Carousel Tides

by Sharon Lee

  It was not, as Words of Power go, very large; though heavy, it was not out of proportion with its purpose. There was a sense of abrasion about it, which ought to answer the rust, and a lingering aroma of oil, which should loosen the drive.

  I took a breath and let my half-designed magic machine fade. A real Ozali trusts her spellcraft. But a real Ozali would have had many years to study and hone her skill.

  All I had was raw power and a couple of half-remembered lessons from the schoolroom. And the Words, which appeared on their own schedule, according to rules I’d never understood, but which had never done me wrong.

  I pushed the boiling jikinap as far down my spine as I could manage, centered myself and Spoke.

  Heat, the memory of butterscotch, and an accelerated high-pitched squeak. The metal platform bucked under my feet, and I grabbed the rail to keep from toppling into the frustrated water battering against the gate.

  Except the sluice gate wasn’t there. It was open, cranked as high as the rust-free and gleaming worm drive could take it, and the tide was rushing through the opening, exactly as it should.

  I leaned over the rail and watched the water move, picturing it flowing into Heron Marsh, picturing the poor, mad trenvay dancing in the current. It would take time for the marsh to recover; the sea had its work cut out for it. But at least the vital cleansing cycle had been restarted.

  And that, Gran’s voice said from memory, is how a proper Guardian acquits her duty.

  Yeah, well. I rubbed my tingling fingertips together, and fished my cell phone out of my jeans pocket. Eight o’clock.

  Time for breakfast.

  * * *

  Unless you’re one of those folks who don’t care about rules, or trampling endangered plants, and are okay with spooking heron and loon off their nests—and if you are, please don’t tell me—there’s only one way back to town from the sluice gate at Carson Creek. Walk west on the overgrown-but-marked trail to the intersection with a thinner and even more overgrown path. Turn south at that intersection. The trail thins again and becomes even more unkempt, but keep the faith. Eventually, you’ll come to a wooden deck railed around with brown-painted logs, and a Maine Park Service information board with its back to the trail. Duck under or go over the rail and you’re back to civilization, only a quarter mile or so out from Bob’s Diner, and a good board walk all the way down to Grand Avenue.

  I went under the rail to the right of the info board. The land shifted to alert, feeding me the image of a weedy-looking shrub, like a hundred other weedy-looking shrubs at either side of the walk.

  I shrugged and quickened my pace, my mind on other things. Specifically, the location and well-being of Mr. Ignat’. Having just lately taken a refresher course in Jikinap, its seductive dangers, I was worried all over again. If he’d been a mere human with some Sight, a few hefty swigs of jikinap-laced whiskey wouldn’t hurt him. At least, I thought not. But if the Battle of the Black Dogs had done nothing else, it had solidly established Mr. Ignat’ as trenvay. An ordinary human would have seen only shadows while the Dogs chewed their joy and mauled their spirits. Henry, a human with Sight, would have been able to see them, all right, but he couldn’t have done a damn thing about them.

  Mr. Ignat’ had not only seen them, he’d fought them—and prevailed.

  Which meant that there was a hopped-up trenvay of slightly less than modest good sense roaming around Archers Beach. And, as I thought back to my several visits to the Knot yesterday, he was avoiding me.

  I was trying to decide if I should notch up from “worried” to “panicked” when the weedy-looking shrub to my right rustled noisily, and a woman stepped out onto the walk. She was tall and thin, with flyaway blond hair and narrow brown eyes, wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved denim shirt—absolutely unmemorable, except for one thing.

  She was pointing a gun at my chest.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Monday, April 24

  I didn’t think, I reacted, and the bolt was on its way to her heart before my brain got with the program.

  In the same instant, she fired, in what should have been the last, defiant act of a dead woman.

  Except that the high-voltage spear I’d thrown at her—bounced.

  So did the bullet.

  For a moment we just stood there, four feet apart, blinking at each other in mutual bafflement. I’m sorry to say that she found her wits first, jamming the gun into the waistband of her jeans with one hand and pulling a knife with the other.

  I dropped back a step, reaching to the small of my back. Mam’selle fair leapt into my hand, and I went back another step, holding her all wrong, and leaving a hole in my defenses you could drive a semi through.

