Mythology Abroad (21 page)

“Give it an hour before you eat or drink,” Mr. McGill said. “And don’t annoy the Little Folk any mair, eh?” The dentist laughed until he closed the door of the office behind Keith. Still chuckling, he stripped off his thin rubber gloves and went into his private office.

Michaels stood up from the chair in which he’d been waiting. “What do you make of it?”

The dentist was distrustful of the man in the tweed suit, even though he’d seen the important-looking identification card in his pocket, and knew he was bound by the law to help him. “I’ve never seen such a case in all my life. There was no digging, and not a fragment of metal left clinging to the enamel. It was as if they had never been put in.”

“Curious,” Michaels mused aloud.

McGill spoke up indignantly. “I demand to know if there’s a new secret weapon that caused the boy’s fillings to vanish like that. I don’t approve of nee-uclear technology.”

“That’d be classified technology, Mr. McGill,” Michaels said patiently, his voice devoid of any inflection. He had a lot to report back to the chief.

“Oh, aye, so you’d say, until we’re all dead in our beds,” the dentist raged. “Then what do you do? You blame the Americans or the French, don’t you? Good day to you, Mr. Michaels.” He stood by the door until the agent took his leave.

“It might be a taunt to us, Chief,” the agent said quietly into the telephone. “They might know we’re shadowing him. He didn’t have a thing on him except a ratty old comb. His pockets were stripped, his clothing was tattered. No microfilms, no packages.”

“Sounds like he was double crossed by his contact. Say he made a pickup of a formula, but there’s no proof. There can be no arrests without proof.”

“Unless you’d call this process for dissolving metal and leaving tissue intact behind it proof, sir,” the agent reasoned.

“That would be handy. Defense would love us for it, wouldn’t they? Upstairs doesn’t want this lad getting away, Michaels.”

“If proof is there to find, sir, I’ll find it.”

O O O

The tour bus took only a small party around the island for what Keith dubbed the Tweed Tour that Saturday. The other young men, though relieved to see Keith back and in one piece, would not be persuaded to join a sightseeing and shopping tour under any circumstances. As one, they elected to stay in town for the day. They teased Keith mercilessly over having a girlfriend who was so devoted that she would fly halfway around the world to see to his welfare.

“Throwing money around again,” Edwin chided him, but the teasing was affectionate now, “and all for your sake. As if you were worth more than ten pence. You didn’t tell us she was such a knock-out.”

“There’s some secrets I can keep,” Keith returned, waggling his eyebrows. “I didn’t want to make you poor dopes jealous.”

Mrs. Green expressed herself interested in joining the bus tour to look at scenery, but not at dry goods. She was coming along for the ride. Mrs. Turner, by contrast, was a keen craftsmaker, and was eager to see what the locals had to offer. Narit and Diane had hit it off right away, and settled down in the back of the bus to talk.

Keith loaded up his pocket with three new rolls of film, and took over the seat behind Holl and the Elf Master, camera at the ready.

Though the day was fine, the sea wind made it ‘windcheater’ weather again. Keith had on his old jacket with a sweater tucked underneath, leaving the new one behind at the laundry with his other sodden clothing.

The range of geography throughout just the few miles of land comprising the Isles amazed the tourists. Only a short distance from the rocky hills lay long valleys of marsh grasses and wildflowers, a temperate environment attached at odd angles to the tundra-like terrain of the peat bog.

“This is nothing at all like the land we’ve been seeing,” said Mrs. Green enthusiastically. She and Keith stopped to take photographs as they rolled along the narrow roads. “How lovely it all is.”

“That bird you hear is a shore lark,” Miss Anderson said, looking pleased, when they stopped to listen in the middle of a huge, flat plain completely full of tiny daisies. “They are extremely rare. Look, there he goes! The little brown bird. See him!”

“That’s one for my bird book,” Mrs. Green said breathlessly. “A shore lark!”

“Too quick for my camera,” Keith announced regretfully. “But I did see him, anyway.”

Further south, quiet sandy streams flowed down the hills and spread out across astonishingly white sand beaches. The brilliant aquamarines and blues of the water made the inlets look like they belonged in the tropics, instead of less than a thousand miles from the Arctic Circle.

“We ought to go for a paddle,” Mrs. Green suggested. “That water looks marvelously refreshing.”

“I don’t know whether I’d advise that,” Miss Anderson clucked. “The water might be bone-numbingly cold.”

