Mythology Abroad

by Jody Lynn Nye

  Keith became animated, and began pacing up and down in the hallway, twisting the phone cord nervously between his fingertips. He’d been so involved with the Little Folk, he’d forgotten entirely about hunting down his own family tree. It sounded like a root had sprung right underneath his feet, and he had nearly missed it. “That’s right. You’re Eamon O’Doyle’s great-grandson, or great-great?”

  “I am that. Great-great, if you will call it that.”

  “Can we meet?” Keith asked. “I’ve got to go home tomorrow morning, but I’ve got a car. I can drive anywhere.”

  Patrick Doyle was full of regret. “Ah, well, I’m just out of the door for France this very minute. I do a job in public relations, and I was hoping you’d have called me back sooner than this, but no harm done.”

  “I guess not,” Keith replied dejectedly.

  “You’ll only just have to come back again, and meet your cousins then.”

  The idea immediately perked Keith up. “Yeah! I’ve just about promised to come back anyway.”

  “Good on ya. Let’s keep in touch, now, shall we? Here’s my address.”

  Seizing a pencil, Keith scrawled down the information. “That’s great. My father will be thrilled.”

  “Must go now. It takes a long hour and some to get to the airport. It’s good that you called. I’m pleased to have been hearing from you, Keith. Give my best to your folks, and come again soon!” Patrick rang off.

  Keith set down the receiver and looked at the others, who had been watching him curiously. “Well, how do you like that?” He waved the paper at them. “Said he’s tried to call a few times, but we were always out.”

  Holl bowed his head, abashed. “My apologies, Keith Doyle. You’ve missed your own opportunities by assisting us, once again.”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” Keith said dismissively. “I couldn’t have concentrated on what he was saying anyway, not with all the things going on with you and your kin. I’ll meet him eventually. It’s not like he was going to disappear into the mists,” he said playfully. “He’s only going to France.”

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Holl hummed happily to himself as they rode the shuttle bus to the Dublin airport. He had a packet of white bellflower seeds in his pocket, a gift from Fiona, who had worked hard and at some little risk to cull them overnight. That and the bunch of cut flowers tucked into the hastily sewn inside pocket of his jacket gave him a contented feeling of accomplishment. Diane was twirling a featherlight woolen shawl, woven by Ketlin’s own hands, and talking of accessories. Keith was more thoughtful. The Niall had taken him aside and presented him with a pair of golden rings. “You’ll know when best to make use of these,” the Chief had said, “if you’ll allow an old man like me to meddle in your private life.”

  “Why not?” Keith agreed lightly. “I meddle in everybody else’s.”

  The Niall smiled. “I agree it’s a little soon yet, but one day it won’t be.”

  Keith had accepted them with thanks and put them away carefully in an inside pocket. He hadn’t mentioned the rings to the others. Niall had also presented him with a flat woolen cap like most of the elders wore. He showed that instead.

  No one knew what the Master had been given. He had hardly spoken a word since breakfast.

  Diane folded her shawl away at last. “Well, now we know where they come from,” she told Keith, glancing backward significantly toward the direction of the vale. “And the mystery is solved.”

  “Maybe for you,” Keith said, “but for me it’s deeper now than it was before.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Well, I learned the Gaelic greeting from Peter, right?”

  “Right. You said it perfectly. And Niall repeated it back to you, or something a lot like it.”

  “But it’s not the same thing he said to you when you arrived. It’s not Irish they’re speaking. It sounds like it, with the lilt and all, but it isn’t. Probably some Irish words have drifted into it over the years, like ‘newspaper’ has into our Little Folks’ dialect. But they don’t belong there.”

  “You mean it isn’t their native land?” Diane asked, puzzled.

  “Probably not the same way it is for the Irish. This means their culture comes from someplace else, and they’ve managed to keep it up, inviolate, over the years they’ve been there.”

  “So where do they come from?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute,” Diane said definitely.

  “Unless,” Keith offered, after a considering pause, “they’ve been there lots longer than the Big Folk. That would make sense. Wow. What a concept. I wonder if the Celtic people mentioned the presence of Little Folk before they settled in Ireland—or if they found them when they got there—or if maybe they moved in at the same time.” He made a note on the back of his ticket envelope. “Maybe I should start learning Lapp after all.”

