Carousel Seas Page 5

  Frenchy laughed.

  “You’re gonna do that man all kinds of good,” she said, and led the way back across the yard.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MONDAY, JUNE 26

  NAUTICAL TWILIGHT 9:49 P.M. EDT

  We carried our wine glasses out onto the summer parlor, and stood at the front rail looking over the dunes and the beach and the sea.

  The tide had turned and was coming back in, but there was still a lot of sand laid bare, and a fair number of people scattered across it—mostly walking, a good number with their dogs, now that the daily curfew was done. From up the beach, toward Surfside, came the snap-snap-POP of cracklers going off.

  “Early,” Borgan murmured.

  “Got to get in shape for the Fourth,” I pointed out, though I wasn’t a fan of amateur pyrotechnics, myself.

  “There’s that.”

  I sipped my wine, eyes on the sweet swell of the waves behind the perambulating figures.

  “Pretty night,” I said, eventually.

  “Is,” he said easily. “Take your glass back inside?”

  I handed him the empty.

  “Thanks.”

  I heard him move behind me, light-footed, and curled my fingers over the rail, eyes half-slitted, a deep contentment filling me.

  It wasn’t all that long ago that the view from my apartment window had been of a parking lot and cars parked around a central “garden” that was nothing more or less than artfully arranged boulders and multicolored gravel.

  Away is a different country, and they do some very strange things there.

  Behind me, a board creaked gently—which he must’ve done on purpose, so as not to startle me—and then I felt him at my back, big and warm and solid.

  “Why Gray Lady?” I asked,

  “Little bit of long sight. Had a notion a lady was gonna come outta the fog and shake me up some.”

  “Yeah? How’d that work out for you?”

  “It’s been nice so far.”

  I laughed.

  “What I meant was—why do you live on Gray Lady?”

  “Well, after all my time and trouble fixing her up from what Uncle Veleg’d left, I had to do something with her, and I promised the family I wouldn’t sell ’er. Besides, I like living on the sea.”

  “But you could live in the sea,” I pressed, not certain where I was going with this, except now that I thought about it, most trenvay lived among, or on, or with their particular piece of land, rock, or swamp. Granted, a Guardian wasn’t . . . exactly . . . trenvay, but—

  “Or, under the water. Like a mermaid . . . or a seal . . .”

  “You don’t live in the land, do you?”

  “Could I?” I asked, momentarily diverted, then I realized what he’d done. Never argue with a trenvay—or a Guardian.

  “Your gran lives in a tree,” he pointed out.

  “That’s because Gran’s a dryad. It’s what they do. Besides, mostly she lives here.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Damned if I knew the answer to that one. Gran had lived in Tupelo House during all my memory. I’d never thought to ask her why, even though I knew her nature.

  “Gran does what she does,” I said to Borgan. “She has her reasons, and woe to any fool who asks her for them.”

  He laughed. “There’s that. Takes a steel backbone to deal with Bonny. Well, then, speaking for myself . . .”

  He paused, the pause stretching out until I was afraid I’d been something far worse than impertinent. Panic clawed at my throat, which was stupid, and I knew it, but . . .

  “Speaking for myself,” he said again, very quietly. “The Gulf o’Maine’s my service and my support. I’m her Guardian, but that’s a knife cuts both ways. I swore to protect her, and guard her from harm; but, too, it’s up to me, to hold her from doing harm. Understand some things’re just nature; there’s no cruelty, or intention, behind ’em. But other things—there’s more behind ’em than nature. There’s malice, sometimes, because the land hurts her, and she wants to strike back. That’s where I reach in an’ guard her from hurting herself.

  “If I . . . mingled with the sea, let her wash through my spirit, and surrendered all of me to be part of her—I’d fail my oath, and my Guardianship wouldn’t be anything other than wrack and whim.”

