Advanced Mythology

Book Description

Keith Doyle has made it to graduate school! In between classes and hanging out with his magical friends, the Little Folk, he has a new job as a copywriter for PDQ advertising agency, working on a campaign for a revolutionary electronic device. His plans for the party to end all parties on Hollow Tree Farm are coming along nicely. Things are not so rosy for the Little Folk. They’re being haunted not only by malevolent spirits passing through their cellar, but a Big Person who has discovered Keith’s supposedly well-camouflaged invitation to all creatures magical. Keith finds himself in danger trying to keep out of the hands of the industrial spy to protect not only the trade secrets of his client’s firm, but his friends and their home. Can Keith’s ingenuity and his limited magic keep the elves from being revealed to the world? Will the party ever take place? Will Keith ever get his hands on one of those wonderful devices?

Jody Lynn Nye

Kobo Edition – 2015

WordFire Press

wordfirepress.com

ISBN: 978-1-61475-274-5

Copyright © 2001, 2014 Jody Lynn Nye

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover painting by Don Maitz

Cover design by Janet McDonald

Art Director Kevin J. Anderson

Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

www.RuneWright.com

Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

Published by

WordFire Press, an imprint of

WordFire, Inc.

PO Box 1840

Monument, CO 80132

Contents

Book Description

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Author Biography

If You Liked …

Other WordFire Press Titles by Jody Lynn Nye

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the real Diane and

to the memory of my precious Lila.

Prologue

The russet wooden casks were laid on sturdy cradles to sleep undisturbed in the cellar until their liquid contents should mature sweetly into drinkable dreams. Marm trod softly along the dirt floor between the rows, listening to one here, turning one there, mentally taking note of which of his distillings were close to being ready to consume. Though he was not considered especially sure-footed for one of his Folk, his steps wouldn’t have been audible by most animals, nor by any of the Big Folk, with their puny rounded ears and their big, threshing feet.

Marm, like most of his family, stood about breast high to a Big person. If it hadn’t been for the beard on his broad, fair face he would have looked like a child not quite into his teen years. His skin was smooth and unlined. His thick hair, cut just above the collar of his shirt, glinted dark gold in the cool circles of light issuing from the lanterns hung along the walls.

A faint rasping sound attracted his attention. He lifted his head, listening with all his might. His elegant ears, nearly five inches high, swept up in a slanting arc from behind his cheekbones to tapered points at the top. Marm turned slowly, trying to detect from which direction the noise had come, and decided he must have heard a truck bumping along the road that ran along the front of the 20-acre property known as Hollow Tree Farm.

If his Big neighbors only knew that in the midst of this drowsy farm country in the heart of rural Illinois lay a veritable village of people they considered to be mythological—impossible, even—they might have been lost in wonder. But he liked them to think he and his existed only in fairy tales. It was far safer for him and his loved ones that the Folk should never be discovered. Even those Big Folk who had come to be trusted in the village begged them to be careful not to reveal themselves. The Folk knew what to do about that. They’d laid charms around the property that kept out those who didn’t belong and fooled prying eyes into thinking there was no one special here at all.

Marm was happy to keep himself to himself. Let others go off adventuring and dare the gaze of strangers’ eyes. He loved the quiet life with his family, his work, and his beloved brewing.

He glanced speculatively at one of the kegs. Each one had been brought laboriously from their old place to this new place, one at a time, driven slowly and secretly from their last home. Each had been carried down the stairs with Marm beside it all the way, and installed on wooden support brackets that had been a joy to make, of whole wood that they could afford at last, so they wouldn’t tip, or rock or leak. The sweet essence within had been brewed with their own fruits and herbs, better than anything the Big Folk had at hand. In fact, his liquor was considered very good by the standards of his own Folk. Marm was proud of his skill. When special occasions arose it was always his brews that people hoped for to toast the celebration. His eye came to rest on the barrel he knew had been fermenting the longest. Like the others, that one’s contents had had over two years to settle. It might well be worth tasting. He reached for the wooden cup that was hooked to his belt.

A shadow flitted past his head in the dimness. Marm waved a hand to ward it away from his face. A bat? Perhaps he’d better get one of the others who was wise in the way of wild creatures down here to check. It’d be wrong to keep wild animals trapped, even by accident. He knew how he’d feel about being locked in a cage.

