the Storms of Summer (a brief look)

(The Palace of the Steward1

…mid-afternoon)2

The humid swelter had penetrated far into the marble depths of the palace, but here, in the throne room and the accompanying quarters of the Last Steward of the Dolphin Throne, it was still the perpetual cool that ignored the seasons.  Rikharal was somewhat nervous; he had been in the Presence before, but only on ceremonial occasions where his behavior was well defined by custom.  Now that he finally had the audience he had sought for a Simaar, he was uncertain how to act when alone with the oldest living being on the planet, the last representative of the Old Blood, the builders of Altahan.3

She beckoned him from the door, where his confusion had halted him, and he approached to the ritual three spans before dropping to one knee.  His left hand on the pommel of his sword, his right hand touched briefly the sigil embroidered over his heart, a snowy owl in hunting flight.  He said,4

"Mother, I thank you for seeing me."5

With a smile touched by the same wintry frost as her hair, Sethria Amris beckoned him again.6

"Do get up, Rikharal!  I have been friend to fifty-odd generations of your family, and you are all the stubbornest about ritual of any Namen I know.  Come and sit with me."  She waved a graceful arm at the cushions next to her.  Rikharal took one, sitting in the cross-legged posture customary to his brotherhood, his left hand guiding his sword to lie across behind him.  7

Sethria smiled again with gentle irony.  She knew he could rise and draw that sword from that, or nearly any other position, with blinding speed, and knew also that it would leave that scabbard only in her defense.  Indeed, she knew that he, or indeed any Naman wearing The Owl in Winter, would lay down his life in her defense, or at her request, without hesitation.  It was a continual trial to her humility.8

"I'm surprised that you took so long in requesting this audience, Rikharal," she said, when he was seated.  "Your sword-brother has been missing for nearly twenty years.  That is what this is about, is it not?"9

"Yes, Mother.  I have waited long, but my aides can manage well enough, now, without me.  The Northlands and the Owl are in good hands, and the need is become far too great to be ignored.  I must go to search for him.  He surely still lives; he is a warrior born, and has the gifts in full measure in his genes, though untrained."10

"You know he has passed into the next world," she reminded him.  "The Stone was very clear on that.  Rikharal, he was only a boy when he was lost to us."  Sethria leaned toward him, and he was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the differences in her: the eyes that looked more sideways than forward, the opalescent sheen of her skin on her six-fingered hands, the sinuous grace of her long form, supported on a frame more cartilage than bone.11

"Nonetheless, I would know if he were dead.  I would know it!  Our need for him is desperate since the theft.  Only he has sufficient rapport with the Arrym to locate it before Korta destroys us.  Mother of us all, let me look for my sword-brother!  Give me leave to pass through the Portal!"  Rikharal, fevered by his concern, stopped short.  He had leaned forward on the knuckles of his right hand, and found himself speaking in tones that left him aghast!  This was the Amris, the Mother of his race!  That he should be wheedling for his desire like a common rug merchant was unthinkable.  He straightened back into his cross-legged posture, saying, "Your pardon, Mother.  I forget myself."12

"No, Rikharal, you reveal yourself."  Her chuckle was dry and throaty.  "It is your care for your young Lord that speaks, and it does you credit.  But you know the rule of the Balance.  No more of us may cross through until at least one has returned.  I am sorry, but you must wait until Sunea finds passage home.  She has been called, and should arrive within the year.  I know," she held up a hand, forestalling him, "but you have waited this long.  Be patient a while longer.  As of now, you are detached from your unit and assigned to my personal guard.  You may take your leave as soon as Sunea or another should return."  She laid a hand, so much warmer, on his own.  "Be content with this, my child.  It is truly the best I can do for you."13

Rikharal nodded, accepting the inevitable.14

"Thank you, Mother.  I will wait."15

"Good.  Then stay with me here, and talk with me awhile.  I will send for wine, and you can tell me how Korta managed to steal the Arrym Stone."  She sank back, recumbent.  "And then there are things I have wanted to tell you about your father." 16

While she put the young soldier at his ease, Sethria returned in her thoughts to the worry that had, of late, occupied more and more of her time; where was Sunea?17

