Mythology 101

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “My shipment!” she called out to him.

  “Oh, yeah!” Keith swung around and kept moving toward the street. “This afternoon, Ms. Voordman. I promise!”

  O O O

  Holl’s estimate on completion of the orders was right on the money. Just after Mythology class on Wednesday, Keith picked up a colossal bag of newspaper-wrapped bundles from the elves’ newly opened back door and started for his car.

  Suddenly, he spotted a broad figure in a black suit. He turned around on his heel and pushed himself and his bag back through the doors of the building.

  “Hey!” Diane squawked, all but knocked off her feet. “You sure know how to impress a girl.”

  Keith dropped the bag and helped steady her. “I’m sorry. I owe a guy some money, and I’m trying to avoid him.”

  “A lot of money? I could lend you some.”

  “No, thanks,” Keith assured her. “I don’t think you’d have enough.” He peered out the window, but the man in the black suit turned out to be a Jesuit theology teacher walking to class. He panted a sigh of relief.

  “It’s because of me, isn’t it,” Diane asked woefully. “I’ve impoverished you forever by taking that scholarship away from you.”

  “It’s okay, really,” he assured her. “An investment of mine will pay off in a few days. I just have to wait for it, and everything will be okay. I just want to avoid some people ’til then.”

  “Are they looking for you? Do you need to hide out?” she asked anxiously, fearing for his safety. She moved protectively closer to him.

  “No,” Keith said appreciatively, slipping an arm around her waist. “I can handle it. But there is something you can do for me.”

  “Anything.”

  Keith shifted the bag into her arms. “Keep your boss from wringing my neck.”

  “Why not? Count on me,” Diane said, moving out the door Keith opened for her. “Don’t let ’em get you.”

  Leaning around the bag, he kissed her on the cheek, and started out the door behind her. Suddenly, he spotted another burly figure on the common, coming toward the classroom building. The union man whom he’d gotten arrested for indecent exposure. It was clear the thug had seen him, too, for he had quickened his pace. He was back here to make it “personal.”

  Keith could hear the man’s promise of revenge ringing in his ears as he fled back into the building and began to look for some place to hide. There was nothing on this floor but classrooms and storage rooms. Behind him, the man opened the door and stepped in, stopping at the top of the hall to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. Keith picked a door at random and pulled the door open.

  A class was in session. “Yes, young man?” a thin, elderly professor asked him. “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry,” Keith said. “I guess not.”

  The union man walked swiftly up the hall toward him, an expression on his face which Keith equated with murder, but his pace was even, as if he belonged here.

  Keith swallowed. He had to find a place to hide. He thought hopefully of finding a security officer, but they rarely patrolled the classroom buildings.

  Glancing frequently over his shoulder, he walked rapidly away from the union man, trying to seem nonchalant. He ducked among a crowd of students who emerged suddenly from a study room, and started running down the hall.

  His pursuer dropped pretense and ran after him, roughly shoving the other students out of his way. Books flew out of arms, and the girls shrilled protests.

  Keith flew down the corridor. There was one solid wood door near the end of the hall that he believed led to a storeroom in which he could hide. Reaching it only a few feet in front of his assailant, he flung open the door and shot inside, slamming it closed behind him.

  It was filled with filing cabinets and boxes. There didn’t appear to be anywhere he could stay out of sight that he would fit, as thin as he was. He heard footsteps in the hall, and willed himself to come up with an idea fast. There was a lot of dust in here, and his eyes watered. He knew just a moment too late that he was going to sneeze.

  “Aa-choo!” His whiskers twitched, tickling his ears.

  The footsteps outside stopped and the door creaked open. “All right, Doyle. I saw you come in here. Come out and I’ll make it quick.”

  Keith plunged between a pair of filing cabinets. His whiskers extended the width of the space, dusting long lines in the grime on either side. It had looked like he wouldn’t fit, but it was just wide enough for Keith, who was of no great bulk, to move through. He reached the back, and poked his nose into first one and then another possible hiding place, measuring them with the whiskers, which were exactly as wide as his narrowest dimension. He flattened himself in the niche made by one of the files and an upended metal-topped desk into which his whiskers fit snugly, if not comfortably.

  O O O

  Malcolm was used to clients being reluctant to cooperate with Mr. Lewandowski, but never had a reluctant client managed to get Malcolm and his partner thrown in jail for the night, either. Mr. Lewandowski had been justly pissed off to hear that the two of them had gone down for a simple scare visit and ended up bare-assed before the night magistrate. Malcolm’s pride was bruised. That kid had to pay.

  He’d had no trouble finding where Keith was going, either, thanks to a large young man with a brown crew-cut in Power Hall who was happy to give him Keith’s schedule. Sure enough, he’d spotted the red-haired kid leaving the big building. Too bad the kid had seen him so soon.

  With a quick look out to make sure there were no nosy security guards walking around, Malcolm slowly pulled open the door to the storeroom and put an eye against the edge. The room was dim and full of tall, blocky shadows surrounded by darker striped platforms. Creepy. A glance to the left showed him the light switch, and Malcolm reached in to flip it upward. In the light the tall figures became stacks of desks and tables ringed with filing cabinets. To Malcolm’s eye, there wasn’t room to fit a playing card between ’em, let alone a teenager.

