Carousel Sun

by Sharon Lee

  It started to drizzle just as I hit the corner of Dube Street. I ran to the top of the street, clattered up the stairs, and let myself into the house.

  By the time I’d had a quick shower and washed down a Swiss cheese sandwich on rye with a big glass of orange juice, the drizzle had turned into a downpour. Not the sort of weather to entice epic crowds to the amusement park, though the arcade ought to make out fine. And you never knew. People did occasionally pull on their slickers and brave the damp.

  After all, rain did, eventually, stop.

  It was a little early when I donned my own slicker and headed back downtown, but there was somebody I wanted to see before I relieved Vassily at the carousel.

  The midway was effectively deserted, though there were two hardy pleasure-seekers at the baseball toss. As I watched, the little kid in his miniature Red Sox jacket and matching cap reached up over his head to put a quarter on the counter.

  The operator whisked the coin away and replaced it with three regulation hardballs.

  “Want a boost?” The man who asked was either a much older brother or a very young dad, wearing an identical, if larger, jacket-and-hat ensemble.

  The boy nodded. “Yes. Please.”

  “Okay, then, champ, here we go.”

  The bigger guy—I was going for dad, myself—hoisted him up and held him tight around his hips.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then show me what you can do!”

  The kid picked up his first ball, weighed it in his hands, snapped forward and threw.

  It bounced off the backboard and disappeared noisily into the depths of the booth. The game agent, wisely, did not immediately pursue, but stayed tucked into the far corner.

  The second ball hit the rim of the center basket, and fell away.

  “One more, champ,” the kid’s dad said. “Make it count.”

  The boy drew a deep breath. He brought the ball up in both hands. He squinted at the basket—and threw!

  The ball hit the rim, teetered . . .

  In the dim back corner, the agent shifted, very slightly.

  The ball fell into the basket.

  “The young man is a winner!” The agent announced loudly enough to be heard across the almost-empty midway.

  “I won!” the kid yelled.

  “I knew you could do it!” his dad didn’t quite yell. “Good job!”

  “For the winner!” The agent reached under the counter and came up with a stuffed baseball bat approximately as tall as the boy, who took it with a grin, and hugged it close.

  “Thank you!” he said.

  The agent’s smile was broad, to go with the Maine accent.

  “Your skill did it, deah. Got the ahm of a pro!”

  The kid grinned and hugged his bat.

  “Thanks,” the dad said to the operator. “Okay, champ, hang onto the prize. And down we go!”

  He set the kid on his feet and offered a hand.

  “Now what would you like to do?”

  “Ice cream!” the kid said, and his dad laughed.

  “Coulda guessed.” He gave me and the game agent an all-inclusive grin as the kid dragged him down the midway to the sign of the lighted ice cream cone.

  When they were out of earshot, the agent came forward to lean elbows on the counter.

  “Guardian.”

  “Kate,” I corrected.

  Felsic nodded slightly. “Kate.”

  “I’ve got a quick question, if now’s a good time.”

  “Best time all day, so far,” Felsic said.

  “Good. I just wondered if you know anybody living hard by the Dummy Railroad bridge.”

  Felsic frowned, and nudged the gimme hat up a centimeter.

  “Let me think.”

  “Dummy railroad?” demanded a familiar voice from behind me. “What the hell’s a dummy railroad?”

  I turned around to grin at Peggy, who was wearing a safety green slicker that must’ve belonged to Jens—the hem hit her slightly below the knee and the sleeves completely engulfed her hands.

  “Have a little respect,” I told her. “It’s history.”

  “So tell me,” she said, pushing the hood away from her face. It immediately fell forward again. “If you don’t, you don’t know what I’m likely to imagine.”

  “Actually, I have a pretty good idea. But, see, back in the Eighties—that’s the Eighteen-Eighties, when Archers Beach was the place to come on your summer vacation, there was a branch line of the Boston and Maine put in directly to serve Archers Beach, Ocean Park, and Camp Ellis—that’s way down Saco, on the point. Some smart fella dubbed it the Dummy Railroad ’cause it made the return trip from Camp Ellis with the engine pushing the train, it allegedly not being smart enough to turn around.”

