Authors: Sharon Lee
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Contemporary, #Dark Fantasy
Carousel Seas (32 page)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FRIDAY, JULY 28
LOW TIDE 7:54
A.M.
EDT
SUNRISE 5:26
A.M.
Long story short, everything
wasn’t
okay in a day or two. In point of actual, observable fact, everything was going to hell in a handbasket, and nothing any of us—Guardian,
trenvay
, or mundane—could do about it.
Two days after Borgan left for the Vineyard, the stinging jellies and dead fish had been joined by tide after tangled tide of kelp and other weeds that rode in on the backs of the turgid waves, and made heaps on the beach, dry and stinking, a fertile breeding ground for sand fleas and other insects.
The tourists . . . well, of course they left in droves. Who’s to blame them? You want a nice vacation at the beach, you want to be able to play in the water, lie on the sand, walk up and down the surf line and think about nothing.
If the town had other amusements in addition to the carnival and the midway, or more shopping opportunities than those offered up on Archer Avenue . . . well, who was I kidding? We’d’ve still lost most of the tourists.
“Jane Gilly up the Old Salt says she’s getting cancellations for
August
,” Jess Robald had said yesterday.
She’d looked ready to break up the place, and I couldn’t blame her. If there was one thing that the Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve, and the whole rest of the town, absolutely depended upon, it was that Saco Bay, the Gulf of Maine, and the Atlantic Ocean would play nice, mostly, and not produce plagues of jellyfish during the High Season.
For
fifteen days and counting
, during a High Season that was exactly twelve weeks long from end to end.
“Bound to be done with by August,” I said, but my voice even sounded thin to me. Jess only shook her head.
“You don’t believe that,” she said.
And, actually . . .
I didn’t.
Because of all the things that had and hadn’t happened during those fifteen days, one notable thing had
not
happened.
Borgan hadn’t come back to Archers Beach.
His estimate for return had been four days, depending on when he could hook up with whoever he needed to talk to, and I managed to wait two days beyond that before I cracked, and called his cell.
My call went straight to voice mail.
So did the call I made two days later, after I’d gone down to Kinney Harbor, and onto
Gray Lady
herself. My things were still on the shelf where I’d left them, and there was a thin patina of dust on all the flat surfaces.
I checked the fridge and cleaned out the bad milk and the moldy cheese; there wasn’t much else there, save a couple of beers and a bottle of wine. I lay on the bed for a while, fingering the blue-and-green bead he’d braided into my hair. It was cool and soothing against my skin. Eyes closed, I touched it with the tiniest questing bit of power, hoping there might be a connection, after all.
But the bead remained magically inert: a pretty ornament, nothing more.
I made another call, then, but Frenchy couldn’t help.
“Old days, there was a Guardian on the Vineyard, Kate, but there ain’t been any news o’her since ’fore John Lester gave up his service.”
“Is there anybody else, down that way?”
“Not our kind. None I know of.” She paused, then continued in a softer tone. “He’s tougher’n two sharks, Kate. Been in bad trouble ’fore this and come about. Just needs some time t’work, is all. You live as long as him—or me—time don’t seem . . . desperate, like it does to you young folk.”
I took a breath, trying to ease the tightness in my belly.
“Thanks, Frenchy. Just . . . I’m worried.”
“Who wouldn’t be, lookin’ at those seas? Take some ease from your land, Kate, an’ carry on with what’s yours to do. Things’ll change.”
“They always do.” I cleared my throat. “’Preciate you taking the call,” I said. “Sorry to be a bother.”
“No bother at all. Call anytime.”
We hung up. I lay on the bed, eyes closed, taking nice deep breaths, but my stomach wouldn’t settle.
Eventually, I got up, smoothed the covers, and left, feeling sick and unhappy.
Very early on the morning of the ninth day, I visited Nerazi’s stone at the border with Pine Point.
But Nerazi didn’t come to her stone that morning.
. . . which was when I lost it, a little.
I dragged Cael out to spot me, telling him what I intended. He didn’t even try to talk me out of it.
We stood on the water line, with our backs to Dube Street and Tupelo House, and I raised the power I’d received from my grandfather’s amulet, the last treasure of House Aeronymous. It rose quickly, so much power I could feel it sloshing around inside me.
Cael tied a nice stout rope of power about my waist; I waded into the stinking, sluggish water—and dove beneath the waves. It came as no surprise that I could breathe water—maybe it should have, but my attention was elsewhere.
I hadn’t expected that the sea would speak to me—and I wasn’t disappointed. So far as I could tell, the sea had no awareness that I had entered her waters, despite the noise I made in an effort to attract her attention.
