“Don’t know that I’ve ever seen it this . . . empty,” Zantree said, his voice hushed as if he feared something watching us with malevolent intent.
I pointed to the eastern cliffs and their strange movement. “What’s that?”
Zantree peered at it, then pulled a pair of binoculars from a box fixed to the side of the steering station and looked through them.
“Otters. It’s a colony of sea otters. Well, I’ll be blowed. . . .”
TWENTY-FOUR
I found myself turning to watch the expressions of Quinton and Solis. Quinton stared toward the cliff, his mouth slightly open with excitement and awe. Solis looked haunted.
“Do you see . . . Fielding?” I asked Zantree.
He scanned the cliff with the binoculars. “Not sure. There’s a dark shape in the water near the cliff base that might be him—it’s a lot larger than the others. . . .”
“Can you get us near them without cutting into the bubble? We’re probably safer near the otters than anywhere else,” I said.
Zantree frowned. “I thought we needed to go into the . . . whatever you call that bubble thing.”
“It’s an overlap where both the near-paranormal and the normal are visible and operating simultaneously. I’ve seen something related before. This one is the merfolk’s realm as it intersects ours. The temporary intersection acts as a gateway, or, as the ghosts put it, a gap in the worlds where both states exist in the same place and time until the gap closes when its operating schedule dictates. In this case I believe the cycle is twenty-seven years, because that’s how long it was from the time Valencia went down until its lifeboat was found and the same amount of time from the disappearance of Seawitch to its reappearance. Since it’s tied to water, I’m also guessing the cycle’s tidal in nature—it ebbs and swells, so Fielding or his dobhar-chú relatives snuck Seawitch out in the magical equivalent of slack water. And I’m pretty sure it’s the only place to solve this mystery. I don’t want you to take the boat in there if we can avoid it, and not until we’re ready if we can’t. If—when—the state that’s keeping this gateway open collapses, Mambo Moon could be trapped in the merfolk’s realm for the next twenty-seven years, just like Seawitch was. I don’t think you’d enjoy that adventure.”
Zantree shuddered. “Not my idea of fun, being drowned by merfolk.”
“I’m not sure if that bubble will stay in place all of whatever remaining time we’ve got. . . .”
“It has been stable for more than the fifteen minutes our previous test lasted,” Solis said.
“Really?” I replied.
He nodded.
“Then maybe it’s going to hold steady. . . .”
“Hope for the best, but prepare for a storm,” Zantree said, steering for the eastern rocks. “I’ll keep the Moon out of the bubble for now. We can’t get in too close to the cliff since we’re coming on high tide, and as the tide runs out again the Moon’ll swing on her chain. We don’t want to run aground out here—or slide into that freaky ghost wall when the boat tries to come around with the current. But we can drop the dink and set a stern anchor once we get the bow down. That’ll keep her safe off the rocks and out of . . . that.”
Quinton nodded and I mirrored him, though I had no idea what I’d just agreed with. Solis frowned at the lot of us as if he were rethinking the whole mad escapade and checked his watch again.
Zantree maneuvered the boat around about a hundred yards or so from the eastern cliffs until he found a location that satisfied him, then dropped the anchor off the bow with a rattling of chain running off the winch. Then he and Quinton took the dinghy out with a second anchor aboard and put it down a good distance out toward the mouth of the cove. They finished up by securing the second anchor rope to a cleat at the rear of the boat, which held Mambo Moon in position with her bow toward the distant dock and her stern toward the entry to the cove. “So we can cut and run if we have to,” Zantree explained, though it didn’t really help me visualize what he meant. I assumed our would-be pirate captain knew what he was doing since he’d got us this far intact, but I admit I was worried; our position was precarious and we were lying between the local version of Scylla and Charybdis. We’d have to wait a few minutes and see what the dobhar-chú and merfolk would do now that we were here. They had to be feeling the time pressure as much as I was, so I hoped they wouldn’t dawdle.
