Carousel Sun (12 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sunday, June 11

Low Tide 5:18
P.M.

Moonrise 9:01
P.M.
EDT, Full Moon

What with one thing and another, I got back to the carousel at the stroke of 4:00. I’d intended to arrive earlier, but, well . . . things had gotten complicated.

As it happened, though, my timing wasn’t too bad. I walked in just as the bell sounded to end the ride. I slipped under the rail and stepped up to the operator’s board.

“On your right,” I murmured.

“Yes,” Vassily murmured, a trifle more indistinctly than I was used to hearing from him. I waited until the riders had gotten themselves dismounted and out into Baxter Avenue before I asked.

“You okay?”

He turned, and I could see that his face was even paler than normal, and it looked—damn if it didn’t look like he’d been crying.

“
Are
you all right?” I asked.

He sniffled, and nodded.

“It is to be forgiven. I was watching this, the wheel go around and the animals, and to be here . . . always. It . . . I thought of my country—my country, which is so very beautiful and yet terrible things happen. There is injustice, and of love, there is too little.”

Well, I’d grown up in two countries and all I could say was that they were both beautiful, in their particular and unique ways, and that terrible injustices occurred in each.

And that, of love, there is, according to my own observations, an ongoing general shortage.

“There’s plenty of injustice here, too,” I said.

He bowed his head. “Even the blessed angels in Heaven have sorrows to bear.”

Well, for all I knew, that was true. I’d never had much truck with angels, myself. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to have my greenie fall any further into despondency. It was the angels that gave me my cue.

“The best we can do is try to make it better, one day, one person, one kind action at a time,” I offered, broadly paraphrasing a sermon I’d heard, ’way back, about how to make Heaven on earth.

Vassily looked down at me, his face softening. He looked younger, and somehow less vulnerable.

“You love this place,” he said. “This carousel; the—the creatures.”

I nodded.

“I was born in another country, where there had been a war,” I said, oversimplifying wildly. “When I came here, to live with my grandmother, I was . . . apprehensive at first, but then I came to love it. Even with the injustices. We make our own lives; we do what’s right.” This was getting a little heavier than I wanted, so I gave him a grin.

“It’s your life, no matter where you are. It’s up to you to make it the best life—for you and for those you love—that you can.”

He gave me a long, startled stare, then he ducked his head.

“Yes,” he said. And again. “
Yes
.”

“Right,” I said, and jerked my head toward Baxter Avenue. “Your shift’s over and Anna has your supper waiting. No work until Friday, right? And then every day until September fifth.”

“I will come, on Friday,” he said. “Before noon. I will get the key from Anna, and—and coffee. I will open up. At four my shift will be over. I will take the key to Anna, and have my supper.”

“You got it,” I told him. “On Friday, you’ll meet Nancy; she’ll be covering some of the night shifts. But for now—you better go get your supper.”

“Yes,” he said again, and added, as he always did, “Thanking you.”

Then he was gone, leaping lightly over the safety rail, and jogging past the three teenage girls in pink sweatshirts emblazoned with Archers Beach Maine, who were coming up to the ticket box.

“Afternoon, ladies,” I said cheerfully. “Care to take a ride on the carousel?”

It wasn’t a bad crowd, given that it was Sunday, and school was still in session. Company started to thin out around 8:30 and by 9:15 I was pretty much on my own. I wandered out into Baxter Avenue and spent fifteen minutes slaying various bovines with Brand Carver, owner-operator of Summer’s Wheel.

“You comin’ to the meetin’ tomorrow morning?” he asked me.

“I told Jess I’d stop by for a cup of coffee,” I admitted. “Sounds like she’s got the whole park out.”

“Lot of us, yeah.” Brand pushed his cap back off his forehead. “Bunch of the folks up in town, too. Super Early Season showed we can do it. An’ if we can do it once, why not every year?”

“This year might’ve been novelty?”

“Coulda been,” Brand said, looking judicious. “But, maybe not. One of those things that we won’t know ’til we try it. Thing is, nobody’s been willing to try it. Super Early Season—that shook up some energy.”

Well, it had done that, obviously.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

He grinned. “I’ll have a big mug of coffee waiting for you.”

I wandered back to the carousel, but the park was dead, now. A couple doors down, past Tony Lee’s, the gypsy fortune-teller, Sylvia Laliberte, had turned off her neon tarot cards and was pulling down the door.

Across from her, the greenie minding the lobster toss started to rack up the lobsters and roll down the sides of the booth.

As I watched, the lights went out over the dart game, and the bald guy who ran the T-shirt shop came out to nudge the rose quartz doorstop inside, and pull the door to. A second later, his lights went out, too.

“I guess the weekend’s over,” I called across to Tony, who leaned out over the counter, to look up and down the empty avenue.

Straightening, he reached inside the booth. I heard the
snap
of a switch being thrown, and the big overhead sign that advertised Lee’s Great Chinese Food went dark. Tony walked to the end of the counter and pulled in the condiment tray.

“See you Friday, Kate,” he called.

“Take care.”

He reached up, grabbed the storm shutter and pulled it down with a bang.

My cue, plain as the nose on your face.

I walked back under the carousel’s roof, flicked the switch that turned off the illuminated CAROUSEL sign on the roof, ducked under the rail, and a moment later jumped up onto the decking, and down into the pit.

The orchestrion was first. I rewound the paper, and shut the machine down, then slipped through the utility door and turned off the running lights.

Back on the decking, I walked, as lately Kyle and Vassily had walked—among the animals, my hands trailing along their wooden sides.

The kid was right, I thought. I did love this place, these animals, this carousel. Loved it despite its secrets. It was home in a way that House Aeronymous in the Land of the Flowers had never been home, even though I’d had family around me. When I was a kid, it had never occurred to me to wonder why I’d had family around me. Kids don’t wonder about the central facts of the universe. Since growing up, though . . .

