by Sharon Lee
“She told me about it,” Borgan interrupted. “I’ll take good care of her, Anna, don’t worry.”
She smiled. “I won’t, then.”
* * *
True to her word, Nancy had closed up as best she was able. Borgan followed me inside and stood by the control stand while I made sure the storm walls were tight, and did a tour of the ride. Nancy’d got all the lights in, I saw, polished the brass on the orchestrion and cleaned the glass. Hell, she’d even threaded in a roll of Violano paper. All we’d have to do tomorrow would be push back the walls, turn on the lights and start selling tickets.
“I feel like such a slacker,” I said, maybe to Borgan, maybe to myself. “Nancy’s put in a day and a half’s work while I was goofing off.”
“Taking out a willie wisp and preserving the memories of a couple hundred folks who probably value them high,” Borgan said quietly. “Trying to check on the old gentleman. Flirting with me.”
“I was not flirting with you,” I said absently, pausing to inspect the bindings on the goat. Still strong and tight. Good.
“Well, now I’m heartbroken,” he said, his voice closer at hand. I turned and saw him walking toward me around the carousel. He checked when he came level with the batwing horse, and frowned down at it.
“This one’s awake,” he said.
I sighed and went to join him. “It asked to be, had a good reason, and backed it up with an oath, so I agreed.”
Borgan nodded, but didn’t move, his gaze still on the batwing. “What’re you going to do? About your gran, that is.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. If I had any friends in the Land of the Flowers—but I don’t. I guess I could cross over myself and look for her.” Though I’d rather not, I thought. And then I thought of the blight on Gran’s tree and was ashamed.
“It might be,” I said to Borgan, “that’s the best thing to do. Now the prisoners are sealed, Nancy can run the ride, though I should get one other—”
“Would that be a little risky?” he asked. “Crossing over.”
I stepped off the carousel. “A little,” I said. “Yeah.”
* * *
Forty minutes later, I came out of Dynamite, staggering under the sheer number of bags, and found Borgan leaning against the light pole, hands in pockets, watching the crowd. He straightened when he saw me and stepped forward with a smile.
“You don’t have to carry my books home from school,” I told him, a little snippier than I had really intended.
“Well, I do,” he answered mildly, taking the bags out of my hands. “I promised Anna.”
Which was, I had to admit, a point.
We cut across Jerome’s parking lot, weaving between parked cars to the other side, turned right and walked down Grand. There were maybe a half-dozen tourists on the stroll, taking in what sights there were.
“I wonder if they know this is the wrong side of town,” I said, tucking my hands into the pockets of my new denim jacket.
“Nothing wrong with this side of town,” Borgan answered, and glanced up at the sky. “Oughta be sending up the fireworks soon.”
Right on cue a single rocket screamed into the sky and exploded in a brilliant flower of light.
“What did you mean,” I asked, around the echoes of the explosion, “when you said you’d never used glamor on me?”
Fireworks bloomed overhead—one-two-three—happily, sans explosion. Borgan looked down at me, eyes hidden in shadow.
“Meant what it sounded like,” he said, his voice just a shade too earnest. “I’m really sorry, Kate, but it seems you like me for my own self.”
“Sure I do.”
“Is that so hard? Anna likes me.”
I laughed. “Anna likes me, which ought to tell you something. She doesn’t like everybody, but she does have range.”
“Anna liking you does tell me something,” Borgan said, and his voice was perfectly serious. “You’re too hard on yourself.”
I shook my head, and paused to look both ways down the empty street, while pink, blue and white fireworks cascaded down the sky, accompanied by an emphatic BANG!
“We can cross here,” I said, and stepped out, Borgan at my shoulder.
Bob’s was closed when we went by, a sign in the window promising a 5 a.m. opening on the morrow.
The street was quiet, except for the echo of the explosion—and the scream of ungreased hinges, followed by a metallic clang from the alley beside my next-door neighbor’s house.
