Surfside, page 1
Table of Contents
Surfside (Archers Beach)
COPYRIGHT PAGE
FOREWORD
Emancipated Child
How Nathan Archer Came to be a Prince of the Land of the Flowers
About the Author
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SURFSIDE
Tales of the fantastic Maine coast
Sharon Lee
Pinbeam Books
http://www.pinbeambooks.com
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously.
COPYRIGHT PAGE
Surfside
Copyright © 2012, 2013 by Sharon Lee. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the authors whose works sell best are those most likely to let us publish more of their works.
Emancipated Child first published at Splinter Universe (www.splinteruniverse.com), July 2012
How Nathan Archer Came to be a Prince of the Land of the Flowers first published at Splinter Universe (www.splinteruniverse.com), September 2012
In Which Writing Novels is Like Sewing, is original to this publication
ISBN: 978-1-935224-97-6
Published August 2013 by Pinbeam Books
Pinbeam Books
PO Box 1586
Waterville ME 04903
email info@pinbeambooks.com
Cover image from JupiterImages
Cover design by Sharon Lee
FOREWORD
In Which Writing Novels is Like Sewing
OR
Where Short Stories Come From
Now, what I'm about to tell you is true—but, like so many things about and of writing, it's not the only truth. And it's certainly not a universal truth. It's a truth that's true for me, as a writer.
Sometimes.
Here it is in a nutshell—I often find that, when I come to the "end" of a novel or series of novels, I'm likely to have bits and pieces of story or character "left over," sort of like the sequins and scraps of fabric left over from a sewing project.
For instance, I'll have in my head the story of a secondary character from the novel; a story that may connect, or even intersect, with the novel, but which by no means is essential to the story told, or the problem solved, within the novel. It may be a story that has no relation to the novel at all; stories that could have—no, check that. Stories that did happen, only slightly to the left of the stage, in the corners and quiet places cast in the shadows of the novel's reality.
Sometimes those stories absolutely must be written; I have no say in the matter. If I come up stubborn, pleading press of other (paying) work, then the story will just sit there, clogging up my brain, until I knuckle under and write it down. Sometimes—most often, I'd say—the leftovers, the could-be stories fade, and melt down into the bedrock, where they add an extra layer of verisimilitude to the novel's worldbuilding.
What you have here, in Surfside, is a mixed bag of sparkly scraps; two stories that spun out of Carousel Tides, the first book in the Archers Beach trilogy, published by Baen Books.
Carousel Tides is a contemporary fantasy set in the fictional town of Archers Beach, Maine. That novel involved quite a bit of worldbuilding, especially regarding the hierarchy of magics available to the characters, and the rules by which each sort of magic operates. The most basic sort of magic is available to the trenvay, who are each responsible for a bit of land, or marsh, a tree, or a rock. The next level up is the land magic available to the Guardian of the land, a sort of uber-trenvay. All three Carousel books (Carousel Tides, Carousel Sun, Carousel Seas) are told in first-person by Kate Archer, the Guardian of Archers Beach.
In the course of working on Kate's story—the story of a Guardian who deserted her duty, and returned to it years later—it occurred to me to wonder how other Guardians might arise, and how they would view and dispatch their duties. How, in essence, someone would come to accept a bond and a responsibility that is magical, in this day of Android phones and cloud computing.
The first story in this chapbook, "Emacipated Child," offers. . .one. . .answer to that set of questions. It's set in the very tiny town of Surfside, right next to Archers Beach. Kate Archer makes a brief appearance, but this is Jason's story to tell.
The second story is in fact an outtake from Carousel Tides; a little bit of Kate Archer's family history.
#
Let me tell you just a little bit about Archers Beach, Maine, if I may.
Archers Beach is a town that's almost real. Magic works in Archers Beach—to an extent—and it is the site of the World Gate, which connects our own World with five other Worlds.
The history, coastline, and geography of Archers Beach were constructed—cut, and paired, and pieced—out of the whole cloth of the Maine coastal towns of Old Orchard Beach, Ocean Park, Kinney Shores, Camp Ellis, and also the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge.
For more information about Archers Beach, please visit the Carousel Tides website (www.carouseltides.com), or The Archers Beach Photo-Diary on Pinterest (pinterest.com/rolanni/archers-beach-diary/)
The Archers Beach Trilogy consists of three novels:
Carousel Tides, Baen Books, November 2010
Carousel Sun, Baen Books, February 2014
Carousel Seas, Baen Books, January 2015
—Sharon Lee
Cat Farm and Confusion Factory
amended July 2016
Emancipated Child
An Archers Beach Story
by
Sharon Lee
Jason's lungs were on fire, and he could hear Matt's sneakers pounding on the trail behind him over the harsh rasp of his breath. Matt was taller than he was, and on the track team, but Jason had a head start.
"Too good for us, you little bastard? I'll show you too good!"
