Mythology 101

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “It’s not enough,” Catra said sadly, looking over Holl’s shoulder as he showed Keith the ledger books. “It takes such a long time for the balance to grow.”

  “Wow! I didn’t know we were making so much!” Keith exclaimed with pleasure, whistling at the total.

  “You don’t know what you’re collecting?” Enoch was scornful.

  Keith shrugged, stroking his whiskers with a bemused forefinger. “Well, picking up the checks one at a time, I don’t really notice. By the way, Teri Knox suggested an idea to me for some new merchandise that would probably just walk out the doors. I wanted to ask what you thought of producing jewelry.” He smiled at Enoch, inviting him to speak up. “I’ve seen the necklace you made Marcy. It’s terrific.”

  “It’d be easy enough to make more,” Enoch admitted. “But I’d make none as special. That’s for her alone.”

  “A new idea wouldn’t go amiss,” Sion agreed. “Something to catch the eye. It is a concern that we do not want to reach market saturation. I was reading in the Journal.…”

  “As to that,” Catra said, turning to Keith, “I want to ask if you’d read …”

  “By the way, I might be nosy, but are you ever going to bring Marcy down here to meet the folks?” Keith asked, unaware that he was interrupting.

  “Ye’re being nosy,” Enoch asserted, “but the answer is, not until all you Big Folk have cleared out of campus. And the sooner you go, the sooner that’ll be.”

  “I can take a hint,” Keith said cheerily, and strode away.

  “Wait up, Keith Doyle,” Catra called, but he was already out the classroom door.

  O O O

  The phone rang at the home of Clarence Wilkes. The old man was watching television. He had it up loud because he was getting a little deaf, and if it hadn’t been the station break, he would never have heard it ring. He levered himself out of his rocking recliner, as creaky in its joints as he was himself, and answered it. “Hallo-o?”

  “Is this 543-2977?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling, please?” Wilkes asked, trying to place the voice.

  “I’m interested in the piece of wooded property you have for sale. I saw your sign out in front. How much are you asking?”

  “Wa-al,” Clarence calculated. The caller sounded like a city man. He talked clean, no drawl. “Thousand an acre, twenty acres. You interested in buying, mister?” Might as well throw in a little padding for the years he’d spent farming it.

  “I might be. Let me see. A thousand dollars an acre, eh…? Um …” the voice became thoughtful. “I’m not that crazy about banks. I do as little with them as I can. How about a contract between just us? I’ll pay you the interest instead.”

  This caller was kin to Clarence Wilkes under the skin. Banks had been the source of half his troubles all his adult life, but he learned their lingo down pat. “Me neither,” he admitted. “Two thousand down. Two hundred a month with five percent simple interest after that. You can move in after I’ve seen the down payment, and your check don’t bounce. Taxes is your problem.”

  “I’ll be getting back to you, then. I’m interested, but there’s people I’ve got to check with.”

  “Suit yourself,” Wilkes said. “By the way, I’m Clarence Wilkes.”

  “Pleased to know you,” said the voice on the phone. “I’m … Keith Doyle.”

  ***

  Chapter 31

  “You’re Crazy,” Diane told him as the Mustang hummed along the country roads. “You can’t drive me all the way to Michigan. Drop me at the bus station in Joliet, or something.”

  “Why should I?” Keith glanced away from the road.

  “Don’t do that!” Diane pointed back at the steering wheel. “You’ll hit something. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, but isn’t it a silly thing to do? It’s six hours out of your way!”

  “I’m famous for being silly. How else can I monopolize your company?” he asked, skimming around a file of children on bicycles. “Besides, why go Greyhound? It takes longer than I will, and you can’t get all the way home on a bus.”

  “Oh, all right,” Diane grumbled, sitting back in resignation.

  “I have a quick detour I want to make. We can catch the highway just north of here.”

  “You’re driving.”

