Mythology 101

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Gut efening,” said the leprechaun. He was the owner of the tenor voice he had heard through the door. “Vould you care to get up?”

  ***

  Chapter 8

  The Big Folk were surprised when Keith catapulted through the door. Holl and the other small folk were not. In fact, they were expecting him. Keith’s footsteps had been audible for some time in the silence on the other side of the wall. He looked as surprised to be discovered as his classmates were to see him.

  The Elf Master closed the heavy door with a thud and turned to Marcy, whose face was beet red. Holl felt sorry for her. “Zo, Mees Collier, your friend has joined us. Not efen waiting for his infitation. Zit down zomevere, Meester Doyle.” He crossed his arms patiently and stepped back to let Keith get to his feet. In control as usual, the Master was taking this blatant invasion of his domain nonchalantly, as if it was not the first time such a thing had occurred.

  In fact it was not. Holl and Enoch sat back at their ease in the shabby maple-topped desks and watched with amused pleasure as the young man clambered up off the floor. His jaw was hanging agape. Though the others usually waited to be asked to join the group, one and all they started out disbelieving in their surroundings. Right now, Holl’s classmates were regarding the intruder with sympathy. They all remembered what it was like to walk in. Sourpuss Carl was the only unfriendly face. He looked furious to see Keith, and his shoulders were bunched up around his ears, but he kept his seat. Soft-spoken Marcy had dropped her gaze to her books and was refusing to look up at anyone. Lee was tightening and loosening his fists. Holl glanced over at Enoch, who was obviously trying to judge Marcy’s reaction to the intruder. It boded ill for Keith Doyle if he was Marcy’s enemy.

  The red-haired boy was trying to speak. Squeaky noises like un-oiled door hinges in the wind issued from his throat, eliciting nervous giggles from the others in the room, so he stopped trying to talk and stared instead.

  This boy had better recover soon, Holl realized. The Master’s patience wouldn’t last long. Holl snickered, watching Keith as the young man’s eyes turned to him and Enoch. He smiled at them, and then started like a shying horse.

  “I know what he’s thinking,” Enoch whispered sullenly through his teeth. “The ears.”

  “They all do it,” Holl murmured back good-humoredly.

  Keith still stood in the center of the floor, apparently dumbfounded. The Master cleared his throat and regained Keith’s attention. He pointed to the empty “iron maiden” between Holl and Enoch. Obediently, the boy made his way over to the desk, still glancing over his shoulder again and again at the little red-haired man.

  “He looks as if he thinks the Master’s going to vanish if he takes his eyes off him,” Marm commented, fingering his beard, leaning over toward Holl.

  “He’ll be wishing it before the semester’s out,” Holl confided.

  O O O

  With one hand on the back of the seat, Keith swung the desk under himself. Its legs screeched painfully across the concrete floor. He dropped into the chair, too fascinated by his surroundings to notice the noise. He smiled around at everyone, then subsided into a pose of attentive interest, fingertips drumming an excited tattoo on the battered maple desktop.

  What was going on here? Who was the little guy? Was he a midget? Keith looked at him again, trying to work what he was seeing into some kind of reality.

  Marcy wouldn’t meet his eyes. Keith knew he had some explaining to do to her later, but he had hundreds of questions to ask. The teacher looked for all the world like Brian O’Connor, the Little People, legend of the Celts, the Irish—his own background. So how come he sounded like Bela Lugosi? And what were all these children doing here? With a start he realized they had pointed ears too, and two of the young faces wore beards. Were they in on the gag, or was there something here that was beyond his furthest expectations? Magic? Was there magic in this place? If so, there was no one so ready to appreciate it as Keith Emerson Doyle, scholar of legends.

  “Hi, I’m Keith Doyle,” he said to his two seatmates, and waited for a response. “Um, do you speak English?”

