Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Author Biography
Jody Lynn Nye
Book Description
Keith Doyle has made it to graduate school! In between classes and hanging out with his magical friends, the Little Folk, he has a new job as a copywriter for PDQ advertising agency, working on a campaign for a revolutionary electronic device. His plans for the party to end all parties on Hollow Tree Farm are coming along nicely. Things are not so rosy for the Little Folk. They’re being haunted not only by malevolent spirits passing through their cellar, but a Big Person who has discovered Keith’s supposedly well-camouflaged invitation to all creatures magical. Keith finds himself in danger trying to keep out of the hands of the industrial spy to protect not only the trade secrets of his client’s firm, but his friends and their home. Can Keith’s ingenuity and his limited magic keep the elves from being revealed to the world? Will the party ever take place? Will Keith ever get his hands on one of those wonderful devices?
***
Smashwords Edition – 2015
WordFire Press
wordfirepress.com
ISBN: 978-1-61475-274-5
Copyright © 2001, 2014 Jody Lynn Nye
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover painting by Don Maitz
Cover design by Janet McDonald
Art Director Kevin J. Anderson
Book Design by RuneWright, LLC
www.RuneWright.com
Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers
Published by
WordFire Press, an imprint of
WordFire, Inc.
PO Box 1840
Monument, CO 80132
***
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the real Diane and
to the memory of my precious Lila.
***
Prologue
The russet wooden casks were laid on sturdy cradles to sleep undisturbed in the cellar until their liquid contents should mature sweetly into drinkable dreams. Marm trod softly along the dirt floor between the rows, listening to one here, turning one there, mentally taking note of which of his distillings were close to being ready to consume. Though he was not considered especially sure-footed for one of his Folk, his steps wouldn’t have been audible by most animals, nor by any of the Big Folk, with their puny rounded ears and their big, threshing feet.
Marm, like most of his family, stood about breast high to a Big person. If it hadn’t been for the beard on his broad, fair face he would have looked like a child not quite into his teen years. His skin was smooth and unlined. His thick hair, cut just above the collar of his shirt, glinted dark gold in the cool circles of light issuing from the lanterns hung along the walls.
A faint rasping sound attracted his attention. He lifted his head, listening with all his might. His elegant ears, nearly five inches high, swept up in a slanting arc from behind his cheekbones to tapered points at the top. Marm turned slowly, trying to detect from which direction the noise had come, and decided he must have heard a truck bumping along the road that ran along the front of the 20-acre property known as Hollow Tree Farm.
If his Big neighbors only knew that in the midst of this drowsy farm country in the heart of rural Illinois lay a veritable village of people they considered to be mythological—impossible, even—they might have been lost in wonder. But he liked them to think he and his existed only in fairy tales. It was far safer for him and his loved ones that the Folk should never be discovered. Even those Big Folk who had come to be trusted in the village begged them to be careful not to reveal themselves. The Folk knew what to do about that. They’d laid charms around the property that kept out those who didn’t belong and fooled prying eyes into thinking there was no one special here at all.
Marm was happy to keep himself to himself. Let others go off adventuring and dare the gaze of strangers’ eyes. He loved the quiet life with his family, his work, and his beloved brewing.
He glanced speculatively at one of the kegs. Each one had been brought laboriously from their old place to this new place, one at a time, driven slowly and secretly from their last home. Each had been carried down the stairs with Marm beside it all the way, and installed on wooden support brackets that had been a joy to make, of whole wood that they could afford at last, so they wouldn’t tip, or rock or leak. The sweet essence within had been brewed with their own fruits and herbs, better than anything the Big Folk had at hand. In fact, his liquor was considered very good by the standards of his own Folk. Marm was proud of his skill. When special occasions arose it was always his brews that people hoped for to toast the celebration. His eye came to rest on the barrel he knew had been fermenting the longest. Like the others, that one’s contents had had over two years to settle. It might well be worth tasting. He reached for the wooden cup that was hooked to his belt.
A shadow flitted past his head in the dimness. Marm waved a hand to ward it away from his face. A bat? Perhaps he’d better get one of the others who was wise in the way of wild creatures down here to check. It’d be wrong to keep wild animals trapped, even by accident. He knew how he’d feel about being locked in a cage.
