Carousel Tides

by Sharon Lee

  “Young Borgan is correct, Katie.” Mr. Ignat’ took up the argument. “I believe our first order of business must be to fetch Bonny home. The choices before us may be clearer if we leave no hostages in Ramendysis’ hands.”

  Which, I had to admit, only sounded like good common sense. Unfortunately.

  “All right,” I said slowly, “we get Gran out of the Land of the Flowers first. The question is how. Ramendysis will know the second I hit town, even if I don’t use the Gate. He’ll be expecting me to deliver the Opal, double quick, and he’s not going to be a happy camper when he finds out I just dropped by to take in the scenery.”

  “I’ll go,” Mr. Ignat’ said quietly. I looked at him.

  “No.”

  “It’s his mess,” Borgan said reasonably. “He’s got a right to clean it up.”

  “The Opal being here is partially his doing,” I said, keeping a sharp eye on Mr. Ignat’, who only smiled at me wistfully and stroked his bird. “But there were at least three other people in on it, which is why it’s the great big, grand old calamity that it is, instead of your garden variety catastrophe. Gran going over the Wall, though—” I laughed shortly. “The letter she left me—she apologized for leaving a mess for me to clean up.”

  “I’ll go,” Mr. Ignat’ said again. I shook my head.

  “What if Ramendysis catches you and drinks your power?”

  His smile went from wistful to savage, and the bird started from his shoulder, black wings grabbing air. “Why then, he will be sore amazed, as little as he’d gain from me.”

  “Which is another argument against your going,” I said sternly, and sighed. “All right. Take your day. Let’s all three meet at Tupelo House at midnight, and share what we’ve got. Maybe we can come up with a plan that doesn’t involve one or all of us getting eaten alive. And, hey—it’ll give Gran a chance to check her messages.”

  Borgan laughed, and after a moment, Mr. Ignat’ joined him. I managed a grin of sorts before I put my hand on Borgan’s arm.

  “All right,” I said when he smiled down at me. “I’m going home. I’m going to take a shower and get some sleep.” I looked at the Ozali. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  “Why, yes,” he said, and gave me one of Mr. Ignat’s charmingly extravagant bows.

  “I honor, respect, and stand in awe of you, Katie. And I love you, very much.”

  He turned while I was still gaping, and walked away up the beach, a slim golden youth all in black leather, bright hair blowing like sparks on the breeze, and the dark bird flying overhead.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Wednesday, April 26

  As I was taking my shower it occurred to me to wonder what crime Ozali Belignatious had committed to get himself sentenced to Googin Rock.

  At a conservative guess, I’d heard the story of the Ozali in the Rock about a thousand times while I was growing up. Now that I thought about it, Gran had always been vague on the point; the why of the chase lost inside the how of The Fire.

  The subtext of the story, though, had been that the Ozaliflame was framed, going to the Rock innocent and meek. And yet—they’d had time to plan, Ignat’ and Gran. I hadn’t seen it, but I was betting that the working which separated the Ozali from his power had been several orders of magnitude above non-trivial. Not to mention the time and care that had likely been required to distill a bottle or six of jikinap-laced whiskey . . .

  What if, I thought, as I toweled dry—what if it hadn’t been the Ozaliflame who had been framed, but the posse that had been hoodwinked?

  The Six Worlds don’t exactly match up, time-wise, nor does cause in Sempeki necessarily equal effect in Cheobaug. What if, in fact, Gran and Ignat’ had engineered the whole farce, up to and including his imprisonment before a cast of dozens in order to demonstrate that he couldn’t possibly have been the author of some subsequent action?

  “And what if pigs can fly, Kate?” I asked my reflection irritably, as I dragged a comb ruthlessly through the mass of tangles that was my hair. “The problem of the day is getting Gran, and Mother, out of the Land of the Flowers. Focus.”

  Back in my code jockey days, when my brain got to working overtime on an extraneous, trivial problem it usually meant that the grunt work on the real problem was being done in some sleazy back room tenanted by unsavory thought processes, and that sooner or later, if I just went with the flow and didn’t jostle their grubby elbows, they’d fork over with a solution.

