Carousel Seas (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

MONDAY, JULY 10

St. Margaret’s Catholic Church sits at the corner of Maine Route 5 and Archer Avenue, right at the top of the hill. It’s a big church, for so small a place as Archers Beach, but modest despite its size. You might expect a stone church, given its age, but what stands on the site is a wooden building, demurely whitewashed. The entranceway doubles as the base of the bell tower, and of a design that might make a passing tourist think the whole project had started out as a lighthouse.

St. Margaret’s fills up its corner lot—there’s no cemetery or churchyard, only a small garden plot cuddled into the curve of the wall facing Route 5. The garden itself is a careful foreground planting of hosta, day lilies, and dwarf hydrangea; a neatly trimmed shrubbery behind. Between the shrubbery and the flowers is a large glazed tile, painted in primitive style, portraying a haloed woman in blue and white robes, holding a similarly haloed, white-swaddled babe in her arms. She’s standing on the beach, apparently being adored by a starfish, a sand dollar, a few seagulls and some stones. There’s a larger stone behind the woman and the child, just at the edge of the dark line of the sea, which bears a disturbing resemblance to Googin Rock.

Not really much here for a trenvay to get their teeth into
, I thought, surveying the tidy little garden from the sidewalk.

Well, you never knew until you asked.

I stepped carefully into the garden, drawing a curtain of light fog between me and the sidewalk. No need to attract attention to myself, or to the
trenvay
of this place.

If any.

I settled on my heels on a patch of mulch to the right of the tile, emptied my mind and opened my land-ears, quiescent and receptive to whatever this bit of land might be willing to say, just between us.

The fog curtain isolated me from traffic noise, and the sound of voices. Overhead, a seagull laughed, possibly a commentary on my efforts, or a general observation on life.

Cautiously, I let myself sink into the land, hoping to hear . . . something; to trigger a memory and waken whoever had watched over this small patch once. I heard nothing, saw nothing, sensed only the living land about me, growing things, and the small lives that thrive in the soil. But nothing that indicated that there was—that there had ever been—a spirit entwined with this place.

And, then, just as I began the slow rise back into my body—

“Do not leave me!”

Anguish washed through me, and crazed determination.

“I do not allow it! I will heal—”

I froze where I was, listening with my whole being, but there were no more words. There was a sense of rushing, an outpouring of power, and a scream as the land died—and the
trenvay
, too.

“No!” I threw my will into the land, but I was chasing a ghost; whoever had drained the power from their service, in an attempt to heal . . . someone . . . that had happened a long time ago. Something here remembered it, but it wasn’t the
trenvay
, nor the little piece of land she had betrayed.

I rose into my body, and let my focus go, realizing as I did so that my fingers were cramped, squeezing hard against a surface as ungiving as rock.

I opened my eyes, and saw that I was gripping the top edge of the tile. The
tile
remembered?

My eyesight became sharper, though I hadn’t consciously made the request of the land. There were words written on the tile’s reverse, very nearly invisible, even to my enhanced vision.

In loving memory of Margaret, who tended this place for time uncounted. When I lay dying, she traded her life for mine. I set this marker I have made where she perished, and I pray God we will meet again, at His right hand. —Gerald McKenna

The tile’s memory, yes; from the man who had made it, his grief poignant even now. The man Margaret the
trenvay
had loved so much that she had drained her service, and killed herself, to preserve him.

My vision misted. I shook my head, sharply, and surged to my feet, looking around at the mundane little garden, and the raveling curtain of fog.

I wasn’t exactly surprised to find that I was shivering.

* * *

It was quiet in the little park that had been the site of the Archer family homestead. I sat on one of the benches, closed my eyes and just . . . savored being alone. The land murmured inside my head, and gave the impression of mine faithful hound curling at my feet. I slid down, resting the back of my head on the bench, and tipped my face up to the sun.

I might’ve dozed; it was a good day for dozing with the sun on your face. In fact, I
must have
dozed, because the next thing I knew, the land was jumping up with excited yips, like a puppy welcoming one of his favorite people ever.

Well, we all knew who that was, didn’t we?

I opened my eyes, and turned my head, not bothering to lift it from the back of the bench.

Borgan had settled sideways into the corner of the bench, apparently so he could get a good angle on my face as it slowly succumbed to sunburn.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m glad you found me.”

I skooched up straight, turned on the bench to face him, and felt a thrill of cold alarm.

“
Should
you have found me?” My hand moved on its own, reaching out to grip his shoulder. “Borgan, you look like hell.”

“Feeling a little better than that,” he said, and his smile was tired. He put his hand over mine, and pressed it. “Took a hit, like I said.”

“You also said it’ll heal. I can—”

“Sure you can—and I ’preciate it, but let’s hold any land-healing in reserve.”

It looked to me like healing was needed
right now
, but a man had to be the judge of his own wounds. So I’ve been told. I took a breath, and touched the land on my own behalf. Cold alarm faded, leaving behind warm concern.

“This is—because of the
ronstibles
? How—”

“The
ronstibles
are—were.” He paused, mouth tightening. “Part of the sea. Their natures came from the sea; she made them and she valued them. Losing them . . . diminishes the sea, and—”

“Diminishes you,” I finished, when it seemed like he wouldn’t—or couldn’t.

“That’s right, but it’s temporary. A hit, and a hard one, but nothing we won’t come back from.” He took a careful breath, like maybe there were cracked ribs involved. “Me—the sea didn’t make me; she just . . . accepted me.”

A long time ago, the sea had accepted him, and he’d been dealing with the consequences of that acceptance ever since. I wondered how long it had taken him, to come to terms with the duties and existence of the sea’s Guardian. It didn’t seem like the right time to ask, but there was another question that did want asking.

