Mythology 101 (14 page)

He froze, looking for a place he could conceal himself and his bag of magical toys. This was a path lined with high, thick thorn bushes that had once been part of the college’s formal gardens. He could force himself between the leaf-bare branches, but he wouldn’t be able to pull free again without help.

To his surprise, the frats streamed around him as if they couldn’t see him. They passed so close he bet that he could guess the brand of beer they’d been drinking, but not one of them touched him. As soon as they were gone, he unfroze and tore down the path toward Power, refusing to question his good fortune, miracle though it seemed. He found that his pulse was racing.

He sneaked back into his dorm room without turning on the lights. A quick peek inside the bag with his miniature flashlight told him that everything promised was there. The white wicks of the lanterns gleamed faintly from their dark cages. “Ha-
HA
,” he cackled under his breath.

“For God’s sake,” Pat yelped from the other bed. “Go to sleep!”

***

Chapter 18

The new Accounts officer at the Midwestern Trust Bank explained the whole system again patiently to the eager red-haired teenager. He looked as though he had been explaining the same thing to dim customers for the past sixty years or more. “If you want a business checking account, you have to maintain a balance of a thousand dollars, or there’s an eight dollar service fee each month. If you want my advice, young man, just open a personal checking account. The bank doesn’t care what name and address you have printed on the checks.”

“Fine,” Keith said, appearing to understand at last. “That’s what I want.”

“Good,” the man said, passing a hand over what was left of the thin brown hair on his head. His round face folded into the semblance of a Parker House roll as he smiled at Keith. “Now, if you’ll just fill out these forms, we’ll get you your temporary checks.” The man swept Keith’s three deposit checks away, and took them over to a teller’s window. In a few minutes, he was back with an important-looking slip striped in blue and tan. “Here’s your new account number.” Keith looked up from it at him.

“Um, I want my nephew to be a co-signer on this account, but he hasn’t got a Social Security number yet. He’s twelve.”

“That’s no problem,” the banker said. “Only one of you needs to have one. I assume you do. What’s the account for, if I may ask? Boy Scouts?”

“Junior Achievement,” Keith said.

O O O

Three days later, two boxes arrived for Keith from the student Print Shop. Cackling happily over the contents, he hurried down to the elf village, the cardboard boxes cradled in his arms. The stone door opened for him, showing him that some changes had been put into operation since he was there last. He smiled and greeted everyone, but didn’t explain his presence until he reached Holl’s hut. Holl lived alone at the edge of Curran’s clan. Like the other cottages, it was built of odd pieces of wood, but they seemed to be arranged in a handsome and subtle pattern that used both color and texture as motifs; most appropriate for a woodworker and the son of a woodworker. The sloping roof was incised with a pattern of rounded slates. There was no need to keep out weather, so its builders could concentrate on form rather than function. Its door stood open.

The young elf was at home, poring over a thick leather-bound book with print so small that Keith couldn’t read any of it from three feet above the pages. A carved shelf was fastened to the wall just underneath the glass-less window. It was full of books, all borrowed from the library upstairs. Beyond a partition wall from which a curtain was drawn back lay a simple frame bed spread with a patchwork quilt and pillow, and a chest with the lid thrown open. The windows were hung with curtains in a film-thin red and blue weave through which the village’s curious lighting shone almost unabated. Holl’s woodworking tools were neatly placed on a worktable against the wall between the two rooms. The cottage was a neat little bachelor’s apartment.

Holl looked up at the gentle tap on the door, and gestured his friend inside. Keith ducked under the lintel, laid the boxes down on the low table and opened them up.

Behind him, anyone who wasn’t busy had followed him from the entrance, and milled around outside the low doorway, speculating on what the daffy Big One was doing now. Even some of the elders, without abandoning their poses of disinterest, found a reason to hang around the neighborhood.

Holl closed his book and pulled the boxes across the table to him. Examining the contents, he paused to peer up at the tall student. “An appropriate conceit, though bold,” he said, tapping the letterhead and the line artwork which accompanied it with his fingertips, “but has he seen it yet?”

Keith had no doubt as to which “he” his friend meant. “No,” he admitted guiltily.