Borgan frowned, put my bags down on the sidewalk, and moved, quick and quiet, toward the sound. I followed, not as quick, but quiet enough that we both scared hell out of Gaby when she turned around, a six pack of empty beer bottles clutched to her chest.
“Eek!” she screamed and fell to her knees, her body bent over the empties.
“Take it easy, Gaby,” I said. “It’s only Kate.”
“There’s somebody else!” she squeaked, staying right where she was. I sighed.
“That’s right,” I said, patiently. “A friend of mine. We heard you open the Dumpster and wanted to make sure it wasn’t . . . somebody trespassing.”
“Trespassing!” Gaby cried, raising her head in indignation. “I’m not trespassing—just after the returnables, is all. Nothing for a son of the sea to bother himself about.”
“That’s right,” Borgan said, his voice easy. “I didn’t know you were around, is all. You’ll want to be a little careful. There’s vermin about—human and fey.”
Gaby got to her feet. She gave a stiff little nod in Borgan’s general direction, not looking at him. “I thank’ee. That’s neighborly.”
“Welcome,” he said, and turned away. “We’ll leave you to it, then. Kate?”
“On my way,” I said. “ ’Night, Gaby.”
“How’d you find them fiddleheads, missy?”
“Wonderful,” I told her truthfully. “I’d forgotten how good they are.”
Gaby snorted and rustled around in the shadow of the Dumpster for her bags. “Goodnight to ye, then. There’s some of us got work.”
I grinned and went back out to the street, where Borgan was waiting, bags in hand.
He followed me up the stairs and waited patiently while I opened the door, then handed me the bags one at a time so I could set them inside.
“Well,” I said, a little too brightly. “Thank you—for all your help tonight.”
“Didn’t do anything except make sure you had room to work,” he said. “Kate—” He paused as a small war’s worth of explosions echoed down the beach, bouncing off the sides of buildings and waking weird echoes. Grand finale, it must’ve been; the air felt empty when they were done.
“Kate . . .” Borgan said again—and stopped.
“Yeah?” I said.
He shook his head. “Don’t do anything, will you? About your gran. Sleep on it, at least. I’ll talk with Nerazi—see if she’s got any ideas, once she hears the tale.”
I yawned, belatedly covering my mouth, abruptly and acutely conscious of having been up since just after midnight, and of the day’s many adventures. The land had been keeping me vertical, but apparently it had decided that enough was enough.
“Okay, I’ll sleep on it,” I told Borgan. “And it looks like it better be soon.”
He grinned. “Go on in and get your rest, then. Meet me at Neptune’s tomorrow—’round seven? Give me a chance to buy you that drink, an’ let you know what Nerazi tells me.”
I nodded, fighting another yawn. “Sounds good,” I mumbled. “See you then.”
“ ’Night,” said Borgan as I stepped into the house.
He was still standing there, hands in his pockets and face attentive, when I turned back to close the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
Monday, April 24
High Tide 8:36 a.m.
Sunrise 5:45 a.m. EDT
Sunrise found me at the northern salt marsh, a solid seven hours of sleep under my belt and a stainless steel commuter mug half full
of coffee in my hand.
The land was responsible for this display of virtue; waking me before the stars had faded, and dragging me out here. And, truthfully, I should have come sooner. It was my duty to care for the land—and the northern marsh was one sick puppy. I’d felt it when I’d merged with the land to look for Gran—well. If it hadn’t been for Borgan, the marsh would’ve probably killed me.
At first glance, the marsh—Heron Marsh, as it’s called on the town maps—looked, well . . . like a salt marsh: arrow grass, salt hay, cattails and slough grass; native phragmite shaking its feathery plumes in the breeze; water channels; mud.
Second glance caught the sparse and sickly condition of the vegetation, the green scum in the center of the channels, and the water line that was ’way too low for this time of the day, when the tide had been coming in for three hours and more.