  The black-haired boy cleared his throat with disgust and looked away. He had a fierce glower in his dark eyes that made Keith feel as though he’d been scrutinized by the genius kid brother of a girl he was dating for the first time. Keith had seen the light of blackmail on many a similar face in his time.

  The blond lad was friendlier, and favored Keith with a real grin before going back to his carving. He had dishwater blond hair and the sort of chubby cheeks that one of Keith’s aunts would have loved to pinch. The narrow, sharp-pointed knife dug in to the partially whittled stick, and a splinter of wood leapt away from the minute pattern.

  He was good. His skill level was way above average for his age, which Keith judged to be eleven or twelve. Keith watched him work for a moment, then indulged himself in a good stare at the profile turned to him. The ears were pointed, all right, and just a bit outsized for the boy’s face, but if they were fake, the guys in Hollywood would fall all over each other to meet the makeup artist. The whorls seemed exaggerated, and the tip swept backward, continuing perfectly the lines of cheekbone and eyebrow up and toward the back of the head. The elfin girl on the boy’s other side spoke softly, and the boy brushed little wood shavings onto the floor and turned his whittling over in one hand. He scratched at the ear with his little finger, thinking. The skin reddened where the nails touched. The little girl caught his eye and smiled up at him over her friend’s head. She had a thick ponytail of red-brown hair and shockingly green eyes, and looked about ten years old. Her own ears, poking coyly out of the ruddy mass, went rosy when she blushed at Keith’s wink. He glanced around at the rest of the group, suddenly aware he was being stared at. Every face wore an expression of serious concern. What were they worried about?

  Those ears were real. They were real. Keith’s smile widened. There were several people with ears down here. It was one thing to want to have a dream come true, and completely something else to have it happen to him. Not one Little Person, but a whole group! The Little People were alive. Keith’s heart raced with joy.

  Carl looked ready to explode. This so-called study group was obviously something he had wanted to keep to himself and a few select friends. Keith wanted revenge. Carl knew how much Keith wanted to find something like this—whatever this was. He’d certainly been forced to listen to enough recitations of Keith’s theses on the Fair Folk and assorted legends. How’d he like it if…? Keith let mischievous plots wander into his thoughts. Revenge: all his computerized report cards reduced to gibberish; Keith had friends.… Toothpaste on the telephone receiver. Four o’clock in the morning phone calls. A pie in the face at Graduation. Make him look like a fool in front of the whole world. Subscribe him to every lewd ladies’ unmentionables catalog in the country.

  He was brought back to the present by the sound of a throat clearing imperiously. The red-haired teacher was gesturing at a slate perched on the bed of an easel. My God, thought Keith, it really IS a study group.

  “May ve continue mit today’s discussion? Mr. Mueller, you had made a fery good point regarding the exchange of ideas between different cultures. There is likely to be more interaction, more exchanges, including admiration, between peoples in positions of equal or mutual security. As your example, the British und the Americans.”

  Distracted from his study of Keith, Carl smiled smugly, and settled back in his chair, tapping the eraser end of a pencil on his desktop to suggest that the question had been a snap for him. He was at home here. Probably he had been coming down here a long time. Keith felt like exacting instant retribution, but King Brian O’Connor was way ahead of him. The teacher peered over the tops of his lenses at Carl, looking like a frog about to surprise a fly.

  “Vould you suggest that the exchanges are permanent societal incorporations, or rely upon ephemeral trends? How are they accomplished?” Carl stopped tapping, and sat up a little straighter.
/>
  “Uh, what do you mean, sir?”

  “Vhat makes one culture accept facets of another?”

  Keith raised his hand. He was awed by his surroundings, envying the other Big People present their privilege, but the teacher’s question inspired a reply. The little guy sure knew his business. Keith had to admit that he was also determined to one-up Carl, so he might as well participate rather than just sit admiring the scenery. “Sir?” The little teacher swung away from Carl.

  “Our new addition, Mr. Doyle.” He pointed a forefinger at Keith.

