Mythology Abroad

by Jody Lynn Nye

  He became conscious of a panting, gasping noise echoing around him, and felt hot sweat break out on his forehead in fear. Was there something following him? Was the bodach there right behind him? Keith felt a wash of terror break over him. He held his breath to listen, and the sound ceased. Keith expelled air in a gasp that turned into relieved, nearly hysterical laughter, and heard the gasping start again. “It’s me.”

  It was his own breathing, magnified by the enveloping walls. The bodach was certainly seeing to it that he was sufficiently punished for disturbing it. He had nearly scared himself to death.

  At the top of the next slab, he came to a dead end. Keith was forced to snake his way downhill slightly and to the right, where he had seen the blackness of a new passageway. His sodden jacket caught on a projection. Keith stopped to pull it loose. It didn’t want to come. He yanked. The fabric came free suddenly, sending him sliding quickly down the tube on the mass of wet wool as if he had been greased.

  “Help!”

  Keith tried to stop his fall by sticking out his hands and feet into the tunnel’s narrow sides, but that only got them bruised. At last, with an effort, he rose to his knees, bracing his back against the top of the sloping tunnel. He knelt there panting for a moment, before cautiously beginning the climb back to his turnoff. He was getting tired, and, he hated to admit, hungry. He had been too excited to eat much dinner. How long ago was that? A few hours or a few days?

  The passage to the right led him to a perfectly level T-junction. Keith waited for a moment, feeling for the air currents before he decided which way to go. The only clue he had for leaving this labyrinth was the wind from the outside world. He put his chin down on his folded arms to rest.

  It was only the faintest hint, but the breeze felt stronger against his left cheek and whisker than his right. In a moment, Keith picked himself up and rubbed his palms together. They were raw and hurt, and he knew that if he could see them, they’d be red. He thought about taking his socks off his feet and putting them on his hands.

  “So long as I’m walking on them, that is. I’m not up to crawling like this anymore,” Keith admitted to himself. “It’s just not a habit that stays with you.” He decided against it only because he needed the sensitivity of his fingers to help guide him through this labyrinth. Somehow, he’d make it up to his shredded palms later.

  There seemed to be more moss wedged into the crevices of the stones. Some of it dangled in his way like ghostly spider webs. The glow had increased to where Keith could distinguish the outline of his own hands and arms. Realizing that he couldn’t go on indefinitely without food, he decided to try and alter the spell. If the spelled light could follow him so easily, maybe a ring of the glow could go up toward the sunshine outside, and come back toward him, over and over again, like a neon sign arrow in reverse. He could follow that out. Of course, there were dangers in an idea like that, if the end of the line terminated in a hole too small for him to crawl through, or over a sheer cliff face. Or maybe he was so far underground it would take forever for the light to get back to him. But if the idea worked, Keith felt it was worth the risk. He concentrated, and the glow diminished around him to total darkness.

  He waited. Nothing happened for a long time, and Keith felt his hopeful mood start to ebb. “I didn’t know when I was well off,” he groaned, and started to reverse the spell.

  A tiny light appeared just out of the edge of vision, and crept toward him. It was no more than a bit of spidery tracing on the floor, but Keith stared at it with growing joy. “It worked!” he crowed. He crawled energetically along it, as it faded out beneath his hands.

  Periodically, his neon sign would disappear completely. Keith took these opportunities to stop and rest until the sun-line renewed itself again. He was making progress steadily upward. Without a regular source of light, he had to rely more heavily than before on his whiskers. He blessed Holl for giving them to him as last year’s Christmas gift. At the time, they had been a kind of running family joke. Now, they were saving him.

  “I wish Holl was here. No, that’s rotten. I wish I was with Holl. He’s probably drinking tea and playing with Mrs. Mackenzie’s cats.” The discomfort in his hands and knees was increasing, but he ignored it. He had to.

  As Keith had feared, the next turnoff ended in a T-junction at a solid stone wall with a hand-sized hole in it. The light, instead of following either of the available paths, came through the wall. In dismay, Keith slapped at the rock. His palm stung, and he winced.

