Advanced Mythology

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “What for?” Enoch said. “But for your tuition, your expenses are small.”

  “Well,” Keith said, embarrassed, “Diane’s starting to talk about what happens when the two of us graduate. She’s hinting that it’s about time I make some kind of commitment. And I want to!”

  “And what’s holding you back?”

  “I want the moment to be perfect,” Keith said, and his eyes grew dreamy, taking on the green of the trees around them. “I want to have an engagement ring in my pocket—in a velvet box. A red velvet box. No, blue. She likes blue. And soft music playing, with the moon overhead.”

  “So now yer ordering the moon around?” Enoch said, with affectionate irony. “So this fantasy of yours takes place outside.”

  “Maybe,” Keith said. “It’ll depend on the weather. And then I’ll say something poetic—I’m still working on that part. I don’t want it to be hokey, but it has to express how I feel about her. And then I’ll ask her to marry me. And after she says yes, there’ll be fireworks, and maybe champagne.”

  “It sounds like a well-thought-out moment,” Holl said. “But in the course of a year, you can earn enough for a nice ring on commissions alone.”

  “But there’s more,” Keith said. “By the time I propose I want to have enough money in the bank for a down payment on a decent house. I don’t want us to have to live in an apartment. My family’s always lived in houses. I like having a yard. Someday I hope we’ll have kids, so I want to live in a nice area with a park nearby.” He grinned. “All right, so it probably won’t happen that way. It’s just a dream.”

  “It’s a good dream,” Holl said. “We’ll help in any way we can.”

  “Thanks,” Keith said. “I appreciate it. The best thing you can do is not to tell Diane a thing. I want to surprise her.”

  “I promise you, Keith Doyle, you have a gift for the unexpected. It doesn’t need our help.”

  Keith whistled at the sky. “I hope something comes out of this meeting Monday. Even a freelance contract would go a long way toward the cottage with the white picket fence.”

  “And roses climbing around the door? But what about school?” Holl asked. “You’ve only just finished registering for your classes.”

  “Midwestern has weekend and evening programs for MBAs,” Keith said blithely. “There’s even a distance-learning section. Uh-oh. I wonder if I can get into it at this late date. I’ll have to see my student advisor.” He grabbed his new schedule and looked at his watch. “Too late today. I’d better get home and make sure my good suit is pressed. PDQ’s into ‘business casual,’ but I can’t show up for a meeting in khakis.”

  “Hold!” Holl said, planting himself in front of Keith, bringing him to a reluctant stop. “You’re not going anywhere yet. You haven’t got the job. This appointment is only an opportunity, and an uncertain one at that.”

  “But it’s the kind of thing I’ve always hoped for,” Keith said.

  “And it is not until Monday. You have not seen Diane yet, have you?”

  “No,” Keith said, smacking himself in the forehead as he pulled his mind back from potential futures. “She said she wouldn’t be home from work until four o’clock. Hey, it’s nearly four now! Come on. I’ll drop you off at the farm and come back into town.”

  “Don’t bother,” Holl said. “She’s there.”

  “Where? At the farm?”

  “Take us back, Keith Doyle,” Enoch said, a trace of mischief in his dark eyes. “They’ll have had time enough now.”

  “For what?” Keith asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  ***

  Chapter 2

  From the two-lane asphalt road, it looked as though a car could drive straight across to the old, white farmhouse all but hidden behind the overgrown hedges and stands of mature trees. Within a few feet of passing the white-painted, wooden split-rail fence, however, the crushed-stone driveway began to dip down a steep hill. At the bottom of the first slope, the drive crossed a ford that in the wet season ran with eight inches of water, and up another hill to a gravel parking pad beside the house.

  As he negotiated the slope, Keith became aware of a painful sensation in his head that made him grit his teeth. It grew so fierce he couldn’t concentrate on the trickle of water ahead. He braked the car gently to a stop.

  “You’ve got the electric fence turned up too high,” he said.

  “Apologies,” Enoch said. The black-haired elf stretched out his hands and seemed to tear apart invisible curtains. Immediately, the discomfort plaguing Keith died away so suddenly he felt as if a constricting shell had fallen off his body, leaving him limp against the seat. He worked his jaw.

