Mythology Abroad

Smashwords Edition – January 2015

WordFire Press
wordfirepress.com

ISBN: 978-1-61475-270-7

Copyright © 1991 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 design by Janet McDonald

Art Director Kevin J. Anderson

Cover painting by Don Maitz

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

D
EDICATION

To Auntie Fran and Uncle Errol, with love.

C
HAPTER ONE

“Now, now, my wee darlings, get along. This isn’t for you, as well you know.” Mrs. Mackenzie gently shooed her yowling cats out of her path as she pushed open the kitchen door. Sniffing the sweet, heady scent of milk in the bowl she held, the four Siamese cats followed her out into the garden, their erect tails hopeful.

“Enough of your din. You’ll have your tea in a moment, my lovelies,” Mrs. Mackenzie chided them, laughing. “This is for those who haven’t got a mum to give them meals and treats.” With her free arm, she held back a low branch of a stunted apple tree and scooted by between the tree and the garden wall. The blossoms had just begun withering away, and tiny green knobs swelled behind them. Mrs. Mackenzie started to count them, and smiled. Even in the wild Atlantic winds that crossed over and over the Isle of Lewis, her garden prospered well enough, as did their small hayfield, fenced in to guard it from the sheep. For this she gave thanks in her church on Sundays, but since she had lived here all her life, she knew better than to ignore the other powers of the land, and offered them thanks as well.

At the end of the garden path sat a square stone with a bowl-like depression in the top. The stone had sat there for heaven knew how many centuries and generations. Its rough, yellowed sides were covered with moss, and its corners had been shaved round by the wind. It was thought to be cut from the same stone which formed the forest of man-made monoliths on the hilltop above their farm, but was probably far older. She stopped in front of it and waited until the liquid in her bowl had stilled. The cats rubbed against her ankles and set up a fresh wail. Paying them no attention, Mrs. Mackenzie poured the bowl of milk into the hollow. “There. The first milk of the first milking from our Flora.”

The moment she touched the stone, the cats lost all interest in her or the milk, and wandered back up the path. The chief cat and only female started a game of Tag with the youngest male, and the other two joined in, racing up and down between the plantings of young carrots and strawberries. Mrs. Mackenzie followed them toward the house, calling at them impatiently to go inside for their tea.

***

C
HAPTER TWO

“Do you want to sit by the window or on the aisle?” Keith Doyle asked Holl as they struggled toward their row on the 747 aircraft. The flight attendants smiled at the thin, red-headed youth and the blond, apple-cheeked child in the baseball cap who followed him, and directed them across the body of the big jet and down another aisle. Keith ducked around a well-dressed man who was removing his coat in the Business section. “At least they said the flight isn’t too full. We should get the middle seat of our row, too. Then we can stretch out. Can you believe how small these things are? How do tall people sit in them?” Another smiling attendant bowed them past her into the Economy section and pointed further down the body of the plane.

A wide-eyed Holl stared distrustfully at the paneled plastic walls as he trod, zombie-like, behind Keith. All around him, Big Folk, strangers, stowed their possessions in high-set boxes and sat down with expressions of expectation in endless rows of identically colored chairs with metal armrests. The chairs creaked as the big people sat in them. Holl shuddered. Though the other passengers ignored him now, eight hours of boredom might draw their attention to the sole representative of the Little Folk on the plane, and he’d be trapped. Keith called his people elves, which just went to prove how little even the Big Ones who understood them best knew them. He felt immediately claustrophobic. Statistics he had researched over the last few weeks on accidents involving commercial jet aircraft flashed alarming red numbers inside his head. The two hours they had had in the terminal before the flight’s scheduled departure was too much time for him to sit and consider the dangers of the trip. Perhaps sometimes it was not a good idea to have been raised in a library. He had access to too many alarming facts. “Keith Doyle, I no longer think this is a good idea. Can I go back?”

Keith looked back at the mob of passengers following them along the narrow passage from the jetway, and sighed. “I think it’s too late. We’ve gone through passport control and x-ray. You’ll just have to hang on the best you can, and keep your mind occupied. Try and sleep, or something.”

“This feeble little box will carry us safely four thousand miles?” Under the brim of the Cubs cap he wore to disguise his tall, pointed ears, the young elf’s eyes were big and round with fear.

“The aisle,” Keith decided firmly. “Wait for me to get in. Here we are.” Their row number appeared on an overhead bin to Keith’s left, and he shot his suitcase into the compartment. He took Holl’s small bag and tossed it up next to his, then squeezed into the window seat. “Hey, we’re not over the wing. Great! We’ll be able to see everything!”

“Don’t ask me to look,” Holl said, settling down into the aisle seat. It squeaked alarmingly, and the smooth armrests were cold. “Sticks and stones, these chairs are uncomfortable!”

“There are pillows up there,” Keith offered, then he caught Holl’s outraged expression. He measured the distance with his eye, and pulled himself to a standing position. “Never mind. I’ll get them.”

