Secret of the Sirens

by Julia Golding

  Mrs. Clamworthy made a noise that sounded very like “pish.”

  Dr. Brock raised a bushy white eyebrow. “I agree, Lavinia: the Society is apt to be rather bureaucratic and secretive in its approach these days.”

  “Bureaucratic!” burst out Mrs. Clamworthy. “The new breed of officials are so tied up in red tape, I’m surprised they can even get out of the boardroom without tripping! It wasn’t always like that.”

  There was a murmur of assent from Horace Little. “Before I retired, we assessors never worried so much about the rules when we needed more latitude,” he added.

  “We could get someone to test her at the encounter weekend,” suggested Mrs. Clamworthy. She turned to Signor Antonelli to explain. “A number of our young members, including Col here”—she looked at her grandson proudly—“are having their first encounter this Saturday. One of the mentors is an assessor, I believe.”

  “What do you think, Evelyn? Col? Will it work?” Dr. Brock asked.

  Col shrugged. Connie’s aunt shook her head doubtfully. “I don’t see we have much choice,” Evelyn said at last. “It’s a long shot, but lives are at stake and we need to know.”

  “Right. I’ll leave it to you and Col to prepare the way. We’ll suggest Sunday to the assessor—if that’s convenient?”

  “Why not?” Evelyn agreed, with those two words deciding her niece’s future.

  Biking home from Anneena’s, Connie stopped off at the quay. There was no reason to hurry, as she was sure she would be spending another evening alone with the television while her aunt was off on some adventure with her Society, sparing not a thought for her. She leaned her bike against a post and doubled over to regain her breath; she’d just finished an enormous curry dish, wickedly hot and incredibly filling.

  Straightening up, she looked around for Scark but he was not there. Strange, this was just the time of day she would expect to see him hopping around the quay, pecking at the bits of bait and sandwich crusts left by the tourists.

  Then she heard the rush of wings and cries from a flock of seagulls coming in from the ocean. Connie turned with delight to meet them and saw that they were not flying in their usual looping dance above the waves, but heading straight for shore with fierce determination. She ducked as they swooped down and wheeled around, like so many silver arrows guided by a single purpose, raking the shore.

  “Stop! Stop!” Connie yelled, running into the midst of the flock. What had caused them to behave in this angry fashion? On seeing Connie, the birds began to circle around her in a spiral. Their mood changed. Connie looked up and saw their exultant dance. Instinctively, she raised her arms, turning slowly, yearning to fly up through the funnel of wings over her head and go with them out to sea. If Dr. Brock had been in the shelter today, he would have seen Connie, barely visible in the blizzard of birds, her long black hair shaken back and sparking with its strange static energy. She was transformed: gone was the quiet, shy schoolgirl, and in her place was a being of power. But Dr. Brock was at this moment sitting in a kitchen, unaware that the Society’s questions could have been answered by a short stroll to the sea.

  The whirling birds untwisted themselves from the dance and settled on the ground and on the water around Connie. The largest one came to rest on a lifebuoy. A smaller gull, still with remnants of a chick’s gray plumage speckling her wings, glided to perch beside Connie.

  Scark fluttered his wings once before tucking them away. His daughter followed his example.

  “Why did you do that? Fly in like that, I mean?” Connie asked him. Scark shook his beak angrily. “What? You’re angry with someone?” The seagull tapped the lifebuoy with a foot—a sign of assent. “Who? Not that boy you attacked the other day?” Scark tapped his foot. “He only went to your nesting sites because that Society of his was trying to help.”

  On the mention of the Society, Scark suddenly spread his wings, flapping them madly, sounding his mewing cry.

  “I know they’ve been disturbing your nesting sites out on the Stacks, but I can help them with that—I’ll tell them not to get too close. Besides, all your young have grown up by now, haven’t they?” Connie scratched the head of Scark’s daughter, a gull Connie had named Mew, as she nuzzled her hand, searching for crumbs.

