Mythology Abroad

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “It’s a wee bit wet,” he explained enigmatically.

  It was wet where they walked, too. The water in the sopping grass soaked through Holl’s sneakers. He wished he had Wellington boots, like their guide’s. They had covered nearly half a mile when Holl felt some sort of compulsion to turn back which grew stronger as he struggled forward, and then suddenly, he pierced through a nearly tangible, fearsome curtain of sensation, emerging into clear air once more. Panting, he looked around to find that he was at the top of a street overlooking a country village. It was like the Big Folks’ ones they had been passing through for days, but scaled down to size, his size. The humped shapes of ordinary farm animals, pigs and sheep and geese that rested in paddocks and folds between and behind the houses, were almost comically huge in comparison. Holl could hear ponies snorting in the darkness beyond. Torches and lanterns burned at the doors of most of the cottages. Along the lane which ran between them, lanterns on standards lit the way for pedestrians. Cats slunk across the path on business of their own. There were no dogs that Holl could hear. Nothing in this place made a noise that could be heard at a distance to attract attention, but still, the village was of a fairly good size. In fact, it was a lot like the one in which he grew up, but there were differences.

  “Aren’t you afraid the Big Folks will find you here?” Holl asked.

  “Oh, sometimes they can see the vale from the road, but you can’t get to it on foot, there’s nowhere to land by hellycopter, and somehow you and your poor little computer forget all about the coordinates when you want to find it later.”

  “It vorked for years on the hilltop in this vay,” the Master put in.

  “I’ll take you to see the Niall, then,” Fergus told them.

  “The Niall?” asked Holl.

  “Aye. We like to think of him as the last King in Ireland, but his title is merely the Chief of Chiefs, which he considers is quite important enough. But you should know all that, laddie.”

  Holl shook his head. Fergus shot a puzzled look at the Master, but dropped the topic.

  “He’ll be curious to see you, and how you grew up! Eh, you were such a wild one. But I’m glad to see you back and all, and so will he be.”

  “A wild one?” Holl whispered to the Master, whose face had twisted into an expression of disapproval. He waved Holl away.

  “How many live here?” Holl asked, looking around in awe, trying to count the houses as they walked among them. No one was outside in the lane, but in the windows he could see shadows of figures thrown up on the curtains by firelight within.

  “As many as there are,” Fergus answered vaguely. “Eh, you’re only a child, to ask so many questions. Have a look about, if you please, but it’d be better in daylight. Why not wait until then?”

  “I haf not been here either,” the Master reminded Fergus.

  “Ah, that’s right, then. You went off long before we moved here.” Fergus moved ahead of them, chuckling.

  “Vhen vas that?”

  “Oh, a wee while ago,” Fergus replied.

  The path continued on down a gentle slope. They came to a fork, where Fergus turned right and continued on past more of the little cottages to a grander, more elaborate residence on the edge of the settlement, two stories in height. Lanterns burned at the corners of the house, and inside behind the window curtains.

  “Well, himself is at home, for a wonder,” Fergus said. “Come along inside.”

  Inside the house, a woman sat spinning at a treadle-driven wheel next to a carved and ornamented fireplace in a large, airy room. Her knee-length dress was of a supple, woven material that flowed around her like water, rippling when she moved her foot. The movement echoed the sway of her long hair, bound back in a ribbon to keep it out of the wheel’s spokes. The interior walls of the house were plain except where flowering vines grew and entwined, making a handsome living mural. The woman glanced up when the three of them entered, and her eyes rounded with surprise. The thread between her hands, which had been smooth and thin, suddenly knotted, but she ignored it. She rose from her seat in a single graceful movement and flew to embrace the Master.

  “I don’t believe it!” she exclaimed, standing back to gaze at him at arm’s length. “Niall! Niall!”

  “Women are like birds,” said a musical voice from the next room. “They’re beautiful, ornamental, and they should be kept in yards or cages, so they should. For what are you screaming, my love?” The speaker entered. He was Holl’s height, but thinner. His fair hair was of a lint white, something like Holl’s grand-nephew Tay’s. Holl tried to gauge how old he was, but the face with its sharp nose and chin and equally sharp eyes had only enough skin stretched across it to cover the fine bones. His eyes crossed their faces impassively, until they came to the Master. In a moment, the Niall had recognized him, and his jaw dropped.