The wine barrels were much larger than the casks. The newest of these held a special place in his heart and that of all the Folk. This wine had been pressed from grapes grown on vines tended by their own hands on land that they could at last call their own. Such a thing hadn’t been true, Marm stopped to think, for over a hundred years. He and his had lived a secret, timid existence, running from one place to another. The last home they’d had, in the bowels of Gillington Library at the heart of the Midwestern University campus, had lasted over five decades, but it hadn’t been theirs, not really. Hollow Tree Farm was. It belonged to them. They even had a legal deed showing ownership. After so many years, the Folk could stop wandering and worrying. They were putting down roots, magical as well as physical, delving deep into the earth, spreading out, feeling themselves safe and secure, and set. Wine, which couldn’t be hurried and couldn’t be agitated, and didn’t like to be moved, was a good symbol of their new rootedness. Marm laid hands on the nearest barrel, sensing the bubbling within and laying a blessing on it at the same time. When the time came to drink this vintage, he wanted it to seem as though they were quaffing pure joy. Yes, Marm thought with satisfaction, stamping on the hard dirt floor, feeling the charm of protection that enveloped the farm under the soles of his feet. Yes, a body did best when he could call a place home.

He liked being down in the cellar, where it was cool and peaceful. Not that he didn’t care for his extended family, but when tempers frayed there were fewer places than before to flee to. And lately, there’d been more arguments than usual. Everyone seemed to be picking a fight with everyone else. Well, it was a busy time, what with orders to fill, and no energetic Keith Doyle to run hither and yon at their whim.

He lifted the lids of each of the tuns. The heady aroma of yeast and grape must tickled his nose. Marm wrinkled that feature as he checked the level of liquid against the wall of the barrel. Every vintner knew of the natural evaporation of a quantity of fermenting liquid. His Folk called it the Wee Ones’ tipple. The Big Folk called it the angels’ portion, supped by divine beings, perhaps in exchange for blessing the wine. The angels in these parts certainly were thirsty. The level was lower at this stage than any other wine he’d ever made. Perhaps the cellar was too dry. That was bad. It could lead to the barrels shrinking or cracking. Sinking a trifle of magic into the floor, he strengthened the charm protecting the room, sealing it against the outside, and adding a provision to preserve more of the natural humidity of a cool, stone-walled cellar, though not enough to allow mildew or harmful molds, so that it wasn’t sinking into the wood.

The shadow whisked past him again. Marm ducked back, feeling it almost touch his skin. Definitely something here, something that ought not to be. It made him cross that someone had been falling down on his or her duties to make certain the living spaces within the old farmhouse were fit to live in. He’d have to go and find out who should be responsible, and have a few words. Bats, indeed!

A suspicion roused itself in his normally placid mind. What if it wasn’t the Wee Ones taking sips from the barrels? What if it was one of the others, sneaking draughts of the maturing liquor? How dare they interfere with his business?

Marm stomped up the stairs, not troubling to blow out the lanterns hanging on the walls.

* * *

The fire-snake coiled in a corner of the cellar underneath one of the wooden brackets, waiting until the noisy-footed being had gone away. It had not been easy to get into this place, and that was wrong! The snake was not accustomed to having its path blocked. Throughout all time its kind had gone where it wished. The walls of this structure had never presented an impediment before. Now a power lay around them, sealing the building as tightly as an egg. The snake tasted the air with its tongue. The power was foreign to this area. The snake didn’t like the flavor. It had liked the liquid in the barrels, and did not appreciate being disturbed from its drinking by the being who had just departed.

Spreading scaled-feather wings, the snake slipped into the air and flitted toward the smaller kegs. Choosing the one that smelled best, it prepared to pass through the wood as it had before. A film of water met it, solid, not liquid, yet it was not cold. The snake withdrew, shaking its head, hating the sensation. It nosed the lid of the keg up instead, and drank its fill.

Noises above reminded it that this was a hostile place. Time for the snake to leave. It made for a shadowy corner. Its nose banged into the wall. The snake back winged, then rushed at the corner again. The solid masonry repelled it backwards several feet. It could not escape! It had not been easy to find a hole to come into this place, and now it found its exit barricaded as well. The large being had closed off the hole in the barrier it had made. Angrily the snake rushed at the walls, banging them with its nose. Its unblinking eyes saw no break in the barrier.