  Scark shook his beak again and then began a series of moves Connie could not follow. He seemed to be pointing at the other seagulls and then at Connie, repeating it over and over.

  “Oh, Scark, I don’t understand. But I think you’re not happy that the Society is going out to the Stacks. Am I right about that at least?” A foot tapped. “I’ll tell them not to. But you know they are only trying to save the rocks from a worse danger. Men will soon be bringing great ships through the Hescombe Channel. Your nesting sites are at risk.”

  Scark lifted his beak and shook it in the air. Was this despair? Anger?

  “I’m sorry, Scark. I feel so powerless. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  The seagull fixed her with his beady eye. Connie felt speared by his uncompromising stare.

  “You mean I haven’t even tried?” she said gloomily. “You’re right, of course, but at the moment I really can’t see what I can do about it.” Scark wailed. “You think there is something I can do?” He tapped his foot. “But what is it?”

  She got no answer. Either it was too difficult for the bird to sign to her or he was not ready to tell. Scark flapped his wings and launched himself off the lifebuoy. On this signal, Mew and the rest of the flock rose like a curtain of beating wings and followed him back out to sea.

  5

  Pegasus

  The few days that followed were strangely calm: there were no more mysterious disappearances, no sign of the sirens, but Col still feared it was the calm before the storm. In any event, he had his own personal storm cloud on the horizon: his first encounter loomed ever nearer and, as a consequence, he found it difficult to concentrate at school. Everyone noticed—even Mr. Johnson.

  “What, no quips this week, Col?” the teacher asked, catching Col at the beginning of one break. “I’ve got used to your jokes and—despite me usually being the butt of them—I find I miss them. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  Col knew what Mr. Johnson was thinking. Col’s parents, both extreme examples of members of the Society, had the habit of breezing into Hescombe and disrupting everyone’s life—and if they happened to arrive at the same time, all hell broke loose. He felt resentful that they both treated him like a hobby that they could pick up and put down as it suited them, and yet he knew they were too thick-skinned to notice the effect this had on him. But that was not this week’s problem—this week he was wondering if his gift would be confirmed on Saturday or not. He felt a painful lump in his throat whenever he considered the possibility that he might fail: there had been cases like that in the past—maybe he would be the next one?

  “No, nothing’s wrong,” Col replied evasively. “Just a bit busy with something, that’s all.” He left the classroom quickly before Mr. Johnson could ask him any more questions, leaving the teacher looking after him with a worried frown.

  Even with his own encounter to think about, Col had not forgotten that he should be helping to prepare Connie for the assessor. He would leave the introduction of the subject to her aunt, but he decided to take particular notice of her. Despite all his grandmother’s words of reassurance, he had found his own assessment a bewildering experience last year. He felt a bit sorry for this stranger to Hescombe who did not know that she was about to be thrown into the deep end. Perhaps he should try to be a bit more friendly toward her? This was the chain of thought that led him to drop an invitation that Friday like a lightning bolt out of clear blue sky.

  Connie was astonished. She had gotten used to Col ignoring her at school.

  “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he added carelessly, mistaking her bewilderment for reluctance, “but Gran is expecting you.”

  “Then I’ll come,” Connie replied swiftly, more
because she liked Mrs. Clamworthy than because she felt particularly welcomed by Col.

  They left school together that Friday afternoon and walked along the seafront to Col’s home, conversing awkwardly about progress on the project. Connie was doing her best to defuse Col’s anger toward Anneena, who had again maneuvered him into doing something he didn’t want to do. Much to Col’s chagrin, an appointment with Mr. Quick had been made for the following Wednesday. Mr. Johnson, who made the call for them, was surprised that they were going to see the “chief honcho” himself—as the teacher termed Mr. Quick.

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” Anneena had said smugly to Connie and Col as they packed up to go home. “As soon as my sister rang up the Axoil publicity people to offer coverage of the interview in the Hescombe Herald, I guessed Mr. Quick would agree to see us.”

  “What!” exploded Col. “But you promised!”

