Advanced Mythology

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Oh, all right, lass,” Enoch said, relenting and putting an arm around her shoulders. “It’s a hard adjustment to make, when we’ve been so careful not to let ourselves be photographed.”

  “I won’t let the pictures out of my hands until they get to your folks,” Keith promised solemnly. “Now, where do you want to take these pictures?” He glanced around the field. “The trouble with doing it outside is that there’s no scale, and that’s half of what we want to sell your folks on. I think we ought to take them at your workbench. We’re not hiding your profession, we’re bragging about it.”

  “If you say so,” Enoch said. “Oh, but that’s another thing that’s been going wrong. The expensive digital camera has ceased to function. The Conservatives are taking it as another sign that technology is our downfall.”

  “Really?” Keith asked. “Where is it?”

  Enoch led them into the workshop and pointed him toward a table in the middle of the room where odds and ends accumulated. He brushed off a light dusting of sawdust and took the camera out of its case.

  “Yow!” Keith exclaimed, as it fell back to the table with a clatter. “It zapped me!”

  “Oh, no,” said Marcy. “Is it broken? Everyone’s been so careful.”

  Keith looked it over carefully. “Oops, look at that: the battery hatch is jammed. That might be the cause of both problems.” He flipped it open, tipped out the battery, blew dust off it, returned it to its place, then pushed the switch. With a musical hum, the camera warmed up. “How about that? No charge for the emergency repair.”

  Enoch glowered. “They’ll be saying it’s because you’re one of the Big Folk that it works for you.”

  “C’mon,” Keith said, “you don’t believe that. Okay, sit down and work on something. Smile. Look natural.”

  But Enoch couldn’t. Nervously, he took up a half-finished box and one of the yet-to-be-attached sides. Setting one of the sides at the proper angle, he concentrated on the charm that would join the pieces of wood as though they were cemented together. Keith, behind the camera, found himself scuttling around trying to capture Enoch’s face with the lens.

  “Smile!” Keith called. Enoch tried, but the smile faded and his brow furrowed as he got interested in what he was doing. “I’m not getting any good pictures. C’mon, Enoch, you’re only supposed to pretend you’re working.”

  The black-haired elf frowned up into the lens. “This is unnatural,” he said. “Pretend? Smile? You try it.”

  “No problem for me,” Keith said, peering at him through the viewfinder. “I’ve had cameras shoved in my face from before I could hold my head up. Look, just sit still and smile. Hold something in your hand, if you want.”

  “I don’t want to do this,” Enoch said, starting to get up. But Marcy looked so sad that he sat down again. “Ah, well.” He picked up the box and a chisel, holding them awkwardly in his hands, almost as though he had them by mistake. The chisel slipped out of his hand and clanked to the floor. Enoch bent to retrieve it just as the flash went off.

  “Damn!” Keith exclaimed. He poked at the buttons on the back of the camera to erase the last five photos. “These aren’t turning out very well. That last one was a blur.”

  “It’ll be okay,” Diane said. “Just sit tight a little longer, and we’ll get a good one.” But Enoch wasn’t paying attention to her. He was looking over her shoulder. She turned around, and tugged on Keith’s sleeve. He glanced up.

  While they’d been trying to take pictures, the others had crept into the room to watch. Keith was embarrassed for Enoch’s sake. What had begun as a simple task was turning into a spectacle.

  “Hey,” Keith called. “Look at the birdie!” Enoch dragged his attention woefully to him. Concentrating as hard as he could, he made an absurd little yellow bird appear on his shoulder and let it void, dripping white down his shirt front. Enoch grunted.

  “Not bad,” he said, pointing a finger at Keith. “Fine speed of enchantment and an even appearance, but can ye do nothing without that touch of foolishness?”

  “You were just supposed to look at me,” Keith said sternly, “not criticize my bird.”

  The others tittered. Enoch rose from the bench.

  “I’ve had enough,” he said. Marcy rushed to him and laid her hand on his arm.

  “Please,” she said. “For me. Just one more time.”

  “I don’t know what to do!” Enoch said resentfully, sitting down again. “Look natural, this big fool says. How do you do that?”