  “I would suggest, uh, sir, that most permanent exchanges start with trends, and depending on its quality of positive acceptance or non-acceptance, and reassertion, say through channels of mass communication, they may get incorporated permanently.”

  One thick red eyebrow arched up, wrinkling the teacher’s forehead. “Examples?” He pronounced it “exahm-ples.”

  “Umm. Hair styles. Slang expressions. They go both ways across the Atlantic.”

  “There is no need to prove your knowledge of geography.” The other students tittered, including Marcy. Keith was relieved to see that she was relaxing. He must be doing all right. “Very vell, you have an opinion. That is gut. I vould like to see three to five pages from you on the subject, to see if you can support your thesis. Bring it mit you in five days.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Keith, elated. He had been accepted! He was part of the mysterious group, associating with, well … elves! Well, the old guy might be one. Otherwise this was some sort of weird group that met in costume. No, it felt right to him. He had made a legitimate discovery; he felt it to the roots of his hair. These other pointy-eared people were probably the old guy’s kids. He counted them. Seven. Prolific old bugger, wasn’t he?

  On the other hand, they might not all be kids. None of the others besides the teacher had any lines on their faces. They could all have been under fourteen, just judging by size. But what about the ones with the beards? He’d find out; if not the next time he joined the group, the time after that. That one sexy girl across the room was a perfect miniature Marilyn Monroe, with waves of thick blond hair and a body to match. If it wasn’t for the fact that her feet didn’t touch the ground from the seat of the desk, he would have to swear he was looking at a fully grown woman. As it was, she seemed more on the order of a little girl playing dress-up with mommy’s clothes. Her face was round and perfectly smooth, no makeup.

  She noticed him looking at her and raised an eyebrow coyly, the corner of her mouth smiling an obvious invitation. Real live jailbait. He grinned. The blonde grinned back. Keith blushed, and she giggled silently into her hand.

  And then it dawned on him that he had just been assigned to do a research paper, and that it was due on Monday. The smile melted off his face, and he groaned, settling his elbows on his desk with a thump. The blond boy on his right snickered. “You’ll learn to keep your mouth closed,” he told Keith in an undertone, watching the teacher’s back cautiously. “He gives extra work to the schmartkopfs.”

  “Thanks too late,” Keith muttered back, slouching over his elbows. “Teachers are all alike.” Then he realized the boy had spoken to him. Funny, he didn’t look German. Or sound German. Except for the one word, he could have been the kid next door. Well, well, well.…

  An hour later, the teacher rose from his stool and nodded to the class. Without a word, the group dispersed, the humans heading out the door through which Keith had made his spectacular entrance. There was no knob on this side, but the door seemed to adhere to the fingers of the first person to touch it, and stayed obediently open until everyone had passed through.

  The little folk moved toward a lower wooden portal, which opened onto a hallway about four and a half feet high. The blond boy shot him a friendly glance, and scrambled out of the desk after his fellows. “I’ll see you, widdy,” he said. Keith watched after them for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to follow them, and then looked around for Marcy.

  She was already gone. Keith dashed out into the library after her, but the elevator at the end of the dark aisle was already on its way up with a load of students. Behind him, the classroom door hissed shut, closing him out in the dark. The line of white light cast between the elevator doors shimmered upward and was swallowed by the invisible ceiling. At best, the library elevators could only hold four people comfortably. Three human students, all strangers, their shadows deepening as the light disappeared, waited in the dark for the car to return. Carl and Marcy were probably in it now. Even though it required a key to operate the elevator down here, he refused to doubt anything if the … if THEY were involved.

  Casually, Keith sauntered over to the others and asked out loud, “So, how long have you been coming down here?” He tried hard to keep the excitement out of his voice, but he could tell he wasn’t succeeding.

  For a time, there was no reply. Then a female voice, which Keith guessed to be attached to the fashionably dressed girl with sorority written all over her, said uncomfortably, “Oh, a while.”