  He heard the rasp of a shoe on the floor somewhere in the back of the room behind a row of folding chairs. With a malicious smile, he flexed his shoulders and moved in on the chairs, picking them up by the dozen and depositing them behind him, like John Henry forcing his way through the mountain. If the way out was blocked, Doyle would have to come past him to escape.

  “I’m gonna get you, kid,” Malcolm whispered. The hiss of soles brushed the floor again. Must be the kid shaking in his shoes. “I’m gonna tear you apart.”

  At the back of the row was a dead end. Filing cabinets had been laid in a column all the way to the ceiling on every side. Malcolm looked around, wiping his dusty nose on the back of an arm. No Doyle. There wasn’t room to hide a rat among the heaps of furniture. Angrily, he flung the chairs back to fill in the gap. The ringing of metal on metal echoed deafeningly in the room, and Malcolm remembered too late he shouldn’t attract any more attention. He didn’t want the security force to find him before he taught that Doyle some manners. Leaving the remaining chairs in a heap, he slunk through the door and out of the building as casually as he could.

  O O O

  Keith heard the door slam behind him, and let go the breath he was holding. When the thug had started to push between the rows of chairs, he had passed right by Keith. Only the most incredible kind of luck kept him from looking to the right, straight into Keith’s cramped niche. There would have been no escape, and that man would have torn him into little pieces. He vowed to do something about the union men, just as soon as he could get back to his dorm in one piece.

  He counted up to a hundred before squeezing out between the cabinets, just in case the union man came back. Cautiously, slowly, he eased out of his hiding place with the ease, if not the grace of a cat. “Thanks, guys,” he said fervently, fingering his invisible whiskers and sending the elves grateful thoughts. “They worked!”

  O O O

  “So, kid? You called me yesterday for a meeting. You wanted to meet in a neutral
location. So here we are. What do you want?”

  Sherman Park was virtually deserted during business hours on a Thursday. And yet, Keith figured, if Lewandowski’s two hoods started to beat him up, the chances were better that someone would come to his rescue here than in some secluded alleyway.

  “I asked you to meet me because I want you to leave my friends alone,” Keith said furiously, standing before the union boss, his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

  Lewandowski ate some peanuts out of a cellophane bag and threw a few to the squirrels who surrounded the park bench under the brilliant green of the maple trees. He seemed unimpressed with Keith’s bluster. After all, the skinny kid wasn’t likely to try to pick him up and deck him with the two union enforcers standing so close. If he could pick him up at all, which Lewandowski doubted. “Where’s my list?”

  “You threatened one of my customers with a fire if she continued to carry my goods. And one of your goons there,” he pointed to Malcolm, who still wore the scabs from the thorns in the hedge, “chased me around the campus in his underwear. Why should I cooperate? I thought you were going to do this legally.”

  “Chased you around the campus—? Wait a minute,” the union president held up a hand, glaring at his employee. “Is he wired? Did anybody search him? He could be recording this.”

  “No, sir,” said Malcolm, avoiding Lewandowski’s eyes. Nodding to his fellow, they went over Keith, patting down the windbreaker and jeans.

  “I got something,” the other thug said, unzipping Keith’s jacket and stiff-arming the student in the face when he tried to get his property back. “A camera.” He pulled the woven strap from around Keith’s neck and dangled the object before Lewandowski.

  “It’s not real. It’s a toy,” the union president complained, poking at the small wooden carving with the circular cloth window where the lens should be. “You think you’re funny or something?”

  “That’s one of my samples,” Keith said. “I call it a magic lantern. Can I have it back?”

  Lewandowski sighed and nodded to his man. Keith looped the strap around his neck and sat down next to the union president.

  “So, where’s my list?”

  “I don’t have one,” Keith said. “I don’t have any employees.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where do you get your merchandise, then?”

  “They’re made by elves,” Keith stated. “Look, Mr. Lewandowski, I don’t like the way you do things. I can’t afford to fight you in court. I’m too small for you to bother with. Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

  “It’s in the interests of the members of the union. They’ve got families to feed. Scabs like you take sales away from them. That’s what we protect them from. Listen, kid,” the union boss got suddenly bored with the smart-assed college student defying him. “You had just better play along with me. I’ve got police and judges and elected officials on my payroll who could see to it that you won’t get a job in this state for the rest of your life, let alone a lousy diploma. Judge Arendson gets plenty from me every month to sign court orders, and well, he sees the court cases go my way. I got insurance adjusters who never settle arson claims for the insured, not if they cross me, so warn your lady friend. Even a stooge in the police office, so it won’t do you any good to call them.”

  “I’m impressed,” Keith said.

  “You ought to be. If I don’t get that list from you pretty soon, you’d better never get a traffic ticket in this city, or my man on the force will write up every ordinance they can find on that blue eggbeater you call a car. You may as well let yourself get organized. Save yourself a lot of trouble.”

  “Well … I didn’t know what I was dealing with before,” the boy admitted. “I’m awfully busy right now. Let me have a couple of days to decide. Okay?”

  Lewandowski crumpled up the cellophane and tossed it aside. “Sure. I can wait that long. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

  ***

  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.