by Sharon Lee
This time, I paced the line, double—and then triple—checking, while the new neighbor kept on with his paper, oblivious.
I finished my third check and paused, heart hammering and breath coming a little short, which was the exercise, and the excitement. Easy, Kate, I told myself. You don’t want to be losing your temper.
Right. Losing my temper would be a very foolish, not to say life-threatening, thing to do. I concentrated on taking deep, even breaths until I was feeling steadier. Then, I hefted the stick, drove the sharp end into the emerald grass and began to cut.
“Hey!”
I looked up. The man from the patio was rushing down toward me across his pretty, soulless lawn, newspaper—The Wall Street Journal, I could tell by the type—still clutched in one hand, an expression of disbelief on his soft, well-kept face.
“Hey!” he said again, stopping just t’other side of the cut-line. “That’s my lawn you’re defacing!”
“That could be the case,” I allowed, looking him in the eye and giving him a nod. “But it’s on my land.”
He stared at me. His eyes were pale blue; his hair was blond, lightly silvered, and cut within an inch of its life. He’d dressed himself straight out of L.L. Bean: chino shirt, casual khakis, and moose hide moccasins all looking brand new out of the box.
“Your land?” he repeated, obviously having a hard time believing such a thing.
“That’s right,” I told him. I turned and used the stick to point at the stand of old wood, out to the seaward edge of the hill, over toward Kinney Harbor, and back to where we stood, making sure to plant the point of the stick right where I’d been cutting. “I’m Kate Archer, and I own this piece of land. You’re six foot over my line. You might not have known that, so I’m marking it out for you.”
The pale blue eyes glinted. “Prove it’s your land,” he said, and there was a note of pure meanness in his voice that I didn’t like at all.
“You’d’ve seen it on the survey and read it in your deed. The deed would’ve said something about being bounded on the seaward side by property owned by Ebony Pepperidge. I’m Mrs. Pepperidge’s granddaughter, and the deed’s in my name now. You might not have known that either, but you sure did know that this strip here wasn’t any of yours.”
“That deed is ancient!” my man told me, which in fact, it is. “We surveyed as well as we could, but when the markers are old rocks and trees that rotted fifty years ago—”
“Not rotted,” I interrupted, which wasn’t polite, but in spite of my best intentions, I was beginning to get irritable. I raised my stick and leveled it at the solid reality of the five foot granite boulder that was the northern boundary listed in the deed.
“Old rock,” I said, and had the fleeting pleasure of seeing him flush. I shifted the stick again, sighting along it to the second boundary, ’way down on the Kinney Harbor side of the equation.
“Tree, not by any means rotten. Black gum live a long, long time; that’s why the original survey picked it as a marker.” I considered him. “What’s your name, if it isn’t a state secret?”
“Joe Nemeier,” he snapped. “I don’t care who you are or say you are. You’re vandalizing my lawn and if you don’t cease, and repair the damage immediately, I’ll call the police and see you hauled away in handcuffs.”
That wasn’t very likely, for a grass vandal, but there was that certain something about Joe Nemeier that put my back right up. The little flicker of irritation was in danger of becoming a full flame-out of temper, which, I reminded myself, I could neither support nor afford.
With that thought in mind, I took a deliberate, ocean-rich breath, to steady myself, and looked straight into Joe Nemeier’s pale blue eyes.
“Here’s a counteroffer,” I said, as calm as I could. “You get your lawn service out here to take up the grass from this line down. Do that, and I’ll call us square.”
He laughed, which I might’ve known he would. Turning away, he snapped over his shoulder, “I’m calling the cops. If you’re smart, you’ll leave before they get here.”
And of course that was all she wrote. Orange flame coursed up my backbone, and likely smoke came out of my ears. That quick, the Word had formed, and there wasn’t anything to do but let it loose.
“Hear me, Man,” I heard myself say, hard and chancy as the surface of Googin Rock. “The boundary will be honored.” And then the Word spoke itself, soft and gentle, like dew.
