Higher Mythology

by Jody Lynn Nye

  Most of the artifacts were of the shard and fragment variety, with carefully-made mockups of how the pieces were assumed to have looked when they were in use. Once again, Keith was impressed by the way the scientists had extrapolated the shape of the whole items from formless fragments found out of context in three-thousand-years-worth of dirt. Previously discovered examples were used as templates, but it took a good eye to tell the difference between the potential fracture zones of the neck of a jar from its similarly-formed pedestal. Bone pins, small toys, glass beads and the like were all that remained fully intact after the passing millenia.

  Keith surveyed the display. Each of these pieces was as ordinary as it looked. None of them aroused that tingle of second sight, calling to him the way the wood-and-bone comb had. Catra’s elliptical message had been correct. The comb was not where it belonged. In the next to last case, he saw the little pinned label designating where the comb belonged. A little bar labeled “REMOVED” lay in most of the empty spots where artifacts had been taken out, but none marked this particular absence. His invisible whiskers sprang erect in alarm.

  He dropped to his knees in front of the case, his nose almost pressed into the glass. The possibility of the truth hadn’t concerned him so long as it was likely there had been a mistake. Keith felt a lead weight drop into the pit of his stomach. He stared into the heart of the case, hoping for a clue. Did someone else latch on to the fact that there was something extraordinary about that one piece, and steal it? The Little Folk would want to avoid letting wander loose any artifact that could be traced back to them. It was safe with Parker. Keith knew he had to find it and get it back here where it belonged. He suddenly felt someone’s eyes upon him, and looked around.

  A uniformed security guard stood against a pillar, peering obliquely at him, clearly wondering why a young man in suspenders was getting so upset about Bronze Age antiques. It was the same guard who had been near the front door. Keith gave him a huge, mindless smile. The guard scowled, and looked away.

  Keith sighed. It was going to be harder to investigate the comb’s disappearance with a tail following him all over the museum. Nonchalantly, Keith backed away from the case and stared up at the large map suspended above it, showing the locations in Scotland where the various artifacts had been found. A light sound came from behind him, as if the guard had shifted a foot on the polished floor.

  Without haste, though his nerves were going bonkers, Keith sidled away from the Parker display, and ambled toward the nearest stairwell.

  Was there any way to trace the comb, using its previous presence in the case as a thread? Keith threw a mental glance over his shoulder, hoping the guard wouldn’t notice. The case didn’t emit any perceptible energies pointing one way or the other. There wasn’t enough magical oomph in the comb to have left a trail. As a psychic detective, he was on his own.

  Keith started walking down the stairs. The guard sauntered behind him, the radio on his hip emitting whispering sibilants. Keith looked up and smiled at the man, whose brows drew together in a scowl. He guessed that it hadn’t been too smart to draw attention to himself at the museum entrance. Now the staff was suspicious. How could he get rid of his tail?

  In the main floor of the museum were the famous dinosaurs, a tyrannosaurus rex standing triumphant over the prone body of its prey. Keith stopped at the well-worn handrail and stared up at its toothy jaws. The guard paused about twenty feet away, arms folded, and wearing a carefully neutral expression on his face that made him look no less threatening than the giant dinosaur. Keith studied paleontology, wondering what to do.

  There hadn’t been a news report on the radio about the theft of the comb from the museum, so either the loss hadn’t been discovered yet, or the museum staff was covering up. He wondered how the elves had gotten the word so quickly. Maybe Professor Parker himself had called the Master with the news.

  It was likely to be an inside job, Keith reasoned. Those cases couldn’t be opened easily by an outsider without keys, and to judge by the persistence of the security staff around suspicious visitors, without being observed. If the comb remained on the premises, maybe he could find it. It gave off a recognizable auric energy that Keith had detected shortly after he’d found it. That process of investigation, as Holl and Enoch had been at pains to instruct him, took concentration. Keith stared up into the flat eye socket of the tyrannosaurus, and looked past it, focusing his own inner eye.

