm along.” Keith glanced triumphantly at Holl, who rolled his eyes impatiently at him. “They don’t do jobs, but they do look after us. I put the milk by, and it’s all gone in the morning. It might be cats, but I’ve never dared to stay and look.”

  “Does it have to be you who leaves the milk?” Keith asked.

  “I don’t ken it matters, so long as it’s left,” she replied, surprised. Keith pressed his advantage.

  “It’s the full of the moon tonight. Can I do it tonight? Please?”

  Holl rose out of his seat and shook a finger in the young man’s face. “Oh, no, Keith Doyle,” he cautioned. “Don’t you dare. Remember what the Master said. No meddling.”

  “It might be nothing at all, just some neighbor’s cat, like Mrs. Mackenzie says,” Keith informed him. “All I want to do is see what’s out there, talk to whatever it is, and maybe take a few pictures.”

  “I wouldna mind,” Mrs. Mackenzie added. “The creepity feelings of that stane make me nervous. If he’s a mind to try, I’ve no objections.”

  “There, you see?” Keith finished triumphantly. “And she thinks I’m brave.”

  Exasperated, Holl threw up his hands. “I’m against it, and so would any other creature of sense. My family tells stories of this kind of spirit to scare the children, not to encourage them to waylay it. You don’t know if it’s hornets or kittens making the buzzing, but you want to stick your hand into the nest. Please yourself.”

  “From ghosties and ghoulies and long leggity beasties / and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us,” Keith declaimed in a spooky voice. Mrs. Mackenzie nervously gathered up the tray and went back into the kitchen.

  Holl pursed his lips. “You’re mocking me. If you want to take your own silly risks, go ahead.”

  “How bad could it be? It might be nothing. I’ve followed up dead end leads before. This is probably just one more.” Keith quoted the research books he had been reading. “Remember the bodach of Jura. They’re good guys. The little wise men of the oak trees, and so on. You’d want to meet someone like that, wouldn’t you? This guy might be nothing more than a house brownie, like Mrs. Mackenzie says. Look, if I leave out their fee without trying to do them a kindness, I might be able to talk with them and get a few pictures without ‘waylaying’ it.”

  “Chasing it away,” Holl translated. “But this isn’t Jura. The bodach of this land might be quite a bit different than the ones there. And Mrs. Mackenzie won’t be ple
ased if you scare off her household protector.”

  “Well, she doesn’t actually know if he does anything for them now, or if there’s anyone who comes for the milk. This way, I’ll settle the matter quietly for the lady, and prove its existence for her, and for you, too.”

  ***

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  That night, as soon as the moon appeared, Keith promptly took himself outside, and made himself a comfortable nest in the grass next to the weathered stone at the end of the garden path. Mrs. Mackenzie came out with a bowl of milk balanced carefully on her hands. The cats followed her hopefully, but veered away as soon as she stopped next to the stone.

  “It’s from the first milking, that I’ll guarantee,” Mrs. Mackenzie said, looking a little nervous. “Everything should be proper.”

  “Thanks,” Keith replied blithely, pouring the milk into the depression on top of the stone and handing the bowl back to her. “It’ll be all right. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve brought something extra, in case your visitor’s upset that someone’s here waiting for it.” He produced a bottle of whiskey, propped it on top of the stone. His camera was loaded and waiting. There were new batteries in both the flash unit and the electric torch on his knee.

  Mrs. Mackenzie was hesitant. “I’ll leave ye to’t, then, shall I?”

  “Yup,” Keith said happily. He felt confident. This was much better than the night before—his intuition told him so. “I’ll be in later. Thanks again.”

  The landlady retreated along the path, followed by the cats. Keith was alone. It was only about eight o’clock. He figured he would have a long wait until the bodach thought everyone was in bed and came to claim its tribute. Keith had looked up the illustration of ‘whippitie-stourie’ in one of his guides. It showed a small figure with a slim torso and tiny, long fingers. He was certain he could handle something like that. After discovering a whole village full of Little Folk who were a lot bigger than that, a brownie should be an ordinary night’s work. On the other hand, there was something supernatural about shivering in high July in the Northern Hemisphere in a tweed jacket and a woolly hat as if it was December, Keith thought, as he hunkered down between two apple trees to wait.

  O O O

  “Sir, I think we’ve got something here,” Michaels whispered excitedly into the pay telephone at the bottom of the hill. “I’ve been watching O’Day closely, and there’s no doubt about it, he’s up to something. He’s been acting pretty strangely all day, hieing about with his camera. Can you get me clearance on whether there’s a secure installation hereabout he might be preparing to photograph?”

  On the other end of the line, the chief became very agitated. “I’ll inquire of the Home Office in Edinburgh. Where’s O’Day now?”

  “I think he’s waiting for a contact, sir. There’s a bottle of whiskey on the stone he’s sitting beside, and he looks settled in for a long night.”

  “Aha! This is probably the contact,” the chief said. “Well done, Michaels. Take him. As soon as possible before our security is breached. Move in. You have our full support. If nothing comes of it, we can say he was detained to help us with our enquiries.”

  “Yes, sir.” Michaels hung up, and moved purposefully to his observation spot. At last, there was going to be an end to his vigil.

  O O O

  Holl, denouncing Keith’s antics as a waste of time, declined to wait outside with him. Instead, he had gone into the sitting room and opened one of Keith’s storybooks to pass the time. Two of the Siamese cats sat down on his legs, holding them in place with slim, dark paws and narrow chins. In a short time, Mrs. Mackenzie had appeared with a tea tray, laden with steaming pots, cups, and a plate of small cakes.

