Mythology 101

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “So? That doesn’t mean these people had the same kind of background, or even that they’re from this hemisphere.”

  “But I think they did. Look, if it wasn’t for the part about the racial dwarfism, I’d have said they were Irish, or at least from one of the great islands in the northwest of Europe. Naturally I have a preference for Ireland.”

  Rick threw the essay back with an expression of disgust. “Oh, I get it. You and your little people. You know, they lock up people with manias.”

  “Just consider it a need to know. The evidence suggests that I’m not the only one with a mania.”

  “Don’t go reading something into that paper. Probably she came upon a village of short people in Scotland who got tired of hearing ‘How’s the weather down there?’”

  “I want to talk to these people. They might have oral legends of little people that I can use. It’s the legends and such I’m interested in. I’ve read all the fairy tales and junk. I want information that hasn’t been through thirty publishers. I want evidence.”

  “Oh, come on. What makes you think she would believe your wild ideas, let alone pass you on to her subjects? That’s the last thing they’d want to talk about with an outsider. They’re ordinary people, and they want to live their lives in peace. They’ll probably think you’re another one of those ‘look-at-all-the-funny-people’ journalists. Or just a nut. Which you are.”

  “Hmm,” said Keith, thinking deeply. “I don’t want them to think I’m crazy. All I want is their recollections. Fairy tales. Local legends.”

  “What makes you think that just because they’re short they have any more knowledge of legends than Joe Schmoe up the street?”

  “Just a hunch,” Keith shrugged. “Something about the way she states her facts. She’s leaving something out, and I want to ask what it is. She’s usually so quiet in class. Perhaps she’ll be more talkative over dinner.” He rose and scooped up the paper, and started for the door.

  “Whoa!” The RA’s voice halted his headlong departure. “Dinner? Aren’t you coming to the Student Government meeting tonight, Doyle? You’re one of our best speakers. I think this’ll be the night we can get a deciding vote on the library issue. If you don’t come I guarantee we will lose.”

  Keith bashed himself in the side of the head with Marcy’s paper, further crumpling it. “I’m sorry, Rick,” Keith apologized, instantly changing plans again. “Yeah, I’m coming. I’ll just drop this in my room and be right back with my notes. We can discuss strategy.”

  O O O

  If anyone had told Mrs. Howard, Keith’s sixth-grade teacher, that one day he’d be the eloquent darling of Student Senate Council, she’d have laughed until she choked. Occasionally, Keith thought of writing her a letter and enclosing a tape of one of his terrific speeches that moved millions—well, dozens—to his side of an issue. On the other hand, just because he thought it was terrific didn’t mean a picky Language Arts teacher of the old school would agree with him.

  Of the forty-five official members of Senate representing the fifteen residence halls on campus, only a third or so usually attended the meetings held every two weeks in the Student Common. Keith had been elected to represent his dorm, C. V. Power Hall, on a nomination moved by Rick, who as the representative Resident Advisor from Power had to be present at meetings, and liked to have his friends around. Pat had seconded the nomination, since it was the most likely way to keep himself from being chosen. English majors were usually favored delegates. Keith, who hadn’t been present at his election, was upset for about two weeks, until he discovered how much fun it was to make hay out of Robert’s Rules of Order. Thanks to Keith’s enthusiastic support, there was now a college regulation on the books forbidding walking your zebra on the streets after dark. The actual wording of the rule banned any animal not specifically domestic in nature, and its proven intention was to prevent attacks or escapes by those animals after nightfall, but the committee which had proposed it to the Dean’s council called it the Zebra Crossing Ban.

  The other delegate from Power Hall was clear across the room, chatting with one of the girls who lived in Bradkin. Carl never sat with Keith and the RA; he seemed to think it spoiled his dignity. He had actually volunteered to serve in student government, which made him the legitimate object of derision by those who had been shanghaied into office. For once, though, he had a legitimate excuse for separating himself from the rest of his dorm-mates. They were on opposing sides of an issue.