  “I didn’t promise that I wouldn’t ask Rupa along—I only promised that we’d ask nothing about the missing men,” said Anneena with a feeble attempt at injured innocence.

  “But Rupa might,” said Col angrily.

  “She might,” acknowledged Anneena with a shrug, “but that’s not our business, is it?”

  Col and Connie turned into Windcross Street and paused to let construction vehicles rumble by on their way to Chartmouth, leaving a dusty diesel smell in their wake. As they crossed the road, a green Land Rover gave two toots and pulled up beside them. A pretty girl with fair hair, sitting in the passenger seat, wound down the window.

  “Hey, Col!” she called, flicking her hair back with a feline shiver of her shoulders. She beckoned him over as if she was reeling in a fish.

  “Oh, hi, Shirley,” Col said, immediately leaving Connie and crossing to the car. Connie watched closely as a rapid conversation ensued in lowered tones also involving the man in the driver’s seat.

  “See you tomorrow then! Ciao!” the girl said loudly in conclusion. The Land Rover sped off out of town.

  “Who was that?” Connie asked curiously, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. “I haven’t seen her at school. Is she older than us?”

  “Just a bit—but she’s at a private school in Chartmouth, so you wouldn’t have seen her around. Her name’s Shirley Masterson. Her dad owns a lot of land up on Dartmoor. I’m going there for a riding lesson tomorrow—a Society thing.” Col avoided meeting her eye, pretending to be interested in the strap of his bag.

  “Oh,” Connie said, feeling envious of him. Why were he and this Shirley girl allowed to go riding and on picnics and not her? It seemed so unfair. “I’d love to learn to ride.”

  “Perhaps you’ll get the chance. Hey, Connie, has your aunt said anything to you about an assessor?” He turned to look at her expression. She shook her head, her face puzzled. “Nevermind—come in and see Gran.”

  Walking back after tea, Connie thought that Col and his gran had behaved very strangely. Col had been more restless than normal, as if he was on the verge of saying something but then thinking better of it. Mrs. Clamworthy was also unusually agitated: she kept stroking Connie’s hair and fussily pressing more tea and cake on her. Connie had found the whole thing deeply embarrassing but, despite this, she still felt that strange excitement being with them that she had at their first meeting. There was definitely something about these Society people.

  At home, a long e-mail had arrived for Connie from her parents: they had bought her a computer before they went away to ensure she stayed in touch. It was strange to read about their impressions of their new home in Manila—humidity, traffic, beauty, poverty—when she was absorbed in such a different new world of her own. She wrote back, wishing her little brother good luck at the international school. It was great to be able to assure her parents that for once she was enjoying her class. She told them all about Anneena and Jane, the project, the gerbils, and Mr. Johnson: all in all it sounded like a happy life in Hescombe. Perhaps they did not need to know about her aunt’s strange goings-on with the Society—it would only worry her dad, who prized conventionality above all things.

  Driven by the warblings of Signor Antonelli in his bedroom, which were vibrating up through the floorboards, Connie came down from her room and found her aunt waiting for her with a box of family photographs. She was so surprised by this that she looked over her shoulder, half expecting someone else to be following her into the kitchen.

  “There you are, Connie,” her aunt exclaimed. “I thought you’d got locked in your bedroom or something—you’ve been up there so long!”

  That was rich, coming from her, thought Connie bitterly, seeing that she had left her to entertain herself every other evening.

  “Here, I’ve something to show you.” Evelyn hunted through the box until she found what she had been seeking. It was a sepia photograph, liver-spotted with age, of a severe-looking woman sitting by a potted plant. There was a blur on her lap, which could have been a cat.

  “That’s your great-great grandmother, Enid Lionheart. And I think that is Madame Cresson’s distant relative on her knee.”

  Taking the photo suspiciously, Connie looked at it, wondering why Evelyn had sprung the family collection on her tonight. So this was the one who was supposed to have the same hair and eyes as her. To be honest, it was hard to tell if this was so from the picture because great-great grandmother Enid’s hair was fastened back in a bun, not a lock out of place, and the sepia print did not reveal eye color. You could tell that her eyes did not match—but that was all.

