by Susan Adrian
As soon as I got back down from the mountain, I woke them all up and told them what I had heard, what it meant, and what I thought we could do. It took a long time to get all the words out the right way so they understood—I was too excited, I think, and the words wouldn’t come. But nobody seemed to mind. They don’t look at me strangely when I take too long or the words are wrong or I can only make sounds. I love that.
First thing is to find out if we can hear the recording of the singing well enough.
I turn the volume all the way up. Then I go to the beginning of the file, press Play, and cross my fingers.
It’s there. The sound of Clover and the two mermaids singing floats quietly through the air, sounding even more otherworldly from the machine. Well, it is coming from another world. Under the ocean.
The Lost Boys go absolutely silent, listening. I let it play for a long time, three or four whole songs, and nobody moves, like they’re afraid to break the spell. Finally I hit Stop. Friendly touches me lightly on the arm. “Beautiful,” he says, his voice soft. I glance up and see Shoe’s eyes filled with tears. Even Peter looks stunned, his eyebrows high.
“They are safe,” he says. “That is most important. And this device will play again? Whenever you like?”
“Whenever you like,” I echo. I nod. “Whenever you like.”
In the distance, thunder booms. I look up, startled. Clouds are gathering, hiding the stars. I think it’s going to rain.
“But the device cannot go under the water,” Peter says.
“No,” I say. “Submerging it in water would ruin the electronics. Especially seawater.”
“How does it work?” Shoe asks. “It’s so small. How can it hold the voices?”
I frown, trying to put my thoughts in order and think of the answer. “It’s a digital recorder,” I say. “So it records onto…a chip, I guess.” They all stare blankly at me—they have no idea what a chip is—and I look down again at the recorder. “I don’t know, really. But it doesn’t matter. Can we get Scylla to hear it? It’s not loud enough now. Can we make it loud enough?”
That’s the question, and my whole plan. I want to amplify the sound so Scylla will be able to hear it, way down under the water. And then she’ll come up to find out what it is, and how the singing could possibly be up here when she has Clover and the others down there. I don’t think she’s heard of a recorder either, even though she is a goddess. Then we can find a way to record them singing better, louder, and leave that for Scylla to listen to. I bet she doesn’t need the singers in person to get the dogs to sleep. She just needs the songs. If we can figure out how to make her hear this, then we can figure out a way to play her a recording of it whenever she wants. Peter could play it every night from the island.
And she can let Clover go.
I like this plan, because it doesn’t depend on me using a sword to chop Scylla’s head off, like Peter was going to, or kill Medusa to turn Scylla to stone, like Perseus, but I can still save Clover. I just have to solve a puzzle, with help. A couple of puzzles. I like puzzles. And I have lots of help.
Thunder again, closer, and this time I see the lightning crack over the trees. Then thunder again. I smell ozone in the air.
Peter steps forward, his hands on his hips. “It’s like making a trap. We’ve done lots of traps.” He grins. “Lost Boys, remember when we laid a trap for the Bad Dragon?”
They all nod, and smile back. Though the Lost Boys don’t seem to cheer as much, or as easily, since Peter was thrown into the sea and Clover was taken. Even the pixies seem to have less energy.
Peter lifts his chin. “We will do it. We can build on this plan of yours, Fergus. We will get them back, and defeat the monster that way.”
The first drops of rain spatter onto the leaves. I carefully slip the voice recorder into my pocket, then hold out my hands and raise my face to the rain, letting it wash over me. My heart lifts a little. Neverland is made of magic, and I think it likes me. It let me hear the barking and the voices. It gave me Pixie to help with the cave and the bats. All the Lost Boys are here. I have help.
I have friends.
I think maybe we can do it. We can get them back.
My worry is, what if Scylla changes her mind, or loses her temper, before then? What if we’re too late?
When I wake up again, it’s still dark. Not even a little bit of light seeps through. I blink and yawn. I wonder what time it is. It feels like I slept for a year.