Joe Nemeier had spun to stare at me, as well he might. Me, I held his eyes with mine for two long heartbeats, feeling the Word settle. When I was sure it’d taken, I looked down, and Joe Nemeier followed my glance.
“What the hell!” he shouted, staring at the blight creeping across the brilliant green. “You poisoned my grass! I’ll have your ass for this, whoever you are!”
“My lawyer’s Henry Emerson, down in town,” I said, barely able to see him through the spangles filling my vision. Stupid! I told myself. But, there, I’ve always had a lousy temper, and if I’d been able to control it, I wouldn’t be in my current state of disrepair declining toward obsolescence.
Careful of wobbly knees and legs gone to rubber, I turned away, pitching my stick back into the wood, and headed for the downward slope into town.
“Come back here!” Joe Nemeier yelled. I heard his feet moving over dry grass and whispered a request to the trees. Shadows loomed, sudden, menacing, and cold, and I heard the sound of footsteps again, retreating. When I looked back, there was no sign of Joe Nemeier out of doors, and the line between our properties was marked with a wide ribbon of dead grass.
FIVE
Wednesday, April 19
Sometime between leaving the scene of the crime and reaching Heath Street, I phased out.
When I came back to myself, I was standing in front of Fun Country’s door, and it was ten minutes to nine by the midway clock.
“Kate,” I whispered; “you’re a damn’ fool.”
Which was a proposition that had been proved more often than not during the largely misspent course of my life.
I tried the knob, but the door was still locked. Naturally. Marilyn was a woman of her word. When she said ten o’clock, by God, she meant ten o’clock.
Still feeling a little gone in the legs, I wobbled over to the gate. The chain was off, so I tripped the latch and slipped through. A moment later, I was heading across the lot, taking it slow by necessity.
It was quiet in the park, the neighborhood of the carousel being no exception. The Oriental Funhouse was still boarded up, the giant samurai straddling the doorway mummified in blue tarp, but somebody had been at Summer’s Wheel: four gondolas, still in their winter wrappings, were sitting haphazard on the platform, and the plastic had been peeled back from the control panel. Across the square, Tony Lee’s concession was locked up, storm hatches down and secured. I caught a whiff of old grease, and a wistful memory of fried rice before the breeze whisked the odors down the plaza toward Dodge City.
Across from Tony Lee’s, next to Summer’s Wheel, in the corner nearest the sea, there sits the Fantasy Menagerie Merry-go-Round. I leaned against the storm gates to catch my breath, and to let the shakes settle down. It wouldn’t do to let the animals see me weak. No, no, not at all.
As I leaned there, panting and shivering, I felt a . . . twitch . . . at the edge of my consciousness, like a child tugging at an adult’s sleeve.
The breath caught in my throat.
Visiting the Wood, frying a man’s grass for him—not exactly walking lightly on the land.
And the land had taken note of me.
Back when I’d first come to Archers Beach, fresh from my grandfather’s castle and the horrors therein, Gran had explained to me how it was that an Archer had always been Guardian of the Land—like Lydia, my father’s mother. And that, as the last Archer around, it was my duty to take up the charge.
I was new in this place, having lost my family, my home, and my integrity before what passed for my thirteenth birthday.
It was work and worth I wanted—I’d been born royal, after all, and rigorously trained in my obligations. I took up the charge, and offered myself to the land.
My offering was enthusiastically accepted; the land and I forged a bond—and it happened that Gran was right. The connection and the duty healed my wounds and settled me into my new life.
I was a kid. I didn’t know then that there are some things we can’t be healed of. Because they’re inborn, part of the warp and woof of our being, running black in the blood, tainting every action and turning every good intention.
It hadn’t been long until my nature caught up with me, and even my bond with the land wasn’t strong enough to withstand it. Horrified and soul-sick, determined not to infect or destroy anything else that I loved—I broke my oath, and cut myself free of the bond.
Crippled, I left Archers Beach and embraced exile in the desert lands, where the granddaughter of a sea king could scarcely hope to thrive—and where the poison that blackened my heart could do no further harm.