Chapter I18

She was golden and warm as a summer afternoon, as sweet as the taste of the air after it rains in the forest.  Her face was flushed from the last dance, and she was the most alive, most startlingly vivid thing I'd seen in years.  Her name was Sunny.19

There's an old, big-beamed tavern at Isthmus Cove on Catalina Island, a place pretty much accessible only by boat.  This leads to a rather select clientele, as you might guess.  All around me were sailors, yachtsmen, fishermen, the people of the sea.  Inside, there's usually a game on the big-screen TV.  On the open-air porch, the tables sit beneath large, lantern-shaped kerosene heaters hung from the rough-hewn timbers above.  While powerful, their radius is sharply delineated on a chilly night, making staying comfortable a matter of constant circulation throughout the space between the tables and before the bar.  Wide socialization is inevitable.20

The alternative to this Brownian dance is the real thing.  The dance floor is outside the aura of the heaters, but carries its own warming mechanism.  The repertoire of the dee-jay is predictably slanted toward the nautical, and heavily spiced with Jimmy Buffett.  This was Sunny's domain, her natural element, and she was as unconsciously at home there as this crowd was on the water.  It's where I first saw her.21

Sunny danced like the sea.  She surged in unselfconscious and unalterable rhythm, giving herself to and owning the music like a force of nature.  She was elemental, the spirit of this place incarnate.  I wished I could meet her, ask her to dance, buy her a drink.  I didn't.22

I didn't quite fit in with this nautical crowd.  I was new at sailing, and shy in the environment…and I don't dance.  Sure that I'd say the wrong thing, make a fool of myself, I sat nursing my drink and watched her.   She danced with the older guy she'd come in with, father, uncle, whatever, for as long as he could hold out.  Then she started asking around.  A surprising number told her no, for one reason or another.  It never seemed to bother her, and there was always someone waiting, eager to say yes.23

She didn't get around to me.  Eventually, she and her party packed up and left for the dock.  Disgusted with myself, I killed my drink and paid my check.  I headed down to my own dinghy, and motored out to my anchorage.24

Dancer was as I'd left her, cabin lights on, a beautiful, if cold and empty, ketch.  I'd bought her three month ago, with the money from the house, the truck and the business; after my wife's death, I needed a change of scenery, and Dancer was it.  The old fellow who sold me the boat had done Hawaii several times, and one circumnavigation.  She was well outfitted for cruising, well set up for living aboard. It wasn't her fault if I was lonely.25

I made fast the dinghy, and climbed the swim ladder to the deck.  Catalina, beautiful as it always is, had been a disappointment.  My mood was too dark, these last few days; I needed something else.  I thought seriously about raising anchor and making course back to Newport Beach, but I was just too tired.  I had a safe anchorage, I had nowhere to be, and face it, I was too drunk to sail.  Too drunk, too tired, too old.  Too old to be starting my life over.  As I'd done too many times since she'd died, I opened the cabinet and took out my pistol, then stared down the barrel, trying to think of a reason not to pull the trigger.26

I was still there when the sun through the hatch woke me.  There was a pounding behind my eyes and a foul taste in my mouth, and a persistent knocking at the hull.  I wondered if something had broken loose during the night.  On the boat, that is.  I was sure that something had in my head.27

I stopped long enough in the galley to turn on a burner under the coffee I'd set up before going ashore, then climbed the companionway and faced the day.28

"Good Morning!  May I come aboard?"29

It wasn't a voice I recognized.  I stared stupidly around the deck for a moment then mentally slapped myself.  The question made it fairly certain that the voice had not come from anywhere on the boat.  Looking over the aft rail, I saw her treading water, looking fresh and new as the sunrise.  The girl from the bar, what had the old man called her?  I pushed the swim-ladder over the side.30

"I'm Sunny," she said, climbing.  "I saw you at the tavern last night."  Her voice was liquid, smooth as honey, her accent one I couldn't place.  Numb, still stupid from the hangover, I reached below to the rack and grabbed a towel to hand her.31

"I'm Rick," I replied.  "Welcome aboard.  You'll have to forgive me a moment, I just woke up."32

"I can tell," she responded, with a smile that warmed me all the way through.  "Is that coffee I smell?"33

