Salt Shaken

by Winnie Winkle

  Chelsea bolted upright, leaning in to stare at the swirls. “Holy Hades. How did you figure this out?”

  “I’m pretty certain that Gaia made the Vapors, too. Based on that premise, I worked with the record to find out how they communicated with her.”

  Blue eyes stared a hole in me, unblinking. “Damn, Patra. I’m impressed.”

  “Frog guilt?”

  “Nah. That was freaking hysterical.”

  “Not to the frog.”

  I picked up my pen and drew the swirls for curious, mother’s abiding love, and success, then connected the loops. The page faded, then script emerged.

  The Mother prefers the reset, but the survival of any species is primary. Humanity’s future destiny will be honored if they adapt.

  “Huh, OK. I’m a one-shot wonder. With no second chance, I gotta do more than wing by the seat of my pants. Will you help me?”

  The page remained blank. Pen in hand, I stared at the reemerging set of language symbols. Translating emotions to concrete questions isn’t simple. I blew out a sigh.

  Unease, since I seek help, comfort, because I need friends, uncertainty, since I’m unsure asking is appropriate, fear, because failing is death to billions, and yearning, for better outcomes.

  With a mental prayer, I linked the five symbols. Chelsea gripped my hand as the blank page rose and script etched a response.

  We hoped you’d ask.

  Chapter 11

  Guru’s footsteps stopped outside the office door as I secured the book.

  “Thanks for coming, Guru.”

  “Thank the Mother. This permission was a surprise to me.”

  “It’s critical to build a sense of community and harmony. Could you bike the shore and raise positive vibrations?”

  He leaned against the jamb. “I can and will, but it won’t be enough.”

  “Oh, you’ll have help,” I smiled at his narrowed eyes and rose. “Time to meet with the Mayor. The plan is to begin each town’s section on the southern end and work north towards the beach access points, fill the dumpsters placed there, and then keep moving north to the next one.”

  Faint pops filled The Boogey, and bikini-clad witches milled in the empty bar.

  “We’ll be on the sand, Patra,” Chelsea passed me a necklace with a small Gaelic friendship charm. “If you need me, tap this three times.”

  Startled, I took the gift and clipped it around my neck. “Wow, I’m floored, but thank you, my friend.”

  Guru grunted. Maybe this minor exchange of friendship between races was its own lesson. I slipped past him and headed toward the lot and the news team. Showtime.

  Herzog, clad in a tropical shirt emblazoned with the city’s logo, board shorts, and a pair of Chino flip flops raised a hand, gesturing to join him.

  “Mayor, good morning.”

  “Patra, turnout on our end looks phenomenal. Are you getting enough people?” His skepticism leaked through.

  “No worries, we’re fielding what you need, Mayor.”

  Guru, followed by a parade of waving witches in a variety of bikinis, trooped down the steps to the sand, joining thirty humans. Charlie, manning a table by the stairs, filled insulated containers embellished with The Boogie’s logo with ice water, and passed cups, gloves, and heavy black contractor’s bags to waiting hands. A half mile north, toward Daytona Beach, four of my servers manned a second station, ensuring the hydration sensation kept people on task.

  “After the cleanup, bring your cup to The Boogie for a free cocktail,” Charlie told a group of college-age women with a flirty grin.

  Atta boy, Charlie.

  Guru pulled his bike from under the pier and headed south to catch the beginning of the line of humans.

  He’s dialed to ten. Whatever Gaia said to him worked.

  Skin crackling with the aftermath of spells as the witches pushed, I hit the beach, grabbed a bag and began. Humans hustled, calling out, laughing, and loading bags. Guru cruised by, hands in prayer position, and I paused, watching efforts redouble and conversations between the groups rise.

  “This is disgusting,” a twenty-something in a bikini that involved four square inches of fabric said to the witch working beside her.

  “The tip of the iceberg,” the witch replied. “Vast islands of floating plastic cover miles of ocean and it wreaks havoc on the sea’s creatures.”

  “I love sea turtles,” the woman nodded. “So I gave up straws last year after seeing a picture of a turtle with one stuck in its nostril.”