Holl rose from the back-less wooden bench that served as his desk chair. “Well, we’d better go right away, before someone else tells him.”

Desperately, Keith threw up a hand to stall him. “Um, there’s no need to do that right now. I’ve got some other things for you, too.” Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to use the face from the tag for the logo. He was embarrassed at his own audacity. But it had been almost like a sign to see it there in Voordman’s Gift Shop, the little man in the tree, smiling out at him. Looking so much like the Elf Master.…

“Oh, no,” said Holl, enjoying Keith’s discomfiture a little, but also serious about making his point. He waved the order forms in Keith’s face. “Now, you can’t use them if he doesn’t like them. The cooperation would end before it fairly began. You’d have to have them done over. No sense in prolonging the situation.” He grabbed one of Keith’s wrists and pulled. The blond elf was amazingly strong. “Oh, and bring the stationary, too.”

O O O

Keith shifted from foot to foot as the elders passed copies of the order forms around. “It’s an insult,” Aylmer said, thumping the paper with the back of one hand. “Using a likeness. Has he no respect?”

“It was available as stock art,” Keith protested uncomfortably. “Cheaper than a custom drawing.” He towered over them, waving his arms for attention, but they ignored him, as they would ignore a tree swaying overhead. “We’re on a pretty tight budget.”

“What happened to all his easy promises for our privacy?” Curran asked acidly.

“Ah, go on,” Holl said. “Nobody knows any of our faces.”

Most of the younger folk were looking over the elders’ shoulders, pointing and laughing. Keith felt like an idiot. His fellow students came in to ask what the joke was, and they, too, had a chuckle over Keith’s slyness. The room divided into two parties: the Keithites, and the Anti-Keithites. The groups were similar though not identical to the Progressives and the Conservatives. Holl and all the younger elves that were on his side made up the first group. They thought the idea of using the village schoolmaster as their logo was funny. The Anti-Keithites, the elders and those against the scheme, were all for disemboweling him on the spot. Both parties were loudly vociferous about their opinions, and Keith ceased to try getting anyone’s attention. There was no way he could be heard over the din. Suddenly, someone let out a piercing whistle, and the whole room fell silent.

O O O

The Elf Master appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. Curran called to him. “The Big One has brought something you must see.”

“It’s just business stationery and cards, some with my name on ’em, and some blank so anyone can use ’em. And these are the order blanks. Really nothing to look at. Not important.” Keith pulled the boxes away as the Elf Master came over.

“May I see them?” the teacher asked, holding out a hand to Keith. The boy blanched, swallowing hard.

“Oh, you don’t need to.…” he protested weakly.

The Master deftly slipped the box out of his arms, opened it, and his eyes narrowed. “Hmmm.” The Anti-Keithites smiled with vindictive satisfaction. This time the Master wouldn’t be so eager to defend the irresponsible, irreverent Big One. Keith shifted his gaze from the stationary to the Master’s face and back again. Had he managed to alienate his newfound friends yet again? He wished passionately that he would learn to consider consequences before he acted.

The Elf Master didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then croaked out one sentence. “Appropriate for the marketing strategy.” Keith almost fainted with relief. The Keithites cheered.

But that was not all the Master’s thoughts. “And a fine likeness, as well,” he said.

***

Chapter 19

Lloyd Patterson slammed his gavel on the desktop. “Order! Order, dammit!” The roar of conversation quieted, and Lloyd cleared his throat. “I declare that this meeting of the Inter-Hall Council is in session. Vernita, take the roll.”

Keith sat in his place next to Rick, staring at a spot in the middle of his desk. He responded with a half-hearted “here,” when Vernita read his name, but was otherwise silent. The room was so full some of the student delegates stood around the walls and against the door for lack of seats. Rick had his feet on the chair of an empty desk, and his expression dared anyone to come and take it away from him. He had no takers. The general consensus among those present that followed college sports was that if Number 41 MacKenzie wanted an extra desk on which to rest his feet, he could have it. The RA observed Keith’s unusual depression with concern.

“What’s the matter with you?” Rick demanded, scratching at the place where the desk arm cut into his ribs. “This is your show. You should be thrilled.”