I knelt down, pleased that I had the foresight to wear my old jeans; wincing as the broad-leafed weeds crunched beneath me. Tentatively, I touched the swamp, letting my consciousness float on the scummy surface.
Exhausted, despairing sobs shook me. Carefully, oh-so-very-carefully, recalling my last encounter with the marsh, I allowed myself to sink below the surface.
Thirst. Self-disgust. A feeling of filth and degradation. Longing, for the rise and fall of the cleansing waters. All very well and good, but what I needed was info, not feelings.
I let myself sink one more level down.
Bad idea.
Sticky black tendrils were around me before I sensed anything wrong, pulling me down toward the unwholesome stew at the bottom of the marsh. The wailing and the longing of the marsh were gone, replaced by an acid bath of rage.
I struggled, trying to snatch myself back into my body, but it was like wrestling with the Tar Baby. Everything I did only stuck me tighter, and this time there was no Borgan on hand to pull me free.
Kate, you’re an idiot. A dead, enthralled—or both—idiot, if I didn’t think of something quick.
I stopped struggling, and forced myself to lie quiescent in my captor’s grip.
The descent toward the bottom . . . paused, and a sense of puzzlement reached me through the rage.
I formed a question with exquisite care, projecting calm competence, which was a fabrication worthy of any trenvay.
Happily, my captor bought it.
Images and sensations tumbled through me, tearing at my captive essence. Sickness, despair, anger, oh my yes. Betrayal. And, like the refrain of a particularly tragic ballad: Thirst. Self-disgust. Degradation, and longing.
I pictured the channels as I had just seen them: the water low and coated with scum; the plants failing. Rage began to boil again from what I was now pretty sure had been—was—the trenvay attached to the marsh. Not willing to take another acid bath, I hurried the next set of images, picturing the water level rising, the scum swirling away, the plants rejuvenated.
Rage subsided, usurped by a longing so intense that my too-far-away body probably threw back its head and howled.
You can do this?
God. Coherence.
I can try.
A shimmer of anger, hardly noticeable at all.
Will you do this?
Free me to myself and I will do everything in my power to succor you.
I hung in nothingness, waiting for an answer, trying not to think about what would happen if the answer was no. A crazed trenvay, poisoned by the sickness consuming his soul-place . . . The longer the silence stretched, the less hope I had for a rational decision.
The black tentacles of my prison fell away, and I was thrust out of the marsh and into my body with a force that knocked me flat, breath escaping in a gasping, flattened-out scream.
I lay on the damp ground looking up at the silver and blue sky, just . . . breathing. In the back of my head, the land was calm and attentive, like I hadn’t just almost gotten myself zombified.
After a while, I sat up. My coffee cup was lying on the weeds by my knee. I picked it up—and sighed. Empty.
All right, Kate. This is where the Guardian business gets down and dirty.
Right. I looked out over the wounded marsh, fishing for a clue.
Salt marshes need the tide to clean them. Cut off the tide and you choke the marsh, killing everything that depends on it: plants, fish, bugs, birds. Back in the ’way back, men used to fill the marshes, or ditch and drain them—to keep mosquitoes down, or to gain more land to plant. Once various bright, ecologically inclined lads and lasses had noodled out that the marshes were a critical buffer zone between the land and the sea, that kind of thing theoretically went out of vogue.
Except, in some areas, in an effort to protect the works of men at the expense of the marsh, floodgates have been built across the ingress channels. Most of the time, such gates stood open, closed only against double high tides and storm surge.
During my childhood, there hadn’t even been talk of a floodgate on Carson Creek, the path the tide rode into Heron Marsh. During my childhood, the rich people from Away hadn’t started building condos and expensive summer homes on the edge of the marsh, either.
The smart money said there was a floodgate across the ocean’s ingress now, put in place to protect those high-value properties. Or maybe some developer had hit on a scheme to make profit from the weedy “wasteland.”
Only one way to find out, now, isn’t there, Kate?
