by Sharon Lee
I took one step . . .
The firelight flickered as Bob moved between it and us. He threw his cigarette into the fire, and half-danced toward the thin, hesitating figure, his arms opened wide.
“Hey, sweetie; lookin’ good! C’mon, gimme smooch!”
She dropped the shoes and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. I blinked away tears of relief, my heart slamming against my ribs as he hugged her tight, lifting her a little off the sand, and spinning her around.
I backed away from the land’s perception, turned and looked up into Borgan’s face. He had been watching the pair at the bonfire; now he looked down to meet my eyes.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Cathahouris,” I said, “from the Kite Track. I went out and talked to her this morning. Reminded her it was Midsummer Eve. She said she didn’t care.”
“Looks like she changed her mind,” Borgan said. “You still feel like dancin’?”
I grinned at him, the music filling me again, heating my blood, brain and heart; and the land already dancing.
“I don’t think you can stop me.”
Midsummer is one of the most-celebrated days in the world; a festival of light that outshines even Christmas. Longest day, shortest night, the sun at the height of his powers, recharging the whole world, and everyone on and in it.
Is that a great excuse for a party, or what?
Some traditions have an element of spirituality—of ritual. Some are not much more than a bonfire, and a dance.
Those two things right there—the fire and the dance—those are the two constants, across the world.
In Archers Beach, dancing is the reason for the season. Oh, sure, we have a feast, but that’s because dancing’s hungry work.
It’s a free-form affair; nobody’ll stop you ribbon-dancing ’round a pole, stipulating you could find room on the beach to pitch one, and space enough to swing out. Mostly, though, folk dance with a friend, friends or by themselves—uplifted and informed by the music.
It’s the music that ties us all into a whole; that lifts us out of ourselves and connects us; the music that makes us one will and whole desire; that washes our souls and pours the combined golden energy of us over our land, and everyone on and in it.
I don’t know how long Borgan and I were part of the dance. The music flowed around, through, and between us. We kept hold of each other’s hand, and it seemed that the music became the tide, flowing from me to Borgan; returning from him changed in some infinitely precious way.
It was, if you’ll excuse the expression, magical, and utterly different from dancing down Midsummer Eve with Tarva.
Borgan and I slowed, in obedience to the music’s tempo. We drew nearer, my hand found his shoulder, his palm molded my waist, and we moved, effortless as water, perfectly matched in the music. I looked up, met his eyes, black and brilliant in the fire light. He bent his head, and I raised my face . . .
The music shattered.
We stumbled, snatched at each other, and managed to stay upright, which wasn’t the case for everyone who had been motivated by the music. Nearby, I saw Gaby sprawled in the sand, shaking her head. Further on, there was Moss down on one knee, and Felsic with an arm around Peggy’s waist, and a shoulder against Vornflee’s chest.
The fiddle carried on alone for another bar, two, three . . . and drifted into silence. Land-sharpened sight showed me Henry turning questioningly toward his mates, bow at his side. One of them stepped forward, coming from the dark into the light, and slinging his guitar around to hang down his back by its strap. He was staring to the left, a frown on his not-quite-ordinary human face.
The land murmured then, pleased, but muted. I turned to follow the guitarist’s gaze, saw dazed dancers move aside, opening the way for . . .
Mr. Ignat’ . . .
. . . with my mother on his arm.
She looked like a child, her light curls tousled and tumbled by the breeze, dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater that might’ve been handed down from an older, bigger cousin.
“Nessa?” The guitarist sounded disbelieving.
“Andy.” She slipped away from Mr. Ignat’ and walked forward until she was standing in the light cast by the stage lanterns. “Good to see you. It’s been a long time.”
“A long time,” he repeated, and shook his head, his gaze never leaving her face.
“I haven’t danced at a Midsummer Eve since I went Away, all that time ago,” she said softly. “May I dance at this one?”
“Anybody who can hear the music can dance Midsummer in. That’s the way it is. Always been so.”
“Yes,” my mother said, quietly. She paused before adding, “It was wonderful, the music. I’d like to hear more.”
Andy’s mouth twisted. “You home, now?” he asked, like the question had been knocked out of him by a sharp slap on the back.
“Yes,” Mother said. “I’m home now.”
Andy sighed, and didn’t say anything for what felt like a long time. Everyone—dancers and musicians waiting, breath caught—sighed as one being when Andy gave a sharp nod, pulled his guitar ’round and ran out a lick so bright and brittle it might’ve drawn blood.
The bass took up the line, dulling the edge with drive; and the fiddle came in again, singing joy and welcome home. Hearing it come together, instrument by instrument, it struck me that Henry was only human; perhaps the only human among the players. He must, I thought, be the safety valve; the guarantee that the music stayed within bounds; that it delighted, healed, and informed without jumping the line to possession, doom, and damage.
“And me without a pair of red shoes,” I muttered, watching my mother sway into a dance all of her own, her eyes still locked with Andy’s. Mr. Ignat’ had stepped back into the crowd; after a search, I spied him, dancing as one of a circle of six.
The music picked at my feet, tempting me, but my stomach had other ideas. Dancing with the fairies is hungry work.
