Higher Mythology (22 page)

At the same time, she felt that someone was looking at her. Something white bobbed past the window of the cabin. Dola bent her head and glanced sideways to watch it. Pictures appeared in her mind, of Tay smiling, Holl falling in a river, Keith Doyle with his camera. She tilted her head further, and saw kindly blue eyes looking in at her through the glass. The face itself made her gasp. It was featureless, the blue-white of cirrus clouds. The head and body were grotesquely distorted, and kept changing shape as she watched. She had no idea what kind of being it was, only that it was friendly and intelligent. It was trying to tell her that her folk were seeking her.

Behind it, far away in the sky, she saw a colorful dome shape, the same thing she’d seen the day Keith and her father had rescued Asrai. All at once she realized it was the great balloon that belonged to Keith Doyle’s friend. Taking the bobbing creature’s appearance as an omen of good fortune, she decided it was time to escape. The white thing would serve as a proper distraction.

“I can’t fetch money for you, but I can make visible the spirit of the house so you can atone. Look there!” She pointed out the window. The white shape floated past again, its body stretching and reforming. “See!”

“A ghost!” Pilton yelled. “This place is haunted!”

Dola leaped to her feet. While he was frozen, Dola meant to make a dash for the door and let herself out. Skinny cut her off in his dive for the shotgun. He pushed her down into the shadow of a chair. She realized too late what Skinny was doing.

“Go away!” she cried to the creature. But the man, rolling over like a commando, drew a bead, aimed, and fired.

The crash of the glass pane blowing out of the window was drowned out by Dola’s scream. The white creature, caught in a shape with a grossly inflated head and puny, wasted body and wings, seemed to explode soundlessly. It spread out across the sky, becoming more and more misshapen until it dissipated like oil on the surface of a pond. Before it vanished. Dola saw an image in her mind of the kindly eyes going wide in fear and pain. She sank to the floor where she crouched, rocking, tears racing down her cheeks.

“It was a live thing! You’ve killed a lively, intelligent creature,” Dola wept. “I can’t sense it any more. It’s gone.”

Skinny gawked at the shards of glass hanging in the window frame, went over to look down, around, then up. “No, you made it up. There ain’t no body out there. I bet there’s nothing in the house, either,” he accused her. “You’re trying to make me feel bad because you’re stuck here with me. It was just an illusion, wasn’t it?” He didn’t sound convinced, and he was getting worried, watching her cry. “You did the magic.”

“I didn’t, I didn’t,” Dola insisted. “It was real. It came to look after me, and now it’s dead.”

The small sprite fluttering about the balloon cables gave them the picture it received: Dola sitting on the floor of a small building with something white in her hands. Then, abruptly, the air creature became agitated, zooming back and forth like a hysterical firefly.

“Vhat ails this being?” the Master asked. “All it shows us is empty sky.” The tiny sprites flying alongside swirled together like dust-storms and broke apart, their huge eyes wide with fear.

“It’s gone,” Frank said, his voice rough and dry. “They don’t know where. What happened?”

“Frightened by something into fleeing out of range?” Tay guessed.

Holl watched the terrified antics of the remaining sprites and shook his head. What he felt from them chilled his heart. “Farther away than that,” he said. “They communicate over great distances. It probably can’t find its friend because its friend isn’t there to find any longer. Something terrible has happened.”

All four of them fell silent for a long time. The Little Folk were upset because the missing sprite had assumed great personal risk to go into the lower atmosphere to help them find Dola. Whatever had befallen it was partly their fault. Frank’s eyes and nose were red with suppressed grief and anger. Holl guessed that the sprites were to him a representation of a kind of benevolent force of the skies. They meant something more to the pilot than just new acquaintances. Holl was very sorry for him.

Turning his face away from the Little Folk, Frank flicked a careless finger at the gauge. It showed that the propane tanks were nearly empty. “Going down,” he pronounced shortly.

Almost automatically, he searched out a safe place to land the balloon, and dialed the number for the chase truck, directing it to the right field. The other sprites surrounding the balloon flew in mournful circles until the Iris dropped below their safe limit, and went away.

Pilton took Jake aside on the porch that evening when he came by to check on them. He told the whole story of the afternoon: herbs, disappearing furniture and all, ending with the story of the ghost and the child’s bursting into hysterics.

“This ain’t right,” he said over and over. “We can’t just keep her here forever. The spirits are mad at us. Something awful’s gonna happen if we don’t let her go home.”

“Take it easy, Grant,” Jake said. “You saw a wood pigeon or a lost lake gull, not a ghost.”

“If I shot a gull, then where is it?” Pilton demanded. “You shoot something dead, there’s a body. I know I killed it. You gotta send this kid home, Jake.” He was shaken. Jake couldn’t understand. He didn’t see the thing fly apart into a million pieces, and he didn’t have to sit with the fairy woman as she cried her eyes out over something that died but didn’t bleed.

