Mythology Abroad (7 page)

“I don’t know,” Keith answered helplessly.

“Fourteen. Hm, small for his age, isn’t he? Looks about the same age as my nephew, eleven or twelve.” The doctor took Holl’s chin in his hand and moved it from side to side.

“Well, it’s not really unusual,” Keith said hurriedly, wondering if Holl had a weird blood type or some other indicator showing that he wasn’t exactly human. “Not in his family. I mean, his side of the family. My sister’s in-laws. They tend to be short. What’s all that swelling, doctor?” He pointed to the reddening on Holl’s cheek.

“That looks rather nasty, but it’s only nettle rash. As for the burning, I’ll want to keep him here for observation. A few days. We’ll admit him immediately.” The doctor clucked. “Look, you’re all over nettles yourself, lad. Your skin must be burning you. You’re brave to ignore your own hurts to look after the boy. Sit down, and let the nurse put a deadening cream on it.”

Obediently, Keith sat down, and let them fuss over him. He was too bound up in guilt to notice any stinging. He was desperately worried about his friend. He had never known one of the Little Folk to be ill before. He felt guilty for not having gotten off the mound when Holl told him to. Holl was probably right, that whatever possessed that mound got upset about trespassers. He might have been responsible for the attack Holl had suffered. But how could he tell the doctor about a speculation like that?

Keith felt as if he had betrayed a trust, and it was tearing up his insides. He sat and stared at Holl, head lolling to one side on the examining table, and willed him with all his heart to get well. He knew Holl had never wanted to leave Hollow Tree Farm. Traveling shook him. He even disliked car trips. He was an old homebody, but he had volunteered to make the trip, insisted on it, because he trusted Keith to look after him. It was like the blind leading the blind, really, because neither of them was too worldly. Always said he had no wish to go away. Enoch was the one who was interested in going out and seeing the world. Keith kept wondering what had hit them on the hillside. Could it be a spell that someone put on the hill before, as Puck of Pook’s Hill said, all of the
sidhe
left England? Or was it something more mundane and sinister?

“You can go now, Mr. Doyle. You can visit your nephew later, when we’ve had a chance to observe him. We have the telephone number, and we will call you when we know anything.” The nurse escorted him firmly to the door and into the reception room. Keith tried vainly to keep Holl in sight until she closed the examining room door on him.

***

C
HAPTER EIGHT

“O’Day was spotted cavorting on top of the buried dome of the satellite tracking system, just like he knew it was there. The hidden cameras are on totally silent swivels. They snapped his photo, and the johnnies in security were on to us in a flash. They’ve got copies of all our advisories. And then the kid had some kind of attack. Instead of intercepting them, I followed them to the Health Service. I’ve been keeping a close lookout ever since, in case he tried anything suspicious. He might be here to bribe one of our men to look the other way when a Russian satellite is launched.” Michaels squirmed uncomfortably in the office chair. The seats in the Chief’s office were not meant to encourage long stays. The room was nondescript and cluttered, but probably chocked to the rafters with listening and recording equipment behind the walls. “He seems so normal, sir, and genuinely concerned about the kid.”

“Even spies have relatives, Michaels,” the Chief reminded him. “That’s how the Rooskies keep their operatives’ loyalty. Have you any hard information on them?”

“Aye, sir. He’s traveling on an American passport under the name of Keith Doyle,” Michaels reported. “I’ve got the numbers out of the medical history the clinic took. It’s a clean one, fairly new, with a few trips on it, legitimate, to Canada. The ‘boy’ is going as a Doyle, too. By the report from the medico, the lad was genuinely ill. Except for some nettle rash on his hand and face, he can’t figure out quite what was wrong with him. Is there a loose nuclear source at that site, chief? He had what looked to me like mild radiation sickness: red, burned skin and fever, lightheadedness.”

“Can’t be too careful,” the Chief agreed. “I’ll have it checked out. The boffins up there have probably built up so much of an immunity they don’t notice what would be a dangerous dose for normal people. I think perhaps our smugglers might be doing us a service after all, pointing that out for us.”

“They do seem like a pair of personable chaps.”

“So were Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer,” his supervisor pointed out sternly. “A couple of charming thieves. Well, now we’ve got them on a genuine charge of criminal trespass, if we need to swear out a warrant for a quick pick-up. Stay close and keep an eye on them. They’ve obviously been in no hurry up ‘til now. They may be preparing to make their move. And when they do …”

Michaels rose, decisively. It was more comfortable to stand. “I’ll lower the net on them smartly, sir. Count on it.”

O O O

Holl, languishing in a bed in the corner of a hospital ward, stared at the white walls and the blank, curtained windows. He had never felt so lonely in his life. There were others in the beds around the room of the ward, Big children, all his own size or larger, but clearly younger than he and frightened, and none of them with a thought for anyone else. He had to admit that he was frightened, too. He couldn’t recall clearly what had happened to bring him here. He had already examined his ear-tips, and discovered that they were round, instead of pointed normally. At first he thought it was Keith Doyle’s doing, but a hazy memory reminded him he had done it himself at the Big One’s urging.