  “I know I haven’t been here in a while, but I don’t think I was ever this sensitive to the repulsion.”

  “We’ve had a few too many unwelcome visitors lately,” Hall said ruefully. “Salesmen, inspectors, poll-takers, nosy travelers—more than ever before—so we’ve made the place somewhat less inviting.”

  “Less inviting!” Keith whistled. “And the delivery driver and postal carrier come in through this? They must have nerves of steel.”

  “We’ve given the driver immunity, but the postal carrier still dislikes coming in here. She leaves our mail in the box on the road. We’ll attune the spell to welcome you once we are inside.”

  Keith felt the protective barrier almost clang closed behind him as he eased the Mustang up the hill and in beside Diane’s small, white Saturn. He frowned at the other two cars.

  “Who else is here?” he asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Enoch grunted. “Come along. I’ve had enough of riding in this steel box. I will have metal burn for a week.”

  “That’s fine talk for someone who works on a drill press,” Keith said, following him in the kitchen door.

  A dozen of the Little Folk stood around the custom-height counters chopping vegetables, tearing salad leaves, or rolling out pie crusts. Keith looked around at them fondly, admiring just the look of them, their there-ness. An expression that his grandfather used to use came to mind as appropriate to the scene: it did his heart good.

  “Hi, everybody!” he called.

  “Keith Doyle!” Most of the Folk left their tasks to greet him. Tay, his ice-white hair and beard startling on a face that looked ten years old, came over, wiping his floury hands onto the breast of his apron. His small fingers grasped Keith’s with a surprisingly powerful grip.

  “Well, well, we’ve not seen you in a while.”

  “No,” Keith said, with regret. “I’ve been really busy. Mmm, something smells delicious!” He went over to examine the pots bubbling on the low stove, and took a taste from a big saucepan with the wooden spoon propped up inside it.

  “There, now, stop that,” scolded a little silver-haired female, who hustled over to rap him on the knuckles. Keva was one of the finest bakers in the world and Holl’s elder sister. Keith didn’t know her exact age, but she was over a hundred years older than her brother. “One of these days, you’re going to have a sup of boiling laundry.”

  “That’d be okay. Fiber’s good for you,” he said, irrepressibly.

  “Welcome,” said Maura, Holl’s wife, coming up to squeeze his hand. Her chestnut-haired beauty had matured with marriage and motherhood into a warmth like a fine patina. “Asrai has been asking when her Big uncle would come to call. She is talking more now than ever.”

  “Can’t wait to see her,” Keith said. He calculated in his head. Asrai must be a little over two years old already. He couldn’t keep up with time.

  “Keith Doyle!” Dola abandoned the strawberries she had been hulling and came running up to spring into his arms for a hug. The little elf girl, now nearly thirteen years old, had always been a pet of his. Another one who was breaking out of childhood, but slowly, in the way of her kind. She had always worn her long blond hair loose, but now it was braided in a complicated bun at the back of her head, probably to keep it out of the fruit salad she was m
aking.

  “Hi, Dola. You’re looking beautiful.” Keith swung her in a circle and set her down gently. “Where are Marcy and Diane? In there?”

  He heard a noise in the main room beyond and started toward it. Dola trotted alongside him and tucked her hand into his.

  The very next blink, Keith’s eyes sealed shut. He tried to pry the lids open with a thumb and forefinger, but they wouldn’t budge. It was as if they were made of single pieces of flesh. “Hey, no fair!”

  “Come along,” Dola said, guiding him forward. Keith put out his free hand, feeling for the wall. “You will spoil the surprise.”

  “What surprise?” Keith demanded. “What’s going on?”

  Though his sight was blocked, his other senses were in perfect working order. Around him many voices that he knew were speaking in whispers and giggling. He could feel bodies passing close enough to him to set his invisible whiskers on alert. And, best of all, he could smell lots of luscious food including, to his delight, some of Keva’s bread.

