Mythology Abroad

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “And I vote for a good pudding, too,” Alistair suggested, as they emerged on the street.

  “Huh? Oh, not custard: dessert,” Keith translated. “Sounds great to me. How about the rest of you?”

  There was a chorus of approval, and Alistair nodded decisively.

  “I know a place nearby with fine sweets and a cellar second to none.” He steered them out of the university complex and around the corner into an alley. An unobtrusive doorway let into a quiet but crowded establishment, with the risible name of the Ubiquitous Chip. The host looked them over cautiously, judging them to be sober enough not to make trouble, and escorted them to a long table.

  The restaurant, uncomfortably like an American fern bar in decor, proved to have a genius making desserts in the kitchen. Keith licked his spoon thoughtfully and wondered if he should order a second selection. He decided against it, and amused himself throwing leftover crumbs to the enormous goldfish in the fountain that ran along one side of the main room.

  On top of homemade ice cream, mousses, and tortes, the others poured down wine and liqueurs, and discussed with great interest the events of the day. Matthew was acclaimed a hero for his great find, and decided on his own reasons for the interment of the covered jar. He was in a mood to take no prisoners, which the others took as a personal challenge.

  “Well, what do you know about it anyway?” Martin asked challengingly. “All you’ve ever dug up before is your Mum’s tulip bulbs.”

  Keith and Holl plowed straight into the thick of a loud and passionate argument about whether or not the professor was right in his theories. The languid, sullen pose assumed by most of the boys turned out to be nothing more than a pose. Something important had actually happened, progress had been made, and they were a part of it. Their daily lives must have fallen into one unmarked by change or excitement. They were bored, and pretended they didn’t care. Hard work did bring out the best in some people. Keith grinned to himself. No one who felt like taking it easy would have joined a tour like this to begin with.

  As the wait staff began to clear the surrounding tables, Edwin rose to his feet. “Let’s go. We can talk in the pubs until closing time.”

  “Where should we go?” Matthew asked. The others started to argue for their favorites.

  “How about the King’s Head?” Martin suggested.

  “Why not the Black Bull? It’s only across the road.”

  “What about the Curlers?”

  Keith snickered at the names. “What’s that, a combination pub and hairdresser?”

  Charles pushed him toward the door. He was a big youth with heroic looks: a sharply planed jaw, curly brown hair, and mild blue eyes which wore a glint of amusement. “No, you silly git, curling is a sport. You take a big round flat stone, and hoik it up and slide it across a frozen lake, sweeping the ice as you go.…”

  “No, they’ve only got Tennant’s lager,” Max said, interrupting them. “Come on, I’ll choose the first one. We’ll go down to City Centre and stop in at the Skye Boatman, and make the rounds from there.” On a chorus of approval, the party turned toward the stop for the Strathclyde Underground.

  “Nine for the orange caterpillars,” Edwin shouted, letting his voice echo in the brick-walled station. They trotted down the stairs toward the trains. A man in a rumpled suit detached himself from a group at the ticket machines and followed them unobtrusively into the bowels of the station.

  The Skye Boatman was crowded and jolly, mashing its patrons into two small, smoky L-shaped rooms which surrounded the bar. The party had to shout at one another just to be heard over the clamor of the fruit machines and the canned music. Though it was early in the week, the pub was full of men and women laughing over glasses of cider or a brown-red brew which the other students told Keith was bitter ale. Keith tasted a mouthful and ordered some for himself. He was much more cautious this time with his liquor. Where the others finished one pint and ordered another, he nursed a single pint of bitter throughout the evening, and then switched to a St. Clement’s with Holl when they moved on to the next pub.

  “That’s no way to drink,” Alistair chided him, when he ordered his fifth orange-and-lemonade, “One minchy pint, and you’re calling a halt? Ooh, you Americans are made of weak fabric.”

