Carousel Seas Page 7

  She squeezed my hand, and gave me an earnest look.

  “I don’t want you to think—I loved Nathan; and I loved Andy, too. It was just that . . . as I thought at the time, I loved Nathan more. Mother did ask me if I was certain, and of course the instant she asked, I was more determined than ever, though not more certain. Andy never asked me to stay, or pressed me . . .” She smiled.

  “So, I married Nathan, and went back with him to the Land of the Flowers where I had adventures enough to last me for the rest of my life, no matter how long it might be. All that in addition to the marvel who is my daughter.”

  “For whom you bartered your soul,” I said, my voice harsh in my own ears.

  “It was what I had,” Mother said simply, and squeezed my hand again. “I’d do it again, Katie. If it was needful.”

  There wasn’t really anything to say to that, so I glanced aside, a little embarrassed by the brightness of her eyes.

  “Are you angry with me, Katie?”

  I looked back to her face, startled. “Angry? How could I be angry? I was horrified, frightened for you . . .”

  Nessa laughed.

  “Not about that!” she said gaily. “I meant about Andy.”

  I blinked.

  “Hell, no, I’m not angry about that, either! I wish you every happiness, Mother, and if Andy can give you that, then I’m all for him.”

  She laughed again and released my hand.

  “Well, he can’t give me every happiness, but . . . happiness enough, and sharing—and music, too!”

  “Then I can’t find any fault with the man,” I said stoutly. “He play anywhere else except private gigs and Midsummer Eve?”

  “He plays at all the places in town. Tonight, he’s playing at Jay’s—seven to one.”

  “Maybe Borgan and I can stop by after the park closes. It’s past time for me to find out what kind of music he likes.”

  “It’s going well with Borgan, then?”

  “Yes,” I said, hearing the conviction in my voice, and feeling it reflected back to me from the land. “I’m pretty sure he’s not simple, or straightforward. To hear him tell it, though, he’s as constant as the tide.”

  “He would say so,” Mother pointed out. “Do you trust him, Katie?”

  “Yes,” I said, and the reflected truth of that damn’ near knocked me backward.

  My mother smiled.

  “You’ll do fine, then.”

  I smiled back at her.

  “That had better be a well-wish.”

  “Of course it is.”

  * * *

  The day had turned into a scorcher, and night hadn’t brought much relief. The only thing that made the proximity of the carousel tolerable was the wind generated by the passing of the animals. With the ride locked down for the night, it was stifling under the roof, and when I stepped out to pull the storm walls together, heat rose in waves off of the asphalt and smacked me in the face.

  By the time I had the walls in place and the door closed, you could’ve wrung me out like a dishrag and hung me over the fence to dry.

  I’d just slipped the padlock key into the pocket of my jeans, when I felt a . . . frisson, like something with a lot of cold feet had marched down my spine. Straightening, I reached for the land, sending a query, and almost immediately receiving the impression of weight, somewhere in the darkness to the right; in the space between the carousel and Summer’s Wheel.

  A weight on the land—mundane folk don’t often have much, or any, land magic in their makeup. They pass along and over the land as unremarked as dead leaves dancing across the street on a playful breeze.

  Trenvay, though . . . trenvay are tied to the land; they are magic; and despite what they tell you in novels, magic has weight, though it shouldn’t, according to Mr. Ignat’, be a burden. Others who are not native to this land of which I am Guardian may also have weight. Specifically, those who possess jikinap, such as an Ozali from another of the Worlds might—and those would also weigh upon the land. The more powerful the trenvay or the Ozali was, the heavier they would stand.

  The person skulking nearby, now . . . I thought they might be trenvay of a certain age and service. Respectable; say, middle-aged. Possibly Ozali, but if so, an Ozali new to power.

  Whoever it was, they were motionless, as if they had crouched down and were hoping to pass undetected. Another reason I was thinking trenvay. I still didn’t know all of the Archers Beach trenvay, though I was working on it. If somebody decided to take action and meet the Guardian, and then been overcome with shyness . . .