  I felt his hands on my shoulders, warm and comforting, yet somehow conveying the information that he wasn’t quite as calm as his voice would have me believe. Slowly, in case it was the wrong thing to do, I leaned back into his chest. The pressure of his fingers increased, and I knew, at least, that it had been a right thing to do.

  “The Gulf o’Maine, now,” Borgan said, still talking as low as if we were hunting tigers. “The Gulf o’Maine’s one of the richest and peacefullest pieces of water in all this world. There’s a lot of angry ocean out there. A lot of angry ocean. Add that into the weather shifting—no malice there, just nature. Science, like they say. Science or malice, though, landfolk are gonna die.

  “If I can keep the Gulf alive; if I can keep her peaceful and . . . disposed toward the land . . . we’re gonna need the Gulf o’Maine, all the damn’ world of us . . .”

  He snorted, then, maybe a laugh.

  “So, long story short, that’s why I live on Gray Lady, and not with a mermaid under the sea.”

  No, my evil genius piped up. Instead he started a relationship with a land woman—a Land Guardian—in hope that’ll count as another point toward the Gulf’s peacefulness toward landfolk.

  I didn’t say it; I do know better than my evil genius. Mostly. This, apparently, was one of the less mostly times. My chest cramped a little, thinking it was the Guardian he wanted, not Kate Archer. I took a breath, to ease it, reminded myself that Kate Archer and the Guardian were pretty well inseparable, and leaned my head back until it rested over his heart.

  We stood that way for a minute or two before Borgan took his hands away from my shoulders and wrapped his arms around my waist.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” he said, still soft.

  Well. It was lucky for me that I had a second level of thought running under the half-hurt.

  “I was thinking that your approach makes sense, Captain, but I’m wondering—how far does familiarity go? When Prince Aesgyr and I shared power, all sorts of conditions snapped into place—including us not being able to hurt each other. Which I’m starting to think might include more than just sympathy for the devil. If, for instance, he comes out of Varoth—or Daknowyth—and parks an army right here on the Beach, how much is his influence worth? Is my nature stronger than our . . . bond?”

  “That worries you, does it—the sharing?”

  “Not the sharing,” I corrected. “The results of the sharing. In my case, will it be force enough to turn me from my service . . .”

  “. . . and in my case, will it be enough to hold the Gulf from anger?” His arms tightened and I felt him sigh. “No way to know that, is there?”

  This is getting ’way too serious, Kate. You had plans for this evening, remember?

  . . . but if I was only his science project, then I wasn’t certain my plans were a good idea. I didn’t exactly know what I wanted from this new and still fragile relationship, but I was pretty sure I wanted something. Something . . . ongoing, and . . . steadfast.

  I’m not all that good at even straightforward relationships. I didn’t think I could begin to handle one in which boy’s commitment to his duty drove his wooing of girl . . .

  I took a breath, pushed thinking to the back of my mind, and turned around inside the circle of his arms.

  When my breasts were pressing into his chest, I put my arms around his waist, and looked up into wary and quizzical black eyes.

  “And you say I worry too much.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I try not to let it keep me awake at night.”

  “That’s no good. I particularly want you awake tonight.”

  “Maybe you can give me another reason, then.”

  “That sounds like a challenge,” I said, lifting my hand and running my fingers around his braid. It was heavy and warm and satisfying in a way I’m not sure I can even begin to describe.

  “How about we play a game?” I said.

  “What kind of a game?”

  “I’ll do something, and you’ll tell me whether it’s nice, great, wonderful, or terrific.”

  “Those’re my only choices?”

  “I don’t want to confuse you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  My fingers tightened on his braid.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I pulled firmly, and he bent his head in response, while I came up on my toes—and captured his mouth with mine when he came into range.

  Some time that I refuse to quantify in minutes or years later, I leaned back, knowing that he wouldn’t drop me; watching his face.

  “So,” I managed, my voice shaking, “which is it?”

  He looked thoughtful. “I’m going to kiss your ear.”

  “No side trips! Make your choice, sir.”

