Carousel Sun (16 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Friday, June 16

Low Tide 9:16
A.M.

Moonset 10:14
A.M.
EDT

I took my mug out onto the summer parlor, and stood sipping coffee while surveying the sand and the sea. It was cloudy and chilly this morning; rags of fog drifted down the beach, congregating, as they always seem to do, at the border of Archers Beach and Surfside.

There’s a rock at the border of the towns—nothing as impressive or as steeped in history as Googin Rock, but a good-sized rock, rooted deep and wide. Nerazi likes to come to shore there, and shed her skin. Those who know—
trenvay
, smallkin, and plain humans, too—those who know of the place, sometimes come by in the wee hours, and if they find a naked woman sitting on a sealskin in the lee of the rock, meditatively braiding her hair, they might ask her for a hearing, or a blessing . . .

Or for assistance in returning the
ronstibles
to the muck that spawned them.

I drank coffee, watching the fog blow down the beach, and wondered what the hell a
ronstible
was and why the particular
ronstible
calling her- or itself Daphne had made such a point of her service to the Son of the Sea, when the man himself seemed to think the opposite.

More—and more urgently—I wondered if the man in question had found Nerazi, if she’d been of a mind to assist in . . . whatever it was, and if they’d succeeded. The sea . . . told me nothing. It was as lively and vital as it had been . . .

. . . during all the eight weeks that Borgan had . . .

Had been what, exactly?

Not imprisoned, obviously.

And not
in peril
—or at least not something the
sea
considered perilous.

Was a Guardian peacefully asleep upon the Gulf of Maine’s tender bosom all that was required for its happiness and health?

There
was an interesting question—the more so because it could be asked about a Guardian of the land, as well.

I did . . . very little, beyond maintain an attachment to the land—an attachment that seemed to have an element of fortune, or . . . vigor woven into it.

Gran had told me, years ago, when she had first manipulated me into taking up the duty of my ancestors, that the Guardian’s purpose was to protect and husband the land.

That was all very well and good, but—

“Hey, Archer, you up there?”

Peggy’s voice effectively derailed my train of thought. I leaned over the railing, but I couldn’t see her, down below and behind me.

“You can see my shadow, can’t you?”

“Now that you mention it, that was my hint, yeah.”

“You sleep okay?” I asked. “Ready to go forth and do battle?”

“I slept great. Listen . . .” There was a small pause, perhaps even a clearing of the throat. “You mind if I come up and sit on the porch with you a couple minutes? I got my own coffee.”

I sighed. Quietly. And reminded myself that I was the one who’d thought renting the studio to the midway manager would be good—good for her, good for the midway and the
trenvay
who worked there. I had only myself to blame for the loss of my solitary splendor.

“Sure,” I said. “Come on up.”

“Nice view,” Peggy said, leaning her elbows companionably on the rail beside me. She was dressed for Opening Day in black jeans, pink sneakers, and a black T-shirt featuring a scarlet rose pierced by a pink sword; below it the legend, in letters dripping scarlet blood:
Vixen the Slayer
. Her pink hair positively glowed, and the diamond chip in her nose glittered aggressively in the scant sunshine.

“So, who was that guy, last night?”

“Borgan? He’s a friend,” I said, which was certainly true. Whether it was the complete and total truth . . . well, that was one of the things I’d wanted to . . . not exactly discuss with him, but to . . . try to figure out.

“He a park person?”

I blinked at her, but she was staring out over the beach, sipping her coffee.

“No, he’s a fisherman. Right now, he’s got a contract with Mrs. Vois, to fish her husband’s boat.”

I saw her forehead wrinkle.

“Where’s her husband?”

“He died at sea,” I said. “He left his wife and daughter the boat. It’s their livelihood—their business, if you want it that way. But somebody has to fish it for them. Mrs. Vois used to go out with Hum—her husband—but she’s been poorly for a while. Nancy’s a crack mechanic, but she’s no fisherwoman. So, they hired Borgan to fish the boat, for a percentage of the take.”

“Got it. So, why was he waiting on the steps at midnight like a scary guy out of a scary movie?”

“I’d asked him to come by as soon as he could. Since he knew I’d had some trouble, he took me literally.”

“Had some trouble—that’s the business with Joe?”

I laughed.

“You writing my biography, Jersey?”

She straightened, glared at me—then laughed, herself.

“It did kinda sound like the third degree, didn’t it? Sorry. Just—if you’re in trouble, I got your back, Archer, ’kay?”

“That’s good to know,” I said, and meant it. “So,” I added, changing the subject brutally, “today’s plans?”

Peggy sighed. “Get down to the midway by ten, ten-thirty, open up the office, walk the grounds, greet and make happy with the crew as they come in, and at noon!” She placed a lingering kiss on her fingertips and released it into the overcast sky. “The Grand Opening!”

She sighed again and set her elbows back on the rail. “And that’s where I’m gonna be ’til midnight, one o’clock. Tomorrow, it’s lather, rinse, repeat.”

“You need an assistant.”

“
First
, I need to make sure the midway isn’t gonna self-destruct. Then, I’ll think about an assistant, because you’re right, if I try to fill all those hours by myself, I will shortly become a very crispy critter. You know anybody with managerial experience who needs some hours, and all the fresh-squeezed fruit juice they can drink?”

“Not off the top of my head. I’ll give it some thought, though.”

“’Preciate it,” she said, and finished off what was left of her coffee. “’Preciate you sharing the view with me, too.”

“No problem,” I told her, more truthfully now than it would have been half an hour ago. “You on your way?”

“Better than late,” she said.

I nodded, and went inside to show her out.

I got down to the park early, myself, and hit Marilyn’s office about 10:30, just to make sure there weren’t any unresolved last-minute issues between Management and the carousel. There weren’t.