  Keith steered through the two-signal town and looped around the roads until he was on the wooded stretch near the farm the elves were so crazy about. He liked the place, too. It had a good aura. No … good spirit. Who had told him that? Holl. Holl had said it, that beautiful cold day out looking for wood. His car’s springs would never be the same. The second trip to Barn Door Lumber had yielded just as heavy a load. He hoped he wouldn’t have to buy new shocks too soon.

  He pulled up in front of the farm and took a quick look out the car window. It had been several weeks since he had been here last, and now the leaves were bursting on the trees, almost hiding the house on the hill.

  “Nice place,” Diane said. “Who lives here?”

  “I don’t know,” Keith told her, “but it’s for sale. I like it.”

  “Me, too.” Diane thought about it a moment. “You mean you brought me out here to look at a farm?”

  Keith looked a little ashamed of himself. “It’s my friend’s dream house. I’m just … making sure it’s still here.”

  “It isn’t, you know. It’s been sold.”

  “What?” Diane pointed and Keith stared. The “For Sale By Owner” sign had a sticker across it which clearly stated that the property was “Sold.” “Oh, no.” Keith collapsed against the steering wheel. “It can’t be sold.”

  “I thought you said it was just a dream. Keith?” Diane shook him. “What’s wrong?”

  Keith groaned and threw the car into gear. How can I break it to Holl? his mind cried. “Everything,” he sighed.

  O O O

  After a few miles, Keith was resigned to losing the chance at that farm, and cheered up enough to be charming to Diane. She was easy to travel with. She understood that the task of the passenger was to keep the driver from being bored, told him stories of her life and her sisters and brother, and discussed her hopes and plans for the future.

  “My dad is really proud of me for winning that scholarship,” she said happily. “I called him up right away after we talked to Mr. Alfheim. It takes a lot of pressure off of the family.”

  “That’s great,” Keith agreed, pleased as to the success of his subterfuge. Unfortunately, the pressure was off for the elves, too. They didn’t have to worry about buying that particular piece of property any more. Well, others would come along, although he was sure they couldn’t be as perfect. He hoped that one would before the sheriff showed up with the eviction notice. Shoving the thought forcefully to one side, he thought of a funny story Diane would like and told it to her. Laughter helped to pass the time on the way to Michigan.

  O O O

  “Diane!” Her mother called to her through the kitchen door. Keith’s car was just turning out of sight at the end of the street. With a sigh, Diane left the curb where she had been waving good-bye, and went up the stairs into the white frame house. “Telephone, honey.” Her mother was waiting with her hand over the receiver. “Keith gone? He’s a fine boy. Your father likes him so much. They had such a nice chat last night.”

  Diane took the instrument with a little nod and smile. “Hello?”

  A male voice, Diane couldn’t tell how old or young, asked, “May I speak to Keith Doyle?”

  “I’m sorry, but he just left for Chicago. He’ll be home in about five hours. Is there an emergency?”

  The voice sighed. “No. I’ll see him when he gets back. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome,” Diane acknowledged, puzzled. “Goodbye.”

  The receiver on the other end clicked off.

  ***

  Chapter 32

  The first piece of mail waiting for Keith in his pigeonhole at Power Hall after he returned from spring break was another of the brown en
velopes with the warning notice in the corner. Keith shuddered before opening it. All of those envelopes had so far brought him bad news. This one was like its predecessors.

  The Internal Revenue Service invited him to call the office to arrange an appointment for an audit of his account. Keith read the letter over and over on the way up to his dorm room, and tore at his hair in dismay.

  The letter reminded him that he also had quarterly taxes coming due, and those would have to be paid promptly by the deadline. He made a whirlwind search of his dorm room, desperate to find the new estimated tax forms, but he couldn’t remember seeing or receiving them, though the letter made clear mention that they had been sent to him.

  Keith sweated over the mathematics, trying to remember exactly how much Hollow Tree had made before the end of the year as he ran downstairs to the dormitory office, hoping to track down the papers.