  To Keith, issues weren’t life-or-death matters. The girls from Edison were proposing another formal letter of complaint to ARA Suppliers, concerning the poor quality of dorm food. Senate sent at least three of those a semester, and they hadn’t done any good yet. The food was still just barely edible. On the other hand, Carl took his role as the voice of student opinion very seriously, and offered his support to matters he believed in. He hadn’t the same gift of gab Keith had, and was regularly out-debated whenever they disagreed. For that reason and very little else, Keith made sure he and Carl were opponents no matter how trivial the issue. If Carl supported it, Keith was out to undermine it.

  “Quiet, please! Hey, can it!” yelled Lloyd Patterson, president of the Inter-Hall Council. “Let’s get this going, huh? I’ve got an exam tomorrow. I don’t want this to drag on. Venita, will you take the roll?”

  Venita March, recording secretary and RA delegate, rose, tossing her head. Venita was a friend of Rick’s from his class at high school, and she taught self-defense part time at the University Women’s Center. Her hair, a tall, superbly styled natural decorated with a plume, swayed for a moment after she had stopped moving. Rick stifled a snicker and Keith elbowed him. “Shut up. She’ll cream you.”

  “I know, but I can’t help it. That style almost touches the roof.” He sketched height over his head with a hand twitching with mirth.

  “If we may have some order,” Venita asked icily, a quelling glance aimed at Rick. He lowered his arm, smiling with mock innocence. She shook her head at him, slack-mouthed, tapping a long-suffering foot on the floor. Rick folded his hands studiously before him and sat up at attention. Raising one eyebrow at him, she read down the list.

  “You can tell she likes you,” Keith told Rick sardonically.

  “Okay,” Lloyd said, after Venita sat down, hairdo a-quiver. “Any old business to take care of?”

  “Dean’s Council has ruled on the matter of student parking,” a girl clad casually in blue jeans and a leotard spoke up. “All spaces will be allotted first come first served to dorm students first, frats and apartment dwellers second, and night school gets what’s left. The areas will be divided into three zones, and students are supposed to apply to the zone center closest to their residence. The center lot will still be set aside for medical plates and visitors. Anyone caught parking there who has a school sticker will have their car towed and privileges revoked with no refund.” There was a chorus of groans from both sides of the room. “I’m sorry!” she snapped defensively. “That’s the best I could get. At least the people who live in Barber won’t have to park all the way over near the frat houses.”

  “That’s something,” Venita said encouragingly. She lived in Barber.

  “Okay. That’ll help,” Lloyd acknowledged, making notes. “Anything else?”

  “Yessir,” Keith said, springing to his feet. “Doyle, Power Hall. I want to bring up the subject of the proposed library renovation project.” He smiled triumphantly at Carl, who was just raising his hand. There was a deal of movement in the room, as the student delegates, recognizing the signs of a debate, separated themselves into three rough groups, with the center delegates undecided. Several pushed their chairs over to Keith’s side of the floor, the Pro-renovation side, and settled down. Dividing up depending on one’s opinion on an issue was an idea Keith had found in the rules governing the British Parliament, where MPs entered through different doors if they were going to vote “yea” or “nay.” The Council’s meeting room had only one
door, so he came up with a suitable variation. The other members liked it because it showed visible support for the issues, let them know who else was actually interested, and gave them something to do at meetings.

  “You have the floor.”

  “Thank you.” Keith moved into the center of the room, and assumed an orator’s pose. Rick sat back to watch with obvious pleasure. “There is a proposal before the Dean’s Council for replacement of one major building on the Midwestern campus. Dean Rolands has cut the choices down to two: a new Phys Ed. building, or a new library. To me, the correct choice is obvious.

  “My question to the assembled Senate is this: why did you come to college? To run laps? To cheer at Big Ten games? Well, you’re at the wrong school to begin with.” Some uneasy laughter; Midwestern had pretensions toward national college football, but the team simply wasn’t good enough. Carl glowered, and Keith continued. “But since you are here, it’s to learn, isn’t that right? To pick up skills which will be of use to you after graduation. I for one can’t think of anything I’ll ever do that involves vaulting over the horse or hand-walking on parallel bars. Can you?”