The light in the cove seemed thicker and more golden on the normal side of the water, though the long summer day was nowhere near ending. Our “quick run” had taken nearly ten hours—double the time it should have, according to Zantree. I wondered how long we could count on the presence of the otters and their Grey kin to keep the merfolk at bay, or if the forces of the sea witch would hold off until the fleeting hours of night to make their move against us—and they surely would move. I didn’t know if we could defend ourselves or even see them coming outside the bubble generated by the Valencia’s bell. I hoped it would hold, as I didn’t think it was practical to strike the damned bell every fifteen minutes and I wasn’t even sure that doing so would keep the layered zone of Grey and normal intact. I suspected we’d have only one short chance to confront the sea witch before the bubble collapsed and dragged us into her realm permanently—or close enough to make no difference. I might survive in her bit of the Grey, but my companions didn’t have the same skills and their chances would be slim.
Once Zantree declared the boat secure and shut down the engines, I went out on the foredeck to study the Grey bubble.
The cove was about a mile across at most and we were only a dozen yards or so from the bulging edge of the fringe zone. Still no sign of the Guardian Beast, I noted, so nothing that shouldn’t have been here was lurking nearby, but the things that did belong were frightening enough on their own. I felt more than heard someone walk up behind me and stop by the rail. I turned.
Solis was frowning out at the curving Grey wall as he held on to the rail. “It is a mirror,” he said, without turning his head to me. “It reflects what you believe.”
“That’s an interesting thing to say.” I don’t know why I was surprised he’d come to that conclusion; as a detective, he must have been observing everyone’s reactions and putting his own experience together with theirs to get a better idea of the situation as a whole. I supposed he’d finally thrown out his resistance to the idea of the paranormal.
“Do you not find it so?”
“Yes and no. I see a lot of things I never even knew existed, so they can’t be just what I believe . . . or the whole magical world would be a black blank to me.”
“You believe in nothing?”
“I believe in people, both what’s good and what’s bad in them. And I think that’s what I see, even when it isn’t something I know. But I also see—or experience—more. Things that aren’t just constructs of human belief, though I must in some way filter it through my own knowledge, memories, fears . . . otherwise I couldn’t recognize it enough to take it in through my own senses at all. It seems to be a state that’s objective and subjective at the same time.”
“When will it come for us?”
The boat swayed and lurched a little as someone moved around inside and the waves in the cove rolled gently under the keel. “It won’t,” I replied. “But the things inside it will—they want a resolution to this situation as much as we do—and they’ll either bring the perception shift with them or drag us to it. They’re . . . I’d say ‘real’ but that’s not quite the idea I want. . . . ‘Corporeal’ is the best I can do. These things aren’t ghosts. Well, there are ghosts here and in the bell, but the things we have to deal with have physical bodies. They can do us physical harm.”
“And can we harm them?”
I nodded, taking note of a slithering sound near the aft—maybe Quinton or Zantree was opening up the sliding doors. “Of course. You made some nice bloody holes in the one that grabbed you. I saw it bleeding.”
He nodded. “Good.”
“I approve also,” said a r
ough, new voice from the side deck.
Solis and I turned around and looked back toward the aft. Quinton stepped out onto the stairs from the pilothouse and looked down at our visitor with a startled expression.
The man was only a few feet forward of the stern deck and he crouched, naked, in a pool of water. He glanced at each of us as he stood up slowly, unfazed by his nudity or our stares. He was about Solis’s height, pale skinned and dark haired, and his eyes were a startling, clear blue—like those of some dogs. He appeared to be in his early fifties, judging by the lines on his face and the slight brush of silver hair at his temples, but he had the body of a sleek, young athlete—a swimmer or a gymnast, I’d have said, since he wasn’t skinny enough to be a dancer or unbalanced like a runner. He also had the sort of strong, active aura I associate with magical creatures: This one was a bright halo of violet and green that whirled with tiny white globes of energy glowing like pearls.
He nodded to me, apparently having decided I was in charge. “Our cousin requires help beyond my ability,” he said in his gravelly voice, exposing sharp teeth with pronounced upper and lower canines, a little more like a ferret’s than a man’s but not as mismatched as Fielding’s had been. “You must come with me.”
