Carousel Tides

by Sharon Lee

  “Good,” I whispered, and turned up the collar of my jacket. Putting my back to the town, I headed up coast, toward Surfside, angling across dry sand to wet, and more certain footing. Out beyond the lacy break of waves, I could see patches of subtle blue and green riding just below the surface of the water. From ahead, the no-nonsense sweep of Cape Elizabeth Light illuminated waves and rock.

  At the little notch in the beach that marks the beginning of Surfside, there’s a rock. Not much of a rock, by the rugged standards of the Maine coast, and not nearly as impressive as Googin Rock, ’way down to the south of town. Still, it’s big enough to serve as a landmark, as well as a boundary stone. From the sand to its flat pinnacle, it stands twice as high as I do, and measures considerably wider, side to side. At low tide, it wears a skirt of shiny sea grass; and its pockets are numerous, some secret, some not. Below the sand, its roots are deep and wide. So wide, I’ve heard it said, that the hidden portion of the rock is as much on Surfside’s portion of beach as on ours.

  That might be true. The one I heard that from liked to spin a tale or three, and I can’t think how she might have gained the knowledge. Still, it’s true that no violence comes near this rock, unlike its brother to the south, and a sliver worn ’round the neck, or carried in a pocket, is rumored to be a powerful ward.

  I paused a few steps out, listening to the waves and to the wind singing in the wires; watching the mist rise up to cocoon the stars. In an hour, the sea would be lapping at the base of the rock; in two hours, it would be mostly submerged. I flexed my fingers inside the pockets of my jacket and wished I’d remembered to bring gloves. The wind gusted off the waves, yanking my hair with something more than playfulness.

  And a hat, I thought.

  “Good morning, Princess.” The voice was low, and slightly sibilant; possibly, she meant to surprise me. If so, she was disappointed.

  “Morning already?” I asked, not arguing with princess. Might as well argue with the tide as with Nerazi.

  “Courtesy,” she told the singing wind as I mooched toward the rock. “Gentle courtesy is as rare a commodity upon the mainland as ever it was, I apprehend.”

  I felt my lips twitch and straightened them with an effort.

  “Good morning, fair Nerazi,” I said, moving closer across the sand.

  “Nay, nay, keep your sweet words close, my lady, and be niggardly in their spending! For when those are gone, there will be no more, I warrant.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said, coming around to the lee side of the rock. Cross-legged and quite naked, Nerazi sat with her back against the rock’s rustling grass skirt, her rump cozy and warm on a sealskin blanket, braiding her silver hair.

  I braced my own rump against a thin, low ledge, which put the rock between me and the wind, and sighed.

  “You should wear gloves, my lady; the wind has teeth.”

  “Every time I wear gloves, I ruin them,” I told her, truthfully.

  “And thus your wisdom teaches you that it is better to ruin your hands.” She turned her head and looked up at me from wide eyes that reflected the moonlight greenly, her hands moving along her hair. “I shall provide you with gauntlets suitable to your station.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Now, that has ever been the case,” she said with asperity, and I laughed. The rock thrummed with the rhythm of the waves.

  Nerazi gave me a small, secret smile from behind her hair before her gaze moved, looking across the line and up coast.

  “Quiet, is it not?” she said softly. “Protected and peaceful. Men sleep soundly in their beds, unworried by the wind or the rattle of water across beach stones. And if a selkie were to come out of the sea and walk their streets for an hour, observing what she might of mortal ways, none would see her—nor, seeing, believe.”

  “Normal folks see what they want to see,” I agreed. “And we’re lucky that they do.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps. Though surely some see what they would rather not, else your father’s mother would not have pledged herself to an Ozali and followed him to the Land of the Flowers.”

  “Special case,” I said, keeping my voice matter-of-fact with an effort. “Guardians get to see—and do—all kinds of things they’d rather not.” And die of them, more often than not, as Lydia Archer had.

  “Privilege has its price, surely.” Nerazi’s hands paused among the long strands of her hair, and I felt the whole of her regard suddenly upon me.

  “Are you quite well, Princess?”