  “I’m working up my tolerance a little at a time,” Keith replied, good-naturedly, refusing to be drawn into a contest. For all the kidding they gave him, Matthew had confided that they did drink a lot every night. This evening was by way of being a celebration. A good thing, too. The dark ale was rich and heavy, not bitter at all, but Keith could tell by the light feeling in the top of his head that the alcohol content was a lot higher than beer back home. “There is no way I’m going to relive this morning’s headache. That was one hell of a hangover.” And a close shave with disaster, he reflected, catching Holl’s eye. The young elf seemed relieved by Keith’s prudence, and was considerably more relaxed, even among the ever changing mob of strange Big Folk. The others had long ago forgotten his ostensible youth, and had accepted him along with Keith as one of them.

  At eleven o’clock, the publican of the Black Bull rang a bell and called, “Time, gentlemen, time. Your wives are waiting for ye!”

  Seeing that no one was taking the initiative, Keith got to his feet. “Come on, guys. Someone is going to have to direct me back to the Underground station.”

  “I can feel me right leg, but I think me left one’s gone to sleep,” Edwin said, looking surprised as he tried to lever himself out of the booth.

  “Don’t you hate when that happens?” Keith asked, helping him up. “That means it’s going to be awake all night.”

  With Holl’s aid, Keith managed to steer the others back to the train and home to Hillhead Station. There were few passengers on the late train. Only one man rode all the way to their stop with them, and trudged up the stairs in their wake. The light drizzle that met them as they emerged from the station was bracing, and woke everyone up enough to stagger the rest of the way to the residence hall.

  “Whew!” Keith blew a lock of hair out of his eyes with an upward gust as he sagged onto his bed. “And I thought American college students were party animals. Matthew said they do that almost every night!”

  “You’d hardly connect the serious archaeologists of the afternoon with the drunken louts we just put to bed,” Holl agreed. He yawned. “It’s late, and we’ve had an eventful day. I could sleep for weeks.”

  “Could still be some of the jet lag, too,” Keith reasoned, pulling off his sneakers. “Look at that. My feet are swollen. By the end of this trip, I’m going to be wearing clown shoes.”

  “And I’m going to be wearing your discards.” Holl rubbed his own toes. “Blisters. This is my first pair of hard-soled shoes, and it may well be my last if they don’t soften soon. I may survive well enough, as we’re doing all our work from our knees.”

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” Keith asked anxiously. “I know this kind of trip wasn’t exactly your choice, since you signed on at the last minute to go with me.”

  Holl waved an impatient hand. “I am interested. Realize how little practical experience any of us young ones have with the outside world. I’m as keen as your fellow tourists to see what else we can find up there. It’s nice to know that there’s a past that stretches back beyond the date of my birth, one for which there’s tangible, if unreadable proof.”

  “Hmph. Won’t the old folks tell you what life was like before you came to Midwestern?”

  “Not much. You can tell it isn’t something they want to talk about. And the younger ones just tell of extended travel and wandering. They’re home and secure and happy now, so the past doesn’t exist. That’s shortsighted, in my opinion.” Disgusted, Holl dropped his shoes on the floor, and lay down, hands behind his head. “I find it frustrating, as do the rest of us born at Midwestern. Don’t you find it an interesting place we’re digging up? You can see why the settlers chose to live there. They get the full sun every day, but
they’re not exposed to the high winds. Small game would be plentiful, as would be fish. The fields are sunny. The place is defensible, but not unreachable.”

  “Do you suppose that they had any dealings with your ancestors?” Keith asked hopefully. “I mean, I noticed that you could tell that the pot we were uncovering was cracked, without touching it. Did you see something? Was it made by one of your Folk?”

  Holl chuckled. “Ah, no. It was just a craftsman’s instincts. I could feel the weakness in the material. It was nearly crying out its infirmity. It had no essence of magic or charm to it. But it was well made, and all of four thousand years old. I admire that.”

  “Is there anything in the site which has got the essence of magic?” Keith pressed. “I mean, what do you think? Would these people have had any contact with yours?”