  “Now I’m really confused,” Diane complained.

  “So am I,” said Keith, thoughtfully chewing on his pen. “I didn’t ask nearly enough questions. I’ll probably have to go back.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Diane.

  “So what do you think of your relatives, after all this time,” Keith asked, while they were waiting their turn in line to pass through Airport Security. The Master grunted.

  Holl replied instead. “Oh, I like them. They’re not much different than the folks at home; only I think the Conservatives more greatly outnumber the Progressives here. Thank goodness the Niall is a strong man.”

  “I suppose it’s easier for the Conservatives, when they’ve held the home ground so much longer. What about that Tiron? Nice guy. You and he looked like you were getting to be as thick as thieves.”

  “We became friends,” Holl said shortly. “He knows a great deal about woodworking that I never dreamed of.”

  “Sure seemed to know it all,” Keith asserted. “He’d be a great asset to Hollow Tree Industries. So, did you promise to keep in touch and everything?”

  “Oh, yes,” Holl said. “We’ll be very close in the future.”

  “It seems like everyone’s aspirations came true on this trip,” Keith said happily. “But I’ve got to tell you, I’m going to be glad to get home.”

  “Put your bags on the belt,” the Customs Agent instructed them. Keith hoisted his bag up and put it on the conveyor, and stepped toward the magnetic arch.

  “Wait, Keith Doyle, your camera,” Holl cried. He took it from Keith and handed it to the x-ray technician seated behind the luggage machine. “Please don’t put this through. It has film in it.”

  The technician looked away from his screen and turned to one of the other guards, who put the camera carefully on a small plastic tray and carried it to the other side.

  Keith retrieved his suitcase and demonstrated to the security guards how his camera worked. When they were satisfied that it contained only film, they waved the party away and directed them toward the departure gate.

  “Anyone for the Duty Free Shop?” Keith asked.

  “Anything to declare?” the U.S. Customs agent asked Keith, when he presented his passport at the glass-sided booth.

  “Yep,” Keith announced. His nerves were a little strung out. He had spent the whole flight anticipating this moment, knowing that Holl was carrying a packet of highly questionable flower seeds in his pocket. If they were searched, the Little Folk were through. He knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t help it.

  Holl, waiting behind the red line five feet behind him, was thrown into a panic. He wasn’t sure whether to grab Keith’s suitcase and bolt, or just brazen it out. Then Keith grinned foolishly at the agent. “I want to declare that it’s terrific to be home.”

  “Geddada here.” The agent had heard this type of declaration before. He stamped Keith’s passport for the Green Channel and shooed him away, shaking his head sadly. “Next!”

  “How was the trip?” Ke
ith’s father asked, peering in the rear view mirror. Holl sat in the front seat between Mr. Doyle and Diane.

  “Great,” Keith said enthusiastically. “The tour of Scotland was terrific. I shot about twenty rolls of film. I’ve got tons of information from the Irish Genealogy Office, and from the priest of the parish where our folks were born, Father Griffith. And I talked to one of our cousins. His name’s Patrick Doyle.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Mr. Doyle said cheerfully. “One of Emerson’s descendants?”

  “No, one of Eamon’s, his brother, so he’s a cousin something removed. You’ll have to see the family tree now. We missed each other a few times, but I’ve got his address and phone number. We met a lot of other terrific people, too.”

  “It was full of surprises,” agreed Holl, glancing sideways at the suitcase. He watched out of the side view mirror as the Doyle car turned onto the toll way and pulled into traffic. “We’re well away from the airport now,” he said loudly.

  “Thank the powers,” said a muffled voice from inside Keith’s suitcase. “Now let me out of here. My spine’s at a permanent angle.”

  Keith stared openmouthed at the suitcase at his feet, and fumbled with the locks. The top burst open, and Tiron sprang out of it, clutching his back with both hands. “Ooh, I don’t think I could have waited another tick. Well, what are you staring at?” he demanded of the gawking Keith. “Have you never seen an economy class passenger before, then?”

  “What am I running here, an underground railroad?” Keith asked in mock outrage.

  “More on the order of an underground airline,” Holl offered innocently. “Though that is physically impossible, it’s the best description.”