The traditional underground roads had never been blocked since time began. The snake felt ill-will towards the newcomers. Their arrogance must not be left unpunished.

It slithered into one of the barrels and took a long drink. Too much of the sweet liquid gave it a headache, stirred its already aroused temper. The intruders into this land should not benefit by their deeds. The snake left a curse on what was left of the bubbling liquid. Whoever drank from these barrels now would suffer misfortune.

The snake was still unsatisfied. That was not enough of a punishment. It swarmed through the unprotected inner wall of the cellar, into the drain pipes, and slithered toward the upper reaches of the house, tasting and probing as it went. It would make these newcomers sorry they had ever interfered with the course of nature.

Chapter 1

The ancient midnight-blue Mustang pulled cautiously onto the Midwestern University campus and crept along a side street in front of the dormitory buildings. A slender young man with red hair, sitting in the passenger seat, looked around nervously. There seemed to be no one at all at the wheel.

Okay, Enoch, Keith Doyle said, keeping an eye out. Can you see the open space ahead on the right? Let’s try parallel parking. Pull up to the car ahead of it.…

The small black-haired male in the driver’s seat glared up at him. His hands clutched the wheel tightly. I know the rules for parking in parallel. I would do better without narration.

Okay, okay, Keith said, holding his hands up in an I surrender pose. I just thought I could help.

I have used up the last of my nerves in the trip all the way here from the farm, Enoch said. Let me make the attempt on my own. You can correct me if I have made a mistake. Keith shrugged and sat back. Enoch might look like a scrawny twelve-year-old boy, but he was a grown man in his late forties, a talented woodworker, a puissant scholar, and possessed the temper of a wolverine.

Enoch let his foot off the brake and, peering forward through the gap over the dashboard and below the top edge of the wheel, eased the Mustang gently up beside the large red van parked in front of the empty length of curb. Suddenly, the doors on both sides of the van popped open. Enoch slammed on the brake.

A middle-aged man in shorts climbed out of the driver’s seat. He gave Keith a friendly but harried glance. The man did a double-take. Keith, knowing that he saw the driver’s seat behind him as empty, gave him a friendly grin. Shaking his head, the man walked around to help the teenaged girl now at the rear of the vehicle to flip open the back hatch.

This’ll take a moment, Keith said, without glancing around. Unless they’re planning to unload everything on the grass. Nope, just a couple of suitcases at a time. Good. Okay, they’re gone.

Hmph, Enoch snorted, throwing the car in reverse. The old car skimmed by the red van and angled into the space. The huge steering wheel rolled through the black haired elf’s hands as the car came to a rest, perfectly centered between the van and the car behind. Keith applauded as Enoch slammed the gearshift to P for Park and turned off the ignition.

Nice job. In no time at all we’ll have you going over the roads in an eighteen-wheeler. He turned toward the back seat. Don’t you think that was a nice job parking, Holl?

Hmm? Another small figure, this one resembling a twelve-year-old boy with blond hair under a baseball cap between his tall pointed ears, round pink cheeks and chin, turned from staring out the window. He blinked blue eyes at the two in the front.

You’re in another world today, Keith said. I thought daydreaming and looking blank was my job.

Things on my mind, Keith Doyle, Holl said. A line creased the skin between his brows on a normally cheerful face. He was Keith’s best friend among the Little Folk. In fact, if Keith was thinking about it, his best friend anywhere. He hated to see Holl preoccupied. The blond elf had been unusually silent since they’d left the Folk’s farm. No amount of teasing or prodding from Keith had so far persuaded Holl to open up. Not really unusual, since the Folk tended to be more private than Keith was, but the worried expression he wore whenever Keith asked him a question made the worry contagious. Keith wondered if he should push the matter, and decided to wait until they were back at the farm.

Should we wait here? Enoch asked hoarsely, glancing at the steady flow of students and parents burdened down with luggage.

Why don’t you come with me? Keith asked. I have to get my class assignments. It’ll only take a little while. You can go … incognito.

The two elves looked at each other.

I don’t like it, Enoch said. It’s a matter of pride. I rarely covered my ears when I went about Midwestern before we moved.

How often did you go out in broad daylight? Keith asked.

Holl shrugged.

