by Sharon Lee
I put the rock carefully on the sand by my feet, straightened and stepped Sideways.
The twelve rainbow pillars snapped into being along the edge of the sandy apron. I glanced at my own hands, and the gauntlets I wore. Neither shabby nor stained, in Side-Sight I wore the battle gauntlets of an Ozali warrior, palms and fingers sheathed in supple crimson leather, wide night-blue cuffs richly embroidered with flames; gemstones winking cunningly among the threads—citrine, or yellow diamond, or some other precious stone that exists only in the Land of the Flowers.
Carefully, I approached the red bar that had kicked my ass on my last visit; I extended one gauntleted hand, and wrapped my fingers around it.
The bar felt gratifyingly solid; the gauntlet gave me the kind of purchase I needed without bringing a stranger’s jikinap into the equation. I grabbed on with my other hand, braced myself . . . and tried to pull the bar up and out of the land.
I had a sense of shifting . . . a very slight shifting, but noticeable. Possibly, I thought, loosing the bar and stepping back to consider the matter . . . possibly the Gate was Changing. That, in fact, the bars might eventually just . . . fall over, breaking the pattern and the spell, without any encouragement from me.
I considered that idea; that I just let nature take its course . . .
. . . and reluctantly decided against, eventually being as fluid as it was.
So far as I knew, there wasn’t anything like an established decay rate for change, and even if there had been, I had no idea how long the wild gate had been in position.
I wondered if there was a way to learn at least that much. I wrapped my fingers around the red bar one more time, and opened myself, like I did when searching for dead zones, only not so far.
It seemed as if I stood there a long time, listening with all of me. I heard the breakers, soft and distant; I heard gulls, swearing overhead, and a prop plane, which may have been the cause.
I heard someone crying—the wrenching sobs of heartbreaking loss—I saw a flicker, as if of wings, and a glissade of color, like a rainbow . . .
Nothing else.
I took a breath, opened my eyes, and nodded.
Best get this over with.
From time to time Mr. Ignat’ has had reason to remonstrate with me for a certain lack of . . . elegance and subtlety in my spellcraft. In my defense, I also tend to program in a straightforward and frank manner. I’m good, and I’m original, but elegant . . . not so much.
Physically dismantling the wild gate had been my first preference, but even the work gloves weren’t going to give me the edge I needed for that.
Which left me with my Plan B—blow the thing up.
I released the red bar, and crossed the beach, pausing to pick up the rock I’d left in the sand. This, I carried to the front of the apron, to the spot where, if I had been intending to complete the magical circuit that would open the gate and send me to wherever the other side was, I would place the white rod.
The white rod would have contained a locator spell, which would focus the energy gathered from the other twelve rods, and open the gate onto the correct world. The energy would then dissipate, flowing through the gate at the opposite end.
With the stone—the very essence of Archers Beach—closing the circuit, the energy would try to open the side of the gate it was already on, which would create a feedback loop, which would melt the circuits.
I was pretty certain of my theory, but, still, I was glad that my unknown Ozali had chosen such an out-of-the-way place to build his or her gate. I wouldn’t have wanted to try this up in the populated areas of town. In fact, I did pause, and rerun the scenario, just by way of settling my stomach, before I stepped through the gap in the circle, which put me off the beach and in water almost up to my knees.
Safely outside the overload zone, I bent and placed the rock.
Then I stood back and held my breath.
The air began to buzz, ratcheting up from contented honey bee to angry hive in less than thirty seconds. The bars of light began to flash, deliberately, in order: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, synchronized down both sides of the beach. The flashes grew quicker as the buzzing became angrier, until all I could see, mundane sight, or Side-Sight, were two blurred rainbows, locked on either side of the beach.
That was when the rock screamed.
My throat caught. I hadn’t planned on the rock cracking under the strain.
And what will happen, Kate, I asked myself kindly, if the rock does break?
It was a good question, and one for the research files, because even as I raised my power to do . . . something . . .
The rainbows expanded, until the whole area of the beach marked out by the light bars was full of racing, buzzing light, and there was no room for any of it to go—
Except up.
Which is where it went—up into the blue daylight sky, blossoming like flowers, each petal limned with power, before melting into glowing droplets, and raining down upon the sea and the land.
The apron beach was empty. Quiet. Directly before me, half-buried in feather-soft white sand, was a sundered rock, the broken faces fused like glass.
Carefully, I stepped out of the water, onto the soft white sand.
The land barked, loud with joy, and leapt up, knocking me to my knees.
It was a good night at the carousel; busy enough that all of the animals got the love—even the stupid rooster. The crowd started to thin around quarter to ten, and by the time the closing whistle sounded, with the exception of a few stragglers, the park was empty.
I waved good-night to Anna when she came to the window to bring in the condiments and napkins. She waved back and yanked down the metal shutter, the sign proclaiming Lee’s Great Chinese Food snapping off in the same instant.
A couple seconds later, Summer’s Wheel went dark, and I took that as definitive.
I’d turned off the big sign on the carousel’s roof, and was heading for the storm gates, when the land muttered irritably.
Pulling a defense spell into ready position, I turned.