Then I remember what happened last night, Scylla catching us trying to escape, and I go cold. We’re going to “learn our lesson” not to leave, she said. She’s going to punish us somehow. I hear the dogs barking in the next room, so she’s there, awake. I think I hear Allora and Jasmina breathing evenly, still sleeping.
My stomach growls loudly. I haven’t eaten since the Feast on the beach.
I wish I could stay here in the nest as long as possible. Scylla is scary. But that’s not brave. What would Wendy do now?
I think she’d get up, get something to eat, and face Scylla for her punishment. Probably with her arms crossed, defiant.
I sigh. It’s better than hiding. I fumble around for the kelp strap and manage to pull it off by feel. I struggle out of the nest and make my way, in the dark, to the door.
I pull the curtain open, but it’s still dark. I frown, confused. Even in the middle of the night there was plenty of light in here, from the glowing paint.
“Good day,” Scylla says in her low, scratchy voice.
I can’t see her. I turn toward her voice, still standing with one hand on the curtain. “Hello.”
“Having trouble, my little Demodocus?” she asks. Her voice turns nasty. “That will teach you to cross me. Singers have no need of sight.”
I gasp as I realize the truth. It’s not dark. I just can’t see.
I’m blind.
My grip on the curtain tightens. Suddenly the rest of the world, the rest of this place, feels terrifying, unknown. How can I take a step forward, when I don’t know what’s there?
I feel the tears stream from my eyes, even though I can’t see. This is the punishment. And it’s worse than I could have imagined.
“Why did you do this?” I ask. It sounds like a croak. “Why?”
Scylla doesn’t answer.
I try to listen over the dogs, to hear what else might be going on. I can’t hear anything except a slight clink, then another. I reach my hand out, but it’s zapped back by the lock. I shake it out, from the pain. I stand there, helpless, gripping the kelp. Because I don’t know what else to do.
The dogs bark in excitement, close, and I step back instinctively, my hands blocking my face.
“Come,” she says, almost gently. “You must be faint from hunger. I found you food while you were trying to escape.”
My stomach growls again in answer. But I don’t move. I don’t know which way to go.
“There is fruit, from the land by the shore. And humans eat clams still, yes?” Scylla asks. “I remember eating them, long ago.”
“My mom does. I haven’t.” I swallow, thinking of Mom expertly popping clamshells open with a knife. “I don’t know how.” My voice shakes, wishing for Mom. For home. For Fergus. I rub my eyes, like that will make them work again.
I can’t handle this. Not this on top of everything else.
I feel Scylla’s hand in mine, tugging me out into the middle of the room. She pushes me down on a chair. I hang on to the sides.
“I shall open the clams for you, little land girl.”
She hands me something, and I touch it all over. It’s smooth, curved, with hard points on both ends. A banana. I manage to peel it and devour it in five bites.
I hear a scraping noise, then a pop. She takes the banana peel, opens my hand, and drops something into it like a present, something squ
ishy and wet. Juice drips through my hand. I lift it to my nose. Clam. Fergus would never eat this—the texture is horrible. But I have seen Mom eat it at restaurants. And I’m so hungry.
I tip it into my mouth all at once, and chew. It tastes like ocean: salty, a little sweet. A little bit fishy.
Scylla laughs and hands me another. We don’t say anything else until I’ve eaten four clams, another banana, and some melon.
“Better?” she asks.
I nod. Though I think of eating like this always, clams in the dark, and I want to cry again. I grip the chair so hard my fingers hurt.
“I was happy once,” she says softly. “I had everything, but I did not know it. A family who loved me, and a good home. We lived in Greece, in the time when the gods were active in the world. My father was a god—I was a minor goddess—and I was beautiful, so I had attention from everyone. I thought it wonderful. I thought it would last forever.”
