Mythology 101 (25 page)

Chapter 37

The next day, Friday afternoon, Keith tripped into Carl’s room, ignoring the death-dealing looks with which the other student burned him. Pat had given him the tip-off that Steven Arnold had already arrived, and gone back to the dorm room to help with his part of the “surprises.” There was a man sitting on the edge of Carl’s desk, jotting things down on a legal pad whom Keith guessed must be Arnold. He was about thirty, with dishwater brown hair beginning to creep backwards from his forehead, and wore a skeptical expression that went well with his slightly slanted eyebrows.

“Hi, Carl,” Keith said cheerfully. “Heard you had company.”

Keith carried a glass flask, containing a potently stinking liquid (Holl’s inspiration) with a long piece of white cotton twine coiled up in the bottom, which he waved at the reporter in greeting. Some of the liquid sloshed up, creating a miniature miasma. He coughed. “Hi. Keith Doyle. Fellow student of Carl’s.”

“Steven Arnold. Nice to meet you.” The reporter gagged and pointed to the flask. “What’s that?”

“Oh, lantern wicks.” He cocked an eye at Carl to see if the big athlete caught the hint. The fish went right for the bait; not even a fight. Carl caught him by the upper arm and dragged him over.

“Doyle here knows the little folk. Tell Mr. Arnold about the elves. We’re both in the class taught by one.”

“Well,” Keith said brightly, “Mrs. Depuis is really short, but you couldn’t call her an elf.” He wrinkled his nose. “Maybe a dwarf.”

“No,” Carl urged. “The group in the library.”

“Well, yeah, we were in a group for a while. But it was a sort of encounter group,” Keith told the reporter. “The stuff we talked about is private. I mean, what did
you
dream about when you were thirteen?”

“No, it wasn’t,” stormed Carl, finally deducing that Keith was making fun of him. That was the end of any ten percent of merchandising profits for Keith. “It was the little folk. Look!” He reached in a drawer and produced one of the Hollow Tree lanterns. He blew on the wick and it lit. Another puff and the flame went out.

“Lemme see that,” the reporter said, fascinated.

“Do you like that?” Keith asked, full of pride. “I make ’em.”

“You what?” Carl interrupted him incredulously.

“Yeah. I sell them to the gift shops around town. The string is treated with a chemical. Look, I was just whipping up some more. Got the raw materials for the wicks right here in this bottle.” With a long pair of tweezers, he fished an end of the cord out of the liquid. Exposed to air, the chemical compound was horribly pungent. Both Carl and the reporter choked and backed away. Keith, even though he was prepared for it, felt a little faint. One of Teri’s little concoctions. All he knew about it was that it contained nail polish remover and vinegar. What else, he had no idea. For all he knew, she’d cornered a skunk and persuaded it to contribute to the cause.

“Sorry,” he said. “Brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it? It doesn’t stink when it’s dry. Here. I’ll show you.” He picked up Carl’s blow dryer and turned it on the cord full blast. Hot, the smell was close to unbearable. Over the roar of the motor, he told the reporter, “It’s 99% cotton and one percent I can’t tell you, because that’s what makes the magic work, so to speak. It’s nitrogen/carbon-dioxide sensitive, but perfectly safe.”

“Doyle!” shouted Carl. “Get out of here!”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Mueller,” said the reporter, pointing his pen at Carl. “I’d like to see what he’s got there.”

Keith beamed at him. When it was dry, he picked up the tweezers and held the long piece of twine out to Carl. “Blow on it,” he suggested to the reporter. Doubtfully, the reporter obliged. He puffed at it. The whole length caught fire. With a curse, Carl jerked his hand back, dropping it, and stamped on it to put the fire out. “Don’t do that,” Keith admonished him. He knelt and blew on it. The rug was unscorched where the burning cord had fallen. Carl studied his unburned hand and regarded Keith with enmity.

“That’s wonderful,” gasped the reporter, both eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. “Can I have a piece of that?”

“Sure,” said Keith magnanimously, cutting off a few inches of the cord with a pocket knife. “But please don’t try to duplicate it. My patent is pending. They last for a decent while before the chemical is all used up.”

“Thanks. I might like to order some of your merchandise,” the reporter said, carefully putting the string away in an envelope. “I’ve heard of you, now that I think of it. My editor will love this. You could get a science award for that fluid.”

“Nope. I’m in it for the money. My card,” Keith flourished it, with a dramatic expression. “Hollow Tree Industries. Woodcrafts and wonders.”