  Suddenly, he was surrounded by ghost-lights, as ordinarily-unseen energies pulsed at him, beckoning him toward a myriad of glass cases visible in the large chambers that led off from all sides of the main hall. More energies thrummed at him through the floors from upstairs and downstairs.

  Oh, great, Keith thought, overwhelmed, looking around at the sudden display. He didn’t know where to turn first. This place is full of magic artifacts.

  Well, where better to hide a needle than in a haystack full of needles? If the thief knew the special property of the comb, he wouldn’t bother to remove it from the premises. Keith went from one source of energy to another, hoping that one of them belonged to the missing comb. Most of the Hopi kachinas glimmered at him in their case, creating a tremendous mass presence that was the most powerful thing for yards. A few of the Inuit household goods shone brightly against the dimness of the hall where they were displayed. Keith hurried through the aisles, eliminating one false lead after another. After the thirtieth false alarm on the ground floor drew him to yet another Native American display, he made a mental note to research those mystical traditions one day and learn more about the source of their talents.

  None of the artifacts he inspected had the correct mental feel, so he was able to slowly fine-tune what he was looking for. The Indian items had their own strong identity, and it didn’t match the sensation he had had from handling the comb. Gradually, he began to feel that what he wanted was not on this floor at all, but somewhere below.

  A loudspeaker interrupted his thoughts with a pleasant chime, followed by a woman’s voice that echoed through the big chamber, drowning out the identity-less roar of human voices and footsteps. “The museum will be closing in twenty minutes.”

  Keith looked around him. A few of the other patrons left what they were doing and headed toward the main entrance or toward the gift shop. No one was paying attention to him. At long last, the guard who’d been tailing him had gotten bored with the seemingly-aimless tour of the Native American rooms, and abandoned him. Hands in pockets, Keith strolled along the inner wall of the museum toward a down staircase.

  Maybe before technology humankind knew more about the mystical side of life, but the industrial revolution had changed things. He’d read about a theory that suggested that people stopped believing in fairies after machines were invented that spun thread or made shoes, because those tasks were no longer such hard work. Keith knew better. Humanity was just ignoring its closest neighbors. He smiled, a little smugly.

  His new skill made the world look subtly different to him. His expanded perception gave him insights into other cultures in ways he never dreamed of. He was grateful to his little friends for making it possible. Running errands like this was one of the very minor ways he had to show thanks.

  The Egyptian rooms were an unexpected ordeal. Definitely the ancient kingdom had a handle on the unseen energies. Ever since he was a kid, the Field Museum displays of mummies and sarcophagi had given him a feeling of exciting and incomprehensible danger, like the chilling sensation aroused by hearing really good ghost stories around campfires, and now he knew why. Every mummy in the glass cases had a creepingly terrifying pseudopod of light coming from it that reached out to him, questing snakelike to investigate him, and as he shrank back from its touch, fell away. It seemed as if each mummy was looking for someone, someone particular—maybe the people who had defiled the tombs where they had once been buried—but was not interested in anyone else.

  The keen thrill of terror made him shiver, wondering if he was in for the same k
ind of retribution for snooping through the remains of the Celtic villagers in Scotland. No, there’d been no sensation of evil or anger there. The priests and embalmers of Egypt had deliberately put a malign influence that reached out long after the body was inert matter, to revenge the departed Pharaohs on the despoilers of their graves.

  Lessons in countering the Little Folks’ talent for misdirection brought his attention obliquely to an unmarked steel door at the end of the corridor at the opposite end of the hall from the exhibits. It had been painted the same color as the walls to make it unobtrusive. From the musty smell wafting gently underneath it, Keith guessed that the corridor beyond probably led to the archives and storage rooms.

  The pulse he was following grew stronger and stronger the closer he got. He was more and more convinced that it was the Scottish comb he was tracing. It was still in the museum.