“Rick, maybe I should have talked to you before.…” Keith was interrupted by another bang from the gavel. He twisted in discomfort, only partially attributable to the design of the desk, the same iron maidens in use in the hidden classroom. He wished that he didn’t have such a vivid visual reminder before him of the spot he’d put himself in. The freezing countenance of the Elf Master stayed before him as he concentrated on putting his arguments in the right order.

“Quiet! Please!” Lloyd shouted. “The sooner we can have quiet, the sooner we can finish this meeting.” Vernita handed him the attendance list and he thanked her formally. She simpered, hair swaying, and sat down. “Before we get on to the reason we’re all here, does anyone have any
other
business, old or new?”

There was general pandemonium as the delegates forbore to mention any business, but dragged their seats to the two sides of the room, making it clear that they were interested only in the main event. Lloyd sighed, and banged the desk for order. “Okay, already. I can take a hint.”

“Go get ’em, Doyle,” Rick whispered. Keith didn’t move. Across the room, Carl Mueller had a wide smirk on his face as he got up and walked to the middle of the floor. He looked deeply satisfied for someone who had less than a third of the delegates on his side of the room. Rick wondered about his apparent confidence, and stared curiously at Keith, trying to decide if there was a connection.

“Mr. Chairman, I would like to have a vote taken on the proposal whether the Administration should build a new Sports Center or a new library building this year.”

“Anyone second?” Lloyd asked, looking around the room for raised hands. “Okay, seconded by Woods of Alvin Hall. The chair opens the floor for debate.” There was a roar of voices, all trying to make themselves heard at once. “Order! May I remind you that there is a reason why this vote is being taken in full council? This is the first time the Administration has ever really asked for our input on a project of this size. Three million bucks! This is your big chance to make your mark on the University. Now shut up unless you want to offer arguments for debate.” There was some grumbling, but the roar sank into murmurs.

“Go!” Rick urged Keith. Reluctantly, Keith stood up, hand raised for recognition.

“Doyle, Power Hall?” It was a tentative question. Keith could feel Rick’s eyes on his back. He felt cowardly for not taking Rick into his confidence before but it was too late. He was about to make a fool of himself by reversing his position without informing anyone in advance.

“Go ahead,” said the chair.

“I’ve been in touch with the National Historical Society in regard to the Gillington Library building. In view of its age and intrinsic historic interest, they are investigating having it declared a historical landmark. If they decide in favor, the building cannot be torn down, even to make way for a newer structure. Therefore,” Keith took a very deep breath, felt his ribs vibrating with nervousness, “I must withdraw my previous proposal, and let it be known that I have no objection to asking for support for the construction of a new Sports Center for Midwestern University.” He turned away from the raw triumph on Carl’s face, and finished his speech staring down at the floor.

For a moment the room was silent, and then everyone started talking at once. Rick was at Keith’s side, yelling at him, but Keith wasn’t even aware he was there.

Finally, the RA’s voice penetrated his misery. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve just handed him the victory, you moron!”

Keith went back to his desk, and sagged into the seat. “I know. But I had to, Rick. That building turns out to be really pretty important. I didn’t think so before, but …”

“Terrific. You coulda told me.” Rick slammed himself into his seat and kicked his feet up. “I feel like a jerk.”

“So do I.” Keith buried his head in his hands, and didn’t bother to come up for air even during the voting. Even that was not the end of his disgrace. To Keith’s dismay, in spite of his self-sacrifice the vote came out overwhelmingly in favor of a new library. Keith had done too good a job of promotion. There were cries of glee when the voting results were announced. He felt like drowning himself.

As the meeting adjourned, Carl came over to him, and spoke to the top of Keith’s head. “I really enjoyed that, Doyle; I just wanted you to know. It’s too bad you won.”

“Lay off, Carl,” Rick said in a bored tone, but there was no mistaking the fury blazing behind his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know who put the Historical Society on to Gillington, but I’m sure it wasn’t Keith’s fault.”

Carl puffed up with indignation and pointed at Keith. “What do you mean, who?
He
put them on to it, buddy. You thought it was funny to oppose issues just because I was backing ’em, huh, Doyle?”

