by Sharon Lee
She nodded, grinning. “I know you did, ’cause he was coming up the walk just as I was leaving. Said he knew he’d been a time away, but there’d been a situation he’d had to take care of. Left him sitting in the rocker with a beer in one hand, talking to Ma and Aunt about fishing up Nova Scotia.”
It was a little startling, the crimp I felt in my chest, that he’d gone to visit Nancy’s mother—and that, I told myself firmly, was idiotic. I’d seen the man in the wee hours of the morning. I had a breakfast date for tomorrow morning. I’d passed the message myself about Nancy’s mom, and I would not—would not, I told myself sternly—tolerate petty jealousy.
“He’s a man of his word,” I said to Nancy, as she ducked under the rail and got herself set up at the operator’s station. “You good to go? Need me to stick around?”
“I’m good,” she said. “And you’d best go—get yourself a nice supper, glass of wine, have a relaxing evening. Because tomorrow, you got the long shift.”
“You make a persuasive argument,” I said. “I’m outta here. If you run into any trouble, you know who to call.”
Despite it being the first day of the Season, the beach was uncrowded, in deference to the chill riding the breeze. There were a few hardy souls out with umbrellas, and one semienthusiastic game of bocce being played on a field marked out on the wet sand, but on the whole there were more seagulls than tourists on the beach.
Being the sturdy Maine girl that I am, the feel of the sun on my skin outweighed any minor discomfort brought by the chilly breeze. In most respects, it was a fine day for a walk.
I walked up the beach from the park, but when Dube Street and my own boardwalk over the dunes came into sight, I didn’t turn away from the ocean and angle across the dry sand to home.
Instead, I kept walking.
Like I said, it was a fine day for a walk. That, and the fact that I was just the least little bit restless must have been the reasons I continued on down the beach toward Surfside. After all, I knew it was ’way too early to look for Nerazi at the Boundary Stone, though I suppose I could’ve been looking for something else.
The bodies of dead ronstibles, maybe.
Whatever a ronstible was.
I supposed it made a certain amount of sense, given the number and kinds of seafolk of which I was aware, that there would be some . . . philosophical problems among them. Didn’t I have my share, with the trenvay?
Each trenvay is guardian of a particular piece of land, marsh, water, tree, or whatnot. Each trenvay’s life is inextricably bound with the life of that which she guards, so it makes perfect sense that each trenvay is stubborn, opinionated, proud, and very, very protective of what Gran calls their service. Being trenvay, they had a little tiny bit of trouble, now and then, with the idea of a Guardian of the land entire. And especially with me as the Guardian of the land entire. I don’t blame them; they’ve got cause. Two good causes, in fact.
Cause Number One: Despite being an Archer of the Archers, I’m not from around here, having been born in the Land of the Flowers, and there’s no Mainer breathing who believes that somebody from Away has their best interests at heart.
Cause Number Two: I walked out on my service.
Hell, half the time, I didn’t trust me.
So far, though, and with the possible exception of Artie, I’d managed to get work done without getting badly burned.
But, what if a particular trenvay or group of trenvay decided to take me down and replace me with themselves?
I shook my head as I walked, shivering a little, hardy Maine girl or not, as I passed from the sunshine into the shadow cast by the Tides In Condominiums.
Wouldn’t work. If they were determined, they could get rid of me, sure. But they couldn’t set up as Guardian. The land chose the Guardian, and for hundreds of years, it had chosen Archers.
Or nothing.
That sort of begged the question of what would happen when there were no more Archers, but for today I was more interested in the notion that there were a group of seafolk—let’s call them ronstibles—who thought that they could take over the Guardianship of the Gulf of Maine just by . . . suppressing the seated Guardian.
That—
“Good-day to yer, missus,” a high voice said from the vicinity of my ankle.
I blinked out of my web of conjectures and looked down.
“Good-day to you, Heeterskyte,” I said politely. “Is there a service I may perform for you?”