  My opponent smiled, and moved in slow and low, a woman who knew her business, and no mistake.

  I went half a step to the right and reached for the land.

  “Mr. Nemeier’s tired of you,” the blonde said, and thrust against my non-existent defenses.

  The moment she was off-center, the land moved. The boardwalk rippled under her feet and she staggered, flinging her arms out for balance, knife flying from confused fingers. The walkway bucked peevishly, and she pitched forward, caught her shoe in a gap between two boards and went down, hitting her head sharply.

  I approached with proper caution, knife at ready—but she was out colder’n a January blizzard.

  “That was too close,” I said to no one in particular, and sat down next to her on the now perfectly flat and well-behaved boardwalk.

  Taking a single deep breath, I stepped Sideways, which was far too easy to do and would’ve scared hell out of me if I hadn’t already been high on adrenaline.

  As I had suspected, my napping adversary had a nice, basic invincibility spell knitted around her. Which answered the musical question, How come Kate’s lightning bolt hadn’t fried her? What it didn’t answer was the reciprocal question regarding the bullet.

  I hadn’t been wrapped in protective magic. Contrary to popular fantasy, an invincibility spell isn’t something a mage can bring into being with the snap of her fingers. They take work—hard work—and a non-trivial application of jikinap. That being the case, and my girl’s aim steady as it went, the bullet should have hit its mark.

  Blink and I was back to normal sight. I looked down at my brand new jacket—and swore again.

  There was a ragged hole in the tough blue fabric, and a gleam of silver behind it.

  I reached inside the jacket and pulled out the stainless steel commuter mug I’d stashed there hours ago, in the interests of keeping my hands free.

  Dented, oh momma. Ruined, without a doubt. But it had stopped the bullet cold, which is more than most people ask from their coffee mugs.

  Dammit.

  I put the mug on the walk beside me and pulled my cell out. A blow to the head isn’t something to take lightly. No matter my personal feelings, I really ought to call Rescue so Miss Geniality could get—

  Ice cold flame sparked against my power. I turned my head, right hand already rising in defense—and blinked.

  Saving myself and the ruined metal mug, the boardwalk was empty as far as I could see. Whoever had crafted my recent opponent’s invincibility spell had also had the forethought to weave in a comehome. Her lack of motion must’ve triggered it.

  Sighing, I flipped my phone closed, slid Mam’selle away, and rolled to my feet, coffee mug in hand. There was a trash can a few yards further on. I pitched the mug into it as I went past.

  * * *

  It was going on for ten when I pushed through Bob’s front door and into the extended version of Edgar Winter’s “Frankenstein.” The place was deserted this late in the day—except for the man at the booth nearest the kitchen, his back to the door, faded yellow hair hanging in wind-tangles over his collar.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot on the plate and carried it to the back booth.

  Mr. Ignat’ looked up and smiled, kind and vague as always, when I slid into the seat acro
ss from him.

  “Good morning, Katie. How’s my favorite black-hearted pirate?”

  “A little rugged,” I said, dosing my coffee liberally with creamer. “I had to open the sluice gate across Carson Creek so Heron Marsh maybe won’t choke to death. The trenvay there’s in pretty bad shape—you know her?”

  “Him,” Mr. Ignat’ murmured, re-addressing the remains of the grilled muffin before him. “Eltenfleur is his name, and truly, Katie, he’s always been a trifle mad.”

  “Well, he’s plenty mad now, and with good reason.” I had a cautious sip of my coffee, which was terrible, even by Bob’s standards.

  “Kate!” The man himself put his head through the hatch. “Want anything?”

  “The grilled blueberry muffins are quite good. You should try one,” Mr. Ignat’ said, like he wasn’t the one who’d gotten me addicted to the damn’ things.

  “Grilled blueberry with a side of bacon?” I asked Bob.

  “Coming right out.”

  “So, anyhow,” I said, tucking my hands around the mug and watching Mr. Ignat’s genteel attack on his muffin, “I straightened out that problem. On the walk back to town, though, one of Joe Nemeier’s henchthings shot me. Not only did she put a bullet hole in my brand new jacket, she ruined my favorite coffee mug.”