“She won’t talk to me no more,” Grant added. “And she locked herself in her room. She’s been there for hours.”

Jake went away and came back to keep watch with him while the Boss-lady drove up to meet them.

Mona came out of the cottage, feeling as if she’d just gone twenty rounds in the ring with the heavyweight champion. It had taken all her skill at persuasion to talk her way into the barricaded bedroom to speak to the child, who stared at her sullenly and gave only single-syllable replies to her questions.

“You scared the hell out of me with your phone call, Grant,” Mona said, shutting the door quietly. “She’s all right. You don’t understand how important she is to us. She is our only guarantee of H. Doyle’s good behavior. He’s got too much on us. You’ve got to keep her from getting hurt. You’re not to scare her any more. You’re not even to talk loud. Understand?”

“Yes, Ms. Gilbreth,” Pilton said apologetically.

Mona leaned against the cabin wall. “I don’t like this. The whole situation is escalating. I feel threatened, and I don’t know what to do. Since her people have proof that it’s us, why haven’t they called in the police?”

“Probably afraid the kid’ll wind up dead,” Jake said, a silhouette standing just out of the cabin light. Mona stared at him, shocked, then realized he was right. That would be what
she’d
think.

“They can’t call the police,” Pilton corrected them scornfully. “They’re fairies. As far as the police are concerned, they don’t exist.”

“No,” Jake said thoughtfully, “but maybe the place is full of illegals. There’s a company running from that location, called Hollow Tree Industries. Makes woodcrafts for gift stores. Isolated—perfect place for illegals to hide out. I checked on the census. The place is owned by Keith Doyle.”

Mona exclaimed wordlessly.

Williamson continued. “But there’s no one else. No voters registered, no driver’s licenses at that address, nothing. Just Keith Doyle.”

“Course not,” Pilton said scornfully, though the others were ignoring him. “No one believes they exist. ’Cept me, of course.”

“So neither of us want the cops involved,” Mona said thoughtfully. “I didn’t think anyone could be so squeaky clean. That evens things out a little. But they
know
it’s us. That’s the part that worries me. They gave up a little too easily. I want to know what they’re up to.”

***

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

“At least we know now that she is safe,” Siobhan said, shaking her head. She had joined the vigil in the kitchen that evening, sitting up through the next morning, waiting for more communication from their Big Folk helpers or the kidnappers. They had called Keith Doyle to tell him about the disappearance of the air sprite. Their friend was devastated, but was as helpless as they to do anything. Holl begged him not to cut another day out of his work schedule, but to work on their behalf from where he was. Keith swore that was what he would do. Diane had phoned in a few minutes later, saying she had talked to Keith. She volunteered to take the next trip up with Frank Winslow as a proxy for Keith. The Little Folk were not certain when they would hear again from the pilot. After the balloon landed, he had packed up his craft, driven them home, and driven away again, all in complete and bitter silence. His grief was deeper than any of theirs.

The sun had been up for an hour, and still no call. Siobhan was beyond tears, and into a kind of exhausted resignation. “A pity the little one could not tell you where to find her.”

“It may have tried,” Holl said gently, “but its fellows were too upset at its disappearance—I dare not call it death, for we don’t know—to tell us of its last sendings. The area where it flew is forested and hilly. We could explore it, but we would have to do so on foot. Our bumbling around would likely alert Dola’s guardians.”

“If this was our Library,” Curran said peevishly, “we’d hae no trouble at a’. We knew every nook of th’ place. This big world belongs to Big People, and has noothing to do wi’ us.”

“Our hands remain tied,” the Master said.

“I’d shut the gates on the lot of them in a twinklin’,” Curran finished. “We can do f’r oursel’, have done and still can.”

“Now, father, you know ve may not do that,” Rose said, taking his arm. “Ve haf taken on responsibilities and those ve may not lay down.” The crotchety old elf seemed ready to continue the argument when the telephone rang.

Catra jumped up to take the call. She picked up the receiver to listen. Turning to the others, she put her hand over the mouthpiece and nodded her head. Holl strode over and took the handset from her.

“Hello?” the man’s voice said.

“Put on your mistress,” Holl said. “I will not talk to you any longer. We know you’re not alone.”

Ignoring the look of desperation on his employer’s face, Jake extended the phone to Mona. She was shaking too much at first to take it and had to hold the receiver in both hands to keep from dropping it on the desktop. Jake leaned in close to listen.

“What do you want?” Mona whispered.

The hated voice of H. Doyle spoke. “Give us your final condition so that we can have our child back again.”

“Is this being taped?” Mona asked.

“You’d not believe me if I said no, so does it matter? Tell me your condition.”