  Holl saw that the Master had braced himself for a cold reception. When the Niall advanced on him and wrung his hand, the Master relaxed, and returned the following embrace heartily.

  “I never thought on this side of life that I would ever see you again!” the Niall exclaimed, thumping him soundly on the back.

  “Nor I you,” said the Master. He extended a hand toward Holl. “I present to you this young man, whose name is Holland.”

  “Holl,” Holl corrected.

  The deep-set, dark blue eyes turned to study Holl. “He’s not yours, to be sure. This’ll be one of Curran’s get, will it not?”

  “That’s right,” Holl said. “My parents are Dennet and Calla.”

  “Ah, of course. And he can speak for himself. I remember your sister, and a sharp tongued young wench she was. Very good! So, my dears, sit down.” Niall gestured them toward the cluster of low, wooden-backed chairs at the side of the fireplace across from the spinning wheel. Fergus, forgotten on the threshold, cleared his throat significantly. “Sit down, Fergus, do. You’re welcome, as always. Ah, here are the others. I thought word might spread like a grassfire. Come in, friends.” Five or six other men and women had come in from the outside, and greeted the Master warmly. Holl was introduced in a flurry of kisses, pats of the back, and handshakes to the other Clan Chiefs. “Ketlin, will you kindly get us something to drink?”

  “Certainly I will. And you hold the talk until I’m back, hear me?” Ketlin insisted.

  “Ah, women.” Niall saw to it that everyone was made comfortable. “Now, then, the question that’s knocking at every lip begging to get out is why? Why have you come back to us? Do you need sanctuary? Are you the only ones left alive, then?” the Chief asked anxiously.

  “Not at all,” said the Master. “The village is thriving. We haf doubled our numbers. There are many children, and all are healthy.”

  There were quiet exclamations of “Ah!” around the circle, and a spate of whispering.

  One of the women spoke up. “We hoped for word or glance of you, but you went straight out of our ken. Who dreamed you could go so far away that no one could touch you? You were all given up for dead. Many’s the curse called down on your head for leading away some of our children and loved ones to die.”

  “None died in the traveling,” the Master promised solemnly. “Ve lived in many places before arriving in the one we now occupy, but that vill be a home and a haven now and forever. The land is good. Ve haf plenty of food, and there is wood for building. Only one house stands on the property at this time, but it is a Big Folk house, vith plenty of room. Others are planned.”

  “Ah, I feel the truth of your words,” the Chief of Chiefs said with one hand on his heart. “But I’d be content if I could look into the faces of our lost ones.”

  “In a way, you can,” Holl spoke up. The old ones had been ignoring him, treating him as a nestling barely out of the egg, and he found it annoying. He wanted to defend the Master, who was so obviously on trial before them. “Keith Doyle has several rolls of photographs of our folk, taken at the Going Away party.”

  Memory dawned on the Master’s face. “Tha
t is true. I had forgotten his posing and prancing. Ve haf the faces preserved. All of them, or I do not know Keith Doyle.”

  “May we see these preserved pictures?” the Chief asked.

  “With Keith’s photographs comes Keith,” Holl warned the Master.

  “That is true,” the Master acknowledged. “His curiosity must be past the bursting point already. May he come?” he asked the Niall.

  “Big Folk among us in our fastness? Never! We’ll have no peace from them thereafter.” There was protest among the elders. Holl waited them out. Their curiosity was aroused. They would eventually capitulate.

  The fire was replenished many times during the course of the night. None of the chiefs seemed to become bored with having the Master repeat the details of his journey to America. Clan by clan, he ticked off the children that had been born, who their parents were, and what capabilities the children seemed to be showing as they grew up.

  “And who has married whom?” asked Aine, another of the female chiefs.

  “None in my lifetime,” Holl said.

  “None yet in the new place,” the Master replied.

  “None yet?” Aine echoed disbelievingly. “In all that time? Heavens above, why not?”