Few notice, but it’s the one who does that will make trouble for us, he admitted. All right.

Keith could never help but be impressed by the illusion they crafted. It was hard to believe that they weren’t really changing, but only appearing to change. The tall, elegant points of their ears seemed to melt before his eyes, shrinking to rounded lobes. Because he was so used to seeing them in their normal configuration, these human-sized ears looked much too small. But at least they wouldn’t attract notice. That was the last thing he wanted to have happen.

Solicitously, he shepherded his two friends toward the School of Business. He hoped there was no one around with advanced perception who could see that his companions weren’t the youngsters they seemed to be, but mythical beings who were twice as old as he was. In the back of his mind he always worried that someone would come along one day and snatch the Folk up from under his nose and he’d never see them again. They were very important to him. They represented more than friendship, more than a business arrangement. The Folk were the fulfillment of a dream that he’d had ever since his parents had started to read him fairy tales. They were magic. In spite of his hopes and boundless determination, he could not have predicted until the day that it happened that he would ever meet someone who no ordinary person really believed existed. Keith was aware of the privilege he enjoyed, interacting with them whenever he wanted to. He’d caused them some problems, but he’d helped them, too. The fact of which he was most proud was that he had helped them to found a viable business that allowed them to be financially independent. They might look like everybody’s idea of leprechauns, but the part about the pot of gold was a myth. That they liked him made him so happy he felt like breaking into a dance right there in the middle of campus.

Instead he filled the silence. Enoch was never a talker and Holl was buried in his own thoughts.

I’d love to be able to finish off my classes in a year, maybe a year and a half, so I can get out there and get a good job, he said, as the two elves stalked cautiously around a pack of chattering undergraduates. The few who glanced around turned back immediately, uninterested in a pair of children. "The counselor told me there would be no problem getting into the right classes. The course load for an MBA isn’t that heavy. I can be out again soliciting orders for you in between assignments."

Since you bring up the subject of assignments, Enoch interrupted him with a sharp look, the Master was not best pleased that you sent him your last essay at one minute to midnight last week.

Hey! Keith protested, hands in the air. "Technically it was still Thursday."

"Technically doesn’t please him. Everyone had gone to bed except for the few reading messages from overseas. Imagine their surprise when the wee flag on the mailbox icon went up, and it was from you. Keva thought it was an emergency and went to roust him from sleep."

Uh-oh, Keith said guiltily. I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy. And c’mon, I graduated! I thought I was done with essays and research papers, at least for the summer. Imagine my surprise back in June when I discovered you’d gotten an e-mail account, and the first message I get from you is an assignment for five pages on the change in art in the New World between pre- and post-Columbian periods.

From my father, Enoch said, not from me. He is the teacher, and since you have not said otherwise, you are still his student.

True. Thanks a lot. In spite of working my summer job—which was full time, by the way—and going to see every relative in my family I have been turning my essays in to the Master faithfully by the due date. I’ve been kind of short of time.

Too short to visit us for many weeks now, Enoch said, with a significant nod towards Holl, who was walking along in a trance a couple of paces behind them. Some have missed you greatly.

Keith nodded apologetically. I’ve missed all of you, too. Wish I could have gotten down here more often. Well, I’ll be back here full time next week. You haven’t had any trouble getting orders out without me?

You know we need to learn to cope without your presence constantly underfoot, you precocious infant, Holl said, catching the last statement and hurrying to walk alongside them. All’s well. The delivery service gives us no trouble. They take the cartons from the box on the porch, sign the book, and away! The next we know a check from the vendor appears.

And a bill from the delivery service, Enoch said, his dark brows drawn down over his nose. "And they cannot visit our customers and learn if they are happy or not."

Well, I can help with that when I get back down here, Keith said. Starting next week.

The J.F. Compton School of Business of Midwestern University was living up to its name. The doors of the building were opening and closing in a never-ending rhythm as students came and went with piles of books and papers fluttering in the August sunshine.

Enoch and his brother-in-law sat down on a low brick wall that surrounded a concrete terrace before the door while the Big student disappeared into the building. Enoch consulted a mental map. Unless things had changed over the last couple of years, Keith needed to go to the auditorium on the lower level, just above the ancient steam tunnels that the Folk were accustomed to using as hidden paths around the campus. He ought to be gone for at least half an hour. He glanced at Holl, and found himself meeting worried blue eyes.