"It is.  Look, uh, make yourself at home, okay?  I mean, help yourself when it's ready.  I really need a shower."  With that, I stumbled back below and stripped on my way to the aft cabin.34

A shower did help, a little.  I ran it hot enough to clear my sinuses with the steam, and, out of some masochistic urge, suddenly cut off all the hot water halfway through.  I was awake and sort of alert when I rejoined her.35

She'd apparently taken me at my word, about making herself at home.  Toast was just jumping out of the toaster, and she was buttering more of it while a pan bubbled on the range.  She smiled at me again, and any resentment I might have felt faded like morning mist.36

"Poached soft, on toast?"  I nodded, wondering how she'd known (or, more aptly, what else the waitress at Doug’s might have told her).  She scooped eggs from the boiling water, laid them on top of the toast and handed me the plate.  That accent was still bothering me.  I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the table, watching her.37

The alcohol had nothing to do with my impression of her the night before, I discovered with my newly cleared vision.  Bikini-clad, with the towel making a skirt around her waist, she was still as beautiful as I remembered.  She poured herself a cup, and joined me with the toast she'd just buttered while I dusted my eggs with salt and too much pepper for a sane individual.38

"No eggs?"39

"Just toast, thanks.  I'm never very hungry in the morning."  That smile, again.  If she kept this up, I'd go blind!  While I sipped my coffee and polished my plate with the last bite of toast, she got up and began examining the books on my shelves.  Passing quickly over Royce's, Chart #1, and 'The Capable Cruiser', she moved on to the fuller shelves.  40

"Zelazny, Eddings, Jordan, le Guin...you believe in magic."  She ran a finger across the spines of my Tolkein box set. It hadn't been a question, and I felt oddly defensive as I answered.41

"Let's just say, I'd like to.  Lately, I'm a little skeptical about 'happily-ever-afters’.  More coffee?"  She nodded, holding out her cup.  I poured, proud that my hands didn't shake.  "I can't help wondering, what brings you aboard?" I hated to ask, had to know.  "It's a good hundred yard swim from the nearest boat.  Don't get me wrong, I'm delighted you're here," she dimpled prettily, "but I'm curious."  She met my gaze, with eyes of that same varied, indefinable color as the sea, and said,42

"You interested me, last night.  You sit so quietly, where everyone else is moving about.  You watched me all evening, but never approached me, and I think, if that woman had not kept sending drinks to your table, you would not have become drunk."43

There was a vague memory of drinks I hadn't ordered, and a woman who was always smiling at me.  Somehow, I'd been so caught up in watching Sunny dance, I'd never put the two together.  It had been fifteen years, fifteen married years, since I'd paid any attention to man-woman interactions in bars.  I said so, adding that it was why I'd never gotten the nerve to ask if I could buy her a drink, and she dimpled again.44

"Besides, I don't dance very well, and that seemed to be your main interest, last night."45

"And yet you name your boat Dancer," she said, examining the stained-glass door of the port cabinet.  It shows a unicorn sporting on a beach below a lighthouse, frisking with a dolphin in the waves.  It was my own work, images inspired by one of those fantasies, and I warmed to her obvious appreciation of it.46

"I named her for my wife.  She died last Christmas, in a robbery."  There, I'd said it.  Without flinching, I hoped.  I glanced toward her picture, atop that same cabinet, and Sunny's eyes followed mine.47

"And she danced?"  The question was soft and gentle.  She wasn't probing me, but encouraging me to speak as she continued her visual exploration of my little world.  And I did.  I told her about the small Ballet Company Kay had been part of, in Texas.  How graceful and poised she was, how proud she had been to be a ballerina.  Once started, I couldn't stop, it seemed.  I went on about the house, her garden, her cooking.  Her smile.48

I talked about our adopted son, how proud we both were of him.  49

He'd been away at school for so long, when he called to say he'd be home for Christmas Kay had been ecstatic.  We'd gone to the market on the corner, just to pick up a few things.  Shawn loved her mince pie, she had to make one and there just wasn't enough sugar in the house.  I waited in the car, she said she'd only be a minute.50

