Wind Raker - Book IV of The Order of the Air (29 page)

The Catalina floated at rest, peaceful and quiescent. She felt it like her own body, as though she lay on the breast of the tropical ocean, the wind kissing her face, each green wave lifting her gently. She was the Catalina, willing and whole, delighting in the sky and in the return. She was a vessel meant for the long haul, for continents and oceans beneath her wings, for decades and decades of stars by night to steer by. For a moment Alma could almost see it — endless stars over a dark sea, no light in sight beneath and only the heavens above, just as ancient mariners must have seen it.

"Isis Pharia," she whispered. A lighthouse to lead us safely home, the welcoming beacon from an airfield on a tiny island somewhere....

The blessing was real and complete. Alma let out a long breath, opening her eyes. The sea danced with dazzling brightness, reflections of sun on the waves. She lifted the raw egg.

"Isis Pelagia," she said aloud, "Let all that is rotten be pulled within this egg. Let all ill will that may touch this plane or its inhabitants be locked in this shell. Let it pull within it and seal away all that would do us harm."

And that was wrong. It was kicking now, the power pushing back, strong as winds tearing across the tops of waves. Alma caught her breath, taken aback by the force of it. Lily warned me, she thought. She hadn't believed her. Not like this, not this amount of raw power, greater than anything human Alma had ever felt before. Stronger than a Lodge, stronger than a festival — how in the world could there be this much energy in it? How many people, what strength of working could do this? Her breath caught. Alma pushed, but it did not give. Instead, it began to force her back, the tendrils of the curse reaching out, four arms grasping. Her strength was not enough. It was stronger, much stronger, even though she knew Mitch and Lewis stood by her side, their wills joined to hers. It was much stronger, a wave to overtop houses and trees, rushing like a tidal wave….

Isis Pelagia. Not my power, but Thine.

"Nothing may touch this plane or its occupants," Alma said, putting intention to words. She could not break it, not here, not now, but she could keep it from the plane. The grasping power that was the curse could not touch that, could not challenge the Sea Lady directly.

Not yet
, something whispered inside her.
It may not touch Me yet.

The egg was hot in her hand, containing all the malice directed at Lily at this moment. It would not take more. And this did not break the curse, only contained it while Lily was aboard the plane. But it was the best she could do for now.

Alma took a deep breath. "Let all that is unwholesome reside within this shell, consigned to the deep." She gently tossed the egg out and away from the plane, and with a reassuring plop it sunk into the sea.

Suddenly the day seemed brighter and she wondered if Lewis and Mitch had felt it too. Lewis probably had, but she didn't turn around to look. They'd talk about it later. "The milk," she said.

Mitch was frowning. He'd caught it too, much less sensitive than Lewis, an ill wind that had blown over and past. He handed her the bottle of milk.

Jerry had written words for this and she'd learned them. Back on the script, back to the ritual as it was written. "Isis Galactrophousa," she began, careful not to mangle the title. Mitch's eyes got wide, as though he were trying not to comment that it sounded like a henchman of Ming the Merciless.

"Galactrophousa," Alma said again, "She Who Nurses Her Son in the Barque of Heaven, whose milk gave birth to the stars. Accept our offering of milk and our thanksgiving." She opened the bottle, pouring it down the Cat's side so that it flowed into the sea. "So may it be."

And it was.

E
verything was very quiet when Mitch opened the door to the bungalow, Alma and Lewis just behind him, Al still holding forth about the test flight. Very quiet. There was no sound of the radio, which was usually blaring. There was no sound of Douglas shouting, which was becoming a comforting sound. There was no sound of Merilee and Dora banging on pots.

Something was really, really wrong. Mitch felt his heart speed. "Stasi?" he called.

"In here."

He opened the living room door. Merilee was sound asleep stretched on the carpet while Dora attempted to tie herself up with a ball of yarn like a kitten. Douglas sat on the floor looking rebellious next to Jimmy, who just looked bored. Stasi sat in the armchair with a book in her lap and Mitch boggled. Her hair was pulled back severely in a bun instead of her usual finger waves and she wore a plain blue cotton housedress. Her hands were denuded of nail polish and rings alike. With no powder and lipstick and the severe hairstyle she looked like someone else entirely, a decade older and rather plain. Grim. Her expression was grim.