  “How about weight-lifting?” someone asked.

  Keith gestured at his narrow frame. “What weight?”

  More laughter. “What about physical well-being?” Carl demanded. “That’s real important, too. And how about leisure sports?”

  “P.E. in high school or grade school is good for learning about things like that. You get a whole selection of different sports and exercises. Variety. At the University, physical education is too specialized, too competitive. It’s great if you’re interested in playing volleyball or aikido, but you can just take an exercise course to keep fit, and that doesn’t need any special space, or specific environment.”

  “The hell it doesn’t,” one of the opposing delegates sneered.

  Keith went on, ignoring the outburst. “In fact, if you insist, you could keep fit by exercising in your dorm room. Why not?” He pantomimed doing jumping jacks, athletically at first, then bowing over more and more in mock exhaustion. “Your roommate asks, ‘What are you doing?’ and you say, ‘I’m doing my homework for Gym.’” Laughter exploded around the room.

  “Now, except for the one gym course we’re required to take to graduate, fewer than 40% of the students at Midwestern ever set foot in the P.E. building again, and most of those are specialists. On the other hand, over 90% use the library. Why, even a few of the jocks do.” More laughter.

  “It’s crowded in there during mid-terms and finals,” one of the girls on Keith’s side complained. “There’s never enough carrels, and they lock the classrooms.”

  One of Carl’s backers, Maurice Paget, a tall black student, raised a hand. “Couldn’t that be negotiated with Library Services? If there was more study space available in the present structure, they wouldn’t need to build a bigger building.”

  “The trouble is that they use those classrooms all year round, especially during finals,” Keith said. “At maximum capacity, the student need exceeds available space. And Library Services wants to bring more study aids in, but there’s nowhere to put ’em. Audio/video aids, records and tapes, works of art—even,” a forefinger was raised on high, “National Geographic. All of these things are to be available for study, to give you the, well, wisdom of the ages, to prepare you to be whatever it is you want to be when you leave Midwestern. But wisdom dictates two things cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”

  “That’s physics,” Rick put in.

  “Whatever,” said Keith. “Wise men discovered physics, right? The need for a better building to house books and study aids, and provide more room for their users, in my opinion, far outweighs the wishes of a few jocks for a fancier field house.”

  “Very alliterative,” called Lloyd from the center section. He never took a side. There was some applause as Keith sat down. Rick grinned, and they both looked to the other side of the room. Carl rose to his feet.

  “What about the kids that come here on athletic scholarships?” he demanded. “Don’t they get a voice?”

  “Don’t they have to earn diplomas?” Keith asked, counterpointing his question. “Just like anyone on a Math scholarship, the idea was that by the one outstanding talent they displayed, they were awarded a sum of money to continue their education by being more deserving than anyone else with that talent. In the opinion of the judges, of course. Ask my mother how I missed out on the Rhodes Scholarship.” There were jeers.

  “But I see what you’re asking, Carl,” Keith put on a reasoning expression that particularly irritated the other and Keith knew it. “Don’t they deserve to have a forum in which their particular talent can be brought to the attention of such people as football scouts?” He paused. “Well … no, not really.”

  “What?” Carl sputtered, starting to speak. “Why not? It’s …”

  Keith neatly cut him off. “The job of the college is to educate students and fit them out to seek their fortunes afterward. Having them available for scrutiny by scouts is a side benefit. Too bad there isn’t a place for kids who are not dumb, but not academically inclined, just to go and offer themselves for professional sports teams. Like theater auditions. As it is, this is the way the system works. Why should the academically inclined, for whom this campus really exists, suffer for the ten or so who will go on to earn six-figure salaries in pro ball?”

