Instead he filled the silence. Enoch was never a talker and Holl was buried in his own thoughts.
“I’d love to be able to finish off my classes in a year, maybe a year and a half, so I can get out there and get a good job,” he said, as the two elves stalked cautiously around a pack of chattering undergraduates. The few who glanced around turned back immediately, uninterested in a pair of children. “The counselor told me there would be no problem getting into the right classes. The course load for an MBA isn’t that heavy. I can be out again soliciting orders for you in between assignments.”
“Since you bring up the subject of assignments,” Enoch interrupted him with a sharp look, “the Master was not best pleased that you sent him your last essay at one minute to midnight last week.”
“Hey!” Keith protested, hands in the air. “Technically it was still Thursday.”
“Technically doesn’t please him. Everyone had gone to bed except for the few reading messages from overseas. Imagine their surprise when the wee flag on the mailbox icon went up, and it was from you. Keva thought it was an emergency and went to roust him from sleep.”
“Uh-oh,” Keith said guiltily. “I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy. And c’mon, I graduated! I thought I was done with essays and research papers, at least for the summer. Imagine my surprise back in June when I discovered you’d gotten an e-mail account, and the first message I get from you is an assignment for five pages on the change in art in the New World between pre- and post-Columbian periods.”
“From my father,” Enoch said, “not from me. He is the teacher, and since you have not said otherwise, you are still his student.”
“True. Thanks a lot. In spite of working my summer job—which was full time, by the way—and going to see every relative in my family I have been turning my essays in to the Master faithfully by the due date. I’ve been kind of short of time.”
“Too short to visit us for many weeks now,” Enoch said, with a significant nod towards Holl, who was walking along in a trance a couple of paces behind them. “Some have missed you greatly.”
Keith nodded apologetically. “I’ve missed all of you, too. Wish I could have gotten down here more often. Well, I’ll be back here full time next week. You haven’t had any trouble getting orders out without me?”
“You know we need to learn to cope without your presence constantly underfoot, you precocious infant,” Holl said, catching the last statement and hurrying to walk alongside them. “All’s well. The delivery service gives us no trouble. They take the cartons from the box on the porch, sign the book, and away! The next we know a check from the vendor appears.”
“And a bill from the delivery service,” Enoch said, his dark brows drawn down over his nose. “And they cannot visit our customers and learn if they are happy or not.”
“Well, I can help with that when I get back down here,” Keith said. “Starting next week.”
The J.F. Compton School of Business of Midwestern University was living up to its name. The doors of the building were opening and closing in a never-ending rhythm as students came and went with piles of books and papers fluttering in the August sunshine.
Enoch and his brother-in-law sat down on a low brick wall that surrounded a concrete terrace before the door while the Big student disappeared into the building. Enoch consulted a mental map. Unless things had changed over the last couple of years, Keith needed to go to the auditorium on the lower level, just above the ancient steam tunnels that the Folk were accustomed to using as hidden paths around the campus. He ought to be gone for at least half an hour. He glanced at Holl, and found himself meeting worried blue eyes.
“Don’t you say a word to him,” Enoch said. “This is still your worry and yours alone.”
“I was not going to,” Holl said, peevishly. “It’s unjust. I still feel that Keith Doyle’s input would be valuable. I don’t intend to place the burden on his back. I am content to bear that. What’s wrong with counsel?”
“The Conservatives hold that we’re becoming too dependent upon this gentle fool, so much so that we’re losing the ability to cope on our own.”
“He’s not a fool,” Holl corrected him. Enoch nodded.
“No, to be fair, he’s not. But the Master has spoken. You’ll not bring it up. This is a worry we will solve among ourselves.”
Holl sighed. “I won’t say a word.” Restlessly, he got up from his perch and wandered out onto the broad lawn behind the wall.
When Keith Doyle returned, bearing a sheaf of papers, Enoch was sitting on the wall alone.
“Where’s Holl?” the Big student asked, plopping down beside him.
Enoch pointed out onto the green that lay between the business school and the new library beyond. The small figure sat slumped in shadow against a huge sycamore tree, his hands busy with some small object or objects. Keith guessed that Holl was whittling. He was a real artist, capable of creating the most lifelike shapes out of solid wood, bone or whatever he could cut with the titanium-bladed knife he carried. Keith got up to see what he was doing, but Enoch put a hand on his arm to hold him back.
“He just wants a few moments on his own. This place holds many kindly memories for us. It will give him peace.”
Keith watched the distant figure dash something away in frustration. “Enoch, is something going on? Holl’s not acting like himself. He’s been silent as a clam all day. Nothing wrong with Asrai, is there?” Keith adored Holl’s baby daughter.
Enoch grunted. The black haired elf could be remarkably taciturn when he chose. “The weight of office,” he finally said.
“Oh,” said Keith, thinking that he understood. Holl was the heir apparent to the leadership of the Little Folk, and was constantly undergoing “tests” set him by the senior members of the village.
