Mythology 101

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “No, it’s in the li—” She bit off the word. The library, Keith deduced. He smiled, pretending not to notice her verbal slip.

  “It’s just my week to get blackballed,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t fret about it. If anyone at all wants me around, you know where to find me.” The sandwiches arrived then, to Marcy’s evident relief, and Keith allowed the subject to drop entirely. “Food,” he exclaimed happily. “I have to go out to eat now and again, so that I don’t start believing what they feed us in the dorm is really edible. It sure couldn’t be nutritious.” He chewed a toasted corner.

  “It is pretty disgusting. That’s why I moved out of the dorms. Only it turns out my roommates are terrible cooks, too.” Marcy attacked her sandwich with zeal, grateful that he had the tact to let go of an uncomfortable topic. Keith was nice and non-demanding. She listened to him talk pleasant nonsense while she ate, saying little herself. It was too bad she couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, but it wasn’t her secret to tell. If she could have, she would have. Keith seemed easy to trust. “Um, how’s your paper coming?”

  “Oh, my research? Fine. Maybe I’ll write a book some day. For example, did you know that the places where belief in the supernatural has been holding on through modern times are mostly agrarian or third world nations? It looks like as soon as a country or civilization goes industrial, stops being so close to the earth, those beliefs disappear. There’s something scary about machinery; you lose sight of the fact that it isn’t sentient. The only “little folk” you have left are the malign ones, like gremlins getting in and gumming up the works.” Keith made a face. “A long way from the kind little guys who sneaked in and made shoes for you while you were asleep. Since man can make shoes for himself while he sleeps, with machines, what do you need the fairies for? I guess the need for ’em dwindles when what was once considered to be impossible to do yourself became possible with technology. Either that, or blame the iron in steel. Very few things of magic could bear the touch of cold iron.”

  Keith let himself prattle on, his conversation only occupying a small portion of his mind. He could tell Marcy had something to think over, but not what. She was uneasy about having him encroach on her private activities; that was obvious and understandable. The library. Well, since she couldn’t enlighten him further, the only gentlemanly thing to do would be to follow her there and see what was going on for himself. He took a last satisfied bite of sandwich.

  On the way back to Marcy’s apartment, they had to huddle together against the sharp winds, now blowing almost parallel to the ground. Marcy discovered that her thin coat had an unexpected cold spot where she guessed the worn-out lining had finally given way under the arm. Keith had on nothing but a windbreaker, and was cheerful despite the fact that he must be freezing. He clutched her around her cold side, steering her around puddles riming over with thin, crisp ice. She huddled gratefully into his arm.

  A boy with a wool cap pulled down firmly over his ears marched out of the gloom toward them, aiming his path directly between them. They dodged him, but ended up parting to dive for opposite edges of the sidewalk to make way to avoid the enormous knobby shopping bag the boy was clutching to his chest. Marcy gasped as a freezing gust went up the legs of her pants. As the boy passed, he glared at both of them, as if to blame them for the bad weather. From under black brows, his dark-eyed stare met Marcy’s, and she flinched. She knew him. It was Enoch, one of the Little Folk from the hidden room. He shouldered away from the two of them and went on, heading in toward the campus.

  “Boy, what’s his problem?” Keith asked, glancing over his shoulder. Marcy looked a little dazed, and he held out an arm to her. “Forget him. Probably sore because he had to go grocery shopping in the cold.”

  To Keith’s surprise, Marcy waved away the arm. “Thanks. I’ll be okay now.” She huddled into her jacket, pulling the spare folds of cloth around to the torn side, and lowered her chin to protect her throat from the wind. The boy’s glance had disturbed her. She leaned into the wind, ignoring the puzzled expression on Keith’s face. “Come on. It’s late.”

  “Right,” Keith agreed, hurrying after her.

