Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385) (26 page)

Which reminded me of a big new fear.

“Can you look again at my future? I need to know how many kids I was reading to.”

“It doesn't work that way. Nothing will change until my next birthday. Maybe you go to the elementary school to read to the kindergarten. Or the child could be your friend Louisa's baby. Jimmie said your friend was very nice.”

She looked away, into the distance, but I heard the sadness in her voice.

“She wants to meet you, too, but it could be too hard on all of you. She has three wonderful kids and I don't know how she'd survive if she knew something terrible would happen to them.”

Lord, what if Carinne saw my triplets turned into drug dealers and ax murderers when they were her age? “We have to figure how to control your talent, so it can be used for good stuff again, like getting kids into the right fields. Mrs. Terwilliger thinks it'll happen.”

“I sent a note thanking her for the book, but I don't see how. Monte's research hasn't turned anything up.”

He'd gone off somewhere, likely to set plates spinning like a circus act. “He's not messing with your mind, is he?”

“That would be an improvement. He's been much nicer, and a big help yesterday. I like being here. I hadn't seen another person in weeks, except Uncle— That is, your father. Again, I owe you so much for helping me.”

“Then come with me.” A favor for a favor. “See if you can hear the Andanstans.”

She sneezed.

“Don't tell me you have Jimmie's cold.”

She pulled a tissue out of her pocket. “I'm afraid so.”

I was on my own, again.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-THREE

I
had tiny metal trucks, cut-up old stockings, shredded ribbons and thread, pebbles from Matt's driveway. I had absolutely no confidence in any of my ideas. I also had Moses and Little Red, Harris as bodyguard, Susan as curious cousin. Which meant I had blankets and water bowls and Susan's brownies and thermoses full of hot cider.

I walked the dogs before we hit the sand, thinking of Ms. Garcia and not wanting to piss off the Andanstans worse, literally.

All the rain's runoff might have accounted for extra beach erosion, but it looked more like the little cruds were working overtime. We hardly had room to spread the blankets between the bay and the beach grass. I sat and studied the area.

Harris and Susan kept talking and laughing—flirting—until I told them to shut up so they could listen. None of us heard anything. None of us saw anything. My best hope was Moses, who went for a swim, shook out over all of us, then went to sleep on the blanket beside me, which was now wet on a day already damp and chill. Little Red, who had been guarding the brownies, growled and got up to chase seagulls.

Harris decided he'd better secure the territory, which meant walking back toward the parking area and keeping watch from there lest Deni drive up or come by boat. That's why he needed Susan with him, to cover both directions. Sure. That's why she grinned at me before skipping off.

“He's too old for you. And he'll chase leprechauns and selkies.”

She gave me the finger. So I unwrapped the brownies.

I sat and ate and stared for awhile, just trying to be still, leaving my mind open to all possibilities and forms of communication. No one called to me except the brownies.

Then I lay down on my stomach and stared out, my nose almost touching the sand. I tried to project welcome, gratitude, respect, and aiming to please. If a grain of sand moved, I didn't see it.

I lined up the toy trucks. I carried the fabric scraps to the tide line. I placed the pebbles in a neat row and spread out the pieces of pantyhose. And I told the Andanstans I was not littering the beach, but bringing gifts. I explained how the trucks rolled, turning the wheels for them, and how to catch sand in the nylon mesh. I did a mental picture of the scraps and threads used as breech clouts and bikinis. Then I shared some brownie crumbs and related how sharing food, breaking bread together, was a sign of friendship in my world. I told them, out loud and in my head as best I could by double thinking. That is, thinking about what I was saying, what it meant, how it felt, at the same time I said it.

I told them how we all were grateful for what they'd done, how we wanted to do something for them. Without knowing their wants or needs or expectations, these offerings were the best we could come up with so far.

If I felt stupid talking to a vacant house, this was ridiculous. I was happy Susan and Harris were out of sight, although I did wonder how he expected to protect me if he couldn't see me. No matter. The most danger here was losing my mind.

No one talked to me, not even when I called Oey and tried to make the cawing sound she made, then the glub he made when in predominant fish form, or when I pictured them both, flickering between sexes and species. Nothing. I flashed an old picture of the tree with Oey in its branches.
Come, friend.
Nothing.

I was down to singing, and thanking heaven Susan and Harris couldn't hear.

“Oh, Mr. Sandmen, bring back our sand,

Please bring it back

as quick as you can.