I climbed to my feet, stuffing the stainless steel cup down the front of my jacket, and turned east. Toward the sea.
* * *
It was easy to find—a simple sluice gate, meant to be opened and closed by hand. Preferably a hand supported by a strong back, since the wheel that turns the worm drive is typically pretty hard to move.
In the case of the sluice gate across Carson Creek, this had been taken to an extreme: The wheel was locked with rust, the worm drive inoperable. The sea itself knew how long the thing had been locked down. I was guessing a year, minimum, given the state of the marsh and its trenvay.
I leaned over the rail of the operator’s platform and looked down. The incoming tide was filling the blocked channel. Soon it would overflow into the bank on either side. I could see evidence that this had happened before, many times—grasses and reeds half-buried in silt, the bank itself undercut and on the edge of being unstable.
The damn’ gate wasn’t only hurting the upper marsh; it was creating a whole different order of havoc downstream.
Just for fun, I pulled on my work gloves and tried the wheel, throwing my whole weight against it. I might as well have tried to pull Googin Rock out of the tide. Panting, I stepped back and considered my next move.
“Should’ve brought a can of WD-40,” I muttered. Though I had a feeling that this wasn’t a problem that could be fixed with a couple shots of lubricant.
There was a Public Works plate set into the platform’s deck. I’d be within my rights as a concerned citizen to bring this problem to the attention of the superintendent. And, eventually, they’d get around to sending a couple guys down in the town pickup to study the problem and maybe spray the wheel and the screw with WD-40 before trying their best to break the rust’s embrace.
After they’d figured out that the problem was bigger than their heads, they’d report back to the boss, who would have to go to the town manager for permission to spend money to get an expert in to give them a repair estimate, and—
By the time all the paperwork and budgeting and discussion was done, the marsh and its trenvay would be beyond anyone’s help.
The land stirred, reminding me of its presence. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a problem that the land’s peculiar power could easily address. We might, I supposed, reroute the channel around the sluice gate, but that—while not exactly a project for the ages—would be time consuming, not to say even more destructive of trees and bank.
No, what I needed was a quick fix, something like WD-40, only with more punch, to melt the rust off the wheel and—
I felt a tickl
e of warmth in my blood, and the breathy hint of a Word along my tongue. Jikinap, rising to the challenge.
“Oh, no,” I said. “No. Absolutely not.” Like that did any good.
The more a mage accesses her power, the easier it is to use, and the more she becomes dependent upon it. The more dependent a mage becomes, the less she controls her power, and the more her power controls her. I was already on the bumpy road to hell, what with dismissing Black Dogs, shredding willie wisps, and making mage-fire on the side. I so did not need to be raising jikinap to deal with this.
My blood continued to warm, the power eager to express its dominion over mere matter. I concentrated, trying to drive it back down to the base of my spine, and making no noticeable headway.
You promised, Kate. Everything in your power. You said it.
Well, I had promised. Though it would have eased my feelings considerably if I’d been certain it was my conscience speaking.
I closed my eyes and took a good, deep breath of salt air, listening to the ocean smacking uselessly against the sluice gate while gulls argued overhead.
It was true, I admitted, that a well-placed magical nudge could do exactly what a six month study and a budget overrun would, less the time and the monetary expense.
It was also true that I was in possession of sufficient power to accomplish the task, as long as I managed not to catch the marsh on fire in the process.
Power rose, tingling in my fingertips. I concentrated on the rust, and the wheel, and the gate, womanfully resisting the temptation to whack the thing a good one with the magical equivalent of a Big Hammer and have done with it. My magic tutor would have scorned such white-livered quailing, and pointed out—quite rightly—that power belonged to the bold.
I’ve never actually been very bold.
I thought a shape, building it in my head, slow and careful as I knew how. The power was running hot, now, and I was sweating in the cool air. Not much, I said to myself. A tap, not a whack—
It was then that I noticed the Word sitting quiet at the back of my tongue, waiting.