Carousel Sun

by Sharon Lee

  “That’s right, Sasha,” the mom said, “we’ll get you a ride on the kitty.”

  Good, I thought. About time the coon cat got the love. I liked it, myself, odd-looking or not.

  “Welcome,” I heard Vassily say behind me. “Welcome to the Carousel of Fantasy! The fare is two tickets each—but for Sasha, a free ride!”

  So far, so good. I stepped out into Baxter Avenue, and looked about me.

  It was a goodish crowd this afternoon, with the fine weather doing its part for fun and profit. There was a line maybe six deep to get onto Summer’s Wheel, and another line at Tony Lee’s. I could hear the thunder and rumble from Dodge City, ’way down to the left, and squeals and laughter from a group of preteens at the lobster toss.

  “Ms. Archer?” a voice said from the vicinity of my elbow.

  I turned and met the serious brown eyes of a girl about twelve years old.

  “I’m Kate Archer,” I admitted. “What can I do for you?”

  She pulled a flat, creamy envelope about the size of her two hands together out of the canvas bag slung over her shoulder.

  “I’m delivering invitations to Wishes,” she said, sounding only a little bit like this part was rote. She placed the envelope into my hand. “Please come,” she said, and this sounded sincere. “It’ll be fun.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised, and slipped the envelope into the pocket of my jacket, watching absently as she made her way over to Summer’s Wheel, bypassing the line to get to the operator’s station.

  So Joan Anderson was a woman of her word. She’d said “reception” and by gum, a reception there would be.

  Determination. I like that in a woman.

  Which reminded me of somebody else I ought to talk to. I turned right on Baxter Avenue, waving at Anna as I left the park, and crossed Fountain Circle.

  The gate had been latched, but not locked, which I took as an invitation for those with an interest to come inside, so I slipped through, making sure the latch was secure behind me.

  What a difference six hours can make.

  The tarps were gone. Milk bottles were set up in a complex pattern in the center of one stand; new wire’d been strung across the main yard, and three guys on three ladders were screwing in lightbulbs fit to beat the band.

  Speaking of band, somebody was dinking with the sound system—the midway had its own music piped in, not that it could usually be heard over the noise of people having fun, but it was a mood-setter for the early hours, and for other times when nothing much was doing. Over in Fun Country, each ride took care of its own ambiance, including music.

  I passed two women assembling an ice cream stand. One was attaching the awnings, while the other was head and shoulders inside the giant ice cream cone, maybe working with the wiring or the lights.

  Over and around the music were the sounds of hammers, bandsaws, and people calling back and forth. The place was a madhouse—no. No; it wasn’t.

  Madhouse implies motion without meaning; action without purpose. There was plenty of purpose in the air, and intention so thick you could cut it with a knife.

  I moved down the midway, careful to keep out from underfoot, and watchful, lest I get whacked in the head with a ladder.

  At The Last Mango, I slipped behind the counter and stuck my head through the door to the manager’s office.

  Peggy wasn’t there, which made a certain amount of sense, given all the activity going on, and really, I thought, my question was answered.

  Word had gone out, and the trenvay had come in.

  I exited the Mango, jacket held over my shoulder by a hooked finger, and looked around.

  Bustle, busy bustle. At this rate, they’d have the midway good to open by noon tomorrow.

  I retraced my steps, heading down the midway, and back toward Fountain Circle. At the corner, I dodged around a small mountain of ropes outside a three-sided barricade bearing the sign ROPE MONKEY.

  That, unfortunately, put me into the path of an oncoming ladder. I ducked, felt my jacket slide off my shoulder, and spun—

  Into something soft, that yelled in my ear.

  “Kate!”

  Hands grabbed my shoulders, holding me upright until I got my feet under me.

  “Peggy! I was looking for you.”

  “Two minds with one thought,” she said, letting me go, and reaching down to snatch my jacket.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about—oh, damn.”

  She swooped down again, and came up with the jacket in one hand and the big white envelope, now slightly smeared with grit, in the other.