  “I don’t know,” Holl mused. “The site is not inimical to it. And there’s almost no iron among the remains, and it’s ages too early for steel. All their metals are bronze or softer, which you might have noticed doesn’t hurt me. That would make it more comfortable for contact … but this is all speculation, Keith Doyle.”

  “That’s what I’m best at, speculation and guesses. Besides, the professionals are guessing too; that’s what Dr. Crutchley said. The more evidence we get, the more accurate the picture they can put together.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to look for. I’ve barely seen the habitations occupied by Big Folk this century, let alone one forty times as old.” The Little One sighed. “There’s no sign of anything belonging to my people. In a way, it makes me feel lost and alone. It’s true that we tend not to leave many marks of our passing, just out of self-protection, but I wish that they would have. That site is dry and cold and empty, so far as I can tell. You’re the expert bogey hunter; what do you think?”

  “Well …” Keith mused. “You know, the Little People are hardly likely to have set up shop right next to the Big Folk’s town. You, I mean, they would be unnatural creatures.” A sly smile. “They didn’t have the benefit of a library full of … texts, like we do. If they had, they would have been blamed for all disasters, whether or not they were responsible. You guys would be easy scapegoats, if for no better reason than size. You know, they might have lived further inland, in the woods, or in one of those little valleys we passed surrounded by scrub…?”

  “Dells,” Holl supplied.

  “Right. You can hardly see a hundred yards in any direction. The locals wouldn’t bother to punch through that, not with meadows and bluffs already cleared for them by nature.”

  Holl cheered up. “It doesn’t mean they mightn’t have been nearby. We can have a look, if there’s time.”

  “Yeah!” the red-haired youth agreed. “According to my legend books, this is the kind of place where wood elves and certain kinds of brownies can be found. They seemed to live just about forever, getting older and more crotchety, or wiser, take your pick. If there’s anyone still here, we can ask them about what life was like 4,000 years back, and give Dr. Crutchley something he can use to spike his competition.”

  “If they don’t give us the spike first. I have a feeling that after four thousand years, they won’t likely be too talkative.”

  The rest of the week went on like the beginning of the first day. To Keith’s relief and joy, he was moved off his patch to a new one at Matthew’s left, clearing the grass downslope from the site of the lidded pot’s discovery and beginning an excavation there. “We must find that urn, intact, if possible,” Dr. Crutchley pleaded. “If the small jar was undamaged, the chances are good that other artifacts nearby will be in a similarly well preserved condition. I am sure this was a burial, not a cache, and this grass appears to be undisturbed. My textbooks suggest that these amber beads were not personal ornamentation, but the bookkeeping strings of a wealthy trader. I believe some similar pieces are on display in the British Museum.”

  The group was impressed. Closer personalization of the people they were investigating evoked a deeper involvement on the part of the team. Keith vowed to find the trader’s burial site, or die trying.

  On Wednesday, Miss Anderson made an announcement on the way to the dig. “Anyone who is taking this tour for credit should be prepared to give me his or her weekly essay on Friday. Verbal is acceptable, though handwritten or typed would be welcome. There are typewriters we may use in the Archaeology Department office. I’ll schedule individual appointments this evening.” She smiled around at them, her eyes twinkling behind her thick glasses. “That will give you a day to decide whether or not you wish to go to the extra trouble.”

  “Why not?” Keith said. “It’s one fewer course in basket weaving I’ve got to take to finish off my college credits.”

  O O O

  “Well, Keith, come in,” Miss Anderson invited him. The Archaeology office, set in a row of terraced buildings to one side of the common square, was a couple of cramped rooms filled with books. The teacher had cleared a place at one of the battered desks for her records and the small pile of essays. Keith sat down in a time-worn swivel-back chair beside her. “I have read your paper with interest. I find that your writing style is clear, which is gratifying, but your thesis leaves more to be desired.”

  “I researched my facts from the books in the library,” Keith pointed out, a little disappointed. “I do a lot of research at home.”