Heeterskyte are smallkin; virtually indistinguishable from your ordinary Maine sandpiper. If anything, they’re rather more reserved than your ordinary Maine sandpiper by which, I saw now that I was less abstracted, I was presently surrounded.
“I beg your pardon, Heeterskyte,” I said, with real regret. “I allowed my thoughts to swallow my sense. I had no intention of disturbing the flock.”
“That’s well said,” my particular heeterskyte said approvingly. “But we know you, missus, and we know you’re no threat to us or our feeding. I was wishful of telling you a thing, which might’ve escaped notice.”
Heeterskyte are also fond of gossip—and they’re accurate. I don’t know how they do it.
“I’d be very interested,” I said, truthfully.
“Something’s here that don’t belong,” the heeterskyte said sternly. “Knows it don’t belong, is what I think, missus, though there’s those who think that might change.”
Well, as gossip and rumor went, I’d had vaguer. But not by much.
“Do you have a range?” I asked it. “Are we talking Black Dogs? Snallygasters? Willie wisps?”
“No, none of that,” the heeterskyte said, slowly. “I don’t say it’s much, but it’s something. Trouble is, it happened up near the Old Woman’s landhold. Thought at first it was something of hers. Talked to a nighthawk who’d seen it, though. Said the flames came from the house, and that he heard somebody just after, cryin’.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Saturday, June 17
High Tide 3:50 A.M.
Sunrise 5:00 A.M. EDT
I hit Bob’s at 7:15—early for my date, and a good thing, too.
I’d forgotten how it was during the Season—when places that had been comfortably half- or uncomfortably quarter-full were suddenly standing-room-only. It probably wouldn’t have hit the restaurants downtown yet—the places that catered exclusively to the tourists—not on the second morning of the Season. Bob’s, though—Bob’s was year-round: a townie place, first and always. Back in the day, it’d been quaint and “Maine” enough to attract headliners from the Pier, many of whom had signed the photographs that still lined the walls.
Being a townie place, on the morning of the second full day of the Season, when mundane folk and trenvay, too, needed a good breakfast to see them through the long working hours ahead, Bob’s was packed. The dividers had been pushed back, opening up the summer dining room, and as far as I could tell, every booth, every table, and every place at the counter was taken.
I hesitated, looking around, saw a hand go up from the booth in the back, by the kitchen door, and started in that direction.
“Guardian.”
It was a low voice, not immediately recognizable as to gender. I turned and found myself surprisingly eye-to-eye with a person wearing a long-sleeved brown-and-black-striped sweater and well-worn jeans. His or her eyes were either brown or black—the shadow of the gimme hat made it hard to be sure. The face was broad, nearly chinless; the mouth wide and thin-lipped.
“Yes?” I said politely.
“Just wanted you t’know—Gaby said you wasn’t clear how t’get hold—I’m Felsic. You got need, I’m down t’marsh, right close in town. Step behind the Sand Dollar and you’ll find me.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m happy to meet you, and glad you could work for the new manager.”
Felsic lifted round shoulders; let them fall.
“Been doin’ it years. Ain’t hard, ’n’ spills honey on the land t’sweeten the so
ur times.”
“Still, it’s good of you,” I insisted. Then, because it had been worrying at me: “Do you know what happened to Jens? Is he . . .” I let it trail off in deference to the three definite non-trenvay eating their breakfasts approximately two inches from where we stood, taking up precious floor space.
The broad head tipped, evoking a feeling of owlishness. “Phyllis, she was one of us. Jens . . . belonged to Phyllis. Y’could say it that way. Stayed on, after she’d faded. We knew ’is service, an’ he never shorted it. Did like he was taught to do, and no blame on ’im. Was folk from Away pushed ’im out, not us.”
I nodded. “Do you know where he went? Jens.”
Another shrug.
“Off outta Archers Beach s’all we know, Guardian.”
“Kate,” I said gently. “It’s my name.”