  “Thanks.” I took both and stood holding them, while she looked around, and pointed to a quiet spot in the commotion.

  I nodded and followed, and we leaned our elbows against the counter of what would soon be, unless I missed my guess, a marksman’s gallery.

  “Thank you!” Peggy said. “I’d hoped to maybe start seeing a couple folks tomorrow—Monday. You weren’t gone an hour when the first one came in, then three more, and six more after that. They all know what they’re doing, and—well, hell, the best thing for me to do was just step back and let ’em do it. So! I’ve spread the word that, at four o’clock, we’re all knocking off for pizza and introductions, followed by a form-filling session. I should have the schedules done by tomorrow, we’ll do a shakedown on Tuesday and be ready for ignition Friday at noon.”

  She gave a deep sigh.

  “Let me tell you what, this crew is good. No wonder Jens didn’t hassle ’em and paid ’em in cash. Hell, I’d pay ’em in gold, if that’s what it took!”

  “Better not say that too loud,” I said, only half-joking. “I’m glad they’re working for you. I came over to ask if you’d heard, but, really—moot point.”

  “Yeah, but I’m glad you came by. I owe you. Big time. You need anything—a new Cadillac, a body buried—I’m your girl.”

  I laughed. “I’ll bear it in mind. Meanwhile . . .”

  I’d been going to take my leave, but I glanced down at the hand holding my invitation and an idea was born.

  “Hey, do you know Joan Anderson?”

  “Here-in-town Joan Anderson?” Peggy shook her head. “Here in town, I know you—and them.” She jerked her head in the general direction of the midway.

  “Then you wouldn’t’ve gotten one of these. Hold on.” I slipped my finger under the flap, broke the seal and pulled out the card.

  The front was a watercolor of the horse she’d been sketching on the day I met her. The inside said:

  Season Opener

  Wishes Art Gallery

  Thursday, June 15

  8 P.M. until the food runs out

  Come yourself—and bring a friend!

  I turned it around so Peggy could read it.

  “You’ll want to know the people who are going to be at this party. The owner of Wishes Gallery is Joan Anderson. She doesn’t strike me as a woman who does anything by halves, which means she’ll have invited the entire town.”

  “Except me, who she doesn’t know from—”

  “You see that part, bring a friend? You’re coming with me.”

  She mugged. “So we’re friends?”

  I laughed. “You better check up on me,” I told her. “But I promise to be on my best behavior.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” She pouted, then grinned. “It’s a date.” She yanked her cell out of the pocket of her jeans. “Gimme your number.”

  We did the exchange, and I left her to the rapidly assembling midway, tucking the card back into the pocket of my jacket as I went.

  Vassily worked ’til 4:00. I took several long walks during his shift, and stopped by Tony Lee’s for my supper.

  “Is Vassily working out?” Anna asked.

  “Nothing’s blown up, yet,” I answered, around a forkful of steamed chicken and veggies. I looked up at her. “He’ll be ’round a little later to collect his supper. If there’s an extra egg roll, throw it in, hey? Put it on my tab.”

 
; Anna swung a dishcloth more or less at my head.

  “Tony has already said that we should feed him up. Owner’s expense.”

  “I know better’n to argue with Tony,” I said. “Are all the greenies hungry?”

  Anna frowned. “No . . . well. At first, they’re shy. Then, yes—they’re hungry. After that, they’re family.” She paused, her frown getting deeper.

  “And then . . . they leave.” The frown eased somewhat. “Often, though, they come back. Katrina has been back five years in a row. And this is Sergei’s third summer.”

  “Five years? That’s starting to be a career.”

  Anna nodded. “She says she would like to stay, and work at the Beach all year ’round.”

  I laughed. “So would a lot of us.”

  I finished up my meal and sat back with a sigh.

  “That was almost too good.” I sipped coffee, Katrina’s wish niggling at the edge of my mind.

  “There’s a committee forming up, so Jess Robald tells me,” I said. “Its aim is to work out a strategy to stretch the Season. First meeting’s Monday morning at some ungodly hour, at the Garden Cafe, up the hill.”