  No security guards were in sight, but it wouldn’t hurt to use a little misdirection of his own. After a moment of concentration, he observed happily that none of the museum visitors looked directly at him any more. Under cover of a large crowd heading for the stairs, Keith slipped in the door, and closed it gently behind him.

  He’d never been “behind the scenes” in the museum before. It made him feel a little uneasy as if now he’d see the fakery and animatronics that made the place run. Everything remained blessedly if not refreshingly real. The storage rooms at the end of the corridor reminded him strongly of the library stacks at college. They consisted of numbered shelves along narrow aisles, but instead of holding books they held antiquities of every description, smelling of spice, dust, and time. There wasn’t much light, but it was sufficient to navigate by, and besides, he wouldn’t need to see the comb with his normal vision to find it.

  Echoing eerily down the clay-scented corridor came the voice of the public address system. “The museum is now closed. Will you please make your way immediately to the exits. Thank you for visiting the Field Museum.” That was it. Keith was now on the premises illicitly. He hoped he could get to the comb and get out of the building without causing a fuss.

  The sensation that he was being watched by someone smiling made him turn slowly around to see who was there. He jumped in surprise. The empty eyeholes of a mask from the South Pacific stared at him blankly, the shards of polished shell, jade, and bone set into its face gleaming softly like milky jewels.

  Hand on his chest, Keith leaned against the shelf opposite while his heart stopped pounding basso staccato.

  “Whew,” he whispered.

  As it had been in the outer museum, there were plenty of artifacts that provided their own illumination. Keith was able to pass most of them by without even looking at them.

  The feeling that the comb was very near persisted. On the other side of the second huge room of shelves were several small doors. Offices, Keith guessed.

  A yawn erupted suddenly. He stifled it with difficulty. Using his second sight so much was making him tired. He hoped his energy would last until he solved his mystery and got out of the museum. He wasn’t so nimble at making excuses when his wits were fuddled.

  The first few offices were dark. Each was small, crammed full in every available corner and on every flat surface with books, papers, small artifacts, stones, and assorted impedimenta. A quick glance into each was enough to tell Keith that what he sought wasn’t there. Besides, the yearning cry of the Scottish artifact was still up ahead.

  The tingly glow summoned him to the last room on the left.

  It was larger than the other offices, with an extra door standing ajar in the right hand wall. Beyond the door, Keith could hear someone with an English accent and pedantic cadence lecturing. Good. If everyone was occupied, no one would notice him while he investigated.

  To his great relief, the comb was in the glass case across from the inner door. The moment he came around the corner he was washed with a sensation of relief and comfort like meeting an old friend. Whatever had been the purpose of its magical enhancement in the Bronze Age, it gave off a soothing radiation that calmed its possessor or anyone else in close proximity. Not a bad survival trait for something so fragile.

  Keith stood back to think, eying the case. It was in plain sight, with no attempt to disguise it or its contents, so there was no question that the comb was down here deliberately, with the blessing and knowledge of the museum. He wondered why the Little Folk were concerned about it.

  Maybe their real reason for sending him was feedback from the artifact next to the comb, which was putting out a louder and more insistent signal. It was a thumb-sized, baked clay figurine, made to be strung on a necklace, shaped like a stylized human child except for—Keith had to lean down closely to make certain—the pointed ears.

  “Oh, my God,” Keith breathed. He wondered who else was aware of the charm’s special characteristics, and what conclusions they’d drawn from it. He wasn’t sure why the Folk were worried that they might be at risk for discovery from the display of a Bronze Age clay fetish in Chicago. Maybe it was something that belonged to them that got lost. Well, if that was the case, he was going to make sure they got it back. But how to “liberate” it? He hunkered down in front of the glass door to see if there were alarm wires or anything that would go off when he opened it. He put his hands flat against one of the panes and started to slide it slowly leftward.