One of the dogs growls and snaps. She sighs, loud. “In one moment, everything changed. After Circe’s magic, I was a hideous beast, and the people drove me away. Even my parents wanted me gone. Even the man who made this happen. Glaucus.” She spits the word. “He loved me for my beauty only, and when it was taken…he went away. I lived alone for so many years, rooted to the spot across from Charybdis, killing men. That was my whole life.”
“Did you ask Circe to change you back?” I ask.
There’s silence for a long moment, the question hanging in the air. I still hear the dogs barking and grunting, so I know she’s there.
“No,” she says at last. “That would be impossible.”
I frown. “But why? If she made you like this, she could change you back. She’s powerful enough. Wouldn’t she listen?”
“You can’t reason with a witch,” Scylla snaps. “She only thinks of herself. She does not play fair.”
I go very still. And then I take a risk.
“What you’ve done to me isn’t fair,” I whisper.
It’s hard to know her reaction because I can’t see, but I’m still sitting here, so I guess that’s a good sign. I take another risk. “Maybe if you asked her, after all this time,” I continue slowly, “she’d see that what she did was wrong, and change you back.”
The sound of the barking is different, which I think means she’s moving.
“You do not understand,” she says from farther away. “Gods are merciless, always.”
“But you’re different than you used to be,” I say. “You said you got tired of killing, and lived peacefully in your cave. Maybe she did too?”
There’s another long pause. “I may be able to find where Circe is,” she says.
I try not to get too hopeful. But if she’s willing to go talk to Circe, and it works, maybe Scylla will give me my sight back. If Circe is merciful, maybe Scylla can be too.
And if Scylla were really changed back, she wouldn’t need us anymore.
“She couldn’t make it worse, could she?” I ask. “From what Fergus says, she was kind to Odysseus in the end.”
“Who is this Fergus?” Scylla asks. “Is he a human or a god?”
I laugh. “He’s my brother. He knows a lot about stories. He knew about you.”
There’s a pat on my hand and I feel, for the moment, like I’ve pleased her. Which is better than angering her again.
There’s a sudden scream from the nest room, then another. Allora and Jasmina are awake. I think Scylla blinded them too.
Shoe and I sit on the sand, hollowing out a watermelon with silver spoons. It’s like hollowing out pumpkins on Halloween, except it’s not as slimy, and there aren’t gross strings like pumpkins have. I don’t normally do that part anyway. I don’t like the smell, or the slime on my fingers, so Mom does it for me. I carve it, though. Last year I carved one that looked like Thor’s hammer. Clover did hers at her friend’s house. It was the first time she didn’t carve it with us.
I was mad she wasn’t there. But it’s different if she’s gone because she’s happy somewhere else. Mom said that. Now she’s gone because she was stolen.
I drop another spoonful of watermelon onto the sand. This has to work. I don’t have another idea if it doesn’t. The other Lost Boys are off looking for another melon, if we mess this one up. Peter is with the mermaids getting conch shells.
It has to work.
“What is your home like?” Shoe asks.
I frown. The question triggers a rush of memories of home: smells, sounds, textures. Mom and Clover. Comfort. Familiar. But I wouldn’t know how to organize any of that into something I could say.
I don’t answer.
Shoe doesn’t seem to mind. “Do you live in London?” she asks. “Peter tells us stories about London. The big clock Ben, and the river with ships, and all the houses with lights glowing in the windows.”
I shake my head. “Our grandparents live in London. We live in San Diego. In California.” I think how to describe it. “It’s by the ocean, and sunny most of the time. There are seals and sea lions and cliffs.”
Shoe sits back on her heels, looking out at the waves. “Cal-i-for-nia,” she repeats in her Neverland-British accent. “I like the sound of London better.” She sighs. “A city, with people and bustle and fun. Adventures everywhere. I only remember living by the ocean. Here.” She starts scooping again, leaning over the watermelon. Her hair hangs across her face. “But I think I might have been from London…before. I don’t know why. It’s not quite a memory. I just…feel it.”