  Anna nodded vigorously.

  “Jelly will be there, for the Lees,” she said. “There must be something that we can do. Other beach towns have longer Seasons. Some even have winter Seasons!”

  “Unless we hire us a trail master and start cutting snowmobile trails, maybe we’re not ready for a winter Season,” I said.

  “Well, no, Kate, but there’s not one reason in the world why we couldn’t be open through the end of October, even into the first week of November, for the Peepers.”

  Peepers is short for Leaf Peepers, which is to say, the folks from Away who come up to Maine in order to greet Autumn personally, and conduct her downcoast.

  There’s not a lot of greeting of Autumn, in terms of the Changing of the Leaves, to be done at Archers Beach, though the wood at Heath Hill puts on some fancy dress. Still, we could easily be a place to stop overnight on the way up to the mountains, or the way back down to Away.

  If there were anything open to serve them breakfast and give them a place to put their heads.

  Maybe play a game or two of skeeball in the arcade, or take a spin on the merry-go-round, get a beer at Neptune’s . . .

  “Kate?”

  “Hmm?” I sat up, shaking my head. “Sorry. Daydreaming.”

  “It would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Anna said wistfully. “If the town got back on its feet again?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. It would.” I got up and disposed of my plate, utensils and coffee cup.

  “My turn to watch the painted ponies go up and down and ’round and ’round,” I said. “Thank you for supper—oh! Anna?”

  She turned to look at me, her head tipped to one side.

  “Can I leave an extra key to the storm gate here? I’m a little nervous about just handing it over . . .”

  Anna nodded her head. “He can pick it up from us for opening, and bring it back when he comes to get his supper.”

  “A plan—and a good one. Thanks, Anna.”

  “That’s no problem at all, Kate.”

  “If you say so. I’m gone. Expect Vassily in moments.”

  “I’ll get out one of the big plates,” Anna said calmly. “See you later, Kate.”

  It was a relatively good night, by the standards of an Early Season Saturday. There hadn’t been the astounding number of riders that we’d seen in the Super Early Season, but those who had come by had an . . . energy. A brightness of intent that was both new and fascinating. The land wriggled around on its back, metaphorically speaking, and offered its belly to be rubbed by this bright new energy. I wondered if it was just anticipation of the end of the school year—most of the evening riders had been middle and high schoolers—or something else entirely; something having to do with the change that was moving along the streets of Archers Beach.

  Change that I’d woken, just by coming home.

  I did, I thought, snapping the padlock through the loops, have a lot to atone for. If I hadn’t left Archers Beach; if I’d somehow gotten past my guilt over Tarva’s death and my self-loathing . . .

  If I’d talked to anybody, instead of just passing judgment on myself, knowing that I was evil, because I was heir to every evil thing that had been visited upon me.

  Well. As somebody had said, once or twice down the road of history: Life is kind of complicated.

  I turned away from the storm gates, and took a deep breath, tasting salt, and sand, hot grease. The night was clear, and I could see stars in the sky beyond Fun Country’s night lights.

  A good night to walk home by the beach.

  Light rippled and flared as I hit the sand—purple, yellow, red. I spun, seeking, feeling heat from the direction of Heath Hill. Heart in mouth, I flung the question into the land—

  And got an answer from the Wood itself.

  Calm, quiet, serene.

  All right, I thought, so somebody set off some fireworks.

  I scanned the sky, waiting for a second burst, but nothing came.

  Heat lightning then, I thought, though it was early in the year. Maybe an aurora.

  I scanned the sky again, but saw no edge of aurora. The land reported no threat or unusual circumstances.

  The view from Sideways backed up the assessment of the trees—calm; quiet; serene. My power remained coiled at the base of my spine.

  Heat lightning, I told myself again; that was all.

  I headed down the sand, toward home.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sunday, June 11

  High Tide 11:40 A.M.

  Sunrise 5:00 A.M. EDT

  The phone rang as I was pouring my first cup of coffee. Not too bad, as timing went.

