Carousel Tides

by Sharon Lee

  “In case your compass is off, this ain’t the Land of the Flowers,” Borgan said tartly. “Kate—” He paused, then started again, milder this time. “Kate, you were Guardian. You share a soul with this land. Have you taken a good look ’round Archers Beach? You’re not the only one dying. The trenvay can each keep their little territories safe, but with the Guardian holding herself aloof . . .” He shook his head, his voice low and intense. “For the love of the sea, Kate, touch the land!” He held out his hand.

  I looked down. His palm was brown and broad and calloused, the fingers curled a little in invitation.

  Touch the land, was it? I’d repudiated the land, broken my oath, cast away my duty. There was nothing for me here except despite and vengeance. I looked back to Borgan’s face.

  “Well,” he said, and cleared his throat. The steady brown hand fell out of my range of vision. “You’ll be wanting to think it over, naturally.”

  Right. The breeze chose that moment to come up again with a vengeance, and I shivered, the warmth I had felt on coming out of my faint dissipating in an instant.

  Borgan jerked his head toward the dock. “Looks like you might still be needing that coffee. Come on aboard.”

  “No,” I snarled, my temper flaring dangerously. “I am not coming into your space, or letting you give me anything. That hasn’t changed.”

  His face tightened. “My space, is it?” he snapped back. “Let me tell you something, Kate Archer—I knew the instant you crossed into town yesterday morning. Woken right up out of sound sleep with the land singing like to deafen me. While that boat’s tied up at dock, it’s more your place than it is mine—but have it your way.” He took a hard breath, and came to his feet in one fluid move.

  “Bide a tick,” he said, sounding as tired as I felt. “I’ll bring the coffee out.”

  I watched him cross the dock. He stepped onto the deck of his boat and disappeared below.

  Me, I took two deep, careful breaths and got to my feet with considerably less grace. I paused a moment to look up again at the jewel-filled sky before I turned my face north and walked away.

  * * *

  I was halfway between Googin Rock and Fun Country when I noticed the plovers running along the water line. Getting on to nest-building season, now that I thought about it. Ice Age or no.

  At least my hands were warm, if my nose and ears weren’t. The battered work gloves were astonishingly cozy, and fit like they’d been made for me. I smiled slightly, and rubbed the canvas palms together as I walked. Thank you, Nerazi.

  “ ’Evenin’, Missus,” a high voice declaimed from somewhere in the vicinity of my left elbow.

  I turned my head carefully, and gave a nod to the sand-colored birdling pacing me.

  “Heeterskyte, good evening to you,” I said politely. Heeterskyte have delicate sensibilities; they also tend to pick up interesting bits of this and that, which they’re more inclined to share with those who treat them like they ought.

  A satisfied blink of a beady black eye. “That’s well-spoke,” it allowed. “Always did speak well to us smallkin, no matter what the other ones said.”

  A compliment, by God.

  “Thank you,” I said sincerely, and then, as it continued to walk along with me—“Is there some little thing I might do for you, Heeterskyte?”

  “No, no. Just noticed you’d lost yer escort, is all. Not safe, these times, bein’ out on the beach after dark. Not even fer such as yerself.”

  I considered this in light of Borgan’s news of the drug trade. Pirates weren’t likely to interest the smallkin much, unless they were threatening the nests. Still, it never hurt to be sure. “Is there a danger of which I ought to be aware, good Heeterskyte?”

  It clacked its beak. “Only willie wisps, Black Dogs, and snallygasters, deah.”

  What? I blinked. “In Archers Beach? That’s not possible.”

  “No? Here’s a question fer ya, then, Missus: Who’s been gone Away a good long while, and who’s been here the whole time, marking how the possibles do change?”

  There was that.

  “I take your point,” I said moderately; “and I thank you for your escort. But tell me—do these dangers manifest nightly?”

  “Near enough,” it answered, and added, grudgingly, “Haven’t seen a one since you been back.”

  “Maybe they’re gone, then,” I suggested. “And won’t come back.”

  The heeterskyte hesitated, and I could almost taste its doubt, but all it said was, “Could be yer right, Missus. It’s early days, and it ain’t like they don’t take a night off now and then.”

