Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385) (22 page)

“You could go to school and learn a trade, Brock. There's plenty of opportunity in the Harbor for plumbers and electricians, tile setters and masons. I had to wait three weeks for someone to come out from Sag Harbor.”

Brock made a face. I guess a blue collar was not what he wanted out of life.

Rick from the marina called out, “I'll pay the tuition and guarantee a job for anyone who takes boat mechanic courses.”

The kid scowled this time. Grease under his fingernails did not suit him, either.

Someone else said he should study harder. We could use a doctor of our own, and a dentist. A man in back thought he should join the army, serve his country.

No! I almost shouted. He'd never come back from war.

Finally one of the town councilmen asked, “So what do you want to be, a rock star or a world-class athlete? I've heard your band and seen you on the field. Son, you're just not that good. And why aren't you in school now, anyway?”

Brock answered that he was. Coming here was part of his civics project. “Find a cause, Mr. Syragusa said, see if you can make a difference.”

“All right,” the councilman replied. “You've stated your complaints, but it's easy enough to find fault. What do you propose?”

“We want a park for motorbikes and ATVs. We were thinking of that cliff where the asshole wants to put a fu— Excuse me. Where the rich dude wants to put a lighthouse.”

This time I did shout, “No!” I'm no clairvoyant. Maybe my runaway imagination provided the graphics, but I could see this handsome young man crushed under the weight of one of those daredevil, air-polluting, peace-shattering vehicles.

Others also protested. The extreme sports were too dangerous. The village couldn't afford the insurance. The neighbors would have fits. The land was privately owned.

Mrs. Ralston took over when the mayor asked what the boy wanted for the third time. “What else do you want? We can see if there's a way to keep the skatepark open on weekends, and try to find a way to keep the rec center open more hours.”

Brock nodded. “With more interesting stuff at youth nights, not just b-ball and Ping-Pong.”

“We are not turning the center into a video game arcade.”

“Right, but now most courses and activities are for old farts. That is, senior citizens, or little kids. Even Ms. Tate's course last summer had an age limit, and met in the afternoon when everyone over fourteen had summer jobs.”

So I volunteered to teach a high-school oriented graphic arts course. “On one condition. You have to take the course.” I'd do anything to keep Brock off a deathtrap.

He had to think about it, but he agreed. “It's my girlfriend who wants to take a course. She made me add that to my presentation. I guess I'll get to spend more time with her that way, and her parents can't complain.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Ralston complimented him. “I'd give you an A for effort. B for results.”

He grinned, showing dimples. “I'll get an A+. We knew we'd never get the motocross track. That was a scare tactic.”

Looks and brains and charm. The kid had it all, except for a future.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT

I
had a better understanding of the horrors Carinne must go through every day. I had no idea what to do about them, except wonder how she hadn't had a breakdown before this.

Before I could get up to find her, to offer what comfort I could or beg Lou to find an answer, the mayor wandered out, forgetting to close the meeting. Mrs. Ralston did it, then told the cameraman to shut off the videotaping. “We are going to have an informal meeting of the Halloween festival committee, so anyone not involved please feel free to leave.”

I was
not
volunteering to help at the witches' sabbath, so I got up to go. I thought my news should be more important than trick or treating, but Paumanok Harbor took its traditions seriously. I'd come back and talk to some of these people separately.

As people filed out, though, Mrs. Ralston asked if I might stay behind. “We'd love to hear your ideas, Willy.”

That's what I'd come for, so I couldn't leave.

For the sake of the strangers, some who lingered near the exits, chatting, she explained how everyone in town took so much pride in having a famous author among them; they begged to know about my latest book. Besides, she told them, my plots were always so creative, I was bound to have some notion of how to save the beach where the festival got held every year, an idea no one had considered for dealing with erosion. She apologized, but told the strangers they needn't be bothered with listening to fairy tales. She told Brock to get back to classes, thank God.

“Right away, Mrs. R.”

I didn't need any Royce genes to know that for a lie. What kid wouldn't extend his official get-out-of-school pass for the rest of the day? He sauntered out, grinning.

Mrs. Ralston apologized again. She wasn't apologizing for practically shoving people out the doors, but for the lies.

The police chief clutched his bottle of antacid tablets. Someone else's face turned red, and Rick from the marina rubbed at his ear. I didn't know how many more suffering truth-mavens sat at the table or in the audience, but I could work with what Mrs. Ralston had given me.