O O O

“Talk about your artificial environments,” Holl said disgustedly. “Did you take a look in their lavatories?”

Keith was relieved that his friend had recovered enough to complain. The takeoff had been a trauma he didn’t expect. Keith himself enjoyed the pressure when the jet was racing down the runway, building momentum, and the breathless feeling of weightlessness he got just as it left the ground. It was fun, the way that the drop-off over the crest of a rollercoaster track was fun. He’d forgotten just for that second that Holl had never been on a plane before, let alone a rollercoaster. He was as innocent of modern transportation as the ten- or twelve-year-old Big Person he seemed to be. No one from Holl’s village ever traveled anywhere except on their feet. In a brief glance toward the seat on his left, Keith saw Holl’s face go chalky white, eyes squeezed shut, and he was gripping the armrests with his fists.

“Hey, it’s over,” Keith nudged him gently. “We’re airborne.”

“My stomach’s still down there somewhere,” Holl replied apologetically, opening his eyes. “And you talk about my people’s magic. This thing oughtn’t to be able to fly!”

“Well, we’re defying gravity at about 500 miles per hour, and we’re heading for the clouds. Wait, don’t look. I’ll keep the window shut. Do you want to get up and look around?”

“Need I?” Holl asked nervously.

“No, but others are getting out of their seats and stretching. Why don’t you take a quick look around? We’ve got lots of time before we get to Scotland. Hours, in fact.” Keith grinned. “You ought to see what you’re traveling in. Consider it research. You can tell the others all about it.”

Holl considered. It was true that few of his folk would ever have the opportunity to do what he was doing: flying in an aircraft across the Atlantic Ocean. His friends and family would demand detail of his adventure, and if he didn’t have it, they would be disappointed. Watching other passengers negotiate the aisles without care, Holl flicked open the catch on his safety belt, defying his own fear. “All right. I will, then.”

As Keith kept a surreptitious eye on him, the young elf paced out the length of the aisle and doubled back through the back galley to the other aisle. He had a look into the cockpit, where the pilot and crew smiled at him, seeing only another youngster curious about the workings of the jet. Holl even took a peek into the upper level of the aircraft, into the First Class lounge, before the steward on duty up there chased him down again.

“No one else seems worried,” Holl reported, returning to his seat just as a flight attendant rolled a beverage cart into their aisle.

“They’re not. They do this all the time. It’s almost safer than walking,” Keith promised him, and looked up at the attendant’s prompt. “What’ll you have? Everything’s free but the liquor, and I can’t give you that anyhow. You’re underage, my dear nephew.”

The attendant helped them to plastic cups of soda and two impermeable packets of sugared peanuts. Keith turned the knob in front of him to let the table down for his drink. Holl was pleased by the design of the fold-down tables, and examined the suspension mechanism closely.

“First flight?” the stewardess asked Keith, glancing at Holl.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s twelve.” They exchanged smiles. “Hey, Holl, your drink.”

The elf received his refreshments and put them on his tray table. After a few attempts to tear open the plastic package of peanuts, he reached surreptitiously for his whittling knife and poked a hole in the celluloid. He caught Keith gawking at him.

“How did you get that through the security check?” Keith demanded, staring at the long, gleaming blade as his friend tucked it away in its sheath. “The buzzers should have gone crazy with a long hunk of steel like that passing through them.”

“They just didn’t notice, that’s all,” Holl replied offhandedly. “And it isn’t made of steel. You know what too much steel does to us. It’s titanium. I made it from scrap lifted from the Science Labs, and difficult it was to do, I will tell you. I wasn’t leaving home without it. You never know what you’ll need. Money can’t buy it all.”

“I don’t know,” Keith said dubiously. “I still think it would set off the metal detectors. You must have done something magic to them.” He waited for Holl to clarify, but the Little Person wasn’t talking. Another thought struck Keith. “Speaking of not being able to buy it all, how’d you get the money to come with me?”

Holl made an offhand gesture. “From sweepstakes and the like. At first, we had to figure out which ones actually had drawings after the entries were sent in instead of choosing them in advance.”

Keith sputtered. “You can’t use magic to win contests! That’s cheating!”

Holl was nonplussed. “We didn’t use magic to win. You should see the things professional contesters do to their envelopes to get them chosen. Ours were innocent by comparison. We just wanted to ensure that our envelopes made it to the final draw. We had every chance to lose after that point, one among thousands in a turning drum. But when we had enough money, we stopped. Lee Eisley said the barn roof needs repair, and we can’t make tar paper for ourselves. We won a good bit, but only out of need.”

“In my name, I suppose.” Holl nodded. Keith groaned. “Pray the accounting companies never check the system for magical intervention. I hope you have enough left over for me to pay the income tax on the winnings.”