“The climate here is moderated by the current of the Gulf Stream,” the Elf Master intoned austerely. “It is far varmer here than in the similar latitude on the vestern side of the Atlahntic. Certainly vhere it is so shallow vill be varmed by the sun as vell.”

Keith snickered at the preponderance of
v
’s in the Elf Master’s little speech. Miss Anderson stopped and looked at the small, red-haired man, the surprised expression on her face revealing that she knew the Master was absolutely right. “Well, that’s true. If any of you would like to try, we can wait here.”

“No, thank you,” Mrs. Green bubbled, snapping a picture of the sea. “It was only an impulse. But it does look so nice.”

***

C
HAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The first hand-painted sign advertising Harris Tweed appeared on their left. At the top of the long unpaved drive was an ordinary house, but next to it was a smaller building with the door open, and colorful swags of cloth hanging in the window. Everyone, including Mrs. Green, came in to see what the first weaver’s shop was like. Thereafter, the Englishwoman stayed outside to take photographs and chat with the coach driver.

In most of them, the displays were like that in the Tea Shop. In only a few was the weaver actually at work. Most seemed to have their looms in a different building than they kept the goods for sale. Shelves and tables were set up to show off the cloth to its best advantage. Some of the weavers had ready-made garments for sale, and a few offered colorful sweaters knit out of the same wool.

Holl and Diane were the keenest customers at the various stops. Holl’s fascination with crafts intrigued Diane, and she watched as he made endless sketches of looms and spinning wheels. Together, they examined the various weaves made on the complicated mechanisms. They watched for the signs that directed them to the next weaver’s place. The coach driver, amused, stopped looking out, and let his self-appointed navigators direct him.

Narit admired the colors, but said the wool was too scratchy for her. “It’s warm. My skin gets hot with it just resting on my hand.” Narit shivered in horror. “I would hate to feel that next to my skin.”

“Lining, dear, that’s the secret,” one of the weavers told her patiently, patting her arm. “Lining and a wee bit of interfacing.”

Diane hadn’t yet made her choice, so Keith followed meekly along in her wake as she plowed through the shops. There was only the faintest idea in her mind of what she wanted to have made of the cloth, so she kept changing her mind as she looked. One fabric would make a beautiful coat, another was perfect for suitings, and still others suggested skirts and waistcoats, blazers, and heavy man-like trousers. She was looking after Holl, too, who seemed tentative and indecisive, unable to make a definite choice.

“This color would be nice on Maura,” Holl said shyly, “but I have no idea if I should bring it home or not.” He blushed, and looked helplessly at Keith.

“Oh, buy it,” Diane urged him. “
I’ll
take it later if you don’t have any use for it. It would look so good on her with that gorgeous auburn hair,” she added soothingly, “but don’t keep beating yourself up. You’ll kick yourself later if you miss out getting something here that you want later. How often are you coming all the way to Scotland?”

“I bow to your judgment,” Holl said, happy to have the decision made for him.

Leaving Holl on his own, Diane walked away to have the weaver cut off skirt lengths of cloth as gifts to her sisters and mother. In a very short time, she nudged Keith. Holl had started showing some initiative, and even seemed to be having a good time. He was actually making a purchase. Keith squeezed Diane’s hand for joy, and leaned over to give her a kiss.

Once they were back on the coach, Holl approached the Master with a paper-wrapped package on his outstretched hands. “This is for Orchadia,” he said.

The Master tilted his head curiously, his spectacles glinting, but put out his hands for the parcel. “Thank you on behalf of my vife,” he accepted, with a ceremonious nod. “I shall not mention this to my daughter.”

“Don’t,” said Holl evenly. “I hadn’t so much as considered the possibility that you would.” The truth of that showed in his face, and the Master was inwardly pleased. “I don’t want it to affect Maura’s judgment. But the Illinois winters are cold. I believe Orchadia will find this a useful gift.”

The Master peeked under an edge of the paper at the folded cloth. It was a good choice, both in color and weight. He nodded again at Holl. “So she vould. My thanks. But let me gif this back to you, so you may present it yourself. She vould be pleased to know this thoughtfulness came directly from you.”

With no one supervising the driver, he found the next sign on his own. The bus took a turn onto a narrow, unevenly paved piece of road, which dipped up and down toward a sunlit sound. On either side of the tarmacadam were pools of standing water of peat brown, with the dark blue sky reflected in them. When the little drama in the middle seats came to an end, his passengers were once again watching the view, but he was already slowing down for the stop.