  I’m not particularly scary-looking, but some trenvay are so timid, rabbits look heroic in comparison.

  So, a timid trenvay, come to see the Guardian, now trembling at their own temerity. That was how we’d play it.

  Again, I reached to the land, projecting calm welcome, and spoke very quietly, trusting that my voice would carry far enough.

  “Good evening. My name’s Kate. I’d like to meet you; to learn your name and your service. I guarantee your safety. Nothing will happen to you while you are in my care.”

  I turned slowly, until I faced the narrow passage, which was, of course, dark as pitch, the utility light having burned out again.

  Carefully, I turned my hands palms up, showing them empty and unthreatening.

  There was a long moment when nothing happened, as if whoever was checking the level in the courage tank. Then, there came an increase in weight. I smiled, letting my approval flow, even as the land registered a second and far more substantial presence upon it.

  I smiled, recognizing Borgan—and then bit back a curse.

  The sense of the timid trenvay had evaporated.

  I thrust my awareness into the land, but it was no use. Whoever’d been waiting was gone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 5

  HIGH TIDE 7:10 P.M. EDT

  SUNSET 8:26 P.M.

  Borgan shook his head with a sigh.

  “Sorry ’bout that, Kate.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” I told him, then gave up a sigh of my own. “I just wish I’d gotten a fix on who they were, or where they call home.”

  “Land don’t know?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you’re sure they were trenvay?”

  “Well, no, not that either. The land’s . . . ambiguous; it kinda, sorta half-recognized he/she/it. I figured trenvay because of the timidity—even a new Ozali is going to have some ’tude. Well.” I reached up to put my arm through Borgan’s. “They’ll be back, after they’ve gathered their courage again. What say we go up to Jay’s, get a beer, listen to some music?”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  * * *

  Neptune’s, on the Pier, is the big tourist bar, and you bet there’d be standing room only at ten-thirty on the night after the Fourth. Jay’s is a smaller place, a restaurant with a bar; tables for maybe forty, and another dozen at the bar. The music was on the verandah, so said the bartender, and I almost opted out in order to stay in the lovely air conditioning.

  “Music?” Borgan said in my ear.

  “Music sounds good; hot, not so much.”

  “Who’s playin’?” Borgan asked the ’tender.

  “Andy LaPierre,” she said with a smile. “He’s local. You folks’ll really like what he does. Goes the whole range from folk, blues, rock, classical.”

  “Wanna try it, Kate? I’m betting it won’t be so hot on the porch.”

  “Bound to be cooling off by now,” the bartender put in.

  I doubted it, myself. On the other hand, live music is one of my more benign vices, and Andy’s mix sounded interesting. Plus, I wanted another look at the man, in what you’d call ordinary circumstances. Curiosity, that was all. What I’d told my mother was true—if he made her happy, I was a fan.

  “Sure; let’s give it a try,” I said, and nodded at the ’tender. “Can we get something to drink?”

  “Whatcha like?”

  “I’d like a Shipyard Brown Ale, and my friend would like . . . ?” I lifted an eyebrow at Borgan, who shook his head ruefully.

  “Make it two.”

  * * *

  The verandah was comfortably full, most of the floor space taken up by insecure little wrought-iron tables; the wall on the restaurant side was lined with booths; the outside with somewhat less insecure-looking tables; the whole area roofed in blue canvas. Strings of patio lights in the shape of dragonflies outlined the canvas and hung from the black iron fence that marked the verandah’s outside boundary.

  Borgan and I claimed one of the outside tables for our own, sitting side by side so we could see the tiny stage area, which was vacant at the moment, save for a stool, a microphone and a couple guitars on stands.

  No sooner had we gotten our chairs situated, than a waitress materialized—blonde hair in a ponytail, white polo shirt with Jay’s Eatery embroidered over the pocket, black shorts, white crew socks and white tennis shoes showing off a tan so deep I suspected she’d started it in January, at one of the tanning salons up on Route 1.