  “Now what? Hey, spell, this doesn’t help!”

  The mosslight continued to glow dispassionately through the hole in the wall. Apparently, this was all the aid his spell could muster. Keith put his eye to the opening and squinted through.

  There seemed to be a passageway on the other side, because the light followed the thickness of the wall and then dropped off. He could see a thinner line reappear at some distance way, but that was all. Flipping a mental coin, he chose to turn right. The fine yellow glow died away again as he crept away from the T-junction, leaving him in the dark.

  This path turned unexpectedly again and again, growing smaller all the while. Keith had to pay close attention to his whiskers to avoid bashing his head on the irregular ceiling. The tunnel had narrowed to barely a foot in diameter. In the end, he was reduced to creeping forward on his belly like a snake. He had to crawl with one arm extended forward to keep from getting his shoulders wedged.

  “I feel like I’m being swallowed by the mountain,” he thought. He put his head down and scrabbled his way out of the tight spot. Without the light breeze playing constantly on his face, he knew he would go out of his mind with fear. He had to keep from thinking about the tons of rock, poised above him only by a fluke of nature. If they did any more blasting nearby, the strata could come down on him and squash him flat, and no one would ever know.

  The passage led him steadily around in a loop that went in the general direction of his mosslight. Any minute, he expected to see the burning yellow-white line. That hope was almost all that kept him pushing forward through the stone tube.

  Keith crept over a slight bump in the passage floor, and down again. As soon as his hands touched down, he realized he had found the steam once more. There was two inches of water pooling in the worn floor of the tunnel, only this time, it was flowing in the direction he was going. Miserably, he plowed through it, feeling the water soak in through his clothes to his chafed and chilled skin.

  He came to a Y-shaped intersection. The left-hand side of the Y leveled off, and its ceiling rose to nearly three feet in height. Keith measured it with a tentative hand following the wall in the darkness. It was a much more inviting tunnel than the right turning. Keith blinked. There was a tiny spark of light down toward the left. That was the way back to his mosslight. Happily, he rose to his hands and knees, and crawled as fast as he could toward the light.

  The golden glow grew much faster than he thought it would. I must be a lot closer to the way out, Keith thought cheerfully. Hot bath and food soon! He was able to urge greater efforts from his hands and knees by promising them that their ordeal would be over very shortly. Head bent to take the strain off his back, Keith made his way along the tunnel. Strangely, the air was heavy and damp here, instead of fresh, as it had been all along the way the mosslight took before.

  A sudden roar shook the passage under Keith’s knees, like the sound of thunder. His eyes flew up in horror. There was a golden glow only a few feet before him, but it wasn’t his little line of spelled moss. It was two points of light like eyes, and the rest of the fearsome face was coalescing around them as he watched. There was a brief suggestion of fangs, then horns, then a loose and stringy mane. He had blundered into something’s lair. What was it? The creature roared again, right in his face.

  Keith let out a yell and turned almost double on himself to get away from the wide open maw. He backpedaled in the tunnel, flipped over like a cat in a box, and fled back up the passage. The apparition
pursued him, its roar causing the whole mountain to vibrate. Pebbles worked loose from the ceiling and fell on him as he scrabbled toward the lower tunnel.

  Maybe it’s too big to follow me, he prayed. He couldn’t make any speed in the low tunnel, not on his elbows and toes, not in the water. All too soon, his whiskers signaled that there was an obstruction in his way. He ducked, and squirmed into the low passage, huddling his body into the smallest knot he could.

  The bellowing face was almost on top of him now, bearing down on him like an approaching express train. Keith had nowhere to retreat. The yellow fangs clashed against one another like a boar’s tusks, and the hot strings of the mane whipped like summer lightning in the utter blackness of the tunnel, leaving burning afterimages. Terrified, Keith threw his arms over his head and waited for the inevitable. He was going to die.

  In his ears, the roaring grew and grew, buffeting his ears with sound. Keith imagined the fangs lowering toward his back. His skin tautened, waiting for the first points to tear through the cloth, and then his flesh.