Don’t you say a word to him, Enoch said. "This is still your worry and yours alone."

I was not going to, Holl said, peevishly. It’s unjust. I still feel that Keith Doyle’s input would be valuable. I don’t intend to place the burden on his back. I am content to bear that. What’s wrong with counsel?

The Conservatives hold that we’re becoming too dependent upon this gentle fool, so much so that we’re losing the ability to cope on our own.

He’s not a fool, Holl corrected him. Enoch nodded.

No, to be fair, he’s not. But the Master has spoken. You’ll not bring it up. This is a worry we will solve among ourselves.

Holl sighed. I won’t say a word. Restlessly, he got up from his perch and wandered out onto the broad lawn behind the wall.

When Keith Doyle returned, bearing a sheaf of papers, Enoch was sitting on the wall alone.

Where’s Holl? the Big student asked, plopping down beside him.

Enoch pointed out onto the green that lay between the business school and the new library beyond. The small figure sat slumped in shadow against a huge sycamore tree, his hands busy with some small object or objects. Keith guessed that Holl was whittling. He was a real artist, capable of creating the most lifelike shapes out of solid wood, bone or whatever he could cut with the titanium-bladed knife he carried. Keith got up to see what he was doing, but Enoch put a hand on his arm to hold him back.

He just wants a few moments on his own. This place holds many kindly memories for us. It will give him peace.

Keith watched the distant figure dash something away in frustration. Enoch, is something going on? Holl’s not acting like himself. He’s been silent as a clam all day. Nothing wrong with Asrai, is there? Keith adored Holl’s baby daughter.

Enoch grunted. The black haired elf could be remarkably taciturn when he chose. The weight of office, he finally said.

Oh, said Keith, thinking that he understood. Holl was the heir apparent to the leadership of the Little Folk, and was constantly undergoing tests set him by the senior members of the village.

Enoch knew what was really troubling his sister’s life-mate, but had no right to bring it up to the Big student, for all he’d proved his worth and his quality time and again to the Folk. There were some roads one had to go down alone.

Do you think he wants to talk about it?

No, Enoch said shortly.

Keith shrugged. Okay. We’ll give him some mental space. He sat back and squinted up at the sun. It’s a nice day, anyhow. I don’t mind the wait.

No time is ever wasted, Enoch said. You can work on your assignment for me while we await him.

Now? the Big student asked, surprised. He glanced around at the hundreds of strangers standing, sitting, or sprawling on the terrace. Here?

You can practice magic and subtlety at the same time, Enoch said. Try something small.

Keith glanced around, then gathered up a handful of crisp, narrow leaves from underneath the nearby bushes. He cupped them in his hands, and closed his eyes to concentrate. Enoch could feel a trickle of the charm he was using. Something to do with cohesion.

He was always a bit surprised that any Big Person could feel, let alone use the power of nature. His folk had long ago consigned the Big ones to the phylum of a lower life form, but for better or worse Keith Doyle was different. Books of legend were plentiful about the exploits of human enchanters in the past. Though Enoch assumed most of the legends weren’t true, he should not have been surprised to find one magician in a generation, especially one who claimed close family ties to a land where the Folk had lived for a thousand years or more.

Ta-daa, Keith said, opening his hands. A pigeon with feathers of shiny brown and gold hopped off his palm and fluttered to the terrace, where it began at once to peck at the ground.

That is not very real looking, Enoch complained. The eyes are dull, and it is too thin.

C’mon, transformation is hard, Keith said.

And ye’ve only had all summer to think about it.

Keith shrugged. Thinking hard about how real pigeons looked, he tossed the remaining leaves one at a time to the ground. The bird hopped over and picked them up. With each bite the simulacrum seemed to take on substance, getting rounder, plumper, and glossier. It looked up at Keith and cooed.

No more leaves, birdie, he said, showing it his empty hands. It ambled away, rolling from side to side on its round legs, and joined the real pigeons milling about on the sunny side of the terrace. That could be a shock to any ornithologists hanging around. I’d better undo it before we go.

So ye might. That was better, Enoch said, grudgingly. What else can you do?

Keith glanced toward Holl. The dejected posture and faraway, forlorn expression his friend wore worried him. He started to get up again. Enoch cleared his throat.

And where do you think you’re going?