  “How aggravating,” Mr. Ignat’ said sympathetically. “I trust you spoke to her sternly.”

  “I knocked her out. I was going to call the Rescue for her, but what should she do but disappear.”

  He looked at me from under shaggy brows. “Disappear, Katie?”

  “Right.” I leaned forward, jikinap enhanced nerves quivering with the proximity of more of itself. “Just vanished into—thanks, Bob.”

  “No problem,” he said, clattering plates and silverware onto the table. “Anything else?”

  “I’m good.”

  He nodded and looked over to Mr. Ignat’. “ ’Nother muffin for you?” he asked, his voice over-clear and firm, like he was talking to a nine year old. “Maybe something with a little protein? Eggs?”

  Mr. Ignat’ gave him a beatific smile. “No, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself,” Bob said, sounding cross, but looking worried. He glanced at me, hesitated—then turned and went back to the kitchen without saying anything else.

  “The person who ruined your coffee mug just vanished?” Mr. Ignat’ said.

  I nodded, mouth full of muffin. He pushed his empty plate away and picked up his mug.

  “Yeah,” I said when I was able. “Seems there’s somebody who’s providing Joe Nemeier’s happy crew with invincibility spells, and probably with don’t-touch-mes, too. That would tie in to what Borgan said about nobody being able to lay hands on them.”

  “Borgan’s a nice boy. I like him extremely. I’m glad you’re getting to know him, Katie.”

  I sighed and ate a strip of bacon. Mr. Ignat’ drank coffee. The mid-morning DJ on WBLM told everyone within the sound of his voice that the first caller who correctly named the Beatles’ drummer before Ringo Starr would win two tickets to the August 18 Steve Miller concert at the Augusta Civic Center.

  “Pete Best!” Bob yelled from the kitchen.

  “So call in and claim the prize!” I yelled back.

  His head popped through the hatch. “Kate, what’m I gonna do with two tickets to a concert in Augusta?” He vanished again before I could answer.

  I drank coffee, put the mug down, and leaned across the table.

  “Mr. Ignat’, where did you get that whiskey you gave me?”

  He looked up, pale eyes wide. “I told you, Katie. Bonny and I made it—oh, ages ago.”

  “Right, you did say that. When did you start drinking it, yourself?”

  Shaggy brows pulled together. “I had a sip or two the other night, to keep you company. Bonny didn’t mean for old Ignat’ to be nipping the emergency rations. Very precise in such matters, is Bonny, as you know yourself.”

  “I do,” I said, my voice suddenly hoarse. I cleared my throat. “I do know that. Mr. Ignat’ . . .”

  “Katie?”

  I caught his eyes with mine. “Gran went across the World Wall to the Land of the Flowers,” I said.

  He blinked, and looked down at his mug.

  “That’s nice, Katie. Did she say when she’s coming back?”

  “She’s overdue,” I said quietly. “She expected to be back by Samhain, is how I read it. Nerazi thinks she maybe meant January first. It’s a moot point, anyway, since she missed both.”

  He nodded, not looking at me. I took a deep breath.

  “Two Seasons ago, an Ozali visited Gran at the carousel. The batwing horse saw him, and so did Nancy Vois. He wanted Gran to return something of his that’s here, in Archers Beach. She refused.” Another deep breath, and still he didn’t raise his head. I wanted to grab his shoulders and make him look at me, but I didn’t dare touch him, for fear my roused and ever-hungry power would cause me to do something terrible. “Mr. Ignat’—do you know who that Ozali was? Did Gran tell you?”

  “I don’t know who the Ozali was, Katie,” he said quietly, and at long last raised his head. His eyes were bright with tears. “If Bonny ever told me, I’ve forgotten, my dear.” He bit his lip, and looked aside. “I’m so very sorry, Katie,” he whispered.

  I swallowed, not easy with a lump the size of Rhode Island lodged in my throat.

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “Mr. Ignat’, listen. It’s okay. Just—if you hear something inside your head, telling you—telling you weird, twisted stuff—don’t listen to it, all right? I—you should probably see Nerazi and ask her—ask her to draw the poison for you. Promise me you’ll do that. Tonight.”