  Nothing touched him. His whiskers didn’t so much as twitch. The beast’s noise died away suddenly, leaving silence in its wake. Keith looked up. The beast was nowhere in sight. It had vanished.

  If something that big was heading straight at him, and it didn’t pass him, and it didn’t have room to turn around, A) it must have been an illusion, or B) it went right into one of the stone sides of the tunnel without using a door. Keith was pulling for option A with all his might. In any case, he recognized it as a warning. He’d have to follow the right fork, water, low ceiling and all. The next time, those fangs probably wouldn’t be illusionary.

  He wondered briefly if other magical things affected each other. Could passing through another magic field possibly have taken off the spell that the bodach laid on him? It was worth an experiment. He felt in his mouth for his fillings. Nothing. His teeth were still hollow and aching in the cold. He tried bucking the terms of the curse. “Say, mister, can you give me change for a d—, d—, doh—” He attempted heroically to force the word “dollar” out of his mouth, and his teeth still ached horribly whenever the cold air hit the open cavities. “No way,” he said unhappily. “I need expert help.”

  The right passage bore a striking resemblance to household plumbing. Keith found himself snaking through smoother tunnels than before, thought they were low and narrow. His jacket and trousers were no longer catching on the stone.

  Something clicked as he put his hand down on it in the water. It felt like a flat stick. It was too knobby to ease his way over, so he elected to push it along in front of him in the extended hand. As he crept downhill, the flow of the water started to become stronger. Little trickles joined the main tunnel from small cataracts that rained down on Keith as he passed. Now there was a genuine stream gurgling around him.

  Keith’s whiskers broadcast an emergency message as soon as his hands touched a ring of rock ahead of him. This was going to be a really tight fit. Gently, Keith eased forward, trying to ignore the water building up behind him. First one shoulder passed through, then the other. He pushed all of air out of his ribcage, and got his chest through next. Everything was going fine until he tried to get his hips into the hole, and remembered too late about his Pocket Scots Dictionary. It stuck up like a deadbolt in his rear jeans pockets, holding him pinned head down under the lip of the rock. Keith’s heart started pounding. He bit his tongue. His legs were now awash in stream water. He kicked.

  Bracing his elbows on the other side of the ring, Keith took a deep breath and shoved down. There was a rip as his jeans pocket tore loose. He was free! With nothing left to hold him in place, Keith tumbled over the lip of the rock and down, followed by a cataract of water.

  He landed with a splash in a fast-flowing pond several feet deep, which swirled him around and then dragged him into a broader stream leading further into the bowels of the mountain. Keith banged into rocks and projections sticking out into the water. Gasping, he fought to stay at the surface, but not too high, fearing there might be a low ceiling above him.

  His mind started composing epitaphs for an empty tomb in his family cemetery back in Illinois: “Keith Doyle, Died Aged 20. He Rediscovered the Little Folk.” “Keith Doyle, Died Aged 20. He Duked it out with a Bogey and Lost.” “Keith Doyle, Died Aged 20, Drowned …”

  Boy, am I morbid, he thought. At that moment, the stream turned and deposited him, along with a lot of other debris, in a small hollow. Gratefully, he crawled onto the small bank and held tightly to an outcropping of coarse rock as a shower of small pebbles cascaded down on him from higher up. Every square inch of his body felt as if it had been bruised. I wonder if I should be talking about muchnesses or something, like Alice in Wonderland down the rabbit hole. He coughed up stream water and gasped, tossing his wet hair out of his eyes.

  He remembered the voice of the bodach as it threw the curse on him, which would prevent him from talking about liquor, money, or women ever again. I can live with it, Keith vowed. All he could think of were longing visions of food, warmth, and not being wet any more. Maybe Holl can find a way to take the curse off before I have to deal with it in public.

  He realized that he could think about the future again. Though he was still lost, he was safe for the moment. Even exhausted, that thought gave him some hope. So long as the bodach didn’t pop out of nowhere again and put him back in the round cave.