Please turn on your magic runes

To help us keep our pretty dunes.

“Oh, Mr. Sandmen, we'll all come give thanks,

if you just help us shore up our banks.

Come out peaceful, like I've never seen.

We need to talk, so don't be so mean.

Please use all your magic skill,

to tell us how to repay our bill.”

Nothing. Okay, I better not quit my day job.

Screw this. I might be the Visualizer, but I sure as hell wasn't a telepath or an evoker, if such a talent existed, or any kind of snake or sand charmer. Unless my father's hint meant I should bring a fife. Maybe the music teacher at the school could lend me one tomorrow.

Today, before I gave up, I went back to my trusty old sketch pad and marker pens and added curving branches to my willow tree. Now the tree stood with open arms.
Friend
, I thought.

On the next blank page I did the dot-dot-dot thing, forming Andanstans and then the sinking ship they held up.
Brave, kind, smart.
I drew people: me, Matt, Lou, the mayor, and Grandma Eve, all applauding, Jimmie bowing.
Grateful, loving, appreciative.
In case they didn't get the idea, and could read, I put signs in the people's hands.
Thank you.
I drew Moses with his tongue out, giving kisses. I nudged the big dog awake and gave him a dog biscuit so he'd look grateful. Little Red got one, too.
Pets.

I filled the next page with trucks and nets, bringing the sand back.
Please.
I drew the pebbles and put tiny pickaxes and shell shovels in sandmen hands, making new sand.
You do not need ours.
I drew smiling people on the beach, bringing food, more toys, more pebbles.
Tell us what you want.

The problem, I decided, lying down again, was that I was too tired to keep the thoughts and the pictures in my mind at the same time. I got hung up on Matt's face, looking serious but kind, and thinking how he'd like Moses' portrait, and how busy he was today and how wonderful he'd been last night. And lighthouses and loving and triplets and partners and . . .

And there they were, while I was in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, or maybe I was dreaming. I saw them kicking sand over my picture of the willow tree. So much for friendship.

Or peace. They waved the fabric scraps like battle flags, attacked each other with whips made of the threads, and used the nylon stocking I'd so carefully cut into little squares as blockades, then as blankets to smother their brothers. The brownie crumbs became deadly missiles, until Moses leaned over and lapped them up with half a squadron, for all I knew.

They avoided the trucks altogether. Maybe that legend about cold metal being deadly to fey folk had some basis in reality, if I considered this encounter as reality. The troll had no problem, though, kicking over parking meters and fire hydrants with glee.

A crew of Andanstans turned their attention to the pebbles, trying to roll them into a wall formation, but different ones shoved back, so they canceled each other out. Thank goodness the pebbles weighed too much to hurl or they'd be mowing each other down like medieval warriors with their catapults.

Great, I'd brought them more weapons, more instruments of destruction. I gathered the toy trucks before they figured how to run each other over, metal or not.

“Can't you stop fighting long enough to talk to me?”

Seemed not. So I scooped a handful of them up in my hand, most likely breaking a hundred more of their rules of honor. I didn't care. I was tired, angry, frustrated, and chilled. “We need to talk.”

I brought them right up to my face so I could see them better and cupped both hands around the captives so, God forbid, none of them fell to the ground and shattered.

They tumbled over each other, pushing, shoving, slapping at whoever was next to them, then trying to climb over each other, all shouting at once, in sounds like glass breaking into a million pieces. I couldn't make out words, so I tried being the Visualizer again. I pictured the willow tree in my head.
Peace, buddies.

I got back an image of the Andanstans digging around the tree trunk, then shaking their heads. No sand. I broke a branch off, mentally.
Want the sap? A drop of blood? A lock of hair?

They sent back a scene of them working together for a change, making wet sand into mud to stick the branch back on. Okay, they didn't want a pound of flesh.

I flashed the picture I'd done of them keeping the cruise ship afloat.
Heroes.
Thank you.
I showed the happy people on the beach.
We need our sand.
I switched to a different image, of us bearing gifts.
What is it you want?

Too big.

Too big? They wanted something so big we could never give it?

Then I heard the clacking sound that meant Oey was as frustrated as I was. I looked around and she was perched on the blanket beside me, the fish tail drooping onto the sand, but in my mind, too. In my head, the parrot was glorious, in iridescent colors, with gleaming scales at the split tail end. In actual fact, she still looked bedraggled, dull and patchy. “Welcome, my friend. Are you well?”

She shrugged. “Thtill molting.”