The wine barrels were much larger than the casks. The newest of these held a special place in his heart and that of all the Folk. This wine had been pressed from grapes grown on vines tended by their own hands on land that they could at last call their own. Such a thing hadn’t been true, Marm stopped to think, for over a hundred years. He and his had lived a secret, timid existence, running from one place to another. The last home they’d had, in the bowels of Gillington Library at the heart of the Midwestern University campus, had lasted over five decades, but it hadn’t been theirs, not really. Hollow Tree Farm was. It belonged to them. They even had a legal deed showing ownership. After so many years, the Folk could stop wandering and worrying. They were putting down roots, magical as well as physical, delving deep into the earth, spreading out, feeling themselves safe and secure, and set. Wine, which couldn’t be hurried and couldn’t be agitated, and didn’t like to be moved, was a good symbol
of their new rootedness. Marm laid hands on the nearest barrel, sensing the bubbling within and laying a blessing on it at the same time. When the time came to drink this vintage, he wanted it to seem as though they were quaffing pure joy. Yes, Marm thought with satisfaction, stamping on the hard dirt floor, feeling the charm of protection that enveloped the farm under the soles of his feet. Yes, a body did best when he could call a place home.
He liked being down in the cellar, where it was cool and peaceful. Not that he didn’t care for his extended family, but when tempers frayed there were fewer places than before to flee to. And lately, there’d been more arguments than usual. Everyone seemed to be picking a fight with everyone else. Well, it was a busy time, what with orders to fill, and no energetic Keith Doyle to run hither and yon at their whim.
He lifted the lids of each of the tuns. The heady aroma of yeast and grape must tickled his nose. Marm wrinkled that feature as he checked the level of liquid against the wall of the barrel. Every vintner knew of the natural evaporation of a quantity of fermenting liquid. His Folk called it the Wee Ones’ tipple. The Big Folk called it the “angels’ portion,” supped by divine beings, perhaps in exchange for blessing the wine. The angels in these parts certainly were thirsty. The level was lower at this stage than any other wine he’d ever made. Perhaps the cellar was too dry. That was bad. It could lead to the barrels shrinking or cracking. Sinking a trifle of magic into the floor, he strengthened the charm protecting the room, sealing it against the outside, and adding a provision to preserve more of the natural humidity of a cool, stone-walled cellar, though not enough to allow mildew or harmful molds, so that it wasn’t sinking into the wood.
The shadow whisked past him again. Marm ducked back, feeling it almost touch his skin. Definitely something here, something that ought not to be. It made him cross that someone had been falling down on his or her duties to make certain the living spaces within the old farmhouse were fit to live in. He’d have to go and find out who should be responsible, and have a few words. Bats, indeed!
A suspicion roused itself in his normally placid mind. What if it wasn’t the Wee Ones taking sips from the barrels? What if it was one of the others, sneaking draughts of the maturing liquor? How dare they interfere with his business?
Marm stomped up the stairs, not troubling to blow out the lanterns hanging on the walls.
* * *
The fire-snake coiled in a corner of the cellar underneath one of the wooden brackets, waiting until the noisy-footed being had gone away. It had not been easy to get into this place, and that was wrong! The snake was not accustomed to having its path blocked. Throughout all time its kind had gone where it wished. The walls of this structure had never presented an impediment before. Now a power lay around them, sealing the building as tightly as an egg. The snake tasted the air with its tongue. The power was foreign to this area. The snake didn’t like the flavor. It had liked the liquid in the barrels, and did not appreciate being disturbed from its drinking by the being who had just departed.
Spreading scaled-feather wings, the snake slipped into the air and flitted toward the smaller kegs. Choosing the one that smelled best, it prepared to pass through the wood as it had before. A film of water met it, solid, not liquid, yet it was not cold. The snake withdrew, shaking its head, hating the sensation. It nosed the lid of the keg up instead, and drank its fill.
Noises above reminded it that this was a hostile place. Time for the snake to leave. It made for a shadowy corner. Its nose banged into the wall. The snake back winged, then rushed at the corner again. The solid masonry repelled it backwards several feet. It could not escape! It had not been easy to find a hole to come into this place, and now it found its exit barricaded as well. The large being had closed off the hole in the barrier it had made. Angrily the snake rushed at the walls, banging them with its nose. Its unblinking eyes saw no break in the barrier.
The traditional underground roads had never been blocked since time began. The snake felt ill-will towards the newcomers. Their arrogance must not be left unpunished.
It slithered into one of the barrels and took a long drink. Too much of the sweet liquid gave it a headache, stirred its already aroused temper. The intruders into this land should not benefit by their deeds. The snake left a curse on what was left of the bubbling liquid. Whoever drank from these barrels now would suffer misfortune.
The snake was still unsatisfied. That was not enough of a punishment. It swarmed through the unprotected inner wall of the cellar, into the drain pipes, and slithered toward the upper reaches of the house, tasting and probing as it went. It would make these newcomers sorry they had ever interfered with the course of nature.
***
Chapter 1
The ancient midnight-blue Mustang pulled cautiously onto the Midwestern University campus and crept along a side street in front of the dormitory buildings. A slender young man with red hair, sitting in the passenger seat, looked around nervously. There seemed to be no one at all at the wheel.