Cutting the bond should have been enough to kill me—at least, those few of Gran’s stories which dealt with the topic strongly suggested as much. Unfortunately, the sea king’s line was a hardy one. The amputation hadn’t killed me outright.
But it was killing me in stages.
And now here I was, where I’d sworn never to come again, and ironically, with an imperative to stay alive for just a bit longer.
The land had recognized me. I could infect it, if I renewed the bond.
Assuming the land would have me.
And assuming I was idiot enough to try.
The twitch at my metaphysical sleeve came again, somewhat stronger.
Biting my lip, I concentrated, visualizing a high stone tower and myself in the topmost room. A third twitch came, tentative now. Grimly, I kept to my tower, tasting salt from my abused lip, until I was at last rewarded with the feeling that I was alone.
I sighed out the breath I’d been holding, leaned my head against the storm gate and closed my eyes. Overhead, a gull screeched an oath, and I heard a motorcycle winding out, away down on Grand Avenue.
* * *
It was silent inside the storm gates, as if the space occupied some reality where gulls, motorcycles, and even the ocean didn’t exist. Shadows were deep along the walls, hanging in hungry shrouds from the beams, roiling inkily ’gainst the ceiling: A winter’s worth of frigid shadow, which would be what you’d expect. Beneath it, glowing with a silver-pink light like fog coming off the waves at dawn was—the carousel.
It’s an old machine, as machine age gets counted—a menagerie, like the name says; three across, twenty-three animals and a chariot. The decking’s hardwood, dark with age; the rounding boards and the swan chariot carved and gilded tupelo. Inside, boxing the center, and behind the orchestrion, are four oil paintings, depicting a tree in Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. Each overhead beam supports its own army of incandescent bulbs. The poles and the hardware are every damn’ one of them brass; the orchestrion has brass grace notes and plays music off a perforated spool of Violano paper.
The animals are tupelo wood, like the boards and the chariot, the figures fanciful: dolphin, seal, seahorse, dragon, unicorn, goat, giraffe, ostrich, and leaping deer; a bobcat with tufted ears, a brute of a brown bear—there’re those. Horses, too, if you didn’t mind that some are a little odder than others. One’s an Indian pony, with a blanket saddle and no reins; another’s tall, broad and bejeweled, a lance set through the rings in its armor; still another’s a dandy little gray with fangs, and batwings half-furled against its sides. I remembered them all—some more fondly than others.
Gingerly, I took a single step forward.
Force flowed and flowered, prickly against my skin; the wards resisted me, then yielded. I tasted mint and honey—a tattered remnant of Gran’s signature—and then I was inside.
I took another step, which wasn’t as easy as you might suppose—and one more, going by touch and memory, senses dazzled by the interplay of force . . . My fingers touched a clammy metal door; I yanked it open and hit the switch.
Electric light filled the space, melting the worst of the shadows. I sighed and sagged, shivering, against the post, considering the reality of the situation.
The animals looked dull in the ordinary light, their jewels clearly faux, the unicorn’s horn listing a touch to the right. The bobcat was slightly misshapen, the bear a bit mangy, the brass bits on the orchestrion cloudy and showing a greenish sheen. Nothing that couldn’t be put right with spit, polish, and paint, though it would be a job for one person working alone—but that wasn’t the worst of the work to be done.
And how it was going to get done before the start of the Early Season on May 14, God alone knew. Just my luck the carousel was one of Fun Country’s treasured Name Rides.
I sighed. Forcefully. Dammit, I was so going to give Gran an earful when I caught up with her.
A little voice muttered a worried if from the back of my head, but there wasn’t any use borrowing trouble. Her tree was healthy, and she had to be somewhere in Archers Beach. Unfortunately, until I got hold of Gran, the carousel—and its occupants—were mine to deal with.
And may God have mercy on my soul. So to speak.
SIX
Wednesday, April 19
Bob’s was empty when I arrived; “Hair of the Dog” coming down the airwaves from WBLM, perfectly audible over the moderate and genteel clatter from the kitchen.