  “Of course not,” I murmured, and we walked on several paces in silence, the wind at our backs. Ahead, Fun Country showed dark spires and fantastic structures against the starry sky, like the silhouette of the alien city everybody but the heroes of the sci-fi film know better than to go inside.

  “Tell me,” I said then, because, damn it, the heeterskyte did hear all kinds of things. “Do you have any idea where I might find my grandmother?”

  My escort was silent. Silent, we passed beneath the Pier. On the other side, it clacked its beak, and spoke apologetically. “There’s a bushel o’rumors about the old lady. Always is. This time, they’re spoutin’ all manner of nonsense. Some’ll have it that she’s just taking a rest. Others say she’s keepin’ low, to lull them night-hunters into what you might call a false sense of security.” Another beak-clack. “Trouble bein’, Missus, that not one of them that’s sayin’ has anythin’ approaching a hard fact to bless themselves with. All we really know is—she was here, and then she wasn’t.” Two clacks as we came up to the dune-bridge that led to home. “If Seal Woman don’t know where she is, nobody does.”

  Which was, unfortunately, about what I’d thought. I angled left, toward the dunes—and checked as I realized I was alone. I turned and squinted; barely picking the heeterskyte out of the dark sand.

  “Thank you,” I called to it, and raised my hand. “I’m grateful for the escort.”

  “Take care now, Missus,” it replied and suddenly darted away, legs moving in a blur.

  I grinned and turned to trudge across the dry sand to the plank walk between the sea roses. The planks followed the contour of the dune, and I paused at the top to survey the street beyond. Full of shadows, and empty of everything else. In other words, Archers Beach in pre-Season. Just like it’d been for ’way too long.

  With the exception of your odd willie wisp, Black Dog, or snallygaster, of course.

  None of which ought to be anywhere near these environs, damn it. I frowned at the empty street. Granting that the heeterskyte wasn’t likely to mistake a snallygaster, how the devil had it crossed? I mean, sure, any middling good mage can sing herself from one of the Six Worlds to another. But snallygasters, Black Dogs and willie wisps are—critters. Vermin. The only way they’d be able to move into the Changing Land from the Land of the Flowers was—if a mage deliberately sent them through. And if that were so . . .

  Someone needed to send up a shout to the Wise.

  “Great,” I muttered, and rubbed my gloved hands together, moving down the plank walk toward the street.

  High Magic exists in all the Six Worlds, though it’s by no means evenly distributed. The Real World, like we like to say it, has the least. That’s because there’s so much change here—or so my tutor had it, back when I lived in my grandfather’s house. According to him, the change creates an energy state that polarizes jikinap, and makes it hard to do mage-work.

  Critters from another of the Six Worlds, though, with just their instincts and their appetites to guide them . . . They could operate here, right enough, and do damage, too. Especially if whoever was letting them through also brought them back home from time to time, so they could renew their essences.

  Definitely something to shunt up to a Higher Authority—though not without proof. The Wise aren’t summoned lightly, and certainly not before every single duck is bathed, combed, brushed and stan
ding at full attention.

  I angled toward Tupelo House, still chewing on the information. I wondered, specifically, if Nerazi had any news of snallygasters. She hadn’t mentioned them—but, then, I hadn’t asked her. First thing, then, was to talk to her.

  Something moved under the stairs, a darker blot against the darkness. I froze, straining my eyes—but my dark-sight didn’t bring me anything more than the impression of tightly coiled bulk. I felt a tingle of force, and moved forward, a Word I doubted I had the strength to speak forming on the back of my tongue. Beneath the stairs, the shadow drew in on itself—and exploded out into the street.

  I shouted, Wordless—and then shouted again, with laughter this time, as the black cat shot across the street in front of me and dove for the sea roses and the dune.

  “Sorry!” I called after it. “Thought you were somebody else!”

  The cat didn’t answer, which was fair enough. I went up the stairs to the front door, unlocked it and let myself in.

  ELEVEN

  Friday, April 21

  High Tide 5:14 a.m.

  Sunrise 5:49 a.m. EDT

  It was light when I woke. I lay in bed, staring up at the featureless white ceiling; unwilling to let the dream go.