  Rick poked him sharply in the ribs from behind with his toe, and Keith clamped his jaw shut, remembering too late that Rick was a P.E. major, and had hopes of one of those big breaks. “What Mr. Wizard here means, of course,” growled Rick, “is that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. To coin a phrase.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Carl asked sarcastically. “What you’re saying is that the athletes don’t deserve a good place to practice their skills. I disagree with you! You do need a particular place to do gymnastics or play football. The gym is too small. The pools leak. The lights are bad, and there aren’t enough of them. The old building needs to be replaced, and a modern one with good lights, good floors, good plumbing, has to be built.”

  “Aha,” Keith crowed triumphantly, jumping up. “Old? You call a gymnasium only twelve years old, old? Gillington Library is a hundred and fourteen. It had a minor face lift in the forties, when there was a lot of new construction here, but not a thing since. Haven’t you ever heard the floor creak when you were looking for a book in the stacks, and wondered if it was going to collapse under you? Those of you who’ve been in the stacks for books, that is. The rest of you won’t care if the building moves,” a mischievously deferential bow to Rick, who had mentioned a quiet corner he and his girlfriend frequented. Dodging a kick this time, he went on. “If they ever have to make emergency structural repairs to Gillington in the middle of mid-terms, you’ll wish you had voted to renovate it. You can prevent that disaster by voting for the reconstruction now.”

  Recognizing the need to rally newly awakened support, Rick swallowed his pride and exclaimed, “Think about it. I’m studying business, for the years after I don’t want to play soccer anymore.”

  “Or can’t,” Carl put in.

  “Watch it, Mueller,” Rick snapped, becoming serious. Carl acceded sullenly to the warning and fell silent.

  “Where would the new library be built?” Francine Daubiner wanted to know. She was one of the undecided.

  “The Dean says that it would be built on the foundations of the old one, just as the Sports Center would go up where the P.E. building is now.” Keith had all the facts handy in his notebook. “Neither one could cost more than three million dollars, nor less than one million. Dean Rolands insisted on a reasonable range for the project. The other structure would follow in three to six years, depending on need and availability of cash.”

  “Part of that money would go for several computer terminals,” Venita said, after examining the list Keith had submitted to the secretary. “Sounds like they’ve got som
e other projects tucked in there.”

  “All part of information retrieval,” Keith pointed out cheerily. “So, why don’t we make it offic …”

  “Okay,” Lloyd stood up, cutting him off. “We don’t have enough people here for the vote, so it’ll have to wait. In two weeks, we’ll have a mandatory meeting, full Student Senate, and finalize what our recommendation to the Dean’s Council will be, and who gets to take it there.” Everyone groaned. “Now come on. Is there any other business? No? Well, then, I declare this meeting adjourned.…”

  “Seconded,” Carl said, still glaring at Keith, but warily, because Rick was looming behind the skinny student. The gavel fell, and the room cleared quickly.

  ***

  Chapter 4

  Ludlow heard a banging sound coming from the little cluster of administrative offices at the head of the hall. His eyes narrowed and he stopped swabbing the floor to listen more closely. Yes, definitely the noise of metal on metal, like a sliding drawer in a file cabinet. There it was again. Maybe one of the old lady librarians working late. He could complain to her about not reporting the leak in the ceiling that was sending a dribble of rusty water down the pale tan tiles of the floor.

  The sound repeated itself, this time more frenzied.

  Ludlow crept closer to have a peek around the edge of the doors through the narrow pane of glass that ran the length of the knob side, carefully still mopping so it looked like he was working, not spying. No one in any of ’em, and the lights were all out. Then where—?

  The banging ended with a frustrated rattle practically under his ear. It was coming from the supply room. An intruder, certainly a thief. He tried the solid wooden door, shaking it gently. It was locked. The deadbolt boomed ominously in the door jamb. As soon as whoever it was heard him, operations within the supply room ceased. He unreeled the heavy ring of keys from its retractable lead on his belt and shouldered open the door, leveling the mop handle like a shotgun.