  “Many die,” a second witch added. “They become so tangled they can’t come up for air.”

  “People suck,” a man joined them, bending to shovel a clot of fishing line, six-pack holders, a shredded pool float and a mishmash of plastic ware and cups into his bulging bag. “I’m headed to dump this garbage and get another bag. Can I help any of you ladies?”

  The young woman passed hers to him with a smile and he took off at a trot towards the dumpsters, stopping to pick up replacement bags. The second witch faded, popping farther north, and I headed toward an enormous pile, grabbing at what appeared to be a Little Tykes wagon. A tanned hand gripped the handle, and I glanced up, surprised.

  Ballard. Whoa.

  “Detective.” How I managed to speak impressed me. His eyes burned green lust into mine.

  “That’s quite a bikini, Patra. Do you ever wear it to dinner?”

  “There’s a first for everything, Ballard.”

  A faint memory rolled across his face. I hoped it was a good one. A long finger lifted my chin, and time stopped. His phone chirped, and he released me, awash in a sea of a thousand goosebumps.

  “On my way.” Green eyes measured, thoughtful.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Appreciation Event, Detective. After that, we’ll try a dinner.”

  “I was only half joking about the bikini, Patra.”

  A man on fire pumps up the feminine vibe; I cocked my head and gave him a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Bag in hand, I moved past him, letting the bikini do the talking, bent and grabbed an oversized plastic bucket and shoved it in with the other trash. A glance over my shoulder shook him loose enough to head toward whatever he needed to respond to, but I knew I’d burned into his core. I doubted we’d finish dinner whenever that came to pass.

  The sun was overhead and getting hot. I knelt, drawing the symbols onto the sand, and over the sea, along the affected beach, mists rose, cooling the air as the Vapors drifted ashore. The effect was electric and immediate. Humans snatched up the plastic and garbage, and a few began singing. Guru rolled past, stopped and looked back at me, lime eyes luminous.

  Bag in my left hand and the wagon in my right, I moved toward the dumpsters. When I reached him, I paused.

  “You did this? You can call them?” Guru’s face was interesting, shades of impressed with a side of skepticism.

  “Yes, I’m not fluent in the language, but mastering it is a priority.”

  “I did not understand this, Keeper.”

  “Everybody’s learning, Guru, which is why building the Triune is so important. We have to try. Stronger together.”

  A grunt greeted that bit of sparkling wisdom, and he pushed off, adding his effect to the peace filled aura of the Vapors and the witches’ spells. A pop and Chelsea landed beside me.

  “Patra, Boogie Beach’s trash is 80% collected. Daytona is over half. It’s a far bigger stretch of sand, but they turned out hundreds of humans. At this pace, they’ll finish in one day. The cleanup is a commendable effort.”

  “Did you lose another pile of gold?”

  “Oh, I bet on you. You’re the most stubborn human I know.”

  “Thanks?”

  Her laugh lingered after the pop, and I dragged the broken wagon and my bag to the dumpster, collected a fresh one, and headed back to bring the project home.

  After fighting with a cumbersome tangle of ridiculous garbage, a couple of guys stopped me, each tackling it from op
posing sides, and lugged the nightmarish mess to toss in the dumpster at the access point.

  “Thanks,” I called.

  “No worries, babe.”

  A swirl of fog surrounded me. I etched the symbol for grateful, and the mist spun clockwise. As I pointed toward Daytona, the Vapors contracted, then flowed north to cool temps and raise spirits.

  The sense of peace they leave is tangible. Their being here is game changing.

  “It is.”

  Holy crap.

  “Gaia, Mother, thank you for letting me try.”

  “Oh, it is the order of my nature. I find you surprising, Child. When you consider the pace of creation, and the time span it takes each species to develop, be aware you’re moving the needle beyond the realm of normal speed. Remain cautious. Push too fast, and it’ll turn on you. The ending won’t be to your liking.”

  “Billions of lives hang in the balance, Mother. I have to try.”

  “Of course you do. I built you that way.”

  In a blink, she’d vanished.

  Crap, I had a dozen more questions. My life is one long game of blindfolded poker.