  Tay, in the midst of the crowd, caught Keith’s eye and nodded toward the door. Keith nodded back. The white-haired elf slipped out for a moment. He came back in a few seconds, with Dola in tow.

  “Let me help,” the girl said, bustling importantly through the crowd. “I know what to do, uncle. I have done many photo shoots now.” Marcy made way for her. She plumped down beside Enoch. “Pretend he’s got to see all your front teeth.” She opened her lips in an exaggerated smile. “Do you see? So, when I relax slightly, the camera sees a friendly look that it likes.”

  When she did it, it looked very pretty. When Enoch followed her example, he looked like a fox caught at bay. Keith took several shots, then brought the camera over to show him the results.

  “How grim you look, uncle,” Dola said frankly. Enoch looked up at Keith, who nodded solemn agreement.

  “Oh, aye?” Enoch asked, surprised, as he scrolled through the pictures, seeing one grimace after another. “I had no idea.… Do I look like that often?” he appealed to Marcy, as he handed the camera back to Keith. She bit her lip.

  “Not very,” she said at last, in a small voice. Enoch let out a sharp burst of laughter. He put his arm around her, pulling her cheek to cheek with him. “Lass, you’re a poor liar.”

  Keith backed up and started snapping pictures again. Marcy dropped her head, looking sheepish. Enoch looked at her with a fond smile. She looked up into his eyes. They’d forgotten all about the crowd.

  A few moments later, Keith interrupted them. “These’ll do the trick,” he said, waving the camera in the air. “Let’s print ’em out!”

  They took the camera inside and fed the memory stick to the computer’s docking unit. The entire collection popped into sight on the screen. Keith sat down on the low stool in front of the keyboard and went through them, checking off the ones he wanted to use.

  “See?” he said. “You actually look handsome in these.”

  “Well, thank you for a useless compliment,” Enoch said sourly, watching over his shoulder. “No, I take that back. I appreciate the help. These are fine. You did well.”

  Keith examined the files critically. A few of the shots he’d taken at the beginning were good enough to use. The ones with Marcy were really sweet. You could tell how much those two were in love.

  “Your folks won’t be able to resist these,” Keith assured her. She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Thank you, Keith. You’re an angel.”

  Keith printed four images on each page. As they rolled out of the printer, one of the Folk cut them apart and set them in a neat stack. Enoch popped out the memory stick and put it back in the camera.

  “You can save these on the hard drive,” Keith said. “You have lots of spare memory.”

  Enoch shook his head. “We’re doing that no longer. Not after what you’ve told us about the hungry program. We regret now that we were so free in sending images up and back to Ireland. We’ve removed all the others. Better not to keep them where they can be stolen all unawares.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Keith said.

  All the elves turned to look toward the front door. Within a few moments, the Big Folk could hear what they had heard: a car pulling in on the gravel drive.

  “The others are here,” the Elf Master said. “It is time for class.”

  * * *

  After Keith had seen Diane off, he threw his bag and briefcase into the front seat of the Mustang and prepared to climb in after the
m. Catra emerged from the house, fingers ink-stained, followed by Holl and the Master.

  “Keith Doyle, wait!” Catra offered him a sheet of paper.

  “I have done my best to be brief but cordial,” she said. “It contains a concise description of you and your home, so they know where and to whom to respond, and the way to come here for the party. I sent it to the Niall to check for continuity. In all our years apart, we’ve never hosted a gathering, so I was not certain of the proper words to use.” She seemed anxious for approval.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Keith said, surveying the graceful calligraphy with pleasure. “This is gorgeous, Catra. You’re sure, now?” he said, looking into their eyes.

  He didn’t mean whether Catra was certain of the wording. If the Folk were giving him the text, it meant they’d decided that he could have his party. This was irrevocable. He knew it, and they knew it.

  “We’re sure,” Holl said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “If for no other reason than as a reward for getting Enoch to smile for five entire minutes on end. It’ll be a memory we’ll treasure forever.”

  Keith laughed. “Thanks. I’ll accept under any circumstances.” He studied the page. “Hmm. There’s no way I can use a keyboard to input this into the ad. I’ll have to scan it.”