  Suddenly, the voices behind him got louder, and the door at his back was flung open. Keith turned around, blinking with terror at the knees of a group of people mostly wearing gray suits or neutral skirts; all except for the one at their head, an adult human male who was at eye level with Keith. Professor Parker, researcher and lecturer, was a dwarf.

  “As I live and breathe, Keith Doyle!” exclaimed Parker, coming forward with his sailor’s gait. He extended a cordial hand to Keith. “How very nice to see you! This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Professor,” Keith said weakly, putting out his own hand. Parker shook it vigorously. “Well, well, well, what have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Oh,” Keith replied, smiling up at the small researcher’s companions. They didn’t seem as pleased to see him as Parker was. He glanced back. His handprints were clearly visible on the front of the display case. “Uh, hot air ballooning. Things like that.”

  Parker’s face lit up with childlike delight. “Really? Very different from the last time I saw you, young man. Above the ground is undoubtedly better for you than below it, eh?” Parker chuckled heartily. Keith joined in, sounding like a sick engine valve.

  “Well, Keith Doyle, what a businesslike dash you cut!” The small professor looked him up and down. Keith was suddenly acutely aware of the fashionable short haircut he wore, and that he hadn’t changed out of the white button-down shirt with the fatuous patterned suspenders holding up his trousers he’d worn to the office that day. The outfit looked silly next to the conservative autumn weight gray suits on all the men in the room. Suddenly aware also that there were a lot of them, and some austerely dressed women, too. Though Parker was happy to see him, he’d obviously interrupted a presentation of some kind.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “And how is my good friend Professor Alfheim? Although it is not uncommon for people our size to have children your size, you’re not really his son, are you?” Parker asked conspiratorially.

  “No, sir,” Keith admitted, a little shamefacedly, remembering the subterfuge the Master had employed to have an excuse others would accept why he was helping Keith. “But we are distantly related. There was a good reason why he said so, really.”

  “Ah.” Parker nodded. “I rather thought so. There is a fairly strong resemblance. And how is your cousin Holl?”

  “Married,” Keith said, with a grin. “And …”

  “What? Surely not. He’s just a boy. Must be about sixteen by now, what?”

  Keith backpedaled furiously, clamping his mouth closed on the phrase “and they have a baby girl.” “I mean as good as married. He’s got a girlfrie
nd, Maura. They’re really serious about each other.”

  He dug into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a picture he’d taken of the two of them at the wedding supper wearing their flower wreaths. Keith was certain those hid the points of their ears, but there wasn’t time to check before Parker seized the picture and admired it.

  “Very pretty. Very pretty. What interesting clothes. Lovely embroidery. Almost medieval. Could it be some kind of Renaissance Festival?”

  “Uh, kind of,” Keith said weakly.

  “What a lot of varied interests you American youths have. I hope you haven’t lost interest in the study of past cultures. I thought you showed a lot of promise. Young Matthew is doing very well, by the way. Came to admire your addition to the display, did you? With your contributions in?”

  “Well, yeah,” Keith said, struggling to turn the conversation his way. He pointed at the case behind him. “You know, Dr. Alfheim would really like to see that little figure. That’s really unusual. That kind of thing is really his specialty. Really.” He was suddenly aware of how silly he sounded, and swallowed. Parker didn’t appear to notice.

  “Forgive me, Professor,” one of the curators interrupted. “But may we get on with the lecture?”

  “Oh, yes, forgive me. Forget my own head, that’s what I’ll do,” Parker said, apologetically, smacking a hand to the side of his head. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the young man who discovered the comb, by the way. He was one of my assistants that summer. And what a fruitful summer it was, I must add.”

  “So we are finding out,” the curator said, pointedly. Parker took the cue a trifle sheepishly, and returned his attention to Keith.

  “It was very nice seeing you, Keith. Please give my best to Dr. Alfheim. I hope to see him some time soon. Perhaps we can all have a little time together then. I would be delighted to show him the clay pendant and give him all the details of its discovery. Oh, and you, too,” he added.