  She was not a greenie, but a genuine Maine girl, as we heard when she asked what she could get for us.

  I lifted my bottle to show her we were taken care of, drinkwise. Borgan threw her a grin.

  “Order o’onion rings for my lady and me to share?”

  Her face lit like he’d given her a present.

  “Comin’ right up!”

  “I hope I like onion rings,” I said, settling my back more closely against the chair.

  “I’m thinking you will. ’Specially if you put ketchup on ’em.”

  “Ketchup on onion rings? You’re a barbarian.”

  “Could be. What d’you put on?”


  “Nothing,” I said loftily. “The breading and the hot grease need no further enhancement.”

  “Well, now, if I’d known you was a connoisseur . . .”

  I laughed, and raised my bottle. Borgan did the same, and we tapped them, carefully.

  It was, I thought, definitely cooler now; a breeze had come up, smelling of salt and ozone, cavorting under the canvas like a puppy dog. Just the sort of breeze you might expect to come in on the rising tide, I thought, raising my bottle for another sip of ale.

  I lowered the bottle and looked at Borgan. He looked back, face innocent.

  “Nice breeze,” I said.

  “Is,” he agreed.

  “Tide’s going out.”

  He pursed his lips and looked up toward the blue ceiling, like he was trying to remember the tide chart, damn him.

  “Now, I believe you’re right there, Kate,” he said, after taking longish counsel. “Tide is goin’ out. Should see dead low right about one-thirty.”

  Before I could kick him, our onion rings arrived—and the lights over the little stage area cycled from white to gold.

  I leaned forward as Andy stepped into the light—a thin guy with a bony face, the intense, strange eyes I recalled hidden behind a pair of lightly smoked glasses. He wore a pair of jeans so broke in they must’ve had nap like velvet, biker boots, and a plain white dress shirt, sleeves rolled above his wrists.

  The conversation level dropped noticeably, as people turned toward the stage.

  Andy plucked one of the guitars up from its stand, settled the shoulder strap, and propped a lean hip against the stool.

  “Evenin’,” he said, while his fingers fondled the strings, seemingly at random. “My name’s Andy LaPierre, an’ I’d like to play some music for you.” He glanced up, multicolored dragonfly light sliding across the smoked lenses.

  “Now, you might know some of these songs. If you do, and you feel like it, you sing right on along. You can only add to the music; you can’t hurt it, and you can’t break it. So, now—what d’ya think of this one?”

  His fingers moved, quick and clean, the notes achingly pure. “Simple Gifts” was the offering—not a song I would have expected from a guy playing guitar at one of Archers Beach’s restaurants. The audience sat quiet, as if the music had pierced them, every one—that included the two guys in motorcycle leathers in the booth across from us, and the family group ’round one of the most rickety tables up front.

  He played it through, once, then he looked up, and smiled, and began to sing.

  “’Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free.

  “’Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be . . .”

  One of the leathered guys in the booth across from us stirred, and sang out the next doublet, in a rasping tenor.

  “And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

  “’Twill be in the valley of love and delight.”

  The set was forty-five minutes of the sweetest magic I’ve ever had the privilege to observe or experience. The songs ranged from the very old—like “Simple Gifts”—to newer folk songs, to classic rock, to old folk songs played like classic rock. Some, the audience sang; some Andy sang alone; some were just the guitar and the shape of the music being woven about us.

  I don’t remember eating the onion rings, or ordering another round of ale; but those things must have happened—though Borgan could’ve taken care of both without any help from me.

  Andy’s fingers were just fooling around on the strings again, letting us down nice and slow.

  “I’m gonna take a little break for some supper now,” he told us, and smiled a little, adding, “maybe have a beer. Be gone about half an hour, then I’ll come back and play for you some more. If you gotta leave before I come back, I want to thank you for sharing the music. Remember that you’re not alone, ever; that there’s always the music, connecting all of us, and the whole world, too.”