His skin under the white cotton robe was tender. His arms were slightly puffy, as they had been once when he had gotten sun poisoning. That was before Catra, the archivist, had issued an advisory about sunscreens and vitamin B5. Then he remembered the burning and choking feeling he had suffered on the hillside. The absence of pain was a chilling void.

“Good morning, Holl,” caroled a woman in a stiff-starched white dress. “Have a good sleep?” Her warm voice had a burr in it, which was the friendliest thing he had found in this strange place so far.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, looking up at her. “How long have I been here?”

She took his wrist in a businesslike grip and consulted the watch on her other arm. “You were admitted in the afternoon the day before yesterday. You’ve slept the clock ’round, and half again. I’m surprised the usual tumultuous clamour of this ward didn’t rouse you at dawn. Pulse normal, but you’ve still got a nasty burn. You’ll be staying with us at least one more day, for observation.”

“Two days? Does K … does my uncle know I’m here?” Holl asked, pushing himself upright. The nurse took the pillows from behind him, plumped and replaced them, settling him back against the head of the bed.

“Good Lord, yes. He’s probably out in the corridor now. We’ve had to chase him out at the end of visiting hours already. I’ll send him in just as soon as you have had breakfast.”

As soon as the cart containing the dirty trays was wheeled through the swinging doors, Keith slipped into the ward. He had an armful of books, which he shifted to one elbow to wave. “Hi! How are you feeling?” he asked in a low voice, as he sat down on a chair beside the hospital bed. He settled his burden on the floor underneath his seat.

“Fine, I think. Well enough, though I can’t remember anything that happened after I climbed up the hill. Must I stay here?” he asked plaintively.

“You’re still pretty red. Do you know what happened to you?” Keith asked, studying his face closely.

“No.”

“Then I think you ought to stay, just in case.” Keith explained the events of Holl’s collapse, and ended by saying, “I would rather you were where they can treat a convulsion instead of worrying if you’re going to have an attack in the middle of nowhere. When they say you’re all right, then you can get out of here. It shouldn’t be more than another day.”

“I don’t like the hospitality of strangers,” Holl said darkly. “Most especially strange Big Folk.”

Keith sighed. “I know, but they’re professional medical specialists. I’m just your ordinary Cub Scout who had CPR training once in swim class. Come on, humor me. How would I explain to the Master if I came back with you on a stretcher? He’d probably make me sit in a corner and write five page essays on health care for the rest of my life.”

Holl threw up his hands. “Very well, I submit. I’ll stay until they release me. But with a protest.”

“Fine. They have vaccines for that sort of thing. I brought you a few things to make your incarceration more interesting.” From under his chair, Keith retrieved a small hardcover book, which he gave to Holl. “This book will eventually be a Doyle family heirloom. My cousin gave it to me when I was six and home with chicken pox. My mother put it in my suitcase at the last minute as a sort of traveling talisman. I think you should keep it with you while you’re here.”

“‘How to Go About Laying An Egg’?” There was a cartoon drawing of a white chicken on the paper dust jacket.

“Full of good advice,” Keith insisted airily. “Very Zen.”

Holl looked from it into Keith’s twinkling eyes and fell back on his pillows laughing. “I like your family, Keith Doyle. They all seem to be a little mad, but in a good way.”

Next, Keith handed him a yellow paper envelope. “Here. More surprises. I brought you the pictures I took at the farm, during the going-away party your folk gave me. I mean us. Look, here’s Maura. And there’s the Master in the corner with his wife.”

“See him glare,” Holl noted with amusement. “He didn’t care for that.”

“Told me to go away and play,” Keith averred with satisfaction. “Well, he wouldn’t pose, so how else was I going to get a picture? There’s Enoch and Marcy, and here’s Dola, pretending to be a movie star. She’s going to be a knockout when she grows up. What is she, ten?”

“Just about,” Holl said, taking the photograph from Keith and adding it to the stack.

“Here’s your baby sister. The next picture was nothing but a big blob because she put her hand in the lens. Almost gave me a black eye.”

Holl laughed, but then the laughter constricted into gasping breaths. Keith, still seeming jolly on the outside to hide the worry on the inside, sprang up to press the bell for the nurse. Holl forestalled him with a wave.

“No, leave her be. I’ll be all right. I’m just out of energy. So strange. There was some truly malign force on that hillside, but whether it was natural or not I can’t tell.” He sat upright again, and with Keith’s assistance replaced the pillows propping him up. “Do you know I haven’t been this ill since I was a tot? That was in the days when the steam tunnels were still exposed near our home. We had to be so quiet all of the time. My mother sat by me, soothing and silencing.” He gave Keith a wordless look full of woe.

Keith smiled sympathetically, and moved from the chair to the edge of the narrow bed. “You want your Mom. I know how you feel.”