"What are you reading?" Mitch asked.

"
Little Women
," Stasi said. "I borrowed it from Miss Lee. It's very improving."

Behind him, Lewis blinked in confusion.

"I don't like it!" Douglas blurted. "It's all about girls sitting around and sewing and paying calls and there aren't any pirates or mummies or swordfights. Or wild dogs," he amended.

"You don't need a diet of sensation," Stasi said severely. "Real life isn't full of pirates and mummies and swordfights."

Alma's eyes got huge and round. She came in and scooped up Dora. "Hello, short stuff," she said, swinging Dora onto her shoulder. "How have you been?"

"Bored," Dora said truthfully. She buried her face in Alma's neck.

Douglas jumped up. "Mr. Sorley, can we listen to Detective Story? Please? It's on in twenty minutes. Please!"

"I guess…" Mitch began.

"I have already told you that you cannot," Stasi said in stern tones that brought back a frisson of terror from his own childhood. "Detective Story is too violent, and radio shows are damaging to the minds of the young." She looked at Mitch. "And I expect you to uphold my discipline."

"Ok," Mitch said, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't know what you've done to get this far in the doghouse, Douglas. But if Mrs. Sorley says no radio tonight, then there's no radio."

"But I haven't done anything!" Douglas said. "Really!"

"This isn't punishment," Stasi said. "This is to help you get a good start in life so that you can grow up to be an educated and responsible person who goes to a good college and gets a good job."

Mitch cringed. Though he knew she'd never met her, Stasi had just managed to sound exactly like his mother.

"But I'm not going to a good college and getting a good job," Douglas said seriously. "I'm going to be a pirate. Or a private eye."

"You most certainly are not," Stasi said sternly. "That is unrealistic."

Alma's eyes were as big as dinner plates. "Ok! Well, thank you for watching Dora this afternoon. I'm going to go give her a bath if nobody else calls dibs on the bathroom."

"I'll help," Lewis said. They beat a hasty retreat upstairs.

"Thank you for reading to us, Mrs. Sorley." Jimmy got up from the floor looking curiously subdued. He went out without another word.

"But I want to listen to Detective Story!" Douglas pleaded. "And my brain hasn't rotted yet. Please, Mr. Sorley?"

"Mrs. Sorley said no," Mitch said, looking at Stasi over Douglas's head. "But you should go wash your hands for dinner."

"The children have already eaten," Stasi said. "They had a mild and nutritious supper an hour ago, with no rich foods or stimulating tastes. The adults will take dinner properly at eight. So Douglas, go put on your pajamas and get ready for bed."

"But it's quarter till seven!" Douglas expostulated. "It's not even dark! I haven't gone to bed at seven o'clock in my whole life!"

"Pediatricians say that plentiful sleep is necessary to proper brain development," Stasi said. "Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise."

"When did my mother get here?" Mitch asked. "Stasi?"

"I have no idea what you mean," she said briskly. "Now no more protests, young man. You may read an improving book in bed. Here is
Pilgrim's Progress
."

Douglas looked at the book with utter horror. "What?"

"You can read any book in bed," Mitch said. "It doesn't matter. Stasi, you know he can't possibly read
Pilgrim's Progress
. He's in second grade."

For a moment she looked flustered. "Oh. Well. Then read a different book."

"Ok." Douglas looked like he was about to protest again.

"Go on," Mitch said. He shooed Douglas out and stepped over Merilee sleeping on the floor. She stood there stiffly, her shoulders tense under the blue cotton. "Stasi, are you ok? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." She turned around, showing him her back as she picked up the yarn.

Mitch turned the radio on, letting the sweet sounds of a big band wash over them. "How about I make you a gin fizz and we relax a little before dinner?"

"I've given up gin," Stasi said briskly and picked up a folded apron. "And I have far too much to do in the kitchen."

Mitch followed her into the kitchen. "Are you mad at me for something? Because if so, I'm sorry. I have no idea what I did."

"You didn't do anything." Her back was like a board when he put his arms around her.

"Then what's going on?"