  Holl thought it would be appropriate to bring up the point of his quest. “By our custom, or so I’ve been taught,” he began, with a seated bow toward the Master, “none of us can marry unless there are white bellflowers to hand to bless the union. We have none.”

  “The last seeds appear to haf been lost in one of the transits to our present home,” the Master affirmed.

  “Ah, well, it’s impossible then, isn’t it?” the Niall said, nodding.

  Holl noted the serious expressions on the faces of those seated around him. He had been inclined to dismiss the flowers as a fillip, a gesture and no more, but clearly they were not.

  “I know of none at present,” the Chief continued. “Fiona, have you seen any weddingbells in the fields?”

  “There have been no weddings or engagements planned for the year, so none sought them,” one of the female chiefs answered. “It’s nearly the end of the season. It may be past their time. I’ll have the children go out and seek them in the morning.”

  Holl felt panic rising in his belly. What if there were none?

  “There’ll have to be the gathering ceremony,” one of the very old chieftains said. The Master turned to him with an expression of annoyance barely concealed. The old man missed none of it. “Ah, don’t look at me that way. You’ve forgotten, have ye? It’s been a long time since you married my daughter. Hah! Do you not know about the weddingbells? To take them off the sacred places requires respect to be shown. Never do we hasten the blooming of the bells, never! Three blessings those flowers give. Are you willing to show the proper respect, young one, to receive the benefits?”

  “Yes,” Holl replied, returning to the present and wondering exactly what was going on between the Master and this man. It must be an old feud. So this was Orchadia’s father. Enoch resembled him somewhat. Grandfather and grandson seemed to have identical tempers, at any rate.

  “Perhaps if you wait a wee while we can put you on the way to finding some weddingbells,” Fiona said, interceding, and turned the conversation to other matters.

  Holl understood that there was no point in trying to hurry them. If none were found before the date he was expecting to leave, he would change his plane ticket to a later date. It was that simple. There must be some way to break the news to Keith Doyle.

  “I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask again on behalf of my Big friend if he may visit your home. He can be well behaved, and it would be a joy to him if he could meet you.”

  “Certainly not,” the old man stated firmly.

  Most of the chiefs still protested against it, but one or two held their tongues. They were becoming interested.

  “I too must speak on Keith Doyle’s behalf,” the Master said unexpectedly. “He is, if not the author, then the director of our present prosperity. Ve owe him much.”

  “And at present, he’s got a tongue-tying curse on him,” Holl reminded the Master, who nodded.

  “Laid by one of the two of you?” Fiona asked humorously.

  “No, by a being of the earth in the Scottish Islands. He has a photograph.”

  “Ah, well, we can’t touch that, but the weddingbells could take care of it,” she insisted. “They cure many ills, you may know.”

  “Tell us about the haven,” one of the other clan chiefs demanded, interrupting them. A rooster, immediately underneath the window, interjected at that moment to announce dawn. Holl looked up. Orange and pink streaks were reaching up from the east to color the sky. They had stayed up all night talking, and at this rate, would be here all day.

  The Master gave them every detail that concerned Hollow Tree Farm: how many acres it comprised, how many of each kind of tree, what condition of farmland and how many lengths. They pressed him to know how the Folk lived on the farm, and what that life was like.

  “Ve are not yet self-sufficient. There’s more to be made, and time needed in vhich to make it. Ve could not do all ve vanted in the Big Folks’ building, but now ve haf land of our own.”

  “I would like to introduce weaving and spinning to the farm,” Holl put in. “We have never had textile capability of our own, and now that we have room to graze them, we should have sheep. I observed the weaving in the Scottish Islands. There’s nothing they do that we can’t. In fact, quite a lot of the wool fabric here looks a lot like the cloth that the Hebrideans make.”

  “We use an old style loom, with several shuttles,” Ketlin said. She brought Holl back to examine the one in her workroom, behind the Niall’s study. “It’s old, but it does its work well.”

  “It’s just like Mrs. MacLeod’s.” Holl showed off the sketch he made of the Big Person’s loom. His notebook, which had been in his back pocket all day and all night, was creased, and some of the drawings were smudged, but that one had been spared.