Since then, I
had
wondered, and often, why Aeronymous had not only allowed Nathan to live, but named him his heir. Prince Nathan was seen as weak—half-breed that he was. Aeronymous had other children—full-blooded children, at least two of whom were pretty damn’ fine Ozali. He had to have known the danger a half-bred heir posed to him, his position, and the people under his protection. And I couldn’t for a moment suppose that an enduring love for Lydia Archer, the woman he had snatched at whim from her duty here in the Changing Land, was the answer to the puzzle.

I stopped and leaned my hands on the unicorn’s saddle.

Half-bred Nathan would have had a soul;
voysin
. Not having souls—or at least not having souls of the same configuration, the folk of the Land of the Flowers found our
voysin
. . . alluring.

Seductive.

I shook my head. No, that might have been enough reason to keep Lydia around until she died, but the child?

Unless . . .

Unless Aeronymous had made Nathan his heir to
protect
his other children?

That was a little convoluted, even for Aeronymous. On the other hand, that was pretty much politics as played in the Land of the Flowers. The sheer number of Ozali, and the constant quest for more and more power meant that, in order to stay alive, a person had to be so insignificant they fell below the radar of the powerful . . .

. . . or so powerful that no one dared challenge them.

Most tried the powerful route. After all, most people have possessions and property, even if they don’t have loved ones to protect. You might be okay with your own eventual assimilation, but watching your wife, your children, your
cat
be destroyed for the
jikinap
they held?

So, Aeronymous kept Nathan close, his heir, the wife of his heir, and their child.

Decoys, all.

Not that it mattered in the end.

Grandfather couldn’t have predicted Ramendysis. Maybe. In retrospect . . . he must have assumed he’d be able to best any Ozali who challenged him—he
had been
old, and powerful, and accomplished. He must’ve felt pretty confident in his dominion.

But Ramendysis had been wily, and he had planned well, picking off lesser Ozali and banking his power until he could pick off the more powerful. Aeronymous had been near the top of the list, if not the last major Ozali Ramendysis had defeated.

Defeated. Broken like straws, and sucked dry. I remembered. I hadn’t seen Aeronymous die, but I was there, standing next to Ramendysis, held there by his will, imprisoned and immobile, forced to watch my father fight for his life, while Ramendysis toyed with him, and finally, bored, made an end, snatching my father’s power from him so suddenly he screamed, and fell—and misted away into nothing before he struck the floor.

Ramendysis wouldn’t let me cry. Though he did allow me to survive—myself, and my mother.

Later, I came to understand what he wanted from my mother. From me—I was a toy. He wrapped me in his will, allowing me to remain just aware enough to know—and to hate—what he forced my body to do. Sometimes, he would free me to myself; at first, I would hope that he’d grown bored. But hope was what he wanted; when I had built sufficient supply, he would own me again and, slowly had my body undress itself, savoring both the death of hope, and my loathing; laughing as he walked me to his couch to perform acts no child . . .

I heard the land whine, felt the analog of a wet nose thrust into my hand; I smelled salt, and hot oil, and wet tarmac.

Blinking away tears, I embraced the land and moved, backing away from the memory . . .

. . . and bumped smack into the rooster.

I gasped a laugh, and shook my head to clear my eyes.

“Stupid bird,” I said, and smacked its rump hard enough to sting my hand. This was reality. The other—had been a long time ago. Against all odds, I had survived.

To come home.

The air horn sounded; I jumped—and then jumped from the deck to the floor, running to close the storm gates.

“Stop here,” I said, and Peggy did, pulling her Prius close in to the side of the steps, and shutting it down.

I got out and she did, and she stood looking up at Gran’s house.

“I just need an apartment, Kate. I mean, the expense account is covering meals and lodging, but there’s no way I can stretch to a
house
. Especially”—she pointed to her left—“a house right on the damn’ beach. How does
anybody
afford that?”

“Been in the family for years and years,” I said, which was true. “But I’m not renting you the house. That’s where I live. What I have to offer is right over here.”

I led the way around to the stairs, and the walkway hidden behind the hump of the dune, the windows sheltered by the summer parlor, directly above.

I’d left the patio light on. It shone on paving stones swept as sand-free as possible, and a couple of woven-web chairs that I’d found in the storage closet.

“You’ll have to keep an eye on them,” I told her. “The wind—especially storm winds—come over the dunes sometimes, and loft the furniture around. Best to keep them inside, and bring them out when you’re going to use them.”

“If I take the place,” Peggy said.

“That’s right. And don’t think I’ll be brokenhearted if you don’t. Come on in and see what you think.”

I pushed the door open and stood back to let her go in first.

As living quarters went, it was pretty basic. The front door opened into the living room, with that big window looking out over the dunes, and a concrete floor covered with indoor/outdoor carpet. At the back of the big room was a kitchenette, to the left was the bathroom, and beyond that, the bedroom.

I’d spent the early afternoon before my shift at the carousel cleaning the place and airing it out. It didn’t look, or smell, too bad, and it did have, as the woman said, location.

My biggest worry had been that the appliances and heating system were as bad as I remembered them. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried; Gran had updated the place sometime during the years I was away. The living room was furnished with a serviceable, middling-new sofa, a recliner, coffee table, and a television set. One corner of the bathroom housed a washer and dryer, stacked one on top the other. In the kitchen, the stove was electric; there was a microwave slotted in over it and a good range hood with lights and an exhaust fan that might’ve proven a danger to a cat, if Peggy had one, which I was willing to bet she didn’t. No dishwasher, but the refrigerator was full-sized Frigidaire—totally up to the task of keeping the beer cold.