  “Don’t know nothin’ about it,” Anton Jackson said defensively. He was the permanent dorm supervisor of Power and nearby Gibbs Hall, and lived on campus all year round. He aimed a long brown finger at Keith. “This little blond kid picked up your mail every day. He had a letter signed by you. You telling me he was a phony?”

  “Oh!” Keith exclaimed, recognizing the description. “Um, no, sorry. He’s all right. I forgot all about him. Thanks.” Keith shot out into the sunny street.

  O O O

  The sunlight in the elf village matched that upstairs with amazing faith to detail. Keith had to blink, passing through the darkness of the stone stairs and into the clan precinct. He found Holl sitting in the classroom, whittling and distractedly throwing the shavings on the floor. “Hi. I’m back.”

  “I can see that,” Holl said, without glancing up.

  “Have you got my mail? I just got another love letter from the IRS. We are in deep trouble. They want to do an audit on us for last year. Did you send in my tax return late or something? That’s going to get us nailed, you know.”

  “No. I sent it in plenty of time.” Holl turned toward him, finally letting Keith see his face. He looked worried and unhappy. “Follow me, but wait in the tunnel. Big Folk are not popular today.”

  All around them, there were signs of activity. Some of the minute elf children were wrapping individual wooden items in newspaper, and carrying them to bigger children, who packed them in boxes or paper bags. The young adults wielded carefully muffled power saws and drills in clouds of sawdust. Others, obviously detailed as caterers, coughed and waved hands before stinging eyes as they brought baskets of food to the workers. The oldsters, eschewing modern equipment, put delicate fragments of wood together with glue. “God, it’s Santa’s workshop,” Keith observed, trying to cheer Holl up. He didn’t have the heart to get excited about the missing forms when his friend looked so low. “Where’s the reindeer?” he asked under his breath.

  “More alien oddities?” Holl sighed. Keith noticed a deep line furrowing between the blond elf’s eyebrows.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Shhh! Here. I’ve carried a copy with me since it appeared.” He handed Keith a sheet on which two slips of newsprint had been reproduced. Keith read them quickly and scoffed.

  “The National Informer? Holl, this is a load of crap. Nobody believes them.”

  “Why then do they have a circulation of over two million? There are the gullible out there.”

  “Oh, come on,” Keith scoffed. “I admit it sounds like a thinly disguised Midwestern, but still!”

  “It isn’t the only one,” Holl corrected him. “There are several others, and have been more since. Catra has them all. Most are revises of this same one, with the words changed around. I keep this one to remind me of the date on which it first appeared. But it’s the most recent one,” he pointed to the second story on the page, “that worries us the most. It all but identifies Gillington as our base! The others are all but for decamping tonight.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Holl considered Keith’s offer for a moment. “I thought you could approach the Informer to discover from whom this story comes. They were written by someone who is personally familiar with us.”

  “I bet it was Lee,” Keith said speculatively. “He’s a journalism major, you know.”

  Holl shook his head. “I doubt that as much as I doubt that it was you who did it, which is what the elders are saying.”

  “What?”

  “They’re desperate,” Holl offered, turning up his palms in appeal. “They have no other explanation. Will you find out for us, so we can put a stop to it?”

  “I’ll try,” Keith promised, “but first, can we solve my little problem? What about the IRS?”

  “Your pardon,” Holl apologized, embarrassed. “What do you need?”

  “Records. Estimated Tax forms,” Keith replied. “Can you help me? I’ve been trying to figure out everything we’ve done, and I’m confusing myself.”

  “You’re good at that. I’m pleased to see you’re not immune to your own skill,” Holl said wryly, sounding more like himself. He walked to his hut, emerged with a box of letters, and beckoned Keith back up the tunnel to the classroom. “Come with me, and we’ll see what we can see.”

  O O O

  The editor to whom Keith spoke at the National Informer was smugly pleased to inform him that they always protected their sources. “The First Amendment, you know,” he cackled. “Threats and pleas have no effect on me.” He refused to give Keith the name of the anonymous source.