I picked my words carefully, not wanting to hurt the psychic lie detectors more than I had to. They'd be upset enough to hear my theories. The biggest lie, of course, was that I'd discuss my work in progress with anyone except my editor, and that rarely and grudgingly.

The original idea didn't come from me, I started, which was the absolute truth. I'd developed my sand people from a mention in Dr. Harmon's fabulous as-in-fabled bestiary, a book he'd written under the pen name of James Everett many years ago while teaching creative writing at Royce University in England. I was honored to be permitted to illustrate a new edition.

I introduced the professor, Jimmie as he liked to be called, and made him stand up. He bowed to the council.

When he sat down, I told how he'd described a group he named Andanstans, belligerent creatures who inhabited seashores and deserts and seabeds, constantly trying to steal the sand from each other's domains.

My grandmother nodded. She'd read his book and heard some of my conclusions.

“I just drew the people he described.” Someone gagged. Okay, that was not the truth. “Here is what I came up with.” I'd brought a sketch of the Andanstans to pass around. “They're very small and impermanent. That is, they can re-form or reconfigure themselves into humanoid shape instantly, simply by pulling together a few grains of sand.”

As the story in my head developed, I told the council, the Andanstan character developed, just as it did for all my heroes and heroines and villains. The way I saw them, the Andanstans were fierce warriors, constantly at battle, but with an honor code as strict as West Point's. According to their standards, one theft deserved another in return, one favor deserved one back. The bigger the favor, the bigger the debt owed.

Someone said, “Uh-oh.”

“That's right, uh-oh. Say someone needs help and these sand beings come together for once and save the day, or save a ship, for instance. But once the ship is saved, not only are they ignored, unthanked, but they are physically assaulted. Blown up, in fact. The way I'd write the story, which I won't because it's the professor's and I am delighted simply being the illustrator, the Andanstans do not mind the destruction so much as the disrespect. The dishonor.”

“Oh, shit.” That came from the side wall, where Rick stood, his arms crossed, not rubbing his ear. He knew what I said was true.

I ignored him. “So they steal the sand. When that does not result in a respectful reciprocation, or at least a worthy war, they send rashes to everyone who might have had a grain of sand blow into their eyes or their noses, to get our, that is, their attention. All it needs is a pinprick or a scratch to activate. The rashes are not life-threatening revenge, simply a means of communicating their displeasure, their demand for tribute.”

The police chief stopped swallowing Tums like popcorn, but he did not look pleased. My story might be true, but he didn't see any happy ending.

I went on. “It's all about payback. My father tried to tell me.”

A couple of people groaned. My father's reputation did not lend confidence to his predictions.

“Bosh!”

Ready to defend my father and his talent, I looked toward the back of the meeting room where the rude sound came from. I hadn't realized Ms. Garcia and the engineer had been standing in the doorway comparing their failed missions. Now she stamped her foot.

“You people don't take anything seriously, do you? I tested the sand. There is nothing dangerous about it. Payback? From imaginary sand people? You'd waste your time listening to this claptrap instead of assisting scientific studies? No wonder this place is on everyone's list to avoid. They told me it was like falling down Alice's rabbit hole, but I didn't believe there'd be a whole village of village idiots.”

“It's just a story!” Mrs. Ralston yelled to her as she stormed through the door.

The chief clutched his stomach. The man next to him turned scarlet. Rick from the marina rubbed his ear so hard he rubbed it raw, which caused a rash, which had him pulling his Yankees hat down low so no one could see it.

The marine engineer laughed. “I've heard everything now. Little soldiers stealing the sand. The flu hunter is wrong. You people aren't backward morons. You just like a good joke. Well, I hope you're laughing when your houses fall into the bay. Maybe the little sand guys can bring it back. I can't.” He left, too.

“I write fantasy stories,” I shouted after him, vehemently, truthfully, and for anyone who didn't know what else I did.

Everyone left at the council's table nodded and urged me on, which meant they were all espers.

Two members of the remaining audience were not: my friend Louisa's husband and an older woman. Dante Rivera had lived his whole life here and had no talent other than making money. He donated a bunch of it, and his time and efforts, to keeping Paumanok Harbor the kind of place he wanted his children to grow up in. Now I heard him tell the older woman beside him, a beach-front property owner, that I wrote good books and won awards.

I smiled at him and made shooing gestures. He smiled, nodded as if he understood what we were about, and escorted the older woman out.

We could all relax now.

The town attorney asked me, “So how can you get these Andywhatevers to give the sand back?”

I ran some of my ideas by them.