  ***

  Chapter 6

  It wasn’t much warmer the next day. In the shelter of a brick gatepost across from Marcy’s apartment, Keith was congratulating himself on remembering to wear two sweaters under his coat, but regretting that he’d left his hat behind. Other students brushed by, some glancing his way, but most of them ignoring him, not wanting to turn their necks in the cold wind. A girl gave him a sideways look, and he smiled. “Hi, there,” he offered. She turned away quickly, dismissing him. He sighed. “Cold-shouldered again. Nice day for it, though.”

  Overhead, the heavy sky was turning slate and dark purple. The National Weather Service had suggested that the first flurries of snow might be on their way; if not now, then certainly before the end of the month. Keith shrugged, huddling his ears into his collar. There was no such thing as an easy Midwestern winter. One just hoped the inevitable wouldn’t be too early in coming.

  Broken brown leaves swirled through the iron tines of the gate, and collected, rustling, in the shelter between Keith and the corner of the wall. The wind increased in velocity, whipping the students from a walk to a run between the class buildings. Keith felt his nose and ears growing frosty and numb, and he tried not to think about them.

  White sheets of paper cartwheeled down the sidewalk, pursued by their owner, a honey-blonde-haired girl in a pink aviator’s jacket, waving an empty folder and yelling over the howling chorus of the wind. A few of the pages swirled in behind him, and he managed to trap them against the wall without crumpling them too much. He stepped out of his hiding place to help her gather up the rest.

  “Thanks,” she gasped, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “It’s my research paper.” Keith held the portfolio open while she shuffled the fluttering pages together. From the depths of a pocket full of oddments, he found a large paper clip which he offered to the girl. She secured the paper to the folder, flipped it shut, and smiled up at him. Her eyes were blue-green and very pretty. “Thanks again.”

  “No problem. You know us Boy Scouts,” Keith said, becoming interested in pursuing the conversation, then over her shoulder caught sight of Marcy emerging from her apartment. He had to make a rapid choice between duty and pleasure, and curiosity won. “’Scuse me. Duty calls.” He dodged out of sight behind the gate, and waited until Marcy had passed, heading toward the library. The girl in pink gave him an odd look, and went away without further comment.

  O O O

  He stayed outside the library until he could see which direction she was going through the glass doors. The heavy bronze frames creaked as he hauled one of them outward into the wind. Two other students behind him caught the metal door’s edge, which burned their fingers with cold, and together they pulled it open. The wind shook it in fierce protest as they struggled inside. The thick plate glass windows thundered.

  Keith kept to the edges of the foyer until Marcy showed her pass and entered the library stacks. Curious, he found his own stack pass, and went in behind her.

  He almost lost his quarry on the ground level, until he noticed the fire stairwell door hissing shut. No one was allowed to use those stairs except the librarians. The general use staircase was in a different place. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching him, he followed. Her footsteps sounded out below him, and he trotted down the stairs, taking care to stay a flight above her. Either this study group met down in one of the conference rooms in the stacks, or he was probably going to interrupt Marcy and her boyfriend, having a private “study session.” Keith made a face. He decided he didn’t want to think about the latter, and stifled the little whine of jealousy in his mind.

  It was dim in the stairwell, and the echoes sounded about him. Even his faint footfalls threatened to drown out the distant clatter of Marcy’s steps. He was descending into No-Man’s-Land, the private realm of the
librarians. Keith felt as if he was on a safari, passing into dangerous territory. Did the library staff know that Marcy’s group was here? The very secretive nature of her group excited Keith’s already sharp curiosity. But what would Marcy think if she caught him following her?

  Another set of footsteps joined the echoes in the hall. Keith stopped, wondering if it was the boyfriend, or someone else from her group. No, they were too definite, too deliberate. Not another student sneaking up the stairs. Someone with authority. Keith straightened up and let his shoulders swing in a nonchalant attitude, pretending he belonged here.

  “Young man!” A tall dignified woman with a coil of black hair on her head swam out of the gloom. “What are you doing here?”

  “Um, going to level eleven, ma’am,” Keith said, blanching. He started around her, but she clenched his upper arm in a powerful grip peculiar to librarians engaged in administering reproofs.