The guy who had stepped under the carousel’s roof, raised his hands and shook his head.
“Just me, Kate. Artie. Got something for you.”
Really? Now that was a surprise. I put the defense spell away.
“Help me close the storm walls,” I said, and saw by his posture that I’d surprised him.
“Sure,” he said, and walked toward the back, angling right.
I continued on to the left, grabbed the loop and hauled. For a minute, the rumble of moving metal filled my head, then Artie and I met in the middle with a crash and a clash.
“’Preciate it,” I told him, giving him a civil nod. “What can I do for you?”
“Couple things, as it happens,” he said, sounding . . . unsure in a way he hadn’t sounded, up at the Enterprise.
From the back pocket of his jeans, he produced a flat booklet about five-by-three, with longer, folded, papers tucked between the covers, and held it out to me.
I raised my eyebrows.
Artie had the grace to blush.
“Naw, now; it ain’t what you’re thinkin’. It’s just—it come in like it does, and I thought I’d better bring it direct.” He paused, lips pursed, then shook his head. “Might should’ve taken it up the Wood, but it’s around that your gran’s not feelin’ herself and shouldn’t get stressed. I go up there, you bet she’ll get stressed. So, anyway . . .”
He shook the folder and papers a little. I tucked my hands into my back pockets.
“What is it?” I asked.
Artie pushed his cap back with the hand not holding the papers, maybe so I could see his frown better.
“Papers, for Nessa.”
“Really?” I said, letting my voice echo disbelief, even though the land assured me Artie was telling the truth. “Where’d you get papers for Nessa, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“They come in,” he repeated, and sighed sharp and hard.
“On the land itself, Kate, I don’t know where they come from. Wha’dya think, I order ’em outta some catalog?”
“Well, but I don’t know the system, and after the rooster, you’ll see where I want to be a little careful, especially where it concerns my family.”
“Oh, hell yes, who wouldn’t wanna be careful, with the Enterprise in it? But—hey, the rooster. I heard at Midsummer Eve you was worried, an’ your gran, too. Shouldn’a done it, prolly, not with what’s between Bonnie an’ me, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Just some mischief, that’s all; fool the Guardian, that’s good for some free beers, yanno? Truth of it, you near weren’t tricked, and then you ’bout skinned me when I pushed it.”
He took a breath, and gave me a nod.
“It wasn’t right. I might’ve been a little set up by what you come lookin’ for, but I coulda handled it better. That rooster—ain’t no harm in it that I could see.”
“And you weren’t after anything more than earning points?” I asked. The land was letting me know that Artie was telling the truth. He’d tried to trick me because he was trenvay, and trenvay trick people. Tricking the Guardian? Definitely bragging rights, there.
“Just stretching my muscles, in a manner of speaking,” Artie agreed, and shook the papers again. “This here, now . . . birth certificate, driver’s license, Social Security card, United States passport . . .” He rolled his eyes and I could read the thought, like she’s gonna need that.
“That’s all. That’s everything. Nothin’ to upset your gran, once she gets over it comin’ in. Just did come in, not twenty minutes ago. Found it sitting on my desk chair when I come back from getting a cup o’Jack.”
I slipped a hand out of a back pocket, but I didn’t take the papers yet. Not quite yet.
“What’s between you and Gran?” I asked.
Artie blew air noisily, like a horse kept waiting too long.
“Somethin’ come in—a long time ago, okay, Kate?—and I’m sayin’ it come in, just . . . it wasn’t what your gran wanted it to be.” He waggled the papers he still held, and shook his head.
“Packet a lot like this. No passport, not them days, nor Social Security, neither. Birth record, that was there. And so was the death certificate. Your gran, she was mad, and considering how it happened, I couldn’t blame her. She blamed me, though. Said I’d done it a’purpose, when it wasn’t, and it never is—which she knew, but she chose to forget.”
That rang true—rang like a bell, from the land and up all the bones in my body.
I extended my hand and took the little packet of papers.
“I’ll take them up to Mother,” I said, gently. “Thanks for bringing them right away, Artie.”
He swallowed, and nodded.
“No problem. And, listen, you wanna lose that rooster . . .”
“I’m having a horse carved,” I told him, still keeping my voice soft. “Why don’t I give you a call when that’s delivered and you can come down and collect the rooster?”
“Sure. Sure, I can do that.” He grinned. “Give you a refund, too. Half.”
“Half?”
“Well, you had use.”
“I made improvements.”
“Well . . . I’ll tell you what. You get that new horse all delivered and set up, and we’ll dicker serious when I come down to get the rooster. Deal?”
“Deal,” I acknowledged, feeling the rough vinyl of the passport’s cover against my fingertips. Artie stood there like he didn’t know quite what to do, so I gave him a hint.
“I gotta finish closing up, here,” I said. “Then I’ll walk this up to my mother.”
“Right,” he said, and pulled the brim of his hat down a bit. “Right. See you ’round, Kate.”
“See you around, Artie,” I answered, and watched as he crossed to the door, paused, then stepped through muttering, “Thanks.”