“Carl,” Keith said, looking up. “Shut up. I still plan to campaign against everything you do for the rest of your life. I blew this one, but it’s the only one you’ll ever get. I don’t like you treating me like a weirdo, and I’m a little tired of you trashing my dorm room, too,” Keith added pugnaciously, rising to his feet. Carl stood a lot taller than he did. He felt like the Chicken-hawk threatening Foghorn Leghorn, but he kept his ground.

“What is going on here?” Rick inquired, uncrossing his running shoes and standing up. “We
won
!”

For once Carl looked honestly surprised. “I didn’t touch your room, turkey. I haven’t done a thing to you. Yet.”

“Not once? Tuesday was the second time.” Keith was taken aback. “Then, who?” Rick looked at one, and then the other, and back again.

“I don’t know. Now, blow, punk, or I’ll do worse than trash your
room
.” Carl leaned forward menacingly.

“Well, okay,” Keith shouted, making for the door with a fist raised. “You won’t have Keith Doyle to push Carl Mueller around anymore. At least until next meeting. I’m going to get that vote overturned.” He left with Rick following right behind him.

“Did I miss something? At least you could tell me what’s going on, Doyle.…”

O O O

“The next thing I have to do is make sure that the Historical Society doesn’t do a basement to attic check. It’s pretty hard to hide a whole village. I have to get them to declare monument status for Gillington before the committee reports to the Dean, or I won’t be able to stop the planning commission. The good news is that I get back into the Master’s class just before it’s time to study for the Soc. final. I may even pass, considering how lousy I’m doing on practical social interaction. Marcy?” Keith asked, leaning across her kitchen table and waving a hand in front of her eyes. She was sitting rigid, staring down at a spot. “Hello?”

Marcy blinked. “Sorry.”

“Tell old Uncle Keith what’s on your mind,” he wheedled, patting her hand gently. She endured three pats, then drew away. “I don’t like to see my friends miserable. Unless I make them that way myself.”

She smiled sadly at that. “No, you didn’t do it. The truth is I’m sitting here feeling like a pervert.”

Keith did a double take. “Say that again? No, don’t. I heard you. Tell me why.”

“It started the day you got thrown out of class. Maybe a lot sooner, I don’t know. Carl said something insulting to me. I really hate him. He’s got such an ego. Enoch jumped on him for it. I think he would’ve hit him if Carl hadn’t backed off. Carl was really surprised. I was, too. He’s been … protective of me, lately. Enoch, not Carl.” She was having to fight to get the words out. “I … I feel, I don’t know.…”

“… Like you’ve got something going for him?” Keith finished, a little light going on in his mind. “That’s why you’ve been sort of backing off on me?”

Marcy nodded, miserably.

“Great!” Keith exclaimed.

“But I feel like I’m cradle-robbing, or something.”

Keith’s eyes went wide. “What? Is this the author of the Marcy Collier paper on the sociological stresses of racial dwarfism? The person who stood up to Doctor Freleng when he suggested that there wasn’t enough statistical evidence to make a sociological premise out of it? You are treating short people like children.” He pointed a finger toward her nose. “
You’re doing it
. Enoch is
forty-six
years old. He told me so himself! If anything, you’re a little young for him.
He’s
cradle-robbing.”

Marcy’s mouth fell open. Her tongue felt dry, and she swallowed. “He is?”

“Scout’s honor,” Keith held three fingers up. “That’s fact. Would you like to have
me
play carrier pigeon for a change and find out how he feels about you? Although I can guess already, from what you just told me.”

Marcy flushed at his last words, the red suffusing her fair skin to the hairline. “I’m sorry I said that to you about carrier pigeons.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything at first.”

“And I’m sorry, because I think you like me, too.”

“I do,” said Keith, standing up and taking her hand. This time she didn’t pull away. “Enough to want you to be happy. So, are we sorry enough? Shall I go?”

“Yes!” Marcy squeezed his hand, and her eyes were bright.

“Miles Standish to the rescue!” Keith assumed a heroic pose and strode out the door. The hallway rang with his triumph.

“What a weirdo,” observed one of Marcy’s roommates from the living room.

***