When the man in the long coat walked into the store, I had a bad feeling.  I'd gotten out of the car when I saw him, through the glass door, pull the shotgun out from under his coat.  I was running as he brandished it at the cashier.  One of the customers tried to take him from behind, and was shot down, and then the guy just went nuts.  He'd killed half the people in the store by the time I reached the door.  As I closed the distance between us, he swung the barrel toward me and pulled the trigger.  It didn't matter.  I think, even if he hadn't run out of shells, it wouldn't have saved him in that second.  I'd seen Kay on the floor, and I don't think a cannon would have stopped me from killing him.51

But it was too late for Kay, and the others.52

"I was just too slow."  I looked into Sunny's eyes, somehow finding the strength there to keep talking.  "Too damned slow, and now she's gone."  I waved a hand, indicating the boat around us that was my world, now.  "I sold it all, and bought this, and I guess I intend to sail around 'til the money runs out, or I get over it.  There's a lot of money; the shop brought a lot, and we both had life insurance.  I can afford to take a little time to recover."53

A movement drew my eye to the port, and I saw the Third of June motoring out of the harbor.  She belonged to the old guy Sunny had been dancing with.  I pointed to her.54

"Yes, Jason was going home, today."  She seemed unconcerned.55

"I thought you came with him."56

"I did, but he isn't going my way anymore.  I've been traveling, but I'm ready to go home."  I had an idea where this was leading.  She was a sea-faring hitchhiker, and she needed a ride.  Someone had told her, last night, that I was (in the sailor's discreet language) 'without destination'.  I was willing.  I had the time, and the means.  She was beautiful, and good company, and there was no place that I had to be.  Why not?57

"Where is home?"58

"A little seaside village called Arrentia."  She smiled, a bit wistfully this time.  "It is very far from here.  I think you will not have heard of it."59

"Doesn't matter.  If it's on the charts, I can find it.  May I offer you passage?"  I thought it a little gallant, to save her the trouble of asking.60

"You are kind.  This is a good boat, and I think I would like to sail with you.  But Arrentia is on none of your charts, and much farther away than you think.  I can navigate us there, if you are sure you are willing, but the passage is long, and will not be easy.  Tell me, how far are you willing to go?"61

She still held my eyes.  In hers, I saw something, relief, companionship, maybe salvation of a sort.  I don't know.  But I meant it when I answered,62

"Lady, I'll carry you to the ends of the Earth, if you want.  Just give me a heading."63

"And if I tell you, it is much farther than that?"  Her eyes wouldn't let me go.  They bored into me, now, compelling truth.  "What if I tell you that I am not of your world, Rick, and that I will guide you on a course to my own?  What if I say, the magic is real?"  She indicated my cherished fantasy collection with a wave of her hand.  "What if I tell you that you might not ever return?"  She was completely serious, despite the smile that hovered at the corners of her lips.  I took a deep breath before I answered, but not a lot of thought.  My decision was already made.64

"Then I'd say, you're probably delusional.  I'd say letting you lead me off on a voyage to some other world will probably end with both of us sunk and drowned, or marooned and starving.  I'd say, when would you like to set sail?"65

"So easily, you go to your death?"  Her voice and smile were light, nearly mocking, but there was a trace of sadness behind them.  "Perhaps you think, at least it will be better than wondering which night you will finally pull the trigger?"  She pointed at my pistol, still lying on the settee where it, and I, had spent the night.  "Well, perhaps it would be, at that.  But I know my way home, and, the sea willing, I will take us safely there."  Her look was searching, now, imploring.  "Will you still take me?  Will you take me home, Rick?"66

How had she known?  What else did she know?  Feeling like the first step off into the darkness, I nodded.  "I'll take you wherever you want to go, Sunny.  Anywhere at all." 67

Having said it again, it was like everything changed in that moment.  I was no longer lost, 'without destination'.  I was fairly sure I was well on my way to going insane, but then, there was no place else I had to be.  Why not, indeed?68

Chapter II69

There was little to do about getting ready.  The fuel and water tanks I had topped off at Avalon, and the galley was always stocked for a sudden urge to go anywhere.  I'd been sailing at whim up and down the coast ever since first coming aboard as owner.  My last letter to my son had told him that I didn't know where I'd be going for a while, and my affairs and his inheritance were both in order.  There was nothing else I needed to do.  If Sunny was right, there was no need to file a plan with the Coast Guard.  If I was right and this was a mad form of suicide, there wasn't much use either.  Not to mention, in either case, no plan.  Besides, somewhere in the depths of my mind, I believed her.70

