Mythology Abroad (22 page)

***

C
HAPTER TWENTY-TWO

On the last night of the tour, Educatours liked to host a special dinner as a farewell party for each group. The coach delivered the tourists, Professor Parker’s team, and Diane and the Master, dressed in their finest, to a hotel in Stornoway they hadn’t passed by or seen before. Holl and the Master were suitably hatted for the trip into town. Keith recognized the fedora the red-haired teacher sported as one he had once worn back home.

They were directed to a long table along one side of the elegant, high-ceilinged restaurant. Candles burned in crystal chimneys in the center of the table, their light glinting off silver and crystal. Keith seated Diane courteously, and settled down in the chair next to hers. The menus were passed among them, and everyone fell silent, contemplating their choices. The lights were turned fashionably low, making it a little difficult to read. “What’s good, Miss Anderson?”

“Everything is good,” the tall woman said. “This hotel has a superb reputation. I have had it highly recommended by several people.”

The food was excellent, and there was a small room in the center of the dining room which was used as a self-serve dessert bar. There was a good deal of toasting one another over the meal.

“I have got to ask something,” Diane said tentatively. “I know I’m new around here, but does everything come with peas?”

Everyone laughed. At last, the group moved somewhat unsteadily to the lounge bar to finish off the evening in greater comfort. The party commandeered several tables, and pulled all the chairs around them.

“So what are your plans from here?” Matthew asked Keith, across the table where he was sitting between the Master and Diane.

“We’re going on to Ireland for a week,” Keith explained, “but as soon as I get home, I’m going to write a book that will be a revolutionary best seller over here, a high-moraled self-help tome.”

“Oh, what is it about?” Charles asked innocently.

“Cooking Without Peas,” Keith announced, describing the sales banner with a high-flung hand. “I’ll sell a million of ’em.”

The others laughed. Keith exchanged addresses with everyone, writing them in a brand new book purchased especially for the occasion. Because of the
bodach
’s curse, he was forced to stick closely to mineral water and a half-soda, half-orange juice combination the bartender recommended. Holl, who had long been relegated to non-alcoholic beverages he altered himself, met Keith’s eye with a sympathetic and humorous expression.

“And what are your orders, gentlemen?” the waiter asked, leaning over them with a pad.

“S—s—cider.” Keith found to his pleasure and amazement that he could still ask for the hard drink by concentrating on the non-alcoholic variety. The word had actually emerged with relative coherence. Take that,
bodach
, he thought.

“I’m sorry, sir. We haven’t got any,” the waiter apologized.

Keith’s face fell. He thought longingly of bitter ale, which he could see on tap behind the bar. It was meaty and rich and almost like a food, and he could just about taste it. “How about a b—bi—birale, no I mean a btitaler, um—” He turned red, seeing everyone staring at him. He must have sounded as if he was having a seizure.

The waiter glanced at him sadly. “Ye’ve had too many, laddie. How about a nice coop o’ coffee?”

“Um,” said Keith decisively, peering into the wooden shelves beneath the hanging decanters. “Is there another Orange 50 back there? Make it a double.”

“Coming right oop,” said the barman, relieved.

“What’s the matter,” Edwin asked. “Taken the pledge?”

“I can’t keep up with you guys,” Keith answered evasively. “I’ve given up trying.”

“Keith,” Miss Anderson began. “Normally I wouldn’t think of passing anyone who missed as much class time as you had, but under the circumstances, if you would care to sit an oral examination—and pass it—I think I can guarantee you a suitably acceptable grade. In light of your accident, I am willing to take your past performance and your remarkable find into consideration.” As Keith tried to protest his gratitude, she held up a hand to stop him. “No, don’t thank me. I promise you the test will be a difficult one. Come and see me tomorrow morning.”

“My father is going to be very displeased with me,” Matthew announced suddenly. “I’m not going into finance after him. I’ve been in touch with Dr. Crutchley on the phone, and he’s agreed to take me on as a pupil if I transfer down to London University. I’ll be going out with his team when he’s on a dig.”

“Most commendable, young man,” Dr. Parker said. “You’re a hard worker. I’m sure you’re bound for great things. I wish I had a dozen like you myself. If you choose not to work with Dr. Crutchley, I’d be happy if you would join our little band. I’ll give you a written recommendation, and look forward to seeing you at our meetings and conventions in the future.”

