Carousel Sun (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

High Tide 10:31
P.M.

Moonrise 12:22
A.M.
EDT

The rain continued.

I amused myself by running the carousel as slow as it would go, and cranking the volume on the orchestrion. “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” made for nice uplifting background music as I walked counter to the wheel’s turn, spotting the rib lights. When I was satisfied that each bulb was bright and flicker-free, I hopped onto the decking and, again walking against the wheel’s turn, made a close study of the illumination around the central column.

That
vital inspection complete, I walked between the rows of animals until I was standing beside the wolf. I put one hand on the saddle and one on the fierce head, and stepped Sideways.

It was busy work, that was all, like making sure none of the lights had burned out; I didn’t expect to find anything wrong with the ties that bound the prisoner.

. . . and I wasn’t disappointed.

The being at the wolf’s core slumbered in enchanted sleep; the ties binding it to its wooden prison were as smooth as glass, and as tough as titanium, showing neither crack nor mar.

All righty, then.

I blinked into the Real World, and walked back to the goat, where I repeated the exercise, with the same results.

The knight’s charger and the hippocampus were likewise bound and unaware.

The unicorn . . .

A blare of light hit me the moment I stepped Sideways, igniting an instant flare of headache. Involuntarily, I closed my eyes and threw myself back into plain sight.

For the space of a couple of deep breaths, I stood there with both my hands on the unicorn’s ornate saddle, listening to my head ring. When the pain had eased off some, I allowed my power to rise and, eyes still closed, waited for it to . . . become interested.

It didn’t take long.
Jikinap
was very close by. It had the feel of something that had once been shaped, but because of poor spellcraft, neglect, or over-powering, it had oozed out of its intended shape into a sticky puddle of purposeless goo, burning ’way too bright.

I swallowed, hard, and, eyes still closed, moved in the direction my power urged me.

It wasn’t far. Not far at all. And when I opened my eyes, I saw, not one of the prisoners, standing free amid their shattered chains, and fully awake to their own power. No . . .

It was the damn’ rooster.

Something . . .

I went Sideways and brought all my attention to bear; not easy with the bright, unformed power pounding at my senses. Another case of stubbornness proving more of a virtue than a vice.

Indeed, the little working I’d placed within the rooster’s fiberglass breast had . . . melted. That was odd in itself. I hadn’t infused it with any heat beyond a hint of eccentric charm; as such things go, it was cool-running, and about as complex as a ball of Silly Putty. I forced my attention closer, and saw what looked like . . . secretions inside the cavity. If the rooster had been a living thing, its autoimmune system might have produced such secretions, as an allergic reaction.

I blinked, inadvertently snapping myself back into the everyday world.

An allergic reaction? Inanimate objects didn’t have allergic reactions.

I frowned at the rooster.

“How about,” I said to it, “an inanimate object that came from the Enterprise?” An object that Artie had been awfully eager for me to have, for reasons as yet murky, and all the more unsettling because of that.

The carousel’s stately progress was taking me past the intake gate. I looked ’round, but there was no one in line. Good.

I put my attention back on the rooster.

“Look, you,” I said. “I’m not hard to get along with; I don’t want to make you sick, or break you. But you’re going to have to work with me, here. You’ve got to be welcoming to the paying customers, okay?” I paused, listening with the land’s ears, and with the ears of my power, just in case . . .

But I heard nothing.

I sighed. “Right. Let’s see if we can come up with a compromise.”

Carefully, I called my power out of the rooster and into my palm. I inspected the spellwork . . . the smallest bit of glamor, of charm. Well, and maybe I
had
misjudged the amount of power necessary to carry so light a burden. It seems to be a universal constant, no matter what the craft, that the little, fiddly stuff is the hardest to get right.

I halved the little blob of
jikinap
, reabsorbed one half and rolled what remained into a ball, making sure the suggestion of zany charm was evenly distributed, and unlikely to cause the magical equivalent of a hot spot.

When I was satisfied with my work, and that the spell was as balanced and as inoffensive as I could make it, I returned it to the rooster’s chest cavity, and blinked back into the real world.

There was no denying that the rooster was a little odd. But odd in an endearing sort of way, like an ugly puppy.

It would, I decided, have to do.

I turned and jumped off the merry-go-round, making a note to pay close attention to the rooster, while he continued as part of the carousel’s company.

The rain was still coming down, and Fun Country was still deserted. I retired to the stool at the operator’s station, snapped my phone open and punched up my most recent book.

I’d only read a couple paragraphs when the sound of a fire engine’s siren roused me. I lifted my head, listening, hearing the truck come down Archer Avenue . . . and turn right maybe a block short of Fun Country. Frowning, I stood and walked to the edge of the carousel’s roof, hearing more sirens now, as the cops came in down East Grand and West.

It was, as I’d suspected, still raining, but if Lisa’s french fry oil had caught fire, say . . .

Anna stepped up to the counter at Tony Lee’s and waved to me with one hand, the other holding a cell to her ear.

“Tony went to see,” she called. “He says it’s a Dumpster fire behind Daddy’s Dance Club. The fire department has it under control.”

“Great!” I called back. “Thanks!”

She nodded and stepped back into the depths of the kitchen.

I returned to the operator’s station, and my book.

I was well into it when I heard a sound, like a wet sole gritting on dry cement, and looked up to see a man in the omnipresent hoodie approaching the carousel, the hood casting his face in shadow.

I snapped the phone shut and slid it into my pocket, simultaneously coming off the stool and onto my feet.

“Good evening!” I said brightly, mentally snapping my fingers for the land’s attention. “Like a ride on the carousel?”