  “Yes, I see that. It isn’t the research which I find faulty. It’s your conclusions. You’re jumping to them.” She turned over the top page and pointed to a paragraph alongside which she had drawn a red line. “You don’t have any basis for making the conclusions that you do about the size of the settlement or its relative prosperity.”

  “A lot of the books I checked suggested that some of the things we found were unlikely to turn up in poorer places, like all the jewelry. Sure, they could have been the craftsmen who made them, but if they needed money, they would have sold the goods, instead of keeping them. The village must have been large, because of the number of bones in the garbage dump. I pieced things together from a lot of sources, not to mention the things that Dr. Crutchley has been telling us. I think there’s a similarity between the way we work at home on research papers and the way the archaeological team does here.”

  “Keith,” Miss Anderson said firmly, “This course is intended to teach you to respect facts, not hare off after assumptions. For example, the size of the rubbish tip may have been the product of years rather than population. You are on a strict fact-finding expedition. Theories are for those in full possession of those facts.”

  “Dr. Crutchley is making speculations,” Keith offered in his own defense.

  The teacher sighed, as if she had made this point many times before. “Yes, but he labels them as speculations. He does not know anything for which he hasn’t got proof. If you find a jar in an ancient village site, you may assume that one of the ancient folk had a jar. You don’t state baldly that they kept stoats in it, unless you have pictorial proof, such as art or hieroglyphs, or actually find a mummified stoat inside one. Dr. Crutchley can make educated guesses based on experience and research. This could be a good learning experience for you. It wouldn’t hurt your everyday life to learn the difference between blind belief and supported theories for which evidence exists.”

  “Like whether or not there are really leprechauns and things like that, you mean?” Keith asked innocently, accepting his paper back from the teacher.

  Miss Anderson nodded, her eyes twinkling. “Yes, I suppose that would be a good example. Evidence separates fantasy from fact.”

  “Okay, I get it.” Keith smiled sweetly, feeling as if he had made a point, even if the teacher didn’t know it. “Do you want me to rewrite the paper?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” Miss Anderson stated. “You do understand the principles of the expedition, and your guesses are fairly intelligent, though I want you to understand that it is far too early to make such firm assumptions. It smacks of scientific irresponsibili
ty.”

  “It won’t happen again. I’ll be as cautious as if I was walking on dinosaur eggs,” Keith promised. “Um, Miss Anderson, how do you handle the grades? I’m carrying a pretty good average at Midwestern, and I’d like to maintain it.”

  Her blue eyes twinkled up through the thick glasses, reminding Keith irresistibly of the Elf Master. “The first essay carries far less weight than the following five. It gives us a chance to know one another. Or, you can elect to have the grade recorded as Pass/Fail, if you like. If you’re the sort prone to ulcers over marks, we can make a gentleman’s agreement that you will pass so long as you do any work at all and take part in the discussions.”

  “I’m not that bad,” Keith said. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Good for you,” Miss Anderson replied cheerily. “I thought you had the stuff of fighters in you.”

  Keith rose, and rolled up his paper. “I’m really enjoying this tour, Miss Anderson. Even the dirt feels more historical than the kind I usually get under my fingernails.”

  The teacher laughed. “I’ll look forward to what you have to tell me next week, when your muscles are really sore. Just send Alistair in on your way out, won’t you?” She swiveled her chair to face the pile of papers, and Keith slipped through the door.

  ***

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Keith bought a handful of postcards and wrote enthusiastic messages to his friends and family as the coach carried them toward the dig early on the second Monday. One for his roommate, Patrick Morgan, one for his parents, one for his resident advisor, Rick, and one for Diane, over which he lingered lovingly, crowding all the detail he could in the small message square. He had saved a special card for Ludmilla Hempert, the old woman with whom he shared the Little Folks’ secret. It was a hot, sunny morning, with just a striping of clouds arching overhead. Slung across his back was a straw coolie hat he had found in one of the souvenir shops the week before and had worn every day since burning his ears and neck. The others laughed at him for worrying about a little sun, and turned down his offer of hats for each of them. None of them wore hats, sunscreen, or even sunglasses.