There
was
a manila envelope in my mailbox. It contained two sheets of murky ink-jet printout outlining procedures—such things as runner schedules, ticket counts, how a disputed count was settled, frequency of payouts. Greenies would be paid direct by the park, with our percentage deducted from receipts before payout. I was responsible for paying my non-greenie employee according to whatever arrangements we’d made between us. The park really didn’t want to know what those arrangements were. That suited me fine, and I guessed it suited Nancy fine, too.

Tucking the paperwork into the back pocket of my jeans, I took a quick tour. I was pretending very hard that my hanging around the park had nothing to do with it being Opening Day and Vassily on all day, all by himself, or—the fateful refrain—
what could possibly go wrong
?

Anyhow, it was just about eleven; sunny now, though still a bit on the chilly side, and not a shred of fog to be seen. The main gate to the park was unlocked and slightly ajar, a sly invitation to those who were bold enough to come on in for some early fun. Baxter Avenue was already humming with the sound of rides running at low speed, enticing, but not necessarily working.

I walked past the log flume; the water was running in the slides, and empty sleds were circulating, all but whispering,
You could be having fun here.

Tom Thumb was easing ’round the track, smoke coming out of the stack in convincing clouds. I heard a clatter overhead, and looked up to see one of Galaxi’s two trains climbing the long hill to the apex of the route, a single passenger sitting front and center in the lead car.

I ducked around the Scrambler, which, alone in this section of the park, wasn’t in motion, and came up to Keltic Knot.

There was a modest line of three of four bold gate-crashers waiting patiently for their turn, while the ride, all seats full, went through its tight, gravity-defying convolutions.

Mr. Ignat’ was in the operator’s tower, his back to most of the park, and his concentration obviously on his work.

I left him to it and headed back.

“Hey! Hey! Kate Archer!” came a yell as I passed the Scrambler, I turned, saw a black-haired girl waving, and made the detour.

“What’s up?” I called.

“Stacey Dunlap,” she said, coming to the fence. She was maybe fourteen, fifteen, her hair a riot of wind-twisted curls, a streak of grease on her chin. “My dad broke his ankle on Wednesday, and the doctor said rest, and Gwen—my dad’s girlfriend—she’s making sure he does. I told ’em I could run the ride—well, I can. Except something’s gone bad. I need somebody to cycle it while I get under the cars and look. Can you—do you have fifteen minutes?”

I didn’t really have to be any place until quarter to four, when I was meeting Nancy at the merry-go-round and introducing her to Vassily.

“Sure, I can help,” I said, ducking under the rail and walking with her toward the operator’s station. “What needs done?”

“If you’ll just run it at quarter speed—let me get under first—and then kind of do what I yell?”

“Sure,” I said again, and stepped up to the box.

Stacey ran across to the ride, ducked under and yelled, “Now!”

I moved the levers, and watched the cars start their dance, oddly compelling in slo-mo, eerie in their silence. Going at top speed, the Scrambler will describe a series of whooshes, but it’s among the quietest rides in the park.

“Give ’er a notch,” Stacey yelled from under the dancing cars.

I obliged her, and—

I heard something.

Something . . . just a very little bit . . . not right.

It wasn’t a problem yet, but it
would be
a problem, if Stacey didn’t find it and fix it, which she might do, given enough time, which was getting shorter. The Scrambler was one of Fun Country’s Name Rides. If it wasn’t operating at Official Opening Time on Opening Day, Stacey’s dad would get hit with a hefty fine on top of the business lost on the day.

Standing in the operator’s slot, I stepped Sideways.

That easy, I saw it—a little bit of heat in the shaft of the second branch of four cars. I looked closer, and saw that sand had gotten in through a crack in the metal housing. Happens, given we’re at the beach.

Happens, but it’s a pain to fix—a teardown, cleanout and reassemble job that would take up at least a day. A day that nobody would have for twelve weeks, starting . . . oh, right about now.

“Back down,” Stacey yelled, and I accommodated her, my attention still mostly on the problem.

I can
, I thought,
fix that
.

It would take a little bit of fine-tuning, but, I thought—no, I was
sure
—I could do something.

My
jikinap
rose easily—enough to do the job, no more—and I shaped it into the seeming of an air hose. An invisible air hose.

Using this tool as a focus for my will, I blew the sand out of the works. Then, I kneaded the
jikinap
and tugged on it until it was a sticky, thin sheet of protective material, which I caused to adhere to the outside of the breached box. It ought to last the Season; I tried to put that into the working.

That being the best I could do, I stepped fully into the Real World, and snipped the thread of magic that still held me to my work.

“Wait!” Stacey called from beneath the cars. “Stop them, please!”

I did.

A few minutes later, at her instruction, I started them again, notched them up once, and a couple more times, until they were at full speed and I could clearly hear the
whoosh
of their dancing.

“Off, please!”

I brought the dance to a slow end, so as not to tempt anything else to give, and Stacey climbed out from underneath, shaking her head.

“Find it?” I asked her.

Another head shake.

“I think it was the second arm—maybe the gearing? But I don’t hear it now.” She frowned slightly. “Fixed itself. For now,” she added darkly, a true child of the machine age. “I’ll make a note in the log and talk to my dad about it.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Can’t be too careful.”

She nodded abstractedly, then remembered her manners and gave me a sunny smile.

“Thanks for your help! I couldn’t’ve figured it out without you.”

“No problem. You’re not working all day by yourself, are you?”

She shook her head. “My brother’s coming down to relieve me after he gets off work.”

“Really. What does your brother do for a day job?”

“He’s a junior architect at Pine Point Associates, in Saco,” she said, “so he can’t help long-term. We’re hoping Dad will be back in a week.”