  His fingers had stopped moving at some point, and the notes had faded away. He stood, racked his guitar and walked off the stage; through the door, into the main restaurant.

  I took a deep, deep breath.

  “Boy’s good,” Borgan said, as conversations picked up again around us. The motorcycle guys got up, leaving a fifty-dollar bill on the table across the check. The little family up front began to gather their things together, and the servers were moving among the tables, taking reorders and delivering checks.

  I looked at him. “You never heard him play before?”

  “Midsummer Eve, mostly. Don’t get out much.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to change that.”

  He brought a mournful sigh up from the heels of his boots, and cast me a soulful look from bright black eyes.

  “Oh, you’re gonna make all kinda changes to me; I can see that.”

  “It’s only fair,” I pointed out, reaching for my bottle. “After all, you’ve made all kinds of changes to me.”

  The glance this time was speculative.

  “Have I now? What would those be, exactly?”

  Well, Kate, you’ve put your foot in it, I told myself kindly. What’re you going to tell the man that’s fit to be said in a public restaurant?

  But that was easy, wasn’t it? The change, that my mother had seen, so clearly.

  “I’m . . . I rely on you,” I said slowly. “Used to be, I didn’t depend on anybody but myself—and not so much, there. I—”

  A shadow moved, a chair clattered into position across the table, and Andy dropped into it, putting his beer bottle, his glasses, and his elbows on the table. His eyes were orange—bright, jack-o’-lantern orange, the pupils slit like cat eyes.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, with a quick glance to Borgan. “I got a notion Kate come to talk to me. If that’s so, we’d best get it over and done.”

  Borgan looked at me, eyebrows up. Have I been set up? That might’ve been the question. I shook my head and turned back to Andy.

  “Mother did tell me you were playing here this evening. When Borgan asked what I’d like to do, I suggested coming here, because I thought air conditioning, beer, and good music would make a cool end to a really hot day.”

  “Scorcher, wasn’t it? And they’re sayin’ more of the same, tomorrow.” Andy turned his head to look at Borgan. “Thanks for the breeze, Cap’n.”

  “No trouble. I promised Kate it’d be cooler on the porch.”

  Andy grinned briefly, before getting back to me.

  “Kate, did Nessa tell you . . .” Words seemed to fail him.

  “Did she tell me that the two of you were walking out, as she had it? Sure she did.”

  “And you’re . . . okay with that?”

  Why I was supposed to not be okay with it was, apparently, a puzzle for my old age. I swallowed my sigh and met Andy’s strange, brilliant eyes.

  “I’m happy that she’s happy. You hurt her, then I’ll have a complaint.”

  It came out sounding more like a threat than I’d intended, but Andy actually looked relieved.

  “Hell I’d hurt her! She’s been hurt enough. How she carried that—well, I know the answer, there, don’t I? Strong and stubborn—always was, always will be. But she’s got less to carry now I picked up half.” He blinked, looked aside, grabbed his bottle and had a nice, long swig of beer.

  “Listen, then, Kate—we’re thinking . . . Nessa an’ me’re thinking we’ll be doing gigs together. Soon’s we work up some harmonies. She’s got a great voice, and we’d usta sometimes, back before . . . Well, that’s under the bridge, except to know we can do it. Back then, she played hammer dulcimer; she’s talking about seeing how rusty she is . . .”

  I frowned, doing a quick mental inventory of the house at the top of Dube Street.

  “I’m not sure I can lay hands on that dulcimer—”

  Andy waved the bottle, cutting me off.

  “No fears. I got it. She gave it to me—when she—before she married your dad. To remember her by.” He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Almost time for the next set. You’ll talk to your gran and Nessa’s father? Kinda smooth the way?”

  “I imagine my mother will do that,” I said drily. “Strong and stubborn, remember?”

  He laughed, his face reflecting a sort of wry pride.

  “You’re right, there; that’s exactly Nessa.” He grabbed his glasses, slid them onto his face, and stood, bringing the beer bottle with him.