Authors: Sharon Lee
Carousel Sun (3 page)
Not one of the busy beavers inside even noticed me, so intent were they on their work.
Two young fellas in jeans and T-shirts were covering the scarred walls with honey-colored paneling. Another pair were boxing the concrete support posts with the same honey-colored wood. At the back left corner of the space, a girl on a ladder was dealing with the kraken of wires spilling out from a hole in the drop ceiling.
An empty glass showcase was set up as a barrier in front of the back wall; a thin figure bent over it, writing or sketching on a pad of paper.
I had a sense of movement behind me, unthreatening, and turned just as another young fella in jeans and a tool belt came up the ramp.
“Help you, miss?” he asked respectfully. He had a slight, not-Maine accent, a pleasant, apple-cheeked face, and serious hazel eyes. Under the Home Depot gimme hat, his hair was light brown, curling softly below his ears.
“Just wondering what you’ve got going in,” I said, and added, by way of explaining why I cared, “I run the carousel down Fun Country.”
His eyes widened as he smiled. “We’re putting in an art gallery,” he said.
I blinked. “Art gallery?” I repeated, and didn’t add: In Archers Beach, blue-collar vacation spot as it was?
He nodded. “Would you like to meet the owner? She’s right there.” He nodded toward the figure still bent, rapt, over her pad of paper.
“I’d be pleased,” I said, and followed him into the store, up to the counter.
“Ms. Anderson?”
“Yes, Kyle?” She didn’t look up.
“Ma’am, here’s the lady who runs the carousel come to introduce herself.”
She did look up then, her eyes the blue of a fog-bound ocean, set deep in the well-used face of a woman past her first youth.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice smooth and calm. Her accent was New England, but not necessarily Maine. Massachusetts, maybe.
“Good morning,” I answered. “I’m Kate Archer—Fantasy Menagerie Carousel.” I smiled. “I saw you were fixing the place up and wondered what was going in. An art gallery, Kyle tells me. It’s been a lot of years since Archers Beach had an art gallery.”
“In fact,” she said with a faint smile, “it’s been just shy of a hundred years. You hear all about how the Great Fire took the hotels and the eating places, but you hardly ever hear that two art galleries and an art museum burned to the ground that night, too.”
She held out a hand. “I’m Joan Anderson. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Archer.”
“Likewise,” I said, meeting her hand. We shook.
“I’m curious what made you choose Archers Beach as a location for your gallery,” I said carefully.
Her smile grew more pronounced.
“I grew up here. Moved to Massachusetts when I got married. Taught school, raised kids, got a divorce. The kids are grown, the school system laid me off, and I decided it was time to come home and do what I always said I was going to do.” She raised her arms, showing me the space and the busy workers.
“This gallery is going to feature Maine artists only—paintings, pottery, jewelry, furniture—I’ve already got fifty artists on my list, and the word’s just starting to get out.”
I glanced down when she said “list,” but she’d been sketching on that pad, not listing. The sketch was of a horse, mane-tossed and galloping. She followed my eyes and turned the pad around so I could see it better.
“For the sign,” she said.
“Nice horse,” I answered. “What’s the gallery’s name?”
“Wishes,” she said, and gave me a full-on grin when I looked up at her. “When I was younger than I was today, I used to say to my mother that I wished I could do this, or that, or that other thing. Her answer, every time, was, ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’” She looked down at her horse and nodded. “Time for us beggars to mount up.”
“I wish you all kinds of good luck,” I said, and felt a not-exactly-welcome tingle of heat along the side of my tongue. Still, there was nothing wrong with expressing a well-wish.
Even a well-wish with a little more than simple sincerity behind it.
“Thank you, Kate. It was Kate?”
“Kate Archer—was and is.”
She smiled again. “Of course. You’ll come to our opening reception,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. “I’ll send you an invitation.”
“I’d be glad to,” I said, nodding. “I’ll leave you to it then. Think you’ll be open in time for the Season?”
“In plenty of time for the Season. And the other three, too.”
I stared at her. “You’re gonna be year-round?”
She chuckled.
“Why not? I’m going to be living here year-round. Might as well have something to keep me busy.”
