the Little Folks’ language. “Dola wouldn’t look askance at a small present, but is too well brought up to ask,” Holl told him with a wry grin.
“Now, that’s a hint,” Keith acknowledged, “but it carries the same weight as an order.”
“I’ll tell her. And many photographs of the strange places we visit would be welcome.” More talk. Holl’s voice fell to soft, nearly inaudible tones. Keith felt uncomfortable, but didn’t leave because Holl wanted him to stay.
To break the tension, Keith opened a book of his own, Popular Tales of the West Highlands, and read for a while, trying to block out the conversation. He became engrossed in J.F. Campbell’s description of the bodach of Jura and other tales of magic. Those sounded friendly. He wished he could find one of those to interview. Interesting also how the stories coincided so neatly with other books he had read.
Thoughtfully, Holl took the phone away from his ear and pushed the Off button. Keith closed his book on one finger. Holl looked depressed, but he mustered a grateful smile.
“Thank you,” he said. “That helped. There’s … a lot going on at home. Express my gratitude to Matthew, and let me know what it costs for the call.”
Keith quickly judged that Holl didn’t want to talk about his call until he had had time to digest it, and cast about swiftly for another topic of conversation. “So, when you get out of here, should we go and find whatever it was I offended and apologize to them?”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Holl warned him, momentarily distracted by Keith’s endless interest in his hobby, though his eyes kept their troubled look. “Most of the hidden ones want to stay hidden, without your great feet tramping all over their privacy.”
“Well, we were always brought up to think that Americans abroad should act as good will ambassadors wherever they went. Don’t you want to be the ambassador for your people wherever you go?”
“No,” Holl answered, keeping the banter going, but without much spirit. “Especially not in your company; they’d probably declare eternal war on my folk once they’d met you.”
Keith waved away the suggestion that his presence could cause an inter-species feud. “They’d get used to me. I’ve never asked, you know, but do you believe in sprites and fairies and things like that, Holl? I mean, what I’m looking for could be fantasy to your folk, as much as it is to mine.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never made a study of it. But I’m here. And since the legend writers group my Folk in with them, I suppose there might be others out there. You’re counting on it, aren’t you?”
Keith considered the question. “I’m looking for whatever is out there, but naturally, I’d prefer them to be my kind of Little People, who consort with dragons and do magic.” He pointed out a passage on one of the pages. “This J.F. Campbell compares legends of the Fair Folk with actual people he met in Lapland. The way he describes them, they could walk under his outstretched arm with their tall hats on without bending over, but never touch him.” Keith measured his friend with an eye. “Just about the right size. Do you think you’re descended from Laplanders, Holl?”
Holl snorted. “I don’t know where my people are from, if not from the old place we’re trying to find. So far as I know they’ve always been there. All my father would say was that it was terrible when they left it, without much helpful detail. We didn’t spring out of the ground, so I expect we came from somewhere. You’ll need to ask one of the old ones. Why?”
There was a long pause. Keith’s eyes twinkled. “I read this feature article about a man in Lapland who everybody thinks is Santa Claus,” he offered impishly. He grinned at the expression on Holl’s face, who realized he’d been led into a trap. “Even the adults who meet him think so.”
“Aargh! Be off with you before I have a relapse!” Holl
“Now, that’s a hint,” Keith acknowledged, “but it carries the same weight as an order.”
“I’ll tell her. And many photographs of the strange places we visit would be welcome.” More talk. Holl’s voice fell to soft, nearly inaudible tones. Keith felt uncomfortable, but didn’t leave because Holl wanted him to stay.
To break the tension, Keith opened a book of his own, Popular Tales of the West Highlands, and read for a while, trying to block out the conversation. He became engrossed in J.F. Campbell’s description of the bodach of Jura and other tales of magic. Those sounded friendly. He wished he could find one of those to interview. Interesting also how the stories coincided so neatly with other books he had read.
Thoughtfully, Holl took the phone away from his ear and pushed the Off button. Keith closed his book on one finger. Holl looked depressed, but he mustered a grateful smile.
“Thank you,” he said. “That helped. There’s … a lot going on at home. Express my gratitude to Matthew, and let me know what it costs for the call.”
Keith quickly judged that Holl didn’t want to talk about his call until he had had time to digest it, and cast about swiftly for another topic of conversation. “So, when you get out of here, should we go and find whatever it was I offended and apologize to them?”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Holl warned him, momentarily distracted by Keith’s endless interest in his hobby, though his eyes kept their troubled look. “Most of the hidden ones want to stay hidden, without your great feet tramping all over their privacy.”
“Well, we were always brought up to think that Americans abroad should act as good will ambassadors wherever they went. Don’t you want to be the ambassador for your people wherever you go?”
“No,” Holl answered, keeping the banter going, but without much spirit. “Especially not in your company; they’d probably declare eternal war on my folk once they’d met you.”
Keith waved away the suggestion that his presence could cause an inter-species feud. “They’d get used to me. I’ve never asked, you know, but do you believe in sprites and fairies and things like that, Holl? I mean, what I’m looking for could be fantasy to your folk, as much as it is to mine.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never made a study of it. But I’m here. And since the legend writers group my Folk in with them, I suppose there might be others out there. You’re counting on it, aren’t you?”
Keith considered the question. “I’m looking for whatever is out there, but naturally, I’d prefer them to be my kind of Little People, who consort with dragons and do magic.” He pointed out a passage on one of the pages. “This J.F. Campbell compares legends of the Fair Folk with actual people he met in Lapland. The way he describes them, they could walk under his outstretched arm with their tall hats on without bending over, but never touch him.” Keith measured his friend with an eye. “Just about the right size. Do you think you’re descended from Laplanders, Holl?”
Holl snorted. “I don’t know where my people are from, if not from the old place we’re trying to find. So far as I know they’ve always been there. All my father would say was that it was terrible when they left it, without much helpful detail. We didn’t spring out of the ground, so I expect we came from somewhere. You’ll need to ask one of the old ones. Why?”
There was a long pause. Keith’s eyes twinkled. “I read this feature article about a man in Lapland who everybody thinks is Santa Claus,” he offered impishly. He grinned at the expression on Holl’s face, who realized he’d been led into a trap. “Even the adults who meet him think so.”
“Aargh! Be off with you before I have a relapse!” Holl
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