“Your health,” Martin said, raising his glass to his friend. Matthew made a half-bow.

“Hear, hear,” called Miss Anderson, applauding him.

Martin grinned before touching his glass to his lips. “And believe me, you’ll need it when your dad finds out you’ve chucked it all for some dry bones and old pots.”

Everyone laughed, but they raised their glasses to Matthew.

“Dr. Alfheim,” Parker began, turning to the Master, “I am curious to have your impression of the find made by young Mr. Doyle. Perhaps I swept it away too quickly the other day, but I am really so delighted that such a piece has come to light. You’ll have to forgive an enthusiast.”

“I qvite understand,” the Master agreed. “I vould appreciate a chance to examine the artifact. Such jewels look like vorthless discards to the untrained eye. I am not surprised you recognized its quality.”

“My dear sir, how kind.” Parker was warming up to his favorite topic. Keith had noticed when they were loading on the coach to come to the restaurant that the Master was a couple of inches taller than Parker. They still looked like different species to Keith’s educated eye, but Parker helped hide the reality that the Master was much smaller than a normal man. The other lads didn’t seem to have looked twice at him.

“What’s he do for a living?” Alistair asked, nudging Keith and gesturing subtly at the Master.

“He’s a teacher,” Keith said, trying to decide which of the many subjects he’d studied in the underground classroom to mention, and decided to let the statement stand as it was.

Alistair eyed the small red-haired figure. Keith caught a glint of blue behind the Master’s gold-rimmed glasses as he looked their way. The little teacher had a clairaudient’s knack for knowing when he was being discussed. “Looks like a tough old bird, too.”

“The toughest. But you really learn from him. He’s the best.”

“That’s the important thing,” Alistair acknowledged. “Miss Anderson’s like that during Term time. I’d rather have one I curse every day of term than one I curse later on for not drumming the facts into my head.”

Keith winced at the word “curse,” but he nodded. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

At the other end of the table, Matthew turned his glass in his hands, pensively watching the liquid slosh in the bottom. “You don’t think I’m wasting my time, do you lad, budging into archaeology instead of banking?”

Holl looked up and realized Matthew was talking to him. He was puzzled why Matthew addressed him so seriously, when he was supposed to be only a half-grown Big One, but he remembered he had been one of the ones to praise Matthew for his hard work on the site. He stopped to consider the question. “If you find merit in that course, pursue it. I think my own father would be proud that I was finding my own way in the world instead of following him blindly into a path on which I’d be unhappy.”

“Very profound, small boy,” Matthew said, blinking reddened eyes at him. “I raise your hat to you.”

Before Holl could grab his hand, Matthew lifted the Cubs hat off his head. The points of his ears promptly poked through the waves of damp blond hair. Holl said nothing, but he could feel his cheeks burning. Fortunately, it was fairly dark in the lounge, and no one else was paying attention. Matthew stared, and looked him carefully up and down.

“Well, wrap me in brown paper and ship me by Datapost,” he murmured, impressed into a hushed whisper. “My, what big ears you have, grandma.”

Worried inside whether Matthew was drunk enough to make an outburst, Holl smiled sweetly at him, and spoke in a quiet voice. “There are fairies at the bottom of the garden.”

“I never saw them, myself,” Matthew said, his eyes misted with drink. “No wonder Doyle is so keen. Where’d he find you, then? Under a toadstool?”

Holl groaned. “I will not leave a string of Patrick Morgans behind me!” he thought in exasperation. Keith’s college roommate had discovered what he was, too, but he was unlikely to talk.
I can’t let it become a precedent, leaving people behind who have seen me and have a fair idea what it is they’re looking at
. “Under a building, if you want to know the truth. I live in the sub-basement of his school library.” Surreptitiously, he inched a hand forward and wrapped it around Matthew’s pint glass. “Keith Doyle’s been helping us keep our noses hidden. It’s not so easy to get along with all you Big Folk chopping and changing everything.” He let a “forget” seep into the amber liquid in the glass, hoping that it wasn’t so strong it made the youth mislay his name, but not so weak he’d remember boys with pointed ears.