“Okay, Enoch,” Keith Doyle said, keeping an eye out. “Can you see the open space ahead on the right? Let’s try parallel parking. Pull up to the car ahead of it.…”
The small black-haired male in the driver’s seat glared up at him. His hands clutched the wheel tightly. “I know the rules for parking in parallel. I would do better without narration.”
“Okay, okay,” Keith said, holding his hands up in an “I surrender” pose. “I just thought I could help.”
“I have used up the last of my nerves in the trip all the way here from the farm,” Enoch said. “Let me make the attempt on my own. You can correct me if I have made a mistake.” Keith shrugged and sat back. Enoch might look like a scrawny twelve-year-old boy, but he was a grown man in his late forties, a talented woodworker, a puissant scholar, and possessed the temper of a wolverine.
Enoch let his foot off the brake and, peering forward through the gap over the dashboard and below the top edge of the wheel, eased the Mustang gently up beside the large red van parked in front of the empty length of curb. Suddenly, the doors on both sides of the van popped open. Enoch slammed on the brake.
A middle-aged man in shorts climbed out of the driver’s seat. He gave Keith a friendly but harried glance. The man did a double-take. Keith, knowing that he saw the driver’s seat behind him as empty, gave him a friendly grin. Shaking his head, the man walked around to help the teenaged girl now at the rear of the vehicle to flip open the back hatch.
“This’ll take a moment,” Keith said, without glancing around. “Unless they’re planning to unload everything on the grass. Nope, just a couple of suitcases at a time. Good. Okay, they’re gone.”
“Hmph,” Enoch snorted, throwing the car in reverse. The old car skimmed by the red van and angled into the space. The huge steering wheel rolled through the black haired elf’s hands as the car came to a rest, perfectly centered between the van and the car behind. Keith applauded as Enoch slammed the gearshift to P for Park and turned off the ignition.
“Nice job. In no time at all we’ll have you going over the roads in an eighteen-wheeler.” He turned toward the back seat. “Don’t you think that was a nice job parking, Holl?”
“Hmm?” Another small figure, this one resembling a twelve-year-old boy with blond hair under a baseball cap between his tall pointed ears, round pink cheeks and chin, turned from staring out the window. He blinked blue eyes at the two in the front.
“You’re in another world today,” Keith said. “I thought daydreaming and looking blank was my job.”
“Things on my mind, Keith Doyle,” Holl said. A line creased the skin between his brows on a normally cheerful face. He was Keith’s best friend among the Little Folk. In fact, if Keith was thinking about it, his best friend anywhere. He hated to see Holl preoccupied. The blond elf had been unusually silent since they’d left the Folk’s farm. No amount of teasing or prodding from Keith had so far persuaded Holl to open up. Not really unusual, since the Folk tended to
be more private than Keith was, but the worried expression he wore whenever Keith asked him a question made the worry contagious. Keith wondered if he should push the matter, and decided to wait until they were back at the farm.
“Should we wait here?” Enoch asked hoarsely, glancing at the steady flow of students and parents burdened down with luggage.
“Why don’t you come with me?” Keith asked. “I have to get my class assignments. It’ll only take a little while. You can go … incognito.”
The two elves looked at each other.
“I don’t like it,” Enoch said. “It’s a matter of pride. I rarely covered my ears when I went about Midwestern before we moved.”
“How often did you go out in broad daylight?” Keith asked.
Holl shrugged.
“Few notice, but it’s the one who does that will make trouble for us,” he admitted. “All right.”
Keith could never help but be impressed by the illusion they crafted. It was hard to believe that they weren’t really changing, but only appearing to change. The tall, elegant points of their ears seemed to melt before his eyes, shrinking to rounded lobes. Because he was so used to seeing them in their normal configuration, these human-sized ears looked much too small. But at least they wouldn’t attract notice. That was the last thing he wanted to have happen.
Solicitously, he shepherded his two friends toward the School of Business. He hoped there was no one around with advanced perception who could see that his companions weren’t the youngsters they seemed to be, but mythical beings who were twice as old as he was. In the back of his mind he always worried that someone would come along one day and snatch the Folk up from under his nose and he’d never see them again. They were very important to him. They represented more than friendship, more than a business arrangement. The Folk were the fulfillment of a dream that he’d had ever since his parents had started to read him fairy tales. They were magic. In spite of his hopes and boundless determination, he could not have predicted until the day that it happened that he would ever meet someone who no ordinary person really believed existed. Keith was aware of the privilege he enjoyed, interacting with them whenever he wanted to. He’d caused them some problems, but he’d helped them, too. The fact of which he was most proud was that he had helped them to found a viable business that allowed them to be financially independent. They might look like everybody’s idea of leprechauns, but the part about the pot of gold was a myth. That they liked him made him so happy he felt like breaking into a dance right there in the middle of campus.
Advanced Mythology Page 1
