Mythology Abroad (28 page)

“We use an old style loom, with several shuttles,” Ketlin said. She brought Holl back to examine the one in her workroom, behind the Niall’s study. “It’s old, but it does its work well.”

“It’s just like Mrs. MacLeod’s.” Holl showed off the sketch he made of the Big Person’s loom. His notebook, which had been in his back pocket all day and all night, was creased, and some of the drawings were smudged, but that one had been spared.

“So it is,” Ketlin said, studying the sketch. “You’ve got a skilled hand, lad.”

“I’m planning to have the others help me to make some of these looms so we can make our own wool cloth, and some finer ones for cotton percale and so on. The United States is great for growing fiber plants.”

“You should talk to Tiron,” the Niall said when they returned to the front room. “And now it seems we should think of having breakfast. Go back, all of you, and tell your folk we have a couple of honored guests this day. We can breakfast together on the common. I think it will be fair this morning.”

“Meet Tiron, who is the child of Ardigh and Gerome,” the Niall said, introducing them formally over breakfast. “Holl, son of Dennet and Calla. Holl is interested in the making of looms, my lad.”

“Ah, good!” Tiron said. He had brilliant green eyes, and a cap of curling dark hair under a peaked cap with a buckled band around the crown. He wore a short, sleeveless coat over a long-sleeved shirt, unlike many of his seniors, who wore coats and woolly vests, like the Big Folk in the nearby towns. “And I’m pleased to meet you. Well, there’s nothing I can’t tell you. I made all the looms in this village. My design is better than the one they were using while I was growing up. It took a little persuasion to force out the bad ways,” Tiron wiggled a hand sideways to show the direction his machinations took, “but it’s been worth it, they say. A wee bit of tinkering was all a loom needed to run more smoothly, with less chance of the web wrinkling or the thread snapping. What’s more, I know all there is to know in caring for them. Nearly all the clothing you see here is from cloth woven on one of my looms,” Tiron bragged. “I can make one in a fortnight, by myself.”

Holl looked around at the others for someone to give Tiron’s statement the lie, but no one did. They were all nodding at the young craftsman. “All of it! I am impressed,” Holl acceded. “It must be sound work indeed.”

“So they tell me. You’re from America, are you?” Tiron went on with interest. “I’ve wanted to go there all my life. You ought to take me back with you.”

“I don’t know how that would be possible,” Holl said cautiously. He was by no means eager to take this cocky fellow back to the farm with him, even if he could figure out how.

“If you did, Holl vould haf to fall back on leadership,” the Master said teasingly. “He is our finest woodworker and ornamenter.” Holl displayed the small box he had been working on in idle moments.

“He
is
?” said Tiron, affecting surprise. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.” He twitched Holl’s work out of his hands and inspected it closely. The featureless stick Holl had begun with in Inverness had become a cylindrical box three inches high covered solidly with his favorite ivy pattern. He watched Tiron examine it with a gimlet eye. “Well, now what a pretty pattern,” the other said somewhat patronizingly, “but you’ve forgotten to give the poor little leaves any backbones. Here, now.”

He whipped out his own knife, a tool with a simple bronze blade. Holl eyed it. Any fool could make a bronze knife. The titanium blade in his pocket took a considerable amount of work and skill to create. The important thing was what he could do with it. With the knife held an inch from the point with his fingers, Tiron bent over the box. “There,” he said after a moment. “If you’d take the trouble to look at that, I’d be most pleased.”

Holl accepted the box back. Tiron had carved minute spines and veins on the ivy in the pattern in the lid, swiftly and without error. The leaves suddenly looked real, a monochrome illumination for a calligraphed manuscript, and made the rest of the little carving look clumsy. Holl turned red.

“There’s still a few things for you to learn, my boy,” Tiron winked at him in a friendly manner. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

“None,” said Holl humbly, inspecting the work more closely once the fierce blush of embarrassment had subsided. “It’s so easy to enlarge upon the detail, now I’ve seen what you do, and I never thought of it, never felt to add it.”

“You have the look of someone who’s done it by rote, from a design or drawing, not the real thing,” Tiron said, summing him up with a critical but not unfriendly eye. “You’ve all the ways and skills to be good. Come and see real ivy.” He clapped a hand on Holl’s back and led him toward a low stone wall that ran around the rear of one row of the small cottages. “Ah, pity. I could teach you so much, but we have so little time. Come and talk!”

The Master and the Chief of Chiefs looked after them. “You’ve chosen well, if that’s your choice,” the Niall said. “You don’t mind that he isn’t your own son?”