I had hoped—my plan had been to loose a search of my own through the waters, hoping to feel him in the currents, like I could feel him on the land. But that plan needed at least the awareness, if not the active cooperation of the water.
Jikinap
was not the living ocean; it could know only what the ocean allowed it to know.
And that—was nothing.
I hadn’t known how much I’d counted on the plan succeeding. Hadn’t known until it failed.
Well . . . what are a few more drops of water, to an ocean?
Cael hauled me back to land about then, and when I protested and would have reentered the water, he picked me up.
“That’s enough, my lady. Come home. You do nothing good for your leman nor those others who depend on you, by endangering yourself further.”
Still scolding gently, he carried me into the house, sat me down in the kitchen and poured out a glass of wine.
“Drink,” he said, handing me the glass.
On consideration, a glass of wine probably wasn’t a bad idea. I sipped—and choked.
“That’s brandy!”
“It is now, yes. Drink all of it.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. I sighed.
When the glass was empty, Cael sent me upstairs, with Breccia to guard my dreams.
Well.
If it had been possible to ignore the ocean’s illness—or if the damned woman from Cheobaug had managed to restrain herself from snacking down the
ronstibles
—if, in a word, the Season was proceeding normally . . .
Life would’ve been going along pretty briskly, with some notable events to give it snap, sparkle, and hope.
On Monday the seventeenth, Dan Poirier of the Chamber had given a crack-of-dawn presentation to a standing-room-only crowd of yawning Twelve-to-Twelvers. The upshot of it all, after the dust from the Powerpoint slides had settled, was that he and his committee had crafted a proposal they felt was likely to get the town’s attention in a positive way. They had a meeting with the town treasurer on the twenty-eighth, and, if that went well, there’d be a formal presentation to the town council at their meeting on August second.
Continuing in the vein of efficient people being efficient, Henry and his pro in Portland were busy collaborating on the Archers Beach Wilderness Trust, and I’d been cautioned to expect mountains of papers to sign, soon.
And, there’d been yesterday’s phone call, asking me when I could accept delivery of one wooden carousel animal, carved and painted in the likeness of a bat-winged horse.
. . . which is what I was doing opening the carousel’s storm gates at six o’clock in the morning on a day that promised to bring no customers at all.
I’d called Artie, who’d agreed to meet me, and to get the damned fiberglass rooster off of my carousel. I’d called Nancy, too, in case Artie was a no-show—
And here came the woman now, newspaper tucked under one arm and hands in the pockets of her jeans.
“Mornin’,” she called. “Artie here yet?”
“Just you and me.”
“Good.” She pulled the newspaper out from under her arm, snapped it open, and handed it to me.
I took it, glancing down at the
Journal-Trib
’s front page.
SACO MAN COMMITS SUICIDE
I looked at Nancy, who only looked grim, then back to the story.
Jim Robins, 38, of Saco died Wednesday night at Southern Maine Medical Center, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. No note was found. Friends say Robins had been increasingly despondent over the last weeks, citing the loss of his dogs. Robins was well known in the area as a dog-handler and hunter. He was sole proprietor of Robins Pest Control, with an office on Spring Street in Saco.
Survivors include a son, Bryan, 8, and estranged wife Elizabeth Robins, both of Biddeford.
I let my breath go in a long sigh, looked up and met Nancy’s eyes.
“Is that—” she began, and stopped, her question cut off by Artie’s yell.
“Kate! I’m here right like you wanted me! Let’s get the job done!”
* * *
The new horse arrived within minutes of Artie’s departure with the rooster; the trucks probably passed each other crossing Grand Avenue.
We got her installed in record time, and stood back to admire her.
“Looks fine,” Nancy said. “Something missing from the old one, though.”
“The original had fangs,” I reminded her.
“That was it. Good idea, leaving them off.”
“Even if this one’s not as likely to bite as the original.” I sighed, and extended a hand to stroke the painted nose.
“Cap’n Borgan not back yet from his trip down Mass.?” Nancy asked.
I swallowed, and shook my head, not looking at her.
“He’s . . . a number of days past when he told me to look for him,” I said. I raised my eyes to meet hers and added, “He’s not answering the cell. Or collecting voice mail.”
Nancy put a gruff hand on my shoulder.
“Business has kept him before, remember.”
“Right,” I said, and gave her what I hoped bore some passing resemblance to a smile.
She squeezed my shoulder and let me go.
“You hear Marilyn’s plans, for when the park closes?” she asked.