  “I always have a wee bite when I’m up late. I don’t think I could sleep! Whew! It’s like the best ghost stories, isn’t it, with him sitten out for the spirit’s rising? You don’t feel as your cousin does, then?” she asked, offering him tea. “You don’t think there’s a Presence out there?”

  “No, I don’t,” Holl said firmly, stirring his cup with a minute spoon. “It’s a lot of nonsense. He’s going to spend a long cold night. But at least you’ll both be satisfied at the end of it.”

  “Aye,” the landlady said. “Well, I don’t believe it, but he does shape a convincing line of talk. I’m quite enjoying it.” They sipped tea for a while in silence. Holl read his book, and Mrs. Mackenzie stared calmly at the electric fire. At last, she gathered up the tea things and rose.

  “Any road, I’m going to me bed. I have early mornings.”

  “Good night,” Holl said, and looked after her thoughtfully when the door closed. He folded the book over on his thumb.

  So Keith Doyle looked as silly to his own kind as he did to Holl’s, playing about with stones and such. Why was Keith so willing to take foolish chances? Did he feel he had nothing to lose? Or did he consider himself so lucky that there was nothing he couldn’t do? That was one of the differences between them. Well, it made one think. Keith Doyle seemed to see small adventures like this as part of his life, not an unwelcome intrusion or an overwhelming spectre. If nothing happened, he didn’t even feel he had wasted his time on the caper. “You can’t learn from your mistakes if you never make any,” he was fond of saying.

  Holl felt that the parts of his own life were much too precious to risk. This trip was the largest departure from his normal routine that he had ever made—that he had ever thought of making—and look what it did to the rest of his comfortable existence.

  Sticks and stones, I’m starting to think like Bilbo Baggins, Holl chided himself. Adventures which made one late for dinner! How hidebound I am, really. He decided all at once that it was silly to let Keith take such risks by himself. There was something about that garden place by the stone he disliked. He finally admitted to himself that he hadn’t wanted to wait with his friend because it made him uncomfortable. And if it did, might there not be something to his feeling? Shaking off the cats, he went to wash his hands.

  In the bathroom, he confronted his own reflection in the mirror. It angered him to see the simple, soft, rounded eartips pushing through his hair, where tall, elegant, sharply pointed ears ought to be.

  “What an idiot I’ve been, hiding behind the semblance of one of the Big Folk. Enough of this masquerading!” Holl spat. “I’ll be myself, with all the silly things I do, and whether or not they’re right, I’ll stand by my decisions.” With an effort of will, he concentrated his energies on his ears. Like corn growing in time action photography, the simple round buds opened, and sprouted into tall, backswept points. Holl smiled at his reflection. “Better.” He couldn’t wait to tell Keith about his decision.

  “If there’s nothing to it, at least I’ll keep him company. There’ll be one supernatural being in the garden this way, at least in the eyes of Keith Doyle.” And if it really was dangerous … He hurried out to join his friend. There was a lot to talk about. They had the whole night through to debate.

  Comfortable with his new resolve, he let himself out the kitchen door to the garden.

  The moon was full above him, giving the garden a diffuse glow. The path split just outside of the door, and took right angles around the rectangular lawn, past dark flower beds full of nodding bushes of blossoms translucent in the moonlight. From the far edge, it continued in a single line between a line of slim apple trees with hard half-grown fruits clinging to the boughs. At the end of the path, Holl could see the whitewashed stone, and a dark form next to it with a gleaming red crown. As he walked toward it, the figure became animated, raising thin limbs to its head. There was a brilliant flash of hot white light and a second in quick succession. Then the shouting started. It wasn’t Keith’s voice doing the yelling.

  His blood drained suddenly into his feet, making him feel faint. There was someone out there. He ran the final distance to the stone. Keith had stood up and was grappling with a figure slightly smaller than he. Holl dashed through the apple trees, beating the branches out
of his way with an impatient arm. By the time he reached the stone, both figures were gone, and the garden was silent. Holl hadn’t seen them go. He crossed the last few feet to the stone. The whiskey bottle was smashed on the paving stones, and the camera lay in the grass beside it.

  “Keith! Keith Doyle!” Holl cried, casting around desperately. No answer. He had been taken away. But where? Oh, why, why was it that that foolish boy always had to suffer to prove his principles?

  “Lad, lad, what is it?” Mrs. Mackenzie called, emerging from between the trees. She was in a long cotton nightdress, and was hastily wrapping an overcoat about herself. “Why are you shouting? Where’s your cousin, hey?”

  Holl turned wild eyes on her. “He’s gone! I think he’s been carried off!”

  “What?” Mrs. Mackenzie looked at him curiously, scrutinizing the side of his head. His hair was well back from his ears, which were anything but hidden in the bright moonlight. Holl hastily blurred her vision, and guided her gaze to focus upon his eyes. She blinked, not sure she had seen anything out of the ordinary, and continued speaking normally, having hardly missed a beat. “Taken by the Wee Ones? Oh, no, lad. Look here.” She led him to the edge of the garden. “See how the ground drops away right there? He tumbled down the hill, I’m certain. Ye can’t see the bottom from where we’re standing, what with the gorse being that thick. He’ll be back up after he’s gathered his wits.” She pulled a protesting Holl away from the edge. “There’s no sense you falling down after him. The ground is unchancy where they’ve been digging it up. You can lose a leg in the peat. Wait for him. See, there’s his torch, here next to the stane. He’s no light to lead him upward. Wait a while, eh? If he’s not back until morning then my husband’ll help ye. Come on back inside. I’ll give you a coop o’ hot milk. That’ll settle ye to sleep.”