Enoch knew what was really troubling his sister’s life-mate, but had no right to bring it up to the Big student, for all he’d proved his worth and his quality time and again to the Folk. There were some roads one had to go down alone.
“Do you think he wants to talk about it?”
“No,” Enoch said shortly.
Keith shrugged. “Okay. We’ll give him some mental space.” He sat back and squinted up at the sun. “It’s a nice day, anyhow. I don’t mind the wait.”
“No time is ever wasted,” Enoch said. “You can work on your assignment for me while we await him.”
“Now?” the Big student asked, surprised. He glanced around at the hundreds of strangers standing, sitting, or sprawling on the terrace. “Here?”
“You can practice magic and subtlety at the same time,” Enoch said. “Try something small.”
Keith glanced around, then gathered up a handful of crisp, narrow leaves from underneath the nearby bushes. He cupped them in his hands, and closed his eyes to concentrate. Enoch could feel a trickle of the charm he was using. Something to do with cohesion.
He was always a bit surprised that any Big Person could feel, let alone use the power of nature. His folk had long ago consigned the Big ones to the phylum of a lower life form, but for better or worse Keith Doyle was different. Books of legend were plentiful about the exploits of human enchanters in the past. Though Enoch assumed most of the legends weren’t true, he should not have been surprised to find one magician in a generation, especially one who claimed close family ties to a land where the Folk had lived for a thousand years or more.
“Ta-daa,” Keith said, opening his hands. A pigeon with feathers of shiny brown and gold hopped off his palm and fluttered to the terrace, where it began at once to peck at the ground.
“That is not very real looking,” Enoch complained. “The eyes are dull, and it is too thin.”
“C’mon, transformation is hard,” Keith said.
“And ye’ve only had all summer to think about it.”
Keith shrugged. Thinking hard about how real pigeons looked, he tossed the remaining leaves one at a time to the ground. The bird hopped over and picked them up. With eac
h bite the simulacrum seemed to take on substance, getting rounder, plumper, and glossier. It looked up at Keith and cooed.
“No more leaves, birdie,” he said, showing it his empty hands. It ambled away, rolling from side to side on its round legs, and joined the real pigeons milling about on the sunny side of the terrace. “That could be a shock to any ornithologists hanging around. I’d better undo it before we go.”
“So ye might. That was better,” Enoch said, grudgingly. “What else can you do?”
Keith glanced toward Holl. The dejected posture and faraway, forlorn expression his friend wore worried him. He started to get up again. Enoch cleared his throat.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
“I want to talk to Holl. He’s really worried about something.”
A solid dose of Keith Doyle’s solicitousness might break down Holl’s resolve. Enoch stood up directly in Keith’s line of view. “Leave him be. You have work to do. You’re not the equal of us yet.”
“Enoch, that’ll take me years, if ever. All I want to do is talk to him.”
“You’ll not distract me away from your task with your worry and your fussing. It won’t be many minutes before he’s back with us. Let me see what parts of your lessons you’ve retained since I saw you last.”
“You’re just like your father,” Keith grumbled good-naturedly.
“Thank you,” Enoch said. “Well, then?”
Keith pulled a piece of string from his pocket. He stretched it out between his hands and whipped it around in a circle until it seemed to form a solid oval. Concentrating hard, he aimed a mental pencil at the space inside. Slowly, an image began to form. He’d done this kind of thing dozens of times on his own. It was more difficult with a critical eye peering over his shoulder. He could see in his mind just exactly the image he wanted to create: a portrait of his two friends. Transferring it outside his head took care. He was just getting the general shape of their faces and the color of their hair into place when a hand reached into his field of vision and snatched away the string. The image vanished.
“Hey!”
“You ought to be able to do it without a physical component, nor a stage to set it on,” Enoch said. “What you’re doing is stuff for children.”
“Dola uses a piece of cloth for her illusions.”
“Dola is a child, but far more learned in her art than you are. Once she lets go of the crutch there’ll be no limits to her ability. Try again. In mid-air. No fancy passes. Keep your hands down. Mind only.”
“C’mon, Enoch, I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t? Lazybones.”
“Them’s fightin’ words, pardner,” Keith grinned. “Okay. I like a challenge. Here we go.” He threw his legs over the wall so he was in shadow, facing the open common, and hunched his back with his shoulders forward.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m sort of wrapping myself around my work so no one can see it,” Keith explained.
“That won’t help,” Enoch said. “There are those sensitive to the feel of the world around them who would know what you are doing if you were locked in a lead room.”
Keith glanced around. “I know. I just hope none of them are hanging around the business school. And if anyone asks, I’ve got an excuse ready: holograms.”
“Well, no more excuses from you to me. Make your image.”
Letting the muscles in his back relax, Keith picked a point in the middle distance. It was harder than he had anticipated to create an image in the air without a physical point to focus on. He’d never tried it before. He found it easier to draw upon memory than to keep looking at Enoch or Holl. Thin face, round face. Black hair, blond hair. Dark eyes, light eyes. Features…?
