by Sharon Lee
I followed the stretcher at a decent remove, and waited while they loaded it, Tony climbing in without a backward glance. The two tourist ladies in their pretty sweatshirts hovered near the base of Summer’s Wheel, their eyes wide.
“What happened?” asked the one wearing the kitten and butterfly appliqué.
“She fell off the machine,” I said, hating the lie that short-changed Anna’s valor. “Forgot where she was and took a bad step. Knocked her head. She’ll be fine.”
“Goodness, I certainly hope so!” the other lady exclaimed. “Of all the rides—I always thought the merry-go-round was the safest!”
The ambulance pulled out then, lights flashing and siren screaming, and the two ladies retreated down the plaza. Me, I watched until it had turned the corner onto Grand, siren blaring as the driver gunned it, heading for Saco and Southern Maine Medical Center.
When the siren’s echo had faded, I went to look for the calico cat.
* * *
It wasn’t with any particular surprise that I found Nancy Vois sitting on the floor next to the utility shed, shaking her head kind of slow and careful, and running her fingers through her wispy, rust-colored hair.
“Pretty brave,” I said, sitting cross legged on the floor across from her. “Taking on something ten times your size.”
She settled her cap and slanted amber eyes at me from beneath the shelter of the brim. “Your gran didn’t mind it,” she said defensively.
“I don’t mind it, either,” I said. “Good God, woman—do you know what I am? You think I’m going to shun an honest shapeshifter?”
Another sheltered glance. “Anna all right?”
“She’s fine. Likely to be a little scrambled in the memory department, maybe dream about unicorns coming off the merry-go-round or some such bad-knock-in-the-head nonsense. Other than that, there shouldn’t be any problems.”
Nancy’s mouth twitched. “Good. You got ’em nailed down now?”
That was a good question, and not her fault that I didn’t exactly have a good answer.
“They’re nailed as good as I can nail ’em,” I said, which was true. “I’m going to have to study on what else I can do, to make sure we don’t get any more accidents.” Also true. Go me. “How about you? Everything okay?” I asked. “No broken bones, contusions, cuts, scrapes?”
“I’m fine.” She moved her shoulders, grimacing. “Gonna be stiff, later.”
I nodded. “Why don’t we call it a day? If, after a good night’s sleep, you still want to work for me, I’ll be here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Deal?”
Nancy outright grinned. “Deal.”
I observed her closely as she climbed to her feet, but she seemed as fine as she claimed. I got up, noticing a little stiffness, myself, and walked with her to the door.
“Anna left the key on the fuse box,” she said, and slipped out into the bright, breezy day. “See you.”
“See you,” I answered, and watched her walk away, taking the left, deeper into Fun Country. Across from me, Billie Lee waved from behind the counter. I nodded and raised a hand.
Then, I stepped inside the storm gate and shut the hatch behind me.
FOURTEEN
Saturday, April 22
It was quiet inside the storm gates. The animals—those that were something more than mere wooden carvings—were keeping very still. Waiting to see what I’d do next.
Something I wished I knew, myself.
I took a slow tour of the premises, trying to accommodate myself to senses I’d gone long years without. The land was like a child whose favorite aunt has just come to visit. It kept snatching at my attention, wanting to tell me, show me, touch me. I could feel myself being pulled in a treacherous emotional undertow, and fought for equilibrium.
The land doesn’t know any moderation, and if a Guardian isn’t strong, adamant, and downright bloody-minded, they’ll get swallowed up by it, which doesn’t do the land or the Guardian one damn’ bit of good.
So I made my circuit, and I struggled, and I finally managed to convey the fact that I was busy just now and needed some space. The immediacy of the roses, the surf, the rocks; the health, wealth, and worries of Archers Beach faded from the cacophony of a bagpipe band standing directly inside my ear to something like a symphony played—quietly—by a full orchestra in a small room, and I was able to concentrate on my other problem.
A sense of danger, of edges and of bloody intent caught my attention. I looked around, took two steps toward the wall and plucked my knife out of the shadows. Inspection proved the edge still true, no nicks or other damage evident. I swiped the blade clean on my sleeve as I continued my perambulations, sheathed it, and slipped it between my belt and my jeans, at the small of my back.
The wards—that is to say, Gran’s wards—were gone, completely dissipated. It may have been that the last few rags had been utilized in the magical action that had freed the unicorn and had him threatening ordinary citizens in broad daylight. Or not.
My foot sent something skittering across the floor, and I looked down, seeing what had been bright, spattered blood, now blots of brown paint; and Anna’s charm, glowing gently. I picked it up and slipped the silver chain over my head, wondering why Gran had given the thing to her at all.
Another question to ask, when I caught up with her. Which was going to be today, if I had any say in the matter at all.
First things, though, came first.
I climbed onto the carousel.
What vengeance, Keeper? the batwing snarled inside my head.
“You know the terms of your binding,” I said, sourly. “Believe me, if I had my druthers, I’d smash the lot of you into toothpicks.”
Well, then, it persisted, what action, as you choose to honor the word of the so-called Wise?