  At three o’clock, I jogged toward The Boogie, hoping to brush off a layer of sand before both bars packed out with the cleanup crews. Boogie Beach looked perfect and I let myself feel accomplished, at least for a minute. Given my insane pace, it wouldn’t be long before I face planted on a proverbial jellyfish. Gaia’s admonishment chittered in the back of my mind.

  Warning or a threat?

  As I reached the pier, Guru stepped from behind a piling. The faint sense of unease intensified.

  “You created a blip, Keeper. Today, the world looks connected. This will not hold.”

  “Won’t? Are you implying sabotage?”

  Lime eyes darkened, and he leaned toward me. The hairs on my arms raised.

  “I serve the Mother. If deceit meets your efforts, you have greater enemies than me.”

  Who? The mer? Others? Who benefits from chaos between the races?

  “At some point luck isn’t enough, Keeper. I wish you well.”

  What the hell does that mean? Time for a study session.

  Chapter 12

  Fingers bumping along the spines, I perused the bookshelves. An entire wall, spanning the full length of the condo, housed my library. Many originated from Billy, the Keeper before me, who inherited them from the line of Keepers before us, but I’ve made curation a goal. Under my care, the library contents doubled, an intellectual counterpunch to the reality that the entire world landed on its head. The fact a few billion humans were clueless about the shift was irrelevant.

  An age scented tome in a crumbling leather binding slid from the stacks, and I sat on the sofa near where I store the journal, put my feet up and read, turning ancient pages with care and jotting notes as I deciphered the history.

  OK, so Gaia conspired with her son Cronus to remove his father Uranus from power in a graphic Lorena Bobbitt manner, ick, and Cronus took control. You’d think a partner who chose a castration plan might be one to monitor, but Cronus was a bit thick. He refused to release his mother’s other children from prison, so Gaia foretold his fall from power at the hands of his own son. Deja vu much?

  Cronus decided that swallowing his offspring was the solution, because of course that’s a normal response. Jeez. His wife, Rhea, had had enough of his shit and hid Zeus, her youngest, letting the old tyrant eat a rock instead. You go, girl.

  With Gaia’s help, Zeus made Cronus barf up Zeus’ siblings and then Zeus stuffed Cronus and his uncles into Tartarus, aka deep, deep shit jail. Zeus assumed the mantle of supreme ruler, which, given his ego, fit, but Poseidon and Hades held genuine power, too.

  Gaia raged at Zeus and the Olympians for imprisoning most of her children and the Titans in Tartarus. While it’s true that some women are high maintenance, this had the earmarks of a grudge.

  Hmm. Looking at this situation as Gaia would, she believes she is top god. I mean, she caused the consumption of her entire competition. Yikes. She alone holds the power to upend the order. Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon are kinda the original triune. They split the powers. All the other gods, in terms of omnipotence, are bit players, each supporting a piece of how it fits together. So is this old, bad blood? Or something else?

  Palm activating the hidden drawer, I pulled the journal.

  Show me entries on Gaia.

  An entry floated up, featuring old-fashioned writing crabbing across the page. Was this Keeper elderly? Unusual in our profession, since Keeper longevity is your basic non-starter.

  Gaia came to me, asking to end the line and pass the record to her. No Keeper has arrived to replace me, and Gaia believes this portends the cessation of the Keeper’s role. As the Mother, she claimed ending it is the simplest way to maintain order, but when she grasped the book to take it from me, it burned her. When I picked up the book from where she dropped it, the record rested easily in my hand. I place this entry as a caution. I do not believe Gaia’s stated intention. Whatever the power is that lies within the book, it also holds no trust.

  “Whoa! None of this matches up, because I thought Gaia created the Vapors, and the record is one of their means of communication.” I bent forward and asked the book, “What is Gaia’s relationship to the Vapors?”

  Gaia is the mother of the world. The Vapors advise her.

  Hmm. Advisors? Not her in control, but peers?

  “Did Gaia create the Vapors?”

  The page remained blank.

  “OK, so how did Gaia and the Vapors meet?”