“I want you to stop pestering me in the paper,” Mona said, her voice growing stronger as she felt herself getting heated. “No more letters. No more complaints. You’re ruining my campaign, my business—my whole life. I never want to see or hear from Hollow Tree as long as I live. Leave me alone!”

“I see,” the voice said. “I must consider this. I will call you back.” There was a click on the line, and a dial tone.

“He hung up on me,” Mona said, aggrieved.

“It’s a stupid woman,” Tay’s wife declared bitterly. “All we have to do was make a promise we would bother her no more, and she would give back our girl.”

“I dinna believe it,” Keva said. “Nor should ye.”

“It vould not be enough now,” the Master said. “The grievance does not end vith us. She has been responsible for damaging the land vith her poisons. She vould still be liable for her crimes against nature. She must stop. If for no other reason than those, we could claim injury from her. It is our land upon vhich she has been pouring out the trucks full of vaste, and the harm is done. There has been no promise from her that she vould nefer again commit the same deed. She vill haf her punishment, and it vill be appropriate. As in the Mikado, let the punishment fit the crime. Keith Doyle has said not to antagonize, but not to gif in. I agree mit his suggestion.” There was a protest. He signed to the others to be silent. Out of respect, they sat down to listen. The Master continued.

“Let us appear to be cooperating for the moment, vhen the time comes, we will have our vengeance. She has commanded us under threat to refrain from criticizing her. It is a small thing. Ve shall appear to do as she asks. In the meantime, let us undermine her. Others vill seem to write the diatribes. Ve vill influence those mit whom ve come in contact.”

Holl’s lips smiled, but his eyes were hard. Tay, beside him, nodded. “Good thinking, Master.”

Holl dialed the number for Gilbreth Farm and Feed. The sweet voice of the receptionist answered, and offered to transfer the call. The other end was snatched up on first ring.

“We promise we will make no more direct attacks upon you.”

“Good,” Mona Gilbreth said. Holl thought she sounded relieved.

“What about the girl?”

Gilbreth paused. “I’m too busy today. I’ll be in touch with you later.” She cradled the phone hastily, but didn’t bang it down.

“She retains overt control,” the Master said, nodding, “but the real power is still ours. Now ve vill make her nervous. In time, she may gif up Dola mitout asking us to fulfill her demands.”

Following the Master’s instructions, Catra and Marcy sat down over the human woman’s personal computer and composed a handbill about clean environment and honesty in government. Marcy supervised the printing out of a hundred or so copies and handed them over to the Little Folk who enhanced the sense of reasonability of the text.

“It vill haf the underlying effect of making the reader question the potential polluter in their midst,” the Master explained. “The seeds vill be planted. Efery day she delays returning Dola to us, the effect vill be stronger.”

At Midwestern University, the administration and the Voters of the Future Program had set up a platform for the local candidates to use. Both Mona and the incumbent seeking reelection to the House seat she wanted were going to be allowed equal opportunity to address the students and faculty. On the advice of her campaign manager and some of her volunteer workers who were of college age, Mona had altered her speech, leaving out references to farm subsidies and retirement benefits, in favor of the environment, education, and rights for the disabled. Her workers, visible in their pressed-foam skimmer hats with rose-colored bands, worked the crowd, handing out buttons and balloons. The campaign staff for the other side countered, handing out blue impedimenta to those who wouldn’t take “Gilbreth for Congresswoman” literature.

Her adversary, an older man with grizzled hair and distinguished white sideburns, whose once athletic shoulders were slipping gradually into his midsection, approached her and offered her a firm handshake. She returned it with a dignified nod.

“Ladies first?” he suggested, gesturing at the podium.

“Oh, no,” Mona countered, with an artful smile. “Please go ahead, Congressman.
Seniority
ought to count for something.”

She hadn’t actually said, “Age before beauty”; but the Congressman couldn’t have missed the inference, and she didn’t want him to. The heavy folds of fat under his chin shook with annoyance, but he bowed to her and mounted the steps of the platform. His force of bodyguards and volunteers separated from her bodyguards and volunteers, and arrayed themselves around the stage. The Congressman cleared his throat into the microphone, and the crowd quieted down.

His speech was predictable, enumerating his successes over the years on behalf of his district. Mona yawned, covering up with her hand but still visibly enough to be seen by half the attending student population. A couple of her campaign workers grinned openly. At length, the incumbent descended, and disappeared into a circle of voters and reporters shouting questions at him.

Mona waited to be introduced by her campaign manager, then took the podium as if it was the dais of her throne.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve heard from the distinguished gentleman from Washington. I now present to you the Environmental Candidate, Ms. Mona Gilbreth!”