  I took a breath, gauging the ache in my chest. “Not dead yet,” I answered, shifting against the rock. “Nerazi, where’s my grandmother?”

  “I do not know.”

  That was a little more straightforward than I’d been hoping for—okay, it was a lot more straightforward than I’d been hoping for. Nerazi could parse a twisty sentence with the best of ’em; most trenvay—that would be earth spirit, to you—could, and did. Relating facts in ways that made nothing seem less likely was kind of a hobby of the breed. I’d’ve been relieved if Nerazi had spun me an improbable yarn; it would have meant that Gran was—safe. That unadorned denial, though . . .

  I shivered, and adjusted my lean against the rock, fists shoved deep into my pockets.

  “She must have told you something,” I said, and was horrified to hear the naked pleading in my voice. At least it was Nerazi, who was, or had been . . . kindly disposed toward me. In general.

  “In truth, Princess,” she said, more gently than she was wont, “I am as uninformed as you appear to be. She told me that she would be absent for a time, and to look for her at the turning of the year.” There was a pause, filled by the sound of the waves against the shore. “More than that she would not say.”

  When Gran doesn’t want to say, there’s no power here or there that can force her. I know. Nerazi’s formidable, but Gran’s stubborn. And yet—

  “The year turned,” I pointed out, mild as I was able. “And she didn’t come back.”

  “One year turned,” Nerazi agreed. “There are others.”

  Right. I sighed. “I’m thinking it was the calendar year she had in mind,” I said, still sticking with mild. “She left me a letter, which is considerably less informative than it could be, and a handful of legal papers, putting the house, the carousel, and her land all in my name.”

  “In your name alone?” That came out right sharp; I’d surprised her.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well,” said Nerazi, and after a bit she said it again: “Well.”

  Back in the days before I’d repudiated the land and left Archers Beach forever, I’d seen Nerazi flummoxed exactly once. Seeing it again wasn’t nearly as much fun as I might’ve imagined it would be. So, I waited while she finished up her braid, put a knot in the end, flipped it over one smooth, plump shoulder—and waited some more while she just sat there on her sealskin, staring off into the night . . .

  “You will wish to inspect your landhold,” she said finally, and with that she rose, bringing the sealskin with her, and turned away.

  “Nerazi—” I said, coming away from the rock so fast my foot skidded in the sand. “Hey!”

  “Keep you well, Princess,” she said, not even bothering to look at me over her shoulder, which is a hell of a way to treat royalty. “I will send the gift I promised.”

  She passed beyond the rock. I got my feet coordinated and went after her, but she was already at the surf line, the sealskin wrapped around her shoulders and snapping in the wind.

  I watched her walk into the lacy waves. When she reached the shelf, she simply dove in, the skin still caught about her shoulders.

  The waves came in and the waves went out. Beyond them, a seal rolled in dark water—and vanished.

  FOUR

  Wednesday, April 19

  Low Tide 9:42 a.m. EDT

  Despite my early social call, I was at the door of Fun Country’s on-site office at eight o’clock sharp, only to find that “off season” hour
s were from ten to three. Typical, really. If there’s anything that Fun Country or its agent-in-place, Marilyn Michaud, can do to discommode a tenant, by golly, that’s exactly what they’ll do.

  Discommoded, not to say aggravated, I glared at the door. A piece of canary yellow paper was tacked below the card elucidating those very convenient hours of operation, printed with faded red ink.

  Attention All Tenants! Fun Country will begin operating on a weekend-only schedule May 14. All Name Rides are expected to open at noon on that date. Park closes at 10 p.m.

  Great, I thought, and sighed. The Early Season was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it let you work out any kinks that might’ve developed in the ride over the winter. On the other hand, there was precious little money to be made during Early Season.

  Not that there was all that much to be made during the Season, anymore.

  Well. Nothing to be done here until Marilyn unlocked the door—on the stroke of ten and not one second before, if I knew my woman. Might as well move on to the next agenda item. Gran’s letter hadn’t exactly left me with the impression that I’d find her safe and cozy at Heath Hill. Trouble was, I didn’t have the idea that Nerazi thought Gran was under tree, either. And yet—

  Look to your landhold. Not the kind of advice I could afford to ignore, coming as it did from the oldest and most potent trenvay in Archers Beach.