I held out my sand-filled hands. “Can you understand them?” It was a relief to my aching head to use real words.

The parrot head bobbed.

“Will they talk to me?”

“Too big.”

Ah,
I
was too big. Humans did not exist on the same plane. One shouted word could blow them away, and they refused to work together to form a coherent mental link. The otherworldly fireflies didn't have a big vocabulary, but I could feel their basic fear, trust, need. These guys had one overreaching emotion, obviously anger, but individually they couldn't project it to my mind. Thank God. It must have been Oey translating.

“Do you know what they want from us? I get the bit about honor and returning favors and paying back debts now, but no one has any idea what we can give them to get our sand back.”

“Pwethouth.”

“Something priceless?”

The little dudes in my hand hopped up and down. It felt like dry raindrops.

Oey clacked her beak and slapped the fish tail against my foot. Yeck, fish slime. “Pwethouth.”

“Oh, precious. They want something precious.”

Head bobbing from the parrot, less pushing and shoving from the sand. Maybe they were listening to Oey's telepathy, in their own language.

“Pwethouth.”

Jimmie must have watched
The Lord of the Rings
with Oey. “That's Gollum's line, but we don't have any magic ring to give you. You guys are the magic ones; we just have traces inside us. We might have enough gold, like in the ring, though. Is that precious enough?” I tried to imagine the sun coming out, sprinkling a shower of gold dust across the beach.

Oey said no and the little guys in my hand, maybe fifty of them, fought to pull scraps of the stocking over their heads

“Okay, no showers of gold dust. What else do we have that you consider precious?”

“Thand,” Oey answered for them.

“Yeah, I can see that. So it has to be something
we
consider precious, right?”

Oey fluffed the scrawny chest feathers, as if proud that one of her pets had done a trick right.

I thought about it, and the first thing that came to mind was a portrait of Louisa and her children, especially that little pink bundle she kept pressed against her body. What could be more valuable? What would we never, ever part with? I doubt any of us could survive the sorrow.

“Awwgh.”

“Right, no human sacrifices. But, Oey, you are precious to us. Even the Andanstans proved themselves invaluable. Are you asking us to give up our joy in having you come among us?”

I could feel a rash forming on my hands from tiny pricks. Some joy.

The beady parrot eyes looked at me. I felt a shiver up my spine.

“Very well, it's not for us to give you up.” That would be like Little Red deciding he'd rather live in California. I thought about what was most important to me, what I would be devastated to lose: Little Red. Matt. My pain in the ass family, even the crazy village. “Are you asking me to leave all of them?”

Now I got a sharp pain in my gut, not from the sand, but at the thought of giving up Little Red. Or Matt, now that I'd found him. The rest of them I could keep in touch with like I did now with my parents, unless the petty tyrants demanded I go into the witness protection plan or something as permanent and complete. But Matt? “Is that what you want? Me to live without love?”

I saw a picture of me, Moses at my side, Little Red asleep on my foot and Matt's arms around me. Oey's wings enfolded us all. I felt warm.

“Petth. Mine.”

I sighed in relief. “Thank you. What then? Should I give up my life's work that means so much to me, my drawing and writing?” I could take over as Matt's receptionist, I supposed, or be full-time mother to those triplets.

“Mine. Not thandth.”

Okay, I didn't have to sacrifice myself, my loved ones or my cherished
raison d'être
to save the sand. Something else.

“I'd give you some of Carinne's magic if I could.”

“Aawgh.”

“That's what I think of her skill, too.” I wasn't getting anywhere with the sand, so I figured I'd try fixing the sister. “Can you help her? She is miserable now.” I tried to explain about her long-range sight, and the horrors of Brock and bad futures. I pictured some of the scenes Carinne might have seen when gangbangers and soldiers turned thirty-seven, if they did.

“Cawwy.”

“No, I don't think she's the nickname kind. She's very serious, burdened as she is.”

Oey flapped her wings. They were bare in spots, with no luxurious, long wing feathers. She did manage to flap hard enough to blow the sand out of my hand. “Oh, no! Now they'll be madder than before!”

Oey jumped on where they'd fallen. I had no idea what that accomplished, but my hand stopped itching.

“Cawwy.”

“Carry? I should carry you? Will you let me take you back to Rosehill and Jimmie? He thinks you don't like him anymore.”

“Thilly Immie. Petth.”

“Yes, I know that. You saved his life. You'll always look after him. But what about Carinne?”