“Why, I’ll bind you, silly creature,” I said, and reached out again to the land, shaping my request in painstaking detail. For a moment, nothing happened, then the shadows at the base of the batwing’s hooves began to twist, take form and grow.
Up they came, from left and from right, from back and from front: Vines, thick with sea roses and with thorns. In a trice, the six were secured. The batwing shifted, heedless of the thorns, snapped uselessly at its restraints, and subsided.
Very well for now, with no one to see. But not so good in the long term, eh, Keeper? What will you do tomorrow?
“Worry about that for me, will you?” I said. “I’ve got some errands to run.”
I stepped off the carousel and headed for the hatch.
* * *
Somebody had been working on Keltic Knot. The leader was unwrapped and seated on the rails. The tarp was loose on a couple of the cars, the padlock was off the trapdoor, and the controls were completely tarp-free.
But of Mr. Ignatious, there was no sign.
“Mr. Ignat’!” I called, leaning over the guard rail. A gull shouted overhead in mimicry, laughed loudly at its own cleverness, and sped away.
“Mr. Ignat’!” I yelled again. “It’s Kate!”
Not even a gull answered this time. The land helpfully fed me an image of black and empty tarmac, which could’ve meant anything. Fine. I swung a leg over the rail and dropped into the enclosure.
I checked the shed at the back of the lot first. No Mr. Ignat’. Skinny as he was, there wouldn’t have been room for him among the tools and whatnots, all ordered and hung up so neat it made Gran’s housekeeping look positively slipshod.
Outside, I raised the trap, and peered down into the dark.
“Mr. Ignatious?” I called. The darkness swallowed my words, and gave nothing back.
Sighing, I lowered the trap and climbed the stairs to the platform, where there were more signs of work going forth. A can of WD-40 and a screwdriver sat on the deck next to the controls, and the go-stick was locked up tight. Frustrated, I spun on my heel, catching a flicker of reflection in the rear view mirror.
Most single-operator rides have a rear view mirror on a
flexible neck at the control station. That’s so the operator can see if anybody’s coming up behind them, or if maybe somebody’d jumped the exit gate to get themselves a free ride.
Keltic Knot’s mirror was in winter position, facing the operator’s usual position, and bent slightly down. I looked again, expecting to see disjointed reflections in a foggy glass.
What I did see was myself. My hair had half come loose from its knot and was flying in black tendrils around my face, which was pale, but by no means paper-white, smooth and unmarred.
I blinked, and touched gloved fingers to my cheek, where Anna’s butterfly stitches had been only this morning. The dressing must have come off during the fight with the unicorn, though I hadn’t seen it when I made my sweep. And the land—the land had healed my hurts, too.
I took a breath, noting that my eyesight was perfectly clear. My chest was pain free and I wasn’t gasping for breath, though I’d jogged the whole distance from the carousel.
I sat down on the top step, hard, as the reality of what I’d done punched me in the stomach.
“Oh, no . . .” I heard myself whisper, hearing the land singing contentedly in the back of my head.
The relationship between the Guardian and the land is fluid. By which I mean that each partner is informed by the essence and the nature of the other. While a Guardian must resist the lure of becoming one with the land, caring for the land falls squarely inside her duty. It’s a delicate dance, and the choices aren’t always easy.
Say, for instance, that a Guardian realizes that her essence is horribly flawed, and that the flaw will inevitably infect the land. It’s no less and no more than that Guardian’s duty to remove herself from the partnership.
Or so I had reasoned a decade ago, choosing my own death rather than poison the land further. I’d sworn then that I’d never renew the bond, and took myself far away to insure it.
And now I’d—I’d . . . and dammit, it’d been so easy. I’d barely registered the renewal of the bond until—
I swallowed and stiffened my spine, there on the stair, and shook my hair out of my eyes.
“This can’t continue,” I said aloud, though there really wasn’t any need. “I was wrong to renew the—”
Rejection blared through my head, so hard and loud that I saw stars.
“Hey!”
In the back of my head, the land giggled and strutted, like a kindergarten class that had gotten the better of the teacher. I drew a breath and the kindergartners morphed into a full marching band, complete with trombones, ticker tape, and a jet plane fly-by.
I lost myself briefly in the confusion, and by the time I’d struggled back into my head, I was pretty well steeped in how very glad the land was to have me back.
Along with the music, images fluttered through my head: Anna’s healing, the rose ropes binding the prisoners, my own unmarred face in the mirror . . . The land demonstrating how useful the bond was to me.
And I had to admit it was right. Land magic is by no means jikinap, but it is something very much better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. And it wasn’t like I didn’t need all the help I could get.
In fact . . . I blinked as the idea came fully fledged into my mind.
Gran was a dryad; a creature of the land. That meant, among other things, that she couldn’t hide from it. If I melded with the land and searched for her . . .
I chewed my lip, thinking.
Upside: The search would be efficient and, I hoped, quick.
Downside: Completely melding with the land was—all right, it was dangerous. Definitely not something even I was willing to try on my own.
But. If I had somebody to spot me while I went in, who could pull me out if I got lost, then the operation went from insanely dangerous to not much more dangerous than crossing Grand Avenue at the height of tourist season.