  “This area is restricted from students’ use except during emergencies,” she said coldly. Her scrawny neck and full cheeks made her look like an angry turkey. “You are to use the north stair only.” Keith nodded politely, and tried to catch the sound of Marcy’s footsteps. They had disappeared. The librarian escorted him forcefully to the eleventh level and pushed him into a waiting elevator. “Your privileges will be restricted to the study rooms for tonight.”

  “But my project…?” There was no chance of catching Marcy now.

  “Your project will have to wait. You students must learn that you cannot break rules without punishment.” She flipped his stack card out of his fingers and brandished it at him. “You may reclaim this from my secretary tomorrow morning. I’m Mrs. Hansen, the head of Library Services.” The elevator closed with a snap on his protests.

  O O O

  Keith wandered around the reading rooms, keeping an eye on the stack entrance, until the Teaching Assistant on duty there threw him out. After that, he sat in the lobby, wondering if he should try to get into the stacks another way. He dismissed the idea, realizing that he would probably miss Marcy if he left his watch-post. Nine o’clock closing came, and the other students drifted out of the stacks. Marcy was among them, and she was alone.

  “Hi!” Keith hailed her as she appeared.

  Marcy smiled at him curiously. “How long have you been here?”

  “Just a little while,” he assured her. “I had nothing else to do. Thought I’d just wait and find out what your study group had to say.”

  “How did you know…?” Marcy exclaimed.

  “You almost said it last night,” Keith said apologetically. “The li—Sorry. It’s the bloodhound in me. And the rest of my face isn’t so good, either. How about it?”

  “I … They still say they’ll think about it. Please. I’m doing what I can. Don’t rush me. They’re kind of … funny about having people join.”

  “No problem,” Keith said, stretching as he rose from the marble bench. “Want to go for some coffee?”

  “Sure,” Marcy said relieved. “I’m glad you’re being patient.”

  “That’s me,” Keith said, taking Marcy’s arm. “Patience is my middle name. Right after Emerson.”

  O O O

  The next Tuesday, Keith spotted Marcy walking alone across the common, and hurried his pace to catch up with her. His mouth was open to call out a greeting to her, when Carl Mueller appeared from between two concrete posts on the edge of the parking lot, and matched his stride to hers. She smiled shyly and tilted her head to one side, responding to something Carl was saying with a satisfied smirk on his face. Keith was too far away to hear what they were saying, but it was obvious from the body language what he was seeing: this was the above-reproach boyfriend in Marcy’s life. Carl fell neatly into that sort of pigeonhole. He considered himself to be a cut or so better than most of the other students, and had somehow persuaded Marcy to agree with him. Poor kid.

  Keith had an impulse to run up and start a conversation with her, which would infuriate Carl, but Marcy would probably get upset if he annoyed her boyfriend. He assumed that Carl must be in the mysterious study group, too. That would explain perfectly why Marcy was uncomfortable about having him, Keith, around. Not only was Carl a snob, but he was a jealous snob, too. The guy probably monogrammed the flowers he gave her. He wondered if Carl knew he knew Marcy.

  He followed them down the street, trailing about a hundred feet behind, until they came to Gillington Library. Hanging back so they wouldn’t see him, he paused at the top of the steps, squinting through the double glass doors, until he saw which way they turned. Ah. Left. The stacks.

  Feeling like a private detective on the scent of an adulterous divorcee, he flashed his ID card at the librarian on duty at the entrance to the stacks. Marcy and Carl had disappeared, and Keith heard the bang and whirr of the elevator. He ambled down the aisle toward the double metal doors, idly fingering the spines of books, as if looking for just any old thing to read.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the indicator drop. Either this study group met in the basement of the stacks, or the lovebirds were just looking for somewhere dark to neck. Not Marcy! he chided himself, right hand slapping his own left wrist. She wasn’t that type. Campy, but true.