“My son is not interested in leadership. He is a fine craftsman,” the Master said proudly.

“In Holl I’d say our continued future is well assured.”

“Ve knew it almost from his birth,” the Master said with equal satisfaction.

“And so we knew with you, my boy. And so we knew. But we expected you to stay
here
and lead.”

The Master clicked his tongue. “There could not be two of us, could there? You had the same promise. Vhy should you not be permitted to use your talents? And I could not stay. I did not vant to stay. There vere too many of us, and not enough room. The rules vere not stringent, they were silly. I could not lead vith the old men crying for dusty precedent in efery unimportant case.”

“You were right to go,” the Chief said at last. “When the Hunger came, careful as we’d been to bank our harvests, so many died. If you and the others had stayed, we’d have had too many more mouths to feed. I think some would have followed your trail then if they could have. And I promise you,” Niall said slyly, “I’ve had my own confrontations with those dusty old ones. You might be pleased at some of the progress I’ve made. Come back again soon—today—and bring along your tame Big Folk. We’ll give them greeting.”

***

C
HAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Keith and Diane waited anxiously for the Master and Holl at the guesthouse until almost noon. At that time Mrs. Keane had made it clear that she wanted the rooms vacated so she could clean them. She began to vacuum the hall outside Diane’s room aggressively about eleven thirty. Keith was so keyed up he leaped in the air when the vacuum started.

“My nerves are shot too, waiting around. Why don’t we go back to the Skylark?” Diane suggested. “They’re just as likely to turn up there as here. We can have lunch while we wait. The sign said they have seafood. I wouldn’t mind some of that.”

“That’s a good idea,” Keith agreed. He shouldered his camera bag.

“And what’s that for?” Diane asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, just in case,” Keith said. “I’m the eternal optimist.”

“I know,” Diane said, looking heavenward for patience. “I know. Come on.”

The young bartender greeted them as they came into the Skylark and sat down at the bar. “Back again, so soon? You’re very welcome. What may I bring you? Lunch? We’ve a prawn salad on special today.”

Diane pulled over the cardboard lunch menu, and ordered for the two of them. “And Guinness. Only make mine half the size of the one I had last night.”

The bartender put in the lunch order and came over to talk to them while he pulled the beer. As it was still early, there were only a few people in the pub. “Since we’re going to be friends, my name is Peter,” the young man said. “Pleased to know you.”

Diane and Keith introduced themselves. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,” Keith said. “It hit me after we left last night. You didn’t seem too surprised when my two friends came in the other day.” He sketched a tall ear on the side of his head with a finger.

Peter looked over his shoulder, then shook his head. “Ah, no, they’re in here all the time. You learn not to talk about it. It doesn’t do to offend the Fair Folk, as my granda always said. They’ll wish you bad luck. Did you say now that those two came in with you?”

“Yeah. They’re good friends of ours. They live near our University.”

Peter was astonished. “In America? Well, fancy that. I thought the only ones in the wide world were here.”

“Well, a whole lot of them moved to America. How long have these, er, Fair Folk been coming in here? I mean, into the Skylark.”

“Oh, years now,” Peter said, trying to count backward. “My da talked about them when I was just a wee one, and my granda before him. It wasn’t until I was almost grown that I knew my da wasn’t just telling stories.”

“How many of them are there?” Keith asked curiously.

“I’ve only seen a handful, myself. That’s enough for me. Some say they’re a bad omen, coming in here, though truth to tell, not many notice them.”

“I think you should take it as a good omen. My bunch make their own beer. If they like yours enough to come out for it, you should feel complimented.”

“That’s good to know,” Peter said, smiling. “I’ll tell my da.” He fetched their drinks, and left them alone on their side of the bar.

“Where
are
they?” Keith said to Diane, looking at his watch. “They’ve been gone all night.”

“They’re all right,” Diane assured him. “They’re adults, remember? Older than you?”

“Yeah, I know. I wonder if the others will let me visit them. I’d hate to have come all this way, and never see where they live.”

“Trust Holl. If anyone can get you an invitation, he can.” Diane patted his hand. “You are not to sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Do something. Call Doyles from the phone book.”

“Nope, I’ve got a better idea. Hey, Peter?” The young bartender came over to them, hands busy with a glass and a towel. “You know a bunch of languages. Do you speak Gaelic?”

“Of course I do. It’s me mother tongue,” Peter said in an exaggerated brogue.

“Can you teach me how to say something? To greet someone important?”

“Ah,” said Peter knowingly. “In case you meet the king of the fairies, is that it? I’d be glad to.” He thought for a moment. “It’s ‘Dia dhuit.’ Can you say that?”