  I was really, really hoping that was what was going on now.

  In the meantime, I got dressed, checked the answering machine, and walked up to Heath Hill.

  * * *

  The sea breeze had cleared away most of the smell of gasoline, smoke, and charred greenwood. Uphill, Joe Nemeier’s house slumbered, its protections so dense they were nearly visible to the unaided eye.

  I slipped Sideways as easily as if I’d just danced a step across the grass, squinting in protest of the proliferation of workings, laid one over the other with a trowel, apparently; their disparate functions co-existing uneasily, and the whole structure an offense to the senses, not to mention aesthetics. I had expected a mage of Ramendysis’ age and abilities to have developed some elegance in these matters.

  But the lack of elegance wasn’t really the interesting thing. The fact that Joe Nemeier’s house had seen a hundredfold increase in protection since early this morning—that was interesting. I made a note to mention it to Mr. Ignat’.

  Then, I turned my attention to the Wood.

  In comparison with the sloppy gobs of power dripping over Nemeier’s house, the protection above the Wood was a thing of spare beauty. Enough power to do the job, and no more, the working itself a marvel of silken impenetrability. I couldn’t have managed anything nearly so comprehensive and thrifty on my own.

  Now that I’d had jikinap thrust upon me, it would seem I could do a lot worse than ask Ozali Belignatious to teach me spellcraft.

  Assuming I, and Archers Beach, managed to survive our various current difficulties.

  I stepped back into my body with a sigh, blinking at the disordered trees. Slowly, so as not to pluck raw nerves, I approached. The working fizzed as I passed through, which was the jikinap recognizing me as its all-too-temporary master.

  Inside the Wood, the trees were a-twitter. I kept carefully to the path, tallying the damage as I went. The young trees had fared worst, and oldsters with not much sap left in them. For the most part, though, the harm seemed gratifyingly slight. Which was all due to Mr. Ignat’ and his feathered friend. I shuddered to think what might have happened if I’d had to handle the fire alone. Assuming that I had managed not to incinerate myself.

  At length, I came to the Center. Here, the fire had snacked on last year’s leaves and dry twigs, leaving the trees unmolested. I put my hand against the trunk of Gran’s ancient tupelo, and gave a sigh of absolute relief to find the wood warm and welcoming. Not so comforting was the blight that teased the edge of my vision. Was it bigger? Darker? Deeper? I hoped it was only my imagination that made it seem so.

  “I’ve come,” I said to the trees, “as Guardian of the land and granddaughter of the Lady. Tell me what I can do to help you, and to mend what may be mended.”

  A breeze rustled through the leaves—a particularly frisky breeze, and flexible as to direction. But if the trees were speaking, they didn’t choose to speak to me.

  I waited, listening to the sounds of the small lives—squirrels in the high branches, chipmunks scrabbling in the mold. Somewhere among the deep trees, my friend the pileated woodpecker started laughing at his own joke, and I saw the tender curls of fern and wood herbs pushing out from beneath the leaves on the forest floor.

  Finally, the breeze came ’round to me and tickled the inside of my ear.

  We note the protections in place. The trees are grateful.

  “I regret that I didn’t foresee the attack against the trees and provide protection beforehand.”

  We each put do
wn roots where it seems best, seedling. Even the Lady errs sometimes.

  What . . . a novel thought. I wondered how Gran would take knowing that the trees forgave her.

  And I’d be willing to do damn’ near anything to find out.

  There are some few places which may benefit from the Guardian’s hand, the voice of the wood murmured.

  “Show me,” I said.

  Across from me and to the left of a particularly robust fir, the undergrowth rustled, leaves and branches pulling back. Opening a path for me.

  I touched the land, taking comfort from the presence inside my head, and went where the wood desired.

  * * *

  It was four-thirty when I got to the carousel, having gone around by Grand, instead of trying to cut through Fun Country’s tourist-clogged avenues. The U.S., Maine, and Canadian flags were snapping smartly in the breeze when I crossed Fountain Circle, and there were people waiting patiently in line next to the fountain itself. I ducked between a plump lady with bright white hair and twinkling brown eyes and a slightly thinner edition—sisters, maybe, I thought as I smiled and nodded my thanks.