  The blank page filled with neat penmanship from the 1930s.

  In the beginning, the universe lay formless and vast. Chaos allowed Gaia to interact with the densities, and she created worlds. I cannot say with certainty, but based on my study I posit the Vapors were not Gaia’s created oracles, but the original Universe, older than Chaos or Gaia. Perhaps, and this is supposition, they created her.

  If eyes could bug, mine were blue ribbon level.

  Holy shit. So here’s another story wrapped around a shady narrative. Humans aren’t the only ones with garbage issues.

  Poseidon’s warning from the visit with the mer floated to the surface of my thoughts.

  Be careful.

  I dressed with care, wearing a sundress that made my curves pop, and spending extra time on my hair and makeup. Not too gaudy, because beach life is about natural glow, but I pumped up my eyes and lips to pull it together. If I drove Ballard nuts, I’d call that success.

  My fish order arrived at 10 o’clock, and the kitchen was bumping as they iced everything and prepped for the afternoon’s event. Staff set two of my long tables near the north wall to hold the food, and Charlie stocked, arms a blur.

  “No disposable glasses, right?” he asked.

  “Nope. Use the reusable stuff, or glass. We’re getting eyeballed from here on out.”

  “Keep on top of the dishwasher, Patra. He puts me in the weeds with his half hour smoke breaks.”

  “I know.”

  I had a plan for that, if Chelsea agreed to help.

  By three o’clock, we were ready, seating the late lunchers, bikers in from a morning ride, and tourists on the south side only, and I stepped into my office and palmed through to The Boogey. Chelsea and a couple coven mates were sharing a bottle of magical wine. I chopped fresh fruit and pushed the plate and three forks across the bar.

  “Thanks!” Chelsea grinned, then drew her eyebrows together. “Wait. What do you want?”

  “Me? I can’t be the bringer of the proverbial good deed?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and I shrugged. “I’m having to forgo using single-use plastic cups and walk the walk. And it’s the event today. Any interest in motivating my dishwasher to step up his game?”

  A snort and an eye roll. As helpful as it was vague. I guess I’d find out.

  At 3:30 the first of my cops rolled in, filling plates with steamed shrimp, bacon-cheese grits, hush puppies, fried fi
sh, and sweet potato fries. Charlie tapped beers and pitchers, and I snuck into the kitchen to check on my dishwasher. Caught up for now. Cool.

  “You’re going to be slammed tonight. Everyone is counting on you. If you need help, ask. We can’t use disposable stuff anymore.”

  He nodded, stoned as hell, but appeared motivated. It’d have to do.

  I eased back to the dining room, eyeing my tables and trying very hard not to look for Ballard.

  Let him do this, Patra. He’s already on the hook.

  The hair on my neck raised, and I made a slow turn, looking up into a green-eyed memory.

  “Detective.”

  “Ms. O’Keefe,” one corner of his mouth tipped upward.

  “Welcome, our place is yours. Enjoy.”

  His smile left me in a flipping puddle, and I watched his smooth ass walk over to greet a few of the cops.

  Breathe. OK, time to work this room.

  I walked through the tables greeting bikers and tourists, inquiring about their happiness, before moving into the roped off seating. Chatting with each table, I managed some PR, added a few fresh faces to my mental file, and learned who’d retired, moved, or earned a promotion. Ballard’s group was next.

  “Welcome to The Boogie, and thanks for everything you do.”

  “Thank you for putting this together, we appreciate it,” replied a cop named Dover, whom I’d met once before at an earlier event.

  “Officer Dover, right? Weren’t you preparing to get married?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m surprised you remembered. We’re doing great.”

  “Wonderful. Saw you had a rough call last week. Was that the boat in the papers?”

  “Yeah. That was a tough scene.”

  “I can only imagine.” Which wasn’t true, because I’ve seen those shell blades up close and damn near didn’t survive the encounter.

  I glanced at Ballard, who was doing a crap job of appearing neutral.

  Good.

  “May I get you folks another round?” Nods all around, and I signaled Charlie, who shrugged, looking harried. Uh oh.

  “Any objections to using the same glasses?”