“Something to eat?” I asked Borgan.
“Sounds good.”
We carried our beers and our plates out of the crowd, down to Googin Rock, and made a picnic on the dry apron, the timid plashing of the waves restful and blessedly ordinary, after our immersion in the dance.
“Folk still give it a wide berth,” Borgan commented, after our plates were empty, and our beers nearly so.
“It’s not exactly the most inviting seat in the house,” I answered, downing what beer was left, and setting it and the plate carefully on the stony surface.
It wasn’t, I realized as the silence stretched, the best answer I might have made. A better one might have offered some opportunity for continued conversation.
“How’s Gray Lady?” I asked, introducing a topic with more scope. I hoped.
“She’s all cleaned up and shipshape. I built some wards so they won’t be able to do that again, at least.”
“And Daph—the ronstibles, themselves?”
He snorted, drank off the last of his beer and set his bottle and plate with mine.
“Let’s just say that good fences make good neighbors.”
That was Maine wisdom, right there. Still . . .
“Are they really good fences?”
“Think I don’t know how to build a ward?”
“I know you can build a ward. Saw what you did with this very rock, didn’t I?”
“Fairly speaking, I had help.”
“Borgan, seriously—what happens if they get loose again? The ronstibles?”
“Well, this is the first time in a lotta years they had a chance to set up an ambush. Generally, I’m careful, Kate—don’t you worry.” He paused, and then said, just a little too casually, “So I was thinking, if you don’t mind walking down to the harbor, I’d introduce you to the Lady, an’ you could see if that shelf I left for you’s gonna be enough.”
I stared at him. “You left me a shelf?”
“For your things, like we talked about. You thought maybe you’d only want th
at change of clothes, but if you need room for more or other, I don’t grudge the space.”
I stared at him. He stared back.
“You’re serious,” I managed.
“Weren’t you?”
I closed my eyes. I had been—serious. Sort of. And now, tonight, having danced, I was even more serious. Borgan was . . . safe?
No, I told myself; he wasn’t safe. In fact, I had the fixed notion that Borgan could be extremely dangerous.
But I trusted him.
“Borgan,” I said.
“Kate?”
I took a deep breath, opened my eyes and said steadily, “Kiss me.”
He glanced aside, and my chest cramped so hard I felt tears come to my eyes.
“Well, now,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t object to a kiss. Not at all.”
“You—” I began, and stopped. Because he was right, damn him. It was my move. I was the one bringing the baggage into our relationship, if any. I was the one who’d kept pushing him away. Distrusting him. That had changed, for me. As he told it, Borgan had been constant as the tides.
“You sure know how to take the spontaneity out of a moment,” I said, and stood up.
He looked up at me, black eyes wistful. I put my hands on his shoulders, bent down and kissed him as best I knew how.
It was clumsy—even I knew that, and my experience could be counted on the fingers of one hand. His lips were warm, and firm, and exciting in a way reminiscent of the rising of power. I felt a pressure on the back of my head and realized he was holding me, pressing me into the kiss.
The added pressure overbalanced me; my feet slipped, and slid in the sand; and I broke the kiss, grabbing Borgan’s shoulders for support. He gave before me, going flat on his back, his arm around my waist as I fell—
Onto his chest.
He was laughing. I was laughing. I got my hands flat on the rock on either side of his head and levered myself up, looking down into his face.
“Now you’re sorry, aren’t you?” I asked him, meaning it for a joke.
“No,” he said, and pulled my face down to his.
It was sweet. As sweet as anything I can remember in my life. I learned that kissing his ear made him shiver and laugh, and that having my throat nuzzled made me shiver and laugh.
I learned that it was . . . immensely satisfying to sit on Borgan’s lap, his braid lying heavy between my breasts; my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
We had been arranged like this for some amount of time—I don’t know how long—when the music began again. Whether the band had taken a well-deserved break, or whether Borgan and I had been too involved in each other to pay attention to the music—I didn’t know that, either.
What I did know was, my toes were twitching and my body was responding to the energy of the music.
“Is it too late to inspect that shelf?” I murmured.
“Not late at all,” Borgan answered, which was only true in the context of Midsummer Eve. “Now?”
“I think I’d better not start dancing again.”
“In that case, now it is.
“No navigatin’ through that,” he said, after we’d both gained our feet and stood for several long seconds staring at the dancer-clogged sands.
“And if we tried, we’d be dancing again, no matter what our intent,” I agreed. “Just have to go around, then.”
I grabbed his hand and started walking at an angle, toward Heath Hill, keeping the dancers on my left. Borgan followed without comment—like a cruise ship being pulled along by a tug—his fingers warm ’round mine.
We were halfway up the hill when the land screamed.
I threw myself up the remaining vertical feet. Before me was the Wood, slumbering and black . . .
An orange flicker caught the side of my eye and I spun, running toward the fire burning within the shadow of the Wood itself.
The land was barking furiously. Panting, I summoned my power, and threw it like a blanket over the flickering flames.
They went out at once, almost apologetically.