“There’s that,” I allowed, raised my hand by way of good-bye, and turned toward the door.
Kyle turned with me.
“I’d like to take a look at your carousel sometime,” he said. “I’m—I’m a big fan of the wooden ones.”
“Come down when you’ve got a couple minutes. We’re open the weekend schedule right now, but I’d be glad to give you a private tour, if you give me some warning.”
“Thank you,” he said, as we reached the door and I stepped over the threshold. He stopped, one step inside the shop, and inclined slightly from the waist, as if he had started to bow, and then caught himself.
“Thank you,” he said again. “I’d like that a lot.”
CHAPTER THREE
My grandmother lives on Heath Hill, among an old stand of mixed wood. Her nearest neighbor, as chance would have it, is that very same Joe Nemeier who stands as the CEO of the local drug trade. He’d gone and built himself a modest little Bar Harbor cottage on the high land—think Wingwood or The Willows and you won’t be far afield—overlooking the Wood and, beyond it, the sea.
I came up the Hill from Heath Street, and paused outside the shadow of the trees to look up at the monstrosity sitting there—an architectural monstrosity, that was, and solely in my own opinion. A few weeks ago, the place had been truly monstrous, overlain with sticky gobs of . . . well, magic, if the word will make the concept go down easier. Those few weeks ago, Joe Nemeier had available to him, for what price I can’t begin to speculate, the services and protection of an extremely powerful Ozali—magician—now deceased.
There were those of us who were glad about that deceased part, not excluding myself and my immediate family—grandmother, grandfather, and mother, too. I didn’t expect Joe Nemeier entered into our feelings, but you can’t please everybody.
There being nothing of interest to see up at the house, I turned my back on it and walked to the ocean edge of the Hill.
Roses softened the stony edge, tumbling over the thin grass in a froth of white and pink and dark green. Sea rose canes bear thorns, just like their hybrid sisters, so I stopped some paces back from the edge, looking down the Hill, at roses climbing rock, flowering against the sand; then raised my sights, looking out to the black, bladed surface of Googin Rock, the local hazard to navigation. Tide was going out; still, the retreating waves struck the Rock with energy, throwing thick drops of seawater up into the lagging breeze.
It was a strange and fierce place, Googin Rock, though less strange than it had been weeks ago. Magic again. And, yeah, I was in it to my elbows.
Well.
I turned toward the trees. Nine steps brought me into the shadow; nine more, and I was in the Wood itself.
Welcome, Kate . . .
The words formed inside my ears, shaped by the breeze. The living voice of the Wood, the unanimous greeting of the trees. Some might find it . . . creepy, even alarming. I found it soothing. If the trees didn’t approve of me, at least they welcomed me, and they don’t welcome all, or even most, visitors.
“Good morning,” I said, strolling down the path that opened for me between the low growth and the mature trunks. You never take the same path through the Wood twice. Some might find that disturbing, too. For myself, I didn’t question whether the Wood would lead me to the Center, or just ’round in circles until I fell, exhausted, to be strangled by vines while I slept. Yeah, I know the old stories, and I know that they’re true—sometimes, and for some folk. But me, I’m not an enemy to trees; I’ve got close family ties.
Eventually, the press of trunk and branch thinned; the small growth fell away to grass, and the grass to moss. I was in the glade at the Center: the heart and very soul of the Wood. The place where the Lady lives.
A tupelo tree grows at the Center—what we call black gum, or pepperidge, up here in Maine. Gran took her name there—Ebony Pepperidge, which gets shortened to Bonny more often than not.
Her particular black gum tree, here at the Wood’s heart, is nine feet around, and a good hundred feet tall, with great, twisted black branches against which thin, egg-shaped leaves glow like green glass.
Sitting with his back cozily against that broad trunk was a yellow-haired man in a black muscle shirt and black leather jeans. The hair was long enough to brush his white, elegantly muscled shoulders. His face, when he looked up at me, was ageless—which isn’t anything near like
young
. He had fire-red mustaches and well-opened blue eyes. If you looked close, you could see tiny blue flames dancing in their depths.