The guy hesitated, then laughed, and reached up to pull the hood back, rumpling his pretty brown curls in the process.

“Actually,” Kyle said, “I wouldn’t mind a ride, but I came to talk to you about a horse.”

I considered him, and gave the land leave to sit. “Decided the project’s too much for you?”

“Oh, no! I want this! I got started—and that’s when I realized . . .” He paused, a delicate rosy blush more suited to Vassily’s coloring tinting his round cheeks.

“I was getting ready to cut the pattern, and I realized that I never asked you what kind of horse you might want—or if you wanted a horse at all.”

I blinked at him, and then laughed.

“We’re both idiots,” I said. “I just assumed—well, that’s the problem, right? Come on in and let’s survey the situation.”

He ducked under the gate, unzipped his hoodie and hung it neatly over the rail before following me to the carousel.

I led him around to where the rooster stood in all his zany glory, and nodded at it.

“Not a rooster,” I said.

“Got that,” he said, pulling a pad out of his back pocket and a pencil from somewhere else. “What was here before? It was stolen, I think you said?”

“Right. It was a unique piece—a fantasy horse. I told you the animals were carved by family, so there’s not going to be a pattern . . .”

“I can make the pattern,” Kyle told me, flipping the pad open. “Do you want a—well, it won’t be
exact
replacement, but as close to the animal that was stolen as I can get?”

I thought about that. Thought about the image I’d had in my head when I walked into the Enterprise a week ago.

“I’d like it,” I said slowly, “if we could get something close to what was here. I was . . . kind of used to it, tell the truth.” I looked around at the animals in sight. “You work with something most of your life, you get attached.”

“
Yes
,” Kyle said, with more emphasis than I would have expected, given such a saccharine offering. He brought his pencil to the ready. “So, what did he look like, the horse that got stolen?”

“She,” I said, giving him a half-grin. “Just a little gray, dainty as you like her, head up and neck proud. Black mane and white socks.”

Kyle was making notes on his pad, nodding. “Lot of that will be with the painter,” he said, “but I’ll just note it down . . .”

“Sure,” I said, and waited until his pencil stilled before adding, “she had batwings, black to match the mane, kind of half-furled along her sides. Also, fangs.”

He looked up.

“The fangs aren’t important,” I told him. “In fact, it’d probably be a good idea to lose the fangs. She was a hard sell sometimes, that horse, even to the kids who loved the idea that she could fly.”

He nodded and went back to his pad.

“Stander, prancer or jumper?”

“Prancer.”

Another nod, then a quick look up.

“If you don’t mind . . . I can sketch you out something in a couple minutes, make any adjustments right here.”

“Sure; take your time. It’s not like we’re real busy at the moment.”

Another nod, this one considerably more abstracted as he stared at the rooster—or maybe at the space the rooster occupied.

I left him to it, and returned to the operator’s station and my book.

I hadn’t read more than a chapter when I became aware of a certain lack in the background. I raised my head and looked outside.

The rain had stopped.

I checked the phone’s face: eight o’clock. Early enough that we might get some action out of the night, yet. I slipped the phone into my pocket and went outside to survey the situation.

It was coolish, with the breeze off the ocean, and things were pretty drippy, but I could see streaks of pink and orange through a wide break in the cloud cover—sunset, coming right up.

“Think anybody’ll come out, after all that?” Brand called over from Summer’s Wheel.

“Not impossible,” I called back. “It’s been raining a good while. Adults locked in motel rooms with antsy kids have been known to do strange things.”

“True,” he said, and reached over to his operator’s station, flipping the running lights on to their brightest setting, and nudging the Wheel into a stately spin.

“Let’s see what happens,” he said.

Beyond him, the Samurai warrior drew his swords and invited those who were honorable and worthy to accept the challenge of the Oriental Funhouse. As counterpoint, I heard the cars at Dodge City start to rumble and snap. The kid at the lobster toss stubbed out his latest cigarette, straightened, and began rolling the sides of the booth back up.

“I guess it’s unanimous.” I gave Brand a wave, and went back underroof.

Kyle was waiting at the operator’s station, pad in hand.

“Right with you,” I said, reaching over to start the carousel spinning again, before jogging over to crank the orchestrion up as far as it would go.

“Okay,” I said, coming back to the station and putting my hands on the safety rail. “What’ve you got?”

He had several sketches. I flipped pages, looking at them.

“Her head was a little longer,” I said slowly. “Think delicate, but strong. And the wings were broader—you looked at her and you really did think she could fly.”

Kyle nodded, took the book back, and made some adjustments on the sketch I had settled on as the best. “Like this, here? And then the wings . . .”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

“Great!” He looked up with a grin. “I’m glad I came down here. You’re right—that’s a unique design. Do you have any idea who stole the original?”

“No,” I said untruthfully.

“You filed a report with the local police?”

I hadn’t, since I knew full well what had happened to that “horse.” For half a second I thought about lying, but the question had been, to my ear, just a little too casual, so I told him a version of the truth.

“No, I never did file a police report. Carousel’s not insured, and the cops don’t tend to take the problems of ‘carny folk’ too serious. Whoever took that horse wanted her, I’m sure. I have to believe they’ll take good care of her.”

He gave me a long, expressionless look. I stared right back, eyes wide. He blinked first, glanced down, and flipped the pad shut with a snap.

“All right, then. I’ll get on back to the shop, and start work.” He turned—turned back.

“Another question, if I might.”

I raised my eyebrows and waited.

“Joe Nemeier wants some cabinets built. I saw you talking with him at the reception. Give me a reference?”

I shook my head.