I gave him a doubtful glare and did my best to keep my gaze only on his face. “Must?”
He seemed puzzled at my reply. “Of course. That is why we sent him to you to begin with.”
“This cousin would be . . . Gary Fielding?” I guessed.
He nodded with raised eyebrows, as if he thought me a bit dim, but wasn’t going to insult me by mentioning it. “Please. We can go now? I find this form uncomfortable.”
This form. . . . I made a not-so-wild guess. “You’re Father Otter, then?”
He gave another, slightly impatient nod and pointed toward the eastern cliffs. “This is our holt. Within awaits our cousin, who will not live unless you come now.” He turned and loped along a wet trail back to the stern, where the ladder came up from the swim platform. So that’s how he’d come aboard. He scowled back at us once again. “We none of us have time to waste. Come.”
I looked at Quinton and Solis. I didn’t want to leave the boat, where I had allies and dry decks beneath my feet and any fishy adversaries were at a disadvantage. However, I was sure I’d need the help of the dobhar-chú to bring this business to a close and I knew I wouldn’t get it unless I helped Gary Fielding. The thought of getting into the chilly waters of the Sound gave me a shiver as I remembered drowning as a child and all the times I’d been soaked since the beginning of this case, not to mention the dreadful things that lived in the water of this cove. . . .
Father Otter glared at me. “You will not help?”
I walked past Solis and Quinton to get closer to our visitor, but not close enough to be grabbed and hauled overboard. “I will if I can,” I replied, “but . . . I don’t do water very well.”
“You cannot swim?”
“I can swim, but I get cold when wet. That will make it hard for me to help your cousin, especially since we have to act fast or we’ll be stuck here.”
Father Otter rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. “Bring yourself by boat to the crouch. It is dry within.” He pointed to a particularly cluttered bit of the tumbled shoreline where there seemed to be an inordinate number of shadows that resisted the sunlight. “We will meet you there and take you within. Bring your assistant if you must. But soon. The merfolk gather their strength.” That at least explained the cease-fire since we’d arrived and confirmed my thought that the sea witch had to husband her resources with care.
Then Father Otter turned his back, crouching and shrinking into the compact, dark-furred form of a massive otter. A cross of white fur marked his spine and shoulders. The huge otter turned its head to give us one last, annoyed glance before it dove under the rail and out, into the water, vanishing below the surface in a ripple that formed an arrow toward the cliffs before it dissipated into the rolling tide.
I turned back to Solis and Quinton and saw Zantree looking out of the pilothouse door also. “I guess I don’t have a lot of choices . . .” I said.
Quinton and Solis both stepped toward me, saying, “I’ll come with you.” Then they stopped and glanced at each other.
“I’ll go by myself,” I said.
“You don’t know that you’ll be safe,” Quinton objected, his aura spiking with alarm and sending little breathless jolts through our connection.
“I won’t be any safer with an escort. There’s bound to be more of them than us and I can’t hope to fight my way out, so I’ll have to presume their goodwill, because as much as I need their help, they need mine.”
“What if something happens and you can’t get back on your own?”
“I have my pistol in my pocket. If the dobhar-chú can’t help me, I’m sure you’ll hear it if I have to use it.”
Quinton didn’t like it but he knew I wasn’t going to budge on that point. Solis continued toward me with a determined expression.
“Now, wait a minute,” I started.
“I am coming.”
“No, you aren’t. You heard what I just said.”
“Yes. But I am not your boyfriend. I am your fellow investigator and Gary Fielding is material to my case as well.”
Quinton scowled and I didn’t have to experience his secondhand flare of confusion, jealousy, and discomfort to know how he was feeling.
I objected. “Solis—”
Solis shook his head as he came up to where I was standing. “There is no argument. He said to bring your assistant if you must. I am the only person who qualifies and I will come.”
“Well, if it’s that easy—” Quinton started.
I held out one palm to nip that in the bud. “It isn’t. If I have to put up with you guys being high-handed, then Solis has the best argument. And here’s one more: I don’t think more than two humans will be welcome and even that number is obviously begrudged. Do not push it.”