A red plastic cooler sat next to him on the moss. The leather coat and hat that completed his daily wear hung on a nearby branch. A large, soot-black bird perched on the same branch, head tucked under a wing.
“Good morning, Katie,” he said with a smile. The smile was sweet, but not as innocent as it had been just a few weeks ago. Then, this man had been Mr. Ignat’, my grandmother’s long-time beau—a man on the far side of middle age, more than a little foolish, sweet-natured and affectionate. He’d been one of the two anchors in my life, after I’d been brought out of what was left of my home to live with my grandmother on the land my family had long ties to, and I had loved him unreservedly.
The feelings I had for the person he was now—the person he
was again
—that being specifically Fire Ozali Belignatious, formerly of the Land of the Flowers, and oh-just-by-the-way, my maternal grandfather—my feelings there were a
lot
more complicated.
Still, there wasn’t any reason not to be polite to family, so I smiled and nodded.
“’Morning, Mr. Ignat’. Gran still resting?”
“She and Nessa went for a stroll under leaf. They intended to return in time for your visit.” He smiled. “After all, they can’t be far.”
“You’re a funny man,” I told him, dropping to the moss and crossing my legs, Indian-style.
In the general way of things, a
trenvay
, or, hell, let’s get specific—a
dryad
—is tied to her tree. An old and tree-strong dryad, such as the Lady of the Wood, might, if and when the whim took her, walk from one end of town to the other, tend a business, and live like mundane folk in a big old house overlooking the dunes. Going beyond the boundaries of the land in which her tree had roots—that couldn’t happen. A dryad out of touch with her tree died. And the tree died, too.
Yet Gran, a dryad, had crossed the Wall between the Worlds, penetrating deep into the Land of the Flowers to rescue her daughter, my mother, Nessa, and lived to tell the tale—slowly, over many days, and with frequent periods of rest within her tree.
My mother, half a dryad and half something very much else, had no tree to heal her. She was, however, able to receive some benefit from all trees. So the trees of the Wood were bringing Nessa back to health, slowly, while she came to terms with the damage that had been wreaked upon her soul—and the fact that it was her own again.
I wondered, not for the first time, if there wasn’t some kind of supernatural psychoanalyst we could call upon, but Gran only said that trees work slow, but certain, and Mother smiled, and told me not to worry so much.
“Will you have time for a lesson today?” I asked Mr. Ignat’, by way of not being worried.
I’d lately—yes, within the last couple weeks—come into the possession of quite a lot of . . .
No, I can’t call it
magic
a third time; I was raised to know better.
The formal name for the material we here in the so-called Real World prettify as “magic,” is
jikinap
. It’s a metaphysical substance that can be sold, stolen, earned, given away or accepted as a gift. It can also be forfeit in a variety of interesting ways, usually involving a duel between Ozali and the winner absorbing the loser’s power.
The most likely outcome for a person who has accidentally contracted quite a lot of
jikinap
, and who hasn’t had exhaustive training in its husbandry and use . . . is that the proto-Ozali dies, rapidly, and often enough, terribly.
Back in the day, Mr. Ignat’ had been a regular on the top ten list of Ozali to Watch in the Land of the Flowers—a world rich in
jikinap
. He’d kindly—as I often reminded myself—undertaken to teach me what I needed to know in order to survive my own power. We’d been meeting two and three times a week for lessons, and while I couldn’t say that I was feeling confident, at least I didn’t stand on the edge of spontaneous combustion, and I could sit in peace with another Ozali without feeling compelled to absorb his
jikinap
.
Like I was sitting now, with Mr. Ignat’ not two feet away, his small store of power a steady, alluring glow in the center of his chest; right where his heart would be . . .
“Pirate Kate? Will you dishonor your vow and your teacher?”
I blinked, feeling the taste of butterscotch along the edge of my tongue, exercised my will and sternly sent my rising power down to its proper place at the base of my spine.
“I honor my vow
and
my teacher, sir!” I assured him, playing the game we’d shared when we’d both been much simpler.
“I believe you,” he said—and suddenly turned his head to the right.
I followed his gaze, saw branches shift and lift across the clearing as my mother and my grandmother stepped out of the Wood to join us.