  “Well, the part where you yanked on my hair, I wouldn’t call that nice, necessarily. The kiss, that was . . . you sure about the ear?”

  About the only thing I was sure of was that I wanted to kiss him again—ears not being entirely out of the equation—not to mention other things . . .

  “The kiss, that was nice,” he said, and before I could whip up even a little bit of bogus outrage, he did kiss my ear . . . and other things . . . and sometime . . . later . . . we went inside and up to the bed.

  Sometime much later, sated, peaceful, and just about to tip over the edge into sleep, I felt his lips against my ear again, and his voice so soft it seemed like my own thought.


  “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

  The goblins had offered her every courtesy, welcoming her into the cavern wherein they dwelt, rough fare though it was. Some effort had been made to make the stones more pleasing—sea grass rugs had been lain, and kelp curtains hung, to separate one area from another. There were treasures displayed, to her eye meager, though surely the best that goblins might have.

  She had been given food, and drink, and a shelf lined with sea grass upon which to recline. They had observed the courtesies—neither Daphne nor her sister, Olida, asked for her name, her station, or her affiliation. They treated her, subtly, as one of a higher order, yet comported themselves with such dignity as even goblins might attain.

  Olida, at least, bore wounds of a recent nature, and hers was the voice most raised in the listing of wrongs set against them by this other, this Borgan, who had seduced the sea away from them.

  There was some trickery within the narrative, of which she took no offense. They were, after all, goblins; trickery was their nature. Still, this wresting—she thought it not a recent thing, no matter the pains Daphne took to tell the tale wide in certain portions, nor Olida, to obscure the precise course of events.

  She had already deduced that this stranger sea was not bound to these, save as a sea is bound to all its creatures. This sea’s love—that lay elsewhere. Perhaps it lay with the creature Borgan, perhaps not. Wherever its present location, whatever its current object, she had decided before the goblins’ tale was half done that the love of this sea would very soon be hers.

  The character of this sea pleased her; there was a calmness in its currents; a certainty of its power; a deliberation, and a pleasing order, in its movements.

  Yes, this sea would be hers. The goblins were negligible; they would either yield, or they would die. The Borgan—there might lie a challenge, if only half of Olida’s charges were true. The sea itself . . . that would require subtlety, and sureness, and power. She might manage it—she would manage it, but first . . .

  She must reacquire her name, her history, and the full sum of her powers.

  From the goblins, she had hidden the extent of her disabilities. The same deep knowledge from which she drew her understanding of goblins counseled her to keep any injury secret from them.

  It was the presence of this deep knowledge that gave her hope of a speedy reunion with herself. In the meantime, she listened carefully to the goblins, and put what questions seemed good. Eventually, she allowed it to be seen that she was weary, and somewhat weak in her limbs.

  This was, perhaps, a little dangerous, goblins being what they were.

  However, she was weary, and a little weak; but the goblins needed her, or what they thought she was. In her judgment, they knew as little as she did about what she truly was, but they had made certain shrewd guesses and come to believe that she could be of use to them.

  Something stirred in her breast at that thought—outrage, that she might be of use to goblins!

  Ah! How she yearned to learn the truth of herself, and to know whether that hauteur was earned . . . or a pose.

  But Daphne had asked her something—yes: What was her counsel to them regarding a method of attack?

  “Sisters,” she said, smiling softly, wearily, at them from her recline. “I have heard much to amaze me, and my heart bleeds from your wounds. I wish to counsel you wisely and well. In order to do so, I must think upon all you have told me. If there might be some secluded grotto where my meditations might go forth, undisturbed?”

  The goblins exchanged a glance. They were bewildered, perhaps; she did not think they were plotting against her. She had value to them; having given them nothing yet save the courtesy of listening to them.

  “There is,” Olida said, “a room that might serve, sister. It’s further back, and behind these rooms. We’ll be here, and will protect you.”