  “You said I’d be an asset to your business. Well, here I am.” Tiron stretched up his arms to Keith and the Master. “Help me up. I don’t think I’ll ever sit straight again, so I won’t.”

  “What happened to my blue jeans?” Keith asked, surveying the ruin of his suitcase.

  “Ach, with my folk. They’ll keep them safe for you,” Tiron assured him.

  “Oh, thanks. How do I explain my mother I left my other pants with the leprechauns?”

  “And all your books,” Tiron added.

  “My books!” Keith protested. “Hey! I wasn’t finished reading them!”

  “You’ve already promised to go back, to meet your cousin at least,” Holl said reasonably, “so they’re not really lost.”

  “I don’t see any difference,” Keith grumbled.

  “Well, you’re a hero in my eyes,” Tiron assured him, “giving up your luggage space just for me. I’ve wanted to visit this continent all my life. So, how far is it to the haven from here?”

  “Haven?” Mr. Doyle asked, speaking up for the first time, peering back at his new passenger in the rearview mirror.

  “Hollow Tree Farm, Dad,” Keith explained, and did a double take toward the front seat. He had completely forgotten that it was his father driving the car. “Um, Dad, you don’t have any, well, negative feelings about Tiron appearing like this. I mean, I carried him home in my suitcase. He’s sort of an … illegal alien.”

  “So far as I know, son,” the senior Doyle said mildly, “the U.S. government doesn’t believe that he exists, so what negative feelings could possibly affect me? I’ve accepted the reality of your other friends without losing my marbles. In fact, I wish I’d been the one who discovered them. I grew up on The Lord of the Rings. Personally speaking, I’m delighted he’s here. Tiron, eh? Pleased to meet you.”

  “And I to make your acquaintance, sir,” Tiron replied, settling into the car seat.

  “I want to hear more about your vacation. When you come back from the farm, that is,” Mr. Doyle finished politely. “I think these gentlemen want to get home as soon as possible. You all look beat.”

  “That is true,” the Master affirmed, nodding to Mr. Doyle. “Ve should be very grateful for all speed. My thanks.”

  “Definitely the block you were chipped from,” Diane crowed gleefully to Keith.

  “But, Keith?” his father put in.

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “Please don’t bring home any dragons.”

  “No, sir.”

  Keith turned his blue Mustang into the gravel drive under the trees. It was very late, but lights still burned in the windows. The headlamps dipped down into the slope of the drive and up again, illuminating the side of the old white farmhouse. “Wake up, everyone! We’re here!”

  A head peered around the curtains inside the house, and a cluster of laughing children poured out of the door to greet them.

  Holl looked up at the old farmhouse with a feeling of completeness. He had traveled far, and was in possession of the object of his quest, but oh! it was good to be home. With the trees in full leaf, the outside world was hidden from view. He had had enough of it for the time being. Only a little of the sky showed overhead. He couldn’t help but feel trepidatious about seeing Maura again. He had played scenarios all the way across the Atlantic of her refusing his formal proposal, of meeting her and hearing her say that she had already chosen a new lifemate or worse—accusing him of abandoning her deliberately to break it off.

  “So this is it,” Tiron said, taking it all in. “A lovely place. Quiet, though. Are there any pubs nearabouts?”

  Aylmer, a stocky, dark-haired elf, and his quiet wife Rose came out of the house to shake hands with the Master and Holl, followed by a handful of children. “We’ve missed you,” Rose said sincerely. “But who is this?”

  “This is Tiron,” Holl announced, presenting him. “He is without a doubt the finest woodworker in the world.” The Master looked approvingly at Holl’s statement, and nodded.

  “Thank you for your compliments,” Tiron said flippantly, sketching a bow. “I assure you they’re no more than true.”

  “All has gone vell,” Aylmer assured the Master. “It is in your hands vunce more.”

  “Thank you for taking charge in my absence. But all is vell now. I haf messages from the old ones, and many gifts.”

  “I’ve got lots of pictures,” Keith said, patting his camera bag.

  “Come in, come in,” Rose urged them, slipping her hand around Diane’s arm as far up as she could reach. “Marcy is here. There is coffee, there is cider, and fresh milk, too.”