“The lady from Cheobaug,” I said carefully. “Where is she now?”

“Tucked up in quiet water. She’ll do fine there for the rest of her grant.”

“What happens when her grant runs out? Poof! She spontaneously crosses the World Wall into Cheobaug?”

“The sea will send her; that piece of work’s all built and set.” He shifted slightly on the seat, and released the hand he had been pressing against his shoulder.

“Kate . . .”

My chest cramped, for no reason I could say.

“What did you do?” He leaned forward sharply, cupping my cheek against his palm, and looked hard into my eyes.

“Do?”

“Your . . . fires are gone. Let me . . .”

I smelled salt, felt a tickle of ozone, and a wash of warmth. Then Borgan let me go and sat back into the corner of the bench.

“What made you decide to give your fires to the land?”

“Truthfully, it was more
scared stubborn
than
decide
. When the Wise One dropped in last night, the very first thing she did was try to pull my
jikinap
—I guess so she could get to know me all up close and personal without actually having to put herself through the aggravation of talking to me. I had to do
some
thing, and I couldn’t hold long against her, so I—gave it away.”

“To the land.”

“Why not?” I shifted irritably. “I never wanted
jikinap
—Mr. Ignat’ tricked me into taking it, and then I kept it because I figured I had to, in defense of the Beach. But it makes me vulnerable to other, more experienced Ozali. I really hate to be vulnerable.”

“Do you, now?” murmured Borgan, and continued before I could answer. “So all those little tricks you used your fires for—the light, and your Varothi’s shortcut spell—that’s all gone now?”

“Haven’t run a diagnostic, but I imagine so.” I sighed; the shortcut had been useful, still . . .

“It’s okay; I can walk—or run—and get to where I’m needed soon enough. The Beach isn’t
that
big.”

Borgan nodded. “How ’bout a race, then?”

I frowned. His color was bad; ashy, rather than rich red-brown; and it was clear he was in pain, be it existential or physical.

“Are you sure a race is a great idea? You really don’t look good; I’m not just saying that to be amusing.”

“Just a little race, with lunch at the end of it, and no harm in between.” He waved a hand in the general, downhill, direction of the sea. “How’s this? Last one to the entrance of the Pier buys lunch at Neptune’s?”

I opened my mouth, but there was nobody to answer.

Borgan had vanished.

“Shit!”

I came to my feet—and I was standing at the base of the ramp that led up to the Pier entrance. The land nudged me; I turned to my left, and found Borgan leaning easily against the guardrail with his arms crossed over his chest. He was, I thought, looking a little white around the mouth, but he was smiling.

“What just happened?” I asked.

His smile morphed into a grin.

“Maybe the Beach’s a little bigger than you remembered?”

“Smartass.”

“Been said often enough that I’m beginning to think there’s justice in it. Now, let me ask you a question.”

He unfolded his arms and leaned forward, so I could look directly into his eyes.

“Kate, where are my fires?”

“You’re a Guardian; your power comes from the sea.”

“Hm.” He leaned back against the rail again. “Now, I’ve always said your gran was a dab hand with a tricky bit of working. Where’s she keep her power?”

I could see where he was going with this—I thought. But old certainties don’t go down without a fight.

“Gran gets her power from her tree—no.” I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and opened them. “
Yes
, dammit; she’s
trenvay
. She draws power from her tree.”

Except Gran was a very fine magic worker, and if I’d ever doubted that, it would only have taken the distilling of Mr. Ignat’s
jikinap
into butterscotch brandy to make me a believer. And that was before we got to the fact that she had survived, away from her tree, in the World of all the Six which was most hostile to souls.

Her tree could not have supported that.

Not her tree, unaugmented.

I sighed, and looked into Borgan’s face. “So, why didn’t Mr. Ignat’ tell me this?”

But I knew why: Mr. Ignat’ was from Sempeki, and there he had been a very powerful Ozali, indeed. In Sempeki, power is its own reward; it’s sought after and kept close—and it’s always on display.

“You’ll have to ask him,” Borgan said.

“No need; I figured it out. I think.” I took his hand. “So, it looks like lunch is on me. Shall we?”

“Could use a bite, now that you mention it.”

He shifted away from the rail, and caught his breath, eyes narrowing. My chest cramped, and I gripped his hand tight.

“Maybe instead, I should take you home and put you to bed.
Seriously
, Borgan—”

He grinned down at me, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Well, now we got the whole day planned. That’s nice.”

There really wasn’t any way to answer that without digging myself in deeper. Besides, he was moving now, walking deliberately up the ramp, keeping pace with the tourists seeking out the heady pleasures of the Pier shops—or maybe just a beer.

* * *

It was early for the full lunch crowd at Neptune’s, but not too early for music—which was being provided by Nessa and Andy, like it said on the chalkboard.

They were deep into a toe-tapping rendition of “Old Dan Tucker,” when Borgan and I came onto the big deck. We found a high table sitting perilously close to the low guardrail, with an unobstructed view down the beach, and out, to Wood Island Light and beyond. I pulled out the tall chair, and Borgan gently lifted me into the seat. I sighed, and leaned against him for a moment, just . . . happy.

“Problem?” he asked, after I’d straightened.

I watched him get into the chair across and shook my head.

“No problem. I just . . . feel better—I feel calmer—when you touch me.”

His eyebrows twitched.

“Don’t know that I like to hear that. When’d it change?”

I picked up the menu.

* * *

We caught up the events of the last while over burgers and ale, while Neptune’s filled up with lunch customers. The band took a break and came back again, waving as they passed our table, but neither stopping to chat.