I haven’t really thought of where the Lost Boys came from. Or why. Did they really get lost? Or did they just not fit in with their families? Or did their families die, and they had nowhere else to go?
“You should go to London with Peter sometime,” I say. “It’s not that far.”
She doesn’t answer. She looks out at the ocean again, at Peter up to his ankles in the surf talking to the mermaids, then sighs and goes back to the job. We scoop melon until the inside is clean, but not all the way to the white rind. Then Shoe sets the lid back on, making sure the fit is tight. Peter tromps back up the beach with two perfect conch shells. He stands above us, the shells drip-dripping on the sand.
“Are you ready?” he asks. “I want to have a go at this monster again.”
I look up at him, eyebrows high. That’s not what we’re doing. “We’re just talking to her,” I say.
He shrugs, and the tips of his ears go pink. “I have never lost,” he says. “I do not like the feeling.”
When I look back, Shoe has cut the slot for the recorder. It’s precise, exactly the right size. “We will have to hold it in here,” she says. She looks up at Peter. “I can come with you and hold it.”
Peter frowns at her, then nods. “I will call the rest of the Lost Boys, we will test this machine, and then we will meet the monster again. We shall not be defeated this time.” He touches the sword sheathed again at his back, and nods.
Anxiety claws at my chest. I hope Scylla listens…but I hope Peter does too. I don’t want him taking over the plan and attacking Scylla again.
But Peter Pan does what he wants to do. I don’t think I could stop him.
* * *
—
Peter and Shoe and I stand on the flat rock in the middle of the lagoon, with the voice recorder and the amplifier.
It looks like something you might make for a science fair.
Shoe holds the recorder in the slot in the hollowed-out watermelon. At either end we attached the two conch shells, pointing out. The sound goes down into the melon and out through the shells, and comes out much louder.
It’s a fancy speaker made of fruit and shells.
It looks funny, but it works. I think it might win if it were in the science fair. We tested it on another sound file, one I made of the ocean. It was almost as loud as the waterfall
.
And now we’re ready. One of the mermaids carried the amplifier above her head across the lagoon, and Shoe and I swam out with Peter. I held the recorder high so it wouldn’t get wet. I’m a good swimmer. Mom had us both take lessons at the Y.
I look at Peter, and he looks at me. He grins.
I don’t grin. Scylla might steal us away, or do something else terrible. But this is for Clover. This is our plan. I take a deep breath.
“Ready,” I say.
Shoe presses Play.
The sound of Clover and the mermaids singing bursts into the air, so loud I flinch.
We wait, letting the song sink into the air and the water. It’s really not long before the water starts to twist below us. I don’t hear dogs, but then I shouldn’t, if that’s what the song is for. “It’s working,” I whisper.
“Be ready,” Peter answers. He touches the sword again. He doesn’t draw it, but he looks eager to fight, his fists clenched on his hips. His freckles are darker than usual. Don’t fight, Peter, I think. That would ruin everything.
Shoe clenches her jaw. She actually looks brave.
Scylla erupts out of the water, eels snapping around her head, but the dogs are quiet, drowsy. I duck, like Clover did. But Scylla doesn’t throw me or Peter off the rock. She looks down at us, and at the speaker, confused. “What is this magic?” she booms.
I reach down, pull the recorder out, and show it to her. I hit the Stop button, and the sound cuts off. Instantly the dogs open their eyes and start barking again. Scylla’s face creases.
I need to explain, but all the words have flown out of my mind. What was I supposed to say? What are the words? I can’t think. I can only watch the eels and the dogs.
Focus, focus. I tap my fingers together and look at them instead. Tap, tap, tap. I know the rhythm, the feel of it, so well. It settles my mind.
I talk, but I keep looking at my hand, not at her.
“It’s a voice recorder,” I say. “It can capture sounds and replay them whenever you want.” Tap, tap, tap. Focus. “I recorded the singing so you could put the dogs to sleep anytime. It has to stay on land, but someone on the island could play it for you. You can let my sister and the mermaids go.”