“Kate, then.” Felsic put up a stubby hand and tugged on the rim of the gimme hat. “Pleasure. Won’t keep you no longer from your meal. ’Morning.”
“Good morning,” I said, and watched Felsic pivot in place and move back to a table where two companions waited, coffee mugs at half-mast, eyes round. I wondered if they might be Moss and Vornflee, but it didn’t seem polite to go over and ask.
And, besides, there was that hand still up in the back, steady as she went, but probably getting a little tired of it by now.
Borgan was wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled, and the top two buttons undone. The nacre stud was in his ear, which it wasn’t always, so he must consider that this was a special occasion.
My stomach certainly agreed, and while the land was being circumspect, I could feel it quivering with pleasure.
To be perfectly honest, I was quivering myself, under a strong desire to fling myself against his chest. Fortunately for that, the table was between us. I took a breath, grinned at Borgan, and slid into the booth across from him.
“Sorry ’bout the delay; Guardian politics.”
“No problem,” he said, pushing a heavy white mug toward me. “Little worried your coffee’d get cold, though.”
“Which would make it worse, how?”
I pulled three creamers from the saucer in the center of the table, and emptied them into my mug before tasting.
Every bit as awful as always. And hot, to boot.
“Wouldn’t want it any warmer,” I told Borgan. “Nancy told me you dropped by to see her mother last night.”
“That I did. Me an’ the ladies had a free-rangin’ chat about the fishin’ here as opposed to other pieces o’water. Turns out Hum’d been part of a commercial fleet for a while, as a young man, sailing out of Nova Scotia. Come home to tend matters when his father fell sick. Met the missus, and it turned out that she’d have him, so they bought the boat with his portion of his father’s death, and he never went back up north.” He picked up his mug and gave me a grin. “Beer was good, too.”
“Very important to have good beer for a free-ranging conversation,” I said, and drew in a breath—
“What can I get you two?” came a familiar voice from just in back of my shoulder. I turned my head to look at Bob, who hefted the coffeepot in his right hand and warmed our cups for us.
“I’d like a ham and cheese omelet with a toasted blueberry muffin on the side, please,” I said.
Bob nodded. “You got it. Cap’n Borgan?”
“Two eggs over easy, home fries, sausage, wheat toast—that’ll do me.”
“Beans or doughnut?” Bob asked. “Looks like you could use a little weight put on.”
“It’ll come,” Borgan said. “If I’m still peckish after, Kate here’ll gimme an ice cream.”
Bob snorted. “Breakfasts comin’ right up. Good you’re back, Cap’n.”
“Good to be back,” Borgan returned.
Bob left us, vanishing through the swinging door into the kitchen. I added more cream to my mug, and looked up at Borgan.
Yes, he was too thin, and yes, he looked worn. But beyond all of that, he looked like Borgan, and the simple fact of him being himself contented me in ways that I suspected were deeply dangerous to my future peace of mind.
“So,” I said, keeping my voice as casual as I could, with the land wanting Borgan to rub its ears in the worst possible way . . . “what’s a ronstible? And did you . . . retire it or them in good order?”
Borgan laughed out loud, and picked up his mug.
“That’s our Kate—a point like a needle.”
I glared at him.
He grinned, drank coffee, put his mug down and leaned his elbows on the table.
“Seeing me here and awake might give you an answer, eh?”
“I saw you and you were awake Thursday night. Friday morning. And the sea . . .”
“Right,” he interrupted. “Well, then. Ronstibles are . . .”
“Here y’are,” Bob said, dealing plates like a poker hand.
He was gone, wading out into the main room with tray at shoulder level. A round-faced woman with gin-blonde hair came out of the summer parlor, coffeepot in one hand and a pad in the other. She dodged Bob neatly, stepped over a boot in the aisle, glanced at our full cups on the way past, and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“JoAnn. Bob’s daughter.”