Shamefaced, Holl nodded. “I guess I’m hearkening back to my childhood. I’ve only just realized that I can’t sense any of my Folk this far away. I
know
they’re there, so I understand the link’s still good, but I can’t differentiate between them, if you see what I mean. There’s a tiny dot on the horizon, and I know it’s them. I didn’t mind it while I was well, but being feverish leaves me gloomy and sorry for myself.”

Grinning, Keith passed his hands in the air a few times like a conjuror and produced a small, narrow, black box from his jacket pocket. “The pictures and books weren’t all I brought. Would it help if you could talk to them?”

Holl eyed it warily. “What’s that?”

“Matthew’s portable phone. He said you could keep it here until you’re sprung. I think you was framed,” Keith went on, in his bargain basement imitation of Humphrey Bogart. “But we’ll have you outa here and playing the violin again in no time. International Access Code, then 1, then your area code and number.” He handed the small phone to Holl. Holl dialed.

There was an audible click from the receiver, and the distant sound of ringing, and then another click. A shrill voice, audible even to Keith, demanded, “What is it?”

“Keva,” Holl explained, his hand over the mouthpiece. “She’s never learned just to say ‘hello,’ as the etiquette manual suggests.” Keith grinned. Keva was a law unto herself regarding manners, or anything else. Holl uncovered the receiver. “Keva, this is Holl speaking. Can you ask our mother if she’ll come to the phone?”

There was a long wait, and then Keith could hear the overtones of a more gentle voice. Holl’s mother Calla was a tiny woman, small even for the Little Folk, with a very young face under a wave of soft, silver hair. Keith guessed that she was a bare eighteen or twenty years older than her outspoken daughter. That was unusual enough. Normally, the Folk only thought of getting married in their fifties and sixties. Babies came much later on. At forty-one, even Holl was pushing it a little to be thinking of engagement.

“Mother? Yes. I know, I’m far away, and the link is weak. You sound as clear if you’re standing here. A miracle, these small machines.” Holl dropped from English into the Little Folk language, a tongue Keith was becoming used to hearing, though he couldn’t understand it.

It was boring to listen to a conversation in a foreign language. Keith tried to make sense out of the tone, instead. At first, Holl seemed to be merely exchanging news with his mother. After a while, though, the subject changed, and Holl’s voice became angry, then thick. Something his mother was telling him bothered him very much, nearly choking him. Keith felt he was intruding on something private, and got up to leave, but Holl waved him to stay. After a while, the conversation must have turned to more cheerful topics, which he was willing to share with Keith.

Holl translated a phrase from time to time, moving the receiver aside. “The she-cat has had kittens, Mother says. There are six of them. The well has been cleared out at last, and is flowing so generously it threatens to burst the old pipes. Deliveries are keeping apace of orders, and Ms. Voordman has sent word through Diane that if you are really in Scotland, you must send her a postcard.”

“That sounds like an order,” Keith joked, snapping off a salute.

More words were exchanged in the Little Folks’ language. “Dola wouldn’t look askance at a small present, but is too well brought up to ask,” Holl told him with a wry grin.

“Now, that’s a hint,” Keith acknowledged, “but it carries the same weight as an order.”

“I’ll tell her. And many photographs of the strange places we visit would be welcome.” More talk. Holl’s voice fell to soft, nearly inaudible tones. Keith felt uncomfortable, but didn’t leave because Holl wanted him to stay.

To break the tension, Keith opened a book of his own,
Popular Tales of the West Highlands,
and read for a while, trying to block out the conversation. He became engrossed in J.F. Campbell’s description of the
bodach
of Jura and other tales of magic. Those sounded friendly. He wished he could find one of those to interview. Interesting also how the stories coincided so neatly with other books he had read.

Thoughtfully, Holl took the phone away from his ear and pushed the Off button. Keith closed his book on one finger. Holl looked depressed, but he mustered a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” he said. “That helped. There’s … a lot going on at home. Express my gratitude to Matthew, and let me know what it costs for the call.”

Keith quickly judged that Holl didn’t want to talk about his call until he had had time to digest it, and cast about swiftly for another topic of conversation. “So, when you get out of here, should we go and find whatever it was I offended and apologize to them?”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Holl warned him, momentarily distracted by Keith’s endless interest in his hobby, though his eyes kept their troubled look. “Most of the hidden ones want to stay hidden, without your great feet tramping all over their privacy.”

“Well, we were always brought up to think that Americans abroad should act as good will ambassadors wherever they went. Don’t you want to be the ambassador for your people wherever you go?”

“No,” Holl answered, keeping the banter going, but without much spirit. “Especially not in your company; they’d probably declare eternal war on my folk once they’d met you.”

Keith waved away the suggestion that his presence could cause an inter-species feud. “They’d get used to me. I’ve never asked, you know, but do
you
believe in sprites and fairies and things like that, Holl? I mean, what I’m looking for could be fantasy to your folk, as much as it is to mine.”