Authors: Sharon Lee
Carousel Sun (6 page)
I should, I thought, standing again in the place the batwing horse had occupied for all of my memory of the carousel—before she left for her own land again, I should have asked her, the Opal of Dawn, if she had Changed.
A shadow flickered across my sight; I turned, glancing up—
“Kate?” A woman’s voice echoed off the steel roof and walls. “You home?”
“Nancy?” I moved across the platform until she could see me from her position just inside the open door. “C’mon in!”
She did that, moving easy and boneless, like a cat on a casual hunt. Slipping through the gap I’d left in the security fence, she hopped up onto the platform and gave me a nod, easing the gimme hat up with a nudge of her forefinger.
“Stopping by to see about Season hours, if you’re gonna need me.” She cast an appraising eye up and around the boards and the brass work.
“Lookin’ good,” she said, soft enough to have been talking to herself. She met my eye and said it again, louder, and with emphasis.
“Lookin’
damn’
good.”
“What can I say? You do good work.”
Nancy had been my pre-Super-Early-Season prep crew, bringing the mechanicals up to spec after a winter of idleness, polishing the brass, putting in the lights, threading the paper through the orchestrion, and every other bit of fiddly, necessary work that needed to be done, with the exception of anything that touched on the carousel critters themselves.
Smart woman, Nancy Vois.
She’d stayed on as part-time carousel operator for the Super Early Season. The Early Season being what it was, I didn’t have much need of her. Still, a good employee is worth holding onto, and I’d offered to split what hours there were, right down the middle, or any other way she liked it.
But, it happened that she didn’t like any Early Season hours. She had work as a casual mechanic at the Little Egret Marina up on Casco Bay, working side-hours and off-shifts for cash money under the table.
“Marina doesn’t need you during the Season?”
She lifted a skinny shoulder and let it fall.
“Marina needs extra hands at the start and end of
their
Season, to put the boats in the water, and take ’em out again. Reg’lar yard crew can handle it from now on t’Labor Day.”
“Well, I’ll be pleased to have you, like I said before. How many hours you need and what’s your rate of pay?”
She shook her head and shoved her hands into the front pockets of her jeans as she took up a lean against a brass pole.
“Management’s s’posed to decide that stuff.”
“Let’s say I’m grooming you to take my place.”
She snorted delicately, then directed her gaze over my head, like she was taking counsel of the canopy lights.
“Now, see, I can always use hours. My experience is everybody can always use hours. If it was up t’me, looking at the ride open seventy-six hours across seven days, an’ Management with paperwork and suchlike on top of that, I’d be thinking . . .”
She brought her eyes down from the heights to meet mine.
“You hiring a greenie?”
The greenies come in on a general contract with the Archers Beach Chamber of Commerce, and hail from places like Ukraine and the Czech Republic and Hungary. They work as housekeepers in the motels, as waitstaff—and as game agents and ride operators at Fun Country. The arrangement between the hiring agency and the CoC is one of long standing, and it generally, as far as I knew, worked well for all concerned.
And it wasn’t like Maine college kids wanted to come down to Archers Beach to work a lousy twelve-week Season, when they could go down to Atlantic City, Rehobeth Beach, or Cape May for a longer Season, and better pay—not to mention warmer water.
I shrugged. “The park sent ’round a letter, asking us all to take on a kid or three. Frankly, I wanted to talk with you first. If you weren’t interested, I was going to bring on a kid for the early afternoons, and figure on sleeping when the Season’s over.”
Nancy nodded judiciously. “Could be done that way. Now, what I’ve got in mind would get the work done, wouldn’t nobody get killed, and we’d do a greenie a good turn.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Getcher greenie in noon to four, when it’s quiet, mostly. The park feeds ’em lunch, and they get the hours on their card. The two of us’ll split the night shift, when there’s more likely to be trouble”—she looked owlish—“since we’re able to handle trouble.”
I
was able to handle trouble, given one thing and another. Nancy? Well . . . yeah. I’d seen Nancy go after trouble six times her size, dig her claws in and hold on tight.
“It’s a plan,” I said. “The greenie’s pay is set by contract, and the park matches half. What rate are you looking at for yourself?”
She pursed her lips.
“You sure I’m cut out for Management?”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Well.” She sighed. “I’m thinking the arrangement we had during the Super Early Season was advantageous.”