  Peggy had another go at pushing her hood back. This time it perched uneasily on her pink hair for a second before falling over her face.

  “So why didn’t it turn around?” she asked, slightly muffled.

  “You ever been to Camp Ellis? Then as now there’s no room to build a turntable, or to lay a turnaround track. The train had to go backward, or not go at all.”

  “Only, it doesn’t still run?”

  “Nope, closed down in the Twenties, I think—the Nineteen-Twenties, just to be clear. The track’s long gone, but you can still see the trestle, where it went over Goosefare Brook. It’s a local landmark.”

  “Oh.” Peggy pushed the hood back again, and held it in place with one hand. She looked at Felsic, who looked back at her from the shadow of the gimme hat.

  “I was going to ask if you thought we should close,” she said, when Felsic continued to say a lot of nothing. “Call it an impromptu poll.”

  Felsic shrugged. “Rain’ll clear out soon. I don’t mind waitin’.”

  “So noted,” Peggy said, and gave me a nod. “See you later, Kate.”

  “Have a good evening.” I stepped aside to let her go by, then looked to Felsic. A head shake was my answer.

  “I’m not bringing anybody to mind. I’ll ask around. Somethin’ we need to know about?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, slowly. “There seems to be something . . . peculiar going on with the marsh beach, and I wanted to talk to somebody familiar with the area, compare notes.”

  A slow nod. “I’ll ask around,” Felsic said again.

  “Thanks,” I said, pulling the hood of my slicker up nearer my face. “’Preciate it.”

  “Pleased to help, Guar—Kate. Stay dry, now.”

  “You do the same.”

  Ka-Pow! was doing a healthy business, to judge by the sounds of gunfire, revving motors, and screams that echoed over Fountain Circle as I left the midway.

  Fun Country, on the other hand, was deserted. Baxter Avenue looked downright unwelcoming. The gray air leached the bright colors from Summer’s Wheel, reworking it in monochrome. Brand was nowhere to be seen; probably taking shelter in the utility shed.

  Down the avenue, the greenie tending the lobster toss had let three of the canvas sides down, and was leaning against one of the corner posts, staring out at the rain and smoking. Directly across from him, the Tarot cards glowed bravely against the gloom, but the gloom was winning.

  Anna was behind the counter at Tony Lee’s, her arms crossed over her breast, leaning back into Tony, who had one hand on her shoulder. I waved, and got under the carousel’s roof, pulling the slicker’s hood back as I did.

  There wasn’t anybody waiting in line; I hadn’t expected it. The carousel wasn’t running; I hadn’t expected that, either, though sometimes people will come in under the roof to ride the merry-go-round when it’s raining.

  I had expected to see Vassily at the operator’s station, and in that expectation I was disappointed.

  Well, he liked to commune with the animals; doubtless he was around the other side of the wheel.

  I ducked under the safety rail, unzipped my slicker—and paused.

  I heard a sound . . . a tiny sound
, as if someone had gasped.

  Around on the far side of the merry-go-round.

  Letting the slicker hang loose, I slipped under the inner rail and moved toward the dim back corner where I’d heard the sound.

  My sneakers were wet, but I managed to move without any telltale squeaks, ’round the wheel, to the corner opposite the supply shed . . .

  Where Vassily was in a clench with a girl as tall and as slender as he was, her hair bright enough to illuminate the gloom.

  “Am I interrupting something?” I asked, loudly.

  They leapt apart, the girl tugging her violet hoodie back up onto her shoulder. She looked at me, amber eyes wide in an oval, alabaster face, and I sighed.

  “Ulme,” I said, nodding politely before I turned to deal with my employee.

  “Your pardon,” he said quickly. “I am at fault. There was no one, and I thought we would not be so long. We only needed to—to speak, since we are both strange here.”