“Nice name,” the reporter said. “How’d you like to talk to me a little later? It’d be some free publicity for you.”

“Sure.” Keith beamed. “Always happy to meet a member of the legitimate press.” Arnold beamed back.

“Damn you to hell,” Carl snarled, hating Keith for wasting his time. “Well, come on, Mr. Arnold. I’ll show you where the Little Folk meet for those classes.”

“What sort of classes?” the reporter wanted to know.

“Biology, Philosophy, uh … Sociology.”

“Interesting curriculum,” Arnold said. “Who teaches this class?”

“One of the older ones. He’s called the Master.”

The reporter scribbled that down on his pad. “Uh-huh. Humans and, uh, elves both in the class?”

Carl scowled, suspecting he was not being taken seriously. “Yes.”

Keith was delighted: the reporter was a skeptic. He made Keith’s job a thousand times easier. With an air of ennui, Keith announced that he wanted to come along for the ride. “I have to see this,” he insisted, a mischievous grin on his face. “Never heard of elves associating with college students.”

Carl was about to retort, but he noticed the questioning expression in the reporter’s eye. His credibility was already on the line. Doyle he could take care of later.

“Uncle Keith?” Holl tapped on the door, right on cue.

“Oh, wait,” says Keith. “I’m babysitting for my nephew. He’s a Trekkie. You don’t mind if he comes, too, do you?”

“No, not at all,” the reporter assured him.

Holl came in, hatless, casually dressed in a new pair of jeans made by Maura and a windbreaker borrowed from Keith’s younger brother. He could easily have been a member of the Doyle clan. There was theatrical latex smeared all over his ears, courtesy of Pat, which made them look larger than usual. Holl scratched fitfully at the rubber goo, which was dried to a matte finish. “Uncle Keith, can I have a can of pop?”

Carl jumped to his feet and pointed. “That’s one of them. That’s not a kid. He’s an elf.”

“He’s a Trekkie,” Keith explained. He gestured at Carl and made a spinning motion at his temple with a finger.

“Oh, I see,” the reporter nodded.

“Fascinating,” Holl intoned.

“For God’s sake, his ears! Look at his ears!” Carl dragged Holl over to the reluctant reporter, and turned the elf’s face sideways. Holl put on a convincing demonstration as the uncooperative adolescent. “Lemme go!” He struggled and kicked at Carl until Keith interceded.

“Look, you’ll pull them off. Watch it,” Keith said, moving Holl away. “They’re expensive.”

“I shall have to stun you,” Holl threatened in what was obviously an excited child’s attempt at a Vulcan monotone, pulling a toy phaser from the pocket of his borrowed windbreaker. Keith pushed the barrel of the toy gun toward the floor.

“Never point guns at anyone, Holl,” he admonished his “nephew” solemnly. “Not even toys.”

“They’re latex and rubber,” the reporter said to Carl coldly, after examining the plastic coating with Holl’s grudging cooperation. “You’ll have to do better than that to convince me you’ve got something, Mr. Mueller. Two articles in the
National Informer
do not constitute proof to me. The library, I think you said?”

“After you,” Keith said, courteously bowing Arnold and Carl out before him. He hung back until he was sure they were well on their way down the hall. With a maniacal chuckle, he tilted the flask at eye level, and very carefully poured about an ounce of skunk cocktail into each of Carl’s track shoes. Holl gave him a wink as they pulled the door closed.

O O O

A guest pass was secured for Arnold in the office of the library. The plump administrative assistant on duty recognized the name when she stamped the card with the date and hour. “Steven Arnold?” she asked almost flirtatiously, smoothing her flowered print dress. “I’ve read everything you’ve published. You have a fine mind.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Arnold said politely. “Takes one to know one.”

She blushed and giggled, for a moment looking far younger than her fifty or so years. “Are you going to write a piece about our library, young man?”

“I sincerely hope so,” Arnold said. “I’ve been promised a special exclusive.” He gave Carl a this-had-better-be-worth-it look.

“Come on,” Carl said, impatient with protocol and all librarians. “This way.”

O O O

“Just a moment,” the librarian on duty stopped them as they reached the checkpoint for the stacks.

“They’re with me,” Arnold said, flashing his pass and a big smile. The librarian perused them indifferently and let them by. Holl lifted an eyebrow at her as he passed.

“Fascinating.” Holl was really catching on to the Trek jargon, Keith thought approvingly.