It was actually good to hear that Marilyn had plans for after the park closed. She’d worked for Fun Country all her life, going up the ladder from game agent to manager.
“Marilyn doesn’t share with me,” I said.
“Me, neither. But she was talkin’ to Anna.”
Of course, she was talking to Anna.
“Turns out that Marilyn’s husband retired a couple years back. Wanted her to quit then, and move down to Florida. She wouldn’t leave the job. Now there’s no job, she’s got the house up for sale, and they’re planning on wintering this year in the Keys. The husband’s pleased, and Marilyn figures she’ll look up some work down there, after she has a little vacation.”
“Good,” I said, and meant it.
“Well.” Nancy looked around. “Anything more for me?”
“Not right now. If you’ve got a sense of adventure, and you don’t have to go straight home after closing, I’m told that I’m hosting the second ever Dube Street Game Night tonight. Me, Cael, Felsic, Peggy Marr, Ethrane, a couple others from the midway, maybe. Beer, ale, soda, coffee, munchies.”
Nancy looked interested.
“What’s the game?”
“God knows. Last time it was something called Munchkin. I have no idea what it’ll be this time. Cael’s choosing.”
“I kinda like Munchkin,” Nancy said. “We got my aunt with us while they’re fixing the septic at her place. Her and Ma been up every night ’til daylight, talking a streak. They won’t miss me if I stop over for a game.”
“Be pleased to have you.”
“’Kay, then. Best you go home and get some rest, Kate; you’re looking worn down.”
“I’ll do that,” I lied, and watched her leave the park before I closed the storm gates, locked the door, and went onto the carousel to sit astride the batwing horse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
FRIDAY, JULY 28
LOW TIDE 8:01
P.M.
EDT
MOONSET 9:55
P.M.
Three times since the Borgan had bound her to the pool, she had woken; and three times the pool had its way with her.
This time, she woke in the fullness of her power, and she would be trifled with no longer.
It was time—it was well past time—to find the Borgan and compel his love. There was to be no tender wooing such as she had dreamed upon. No. The pool had ruined those plans; there was scarcely time enough to break the wall of mist, find the Borgan and bind him to her. The geas . . . she felt it ’round her throat like a string of pearls, slowly tightening. Now was the time to act—her last opportunity to act! It would not be wasted.
She rose up until the misty wall would allow her to rise no more—and threw the full force of her will against it.
The mists shattered—
And the geas snapped tight around her, the waters flowing away into darkness.
Cael wasn’t home when I got back, a little after eleven. Breccia was sitting in the window over the sink, overlooking the alley behind the house. Someone—which is to say, Cael—had helpfully pulled the Venetian blinds up to the top of the window, wound the cord out of the way. Helpful man, Cael.
Too helpful, to my way of thinking. We were going to have to find him some other place to live before he became indispensable.
“Hi, there,” I said, waving in Breccia’s direction. “Nancy suggests a nap for what ails me. You up for that in, say, an hour?”
She squinted her eyes, which I took for a
yes
. I moved toward the fridge—and altered course when the wall phone rang, loud and tinny.
Setting my feet carefully, so as not to step into a water bowl, or upset the cat’s food, I unhooked the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello, may I speak to Mr. Wolfe?” The phrasing was business, the accent was Maine.
“Mr. Wolfe isn’t here right now. May I take a message?”
“Could you ask him to call the town human resources office? It’s about his application. My name is Maureen Pare. The number is . . .”
She rattled it off, I memorized it, and assured her that I would pass the message to Mr. Wolfe immediately upon his return. She thanked me and we hung up.
“Might be Cael has a job,” I said to Breccia, opening up a drawer and pulling out a pen and a notepad. I wrote briefly and left the pad in the middle of the table, under the retorinas, where he’d be sure to see it.
I opened the fridge, but nothing looked appetizing, so I poured myself a glass of cranberry juice and carried it out to the summer parlor.
The beach was deserted, except for the gulls scavenging among the heaps of drying weed. Tide was coming in, but the ocean might as well have been a particularly muddy lake, for all the wave action showing.
If this went on much longer, Archers Beach would be finished as a resort town by the end of the Season. Oh, tourists would come back, eventually, but it would take a good five years before the bravest would give us another chance.
And by that time, Archers Beach would be condos all up and down those seven miles of sand beach the Chamber likes to brag about. The townies, a lot of them, would leave—sell the house for the kind of money rich people from Away might give, and move on someplace inland, to start over.
The
trenvay
. . .
Well, the
trenvay
would stay, and the Guardian, too.
We didn’t have a choice.