Nancy’s Super Early Season pay had been a percentage of the net. Given that the Super Early Season had been completely new, and nobody’d known what to expect, that had sort of made sense. The regular Season, though . . .
“I’ve been going over the financials for the last couple years and income’s been on a steady decline. I’d feel better giving you a set wage. Twenty percent—”
“Fifteen,” she put in.
“—of Not Much is Pretty Near Nothing. If we settle on three hundred a week, then you know what’s coming. And!” I pushed on, seeing she was about to say something else. “Wages are a business expense for Management.”
“Things’re looking up,” Nancy said. “I think the Super Early Season was the start of luckier times comin’. Fifteen percent’s fair. You can pay me extra for any repairs that need doing.”
“Twenty percent,” I said, giving her an ice princess stare right down my nose. “And extra for repairs.”
Nancy gave as good as she got on the stare. Used to run a Harley in a pack, did Nancy. Funny how the skills we learn young stay with us.
“You’re insulting me, Kate. Fifteen percent or I walk.”
Well, I knew when I was licked.
“You drive a hard bargain. Fifteen, it is. Extra for repairs.”
I stuck my hand out.
“Done.”
We shook on it, and Nancy looked ’round my shoulder.
“Still nothing to replace her?”
“Got something coming in this afternoon,” I said, giving her a grin. “You up for earning some repair money?”
“Depends on when it’s coming. I told Ma I’d be home ’bout five.”
“Should be here before that,” I said.
And right on cue there came a clanging noise, as if somebody was rattling the park gate, and a man’s voice singing out loud and strong.
“Kate Archer? Delivery!”
CHAPTER SIX
High Tide 9:33
P.M.
Moonrise 5:27
P.M.
Moonset 2:40
A.M.
EDT
“Seriously?”
Nancy took her cap off, rubbed her sandy going-to-gray curls, and reseated the cap, never once taking her eyes off the rooster.
I sighed. “Best I could do.”
Nancy was still staring.
“Come from the Enterprise, too,” she said, voice carefully neutral.
“
Now
you’re starting to sound like my grandmother,” I said, maybe a little too sharp, because she shifted her gaze to me and turned one hand palm up to show her lack of intentional insult.
“Sorry. Sorry. It’s just . . . the Enterprise isn’t exactly trustworthy.”
“So my grandmother
also
informed me. After the deal was done.”
“Right.” Nancy sighed. Slid a glance at the rooster. Winced.
“My other choice was a horse of doubtful provenance from Painted Pony Pete—who is, for the record, not himself a model citizen.”
“Well, but, Kate, even if the horse didn’t come off the ride he said it did, or whatever, if it was a good wood horse—”
“You can stop there. If there had been any possibility of it being a
good
wooden horse, I might’ve gone for it. Unfortunately, the line of nonsense Pete threw down makes me suspect a knockoff—and a bad knockoff at that. Plus, he mentioned up front that it needed repairs, but not what those repairs might be.” I shook my head. “I can’t afford a horse that’s gonna break down after two rides. And
nobody
can afford a horse that might fail and get somebody hurt.”
Nancy stood a long minute, head tipped to one side, then nodded briskly. “Right you are.” She raised her cap and settled it again, and looked sternly at the rooster.
“Well, let’s get ’er mounted, then.”
It took both of us to do the deed, after I’d done a thorough inspection, physical and magical. The body was sound, excepting that crack; neither the land nor my own awesome Ozali powers detected anything more or less than an old and ugly fiberglass rooster in need of cleaning and a paint job.
Once it was in place, I ran the carousel a couple turns to make sure everything was hooked up all tight and proper—which it was. Nancy does good work.
“Well,” said the woman herself, from her lean on the safety rail beside me.
I knew what she meant. “It does change the tone, doesn’t it? I’ll patch him and paint him tonight; thread in the stirrups. Be as bright as a new penny for tomorrow’s crowds.”
Nancy laughed softly.
“Tomorrow’s
epic
crowds,” she murmured, and stirred slightly. “Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“If you don’t mind my asking . . .” Her voice drifted off.
I turned my head to look at her, but all I got was the side of her face as she gazed determinedly at the carousel.
I looked in that direction myself, deliberately not sighing at the rooster.
“If I mind your asking, I’ll say so. Deal?”
“More’n fair.” She paused, then said, her voice too casual, “I’m wondering if you’ve had word of Cap’n Borgan.”