“Here, drink up, my friend,” he suggested. “The waters of Lethe are good for you. The next round will be on me.” Digging into his pocket for a few pounds, he signaled to the bartender. “A St. Clement’s here, and another pint of whatever it is he’s drinking.”

The man looked from Matthew to Holl to the money in Holl’s hand. “I shouldn’t do it,” he warned them. “I could lose my licensing privileges for selling to a minor.”

“Go on, he’s older than he looks, he’s a short eighteen,” Matthew said, playfully winking. He held up the half-empty glass, toasting the bartender and Holl. “Your very good health.” He drank the whole thing in a few well-practiced gulps and put down the empty glass. With a resigned air, the bartender took it and Holl’s money, leaving them with the fresh drinks. Holl held his breath as Matthew studied his ears closely and handed back his cap. He snapped his fingers. “I have it. Star-Trekker, right?”

“Right you are,” Holl agreed with a gusty sigh. “Pity there aren’t many Vulcans in the new television series.”

“Aye?” Matthew inquired, taking the fresh pint of ale and sipping through the foam. “I haven’t seen it yet, myself.”

“Forgive me,” Dr. Parker stopped himself in midstream and studied his new guest. “I’ve been er, hogging the floor, as they say. Please, Dr., er, Alfheim, tell me, where do you come from? You seem to be well up on the latest finds and techniques. I don’t remember hearing of you or meeting you at any of our conclaves. I, er, would remember anyone who comes close to meeting me at my level, if you will excuse the pun.”

“I am at an American university, Midvestern,” the Master said with perfect honesty. “Allow me, thought, to gif you my home address. I should be fery interested in continuing our confersation by mail, if you would like.”

Parker’s long face shone. “So should I. My, my, I am sure we’ve been boring our companions, talking shop at table.” Stafford and the others nearby shook their heads. “You are too kind. This object most likely came from a similar burial to the one we are excavating. I wish we had time for you to see our work.”

The Master seemed full of regret, too, handling the comb with careful fingers. “I am so sorry, since ve must leaf early tomorrow vith the others.”

“I wonder if there were more of these here once, before the waters rose,” Parker said, getting a dreamy look on his face. “Combs were rare, and considered to be valuable. They were made heirlooms among our Neolithic ancestors. Probably the last owner was not the original maker. He may have been given it or traded for it. Did you know some were considered to have magical qualities?”

“Yes, so I understand,” said the Master. Keith looked up at the teacher’s tone.

“Oh, really?” Holl said curiously, reaching out. “May I see it?” He had a close look at the comb and nodded significantly at the red-haired student.

Keith nearly went wild waiting while Holl passed nondescript conversation with Parker, and handed back the comb. He tried to catch Holl’s eye, but the Little Person ignored him. Distractedly, Keith answered a question from Alastair, and got drawn into a conversation to which he gave only half of his attention.

“What’s going on?” he demanded in a whisper of Holl when the party broke up for the evening.

“Congratulations, you widdy,” Holl said calmly. “You’ve hit the jackpot. That comb does have a charmed aura about it. That’s why it’s still intact after so long.”

“One of the Little Folk made it?”

Overhearing them, the Master came up. “I vould estimate that that is correct.”

Keith was shocked for a moment, wondering if he’d been talking too loudly. “Boy, I forgot how far away you people can hear. Was that made by some of
your
folk in particular?”

The Master was noncommittal. “It is possible. The carvings are not unfamiliar.”

“But he’s going to put it in a museum,” Keith yelped, and clapped his hand over his mouth. He looked around hastily to see if anyone had heard him that time. No one was paying much attention to the antics of the odd Keith Doyle. “A magic comb, right out there in front of everyone.”

“Who vill know?” the Master asked mildly, turning up his hands.

“Well,
I
will,” said Keith, concerned.

“And who vould you tell?”

“No one, I guess,” Keith said after a moment’s thought. He grinned impishly. “Well, they say three can keep a secret … if two of them are Little Folk.”

O O O

“And I would like to thank all you ladies for producing my coat, which kept me warm through the middle of summer. I know my friends feel the same as I do, but are too shy to present their thanks in person. Ladies, I salute you.”

Keith’s audience set up stentorian bleating of what he hoped was appreciation. He bowed to the field of sheep and prepared to declaim further, when he was interrupted by a shrill whistle.