  Walking down Grand Avenue, I distracted myself by noticing changes in the neighborhood. Several of the motels had re-invented themselves as condominiums, and a number of surprisingly upscalish business enterprises had moved in, apparently to service those with deep pockets and plenty of leisure. In one short block, I passed a deli specializing in high-end cold cuts and artisan breads; a day spa offering sea salt body scrubs; and a boutique wine store. Made the east side of Grand, with its seedy diners, T-shirt stores, ice cream shops, and pizza stands, look downright tawdry.

  Which, come to think of it, was one thing that hadn’t changed. The townies were still scraping by, borrowing against that day when their ship stood in or their pony came through, while the people from Away never seemed to want for anything.

  At Harmon Street, I took a shortcut across a vacant lot between Gentleman Johnnie’s Mini-golf and Seaside Rentals, and leaned against the fence for a couple minutes to catch my breath. There were a couple guys working the grounds at the Gentleman’s, unwinding the blue tarps that had protected the course from winter, and piling them in the back of a lawn tractor. They were stripped down to T-shirts, their discarded flannel draped over a handy salt cedar. I wasn’t ready to lose my jacket, personally, though I might unbutton it if the temp climbed another five degrees.

  I went up the Hill from the east, off of Heath Street, which is the gentle slope. The side facing the ocean is sand-covered stone, and the side toward Kinney Harbor is rock stitched with sea rose. There’s a trail that comes in from the top, through the abutting land, which has been in the Rogers family a good couple hundred years. Once, there’d been a small house and garden plot there, but it’d been let to go wild.

  I’d gone to school with Randy Rogers. The land passed to him before we graduated, after his father went over the side as a result of putting his lobster boat too hard by Googin Rock. Back then, Randy’s plans had included joining up and getting the hell outta Archers Beach, which his dad had opposed. Last I saw him, Randy was getting on the Navy bus with the rest of the new recruits. He hadn’t come back, as far as I knew. I wondered if he’d survived the war.

  The wind picked up as I came up out of the protected zone, and by the time I hit the top of the hill, I was blowing like a grampus, bright flecks swarming at the edge of my vision, my chest edgy and raw.

  I paused in the shadow of the sentinel trees, breathing shallowly, until the flecks went back to wherever they called home, then stood some more, looking out over the ocean. The sun struck sparks from the busy water, and I narrowed my eyes against the brightness, regretting the sunglasses I’d left sitting in the Subaru’s change tray. Squinting, I could see the islands silhouetted against the turquoise sky. Closer in was Googin Rock, as weird and as black as a moonscape in the retreating tide.

  I closed my eyes again, and took an experimental breath, deliberately drawing the salt air down deep into my lungs. Different—so different from the stuff I’d been breathing. Air was supposed to invigorate you, to give you a reason to rise and do battle with the challenges of the day, setting your blood to bubbling and your brain to jigging. Anything’s possible, with ocean air in your lungs. City air’s all weighted down with car exhaust, diesel fumes, and feelings of hopelessness. All that stuff gets into your system and it makes you tired, too, the heavy metals alchemize in your blood, turning your gifts into burdens and your joys into sorrows. Breathe enough of it and it’ll kill you, sure.

  Which was, after all, what I had wanted.

  One more deep breath, my chest hardly hurting at all, before I turned and approached the trees. The air changed again as the breeze filtered through leaf; I breathed in the scents of bark and mold, and felt the gathering regard of the forest.

  The shadows melted before me, and a path opened for my feet—that was the good news. But the wood was still, no bird song or insect sound, nor stirring of rabbit or squirrel in the fallen leaves, only a whisper of breeze in the branches. Around me, the trees were poised, on the edge of what action, I hadn’t a clue.

  Thinking it might be me that was making them tense, despite the fact that they’d let me in, I stopped, took my hands out of my pockets and opened my fingers wide.