That was the rub, the thing that put a catch in my throat and maybe a spring in my step that had been missing, before.  I didn't just want to believe in the Magic, and in her.  Somehow, I did believe, in both.  Maybe it was her eyes, or the accent I couldn't place.  Maybe it was the way she knew things about me no one could know.  Maybe I was just a lonely old man, ready to believe anything that would bring this beautiful, young breath of springtime into my cold existence.  I really didn't care.71

We went ashore for her few belongings, consisting mainly of a small tent, a sleeping bag and a curiously embroidered cloth sack about the size of a gym bag.  She paid what was owing on her campsite, and all our ties to shore were severed.  I raised the anchor at about ten, she hoisted the main and we were underway.  72

There was a fair breeze, about eight knots, coming in from the northwest quarter, that filled the jib as soon as we cleared the harbor and raised it.  Standing in the bow pulpit, Sunny spread her arms to the wind then pointed me a course to the southwest.  I continued southeast along the lee shore of Catalina Island until we’d cleared the lighthouse on the southern point, then swung about to her course.  Clear of the island's shelter, the wind picked up to about fifteen knots. 73

Three hours later, adjusting course to miss San Clemente Island, we were truly at sea, with nothing ahead of us but blue water.  She went forward again to stand, holding the headstay for balance against the motion of the swell, and reached out over the bow, eventually settling to indicate some two points to port of our present course.  I made it 237 degrees magnetic, which sounded oddly familiar, and firmed up the wheel to hold that course while I dug out the flyers.  74

John, the previous owner and redesigner of the craft, had added ten feet of bowsprit to her forty-five foot length, and rigged her to run as many as three flying jibs of diminishing size in preference to a cutter rig.  He'd given me several days of hands-on instruction with his rigging, teaching me a few things I'd never learned in the classes I'd paid for, and I was convinced of the workability of this design.  Dancer handled like a dream, and made excellent speed over the water for a boat of her beam.75

Liking the wind, which was now fair off my bow quarter, I locked the helm and went forward to show Sunny how these sails were raised.  She was quick and surprisingly strong for her size, and had rigged sail on a variety of boats. I knew before the first flyer was aloft that I wouldn't have to show her anything twice.  She worked with that same cheerful grace, seeming to dance with the sea as she swayed against, or with, the rocking of the swells.  76

It was clear she knew her job by then, so I left her to hank on the other two flyers and went aft to raise the mizzen.  We made short work of it, and were beating at nearly eight knots when she dropped into the cockpit beside me.  I was struck all over again by the vitality of her.  Her honey blonde hair was streaked lighter by the sun, in startling contrast to her tanned complexion and the strongly Mediterranean cast of her features.  77

"She's a wonderful boat, Rick!  Can you feel how alive she is?"  I could, too.  Dancer seemed almost frisky, a colt let out after a long winter.  She was eager for this journey, I suddenly felt.  And so was I.  I smiled at Sunny, really smiled.  I felt it pull at unaccustomed muscles in my face, and realized that I hadn't done it in far too long.  She knew it too.  She reached out a tanned, long-fingered hand and brushed my cheek.  "I thought it would be like that, your smile.  I like it.  What would you like for lunch?"  78

What she finally produced in the galley I would not have thought possible from the pre-packaged bachelor fodder I'd stocked.  It was delicious, and I really wasn't sure I remembered buying most of it.  She assured me that it had all come from my stores, except for certain spices she always carried.79

(Those spices were the first of a most amazing variety of things she produced from that embroidered bag over the time that we traveled together.  Taken together with the surprising assortment of garments she wore, I soon became convinced that it was far larger inside than out.)80

After this late lunch, I rechecked that we were on course, then engaged the autopilot and went below to chart our progress and begin the log I meant to keep for the voyage.  And I really was going to keep it, this time.  This was serious work, not like day-sailing the coast.  I noted our departure time, the time of final course correction after San Clemente Island, and our current heading and speed, then laid out that heading on my chart.  Extending the line, I realized why those numbers had seemed familiar.  We were on a direct course for Hawaii.81

*82

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