It was worrisome that Matt had breath left over from running to yell with. Jason couldn't have answered if he wanted to, which he didn't. All he wanted to do was to get the hell gone, out of Matt's range – which wasn't going to happen, so the next best thing was to get to the store, where there would be people – or at least Johnna. Not even Matt was stupid enough to beat up somebody in front of a witness.
On the right he saw the short-cut that took a corner off the main trail and would put him in the store's parking lot in a couple of minutes.
Assuming Matt didn't catch him first.
Jason took the turn into the shortcut hard, sand and pebbles skidding underfoot. He took a hard breath and felt it come easier, deeper, even as his short legs found a renewed burst of speed.
Second wind, he thought, pelting down the thin trail between high walls of cat-tail and swamp grass. He could still hear Matt behind him, but it sounded like his cousin hadn't found his own second wind.
In fact, it sounded like he was laboring, his pursuing footsteps not pounding so much as. . .sliding; almost as if the sand were loose, rather than packed down hard.
Jason ran on, fists pumping, breathing hard, but not gasping, suddenly feeling as if he could keep on running forever. He took a curve in the path at speed, dodging the skinny dead tree that made the way even thinner.
Must be that runner's high the jocks talked about.
Jason flew on.
"Hey!" Matt yelled from behind him, surprise sounding amidst a loud crack and a clatter like sticks being flung onto stone. "Hey, ow!"
Ow?
Jason slowed, and dared to look back over his shoulder. Matt might be going to kill him, but they were cousins, and if he was really hurt –
He got one glimpse of the old tree, now missing the limb that had overhung the path, and Matt pushing himself to his knees. If that limb had hit –
This way!
His sleeve was snatched and he was yanked to the right, through a tangle of dry reeds and out again into a small grassy place, hemmed in with ash and marsh willow.
Jason staggered to a stop, feeling damp and exhausted. Before him, a grey stone thrust out of the grass. Jason collapsed onto its conveniently flat top as if it were a stool, closed his eyes and waited for his heart-rate to come down. He strained his ears, but he didn't hear any signs of pursuit, which made him wonder again if his cousin was hurt.
And how much he cared.
"I've got to get to work pretty soon," he said outloud to the glade in general.
There was no response, unless you counted the sudden whistle of a red-wing blackbird. He hadn't really expected a response, but he did try to be polite. His dad, back before the cancer, had said that it was the least a man who heard voices could do, was to be polite.
The voices themselves – well. He'd heard them his whole life, sometimes direct, like the one that had yelled at him to get off the trail this way. Mostly, though, they were a comfortable background noise. The voices were company, sort of, like a radio playing somewhere in the house made you feel less alone.
"Why does he hate you?" a rough voice asked then – an outloud voice, not at all like the voices in his head, and one Jason had never heard before.
He turned his head, carefully.
A girl was leaning against a swamp maple, arms crossed over her chest. She might've been his age, her face was brown, and her hair, too. She was wearing a bottle green t-shirt and brown cargo pants. Her eyes were the same green as her t-shirt.
Not so
"Well," Jason said carefully. "He doesn't really hate me so much as he's pretty mad at me."
The girl's eyebrows lifted.
"Why is he pretty mad, then?"
None of your business, was on the tip of his tongue, but. . .he had a. . .feeling.
Besides, it wasn't like it was a state secret.
"He's mad 'cause I'm emancipated," he said. "His folks and him figure that means I think I'm too good for them."
"What is emancipated?" she asked, which he could've predicted for the next question. Everybody asked that one.
"It means I petitioned the court to be able to – to leave my parent's authority and house, and to live on my own." The full legal name was emancipated child, which he didn't bother to say, because he was, ferchristsake, not a child. He was sixteen, and fully in control of his own life.
He took a breath and answered the next most common question before she could ask it.
"And the reason I did it is because my dad died and my mom. . .She moved out of town, up to Portland, and in with –"
. . .with her coke-head boyfriend. He swallowed that. There was such a thing as too personal, after all.
". . .with a friend. We don't get along – me and the friend—and besides I didn't want to live in Portland." He'd been sick in Portland; all the time – not bad sick, like cancer, or anything like that. Just that his head hurt, and his stomach was queasy, kinda, and he hadn't been able to hear the voices in his head over all the rush and racket.
He took another breath. "So I got a job doing handywork at the Sunspray, and I showed I was able to be independent and all."
"And that boy is angry because you are emancipated and he is not?"
Jason laughed. "No—oh, hell no! Matt's hot – well, I'm guessing he caught it from his mom – she's my mom's sister. They just all figured I should move in with them, see? Except that wasn't going to work, either." Because him and Matt weren't exactly best friends even when he wasn't channeling Aunt Dottie's anger – and her taste in boyfriends wasn't any better than his mom's, and besides that – they lived in Scarborough.
No reason to say any of that, either, to some strange girl chance-met in the marsh, so he shifted on the rock and said instead.
"I'm going to hafta get to work pretty soon."
"So that you remain emancipated." She nodded and pushed away from the tree she'd been leaning against. "I'll walk with you," she said, "to Johnna's store."