  “Cider!” Keith exclaimed. “It’s been weeks since I had some of that.”

  “We want to hear all about the old place,” demanded Borget, a boy of seven years, tugging on Holl’s sleeve.

  “All these stories vill be told in the fullness of time,” the Master assured him.

  “Hi!” Another Big Person, a girl with black hair curling around her shoulders, walked into the room wiping paste off her hands. “Welcome back!”

  “Well, if it isn’t Snow White and the Eighty-Seven Dwarves,” Keith said mischievously, as the girl’s cheeks reddened prettily. “Hi, yourself, Marcy.”

  “How was your trip?”

  “Great! Have I got stories to tell you!”

  “Wait for the others before you start telling them,” Marcy pleaded. “Enoch is in the attic fixing the chimney. Some of the bricks fell down inside the fireplace.”

  “I’m not in a hurry, believe me. Where’s Dola?” Keith asked, looking around the faces of his friends. “I brought her a Tam O’Shanter doll. That is, if it’s still in my suitcase.”

  “Aye, that’s there,” Tiron assured him.

  “She’s coming,” said Catra, the village Archivist. “I called the others down from the sleeping rooms.”

  “I have gifts to present, too,” Holl remembered, following the others into the common room. While his friends watched curiously, he unpacked his case. There were sighs and exclamations as each item appeared.

  “Well, you might have brought some of this lovely cloth for all,” Catra’s sister, Candlepat, sniffed, upon learning all the pieces were spoken for. She fingered one hopefully until Holl picked it up again.

  “I’ve brought som
ething better,” Holl stated. “We’ll have lengths of our own making in a few weeks’ time, with Tiron’s help.”

  “That’s right, fair colleen,” Tiron said, looking at Candlepat with interest. “Though you must understand it will take time and skill to make any which will properly adorn your beauty.” She preened herself and looked coyly at him under her long blonde lashes. Catra sighed heavily. Tiron made her a gallant bow, too, and she smiled at him.

  “Excuse me,” Holl said, not wanting to be in the middle of another battle between the rival sisters. Tiron could no doubt take care of himself. “I must find Orchadia.”

  He encountered the Master’s wife as she was coming out of the kitchen, with her daughter behind her. He was so taken by surprise to see Maura, he all but shoved Orchadia into the sitting room and closed the door. Maura looked at him with hurt shock on her face, and he was sorry.

  “I wanted to give you this,” Holl said, handing her the tissue wrapped bundle of cloth, “before I spoke to Maura—in case she isn’t speaking to me, that is.”

  “Haven’t you gone to her yet to find out?” Orchadia asked, taking the bundle and giving it only the most cursory glance. For a moment, the snapping eyes were like those of her son Enoch, or her imperious father. “Do you mean you shut the door in her face that abruptly? For shame! You’re getting to have too many of the Big People’s ways. Now it’s all hurry up and wait, and tomfoolery. Get along with you!”

  Maura must have run away as soon as the door closed. Holl ran through the house to find her. When he discovered her, she was standing by the window in one of the upstairs sleeping chambers, very still. As soon as he could see her, Holl knew she was on the edge of weeping, curtaining her face with her long red-brown hair. “So you come to speak to me last, do you?” Maura asked, standing with her hands folded at her waist.

  “I have thought about you a lot while I was gone,” Holl said at last. “And all that when I went away so that when I came back we could be together for all time. I was distressed to hear that you were spending a lot of private time with Gerol.”

  Maura’s green eyes caught fire. “Oh, you heard that? Oh, Holl, what sense have you? Sometimes you’re as silly as Keith Doyle. You went off, for all everyone knew forever. You might not know since I didn’t complain openly about it, but Ronard made a certain set at me as soon as you left. And Catra is not speaking to me because Ronard was courting her until you went away. Gerol stepped in to help me keep him off. I thought about you, dreamed about you, and who could I talk to about you? Candlepat? Certainly not. She’s interested in you herself, as she is in all males. She’d cut me out without a thought. My mother? She’s got no patience with mooncalfing. Marm? I know he’s your good friend, but all he’d do is agree with me and say ‘Yah.’” Maura made a face. “Gerol’s a good friend. He listened to me.”