“No,” said Keith, trying to separate Peter’s phrases into manageable syllables. “Say it again, slower.”

Patiently, Peter helped Keith rehearse the greeting over and over again. He wrote it out on a paper napkin in Gaelic with the translation in English below, and left him alone to try it out for himself.

“This doesn’t look like what I’m saying,” Keith said to Diane. “There’s way too many letters.” Keith tried to pronounce the sentence.

“That sounded more like it. Try again.”

“I thought we’d find you here,” Holl said, interrupting the language lesson. He slapped Keith soundly on the back.

“Where’ve you been?” Keith demanded, rounding on him. “Are you all right? Who was that other one? Can I go and see the new village?”

“The answers are, we’ve been visiting relatives,” Holl said, “as well you know. We are fine, though I’ve not slept all night; his name is Fergus; and yes.”

“Yee-hah!” Keith cheered, throwing his napkin in the air.

“That is, they’re willing to trust you with their secret, if you can behave yourself,” Holl said sternly.

“Oh, I will. I promise.” Keith retrieved the little piece of paper. “Let’s go!” He caught Peter’s eye and showed him he was leaving money on the bar. Peter nodded, and waved farewell.

Fergus and the Master were waiting behind the pub on the side opposite the car park. Fergus shook hands solemnly with Diane and Keith. “He says you’re friendly and worthy of trust,” the Little Person said dubiously. “I suppose I must believe him. A Doyle, are you? There are many of that name who live near here.”

“I know,” said Keith. “I’m descended from some of them.”

“Are you now?” Fergus snapped his fingers. “I thought your face looked familiar. The man I knew must have been one of your grandfathers. Ah, but that was a wee while ago.”

“It sure was,” Keith exclaimed. “At least a hundred and forty years! You sure don’t look it.”

“Thank you for the kind words,” Fergus grimaced, though he was clearly pleased. “A fine man. You’re shorter though. That’s what threw me off. Come along, then.”

The Little Folk turned off the road and down into the little path broken through the growth at the side, and paused to let the Big Folk catch up. Fergus traced its outline with his hands. “The Big Ones think badgers made this, and sheep use it, so we let them think so.”

“It’s so close to the pub. I’d never dreamed that you’d live so near to hum—I mean, Big Folk habitation.”

“Our neighbors don’t bother us,” Fergus assured him. “We have privacy in plenty.”

They made their way down the path until it was interrupted by a tiny stream with a concrete block over it. The block had a semicircular hole in the lower half to let the stream through. Keith helped Diane over it, and then climbed over himself.

The bushes were lower beyond the barrier than they had been on the sheep track. “I can’t stand up in here,” Keith complained.

“Aye, well, if we knew you were coming to visit us,” Fergus said, looking up at him regretfully, “but there! This is our way backwards and forwards, always.”

“Not alvays,” the Master said dreamily.

“Well, now it is. The farmers leave the trees and bushes over the rivers to themselves, so as not to run their machinery straight into the water. We like that quite well, for they’ve left us a covered pathway. We don’t have to skulk,” Fergus explained, “for no one comes this way but us and a few other natural creatures. There’s passages like this all over Ireland. Some join with the Big People’s paths, like the
Sli’ Cualann Nua
. But mostly they’re alone.”

“Great!” Keith said, ducking to miss a raspberry cane. He walked half stooped over, watching the three Little Folk make steady progress along the stream path ahead of him. Inwardly, he was thrilled. To think that he was going to visit the Elf Master’s old home, and meet the rest of the clans! “That was lucky, finding a river close to where you wanted to set up a home.”

“Luck? What luck? We needed water, so by water we must be.”

They walked past a low thicket, whose floor was carpeted by wildflowers, most of them white. Keith recognized lily-of-the-valley and a few other summer flowers, but the tall stalky flowers caught his attention next. He recognized the shape in an instant.

“Holl, look!” Keith exclaimed. “White bellflowers! Just like the pink ones in Scotland.”

“Ah, no,” Fergus corrected him. “That’s just white foxglove. It’s one of the fairy flowers, but nothing as fine as the bellflowers.”

“There are fairies around here, too?” Keith asked eagerly.

“At the bottom of every garden,” the elf assured him solemnly. “But to be serious, you might see a dancing light on the fields of an evening.”

“I thought those were fireflies.” Keith struggled to understand.

“Ah, well, sometimes they are.”