There was applause, and some scattered cheers. Mona smiled down on her audience. She found that to be effective, the formula that the younger the listeners, the shorter the speech always worked best, even if it meant the other candidate having more ‘air time’ than she had. Leave them wanting more, she thought. People in the audience showed real interest as she outlined her specific causes and enumerated what she would do to support them once she took office. There were a blond girl and a black man with a bunch of children, handing out flyers at the perimeter of the crowd. There must be some kind of protest going on. But then, this was a college campus. There was always a protest going on somewhere. It couldn’t have anything to do with her. She gave her audience about five minutes less than the Congressman had, then came down to shake hands and kiss a few babies, so to speak.

As her opponent had, Mona was mobbed as she got off the platform. “Ms. Gilbreth!” one young man called out. He rushed up and pumped her hand to the accompaniment of the flashing and clicking of cameras. “I’m glad you’re a woman candidate. I’m voting for you.”

“Thank you,” Mona said, smiling for the reporters. “I’m going to Washington for
you
.” The student drew away, beaming. Another took his place.

More followed with similar comments and well-wishes. She shook hands with all of them, posed for pictures, with her campaign manager standing about ten feet away, beaming at her. The session was going very well. This was not the group from which she could expect much in the way of donations, but enough of them were residents of the district that if she earned their respect and kept it, they’d continue to send her back to Washington for the next generation to come.

A few of the students asked earnest, complicated questions, and she fielded them with the answers that were becoming so pat in her mind they were almost sound bites.

A short, heavyset young woman came forward clutching a flyer. “Ms. Gilbreth, I’d like to know if in your business you follow the safe procedure in getting rid of toxic waste. Are you using licensed haulers and disposal systems?”

“Why, yes,” Mona said, the smile freezing on her face. Thankfully, her noncommittal answer was at the ready. “As you know, the Environmental Protection Agency has approved very specific and stringent processes for disposing of toxic waste. My technicians have all of them at their fingertips.”

“What’s in the waste you dump?” a young man asked. He was thin, with red hair. Mona looked sharply at him, thinking it was Keith Doyle. When she saw he was a stranger, she relaxed and smiled.

“Mostly nitrogen-based by-products. A complete list of the chemicals is available from my office. Thank you.” She turned ostentatiously to the next querist. The young man retired, obviously dissatisfied, but he was crowded away from her by well-wishers and other people who wanted to talk to her or just shake hands. As the crowd began to thin away, her campaign manager came over to stand beside her. There were scattered flyers on the ground. He picked one up and began to read it while Mona dealt with more questions and some unwelcome comments, and posed for just a few more pictures. Mona glanced over at her manager. His face seemed almost to change visibly while he read. Tucking the paper into his jacket pocket without seeming to think about it, he sidled up to her.

“You are following environmentally safe waste procedures, aren’t you?” he whispered, in a brief lull between questions.

She got exasperated with him. Maybe his post on her staff wasn’t so secure after all. “Of course I am,” she hissed.

The crowd dissipated at last, and she stalked off the student common to the waiting limousine. Her campaign manager trailed behind in her wake, wondering what he’d just done wrong.

Nine-year-old Borget arrived in the barn panting. “Master, there’s a police car in the drive!” he cried. “Rose wants to know what to do!”

The Master set his pointer tip down on the floor. “It has begun. She moves against us using the techniques of harassment. If ve do not show the face she expects, she vill expose us.”

Catra and Candlepat stood up from behind the archives desk. “Should we flee?” Candlepat asked. “We can hide in the cornfields.”

“A mass exodus should not be necessary.” The Master turned to Marcy, who stood with Enoch at the sawyer’s table. He made her a little bow. “Mees Collier, may I ask a favor?”

The county officer leaned on the bell again. Nice house, set in pretty lands, but kind of isolated among all those trees. He peered through the gauzy curtains hanging behind the glass panel in the door at the big, wood-paneled room. Empty. He had no idea what the Gilbreth woman wanted him to investigate. She handed the sheriff a line about illegal aliens running a factory out of this place. There was one car in the driveway. It had a city sticker for one of the Chicago suburbs, but that didn’t really suggest a flood of immigrant workers. Well, one more ring, then he’d go around the house to the barn, see if anyone was home out there. He pushed the buzzer, and leaned up against the glass with his hand shading his eyes. “No one here, dispatch. No, wait a minute. Here comes somebody.”

A pretty girl with very pale skin and black hair came running out of one of the doors leading off the big, wood-paneled room. She pulled the front door open.

“Can I help you?” she asked, smoothing a wisp of moist hair off her face.

“Sheriff’s police, ma’am. Is there a Mr. Doyle here?” He checked his notes. “The owner of this place, Mr. Keith Doyle?”

“He’s not here right now,” Marcy said, trying to stay calm. “He’s working in Chicago this semester. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Who are you, miss?” the officer asked.

“My name’s Marcy Collier,” she said. “I, uh, live with Keith.” She could almost sense Enoch glowering at her from his hiding place, and felt her cheeks burn. The officer probably thought she was embarrassed because of the irregularity of the arrangement, not because she was lying.