“What’s the news from town?” Gran asked, after Mr. Ignat’ had dealt us each a sandwich and a bottle of water from the red cooler.
“I see in the paper that the Coasties and the MDEA nabbed some of your neighbor’s hired help last night. Caught ’em at Pippin’s Notch.” I had a swallow of water. “You’ll maybe want to keep an eye out. Joe Nemeier’s a mean sonofabitch, and there’s no telling what he’ll do, if the law starts getting too close to home.”
Gran was unwrapping her sandwich. “The Wood will protect us.”
Now that the Lady was back where she belonged, even fire wasn’t . . . much . . . of a threat. Joe Nemeier
had
fired the Wood when Gran was on her walkabout; happily Mr. Ignat’ and his companion had been on hand to deal with it—and to guide me in crafting a shield.
I took a bite of my sandwich.
“The
big
news,” I said, when I’d had another swallow of water, “is that there’s an
art gallery
going in at the top of Archer Avenue, two doors down from the church. Joan Anderson—that’s the owner—tells me she’ll be open year-round and in plenty of time for this Season. Maine-made art only.”
I raised my sandwich, then lowered it to add the rest.
“Ms. Anderson’s going to be throwing an opening day reception. Says she’ll send me an invitation.”
“Very proper,” Gran said. “I suppose she’s from Away, this Anderson?”
“Not a bit of it. Grew up here, she said, got married, moved to Mass. Now the kids are on their own, and she’s divorced. She says she’s come back home to fulfill a dream.”
“Of course,” my mother said, green eyes bright in an emaciated face. “Dreams grow best at home.” She turned to Gran. I noticed that, while she had dutifully unwrapped her sandwich, she hadn’t made any attempt to actually eat it.
“You remember the Andersons, Mother. Julia threw pots, and John sculpted. They lived on Wintergreen Street—the house with the pottery fence.”
I was reasonably certain that I’d remember a pottery fence, but that didn’t ring any bells with me.
It did with Gran, though. Her face softened.
“Now, I do remember that fence! Pretty thing, set in with tiles and colored glass.”
“What happened to it?” I asked, around a bite of my own sandwich.
“A car ran into it,” Gran said. “Smashed it to bits. If it had been a stone wall, the driver would have been killed.”
“That’s recent, then?” I asked.
“Before you came on the Beach,” Gran said, and looked to my mother, who moved her shoulders like she was undecided.
“Nineteen forty-six, I think it must have been,” she said.
“Before my time,” I agreed, and looked meaningfully at the sandwich held loosely between her hands.
She followed my glance, and lifted her head to smile at me.
“You worry too much, Katie,” she said, but she did take a bite.
“Any other news, Kate?” asked my grandmother. “Have you found a replacement for the batwing horse?”
“Yes and no,” I answered. “Painted Pony Pete offered me a signed Looff brought out of Dreamland.”
“Kate Archer! You never—”
“No, I never. Do I look like a tourist to you?”
Mr. Ignat’ chuckled at that, and Gran shook her head.
“My apologies, Kate. Of course you know better than a signed Looff.”
“. . . though I might’ve fallen for it, if he hadn’t mentioned Dreamland. That was a PTC machine, wasn’t it?”
Gran didn’t bother to dignify that.
“So you turned down Painted Pete’s offer. Which any person with a grain of sense would do.
Did
you find something else?”
“I did,” I said, as casually as I could. “Got a rooster at Artie’s.”
I’d known she wouldn’t like it, but I’d miscalculated the intensity on the Richter scale.
“
You made a deal with the Enterprise
?”
It was said quiet enough, but I felt the tension in the Wood around us. Inside my head, I heard something that sounded an awful lot like a nervous whine. I sympathized. Gran in a temper is nothing to trifle with. On the other hand . . .
“I heard from you that the care and keeping of that carousel is my worry now,” I said, tartly. “Did I hear wrong?”
“You did not. However, had I
ever
supposed that a granddaughter of mine would sink so low as to deal with Artie—to
willingly
take something from that damned Enterprise into our care—”
“Was there a memo?” I interrupted. “If there was, I missed it. I’m pretty sure this is the very first time I’ve heard that Artie isn’t trustworthy.”