  “I could have done that,” Catra said, frowning.

  “Oh! Well, if you can set it out in a square for me, so I don’t have to cut and paste it, that’d be great.”

  “No trouble at all.” She disappeared back into the house. He heard the printer warming up. In a few moments she returned and handed him a printout and a disk. “The paper is cleanly white, so it ought to do well for your purposes. If it will not do, the disk contains a jpeg.”

  “Thanks for this,” Keith said, stowing the paper in his notebook for safety. “I’m really grateful for this, and for everything. Want anything from Chicago?”

  “Not this time,” the Master said. “Come and go vith our blessinks.”

  “Such as they are,” Holl said under his breath, watching Keith’s ancient car drive away. “The quality’s really not worth handing on.”

  ***

  Chapter 12

  Keith followed Paul Meier toward the boardroom.

  “It’s so different not being with the other interns,” Keith said, glancing back over his shoulder at the door at the far end of the corridor. The current crop of students, two women and two men, watched them go with looks of open envy.

  “Yeah, you’re one of the big boys now,” Paul said, giving Keith an avuncular slap on the back. “You can come and hang out with us in there anytime. You’ve got the kind of energy they’re cranking. I’m too old to relate. Or so they say.”

  “Is that a real client, or something you thought up to keep them busy? A rock group called Skim?”

  “Oh, they’re real, all right,” Paul said. “Nice bunch of guys. One really astonishing guitarist who maybe could grow up to be Eric Clapton, with an act of God. Good lyrics like Sting or the Moody Blues. Even tunes I can recognize, and I admit to owning Cole Porter albums.”

  “You’re not that old,” Keith said.

  “No,” Paul sighed, “but I miss melody. We had a group come to us, called themselves Pap Smear. What did they think, we were going to get out there and plaster the world with posters of gynecological exams? I told them to change their name and come back when they could play their own instruments. Bands have always had weird names, back to the beginning, but do they have to be obscene?”

  “Some of them are pretty good in spite of their names,” Keith said.

  “Yeah, but admit it: kids are embarrassed to ask for albums by them. You know why they started putting condoms behind the counter in drugstores? People were shoplifting them because they were too embarrassed to ask. I bet the same thing happens in music stores. You’re forcing little girls to go in and shop for the latest thing from Hole.”

  “Paul’s on a rant again,” said Dorothy, coming up between them and putting an arm through each of theirs.

  “Damn straight,” Paul said, allowing himself to be towed into the boardroom.

  “Yeah, but it’s our job,” said Doug Constance, tagging along behind. He liked to get Paul going.

  “All right,” Paul said, trying to break loose to face Doug, but Dorothy held on. “Never mind the kids. What about their poor grandparents, who grew up in more polite times? I’m buying music for my nephew, who one minute ago was chanting along with Barney, and the next thing you know he’s giving me a birthday list that has names like Rage Against the Machine and Popped Zits, for all I know. I can just imagine my mother having to go into the record store.”

  “And we’re right in there writing ad copy so the kids will buy them, right?”

  “Yeah,” Paul sighed, sinking into his chair. “Right. I’m piling wood on the pyre around my own feet.”

  “You died in a good cause, man,” said Rollin, who was waiting in the boardroom, propped up against the wall. “Our bottom line salutes you.”

  Suddenly inspired, Keith plastered an imaginary headline on the air with one hand. “‘Skim: All of the music, none of the fat.’”

  “Yeah.” Paul chuckled. “Not bad. You want in on the brainstorming session?”

  “Yeah!” Keith said. “If the group comes in to meet the staff, can I come and meet them?”

  “Sure, kid.”

  Jennifer Schick, Gadfly’s marketing director, arrived at that moment, followed by Teresa carrying a box from the coffee shop on the corner. She pushed a cup in front of Keith. He looked up at her in surprise. She gave him a shamefaced little smile. It was meant to be a peace offering from the team. He tasted it, then beamed at her. Sweet, but not enough to send him to the moon. She must have been watching him during the earlier sessions. He raised an eyebrow at the size of the cup. “Short” meant short meetings. “Medium” meant business as usual. A “lofty” brew meant a long meeting had been scheduled.