I dropped to my knees and stared at the place the fire had been, butterscotch and adrenaline mixing badly on the back of my tongue, shivering with remembered horror—
And, throughout the whole, there had been not one ripple in the serenity of the trees.
I swallowed, and took my jikinap back to myself as Borgan knelt beside me.
“Fire?”
“Fire,” I confirmed.
Truth told, and in the calm of hindsight, it hadn’t been much of a fire. It left behind an extremely modest patch of scorched grass, and two singed leaves on a nearby sapling.
Still, there came no word of complaint or alarm from the Wood.
I stepped Sideways; looking first to the wards.
They were intact, which raised the musical question: How the hell had someone managed to build a fire here, right here on the very edge of the Wood, under the nose of the trees and the wards?
That was an interesting question, I thought. I’d have to ask the perpetrator, when I caught up with him.
I turned my attention to the surrounding area, looking for clues to the identity and means of my arsonist.
I found nothing, save that lingering, vague impression of embarrassment.
Blinking back into the Real World, I stared down at the scorched grass.
“This,” I said to Borgan, who was still kneeling patiently at my side, “should not have happened. The wards didn’t even notice it.”
“Natural fire, then,” he said. “Little one, too.”
Borgan had been present when Mr. Ignat’ had guided me in the construction of the wards; he knew as well as I did that they . . .
. . . had been built to respond to intended threats against the Wood.
I rubbed my forehead.
“So you’re thinking because it was natural, it didn’t trigger the threat key?” I asked.
“That, and it being so small—might’ve blown out all on its own, if we hadn’t happened by. If it’d been a bigger, bolder fire, the wards would’ve seen it, I’m betting.”
Thinking about it, I was willing to bet the same way. The fire had been so small, it hadn’t even gotten the attention of the Wood.
“The land is traumatized,” I commented. Inside my head, I heard a long, doggy sigh of contrition and smiled. “That’s okay, so am I. Well.”
I came to my feet, and Borgan did, too.
“Doesn’t look like there’s anything more for us to do here,” I said, and offered him my hand.
He took it and together we approached the trees.
Welcome, Kate. The voice of the Wood was as always, but no path opened before me. That might have to do with the fact that I wasn’t alone; which meant that it was time to bring out another of the old forms.
“I ask safe passage, for myself and my true companion,” I said. “We wish to pass through, and arrive safe above Kinney Harbor.”
There was a pause, as if the Wood were giving due consideration to the matter. Borgan gave my hand a reassuring squeeze—and a path opened before us.
We entered . . . but we did not enter the Wood I knew.
The path shone, dimly, before us; the trees were fearsome, hulking shadows, and no breath of air or breeze disturbed their black leaves. For the first time in my life, I was aware of the Wood’s power and presence—not as old tales, but right in the pit of my stomach.
I gripped Borgan’s hand so tight my fingers ached, and asked the land for night-sight.
After a moment, it seemed as if the pathway glowed a little brighter; the trees became more distinct, as if they were merely shrouded in fog; and a very small breeze kissed my damp brow.
I took a breath, tasting salt, kept my eyes on the path, and my fingers around Borgan’s.
The path curved sharply to the left; the trees thinned . . .
Between one step and another, we were out, looking down the Hill to the sea, and the boats that lay asleep in Kinney Harb
or.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Wednesday, June 21
Low Tide 1:45 A.M.
Sunrise 5:00 A.M. EDT
Gray Lady was as gracious and winsome belowdeck as she was above. Her paneling was cedar; her saloon neat; and her tiny galley thoughtfully laid out.
I followed Borgan into said galley, and leaned against the wall, watching his back as he opened an overhead cabinet and took out a can of coffee.
“That shelf we’re talking about’s forward,” he said, without turning his head. “If you wanna take a look. Coffee’ll be a minute or two.”
“Okay. Coming through behind you.”
I’m neither tall nor broad; thin as the passage was, it was plenty wide enough for me to pass behind Borgan without touching him. So, it was purely to please myself that I put my hands on his waist as I skooched by—and gasped as I received the certain knowledge that the contact didn’t just please me.
Shaking, I made it to the far side of the galley and stepped into a stateroom.
Like the rest of the Lady, it was shipshape and sharp. There were books in the shelves at the head and foot of the bed, and storage lockers over the length. More storage was built into the bulkhead opposite, with a metal mirror over. I glanced into it, seeing nothing markedly different in my face. My hair was snarled beyond belief—not surprising, considering what I’d put it through tonight. What did surprise was how much it irritated me. Maybe it was the spray of pine needles tangled in above my left ear.
There was a comb on the shelf to the right of the mirror. I picked it up and waged a brief, vicious war with my hair. When the knots were vanquished, I braided it, which, since I didn’t see any elastics to pilfer, would keep me neat for exactly as long as it took the braid to unravel.
Feeling somewhat less harum-scarum, I called to mind the reason why I’d come into Borgan’s bedroom, and turned to survey the shelves built into the short wall at right angles to the mirror.
Borgan had been generous—there were two empty shelves, low, where they’d be the most use to a height-challenged woman. They weren’t wide, but they were deep, each shelf fronted with a rail, to keep things from flying all over the room, in rough weather.