A fly buzzed into the space, sailing through the insubstantial noses. Keith waved a hand at it, erasing part of his image as he did so. “Oops. I turned over my Etch-a-Sketch.” Having gotten the hang of placement, he was able to restore the sketchy portraits in only half the time it had taken him before. He filled in details, like the lines beside Enoch’s mouth, the arched brows, and the rounded lobes of his ears that looked as though they ought to be detached but weren’t. He sat up, easing the tight muscles in his back.
“Not bad, huh?” he asked.
Enoch eyed the image critically. “Passable,” he said. “You could have done better.”
“I think it’s pretty good. Hey, Holl,” Keith jumped off the wall, scooped up the image, and started walking; towing it along with him as though it was a balloon. “Is this really so awful?”
Enoch was so stunned he paused for a moment before running after him. What Keith Doyle was doing at that moment out of pure instinct was much more impressive than he could know. He hurried to catch up.
Not that Enoch was concerned that Holl would deliberately break his word not to talk, but he knew the Big student was very persuasive. He might be able to worm information out of them before they knew what they had said.
“Hey, Holl, take a look. Is this really so bad?”
“Don’t ask me,” Holl said, glancing up briefly from the carving he was doing. It was an incredibly lifelike rendering of a primrose. He had learned a lot over the last many months from Tiron, a newly arrived Little Person from Ireland. “Enoch’s teaching you. I’ll not second-guess him.”
“Holl, what’s wrong?” Keith asked, dropping to the ground beside him. Holl looked up at Keith, then glanced at Enoch. His eyes dropped back to his work.
“Nothing at all.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” Keith asked, encouragingly.
Enoch couldn’t deter Keith Doyle forever. The lad was a force of nature. Best to present a diversion.
“Keith Doyle,” he began, clearing his throat, “I meant to ask you …”
Surprised by the tentative tone, Keith looked up at him. Enoch was so self-sufficient. He let his illusion fade away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I myself have a concern that you might know something about.”
“Sure. What is it?”
To Enoch’s relief, they were interrupted by a high-pitched thread of music like the first line of a jig. Keith’s face went blank for a moment as the music repeated. Grinning sheepishly, he fished in his back pocket and came up with a small, flat wireless phone with a case the shimmering blue-green of a dragonfly’s carapace.
“Sorry,” he said. “My graduation present from my grandmother.” He poked the RECEIVE button. “Hello?”
“Keith?” asked a woman’s voice. “Your mom gave me this number. This is Dorothy Carver. Remember me?”
“Hey, how are you?” Keith asked. “How are things at PDQ?”
“That’s just what I wanted to talk about,” Dorothy said. “They’ve made me a creative director.”
“That’s great!”
Dorothy paused, then chuckled. “There’s days when it’s great. And then there’s days when I wish you’d gotten this job instead of me.”
“You were the best choice,” Keith said firmly. “Things can’t be that bad, can they?”
“No, they’re not. They’re good. In fact, that is why I am calling you. Perkins Delaney Queen is wooing … a company. I can’t say more than that yet. It’s a big deal. They’ve got a new product, and a big budget. PDQ wants them, of course, but the customer is going to want something offbeat. A new approach. That’s why I’m calling. I need a goofball like you in there pitching ideas, helping out the usual suspects. Can you drop in here Monday morning and meet the client?”
“Monday?” Keith said, frowning. “Sure. I don’t have to be down here again until Wednesday.”
“Where are you?”
“Midwestern University. I start my Master’s degree program next week.”
“Oh.”
“Why?” Keith asked, concerned by her flat tone of voice.
“Because if the client likes your suggestions he’s going to want you on the creative team,” Dorothy said. Keith felt his
heart start to pound with excitement. “I can’t promise you anything. That’s our war cry, you remember. No one can promise anything, but this could bring you to the attention of the big wheels here. Who knows what that could mean?”
“Wow.” The wheels in Keith’s head were beginning to spin, figuring out the possible changes in logistics. He was already on his feet and pacing up and back on the grass. “That’d be great. I would love to have a regular job in advertising.”
“Regular, hah,” Dorothy said, with mock scorn. “Nothing around here’s regular. Of course, if you screw up, my behind’s in the blender, too, you know.”
“I won’t let you down,” Keith promised her, hitting the END button. “Yahoo!” he cried.
Everyone in the park turned to look at him. Keith just grinned back.
“What’s the excitement?” Holl asked. Keith explained.
“This could be my big chance,” he said, pacing faster and faster, unable to keep still. “There was no room for me last year, and otherwise I’d have to wait until after I graduate to apply. Think about it! If I come up with something for the client that they would never have thought of, I could get hired as a freelance contractor, or even an entry-level position. Paul, the intern advisor from last year, told me I was good at ideation.”
“An artificial term,” Enoch said, looking as though the taste was sour in his mouth.
“So is every brand name in the world,” Keith said. He flipped the little phone end over end into the air and caught it high over his head. “Wow. That’d solve a lot of problems. I could sure use the money.”
Advanced Mythology Page 2