  “And here’s one of your great aunt—my Aunt Sybil—from her honeymoon, I think.”

  This was a more recent picture taken in Sybil Lionheart’s youth, some seventy years ago. It showed a young girl in a swimming costume jumping over the waves, laughing at the camera. Yes, you could definitely see the hair in this picture: it was flying all over the place. The eyes were not clear, as Sybil had her face screwed up as she looked toward the sun.

  “She was the one who introduced me to the Society. This was her cottage, which she left to me.”

  Connie wondered why her father had never told her about these relatives before. She couldn’t remember him ever mentioning a Sybil or an Enid. Intrigued, she decided to take full advantage of her aunt’s expansive mood. “So was Sybil in the Society, too?” she asked.

  Evelyn looked somber. “Yes. She married a man in the Society—it must have been him who took the photo—but he died in circumstances that have never been fully explained, on a mission for the Society during the war. She never married again. She gave me a roof over my head when it became clear that I’d also been chosen. Your gran and grandad were against it all—seeing what happened to Sybil’s husband—but Aunt Sybil knew that, if you had the gift, you had to follow your calling, whatever the consequences.”

  There she goes again, thought Connie, intrigued, talking about being chosen—having a gift. What did she really mean under the veil of this mumbo-jumbo she spoke? What exactly was this Society of hers all about? And what did she mean about Sybil’s husband dying in mysterious circumstances? What did that have to do with the Society?

  “What do they think happened to her husband?” she asked.

  “He disappeared in Finland while on Society business. All that the survivors would tell Aunt Sybil was that it wasn’t the human war that had killed him, but something else.” Evelyn fidgeted with the edge of the photo as if disturbed by a memory connected with it.

  “Does this happen often—Society members getting killed, I mean?”

  “Not often. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that just now.” She sounded sad. “It was the wrong place to start. Don’t you go worrying about that story. Every family should have a mystery or two: it keeps the rest of us on our toes.”

  Evelyn got up to put the photos away. Connie wondered if that was going to be it.

  “The wrong place to start what?” she asked, hoping her aunt had more to say.

  “To start your introduction to the Society,” Ev
elyn replied, returning to her seat.

  “My introduction?” Connie felt a rush of excitement. Finally she was going to be let in on Society events: to go on picnics—maybe even learn to ride. Everything she had wondered about and hankered after since she first stumbled into Mrs. Clamworthy and her friends was about to be revealed to her.

  “I wanted you to see that it runs in our family and that it could be part of your destiny, too.”

  “Could be? I don’t understand.” She sensed there was a catch.

  “No, you don’t now—and I cannot guarantee that you ever will. But if you want a chance to find out if you are one of us, you’ll have to trust me.” Evelyn laced her fingers nervously together, watching Connie intently.

  Connie did not know what to say. To be honest, she did not trust her aunt—not really trust her like she did her parents. In fact, she wasn’t sure she even liked her. For her part, Evelyn certainly seemed to have very little regard for her niece: this assessment thing was the first time she had shown any interest in her.

  “I just need you to take a test on Sunday,” Evelyn continued. “You can’t know the details in advance as it wouldn’t work if you did, but if you pass it, you’ll have been selected for the Society. I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

  Lying in bed that night, nursing a headache brought on by a weird buzzing in her head, Connie was not so sure. With her parents far away and Evelyn so obsessed by the Society, Connie was feeling distinctly vulnerable, as if she was standing on the brink of a great drop with only a flimsy safety rail to stop her from falling. She had agreed to take the test on Sunday, of course, as she was still eager to be part of this Society. But if she failed, what then? And if she passed?

  Ivor Coddrington, Assessor for the Society for the Protection of Mythical Creatures, New Members Department, arrived on the ten o’clock train from London. It had been arranged that Evelyn, Dr. Brock, and Col would meet him so they could explain the situation to him en route to the Mastersons’ place where the encounters were to take place.