“The Master says so.” The village headman, who also taught one of Midwestern University’s more interesting and exclusive study groups, was known only by his title. Keith respected the Master’s encyclopedic knowledge, but was just a little put off by his formidable personality. He nodded.

“If the Master says it’s okay, I guess it is, the way you guys research things. I oughta let you just take over my life. You make more money in my name than I do. But where did you get a passport?” Keith continued in a low voice, glancing over his shoulder between the seats to make sure no one was listening. “Without a birth certificate, without any identification?”

“Don’t ask how and I’ll tell you no lies,” was all Holl would say. Keith shrugged and sipped his drink. He watched the sky through the window next to the seat in front of him. Through breaks in the clouds, he could see the green checkerboard pattern of farms and roads. Holl quaffed soda and ate the peanuts methodically, one at a time, staring straight forward at the bulkhead.

“Okay, I’ve waited to ask,” Keith said at last, “but I guess you’re not going to tell me. Why are you coming with me?”

Holl raised his hands, palms up. “You’re a trend-setter again, Keith Doyle. When they heard that you were making your way to Scotland and Ireland, there was much discussion.”

“I’m going on an educational tour. Archaeology. For credit. I don’t see what use that would be to you.”

“But afterwards? When you visit Ireland to look for your distant relatives? The old ones have decided that it’s important we make contact with the ones that were left behind—if there are any still alive, and where we left them. We’re tired of being isolated. If there are Folk left to find, in this day of easy global communication, there’s no need for them to remain isolated any longer.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard this thesis somewhere before,” Keith said drily. “I think it was mine. But Holl, you were born at Midwestern University. You’re what, forty-one? Your folks left home lots longer ago than that. You don’t know where to go to find them, do you?”

“I can find them,” Holl stated, “with your help.”

“Bring ’Em Back Alive Doyle, that’s me. But wouldn’t it have been easier to send one of the old folks back to look? There must be plenty of them who remember how to get there. What about the Master? Why you?”

“I volunteered to go,” Holl said firmly, as if that should settle the matter.

“Uh-huh.” Keith could tell Holl was hedging by the way his invisible whiskers twitched, and searched his friend’s face for clues. The very idea of hunting for more Little People in the wilds of Ireland intrigued him, but there had to be more to it than that. “Okay … but your Irish relatives have never seen you before. They may not trust a strange face, even if you have the pointy ears to prove kinship. Why not someone who remembers them? Anyone still alive from when your people left home? People who know the homestead on sight? Can you help me find it?”

“Well, I might.” But Holl sounded unsure.

Keith picked up on his tone immediately. “Okay, if you’re as lost as I am, there must be another reason.” Holl started to speak several times, but stopped short before uttering a word. Keith waited.

“My reasons are my own,” the elf said, and fell obstinately silent.

“C’mon, Holl. I’m your friend,” Keith wheedled. “You’re not like me. You don’t blunder in and get lucky. You plan. There’s got to be a better reason than ‘it’s important.’”

The buzz of the steward’s cart grumbled toward them, breaking the concentrated mood. The attendant leaned over to collect their cups. Holl instantly stuck the earpieces of his headphones into the entertainment system and stared straight ahead, ignoring Keith. Keith sighed and settled back into his seat with a book. Presently, meal service passed through the cabin and dropped trays in front of them.

“You’ll like the food.” After taking a bite of the entree, Holl pulled the earpiece away from his head and nudged Keith. “It tastes exactly the same as what you eat at school.”

While they ate, Keith talked. He could see that his friend was still anxious, but he was negotiating the jet’s aisles without lurching, and he handled the air turbulence over Nova Scotia without comment or color changes. So what was bugging him? He looked haggard, more tired than he had ever seen him. Something wrong in the village? Or something more personal? “I’m really looking forward to exploring Scotland, aren’t you?” Keith babbled. “I can’t rent a car ’til I’m 25, so that’s out, but there are buses, and we can get bicycles. Can you ride a bike? I’m especially anxious to see the standing stones at Callanish. It’s supposed to be Scotland’s answer to Stonehenge—you know, really magical.”

No response. “The Hebrides are so far distant from everything, that they haven’t been spoiled by development yet. The syllabus said there are five dig sites currently under investigation, though we won’t know which one we work on until we get there. I’ve got lots of books with me about the area, and the local legends. Of course, all of them are about half read. But I expect to have them all finished by the time I go home. We travel to the islands by ferryboat, you know, same as when we leave for Ireland. No more flying.”

Holl, made more comfortable by food, and the fact that night had fallen, obscuring the view from 37,000 feet up over open water, shook his head wryly. If he couldn’t trust Keith Doyle, whom could he trust? Besides, he needed the boy’s help. “You’ve worn me out, widdy. I’ll confess. I’ve been through a trauma the likes of which I never want to repeat in my lifetime. It’s well that you’ve provided an opportunity for me to remove myself from the situation for a while. I just asked the Master for permission to marry his daughter, and you can imagine what that was like.”