The coach pulled up a steep graveled drive, and rumbled to a halt in front of a cluster of older wooden buildings. The weaver, a tall man with grizzled sat-and-pepper hair, came out to meet them, and showed them into his workshop.

The building was an old barn that had had a concrete floor poured in. It was kept spotlessly clean, except for hanks and shreds and bakes of wool stored anywhere there was space to rest them. In the center of a wall was a huge mechanical loom, set so that the light from the window poured over the weaver’s shoulder. He had been working when they arrived, and the roll of red, blue, and dark green cloth gathering on a spool underneath the loom was already a hand-span thick.

“Hands back,” the weaver commanded, taking his seat. He started the loom. Six shuttles, set around on a wheel like rows of corn on a cob, flew crashing back and forth in turn.

They watched the weaver work, asking a question now and again, with their eyes fixed on his hands and the web of cloth growing between them. By this time, Holl was sketching out the structure of the loom, and making small observations about technique. The village would have its own weaving equipment by winter, and or he’d know why not. The Master caught his eye and raised one carrot-red brow with an approving nod.

“Do you dye all the wool yourself?” Narit asked, keeping a wary distance from the clashing machine.

The man paused and the din died away. “Ah, no, that’s all doon on the mainland now.”

“Europe?” Keith asked, puzzled.

“Scotland,” the man replied curtly, as if that should have been obvious to anyone but an idiot. Keith shrugged with an apologetic grin. “The fleeces here are sheared off the sheep’s back and takkin’ awa’. We see them next in clean hanks of color.”

“Doesn’t anyone do it the old way anymore, making the dyes themselves?” Keith asked, disappointed. He had been picturing huge bubbling cauldrons of thick, brightly hued glop.

“Aye,” the weaver said off-handedly. “That’s Annie MacLeod you want. She’s kept all the old ways gaeng. Boils her own dyes from natural plants, and so on the like.”

“Mrs. MacLeod. That’s who the ladies in the shop said to look for,” Keith affirmed to Holl.

“Good,” Holl said. “I want to get all the information I can to bring home.”

“You pay her a visit,” the weaver encouraging them, dictating directions to Holl. “But dinna believe oot she tells ye, especially nor when she says she’s seventy nine. She’s been sayin’ that for ten years and maur.” Since he never cracked a smile, Keith couldn’t tell if the weaver was kidding them. They thanked him for the tour and left. He grunted a farewell without looking up. Behind them, the hammering noise of the loom began again.

At his most persuasive, Keith convinced the weary coach driver to take the next precarious turnoff to one final destination before going on to town and his tea. Diane hadn’t made her choice yet, and Holl was still keen on fact gathering. The others, too, were tired. Only Mrs. Green accompanied the four travelers off the coach into the low black house.

Keith could feel something different about Mrs. MacLeod’s place the moment he set foot inside. There was a sensation just hanging in the air he couldn’t identify, one that made his whiskers twitch. He could see that Holl felt it too, by the catch in the young elf’s step as he crossed the threshold. Nothing ever fazed the Master, at least not openly, but the teacher approached the small woman seated behind the great wooden loom with open respect. They made a strangely mismatched couple, but Keith sensed between them an inexplicable kinship. Their eyes were the same penetrating blue, but he felt the similarity went deeper than that. Physically, they couldn’t have been more unlike. The Master was small, potbellied, upright, while the woman behind the loom had been tall, but had allowed the years to bend her spine at the shoulders. Her hands were huge and strong; their finger pads were flattened into broad, spatulate disks.

Around the walls of the croft room hung floating hangs of unspun wool, dyed in dozens of colors: browns, reds, greens, golds, and one mass of electric blue, which Keith suspected wasn’t entirely made of natural dyes, but had to admit he liked. Rolled bolts of fabric were stacked neatly on deep, low shelves built against the walls. The frame of the loom came within inches of the high, beamed ceiling.

This machine was simpler than the others they had seen. It appeared to be made almost entirely of wood; something Keith could see interested Holl closely. The blond elf had flipped over to a new page in his notebook, and was drawing with concentrated speed. Keith took a quick picture of the loom for his own records.

“This loom is more than a hundred years old,” Mrs. MacLeod said without preamble. Her voice was very clear and low. “My father built it. Over years, the worn bits and pieces have been replaced. It works in this way.” The old woman reached up to a group of cords hanging over her head, and pulled one after another in a pattern her hands knew so well she didn’t have to watch them. The loom responded, shooting the polished shuttles back and forth across the web.