  “So you thought it was okay to leave your post and make out with your girlfriend on my time?” I asked interestedly.

  He flushed, his pale skin taking on a rather alarming shade of red. I would have thought he’d go dark pink, with his coloring. The red really was too much.

  “Please to forgive me,” he said. “I know it was . . . not done. It will not be done again. Please.”

  “I’ll let it go this time,” I said, including Ulme in my very best serious, no-nonsense stare. “But if it happens again, Vassily, you’re fired. Understand me?”

  I didn’t even bother to try to get into what would likely happen to him if Joe Nemeier found out Vassily’d been canoodling with his decorative wrap. For all I knew, they were all three very good friends.

  “I understand. Never again. I swear. Here.” He snatched Ulme’s arm and hustled her past me. “I see you out,” he said to her. “You will remember.”

  “I will remember,” she said, sounding cowed. She went with him until they reached the edge of the roof, then she suddenly balked, yanking her arm free, and staring out into Baxter Avenue.

  “It is only rain,” Vassily told her roughly, and pushed her shoulder, which was kind of harsh treatment, given what they’d just been doing in the back corner, there.

  “Go,” he said, giving her another push, this one a little less bracing than the first. “There is no harm.”

  Ulme swallowed, her eyes on the soggy outside, then pulled up her hood and darted out into the weather, her sneakers splashing loudly as she ran for the gate, and Fountain Circle, beyond.

  Vassily stood until I couldn’t hear her anymore, then sighed. He pivoted and gave me his almost-bow.

  “Good-night. I will be back tomorrow, to open, and to work until four o’clock.”

  “With no girlfriend to keep you company,” I added. “That stuff’s for your own time.”

  “Yes,” he said. “My own time. Thanking you.”

  And he turned and stalked out into the rain, head down, headed for Tony Lee’s.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  High Tide 10:31 P.M.

  Moonrise 12:22 A.M. EDT

  The rain continued.

  I amused myself by running the carousel as slow as it would go, and cranking the volume on the orchestrion. “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” made for nice uplifting background music as I walked counter to the wheel’s turn, spotting the rib lights. When I was satisfied that each bulb was bright and flicker-free, I hopped onto the decking and, again walking against the wheel’s turn, made a close study of the illumination around the central column.

  That vital inspection complete, I walked between the rows of animals until I was standing beside the wolf. I put one hand on the saddle and one on the fierce head, and stepped Sideways.

  It was busy work, that was all, like making sure none of the lights had burned out; I didn’t expect to find anything wrong with the ties that bound the prisoner.

  . . . and I wasn’t disappointed.

  The being at the wolf’s core slumbered in enchanted sleep; the ties binding it to its wooden prison were as smooth as glass, and as tough as titanium, showing neither crack nor mar.

  All righty, then.

  I blinked into the Real World, and walked back to the goat, where I repeated the exercise, with the same results.

  The knight’s charger and the hippocampus were likewise bound and unaware.

  The unicorn . . .

  A blare of light hit me the moment I stepped Sideways, igniting an instant flare of headache. Involuntarily, I closed my eyes and threw myself back into plain sight.

  For the space of a couple of deep breaths, I stood there with both my hands on the unicorn’s ornate saddle, listening to my head ring. When the pain had eased off some, I allowed my power to rise and, eyes still closed, waited for it to . . . become interested.

  It didn’t take long. Jikinap was very close by. It had the feel of something that had once been shaped, but because of poor spellcraft, neglect, or over-powering, it had oozed out of its intended shape into a sticky puddle of purposeless goo, burning ’way too bright.

  I swallowed, hard, and, eyes still closed, moved in the direction my power urged me.

  It wasn’t far. Not far at all. And when I opened my eyes, I saw, not one of the prisoners, standing free amid their shattered chains, and fully awake to their own power. No . . .

  It was the damn’ rooster.

  Something . . .

  I went Sideways and brought all my attention to bear; not easy with the bright, unformed power pounding at my senses. Another case of stubbornness proving more of a virtue than a vice.