  “Who is the red-haired guy? What’s his name?”

  “He’s just the school-master,” she said. “I don’t know what his name is. That’s all I’ve ever heard him called, Master.”

  “And the kids?”

  “Fellow students,” one of the young men said shortly.

  “What class is this?”

  “Sociology,” the other man said. His voice was thunderously deep.

  “Sociology?” Keith shouted. The others shushed him. “Sociology,” he repeated in a whisper. “I’m failing that now with a real teacher.”

  “No,” said the girl firmly. “He is a real teacher.” The others all murmured assent. There was no question as to who “he” was. “Last year, he was teaching mathematics. I was failing calculus miserably, and my boyfriend took me down here. It was the one course I had to take for my major that I just couldn’t pass on my own. I understood it after the Master explained it. He’s teaching those kids anyway, and the more the merrier, I guess. The other teacher was just no good. I’m grateful.”

  “Me, too,” said the first young man. “Before Math it was Greek.”

  “Where does that other passage lead?” Keith asked, thinking of the low door.

  “We don’t know.”

  “What are they?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Elves?” the girl volunteered uncertainly. No one scoffed at her.

  “Where do they come from? Why are they here?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Oh, sure,” said the second young man. “But they don’t answer any personal questions. They’re good at ignoring ’em. After a while, you stop hitting your head against the wall and just do your assignments.”

  “Not me,” said Keith. “I have a very hard head. By the way, I’m Keith Doyle.”

  The elevator’s light reappeared in the ceiling and crept downward. He could see silhouettes now, as the two other young men stuck out their hands. “Lee Eisley,” said the first, his cap of curly, black hair glinting in the light. “Barry Goodman,” said the second. “Teri Knox.” Keith shook hands with them all.

  The elevator door opened, and disgorged a librarian with a cart. She stuck a key into a wall panel. Fluorescent lights flickered on over the aisles. Keith’s eyes stung from the sudden brightness. The woman shrieked when she saw them waiting there, but recovered her composure quickly.

  “What are you all doing down here?” she snapped suspiciously, in a voice like her cart’s. “This is a restricted level.”

  “We, uh, came down the stairs. They were unlocked,” Keith lied, waving vaguely behind him, thanking the unseen that it wasn’t Mrs. Hansen. “We got lost.” He gave her what he hoped was a melting smile.

  She was unimpressed. “That is impossible. No one is allowed down here without a pass.” Elbows out, she pushed the cart into their midst with typical librarian arrogance that they had better get out
of the way or be run over. Its wheels squealed an earsplitting protest. Keith, with assiduous politeness, bowed her past him. Teri giggled.

  The woman gave them a sour glance over her shoulder. “Stay off this level unless you get authorization from the Head of Library Services,” she said firmly, and stalked off behind the squeaking cart.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Keith said, buoyed on his joy. “Uh, you need to oil your axles. That way you won’t squeak so much.”

  Her back stiffened, and she turned to make a suitably quelling retort, but the elevator door slid closed on their grinning faces.

  “By the way,” Teri said, just before the elevator stopped on the ground level. “It’s very important that you don’t tell anyone about … the class. No one else knows it’s there.”

  “How can the librarians miss that door?”

  “Believe me, they just don’t see it. Nothing’s visible when the light is on,” Lee said adamantly, his long curly hair bobbing as he talked. “I’ve tried, and you have to know what to look for.”

  “The Master doesn’t want to be bothered by just anyone,” Barry said belligerently. “You’re in on something special. Don’t ruin it for the rest of us.”

  “Of course not,” Keith assured him with all his heart. “I know how special it is. I’ll keep it very quiet.”

  “Please,” Teri begged. “He’s already threatened once to exclude … big folk. I really value the class, and I don’t want to stop going. It’s like, well, touching a fairy tale. That sounds dumb, I know. But it’s really helping me in my regular classes, too.”