“That’s marvelous,” exclaimed Mrs. Green. “Did you make all this cloth yourself?”

“Ach, of course,” Mrs. MacLeod smiled, her eyes crinkling. “When I’m going well, I can make two pieces a week.”

“That doesn’t sound like a lot,” Keith frowned, looking at the piles of fabric. “It must take you ages to make this much cloth.”

“A piece is seventy to eighty yards, lad,” the weaver said, eyeing him humorously.

Keith’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Wow. Excuse me and my big mouth.”

“Do you blend all of your yarn yourself?” Mrs. Green asked, sorting busily through the selection. The old woman nodded. “Wonderful! You have a lovely sense of color, Mrs. MacLeod. How much do you charge per yard?” The Englishwoman turned over one bolt after another, holding a fold of cloth up to the light to see it better. Diane joined her, exclaiming over the variety of weaves and hues. Holl chimed in, asking about recipes for natural dyes. Keith decided not to enter the fray. At a safe distance, he took a picture of the ladies, and then turned to photograph the rest of the inside of the croft. To his surprise, when he stopped to take a picture of the loom from a different angle, he noticed that the weaver was no longer in her place behind it. The old woman had instead appeared at his elbow. He raised the lens to snap off a close-up of her, but something in her expression stopped him. Keith waited while she studied his face.

“Ye’ve been fairy-nagged, lad,” she said suddenly.

Keith’s jaw fell open. “How did you know?”

“I see the marks on you. Weavers are some of the makers on Earth. We see the strands which go into the life around us. Yours have been tangled a bit.”

“Like elf-knots?” Keith wanted to know.

“Aye. That’s one of the ways. Been poking yer lang neb in where it oughtn’t to go?”

“I suppose so,” Keith admitted humbly. The memory of the bogey’s voice rang in his ears, and he shivered.

“What did it do to ye? Never mind,” the woman forestalled his attempt to explain with a toss of her head. “I suppose ye canna say.”

Keith sighed, relieved, saved from trying to figure out how he could explain the thing’s curse without stuttering like a jackhammer. The old woman gave him a searching look and wrapped one broad hand in the fabric of his jacket. She pulled him over to her worktables, and one-handed, rummaged through the scattered bits of fleece and spun yarn, talking all the while.

“Well, it might wear off in time. You ought to walk a straight path until then. But if you’re fixed on doing things like twisting the tiger’s tail, you need a bit more protection than you have in yourself. I’m likely locking the barn door after the horse is gone, but you never know. I see you have an aptness for wandering into such places.”

She released him and selected three colors of unspun wool. Holding the ends together between her ring fingers, she braided and twisted the mass into a nearly solid knot of complicated design, and tied it off. “I’ll gi’ ye a wee bit of yarn to wear about your neck, but ye should find a sma’ poke of yer ain to keep it in.”

“Will any kind of little bag do?” Keith asked, clutching the little mass of wool in his fist.

“Aye. Any will do. One more thing,” the woman said, sounding a little hurt as he started to turn away. He faced her again, puzzled. “Dinna you not want to take my picture?”

Keith brightened immediately, and cranked the film forward in his camera. “You bet I do. I wasn’t sure if you’d let me. Say cheese!”

“Wensleydale,” the old woman said dourly, but her eyes twinkles in their network of lines. “You’re like a monkey. I’ve seen plenty like you in my seventy-nine years. Go with good luck.” She shook hands with him. Her broad, strong fingers closed on Keith’s like a bear trap, and he concentrated on not wincing. “Dinna disturb the fair ones’ nests again,” she warned him in a low voice, pitching it so that Mrs. Green, only feet away, couldn’t hear her. “That’ll save ye only from glamours, not foolishness.”

Keith fingered the wool charm, now safely tucked in his pocket. “I promise.”

“That’s good enough,” said Mrs. MacLeod. “Now, ladies, what have ye found?”

“Keith,” Diane bubbled, grabbing his arm with excitement, and pushing a mass of bittersweet, oatmeal, and blue tweed under his nose. “This is it. This is perfect. I mean, picture a suit made of this stuff. My sisters will just die of jealousy!”

Keith snickered, taking out his wallet. “So long as they don’t kill me, too.”

As soon as the purchases were counted, and the yardage cut and folded, Mrs. MacLeod sat down again behind her loom and reached for the cords above her head. The shuttles began their rhythmic pattern once again. Keith tried to form some suitable words of thanks, but Diane grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the croft.