It was a reasonable question, considering. I told myself that, and took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. In spite of which, the words that came out of my mouth went off on a tangent.
“Finn’s not fishing for you?”
“No, no—he is. Doing a good job. Good enough job. It’s just Ma was wondering after the Cap’n the other night. He used to drop by now and again—visit with her a bit. It’s been six, seven weeks . . .”
Every bit of six or seven weeks, yeah. I took another nice, deep breath.
“Haven’t seen him,” I said, admiring how level my voice was. “If I do, I’ll pass the message that your mother misses his wit and good looks.”
“’Preciate it. He’s a favorite, see? She doesn’t get out much and—she says he reminds her of the sea.”
Well, of course he reminded her of the sea. I pressed my lips tight and nodded, thoughtfully.
“Well!” Nancy pushed away from the rail. “I’d best be getting on. We’ll settle on shifts solid once you got the greenie lined up.”
“Yeah.” I stood up, too. “I’ll go down and talk to Marilyn about that now—and let her know the happy news.”
“Hire a summer worker?” Marilyn looked up from behind her desk, eyebrows slightly raised, which for her was an exclamation of shock and surprise. Well, Gran didn’t ever hire a greenie—not that I knew about, anyhow. It might’ve been a fear of what might happen, should one of the prisoners become unruly while she wasn’t by. It could’ve been something else. Something, say, like the Ozali Ramendysis happening by one fine spring day and demanding his property back, or else he’d leave the Beach a smoking heap of slag.
Well, that particular surprise was behind us, and I was confident of the bindings on the remaining five—bindings that had been examined and approved by Gran
and
by Mr. Ignat’ in his role as Ozali Belignatious.
All that being so—
“Are they all spoken for?” I asked Marilyn. “The greenies?”
She shook herself and glanced down at the top her desk, specifically at a printed list tidily lined up with the edge of the desk calendar.
“We still have several young people who need hours. Will you be needing more than one?”
“Just one should do it,” I said. “Nancy Vois’ll be splitting nights with me, but I can use somebody to cover noon to four.”
Eyes on the list, Marilyn nodded.
“I’ve got one or two whose schedules might accommodate those hours. Let me find out . . .” She looked up at me. “Is it all right if I send somebody around to talk to you tomorrow night?”
“That’s fine; you know where to find me.”
“All right,” she said, and frowned slightly, as if she expected me to beat a retreat now that our business was done.
Except it wasn’t . . . exactly . . . done.
“Wanted to let you know, too,” I said, “that I got in a replacement animal, and we’ll be fully functional as of opening time tomorrow. Thanks for working with me on this, Marilyn.”
It wasn’t the sort of speech Marilyn was used to having from me—and I didn’t blame her one bit for the blink and the moment of silence. Credit where it’s due, though, she made a fast recovery and nodded, smiling as much as she ever does.
“Of course, Fun Country was pleased to work with you, Kate. The carousel has been a Name Ride, and an anchor of this park, for a lot of years, now. If there’s anything else we can do to assist, you only have to let me know.”
As long as it didn’t cost Fun Country one thin dime, or discommode the directors any; but diplomacy counts, as my grandfather would have said, though not exactly in those words. That being so, I summoned up a stately smile, inclined my head, and eased out of the office before either one of us ran out of patience.
It was midnight by the time I’d finished patching, cleaning, painting, and communing with the newest member of the carousel.
On the communing front, all I’d gotten for my trouble and concern was the general feeling that the land didn’t much care for the rooster. I couldn’t get a reading on why this was so. It wasn’t anything so pointed as a repugnance for something that was alien—a Black Dog, say, or a willie wisp, critters that have from time to time been known to cross the Wall between the Worlds and run along the shore. Neither one belonged, and the land was right to call foul.
The rooster, though . . . the rooster produced a sense of . . . unease; just a little niggle of something so minor I couldn’t even categorize it as
worry
at the back of my mind. The proximity of the Guardian to the rooster for several hours of cleaning and painting did nothing to increase the unease.
Or decrease it, either.
I finished adjusting the stirrup leathers and sighed in irritation. I’d already inspected the thing three times with varying degrees of thoroughness.
“Which means doing it a fourth time won’t kill you,” I muttered. “And not doing it, might.”
There was that.