  Indeed, the little working I’d placed within the rooster’s fiberglass breast had . . . melted. That was odd in itself. I hadn’t infused it with any heat beyond a hint of eccentric charm; as such things go, it was cool-running, and about as complex as a ball of Silly Putty. I forced my attention closer, and saw what looked like . . . secretions inside the cavity. If the rooster had been a living thing, its autoimmune system might have produced such secretions, as an allergic reaction.

  I blinked, inadvertently snapping myself back into the everyday world.

  An allergic reaction? Inanimate objects didn’t have allergic reactions.

  I frowned at the rooster.

  “How about,” I said to it, “an inanimate object that came from the Enterprise?” An object that Artie had been awfully eager for me to have, for reasons as yet murky, and all the more unsettling because of that.

  The carousel’s stately progress was taking me past the intake gate. I looked ’round, but there was no one in line. Good.

  I put my attention back on the rooster.

  “Look, you,” I said. “I’m not hard to get along with; I don’t want to make you sick, or break you. But you’re going to have to work with me, here. You’ve got to be welcoming to the paying customers, okay?” I paused, listening with the land’s ears, and with the ears of my power, just in case . . .

  But I heard nothing.

  I sighed. “Right. Let’s see if we can come up with a compromise.”

  Carefully, I called my power out of the rooster and into my palm. I inspected the spellwork . . . the smallest bit of glamor, of charm. Well, and maybe I had misjudged the amount of power necessary to carry so light a burden. It seems to be a universal constant, no matter what the craft, that the little, fiddly stuff is the hardest to get right.

  I halved the little blob of jikinap, reabsorbed one half and rolled what remained into a ball, making sure the suggestion of zany charm was evenly distributed, and unlikely to cause the magical equivalent of a hot spot.

  When I was satisfied with my work, and that the spell was as balanced and as inoffensive as I could make it, I returned it to the rooster’s chest cavity, and blinked back into the real world.

  There was no denying that the rooster was a little odd. But odd in an endearing sort of way, like an ugly puppy.

  It would, I decided, have to do.

  I turned and jumped of
f the merry-go-round, making a note to pay close attention to the rooster, while he continued as part of the carousel’s company.

  The rain was still coming down, and Fun Country was still deserted. I retired to the stool at the operator’s station, snapped my phone open and punched up my most recent book.

  I’d only read a couple paragraphs when the sound of a fire engine’s siren roused me. I lifted my head, listening, hearing the truck come down Archer Avenue . . . and turn right maybe a block short of Fun Country. Frowning, I stood and walked to the edge of the carousel’s roof, hearing more sirens now, as the cops came in down East Grand and West.

  It was, as I’d suspected, still raining, but if Lisa’s french fry oil had caught fire, say . . .

  Anna stepped up to the counter at Tony Lee’s and waved to me with one hand, the other holding a cell to her ear.

  “Tony went to see,” she called. “He says it’s a Dumpster fire behind Daddy’s Dance Club. The fire department has it under control.”

  “Great!” I called back. “Thanks!”

  She nodded and stepped back into the depths of the kitchen.

  I returned to the operator’s station, and my book.

  I was well into it when I heard a sound, like a wet sole gritting on dry cement, and looked up to see a man in the omnipresent hoodie approaching the carousel, the hood casting his face in shadow.

  I snapped the phone shut and slid it into my pocket, simultaneously coming off the stool and onto my feet.

  “Good evening!” I said brightly, mentally snapping my fingers for the land’s attention. “Like a ride on the carousel?”

  The guy hesitated, then laughed, and reached up to pull the hood back, rumpling his pretty brown curls in the process.

  “Actually,” Kyle said, “I wouldn’t mind a ride, but I came to talk to you about a horse.”

  I considered him, and gave the land leave to sit. “Decided the project’s too much for you?”

  “Oh, no! I want this! I got started—and that’s when I realized . . .” He paused, a delicate rosy blush more suited to Vassily’s coloring tinting his round cheeks.