  The librarian, a thin woman of middle age who looked like a failed actress, glanced at him oddly. “Black widow spider,” he explained solemnly, holding up his wrist for her examination. “The bite is usually fatal.”

  “Oh.” She nodded and then looked away, her forehead pulled into a puzzled frown.

  The indicator stopped on Level Fourteen, which was the lower half of the third sub-basement. The library stacks were half-high levels, eight above ground, and six below. As far as Keith knew, there was nothing official that went on in those underground levels. They were archives; locked floors to be entered by library personnel only.

  Unless Carl and Marcy had keys, they must have exited the elevator before then. And yet, he hadn’t noticed the indicator stopping before it showed the basement numbers. Something most definitely was going on here. Cursing himself for not paying attention, he found the stairs and started down to search the floors one by one.

  Weaving his way through the low-ceilinged, narrow aisles of the stack levels, Keith put on a show of bored nonchalance flavored with the attitude any harried student had toward trying to find an obscure book out of which some teacher threatened to construct the entire final exam for his course. The first four underground levels were a snap. The lighting was good, and no one paid him much attention. The heavy thrum of the heating system spread a blanket of white noise throughout each floor. Maybe ten students occupied each floor in various isolated carrels, cramming for one course or another, with heavy head full of knowledge cradled in supporting hands over a textbook. But his search was frustrated. None of the meeting rooms was occupied. Marcy was nowhere around.

  He wondered if he had mistaken another number for Fourteen. No, he was sure he had seen the indicator change from a one and a round number, and he was certain it wasn’t 10. Also, it would have been quicker to walk down the two short flights of stairs. Capturing the elevator, he held the door open with one hand and punched at the last two studs in the double column. They refused to light up, obviously waiting for the key to be turned in the locks below to activate them. The door surged under his hand, and from somewhere in the bowels of the mechanism, the elevator emitted an imperative BEEPum BEEPum BEEPum. Petulantly, Keith gave the door a sharp shove before letting it slide closed. It thrummed away, the beeping fading into the floors above.

  Carl and Marcy weren’t on any of the four floors. That left the two security floors. What was so special about this meeting that it had to be held down there? Of all the inconvenient locations! At this hour of the evening, ninety percent of the classrooms on campus were empty. Maybe he was about to stumble into a communist satrap, or a weird religious cult. He mentally scratched the latter option; he couldn’t really see Carl dancing around in a pastel muslin robe.

  How
about a spy ring? he speculated as he stood in the stairwell, prying at the locked door to level Thirteen. Keith loved a mystery, especially one he didn’t have to take seriously. He could see through the edge of the door that it wasn’t quite latched, but that there was no knob on this side. With the tips of his fingers, he dragged at the painted metal door, pulling it a quarter inch out from the jamb. The hinges groaned and scraped, echoing deafeningly in the dim hall. He scrabbled at the emerging edge with one hand, but it slipped back flush. It was simply too heavy for him to hold it open with just one set of fingers.

  He needed to get something between the door and the frame to keep it from slamming shut until he could get his hands free. A pencil was the only thing he had on him that was light and strong enough. It went between his teeth, eraser end outward, and he pulled at the door again. The rubber eraser skipped across the paint, jabbing the point of the pencil into his tongue. “Aagh,” he mumbled around it, and then winced at the sound.

  Carefully, he maneuvered it into the tiny opening of the door. It took him four tries before he could pull the door wide enough for the pencil to go through. It occurred to him too late that the point would have helped him widen the opening. Never mind. He let go of the door when the pencil was in place. It snicked shut onto the wood, and Keith stepped back, spitting out graphite.

  Dusting his tingling fingertips together, he levered the door open and let himself through. A crumpled candy wrapper pressed into the latch socket was what had prevented the door from locking automatically. Keith deduced in his best consulting detective method that someone else without keys wanted access to these floors. In the pitiful light of a wavering fluorescent bulb high up in the stairwell, nothing out of the ordinary would have been visible.