  “So it is,” Ketlin said, studying the sketch. “You’ve got a skilled hand, lad.”

  “I’m planning to have the others help me to make some of these looms so we can make our own wool cloth, and some finer ones for cotton percale and so on. The United States is great for growing fiber plants.”

  “You should talk to Tiron,” the Niall said when they returned to the front room. “And now it seems we should think of having breakfast. Go back, all of you, and tell your folk we have a couple of honored guests this day. We can breakfast together on the common. I think it will be fair this morning.”

  “Meet Tiron, who is the child of Ardigh and Gerome,” the Niall said, introducing them formally over breakfast. “Holl, son of Dennet and Calla. Holl is interested in the making of looms, my lad.”

  “Ah, good!” Tiron said. He had brilliant green eyes, and a cap of curling dark hair under a peaked cap with a buckled band around the crown. He wore a short, sleeveless coat over a long-sleeved shirt, unlike many of his seniors, who wore coats and woolly vests, like the Big Folk in the nearby towns. “And I’m pleased to meet you. Well, there’s nothing I can’t tell you. I made all the looms in this village. My design is better than the one they were using while I was growing up. It took a little persuasion to force out the bad ways,” Tiron wiggled a hand sideways to show the direction his machinations took, “but it’s been worth it, they say. A wee bit of tinkering was all a loom needed to run more smoothly, with less chance of the web wrinkling or the thread snapping. What’s more, I know all there is to know in caring for them. Nearly all the clothing you see here is from cloth woven on one of my looms,” Tiron bragged. “I can make one in a fortnight, by myself.”

  Holl looked around at the others for someone to give Tiron’s statement the lie, but no one did. They were all nodding at the young craftsman. “All of it! I am impressed,” Holl acceded. “It must be sound work indeed.”

  “So they tell me. You’re from America, are you?” Tiron went o
n with interest. “I’ve wanted to go there all my life. You ought to take me back with you.”

  “I don’t know how that would be possible,” Holl said cautiously. He was by no means eager to take this cocky fellow back to the farm with him, even if he could figure out how.

  “If you did, Holl vould haf to fall back on leadership,” the Master said teasingly. “He is our finest woodworker and ornamenter.” Holl displayed the small box he had been working on in idle moments.

  “He is?” said Tiron, affecting surprise. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.” He twitched Holl’s work out of his hands and inspected it closely. The featureless stick Holl had begun with in Inverness had become a cylindrical box three inches high covered solidly with his favorite ivy pattern. He watched Tiron examine it with a gimlet eye. “Well, now what a pretty pattern,” the other said somewhat patronizingly, “but you’ve forgotten to give the poor little leaves any backbones. Here, now.”

  He whipped out his own knife, a tool with a simple bronze blade. Holl eyed it. Any fool could make a bronze knife. The titanium blade in his pocket took a considerable amount of work and skill to create. The important thing was what he could do with it. With the knife held an inch from the point with his fingers, Tiron bent over the box. “There,” he said after a moment. “If you’d take the trouble to look at that, I’d be most pleased.”

  Holl accepted the box back. Tiron had carved minute spines and veins on the ivy in the pattern in the lid, swiftly and without error. The leaves suddenly looked real, a monochrome illumination for a calligraphed manuscript, and made the rest of the little carving look clumsy. Holl turned red.

  “There’s still a few things for you to learn, my boy,” Tiron winked at him in a friendly manner. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

  “None,” said Holl humbly, inspecting the work more closely once the fierce blush of embarrassment had subsided. “It’s so easy to enlarge upon the detail, now I’ve seen what you do, and I never thought of it, never felt to add it.”

  “You have the look of someone who’s done it by rote, from a design or drawing, not the real thing,” Tiron said, summing him up with a critical but not unfriendly eye. “You’ve all the ways and skills to be good. Come and see real ivy.” He clapped a hand on Holl’s back and led him toward a low stone wall that ran around the rear of one row of the small cottages. “Ah, pity. I could teach you so much, but we have so little time. Come and talk!”