  ***

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Now, where exactly did you lose him?” the Master asked, pausing at the gate to the Mackenzie garden.

  “This way,” Holl said, leading the others down to the holed stone. Though he still resented giving up authority, he had to admire how quickly the Master could sum up the facts of a situation. It was possible for him to walk in cold and instantly take over in a crisis. Holl was still a schoolboy in comparison. The Master studied the holed stone with interest, but then focused on the whiskey bottle, as Holl had done, as a clue to the way the bodach worked. He stood rubbing a fragment of glass between his fingers, thinking.

  Holl could sense the directions his thoughts took. He had some finding process he wanted to try, and he didn’t want the strange but helpful Mr. Michaels to watch him. That meant Holl had to remove the stranger. Fine and good. With two parties searching, the chances of finding Keith Doyle were raised significantly. He cleared his throat and spoke up. “We’ll continue looking in Mr. Michaels’ car. It was his suggestion the other day that Keith may have become lost and strayed further. I’ll let Mrs. Mackenzie know you’re here.”

  “Gut,” the Master said, seeming to come back from very far away. “You go that vay, and ve vill start to familiarize ourselves vith this area. Ve can meet later and share our impressions.” He pottered around the garden, and looked over the edge of the field.

  “Dismissed, are we?” the Big Person asked, feeling left a little behind by the conversation. “Come on, then. I’ve got a topo map of this part of the island.” He led the way back toward the house. He wasn’t sure what the other two actually had to do with his case, but so long as he could keep his quarry under his eye, he was happy.

  Diane stood under the apple trees, swaying slightly with fatigue. She had had little sleep in the last twenty-four hours, but she was too worried to go lie down and let the Little Folk alone. The Master noticed as she tried to stifle a yawn, and smiled.

  “Mees Londen, I vould be grateful for your assistance, but it is not necessary.” As Diane tried to protest, he interrupted her. “I know vhat promises the others extracted from you to look after my vell-being, but I assure you, I vill be fine.”

  Diane forced her brain to clear, shoving down the sleep toxins like coffee under a plunger. “No, I can’t do that. A promise is a promise. Your son Enoch would slice me into little bits and build lanterns out of me if I didn’t make sure you were all right. I don’t know why they asked, because you’ll probably end up looking after me. Besides, I have got to know what’s happened to
Keith. Is he alive?” she asked plaintively.

  “Yes, I belief he is, but he is a long vay from here. Let us go into the house and find our starting point.”

  When he felt like making the effort, the small teacher could be charming. In Diane’s opinion, the Master positively buttered up Mrs. Mackenzie while she was showing them the house in general and their rooms in specific.

  “Qvite a lofely place,” the Master insisted. “A hafen uf calm and beauty against the backdrop uf the vild sea outside.”

  “I wasn’t expecting two, since the lad only asked for one extra room,” the landlady said, much flattered by the little man with the thick German accent. “It’s good fortune I’ve just seen off one of my other guests. Pity about the young man, is it not? The local constable is having a wee look around for him. He’s likely gathering his wits. So easy to take a wrong turning when you don’t know the way. The road dips away when you’re no more than a few paces doun it.”

  “Funny he couldn’t see those creepy stones on the top of the hill,” Diane mused.

  “Ah, weel, they’re not visible from every side,” Mrs. Mackenzie explained.

  “Thank you,” the Master said. “Ve vill endeafor not to be in your vay.”

  The landlady left them alone in the room shared by Keith and Holl. It was an airy, pleasant chamber, the twin beds covered by yellow and white. With the small suitcases zipped closed, it looked as if both occupants had just stepped out for a moment. Diane flopped woefully on one of the beds and folded her arms.

  “Now what do we do?”

  The Master, who was rooting through Keith’s belongings, didn’t answer her. At last he rose, brandishing a gray wool sock. “This vill do.”

  “What for?” Diane asked, casting a skeptical eye on his discovery. Above the ankle, the sock featured a grimy brown ring that matched the dark soil outside.

  “It is for the finding,” the Master explained, beckoning to her to follow him out of the door.