I blinked. I hadn’t known Bob had a daughter, though I’d certainly known he’d been married. Lillian had died back when I was still a kid, killed by the toxins that had leached into and poisoned her pond. Now, was Bob’s daughter trenvay, or—
I forcibly yanked my thoughts back from that fascinating line of speculation and looked at Borgan, who was grinning, damn him, as he addressed his breakfast.
I picked up my fork. Let the man eat, I scolded myself, and sampled a forkful of omelet. Perfect, as always. If Bob ever learned how to brew coffee, world domination was his.
When the omelet was gone, and half the blueberry muffin, I looked up to see Borgan regarding me seriously over the rim of his coffee cup. His plate was shoved to the outside edge of the table, silverware neatly stacked, all ready for pickup.
“So,” I said, trying to sound cool and calm, “you were telling me about ronstibles.”
“Wouldn’t you rather know about JoAnn?”
“No.”
“You’re a hard woman, but have it your way. To tell it short, ronstibles are . . . sea witches. They’re the ones who guarded the waters . . . a long time ago.”
“So they’re the original guardians, that you displaced.”
Borgan gave me another glance over the rim of his cup. “That’s right.”
“And they hold a grudge.”
“In a manner of speaking. Most times, they’re not a bit o’trouble. But—” He stopped abruptly, looked down and reached for a piece of toast.
“But I’d almost killed you,” I finished, and the edge on my voice made me wince. “They took their chance to, what? Keep you drugged and asleep?”
He looked up. “Something close. Good thing you eventually missed me.”
“I missed you,” I said, perhaps unwisely, “the minute you went into the sea, after the Opal opened a door in the air and went home.”
He smiled.
“Now that,” he said, “does give me some hope.”
I shook my head, drank coffee; feeling the laughter rise—and rise, until I couldn’t keep it bottled up anymore, and threw back my head to laugh.
“I hope that’s not a commentary on my chances,” Borgan said.
“No, it’s—one of the things . . . I wanted to talk to you about . . . being human.”
“Well, I can talk about that, if you want to. As human as you are, if older. Which reminds me to say that you could show more respect for your elders.”
“I could, but I probably won’t. It just doesn’t,” I said apologetically, “seem in character.”
“Well, you’re right about that.” He glanced over my head.
“Looks like there’s a line of hungry folks out front,
” he commented. “Want to come for a walk on the beach? I still need to get caught up on the news.”
Archers Beach’s claim to fame is seven miles of sand beach—a true rarity, given Maine’s rocky, not to say perpendicular, seacoast—and of course the folks that advertise such things mean from one end of town to the other. It’s just coincidence that it looks seven miles from dune to breakers, when the tide was ’way out, which it was now.
From Bob’s, Borgan and I walked up to the top of Dube Street. Peggy’s Prius was in the carport, which didn’t tell me anything regarding her whereabouts, seeing as my car was right beside it.
“How’s your roomie workin’ out?” Borgan asked, picking up my thought.
I snorted and shook my head. “Fine, for somebody who moved in less than a week ago. She’s a hard worker, and not my roomie. I don’t think I’d do well with a roomie.”
“Now, see, that’s an important piece of information right there,” Borgan said earnestly. “How d’you feel about visitors?”
He dropped back to let me mount the boardwalk over the dunes first. I glanced at him over my shoulder.
“You proposing yourself?”
He looked innocent—an expression that, for some reason, he seemed to have pat.
“Just tryin’ to get a range, is all.”
“Because, see,” he continued from behind me, “there’s plenty room on Gray Lady for you to leave some things; drop by whenever you like to.”
What with one thing and another, and some personal trauma, my experience with boyfriends is . . . almost nonexistent. I’d dated a little when I’d been out west, but, frankly, it had been a lot easier to throw myself into my work. Let’s just say that I’m bad at relationships.
And yet, I felt . . . an attraction to the idea of leaving a fresh change of clothes aboard Borgan’s boat, and having the option to drop by whenever I’d like to.
I jumped from the end of the boardwalk to the sand, and turned in time to see him do the same.
“Borgan.”