  He tipped his head. “Will you be doing the same, Katie? Perhaps we should go together.”

  I opened my mouth—closed it.

  “Not . . . No. I can’t tonight. I’ve got to see somebody.”

  Mr. Ignat’ nodded; lifted his mug, drained it, thumped it to the table, and reached for his hat.

  “Wait—” I extended a hand—snatched it back. Mr. Ignat’ paused, hat in hand, head tipped attentively to one side.

  “I need a way to get hold of you,” I said. “A cell phone number, or—”

  “Just call me, child,” he said, in a tone of quiet authority that I’d never heard from him before. He settled his hat at a rakish angle, and slid out of the booth. “Well, then, Pirate Kate! We two buccaneers best be getting topside, or it’ll be a taste of the lash for us!”

  I swallowed; but managed to bring up the canon response with just the right amount of faux terror. “Not the lash!”

  “Better look lively, then,” he advised me. “Now, who’s paying for breakfast?”

  * * *

  I had almost finished lining up the sections of the portable safety fence when Nancy arrived.

  “Summer Wheel’s running,” she said, stepping over and pulling the last section straight. “An’ Dodge City’s got a line down to the lobster toss.”

  I hooked the guard chain into the eyelet on the side of the control box.

  “It’s only eleven,” I said.

  “We’re as ready as we’re gonna be,” she pointed out, as I straightened. Hands on hips, I spun on a heel, nodding at Nancy when I came back ’round again.

  “You’re right. What say we pull the walls back and see if anybody wants a ride?”

  “Sounds like fun to me,” she said, with a grin that displayed dainty sharp teeth.

  “Masochist.”

  * * *

  We opened to a midway as packed as any evening in high summer. The carousel looked good—no. It looked great. The brass shone under the lights, the animals glittered, the decking gleamed. The simple brave sight of it made me smile, and when I glanced over at Nancy she was grinning like a fool.

  The “Liberty Bell March” boomed out of the orchestrion, and that quick we had a crowd. Blue-haired ladies in pastel exercise suits, bald gentlemen smelling of cigar smoke, determined blonds, cou
ples, singles and groups of ten—they pressed tickets into my hands and mounted the deck, their faces glowing as they swung aboard their chosen mount, some laughing outright as the ride began to turn, the breeze running fond fingers through their hair. The march segued into the “Chit-Chat Polka,” and the animals took flight . . .

  A line formed, its various parts waiting patiently, relaxed, smiles on their faces, and not a few toes tapping. There was no pushing or shoving to mount when the first ride was done and the happy riders dismounted.

  “A merry-go-round,” murmured a plump lady in a lilac workout set and sneakers so white they hurt my eyes. “God, it’s been years . . .”

  * * *

  The Oriental Funhouse opened around 11:30; I could hear the giant samurai inviting passersby to tour the Emperor’s Haunted Palace over the music from the orchestrion. Further away, I heard the rumble and roar out of Dodge City, and over it all the sound of voices, laughing, talking, yelling, laughing . . .

  Around one, we had a break in commerce—not a person standing in line—and I waved Nancy over from her station in the pit.

  “Everything’s running fine,” she said, a grin vibrating off her wire thin body. “Not a wobble nor a glitch.”

  “You do good work,” I told her and meant it. “Look, how’s your time today? I need to meet somebody up on the Pier at seven—be gone an hour—maybe two—I guess. Can you cover here? I can close the ride, if you can’t.”

  “Jeezum, no!” Nancy was scandalized. “We can’t close the ride during prime time! I tell you what, Kate—gimme off now. I’ll come back at six-thirty and keep ’er open while you make your meeting.”

  I looked at her dubiously. “Couple hours,” I said again.

  She shook her head. “I’ll feed Ma dinner before I come back, and set everything up the way she likes it. I can run the ride ’til closing, if your meeting runs late.”

  I chewed my lip.

  “Okay,” I told her. “If it’ll work for you, it’ll work for me. I hope not to be ’til ten, but—hold on.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the duplicate key. “In case you need to lock up—or unlock, for that matter.”