“Coffee’s on the plate!” Bob yelled from the back.
“Thanks!” I yelled back. “Is it too late for a grilled muffin?”
“Never too late for a grilled muffin,” he answered, sticking his head through the hatch, and giving me a nod, downright affable. “ ’Morning, Kate. Blueberry?”
“Please.”
“Get yourself settled, and I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.”
“Thanks,” I said again, and moved over to the hotplate.
The coffee didn’t look any worse than usual. On the other hand, it didn’t look any better. I carried my mug over to the center booth, right next to the radiator, slid into the corner, and administered a liberal dose of cream. The radiator was pumping out the heat; and I propped myself up in the corner of the booth, letting my eyelids droop. On WBLM, Nazareth finished up and the DJ came on with the weather. According to him, we were looking for afternoon highs around fifty-five, lows on the overnight in the upper twenties. He promised U2, The Cars, and Tom Petty on the other side of the commercial break. I wrapped my hands around the coffee mug.
We were halfway through the second ad for MickeyD’s when Bob appeared with my muffin. He thumped the plate down in front of me, with a knife, fork, and spoon all wrapped up in a white paper napkin. I sat up and put my mug aside.
“You let me know how that stacks up to them muffins Away, now,” he directed.
Away is the pocket where your typical Mainer keeps anyplace that happens not to be Maine. Simplifies geography something wonderful.
“I will,” I promised, and looked up to catch his eyes. “Bob?”
He frowned, shoulders stiffening. “Kate . . .” he said warningly, which, unfortunately, wasn’t entirely unjustified. I raised my hands, showing him empty palms.
“I just have a question, okay?” I sounded snappish in my own ears, but Bob wouldn’t find anything odd in that.
His shoulders stayed stiff, but at least he gave me a nod. “So, ask.”
“How do I get a message to Nancy Vois?”
The shoulders eased a fraction. “She’s usually in for coffee early. You can catch her then, or I can pass a word.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d pass on that I’ve got work for her, starting tomorrow at eight, if she’s willing.”
Bob damn’ near smiled.
“I’ll do that. You’re staying the Season, then?”
“Probably not. But the ride needs to be ready to go, anyway.”
I broke the paper tape and free
d my utensils. The muffin smelled wonderful, and I was suddenly and entirely ravenous.
“Right you are,” Bob said softly. He stood by while I took my first taste of muffin.
I sighed, blissful. “Nobody Away understands grilled blueberry muffins,” I told him honestly, and smite me if he didn’t blush. I had some more muffin, trying to act like a lady and not bolt my food. I set the fork down, which took a major act of will, and reached for my mug.
“Another question,” I said, looking back to Bob. “If you’re willing.”
He watched me while I sipped coffee, then shrugged. “I’m willing enough.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, meaning it. “Seen Mr. Ignatious?”
Bob snorted. “Him? He comes and goes—just like always, no rhyme or reason to it. Haven’t seen him recent, if that’s what you’re after. Likely he’ll turn up in time to get the Knot running for the Season. But whether he’ll make Early Season—” Another shrug. “What d’you want him for?”
I had another forkful of muffin, taking my time about chewing. “I thought he might know where Gran’s gone to,” I said mildly.
There was a small pause.
“Even if he knew, will he know now?” Bob said, surprisingly tactful. “That’s the question, Kate.”
And honestly, it was the question. Mr. Ignat’ isn’t just a little foolish, though he’d been Gran’s beau since I’d known her. I once asked her what she saw in him. “He makes me laugh,” she’d said, after taking some time to consider it. “And he keeps me honest.”
Which, all things considered, were reasons enough. Myself, I valued him for his warmth, and the uncounted simple kindnesses he’d bestowed on a surly, frightened halfling.
I chased the last bit of muffin around the plate, and didn’t sigh.
Bob cleared his throat. “None of my business, but didn’t that packet—”
The door to the street came open with a bang, bell clattering. I jumped, losing that last piece of muffin off my fork. Bob turned his head.