For the somebody, I needed a middling good magic worker, like Gran; or a powerful trenvay, like Nerazi.
Or, if he was to be believed, and I had no reason to doubt him on this particular point—Borgan.
If Gran had been within reach, I wouldn’t have been doing these calculations, and Nerazi . . . In my completely biased opinion, the mission to find Gran was now on Code Red. If I had a choice, I’d rather not wait until the wee hours, when I might or might not find Nerazi, who might or might not be willing to help me.
Which left Borgan, whom I’d insulted and walked out on.
Just . . . peachy.
Kate, you haven’t lost your touch, have you?
I took my gloves off and stuffed them in my pockets, fished my cell out of my jeans and checked the time. Going on for one o’clock.
Well, I thought, swinging myself over the rail and dropping lightly onto the entrance ramp. I haven’t had a good helping of crow for quite a while.
* * *
The Kinney Harbor Seafood Exchange was bustling, noisy with the shouts of fishermen, buyers, and the unremitting hilarity of gulls. Not wanting to get knocked in the head with a net, or splashed all over with a fresh haul, I leaned up against a post at the landside entrance, and scanned the crowd.
It isn’t as easy as you might suppose to spot one particular fisherman on a pier full of jeans, work sweaters, and cuss words—even a fisherman the size of a small mountain. In fact, I wasn’t having any luck at all identifying my man when one of the buyers took pity on me.
“Lookin’ for something particular, missy?”
“I wonder if Captain Borgan’s brought his haul in yet.”
“Seen him not too long ago . . .” He looked over his shoulder. “Andre!” he bellowed. “Ya got some goods down here if ya want ’em!”
The racket died down as all eyes turned toward the door, then surged again in a chorus of ribald jokes. My benefactor gave me a grin. “He’ll be along shortly, missy. Just you rest there.”
Rest there I did, not having any choice, until there came a movement from the far end of the pier, and there was Borgan, moving slowly but steadily toward my position, trading laughter and shoulder punches, a grin on his face until he broke free of the crowd and saw me.
I swallowed, stood up straight, and looked him square in the eye, waiting.
The right corner of his mouth twitched—whether it was anger, humor, or resignation, I couldn’t tell—but he gave me the grace of a stiff, formal nod.
“Kate,” he said, entirely noncommittal.
“Borgan,” I answered hoarsely, and cleared my throat. He was barefoot, his jeans rolled, the sleeves of his work sweater pushed up on his arms; he smelled like fish, and sweat and salt. Not precisely a figure to inspire either delight or desire. Despite which, the land shouted both, loud enough that it set my knees to shaking.
“I’d like that cup of coffee,” I said, pleased that I sounded four hundred percent calmer than I felt, “if it’s still on offer.”
Silence, while he measured me out of bland black eyes, and finally gave me a curt nod.
“I’ve gotta finish up here. Meet me at the dock in half an hour.”
“Sure.” I hesitated. “Thanks.”
“See you,” he answered, and went back the way he’d come. I stood and watched until I lost him in the general confusion, then turned and walked down the ramp, hands fisted in my pockets to still the shaking.
FIFTEEN
Saturday, April 22
Forty-five minutes later, I was on the dock, elbows on the rail, and the beginnings of a good seethe brewing.
I’d taken the long way around, not having any desire to be on display for the local guys when they moored their boats and rode their dinghies in to dock. That’s the girl came for Andre Borgan at the ’change, they’d tell each other, and give a knowing grin in my direction.
Nope, didn’t need that.
’Course, I very much didn’t need to be stood up, either, though it looked like I was going to be.
Overhead, the gulls circled and screamed off-color jokes at each other. Out in the center of the harbor, the Tanc
ook Schooner danced at her mooring, as if she were impatient for a sail.
There was a stir of shadow on the schooner’s deck, and Borgan came topside, swung over the rail and dropped lightly into his dinghy. He cast off, plying the oars with calm power, and was tying up at the base of the dock in no time at all.
I kept leaning, trying to look casual and hanging on to my seethe with both hands while the land turned cartwheels inside my head in an excess of pleasure.
Borgan vaulted to the dock, glanced ’round, and walked in my direction, boot heels firm against the weathered boards.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said when he was in easy talking distance. “I thought maybe you’d appreciate it if I took a shower first.”
His jeans were faded and soft-looking, his shirt black, open at the throat under the leather jacket. He leaned on the rail next to me and looked out over the harbor. Electricity crackled along my nerves, and the land fair quivered with delight.
“Andre?” I asked, testing whether I still had control of my vocal cords.
He shook his head. “That’s for licenses and suchlike. You call me Borgan.” He shifted his elbows on the rail, settling himself.
“You sure did make a noise this morning,” he said conversationally. “Land shouted so loud, it scared the fish. What made you change your mind?”
I took a deep breath, watching the Tancook Schooner dance, my bad temper draining away like sand through my fingers.
“You know Anna Lee?”
He nodded. “Nice lady. Got a big heart.”
I flicked a glance at the side of his face, suspecting sarcasm. He turned his head, braid swinging, and met my eyes.