Everyone offered a broken cuff link or a single earring, maybe a coin, in case the Andanstans liked gold. Mrs. Ralston took off her gold hoops. “They hurt anyway. Melted down, maybe we could write thank you in the sand.”

Emil the jeweler said he had some diamond dust. We could try sprinkling that.

Someone else recalled how ancient cultures and some modern religions used blood sacrifices. He offered his mother-in-law.

We all laughed, but considered how we could get a crowd on the beach to all nick their fingers, so drops of blood dripped onto the sand.

Chief Haversmith asked, “What if that just causes more rashes? I'm finally getting over this one.”

“We have to try everything we can think of. We don't know what they like, what could make them happy or improve their lives. I thought of making them clothes, but I don't see how.”

“I do.” That was Margaret, the weaver who ran a needlework shop. “I have a million quilting scraps and threads. We can shred them into smaller bits and carry them into the tide line.”

“Great. They might enjoy all the colors and textures, after seeing nothing but dark sand and light sand. Maybe pink or white sand on some beaches, but not around here. I thought they might like pebbles, but I don't know if they are into grinding rocks into sand.”

“And what if they start using the pebbles as weapons?”

I didn't think such insubstantial beings could lift a pebble, unless they worked together the way ants do. They'd built a sandbar, despite their bellicosity, and stabbed Matt with a horseshoe crab's tail.

“They stabbed Matt? What if they figure out how to do their forming thing with heavier materials?” A councilwoman asked. “With pebbles they could be a real physical threat to people.”

“Shoot, don't give them ideas,” the chief said. “If they like the pebbles, they might start stealing rocks, too, undermining the cliffs entirely.”

The professor, who'd been quiet up to now, said, “I propose we meet on the beach and bow down.”

Like worshipers? That didn't sit right with anyone.

“No, bow in respect, like Oriental diplomats, or us Brits, to the queen. It's honor they want, as far as I understand, not material items.”

“I think we have to try tangibles,” I said. “I tried to thank them from the bottom of my heart, casting mental pictures, but they wouldn't listen. They did not even acknowledge my presence. We can't seem to communicate, so we don't know if our gestures have the same meanings in their world. I want to bring you to the beach, Jimmie, to see if your gratitude gets to them. You're one they helped save, after all. They did not react to Moses.”

“You mean they helped part the Red Sea?” someone asked.

“No, Moses is Matt's dog, rescued from the ship. Either way, gratitude does not appear to equal a return favor.”

Grandma Eve spoke up. “We are not sacrificing our children or our pets. Not even the nasty reporters who try to snoop around the Harbor. But what if we bring them roadkill? Would they know?”

“The Others are usually telepathic, although I could not get through to these. But what if they picked up the image of a car hitting a deer, say? Or read someone's mind. Can you imagine how insulted they'd be then?”

“We've got some talented telepaths of our own. How about getting them to try talking?”

“I already have Oey, the professor's parrot, trying to find out what would satisfy their honor.” I explained about the eggs and the favors and the debts. “But sure, send anyone to the beach to try.”

“What else?”

I consulted my list. “We could sing to them.” The House liked music, when the House communicated with Matt and me. “Maybe play ‘Mr. Sandman,' the Beach Boys or the song they play for Mariano Rivera.”

“We could have that kid Brock write a rap song dedicated to them.”

“Or get the school kids to write praise poems about sand. We could hold a contest where the best ones get carved on the beach.”

“I don't know if they can read, much less read English. It's doubtful.”

Grandma Eve offered to strew bundles of herbs into the water and along the shore. Someone else suggested wine. Harris volunteered to ask Susan to create a cake in their name, then crumble it in the water like breadcrumbs.

I didn't think they ate the way we did. Besides, give up one of Susan's cakes? “I think the seagulls would get the crumbs. And I doubt the Andanstans would think seagull guano is righteous recompense.

“We have another problem,” I explained. A time limit. “Your Halloween festival is held every year at the full moon, isn't it? That's when Oey's eggs hatch and the Andanstans take them home to Unity, along with all our sand.”

After a lot of cursing, the consensus was that we should try everything, but try harder to talk to the invaders. Grant might have been able to, but he was in a hospital somewhere. The professor had never spoken with the beings he described in his book, only with Oey. And I felt if the Andanstans had wanted to talk, they would have spoken with me on the beach. “Or sent images for me to visualize. That's what I'm supposed to do, isn't it? They didn't talk to Matt, either.”

“About you and Matt . . .”