Borgan . . . I reached up to finger the bead in my hair, and tried very hard not to think that I’d never see him again. “Never” was one of those words young folk like me used to make themselves sad, as Frenchy would probably
not
say, unless something had happened to short her temper.
Give the man time to work, Kate
, I told myself. It didn’t ease my worry any.
I drank juice without really tasting it, staring out over the ugly sea, my fingers caressing the bead in my hair, and I thought . . .
Why not?
Because, really, if I could use Prince Aesgyr’s little toy to travel to places I knew well . . . why
couldn’t
I use it to . . . travel to people I knew well?
Oh, there was the little matter of the geographical range limit, but did that even come into play if I was focusing on a person, rather than a landmark?
And, as a matter of fact, hadn’t I jumped across time and space to Frenchy’s side?
. . . well, no, I hadn’t. I’d been thinking Camp Ellis when Cael and I had made that jump—and there was that little bit of flex built into Aesgyr’s working—so that was . . . inconclusive, at best.
What I needed was a test. I sipped juice, eyes squinted against the glare.
Somebody living outside of the Archers Beach/Camp Ellis megaplex, that being what I guessed to be my geographic range, with the flex option
on
. Somebody with whom I shared a close tie . . .
And that was the sticker. There were very few people with whom I shared a close tie, and all of them, with one notable exception, were right here in Archers Beach.
Well, damn.
No test run today.
And
, I told myself firmly,
no just trying to zap yourself to Borgan. You don’t know where he is; you don’t know what he’s doing, and, by extension, what you might fuck up by disturbing him at work. Just—go to bed, Kate.
That seemed to be sound advice, and the second time I’d heard it, today.
I went inside and did just that.
Something was wrong.
The Borgan’s geas lurched, twisted—and began to unravel.
She pushed against the power confining her; felt it give. Exhilarated, she pushed again, opening the flaw wider. Wind whipped through the hole she had made; it slammed her against the spell wall, which was unraveling in earnest now, ragged shreds tangling in her hair. She reached for the wind, but it eluded her will, leaving her choking on the stink of entwined powers—peaches, hot stone, cinnamon, pine tar, vanilla, kerosene.
The spell enclosing her lurched again, and the last threads blew apart.
She was suspended in the maelstrom, unprotected, and without direction.
She might have cried out, but all she heard was the wind rushing in her ears. The wind carried sticks, or stones, or bits of flame; these struck her, and hurt where they struck.
The wind increased, blowing through her, carrying away the power she had gained from the Borgan’s sea.
Frightened in earnest, she thrust her will and her self toward Cheobaug. Power rippled against the punishing wind; the particular taste of
her
power tingled on her tongue. She closed her eyes and
pushed
.
But when she opened her eyes again, it was to the storm.
It came to her then, that she was lost between the Worlds.
And she would
die
between the Worlds, her power stripped away like the flesh from her bones, and her soul left to scream in the unending wind.
Horror—but there was no time for horror, or for fear. She must—she would!—act. She was a goddess. She would not perish here.
She cast ’round inside the punishing wind, refusing to be just one more mote driven by its fury. She spun a net of her will and cast it wide. When she pulled it home, she saw that it contained a single, glowing thread, already beginning to fade.
She snatched it to her, and tasted the sweetness of the waters she had lately quit.
Clinging to the fading thread with every ounce of will she possessed, she conjured the image, the taste, and the virtue of the Borgan’s sweet, free sea. Laboriously, she built into the conjuration an image of the goblins’ humble dwelling.
She poured her will into the little working, informing it with every bit of longing in her heart.
The thread she held took fire; it contracted, snapping her through the abrasive, burning wind; until she lost her sense of self, and everything was black.
Cael was stocking the fridge when Breccia and I came downstairs, a little after six o’clock.
“Good evening,” I told his back. “Did you find your message?”
He looked at me over the fridge’s door.
“I did find the message and I called Maureen Pare. We have an appointment to meet in her office tomorrow at ten o’clock. I am one of five applicants for Animal Control Officer chosen for personal interviews.”
“That’s pretty good,” I said. “Do you have interview clothes?”
He frowned. “I fear I may not.”
“If you want, I’ll check out your closet. If there’s nothing suitable, I volunteer to go down to Dynamite with you and help pick out clothes. Though, honestly, Mrs. Kristanos’ taste is perfect; just tell her what you need.”
“Yes,” Cael said, which I took as permission to root through his closet.
* * *
Gran having stated her intention to remain under leaf for the foreseeable future, Cael had temporary use of her bedroom. I opened the closet and perused the contents. Then I went back to the kitchen to let Cael know that we were going shopping.