  “It’s Kate,” I said, and waited.

  Leaves rustled; stilled. I took a breath, tasting the spice of green growing things—then the breeze was back, tickling inside my ear.

  Welcome, Kate . . .

  All righty, then. Whatever the problem was, it wasn’t me, for a novel change.

  The wood on Heath Hill is a mixed stand—hardwood and soft—and I moved on, sneakers soft on fallen needles, then crunching loudly on dead leaves or downed sticks. Somewhere, not close at hand, I heard a scream of maniac laughter—a pileated woodpecker; not exactly what you’d call bird song. Still, it made me feel better to know I wasn’t the only living thing in that place. Excepting the trees, of course.

  In due time I came to the Center. Here, the trees thin a bit, ceding pride of place to the soaring black gum which is the heart and soul of the wood.

  Nine feet around, is that tree, and somewhere over a hundred feet tall, with great, twisty, wide-reaching branches already showing oval leaves so brilliant they seemed blown from green glass.

  I walked up to the giant and put my palms against the rough silvery bark.

  “Anybody home?” I whispered.

  Silence, the wood beneath my hand rough and cool—only wood, that was all.

  “Damn.” I leaned in, setting my forehead against the trunk, and closed my eyes. All around, the trees were still, tense leaves smothering the breeze.

  “Damn,” I said again, some while later; I’d phased out again. I pushed away from my grandmother’s tree with a sigh, brushing my hands together to clear off the bits of bark.

  Clearly, Gran wasn’t at home. Well, she’d said as much in her letter, hadn’t she? The comfort was that she couldn’t have gone far. That, and the fact that her tree was hale and healthy, green leaves sparkling in the filtered sunlight. The only thing I needed to do was figure out where the devil the woman was holed up, and fetch her back.

  Piece of cake.

  * * *

  I came out of the woods on the side abutting the Rogers’ land. Overhead, seagulls shouted insults at each other, or maybe at me, and the breeze whipped right sprightly, unimpeded by leaf and trunk. Stepping from the shadow of the trees, I looked to the hilltop—and caught my jaw just before it hit the ground.

  Above me, at the top of Heath Hill, on what had been the Rogers’ landhold, stood a . . . a—well, I suppose the folk who’d built it thought it was a Maine summer cottage in the
grand Bar Harbor style. What I saw . . . was a monstrosity; a house that overfilled its land and its location, its windows afire in the sunlight, a sneer at the sea and the sky it overlooked, a slap at the groundlings who groveled in the town.

  “Randy sold the land?” I asked, and a moment later the breeze brought me the confirmation of the trees.

  . . . sold the land . . .

  The new owner had cleared his parcel, brought in dirt and made it all nice and level. ’Way up by the house, a man sat on the flagstone patio, sipping from a mug, a newspaper held between him and the sea. Walkways stretched out from the patio, lined with tame flowers, well-pruned cedars, and marsh pine. The grass was a uniform, unlikely emerald green, and—over the line by a good six foot.

  “Now, dammit,” I snapped, and my temper flickered. Not good. I look a breath and sighted upland.

  Bearding strange men on their patios at half-past breakfast isn’t on my top ten list of fun things to do. Nevertheless, the thing had to be dealt with, one way or another, and I was the captain of this particular ship until such time as Gran got her ass back from wherever it was she’d gone to.

  Firmly, I walked toward that towering monstrosity of a house. At my rear, I could hear the trees murmuring among themselves, expressing a lively interest in what I might be going to do.

  I’d’ve liked to have known that, myself, but I figured something would come to me. It usually did. Unfortunately.

  Up on the patio, the man turned the page of his paper without ever once looking up.

  I stopped walking precisely at the edge of my—of Gran’s—landhold, feet cushioned by emerald grass. Six feet over, right enough. I caught my breath, and considered the matter, feeling the spring of the grass beneath my sneakers, and sighted along the deeded markers, taking my time.

  Certain of my markers, I stepped over to the tree line, finding a stout stick suitable to my purpose obligingly close to hand, and went back to the boundary.