PROLOGUE
"The ship's whistle will sound," rang out a warning to those passengers who might be on the outer decks of the Queen of Scots as she thundered around the headland, bound for the ferry terminal.
But none of them were. They were too busy scurrying like frenzied rats between decks, taking last minute pees and locating their children--they'd long since exhausted their enthusiasm to view the landscape of coastal British Columbia, and had seen enough mountains, trees and waterfalls, not to mention eagles, whales and porpoises to last a lifetime.
Churning the murky waters beneath her the huge ferry slowed, but a tad too late for comfort. Rather than gliding gracefully into place between the ramparts of the dock she bumped first one side then the other, causing the passengers to lurch violently from side to side like a chorus line trying to keep time with unfamiliar music.
Those passengers who had vehicles hurried to them. While they had ploughed relentlessly through undetermined waters, many of them had panicked, fearing they might never see civilization again, or at least for a very long time. Their minds had become unfettered; bosoms had been bared to complete strangers and impulsive romances struck up. Now, in the hope of recovering some measure of anonymity and dignity, those guilty of such frivolous indiscretions cowered in their vehicles, gripped their steering wheels and revved their engines ready to take off (some said never to ride on a ferry again).
Life partners, wives, husbands, lovers, all swallowed nervously. Intuitive kindergartners didn't inquire whether they were there yet. Rebellious teenagers reveled in everyone else's discomfort and sang alternative words to the tune of Three Months in a Leaky Boat.
Just as eager to disembark were the lower-deck crew who hovered anxiously, awaiting instructions. It was hard to hear above the roar of engines: even harder to see through the choking fumes that billowed from the exhausts of vehicles started prematurely.
When the loading doors began to open one crewmember gasped and tugged on the arm of his mate, a fuzzy-faced Scotsman, who was removing chocks from beneath the wheels of vehicles. Reluctantly, and rather hesitantly, he uttered the most despised words that could ever be said aboard a ferry: "I think we've come in backwards!"
As he spoke much nastier variations of, 'kill the bastards' and 'chuck 'em in the drink', came from nearby vehicles. What the Scotsman said in reply cannot be repeated (!). He threw down the chocks, muttered something about Auld Wulie, and stomped off to the locker room.
Earlier that afternoon on Gale Island?which is one of the Gulf Islands situated between mainland British Columbia and Vancouver Island in Canada, the only person who took notice of the errant ferry was an inhabitant of Coma Bay, where the floating home community on the island were moored.
Mystic, psychic and astrologer, Cosima--so named for composer Richard Wagner's wife--lived in a modest cedar home. It had stained glass windows, a cozy wood stove and a huge skylight above her bed through which she could gaze at the stars.
As all floating homes have individual names, Cosima's was called Signs and Portents, to which came a never-ending trail of people, hopeful and anxious to have their futures told or fortunes read. That afternoon she was alone, however. Feeling the need to prepare her regular clientele for the very serious cosmic event about to occur, she was composing information cards.
So far she had written: Uranus, the liberator who sweeps away the old and brings in the new; the awakener who, in a flash can instigate erratic and inconsistent behavior, is beginning a transit into a configuration not seen for many years.
This reorganization of heavenly spheres will put extra stress on the current vibrations, and while it may only cause a minor flux in some, in others it will begin a complete transformation, a reversal of ideas and plans; a bringing up of the past and mingling it with the present ?
She thought it prudent not to mention the other planet involved because people had a tendency to get Pluto confused with the Mouse's dog; the last thing she wanted was for someone to put a humorous slant on all this: there was nothing funny about time getting mixed up between centuries.
Reading over what she'd written Cosima decided it was enough to alert people without panicking them. She thought she'd been remarkably tactful too, considering the enormity of the event. There would be all sorts of shakeups, and breakups too, though that was nothing out of the ordinary for Gale where the most confusing day of the year must be Father's Day.
There was one person she knew who might be particularly influenced, and that was Hannah Moon, the vibrational therapist. And so she decided she would go along to Hannah's right now to deliver her card personally.
As Cosima got up from her chair the house lurched and threw her against the table. "Good lord," she thought, "whatever wake caused that?" Rushing outside to have a look, she saw the Queen of Scots under full power, barreling around the headland. A plume of spray flew out from behind it like the tail of a comet. Or, she mused, like the tail of a gray stallion.
Chapter One
Gale Island
Millicent (name meaning: industrious and true, and just as well for Pug Snood, the likes of whom not many wives would have tolerated for a millisecond) put down the phone as Pug came out of the bathroom.
"Who was that, Millicent? Someone for me?" he asked.
"No. Wrong number," she said, quickly going into the kitchen to gather up her purse. "I'm leaving now."
"Don't be long."
Pug always said this when she was going out, and generally Millicent mumbled a response. Today, however, she was so preoccupied with the phone call from Busby Barratt she hardly heard him.
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