  It’s rare that I dream—and rarer still that the dream isn’t a nightmare. This one had been . . . peaceful; a memory, really, from about six months after I came to live with my grandmother.

  When I was well enough to walk, Gran had packed some sandwiches into a basket with a thermos of cold tea, bundled me up, and the two of us strolled over to Heath Hill. There, she introduced me to the wood, insisting on full court manners. The trees had been dressed in yellow, orange, green, and brown, the colors soft as velvet.

  After I had made my bow and the trees had discussed me among themselves, Gran took my hand, and we entered the wood, branches lifting out of our way to clear the path before us. Straight to the Center of the wood we went, and picnicked at the foot of the great black gum tree, the sun streaming in golden ribbons through the leaves.

  The line of sunlight creeping across the ceiling was distracting. There was something about the morning light that—

  Right. I sighed sharply and turned my head. Six o’clock, according to the clock on the bedside table—which meant I’d missed my chance to chat with Nerazi about the reported incursions of natives from the Land of the Flowers.

  “Damn.” I threw the blankets back and slid to my feet. “Set an alarm tonight, Kate.”

  It seemed the sleep had done me good, though; I was feeling clear-headed and supple as I pulled on my clothes, which was all to the good. I was going to need every advantage for today’s work.

  I went downstairs, got the coffeepot primed, and had my hand on the fridge when there was a sound at the door.

  Not much of a sound, really—a rustle, like a shrew moving through dry leaves. Except there weren’t any leaves on the porch, and nothing for a shrew to want.

  The sound came again, slightly louder, accompanied by a soft thump.

  “Oh, for . . .” I crossed the hall and yanked the door open.

  “Eek!” shrieked the small person crouching on the porch, crushing a paper sack to their meager chest. “What did you have to go and do that for?”

  “You’re the one rustling around at my door,” I pointed out, a little breathless, myself. I squinted, trying to get a good look under the brim of the grimy gimme hat.

  “Just come to give due, that’s all!” my visitor exclaimed, and put the bag down on the porch between us, unrolling the top with trembling hands. “Fiddleheads. Picked ’em myself this morning. Best to eat ’em now, while they’re fresh.”

  Fresh fiddleheads. I blinked, catching the edge of the face, the hint of shape inside the layers of mismatched clothing.

  “Gaby?” I asked.

  “Who else would be bringing you fiddleheads?” she demanded. “I remember how much you like ’em, if you don’t! Best when they’re fresh!” She toed the bag nearer to me, hands tucked behind her back, then darted down to the first step.

  Well, they are. Best when they’re fresh, that is. The breeze brought me a mouth-watering scent of moist, spicy greenness. I looked down. The bag was full of tight gray-green coils enclosing an intricate lace work of new leaves. New growth of the Ostrich Fern, fiddleheads are an acquired taste—and I’d acquired it bad, during my mostly misspent childhood. Some folks said they tasted like asparagus, but they’re better than that.

  Fiddleheads. It’d been years. . . .

  I took a breath, tucked my hands into the pockets of my jeans, and considered Gaby, a rag-tag creature in earth-colored motley, cap jammed down over straw-like hair, dark eyes looking at me furtively from beneath the brim. The thing to remember when dealing with trenvay is that there’s always a price—and it’s best to get it stated out plain as soon as possible. Always remembering that the trenvay national sport is obfuscation.

  “What do you want,” I asked bluntly, “in payment?”

  She ducked her head. “Only the returnables . . .” Her nose twitched, and she licked her lips. “And a cup of sweet coffee.”

  Maine buys back things like soda cans and beer bottles for a nickel apiece via the process locally known as “redemption.” Most people save their returnables in a sack and take them down to the redemption center once a month or so. The throwaways on the side of the road, or in the trashcans, or on the beach, though—those are the legitimate prey of scavengers like Gaby.

  “You won’t get much from me,” I said, “but you can have what there is.”

  Gaby fairly quivered. “Thank’ee, thank’ee. That’s generous. And . . . and the coffee?”

  I bent and picked up the bag of fiddleheads, stomach growling. Best when they’re fresh, but not when they’re raw.