  “Well,” Keith offered, “what if I said I could get you another article, but I had to make sure I wasn’t intruding on your writer’s territory? I mean, he might want to send you more, right? But if we’re not in the same town, it would be poor journalism to let a corroborating story go.…”

  “Hmmmmm …” the editor mused. “Mr. Doyle, you’re very persuasive, but I still can’t give you our source’s name. I will tell you he filed the story from Midwestern University.”

  “Oh,” said Keith, not surprised, “that’s where I am. I mean, I suppose that you can’t give me any other information…?” he inquired hopefully.

  “Nope, sorry,” he was told. “That will have to do you, son. Can you provide us with corroborating evidence? We pay freelancers well. Your by-line on a national gazette.…” the editor said temptingly.

  “Um, no. I, uh, only heard a story from a guy. I’d be a lousy writer. Thanks.”

  “Okay,” the editor said before he hung up. “But if you change your mind, gimme a call.”

  O O O

  “Here you are, sir. From November to now,” Keith said, spreading his receipts and papers out on a table in the IRS office. He gave one last, longing glance through the storefront-style window at the deep blue spring sky, dotted with fluffy cumulus clouds, before the door of Agent Durrow’s cubicle swung shut, cutting off the view. He plumped his briefcase from his lap to the floor, heard the unmuffled clack of unwrapped samples banging together. With a quick glance to make sure nothing was broken, he gave all his attention to the IRS agent across the table from him.

  When he called to make an appeal for help, it was suggested that he come in to talk to Agent Durrow, who had Keith’s file in his possession. That way, it was explained, he wouldn’t need to give all the facts of his case all over again. It made him nervous that an IRS agent knew all about him, but he tried to conceal his apprehensions. He turned the slim envelope upside down and shook it to ensure that it was empty. “Like I said, I didn’t open until late last year.”

  “Why didn’t you file for a different fiscal year? Say, November to October?” Durrow asked, sifting through the papers. He was a thin-faced, thin-voiced man in a black suit with lapels sharp enough to cut fingers. “You would not have had to send in a 1040 until next year.”

  “I’m used to filing in a January to December fiscal year, sir. I didn’t really think of it as an option.”

  “Few do,” Durrow admitted. “Very well, I will help you with the papers just this once, but
I suggest you send for these forms.” He opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a gray pamphlet on which he circled several numbers. “They will assist you in figuring your estimated tax. I regret to say we do not have extra forms here at this time. We are waiting for a shipment. New tax laws. Beyond that, I suggest you find yourself an accountant.”

  While the agent noted down the figures from Keith’s receipts on a legal sheet in his quick, neat hand, he went on with his suggestions. “You should concentrate on keeping track of your expenditures in a ledger.… My, my, isn’t that a tidy sum. What did you say are the goods you manufacture?”

  “Woodcrafts,” Keith said.

  “Average price?”

  “Oh, five to twenty dollars or so.”

  Durrow turned a razor-edged glance on him. “How can you have generated so much income by yourself? You are certain you are not using employees to supply your inventory?”

  “Why do you ask, sir?” Keith asked.

  “Information received,” Durrow said austerely. “Well?”

  “I make ’em myself, during spring break, Christmas break, you know,” Keith said firmly. “Except for things I take on consignment from friends, but they’re not working for me. I get ten percent.”

  “You have income from commissions, then.” Durrow jotted that down.

  “Yes, sir,” Keith said, watching the pencil fly down the page in bewildered concern. “My 1040’s there.”

  “Out of curiosity, I wonder if you know the zoning laws for this town, young man.” Durrow acknowledged a shake of Keith’s head. “Aha. That school is not zoned for cottage industry. You could be fined for violations if the zoning commission cared to make a fuss.”

  Keith held out his hands in protest. “Oh, I don’t make anything here, sir. I use a … friend’s house. And … is there any problem with my finishing things in the school wood shop?”