"Sure," he said, sliding off the rock.
She was taller than he was, which almost everybody was, so no surprises there; and skinny in a way that said she might've just had a growth spurt.
"I'm Jason Thibodeau," he said, as she stepped in front of him and disappeared into the wall of reeds. "By the way."
He followed her, holding an arm in front of his eyes, but it – it almost seemed like the reeds bent out of his way. There must, he told himself, be a trail – maybe a deer track – that the girl knew about and that he just didn't see.
She was waiting for him on the path, looking back the way he had come. He snuck a look that way, himself. The dead tree stood where it always had, one of its limbs down and shattered across the path.
There wasn't any sign of Matt.
Jason breathed a sigh of relief.
"Your cousin was not hurt," the girl said. "Only frightened."
"That's good," he said, and added, "though I can't think of much that would scare Matt."
She snorted lightly, maybe it was a laugh, and turned toward Johnna's store, walking to the left of the path and slightly ahead of him.
"What's your name?" Jason asked, after they'd gone a couple dozen steps in silence.
She glanced at him over her shoulder – a flash of green eyes behind rough brown hair.
"Cedar," she said. "Cedar White."
"You live around here?"
She snorted another laugh. "Oh, yes."
"New?" he asked, which people from Away might think was rude, he remembered, and added a reason for why he might care. "Hadn't seen you in school, is all."
"Ah," she said, and gave him another, slower, look from behind her hair. "I am home schooled."
That set a tingle up his nerves – a lie if he'd ever heard one. He could tell, usually, when people were telling the truth. Still, lying about being home-schooled didn't prove she was a runaway – that? Was probably his own nerves talking, since he'd put some thought into what he'd do, and where he'd go, while he was waiting for the court to decide his case, knowing how slim his chances were for a win, and if he had the guts to run away, if he didn't win.
Lucky for him, it hadn't come to that, because where would he have run to, except back to Surfside, year-round population just six souls under 200, and no place at all to hide?
The path widened into a dirt parking lot. Jason stretched his legs so he was walking beside Cedar and then had to drop back again as she went mounted the step onto the porch, opened the door, stepped inside – and paused, the door balanced on brown fingertips.
He grabbed it hurriedly. "Thanks."
Johnna was working in the front of the middle cooler – making sure the beer was stocked and cold for the home-coming crew, Jason knew. She looked 'round when the bell rang and straightened.
"You want something?" she asked, glaring at Cedar.
The girl nodded. "Work."
"An' you figure I got work?" Johnna shook her head and looked over Cedar's shoulder to Jason.
"Cousin of yours in here, says to let you know, if you should happen by, that he'll see you in school tomorrow."
"Thanks." He slipped past Cedar, opened up the front cooler, pulled out a can of root beer and a premade ham sandwich on white bread.
"That all you havin' for supper, boy?" Johnna asked him, like she did every day.
He shook his head, like he did every day. "Just to get me through work," he said. "I'll have supper when I get home."
"You see you do. Vegetables, I'm talking."
"Carrots," he promised her, fishing a couple dollar bills out of his jeans pocket. He put them on the counter by the register, then looked to the girl, standing silent to one side.
"You need something to eat?" he asked her. "It's on me."
She blinked green eyes at him, the side of her mouth turning up like she'd tasted something bad.
"You never mind 'bout her," Johnna said, letting the door to the cooler thump shut. "Dinner comes with the shift." She gave Cedar another glare, not exactly, Jason thought, friendly, before she turned it on him.
"You'd best get on 'fore Vonny dings you for being late."
Jason sighed and gathered up his soda and sandwich. While he'd been lucky to get the job at the Sunspray, there wasn't any sense in pretending that Bob Varney, his boss, was anything but a mean sonofabitch. He'd greeted the news of Jason's successful emancipation with a frown and a look in his eye that Jason just knew meant he was thinking about how much grief and trouble he could cause, if he turned the kid off, since staying employed was one of the major terms of his independence. If Jason lost his job, he was supposed to report himself to the Department of Health and Human Services, so he could be placed in a foster home.
Like he was that dumb.
"I'm going," he told Johnna, and gave Cedar a nod.
"Thanks," he said to her.
It wasn't until he was across the road and sprinting down the Sunspray's long drive that he wondered what he'd been thanking her for.
#
It had been yard work today – Jason's favorite and the primary reason Mr. Varney'd taken him on. Mr. Varney was an electrician by trade, with some carpentry and plumbing on the side – a true handyman. What he had no feeling or care for, was plants and lawns and trees, so all that sort of thing fell to Jason. Since it also kept him out of his boss' way – and under his radar – it was all good as far as Jason was concerned.
Work of the day had been putting down pine chips around the tree trunks, and in the two big gardens at the front of the building.
He put his back into it, enjoying the breeze, the early-spring lack of bugs, the scent of the wood chips, and the easy, familiar murmur of the voices in his head.