  The rush of light when his lids finally parted was as shocking as a skyrocket. Packed into the bright room around him was the entire population of Little Folk with a sprinkling of Big Folk faces Keith knew as well. The long, thin face with the stringy black hair belonged to Pat Morgan. The light-skinned African-American wearing a cashmere sweater-vest was Dunn Jackson, a fellow former student in the Elf Master’s special extended educational courses under Gillington Library. The ancient woman with eyes as blue as cornflowers was Ludmilla Hempert, and supporting her, the tall, taciturn man with mahogany-dark skin and eyes was Lee Eisley.

  “Surprise!” From the midst of the crowd, a lovely girl with blue-green eyes in a heart-shaped face wriggled her way out of the crowd to give Keith a kiss. He returned it with enthusiasm.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “It’s a party,” Diane Londen said, her blue-green eyes gleaming with mischief. Diane led Keith forward into the center of the room, and everyone clustered about, patting him on the back or shaking his hand.

  “I can see that, but what for?”

  “We didn’t know whether you would figure it out or no,” Maura’s emerald-green eyes were bright with glee. “A celebration of your graduation.”

  “And ours,” said Marcy Collier. A shy beauty with black hair and very white skin, Marcy had fallen in love with Enoch. Since the end of the last school year, she’d been living at the farm full time. The shy girl had become a reserved but much more confident woman. Keith was pleased. She needed stable roots to blossom, and she’d gotten them. “But mostly for you.”

  “But I graduated months ago,” Keith protested.

  “But not from my class,” the Elf Master said.

  A stocky, older male with red hair and beard and gold-rimmed glasses balanced on his nose, the master emerged from the midst of the throng. The others parted respectfully to make way for him. He rocked back on his heels to regard Keith.

  “Until your last assignment I did not accept that you had demonstrated the requisite knowledge to earn the degree of Bachelor of Arts neither according to the charter of your unifersity, or to me. I am now satisfied. And, now, about your definition of vhen a paper is due …” His eyebrows lifted meaningfully. Keith opened his mouth to protest.

  “Later, later,” the Master’s wife, Orchadia, said, laughing. She put a brimming wooden cup into her husband’s hand. “A toast.”

  “Yes, a toast to the good ones who haf vorked so hard,” said old Ludmilla Hempert, the retired University cleaning woman who had been the first Big Person the elves had learned to trust. Moving slowly but still with an upright spine, she came over to kiss Keith on the cheek. Her flower-blue eyes twinkled. “I am glat to see you here again with my little ones.”

  “Thanks, folks,” Keith said, deeply moved. “I’m really delighted.”

  “Speechless?” asked Pat, Keith’s former roommate.

  “Never.” Keith grinned. “I’ll think of something to say after I’ve eaten. It seems like weeks since I’ve had a square meal. And nothing as good as this.”

  “We wait for you to begin,” the Elf Master said, cordially. He gestured toward the long table under the window, which had been laid out as a buffet. Sliced meats and cheeses covered one huge platter beside a basket of rolls. Salads galore followed, most of them made with fresh fruits and vegetables from the community garden. Keith took Diane’s arm and escorted her to the end of the line.

  “Congratulations,” said Tiron, swinging into line with Catra, the Little Folks’ Archivist on his arm. “Didn’t know any Big People who had the wit or the endurance to measure up to our standards, and here’s four of you. Will wonders never cease?”

  “Thanks, I think,” Keith said. “How’s things going?”

  “Oh, well, well,” Tiron said, patting Catra’s arm possessively. She gave Keith a sly grin. He thought he understood the byplay.

  Tiron was the newest member of the community, imported personally, though unwittingly, from Ireland by Keith in a suitcase that had formerly been filled with the student’s clothes. He was a carver of enormous skill and matching ego. He had also acquired a reputation as a ladies’ man. Keith wondered what had happened to Catra’s longtime boyfriend Ronard. There he was, in the crowd near the kitchen door. His blazing gray eyes were fixed on the back of Catra’s tightly-coiffed chestnut head and Tiron’s curly dark one. Keith suspected that Catra was getting tired of waiting for Ronard to jump the broomstick with her—all right, so the Folk didn’t use broomsticks in their wedding ceremony—but Ronard wasn’t getting the message. The newcomer was good looking, very talented, and not at all ashamed to toot his own horn. He was a good prospect, or a good lever to pry a reluctant suitor off the fence. Ronard wasn’t the only person who looked disgruntled. Catra’s younger sister Candlepat, the village flirt, was pointedly not looking at Tiron as she swept through with a platterful of cookies and pastries. Keith thought for one moment of asking what was going on, but decided he didn’t want to bring up weddings. Not with Diane in earshot.