Half a second later, Borgan stepped through the door, using his chin to point at what I guessed was Artie’s retreating back.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said, slipping my mother’s paperwork into the back pocket of my jeans. “He came down to deliver something for Mother. Thought he’d upset Gran, if he went to the Wood, himself.”
“Good thinking,” Borgan said.
“In fact, it was. But it did set me back a little on shutting down. You mind waiting—and then walking up Heath Hill with me?”
“Pretty night for a walk,” he said. “Lots of stars. Anything I can do?”
“Wait right there,” I said. “Won’t be a sec.”
“Wouldn’t know anything about a big magical light show earlier in the day, would you?” Borgan asked, as we strolled, hand-in-hand, down West Grand toward Heath Hill.
“Now that you mention it, I was the cause of a fairly impressive explosion this afternoon, down Goosefare Brook,” I admitted, and looked up at the side of his face, glowing in the starlight. “I didn’t break anything, did I?”
“Nothing I know about. Was bright, though. And noisy. Mind telling me about it?”
I obliged him as we walked, and by the time we were going up the side of the hill, he was in possession of all the pertinent facts.
“It more or less worked like I thought it would,” I said, as we gained the top of the hill. “But I underestimated the amount of energy that would be released.”
Borgan cleared his throat.
“You could’ve asked me for help, if Ozali Belignatious was busy,” he said mildly.
“I would’ve asked Mr. Ignat’, if it turned out I couldn’t handle it,” I assured him. “But I thought I should try it myself, first, since protecting the land is pretty much my job.”
I heard a small intake of breath, as if Borgan was about to say something—and then nothing, as if he’d thought better of it.
We were under the edge of the Wood now. I stopped, Borgan right beside me. Uphill, Joe Nemeier’s overgrown “cottage” had every window aglow. The man must be throwing a party.
I turned my face to the Wood, Borgan’s hand warm in mine, and spoke, quietly. “Mother?”
A small breeze disturbed the branches directly overhead, and I thought I heard my voice, repeating against the leaves.
“Just bear in mind,” Borgan said softly, “there’s those you can ask for help. Sometimes, it’s . . . prudent to call in help before you try it yourself.”
I thought about that; remembered the broken and glassed-over rock.
“How much of a disaster did I make today?”
“Today,” Borgan said seriously, “you were lucky.”
I was still digesting that when the shadows between the tree trunks parted, and Mother was with us. She was wearing the sleeveless green shift, her legs and feet bare; light brown curls were tangled on her shoulders and her eyes seemed heavy.
“Katie—Borgan! How nice of you to visit.” She sounded genuinely pleased, if slightly sleepy.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I said, reaching around to my back pocket. “Artie said this had just come in. He was eager for you to have it quick.”
She took the folder and attendant papers from me, and stood holding them in her hand.
“I’m told there’s a Social Security card, driver’s license, birth certificate and passport in there,” I said. “Nothing else. Artie was extremely clear on the point.”
I saw her shoulders lose some tension and she breathed a laugh.
“Poor Artie. As if it was his fault.”
“Told me he’d delivered a death certificate with the packet once,” I said. “What happened?”
“Mostly that,” Mother said. “The certificate had a date on it and a cause—Act of God. We all—Mother, Aunt Alba, and I—we thought it was a joke. She was young, and healthy, after all. There was no reason she and her tree couldn’t stand for another hundred—two hundred—years.”
“What happened?” I asked again, when she didn’t go on.
“What happened?” Mother shook her head.
“There was a storm. Her tree was hit by lightning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Thursday, June 22
High Tide 9:21 P.M.
Sunset 8:26 P.M. EDT
Five tables had been pushed together in the middle of Bob’s main room. Two coffeepots, cream, sugar, and two plates of muffins were set out. Each attendee was nursing a mug; a couple had heard the siren song of the blueberry muffins and were happily indulging.
The Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve Fun Country subcommittee meeting had ten members in attendance: Henry and Bob, and eight Fun Country folk. The rest, Jess said, had other commitments.
“Except Doris Vannerhoff, who says that we’re all cracked in the head if we expect Management to go against its own interest, and if any of us had an ounce of gumption, we’d go down Florida in the winter, like she does, and do some work for a change.”
Jess frowned down at the paper lying on the table in front of her, possibly reading over a note, nodded, and looked ’round at us.
“That’s it. I made her say it out slow for me, so I could take it down and be sure to get it right.”
Millie laughed.
Brand shook his head dolefully. “One thing about Doris,” he said, “she’s got such a retirin’ nature, you can never be sure where she stands.”
That made the whole table laugh.
“Scrambler’s Dunlap says he’s in,” Jess continued, after the general merriment had died down. “Says keep ’im posted and tell ’im what to do when. Broken ankle’s slowing ’im down, ’swhy he’s not here tonight.”
She looked around the table again.
“Why we’re here, is to figure out how to get Management on board with a longer Season. One thing I thought we should point out right up front is Ka-Pow!’s serious about staying open through the end of October. If Fun Country closes Labor Day night, any money that comes rolling down Archer Avenue after that will go right into the arcade.”
“Management’ll just say that a hundred percent of nothin’s still nothin’,” Millie said.