  “I’ll get the water started and bring you a mug of coffee,” I said, and Gaby settled herself on the top stair.

  “Thank’ee,” she whispered.

  “Just a minute.” I went inside, leaving the door ajar, knowing there was no danger of Gaby following me into the house.

  In the kitchen, I filled a pot with water and set it on the burner, fetched a yellow mug painted with delphiniums down from the cabinet, poured coffee, added sugar until my teeth hurt just looking at it, and carried it outside.

  Gaby was right on the step where I’d left her, sitting as still and as quiet as a garden gnome. I put the mug next to her—you don’t hand things directly to Gaby—and she snatched it up, gulping half the contents at once, not seeming to mind the heat.

  “You make sure and clean ’em good,” she said, and had another gulp, finishing the coffee. She sighed hugely, and set the mug gently on the porch.

  “Thank’ee kindly. You get to them fiddleheads, now. Best when they’re fresh!”

  And with that she was gone, scampering down the stairs like a squirrel. I looked over the rail, but she was already halfway down the street, all but invisible in her motley. Shaking my head, I picked up the empty mug and went back inside.

  The fiddleheads, I scaled carefully before boiling, and served them to myself on toast, dressed with margarine.

  It just doesn’t get any better than that.

  * * *

  What with the fiddlehead negotiations, I was a few minutes late to the carousel. Nancy was over at Tony Lee’s; Anna, Tony’s wife, was leaning on the counter, and both were bent over a single sheet of sun-yellow paper. The air was redolent of hot oil and strong coffee.

  I strolled over, mellow with fiddleheads and toast. Anna looked up and gave me a smile, shaking glossy black bangs out of tip-tilted blue eyes. She didn’t look a day older than the last time I’d seen her, ten years gone.

  “Kate, it’s good to have you back.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and smiled. Anna’s one of the few genuinely nice people I’ve ever met, and it’s easy to smile at her. I used my chin to point at the paper on the counter. “What’s up?”

  “Chamber’s asking us all to ope
n early,” Nancy said.

  I blinked. “We’re already going to be opening for May 14.”

  “Wants earlier’n that.” She scooted the paper in my direction. I caught it and frowned down at the gray letters. Somebody at the Chamber of Commerce office ought to see about changing the cartridge in their inkjet.

  “They applied for a hospitality grant—oh, almost a year ago,” Anna said in her soft voice. “And now they find that they’re one of three finalists . . .”

  “And they want everybody to be open and ready to receive customers on the twenty-sixth—that’s Wednesday!” My stomach hit my heels and stayed there, ice cold. I shot a glance at Nancy. “We can’t have the carousel ready by Wednesday.”

  “Sure we can,” she said soothingly. “ ’Nother couple hours’ll put the mechanicals to rights, then I’ll get right onto the organ and the brass.” She hesitated, before suggesting, delicately. “Maybe there’s somebody in town can give you a hand with the critters?”

  Stipulating that Gran was in town, which she had to be, dammitalltohell. I gave Nancy a shrug, trying for noncommittal. “Maybe there is,” I allowed, and turned to Anna. “Seen Mr. Ignatious lately?”

  She frowned slightly, trying to remember, then looked over her shoulder and yelled into the kitchen. “Tony! Has the old gentleman been around yet this year?”

  A shout answered her, words unintelligible over the spit of grease.

  Anna shook her head. “Haven’t seen him.”

  My disappointment must’ve shown on my face, because Anna put out a hand and touched me lightly on the arm. “That doesn’t mean he isn’t here, Kate. Lots of times, he’ll just come in from the beach side and go right to the Knot.”

  “Knot doesn’t always open for Early Season,” Nancy commented, canceling any comfort I might’ve taken from Anna—then added hastily, “Though like she says, he might be down there right now, for all we know about it. No need for him to pass this way.”

  “Though it’s early in the day for him,” Anna said musingly. “He likes to work late, when he works.”

  True enough, on both counts. I sighed, and tried to buy off the dread in my stomach with an easy fantasy—I’ll go down to the Knot in an hour or two and Mr. Ignatious’ll know exactly where Gran is—but my gut wasn’t having any.