  “Leave that be! You should never have brought that up in the first place.”

  At the sound of angry voices Keith glanced over toward another serving table set against the wall across the room. It held a selection of beverages in barrels, bottles, and punch bowls. Marm, the Folks’ brewer, seemed to be having a furious argument with Tay, Dola’s father. Marm appeared to have won the battle. He snatched a wooden mug from the other male’s hands and brought it to Keith.

  “It ought to be my honor to offer you the produce of our cellar,” Marm said, shamefacedly, knowing that everyone had been watching them. “Imagine, I don’t know where the young ones lose their manners.” Tay flushed, staining his ice-fair skin the color of the wine. “The first pressings from our own vineyard come to maturity. You’re responsible for this vintage, in a way.”

  “And I didn’t have to stomp a single grape,” Keith said solemnly, raising the cup to his lips. “Delicious. Wow! It packs a little kick, too.” Marm looked smugly pleased.

  “The cup’s my contribution,” said Tiron. “It’s a gift for you from us all. It will last forever, and nothing you put in it will sour or poison you.”

  Keith examined the wooden mug. His name was etched around the base. The handle was a simple carving of a unicorn, so perfect it looked as if it had just that moment reared up to look into the interior. “Thanks, Tiron. It’s beautiful.”

  “And if you tip it up too often, all we’ll see is the backside of a horse,” Marm guffawed. “And there’s one on the cup, too.”

  “I have something for you, too,” said Catra. She offered Keith a sheet of marbled paper. It looked like a letter, written both in English and the elves’ language. Little of it was comprehensible except for Keith’s name inscribed in large characters in the center of the page, but he recognized the format.

  “Hey, a diploma. So I’m officially an Artis Baccalaureatis of the Select Learning Academy for Leprechauns and Others under
the Master, otherwise known as SLALOM?”

  The others laughed. The Elf Master pursed his lips. “It is gut that you yourself cannot go farther downhill in your studies.”

  “Yeah, but I can dodge like anything,” Keith said.

  In spite of his worries, Holl grinned.

  “You’ve started something again, widely. Now they’ll all be calling it that.”

  “I won’t get one of those just yet,” Dunn said, “but you know what it’s like.” Sheepishly, he pulled a sheaf of papers rolled into a cylinder from his back pocket and handed it to the Elf Master, who raised his eyebrows as he scanned the first page. “Trying to make a buck makes it hard to get to my homework, but I’m trying. As long as I’m working for my brother I can’t get down here again for at least a year.”

  “Hey, I understand. I know I’m lucky to be able to go on for an advanced degree.” Keith examined the document, wishing he could read it. Although it was set out in a graceful calligraphy that would make the sheepskin printers die with envy, the sheet was plain. “Beautiful. But shouldn’t you doll this up a little bit? You know, a seal and a ribbon, or a portrait, or something?”

  “The document fulfills its function,” the Master informed him, austerely. “You should not need a literal reminder uf your accomplishment, but as Lee Eisley told me some years ago, it is uf psychological benefit. It says vhat it needs to say. No more is needed.” Lee met Keith’s eyes and shrugged.

  “Well, you could make it fancier. Just for fun.” The Master raised his eyebrows, but Keith rattled on, caught up in the idea. “I could design you a seal like the one the University has, maybe even a school logo. Hey, that reminds me …”

  “Enough!” the Master said. Reluctantly, Keith let the idea drop. For the time being.

  “Let us eat,” Orchadia said. “The cooks will be sadly disappointed in us if everything spoils.”

  ***

  Chapter 3

  “What are your plans for the fall?” Maura asked, guiding the Big Folk to the end of the buffet table. She took their wine cups while they filled plates.