Quinton’s mouth hardened and he looked belligerent, but after a second or two sorting out the battle between emotion and logic, he let out a hard breath and quirked one corner of his mouth into a resigned nonsmile. “All right. You are the boss and you know what you’re doing. I’ll stick here with Zantree and wait. For a while.”
I gave him a grateful smile and went over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Just come back fast—those fish-butts aren’t going to stay off our backs for long.”
“I know. If they come, just keep them off the boat and away from the bell. We’ll be back as soon as we can. And you know I love you and need you, right?”
“Yeah. And I love you . . . even when you’re a bullheaded pain in my ass.” He finally returned my kiss and then turned me around to face the aft rail before we got too maudlin. “Now get going.”
Zantree had no interest in butting into the conversation or tagging along, but he helped us get the dinghy deployed again and heading for shore with me and Solis aboard. It was only when we were on the way that I realized the little vessel was in the hands of the half of the party who knew almost nothing about handling boats. Luckily the water on the eastern edge of the cove was nearly still and the boat was a simple outboard type without a lot of bells and whistles to deal with and no oars to pull. We drew near the tumbled rocks and cut the engine, letting it glide toward the shadow Father Otter had indicated.
Three wet, dark otter heads popped up, bristling whiskers and making chuffing snorts, sniffing at us as we neared. They eyed us thoroughly before the largest one turned back toward the rocks and the other two swam forward to guide us in by bumping the gliding dinghy into the proper path with their bodies. I had seen otters at the Seattle Aquarium and it wasn’t until one of our escorts was cruising along the side of the boat only a few inches from my hand that I realized how big they are. This one was typical at about five feet long, including its rudderlike tail, and probably weighed between ninety and a hundred pounds
. It rolled on its back in the water and yawned, showing off its mouthful of ivory-colored fangs. I’ve heard otters referred to as clowns and playful, but seeing one that close I knew “play” was relative—it would be no work at all for this giant seagoing ferret to snap off one of my fingers or break one of my arms if it got those teeth into me. And while they had a thick coat of fur, the body underneath was all muscle, and quick with it. I hoped I would have no reason to tussle with any of the creatures living under Father Otter’s aegis, especially since dobhar-chú were even larger than the garden-variety sea otter swimming beside us.
In a few minutes the boat had come to a soft halt against the cliff base where a small, low cave had been carved into the rock by aeons of waves. Solis and I climbed out of the dinghy with care and jammed the little boat’s rope between two rocks so it wouldn’t drift away, though the otters looked at us with quivering-whisker expressions that implied they’d never seen a human do anything as silly as that before. At their vocal insistence, aided by nose prods and dirty looks, we scrambled for the cave and were met by one of the dobhar-chú—or I assumed it was since it was about twenty-five percent larger and had the telltale white cross on its back that I’d seen on both Fielding and Father Otter. Its bellow was something between a large cat’s mew and a dog’s bark. It looked us over and trotted off into the darkness at the back of the cave. Solis and I exchanged wary glances and followed it, stumbling on the slick, uneven rock of the upward-sloping cave floor. I winced with every jarring misstep and slip of the foot as we went.
In the dark all trips seem too long and perilous. Eddies and hollows of Grey washed around us, unnoticed by Solis, who kept his eyes on the dobhar-chú, while time rushed and lagged and broke into temporaclines that sparkled like shattered glass I dared not touch. The sound of muttering and mewling echoed ahead of us as we walked. In those weirdly dilated minutes, we passed through a ghost forest tilted at a disorienting angle and then through a flash of heat that dissipated into a bland, dim illumination the color of lichen. Before us opened a low-ceilinged cavern thick with half-lit things and the odor of fish and wet fur. Around the edges the cave seemed to writhe and it took a moment for me to realize the movement and the sound I’d been hearing all along was actually dozens of otters and dobhar-chú lounging, grooming, or moving in and out of the area through passages on each end that brought diluted air and light in from the outside. At our end a clearing had been made near the wall to accommodate a small group of dobhar-chú gathered around the misshapen bulk of Gary Fielding.
Seawitch: A Greywalker Novel Page 28