I want to talk to Holl. He’s really worried about something.

A solid dose of Keith Doyle’s solicitousness might break down Holl’s resolve. Enoch stood up directly in Keith’s line of view. Leave him be. You have work to do. You’re not the equal of us yet.

Enoch, that’ll take me years, if ever. All I want to do is talk to him.

You’ll not distract me away from your task with your worry and your fussing. It won’t be many minutes before he’s back with us. Let me see what parts of your lessons you’ve retained since I saw you last.

You’re just like your father, Keith grumbled good-naturedly.

Thank you, Enoch said. Well, then?

Keith pulled a piece of string from his pocket. He stretched it out between his hands and whipped it around in a circle until it seemed to form a solid oval. Concentrating hard, he aimed a mental pencil at the space inside. Slowly, an image began to form. He’d done this kind of thing dozens of times on his own. It was more difficult with a critical eye peering over his shoulder. He could see in his mind just exactly the image he wanted to create: a portrait of his two friends. Transferring it outside his head took care. He was just getting the general shape of their faces and the color of their hair into place when a hand reached into his field of vision and snatched away the string. The image vanished.

Hey!

You ought to be able to do it without a physical component, nor a stage to set it on, Enoch said. What you’re doing is stuff for children.

"Dola uses a piece of cloth for her illusions."

"Dola is a child, but far more learned in her art than you are. Once she lets go of the crutch there’ll be no limits to her ability. Try again. In mid-air. No fancy passes. Keep your hands down. Mind only."

C’mon, Enoch, I can’t.

Can’t or won’t? Lazybones.

Them’s fightin’ words, pardner, Keith grinned. Okay. I like a challenge. Here we go. He threw his legs over the wall so he was in shadow, facing the open common, and hunched his back with his shoulders forward.

What’s wrong with you?

I’m sort of wrapping myself around my work so no one can see it, Keith explained.

That won’t help, Enoch said. There are those sensitive to the feel of the world around them who would know what you are doing if you were locked in a lead room.

Keith glanced around. I know. I just hope none of them are hanging around the business school. And if anyone asks, I’ve got an excuse ready: holograms.

Well, no more excuses from you to me. Make your image.

Letting the muscles in his back relax, Keith picked a point in the middle distance. It was harder than he had anticipated to create an image in the air without a physical point to focus on. He’d never tried it before. He found it easier to draw upon memory than to keep looking at Enoch or Holl. Thin face, round face. Black hair, blond hair. Dark eyes, light eyes. Features…?

A fly buzzed into the space, sailing through the insubstantial noses. Keith waved a hand at it, erasing part of his image as he did so. Oops. I turned over my Etch-a-Sketch. Having gotten the hang of placement, he was able to restore the sketchy portraits in only half the time it had taken him before. He filled in details, like the lines beside Enoch’s mouth, the arched brows, and the rounded lobes of his ears that looked as though they ought to be detached but weren’t. He sat up, easing the tight muscles in his back.

Not bad, huh? he asked.

Enoch eyed the image critically. Passable, he said. You could have done better.

I think it’s pretty good. Hey, Holl, Keith jumped off the wall, scooped up the image, and started walking; towing it along with him as though it was a balloon. Is this really so awful?

Enoch was so stunned he paused for a moment before running after him. What Keith Doyle was doing at that moment out of pure instinct was much more impressive than he could know. He hurried to catch up.

Not that Enoch was concerned that Holl would deliberately break his word not to talk, but he knew the Big student was very persuasive. He might be able to worm information out of them before they knew what they had said.

Hey, Holl, take a look. Is this really so bad?

Don’t ask me, Holl said, glancing up briefly from the carving he was doing. It was an incredibly lifelike rendering of a primrose. He had learned a lot over the last many months from Tiron, a newly arrived Little Person from Ireland. Enoch’s teaching you. I’ll not second-guess him.

Holl, what’s wrong? Keith asked, dropping to the ground beside him. Holl looked up at Keith, then glanced at Enoch. His eyes dropped back to his work.

Nothing at all.

Why don’t I believe you? Keith asked, encouragingly.

Enoch couldn’t deter Keith Doyle forever. The lad was a force of nature. Best to present a diversion.