  Nancy saw me coming and pushed the gate open. I slipped into the control booth and parked my rump on the stool.

  “Has it been like this all day?” I asked, scrapping damp hair out of my damp face, discovering bits of leaf and twig in the snarls.

  “Pretty much,” she said, and tapped the ticket box with the toe of her sneaker. “Already emptied this twice. Chits went down to the office by runner.” I nodded.

  Nancy touched the switch and the bell rang twice, signaling the end of the ride.

  “Today’s the day everybody was s’posed to arrive,” she said as the carousel glided to a stop. “So now we got the early birds and the folks who waited ’til the opening was official.” She reached over to unhook the chain.

  “Ticket, deah,” she said to the first in line. I was quiet while she counted them in, rehooked the chain, rang the warning bell and pushed the stick up.

  “Hey, somebody’s riding the batwing.”

  “Been so busy, they’ve gotta ride her, though some have waited for the next ride,” Nancy said. “I think it’s the fangs that unnerve ’em.”

  “Could be.” I sighed and stretched, carefully. I wasn’t any closer to a brilliant idea for bringing Gran out of the Land of the Flowers, but at least the Wood was squared away. The trees could take it from here. I used my chin to point at the ticket box.

  “Why not take those down to Marilyn and go on home? Your shift’s almost over.”

  “About that,” Nancy said, and I looked at her, eyebrows up.

  “Might as well go over to Tony and Anna’s and get your supper. I’ll stay on ’til six.”

  “I appreciate it, but why?”

  “Park’s open ’til midnight,” she said. “Marilyn sent ’round a notice . . .” She wormed a hand into her front jeans pocket and pulled out a rumpled piece of yellow paper.

  I unfolded it and read as much of the good news as was visible. Somebody was determined to wring the last drop of ink out of the Chamber’s printer cartridge and no mistake.

  Park open noon to midnight for the next three days, was the gist of it. Fireworks every night at ten, weather permitting. Ticket booklets were being sold at group discount, and shares would be adjusted accordingly. At the bottom of the sheet was a breakdown of earnings since Monday.

  I blinked. “I want these folks back next year.”

  “It’s been a good start to the Season,” Nancy agreed.

  “Oh,” said the person at the head of the line—a trim matron with violently blue hair—“I love coming to places early! This is my third pre-Season with the Fun Lovers and I always have such a marvelous time!”

  “Well, we’re having a marvelous time, too,” I told her. “Your group’s been something special.”

  She smiled, pleased, and Nancy rang the bell.

  * * *

  Business started slowing down around 11:30, as the tourists sought either their beds or the headier entertainments of the bars. At ten ’til twelve, the carousel was empty for the first time since I’d taken over from Nancy at six. I did a fast tally and bagged the tickets, leaving them on the stool for Marilyn’s helper to pick up in the morning.

  Across the way, the lights went out over Tony Lee’s Kitchen, and a heartbeat later, I heard the night gate rattle down and lock. Summer’s Wheel was at rest, platform lights out, though I could hear the rumble of the cars down at Dodge City, and the distant metallic clatter of the Galaxi roller coaster at the far end of the park.

  It looked like the carousel was done for the night. I crossed the enclosure and pulled the first two storm gates closed, latching them together. That done, I stopped at the main switch and turned off the outside lights. I was about to do the same for the running lights when there was a movement to my left, and the sound of a soft consultation.

  The land obligingly brought me their words.

  “A merry-go-round! Remember our first date?” she asked softly.

  “Think I’d forget it?” he responded.

  “I wish . . .” she said, and let it drift off. “But they’re closing for the night, aren’t they?”

  I turned my head and gave them a smile—white-haired, the two of them, she comfortably rounded, he stick-thin and slightly stooped; wearing matching dark blue windbreakers, sensibly zipped right up to their chins. They were holding hands.