I took a deep breath, deliberately setting my irritation aside, and a second, tasting tangy-cool sea air. Fortified, I stepped Sideways, and considered the rooster minutely, one more time.
Seeing Sideways is a lot like looking through infrared glasses.
Jikinap
glows thick, deep yellow;
trenvay
glamor is bright green; illusion tends toward the blue-and-silver end of things. If the object of scrutiny is a person, Sideways sight will detect, along with the aforementioned, sincerity, insincerity, pain, love. Rarely will something or someone look exactly the same in Side-Sight as it looks in real sight.
The rooster was that rare thing.
Which, yeah, made me uneasy.
I put every ounce of concentration I had on the seeing, but no matter how hard I stared, the rooster was the rooster, with no glow of
jikinap
, spell, or
trenvay
glamor about it.
Well.
I stepped fully back into the here and now—and shook my head.
The rooster would never be a thing of beauty. It was clean and sharp with new paint, but what it wasn’t, was inviting. Mind you, the batwing horse hadn’t been
inviting
, particularly, but she had been . . .
challenging
. She had appealed to the hidden Batman in some riders’ psyches, and when they dismounted at the end of the ride, they felt not only merry—the usual euphoria brought on by spinning in a circle bathed in carousel music, with the sea air and the scent of Chinese cooking filling head and lungs—but accomplished. To have ridden the batwing, even in her reduced circumstances, was
something
.
To ride the rooster . . . I shook my head again. It was easy to see it scaring the kiddies—truth told, the really little kids hadn’t cottoned to the batwing—but it was less easy to see it calling forth somebody’s inner Zorro.
I frowned at it, feeling suddenly warm despite the fact that I’d pushed the storm wall back to let the breeze in. The rooster in all its motley glory filled my vision—grotesque and oh-so-slightly disturbing. If only it were . . . goofy, instead of grotesque; slightly welcoming instead of subtly off-putting.
The heat intensified, and I recognized the butterscotch tang of
jikinap
, rising to the will of an Ozali. That ought to have worried me, but I was more concerned with the rooster. I raised my hand, seeing the magic sparkle along my fingertips, and considered the options.
My first thought was to apply something akin to another coat of paint, this one made of inviting goofiness. My second thought was that glamor, like paint, needs to be renewed, and the better thing, by far, would be to anchor the spell inside the fiberglass body.
No sooner had I thought it than the
jikinap
dancing along my fingers grew sticky with my intent. I stepped Sideways again while I rolled a pinch of the stuff between my palms like Silly Putty. The ball warmed against my skin and I realized that I was humming the theme song from one of the cartoon shows I used to watch with Mr. Ignat’ on Saturday mornings, when I was a kid.
That should do it, then
, I thought, and stepped forward.
I braced one hand on the pole, and pressed the sticky ball of
jikinap
into the rooster’s chest, watching it sink through the paint and the epoxy that I had used to seal the crack, to lodge, finally and firmly, deep inside the cavity.
Like a heart.
I stepped back, blinking out of Side-Sight.
Before me, the rooster was unchanged—no.
The rooster was—whimsical. Its eye was bold, its disordered feathers indicative of some late comic adventure, the details of which it just might share with someone who chose to ride it.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. Mission accomplished.
It was quick cleanup, then. I put the paints, brushes, and tarp away in the shed at the back wall, locked up, and made one more round of the carousel, checking the prisoners, to make sure that I hadn’t inadvertently destabilized the binding spells. Everything was as it should be, and I smacked the rooster’s rump before jumping down and jogging over to the storm gate.
The night was fine, and I stood for a moment on the beach, just breathing in the air, and listening to the waves. Above, the sky was clear; the stars slightly blurred in the mist off the waves. The growing moon was low on the horizon.
My house was a short walk upbeach, left, and under the Pier; I could be home in under five minutes.
I turned right, angling down toward the water and the firm wet sand that made for easier walking.
Past Fun Country, past Googin Rock and Heath Hill, the shore notches in to make a protected cove. That’s Kinney Harbor, where the working boats of Archers Beach dock. On the far side of the cove is the Kinney Harbor Seafood Exchange—the
’change
, according to the locals. At this time of night it was quiet, just the warn-away lamps on the corners of the deck glowing inside the rising mist.
Near to hand was a wooden pier, and it had been my intention to mount it and lean my elbows on the rail, overlooking the harbor and maybe watching Borgan’s pretty little schooner dance at her mooring.