Keith Doyle, he began, clearing his throat, I meant to ask you …

Surprised by the tentative tone, Keith looked up at him. Enoch was so self-sufficient. He let his illusion fade away.

What’s wrong? he asked.

I myself have a concern that you might know something about.

Sure. What is it?

To Enoch’s relief, they were interrupted by a high-pitched thread of music like the first line of a jig. Keith’s face went blank for a moment as the music repeated. Grinning sheepishly, he fished in his back pocket and came up with a small, flat wireless phone with a case the shimmering blue-green of a dragonfly’s carapace.

Sorry, he said. My graduation present from my grandmother. He poked the RECEIVE button. Hello?

Keith? asked a woman’s voice. Your mom gave me this number. This is Dorothy Carver. Remember me?

Hey, how are you? Keith asked. How are things at PDQ?

That’s just what I wanted to talk about, Dorothy said. They’ve made me a creative director.

That’s great!

Dorothy paused, then chuckled. There’s days when it’s great. And then there’s days when I wish you’d gotten this job instead of me.

You were the best choice, Keith said firmly. Things can’t be that bad, can they?

No, they’re not. They’re good. In fact, that is why I am calling you. Perkins Delaney Queen is wooing … a company. I can’t say more than that yet. It’s a big deal. They’ve got a new product, and a big budget. PDQ wants them, of course, but the customer is going to want something offbeat. A new approach. That’s why I’m calling. I need a goofball like you in there pitching ideas, helping out the usual suspects. Can you drop in here Monday morning and meet the client?

Monday? Keith said, frowning. Sure. I don’t have to be down here again until Wednesday.

Where are you?

Midwestern University. I start my Master’s degree program next week.

Oh.

Why? Keith asked, concerned by her flat tone of voice.

Because if the client likes your suggestions he’s going to want you on the creative team, Dorothy said. Keith felt his heart start to pound with excitement. I can’t promise you anything. That’s our war cry, you remember. No one can promise anything, but this could bring you to the attention of the big wheels here. Who knows what that could mean?

Wow. The wheels in Keith’s head were beginning to spin, figuring out the possible changes in logistics. He was already on his feet and pacing up and back on the grass. That’d be great. I would love to have a regular job in advertising.

Regular, hah, Dorothy said, with mock scorn. Nothing around here’s regular. Of course, if you screw up, my behind’s in the blender, too, you know.

I won’t let you down, Keith promised her, hitting the END button. Yahoo! he cried.

Everyone in the park turned to look at him. Keith just grinned back.

What’s the excitement? Holl asked. Keith explained.

This could be my big chance, he said, pacing faster and faster, unable to keep still. There was no room for me last year, and otherwise I’d have to wait until after I graduate to apply. Think about it! If I come up with something for the client that they would never have thought of, I could get hired as a freelance contractor, or even an entry-level position. Paul, the intern advisor from last year, told me I was good at ideation.

An artificial term, Enoch said, looking as though the taste was sour in his mouth.

So is every brand name in the world, Keith said. He flipped the little phone end over end into the air and caught it high over his head. "Wow. That’d solve a lot of problems. I could sure use the money."

What for? Enoch said. But for your tuition, your expenses are small.

Well, Keith said, embarrassed, Diane’s starting to talk about what happens when the two of us graduate. She’s hinting that it’s about time I make some kind of commitment. And I want to!

And what’s holding you back?

I want the moment to be perfect, Keith said, and his eyes grew dreamy, taking on the green of the trees around them. I want to have an engagement ring in my pocket—in a velvet box. A red velvet box. No, blue. She likes blue. And soft music playing, with the moon overhead.

So now yer ordering the moon around? Enoch said, with affectionate irony. So this fantasy of yours takes place outside.

Maybe, Keith said. It’ll depend on the weather. And then I’ll say something poetic—I’m still working on that part. I don’t want it to be hokey, but it has to express how I feel about her. And then I’ll ask her to marry me. And after she says yes, there’ll be fireworks, and maybe champagne.

It sounds like a well-thought-out moment, Holl said. But in the course of a year, you can earn enough for a nice ring on commissions alone.

But there’s more, Keith said. By the time I propose I want to have enough money in the bank for a down payment on a decent house. I don’t want us to have to live in an apartment. My family’s always lived in houses. I like having a yard. Someday I hope we’ll have kids, so I want to live in a nice area with a park nearby. He