  “It’s not,” Daphne said, warningly, “well-appointed—only a grotto, sister.”

  “All I need is peace and a space in which to float. This grotto sounds as if it will serve well. Might I be guided there?”

  It was Olida who showed her the way, and who left her alone, to rest and to meditate.

  She spun, surveying the space, and acknowledged that Daphne had spoken truly—it was not well-appointed, being only a small stone cubby, where the currents ran lazy and sweet.

  It would do.

  She reclined among the waters, her black hair floating gracefully about her. She closed her eyes, and slipped willfully into sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TUESDAY, JULY 4

  LOW TIDE 6:22 P.M. EDT

  SUNSET 8:26 P.M.

  The Fourth of July is the centerpiece of the Season. People had started hitting town in earnest Thursday night, but the real announcement that the celebrations had begun was the triumphant—not to say noisy—arrival of the motorcycles, precisely at noon on Friday, June 30.

  The annual motorcycle cavalcade wasn’t a town PR stunt, though maybe it should have been. It’s the result of a concerted and considerable effort on the part of motorcycle clubs statewide, not to mention those from places Away, like Massachusetts, Detroit, New Hampshire, Baltimore . . . as well as numerous indie riders.

  It’s a big show, and a big noise—kind of a foretaste of the formal fireworks on the Fourth—and most people have fun. There are those from other parts of Away who flinch when they see Saracen colors or an Iron Horsemen patch, but, really, you’re more likely to have trouble from an unaffiliated kid on his first ride drinking too many beers and deciding to take on the bar than you are from an experienced rider from one of the clubs.

  That as was, the bikes arrived at the crack of noon, just as Jess and I were leaving Marilyn’s office, having delivered the letter, signed by every owner-operator in Fun Country, with the exception of the log flume’s Doris Vannerhoff, who we hadn’t expected to sign, anyway.

  Marilyn had also done what we’d expected; she read the letter, then told us that the park’s open hours and Season length were Management decisions. She promised to fax the letter to Management right away, thanked us for our time, and, if she didn’t actually tell us to leave, she did look pointedly at the door.

  Usually, you can hear the bikes coming in from ’way down Pine Point, growling and roaring up Route 9, the sound rolling toward town like a thunderstorm coming across the ocean.

  Jess and I having been in Marilyn’s office, we’d missed the slow reveal, and stepped out onto the midway just as the lead bikes hit the center of town and swept up the long hill of Archer Avenue, toward Route 5.

  “Summer’s here!” Jess screamed into my ear, and I gave her a thumbs-up before she headed off down Baxter Avenue to reclaim Tom Thumb from one of Donny Atkins’ on-loan greenies.

  Well, long story short, the town started to fill up, like the people had heard the motorcycles’ roar all the way up to Quebec, out to Chicago, and down to the hills of West Virginia—had heard it and come running to Archers Beach, to merge with and be part of the big noise.

  By the time the day itself rolled ’round, the noise was a constant underlying roar, drowning out the sound of the sea, muting the racket of the rides and the games, and even the auditory mayhem spilling out from Ka-Pow! Every square inch of sidewalk on Archer Avenue from Fun Country all the way up to Wishes Art Gallery was filled with people. Fountain Circle had ’em stacked three deep, and there were lines waiting at all the rides, and most of the restaurants.

  You work a seasonal job in a seasonal town, you don’t want to complain about the place filling up with people, but the sheer number of them was the reason that Borgan and I had decided to watch the firework display from the deck of Gray Lady.

  Even there, though, we didn’t completely outwit the crowds; as night came on, and well before the 10:15 posted start time, big boats and little boats began to nose into Kinney Harbor, jockeying for the best position, setting down anchor while folks settled into deck chairs, their voices carrying over the water as they drank their wine or their beer and waited for it to be time.

  Borgan made dinner, which we ate up on deck, watching the boats come in and the slow appearance of stars in the darkening sky.

  “That was wonderful,” I said, helping him carry the plates below.