  “It’s okay; it’s half-caf,” Janine told him. Keith pantomimed wiping sweat off his forehead.

  “All right,” Dorothy said, tapping a sheaf of papers on the table to square it. “We’ve got a lot of work to get done. Welcome, Jen. I think you’re going to like what we’ve got for you. First, let’s look at the storyboards for the commercials. Janine and Rollin have worked on the first one together. I think it’ll give just the right play with a touch of whimsy. It makes use of as many features as we could work in. And for music …”

  With a dramatic flourish, Dorothy reached for the T-shaped control in the center of the table. The lights dimmed, the screen at the front of the room descended, and the agency’s million-dollar multimedia system took over.

  To the tune of the ’60s hit, “Bend Me, Shape Me,” the Origami did a little boogie across the screen, twisting into several configurations. Behind it, wrapping around it and flowing like draped silk caressing it were game graphics, stock ticker numbers, obvious pager messages, GPS instructions, as a mellifluous man’s voice said, “Play a game. Write a memo. Keep in touch. Chart your course. Be productive. Have fun.” The camera zoomed in on the screen to show a close-up of a young man’s face, obviously the user taking movies of himself, followed by a quick glimpse of what looked like regular TV programming. The unit folded itself up, and stuck itself into the pocket of the young man’s polo shirt. “Origami. The new perpetual motion machine from Gadfly.”

  “Nice work, Rollin and Janine,” Jennifer said, applauding. “Fun.”

  “A lot of people have been getting the ’60s and ’70s angle,” Dorothy said encouragingly. “We couldn’t resist it. Kids will like it because it’s bouncy, and people who grew up at that time will associate it with their youth. Excuse the jerkiness of the images. That was just a computer-animated mockup, not the way the commercial will look when it’s finished. That’ll be up to the production house, but I promise you we keep a close eye on their work.”

  “I understand. Sure. Can we get the rights to the song?”
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  Doug Constance cleared his throat. “Yes. We’ve priced it out.”

  “Excellent!”

  “This’ll play on CNN as well as WB,” Rollin said. “Even the stuffy shows like Meet the Press are trying to shed the gray-suit image. Also, they are the Boomers who grew up with the song.”

  “Terrific. Politicians try so hard to look net-savvy these days.” Jennifer grinned. “Kind of sad, really, but that keeps ’em buying our product. Nice work.”

  “The demographics for CNNfn, Wall Street Week and Headline News are at the bottom,” Paul pointed out helpfully. “There’s a print ad for Wall Street Journal and The New York Times that ties in.”

  One by one, Dorothy demonstrated PDQ’s work in progress for the marketing director. The box and inserts were displayed and approved. Jennifer went over each graphic and advertisement with care. She made notes to herself with a stylus on the screen of an Origami unit that fit into a pocket of her purse. Keith watched her with envy rising in his heart. He had to have one.

  Quarter-page ads, full-page ads, catalog inserts for Sharper Image, Brookstone, Amazon.com and the major department stores were examined and passed or sent back for changes. Jennifer laughed over the choice of eight proposed logos.

  “I can’t call this decision,” she said. “Theo would go on strike if I made this choice unilaterally. Can we come in next week for it?”

  “Sure,” Dorothy said. “Since you want to start your big push for Christmas buying, the big launch will be the day after Halloween. We’ve got time.”

  It couldn’t have been the caffeine that kept Keith twitching until Dorothy got to the bottom of the stack of layouts, to the ad with his hidden invitation. He desperately wanted Gadfly to like his work. He really believed in the product. Paul had always said it helped if you could fake it, but his admiration of Gadfly’s little computer was completely genuine. If only he could have one. He wanted an Origami for his very own with a visceral yearning that knotted his stomach muscles, but more importantly for now, he wanted to get his party invitation sent out around the world. The ad had undergone dozens of changes over the past couple of weeks, as every department in the agency had had its say, but the basic idea remained intact, and so had the text on the screen. Jennifer Schick could sink his hopes with a single word.