"I was just thinking. That's all." Her voice sounded choked. "If we're going to raise these children, we need to be proper parents. With bedtimes and no radio and nutritious food and schedules. We have to try to do right by them."

"I thought we were doing ok before." Mitch felt totally at sea. "I mean, Douglas is kind of high spirited but that's ok. He's seven. He doesn't have to sit still and be serious. And Jimmy is a good kid who makes good grades and takes a lot on himself. And Merilee is just a baby who needs love."

"Children need a hundred times more than that," Stasi said, and there was that choke again. "They need stability and security and not to be exposed to things that will warp their psychosexual development. They need discipline and structure if they're going to grow up to be scholars and righteous men."

"I've never heard you talk like this before," Mitch said.

She was actually crying now, and he turned her around in his arms, her shoulders too thin in the dowdy blue housedress. "I have to try to be a good mother for their sakes, don't you see? I have to try!"

"Ok," Mitch said. "I guess you do. I guess so."

"Promise me you'll help. Promise me that you'll help me be good." Her face was against his chest and he couldn't see her expression.

"I promise, Stasi," he said, holding her tight, the severe bun under his hand instead of waves. "I'll help you with whatever you need."

J
immy caught him at breakfast the next day, standing almost at attention next to the newspaper until Mitch put it down. "What's shaking?" Mitch asked.

"Mr. Sorley, I've been thinking," Jimmy said. "I'm not a little kid like Douglas and Merilee. I'm eleven years old. And I'd like to earn my keep."

Mitch folded the paper carefully, giving himself time to think. "Why's that?"

"I don't want to be beholden to charity," Jimmy said solemnly. "I can work. Lots of boys my age used to have jobs."

"That's true," Mitch said slowly. "But there's a reason President Roosevelt just signed the Child Labor Act. It's not good for kids under sixteen to be working fulltime jobs when they should be in school."

"But it's summer!" Jimmy said. "I'm not in school! And I can pay my way. I can!"

"You don't have to," Mitch said gently. "There's absolutely no reason you need to work for money. I make plenty of money to take care of you and your brother and sister. It's admirable of you to want to provide for them, but it's not something you need to do at this time in your life."

"I want to," Jimmy said, and there was an urgent light in his eyes, willing Mitch to understand. "I don't want to be a deadbeat."

And how many times had he heard that word, Mitch thought. How many times had people said that about Joey Patterson? He was a deadbeat, a drunk, a man too depressed to take care of his kids and make sure they had food on the table, too hung over to get to work loading cargo.

"You're not a deadbeat," Mitch said. "You're a boy. You're eleven years old."

Jimmy squared his shoulders. "Dr. Ballard said that I could help on the dig. He said he'd pay me five cents an hour if I'd do the same work the graduate students do, sieving and moving dirt. I can do that, Mr. Sorley! I can. And it's a whole lot of money. I can pay you for what we eat."

Mitch took a long, thoughtful breath, considering. Jerry wouldn't overwork Jimmy, and he could see that the company of men and boys on the dig was more interesting to Jimmy at his age than hanging around with Stasi and Miss Lee and the little kids. He wanted role models and a look at a man's world. Well, he couldn't do better for a role model than Jerry. If anybody could teach him courage and determination and respect for learning, it was Jerry. And Jerry wouldn't let him do more than he safely could.

"Five cents an hour?" Mitch said seriously. "That's a lot of money. You'd have to prove yourself worth it."

"I can be," Jimmy said. He stood up very straight. "I know I can learn what Dr. Ballard teaches me. I know I can do it right."

Mitch nodded slowly. "Very well. As your guardian, I'll let you work for Dr. Ballard on one condition."

"What's that, sir?"

"Half of the money you earn will go into a passbook savings account for your college," Mitch said. "I'm not going to take it because I don't need it right now. But we will need it in a few years when you're ready to go to the university. You'll be eighteen and a man then, and I won't be able to tell you what to do with it, but when you're eighteen it can buy you your freedom to go where you want and study what you want."

"You think I can go to college?" Jimmy asked seriously. "It's awful expensive."

"I think it's possible," Mitch said. "You have excellent grades so far. If they stay all A's in high school, I think you will be admitted to college. Paying for it is a trick, but if you save your money, that will be a big help."