“My nephew,” Keith said, as he went in behind Holl.

They took the elevator to the twelfth level, and walked down the stairs from there. There was no screech or struggle as they entered Level Fourteen. Carl had obviously set it up beforehand; the security door had been left propped open and the hinges oiled. The lights were on, but the place still had an air of eeriness.

Arnold scribbled on his legal pad, having no need of illumination to write, a talent forged over long years of experience. He looked around at the tall shelves of books looming over him forbiddingly like giant librarians. After a moment, he wrote the image down in his notes. It would make good copy for the sensationalist editor to whom his work was frequently assigned.

The corners of the chamber were dark in spite of the fluorescent lighting, which was inadequate for the expanse it had to cover. Arnold had to admit that willing suspension of disbelief would be easy to accomplish in such a spooky location, but he was still waiting to be shown.

Carl marched his little train proudly down the aisle to the wall that separated the classroom from the rest of the library. It was his moment, and he was going to enjoy it. Doyle and the elf kid with the stupid glue on his ears were in the back watching him, looking like they might laugh. Doyle was a jerk to miss out on bringing the Little Folk to the attention of the world. Now it was Carl Mueller who would get all the kudos. And all the rewards.

“Now, watch.” The reporter leaned in as Carl gestured them closer. The burly student took out his green glowing key, and felt the invisible door in the wall for the smooth metal scratch plate. It was still too dark in this corner to see what he was doing, but never mind. He’d been doing it without light for years. With a deep breath, he put the key to the keyhole.

There was a blinding green flash, and the green light around the key went out like a birthday candle. Keith, the reporter, and Carl all rocked backward as they were momentarily dazzled into shocked blindness. They scrubbed at their eyes, seeing red flashes that faded slowly back to normal vision. Holl, who knew what to expect, merely looked Vulcan and imperturbable. He had had his eyes closed.

When Carl could see again, he looked for the keyhole. He scrabbled at the wall. The doorplate had vanished completely. “What happened? Where did it go?” He looked down at his key. It was cold and dead again, just a piece of metal with nothing special about it but the shape.

“Where did what go, Mr. Mueller?” Arnold asked, watching the big student’s antics with an air of displeasure.

“Phasers on stun,” intoned Holl, from behind Keith. He re-sheathed his toy gun, which he had drawn when they boldly went where no man had gone before. “Request permission to beam up.”

“Sorry,” said Keith plaintively. “I shouldn’t buy him toys his mother hates. She always gets even with me. I’ve got him for a whole week.”

“What the hell happened?” demanded the reporter. “Is this some kind of elaborate college prank? My editor is going to be furious. You promised him an exclusive on alien beings living on this college campus. I don’t waste my time on student rookery. If you got me down here on a false pretense, I’m going to report it to your dean. I don’t work for the
National Informer
, you know!”

“Where’s the door?” Carl felt the wall wildly, sounding desperate. He was nearly sobbing with frustration. “You did this, Doyle. Somehow I know you did.” His voice reverberated hollowly in the concrete room, but the echoes sounded like the voices of children laughing.

“There’s no door here. This is the oldest part of the stacks,” Keith explained patiently. “The walls are solid.” He knocked on one, and it gave out with a flat THONK. “Everybody is always blaming me for things I haven’t done.” He turned back to the reporter, who was putting his pencil away in his breast pocket. “Did you know that the Historical Society has declared Gillington a historical monument? I have been in touch with them over the past months, and they have finally reached their decision. We’re looking forward to the restoration committee’s recommendations.”

“I’d heard,” Arnold said, taking the pencil out again. “Well, since I won’t be getting the story that I came out for, I might as well hear about your library.”

“Well, we’re proud of it. Built in 1863 during the Civil War.…” With an arm around the reporter’s shoulders, Keith led him and Holl back up the stairs to the ground floor. Carl didn’t follow immediately. There was a wild yell and a thud as the burly student hit the dusty floor face first. From somewhere behind the American History section, Enoch had thrown a minor cohesiveness whammy and stuck Carl’s shoes to the floor.

O O O

On the way out of the stacks, Keith gave Steve Arnold a quick rundown on the history of the library. They parted with a friendly handshake before the disapproving eyes of the stack librarian. “I think you can count on seeing this Gillington article sometime next week, Keith. And I’ll be sending you an order for Hollow Tree pretty soon. Sure you can’t spare free samples for the press?” Arnold asked persuasively, putting his notebook away.