Holl turned to watch as first Diane and then Keith passed through the protective spell surrounding the village environs. Diane was terrified, and started to retreat back into Keith’s arms. Holl and the Master hastened back to take her hands and lead her through it. In a moment, she was all right. Keith eyed her, and then took a deep breath. He plunged into the thickest part of the spell, and burst through it, letting his breath out on the other side. He stood with his hands braced on his knees, supporting his back, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“Are you all right?” Holl asked.

“If that’s what I have to do to boldly go where no Big Folk has gone before, I can take it,” Keith said stolidly, making a face. “It felt like I rammed my head into a stone wall. I think I broke something. What
was
that?”

“A charm of great strength,” Fergus said. “If someone should make his way this far seeking us, we need it to be strong enough to erode even that determination.”

“It didn’t feel solid to me,” Diane said. “It felt like getting smothered in a quilt. Horrible!”

“At the risk of getting my knuckles rapped,” Keith asked, “are we there yet?”

“We’re there,” Fergus said.

Most of the village was waiting for them on the other side of the trees. Murmuring broke out when the two Big Folk appeared. Keith surveyed the faces of the crowd of Little Folk staring up at him. He had a definite feeling of
déjà vu
, experiencing all over again the delight and wonder he felt at discovering the Midwestern village of the Little Folk. He walked among them, feeling as if he must be dreaming, but it was a dream in infinite detail. This hamlet had more of an established air about it than the Gillington Library village did, and the roofs, which were recreated in loving detail in the basement of the library, existed for real here, and kept off real rain and wind. “Holl, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore.”

“Illinois,” Holl corrected him, with a puzzled glance.

“Whatever.”

Keith gazed, taking in all that he could with a feeling that he had never been so happy. There were flower gardens here, something that looked odd next to the houses he had never seen anywhere but on a plain dirt and concrete floor. There were animals, too: sheared sheep grazing quietly in a field at the end of the lane, ponies snorting quietly over their food, and geese and chickens wandering everywhere as if they owned the place. It was more alive than the Gillington complex, and a lot more noisy. There were children laughing out loud, and the sounds of music playing. He realized now that the hidden village was a copy done from memory of this place. He became vaguely aware that Holl was pulling him down the lane by one arm.

“This is the Chief of Chiefs,” Holl said, presenting him to the Niall, who was seated on a chair under an oak tree in the middle of the village green. “Keith Doyle.”

“
Dia dhuit
,” said Keith, bowing low from the waist.

The Chief looked surprised, but he replied in the same way. “
Dia dhuit
, Keith Doyle.”

“Sorry, that’s all I know,” Keith said with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to have to go on in English.”

“But that’s grand,” the Niall told him, his eyes dancing. “We expected it.” He rose before Diane and took her hand in both of his, and said something to her with a very formal bow. She looked embarrassed and glanced at Keith for help.

“This is the Chief of Chiefs,” Keith said to her.

“Pleased to meet you,” Diane told Niall, unable to think of anything better.

“The pleasure is mine.” The Chief effected introductions all around. First, he brought forward the clan chiefs, including one sour-faced squirt that shot a surly look at the Master. Keith found he couldn’t keep up with the torrent of names, but he smiled and shook hands with everyone.

“This is Tiron,” Holl said, introducing him to one young fellow with a wispy little beard on his chin.

“How do?” Keith asked.

“As well as I can,” Tiron replied. Tiron reminded Keith of a young Hollywood actor from the Golden Age, maybe one of the Dead End kids who had worked hard all his life from age ten, and was self-possessed and tough. Not that he looked much older than ten. Like all of the Little Folk, he had the face of a child.

“So we hear you had a bit of a malediction read over you,” the Niall said. “We’ll see if we can’t do something to help you. In the meanwhile, my people would like to get to know you.”

“I’d like to get to know them,” Keith said eagerly. “Can I take pictures?”

Niall waved a hand grandly. Without waiting to ask twice, Keith started making the rounds of the village, with a whole herd of children in attendance, spouting questions. They wanted to know everything about him, and about where he lived and what he did. As an American, he was a genuine curiosity. He learned that he was the first contact many of them had had with the Big People. “So I’m the good will ambassador after all, huh?”

“More than that,” Holl informed him. “You’re the representative of your entire race. Keep that in mind.”

In the context of the Irish relations, as Keith called them to himself, Holl seemed more than ever to be really an adult. And the Master, the immutable Elf Master, bane of his classroom existence? He seemed younger, and a bit embarrassed. “I vas qvite a child vhen I departed. I think my folk here see me the same vay still. Some treat me as vun. They vanted to meet you, because of the great task I undertook in my youth, to lead my people avay and find them prosperity elsevhere. It vas not actually completed until you provided assistance, Meester Doyle. And for that, I thank you.”