  “Good morning, Kyle.”

  “Good morning, Ms. Archer. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Just starting to get serious about my caffeine. I take it you got my message.”

  “I did, and—that’s great, about the wood, and about Mike, too. I really owe him—a beer and a catch-up. Take care of that this winter, when I’m back downcoast. In the meanwhile, that wood. I got a workshop up Smithwheel Road; George—the guy I’m renting from—he said to tell you where Dorr’s Woodworking used to be.”

  I sipped my coffee, thinking. In my day, Dorr’s had been one of the town’s bigger employers. Twenty-five carpenters turning out fine, handmade Maine furniture. It must’ve closed during my years away—another victim of my abandonment, or the general economy, or both.

  “I know where it is,” I told Kyle. “Got a bay number to deliver to?”

  “George just says, ‘They can drop it at the main dock,’ but if whoever’s bringing it gives me call and about a half-hour’s warning, I can be there waiting for them. That way, no mistakes.”

  That way, no mistakes. I nodded at the phone.

  “I’ll pass that along. Just to help with planning, I’d say you’re looking for delivery today—tomorrow latest.”

  “Sooner I can get the wood, sooner I can start work,” Kyle said cheerfully.

  “How’s it going at Wishes?”

  “Ms. Anderson’s hanging art,” he said. “You got your invitation?”

  “I did. See you at the party?”

  “I’ll be there,” he promised.

  “Excellent. Let me get caffeinated and make a call.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks!”

  He was gone.

  I poured the second cup, walked out to the summer parlor and made my call. Kyle could, I was told, expect his wood this afternoon. Splendid.

  I flipped the phone closed and tucked it in the back pocket of my jeans. Leaned both elbows on the rail and looked out over the ocean.

  The water was peridot and cream this morning, the breakers starting to muscle up with the turn of the tide.

  The Gulf of Maine’s a pretty, mostly peaceable piece of water; the Atlantic Ocean minds its manners there. Most of that, I guessed, was due t
o Borgan’s influence—Borgan being one of those large, peaceable, competent men who can and will knock you into next week if you aren’t behaving up to his standards.

  I sipped my coffee, looking out over the distant water.

  I’d known him a matter of weeks; he was trenvay—well, no. He was the Guardian of the Gulf of Maine. And if you stipulated that I, the Guardian of Archers Beach, was something other than trenvay, then the same followed for Borgan. It was a theory, anyway. What, exactly, he—and I—were: that remained something of a puzzle, at least on my side. Granted, I was complicated—part of me direct from the Land of the Flowers, part of me with roots deep in the soil of Archers Beach, and another part that had given generations of human lives to the care of this land . . .

  I was, as far as I knew, a supernatural being; mundane folk had no truck with jikinap, and would politely excuse themselves from any conversation predicated on a cosmology that included Six Worlds created, and linked, by the intent of a supranatural being, now possibly dead, or at least diminished past godhood.

  What else I was, and what I was going to do with it . . . I could talk to Gran, and to Mr. Ignat’, and, hell, to Mother. But none of them, as far as I could make out from the stories and the histories, had ever been human.

  And I—despite the complications and the aftermarket bling—I felt that I was, somehow, at core, human.

  Borgan . . . I wanted to talk to Borgan so bad it was an ache; a pain in my belly and a fever on my brow. Not guilt; just . . . he’d been gone long enough.

  The very first thing Gran had taught me regarding the duties of the Guardian was that the Guardian of the land that was dignified on maps and such as the seaside town of Archers Beach—that Guardian owed respect to the sea. It’d been quite a while—eight weeks, in fact—since I’d properly paid my respects, but here I was now, having hiked across the dune, down the dry sand to the wet, until I stood with my naked toes lapped by froth-trimmed wavelets. I stood there, looking out to sea, at the humps of Blunt and Stafford Islands, straight out, Cape Elizabeth and the notch that was Portland Harbor ’way round to my left; Biddeford Pool and Wood Island to my left.