  Something clenched inside my chest: So ordinary, the two of them, with no eyes for magic. Ordinary people, enjoying the late hour and the sea air, remembering their first date . . .

  “Got time for one more ride,” I said, my voice a little hoarse. “Before midnight.”

  They smiled, guileless as children, and went over to drop their tickets through the slot. I walked back to the operator’s station and took hold of the stick while they climbed aboard and chose their mounts. I looked to make sure they were settled—her on the unicorn, him right next to her, mounted on the bobcat—and threw the switch.

  The carousel spun, the woman laughed out loud, clutching the brass pole as the unicorn started moving up and down. He rode quiet, his eyes on the side of her face, while the orchestrion played “Daisy, Daisy.” I leaned against the ticket box and watched them, wondering what it was like to be ordinary—really ordinary, blind to magic and oblivious to power. Life would be simpler, I thought . . . or maybe not. If Ramendysis fulfilled his threat to lay waste to Archers Beach, the ordinary people would suffer as much as the trenvay—and never know why.

  By the time the carousel had stopped, most of the midway lights were out; and I heard the rattle-bang of the night gate being pulled across the park entrance.

  “Better step lively,” I told my customers, as they came off the platform—him first, then turning to offer his hand and steady her. “They’re rolling the gate closed. You don’t want to be locked in.”

  They exchanged a private glance, and laughed together. “No,” said the man, “don’t want to be locked in.” He gave me a jaunty grin, and a wink as they passed; the woman put her hand on the ticket box, and patted it as if it were a favored grandchild.

  “Thank you,” she said, softly. “Thank you very much.”

  Then they were gone, slipping into the darkened midway, hand in hand.

  I shook myself and went over to close the rest of the gates and put the carousel to bed.

  * * *

  I locked the hatch behind me, and looked around. The midway was silent, all the rides were closed, and the rolling gate was across the entrance way. Shaking my head, I turned right and was soon in the deeper shadows behind Summer’s Wheel, feeling for the breach in the fence. I slipped through to the beach, and turned my face north, toward home.

  The Pier was lit up like Christmas Eve, music and voices clearly audible. The shops and eateries would be closed by now, but the bar and casino were open, according to today’s memo, ’til two. I angled down to the firm sand, moving briskly. From m
y right came the gentle plash of waves against the sand. Tide going out.

  Now that I was alone, worry rushed back in. The unsavory crew in the back room of my mind had let me down. I didn’t have one idea, bright or otherwise, how to fetch Gran home. Or to keep Ramendysis from destroying Archers Beach, either. In fact, the only thing remotely useful I could think to do was to call in the Wise.

  Risky—always risky to deal with the Wise. On the other hand, dealing with Ramendysis was looking to become lethal.

  I entered the noisy light-striped darkness beneath the Pier, hands in my pockets, knuckles resting on the soft leather gloves. Useful things, and comforting, like the knife in its nestle against my spine.

  As I stepped out from beneath the Pier, I became aware of a presence on my right hand, and turned my head.

  “Good evening to you, Heeterskyte,” I said politely to the small creature.

  “Evening, deah,” it answered. “Wanted to let you know that I put the question about, and there’s neither news nor hint of the old lady to be had.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve got good reason to believe she’s gone across the Wall, to the Land where the Black Dogs live.”

  “Huh.” It paced in silence for a moment or two, then said, “That would make some sense of a tale I had from a tern, who claimed her tree was ailin’.”

  I swallowed. “It would, at that.”

  Silence. I began the long angle toward the dunes, the heeterskyte trailing a bit behind.

  “Also,” it said. I paused, turning to look at it where it straddled the line between the dry sand and the wet. “We see you’ve put some effort into clearing out the bad rubbish. Them Dogs are no good for nothing, but the snallygasters are purely wicked. We’re obliged.”

  “It was a team effort,” I said, somewhat unsteadily. “But you’re welcome, Heeterskyte.”

  “I’m sorry not to have better news,” it said, “to balance out the debt.”

  “Those things don’t belong on the land,” I said. “No debt, Heeterskyte.”