Secret of the Sirens

by Julia Golding

  This last remark passed unheeded by Connie, who had stopped listening when she heard the word “siren.” She knew she had once before come across it; the word had caught her imagination a few months ago when her old class read some stories of ancient Greece. She had liked the topsy-turvy chain of association that had led to the name of a mythical peril being given to the wailing sound used to warn of danger. But the sirens—monstrous beings that lured sailors to their death with their beautiful songs—were just a fable, weren’t they?

  The next quarter of an hour seemed an age to Connie cooped up under the bench. She could see a pair of red wellingtons through a crack in the tarpaulin—Mrs. Clamworthy’s, she guessed—she must be sitting on the bench above. It began to dawn on Connie that it would be very difficult to make a dignified entrance now: what was she going to say to them? How was she going to explain her presence? Gate-crashing a Society outing had seemed like a good idea on dry land; now it seemed like madness.

  Col cut the engine.

  “Ear protectors on, everyone!” ordered Dr. Brock. Connie saw Mrs. Clamworthy’s hand reach down into a bag at her feet and pull out a familiar pair of scarlet ear protectors. “And perhaps we had better take cover with Col by the wheel.”

  “Didn’t help me last time,” she heard Col shout back.

  “No, but at least it gives us something to duck behind. They almost lifted me off the bow.”

  The bench creaked, and the red boots disappeared. Connie risked a quick glance around the deck in front of her: no one. They must all be at the back of the boat. Crawling painfully out on her elbows, Connie emerged from her hiding place, but still kept to the dense shadows away from the light on the wheelhouse. She need not have worried; they were not looking her way: the three of them were standing close together, staring up at the eight black rocks which loomed to starboard. Dr. Brock had his binoculars out and had them trained on the top of the tallest of the Stacks. Another boat bobbed in the sea not far off, its passengers also watching intently for any movement coming from the rocks. Signor Antonelli was standing on the bow, his arm outstretched. He took a deep breath and started to sing a new song, one whose words were lost on the night breeze, but the soaring tune carried to Connie. There was something not quite right about the music: it was out of tune with the moan of the wind and the lap of the waves. It put her teeth on edge like the squeak of chalk on a blackboard. He fell silent and Connie was grateful, for now the discord had ceased and the world could return to its previous calm.

  Connie waited to see what else they would do—to see if she could discover how they were annoying the seagulls. Her anxiety about what she was going to say when they spotted her ebbed away and she felt surprisingly calm as she sat down to watch, stroking Madame Cresson rhythmically. The rocking motion of the boat, the sound of the waves breaking against the fenders, had a soothing quality. She began to hum to herself; the hum turned into a song without words—more a croon, rising and ebbing with the motion of the sea. Gathering confidence, she sang louder—after all, none of them could hear her as they were wearing those ridiculous ear protectors, and she was seized by the conviction that it was the right thing to do. Unbidden, the notes poured out of her, springing from some hidden source of music deep within that she had not known she possessed. Unlike Signor Antonelli’s song, she knew that hers was in tune with her surroundings, gliding effortlessly up to the stars and dancing joyously over the waters. Everything worked together to magnify the song; the whole of nature thrummed like the soundboard of one vast instrument, resonating with her notes. She brought the song to a crescendo, rising slowly to her feet, and then she waited. The world seemed to have fallen silent with her: the wind died down, even the waves subsided.

  Then it came: at first so soft she was not sure she was hearing it. As it gathered strength, she perceived it more clearly: an answering song sung by many voices, a tune that looped and wheeled like a flock of seagulls skimming over the moon-flecked water, graceful, intricate, and beautiful. As she watched, eight huge birds spiralled out of the sky, each one landing on a crest of one of the rocks, their white-gray wings glimmering in the moonlight. At first she thought they were herring gulls. But no, she realized they were not gulls at all: they had human heads thrown back, wings half-extended, calling to the stars, to the moon, to Connie.

  She gasped in wonder: never before had she heard anything so wild, so magnificent. She desired to soar upward to join the singers—to go with them as they glided over the waves, daring the sea to catch them in their mastery of flight over its ever-moving surface. But even as she felt this urge, she knew that at the center of all her whirling emotions there was a calm place. Though she felt the song’s keen edge slicing through her soul, its blade could not wound her. She was in control.

  A shout on her right—Connie turned to see Col lunging out from the wheelhouse, eyes wide with horror, scrambling toward her over a pile of rope, tripping in his haste and falling heavily on the deck.

  “Connie—block your ears! Get down!” he yelled at her. But he seemed very far away to her, irrelevant to the song that coursed through her veins like silver fire. When she turned back to the sea, two of the sirens had taken flight, heading in her direction. Madame Cresson bristled at her heels, spitting and hissing as they landed skillfully at her side, brushing her with their wing tips.

  “You have come,” said one simply, her voice a continuation of the haunting song that still echoed in Connie’s ears.

  Connie found herself gazing into two dark eyes, ancient and solemn, but “other”—though they seemed human in form, their expression belonged to a different world, an earlier time.

  “I have come,” Connie replied in a whisper, awed by the wild beauty of the siren’s silver-gray face, the pure lines of nose and cheekbones blending seamlessly into the feathered neck and head. Downy white hair fluttered in the breeze, whispering against Connie’s skin.

  “Now you must fly with us,” the siren declared. As if in a dream, Connie nodded, mesmerized by the deep dark eyes. She felt she could fall into them like the sea, plunge down and never hit the bottom.

  The creature raised a clawed foot. Connie heard Col shout, the cat yowled, but she had no time to reassure them as her jacket sleeves were grasped by two sets of talons and she was lifted from the deck. Climbing steeply over the water, her feet dangling precariously over the waves, she hung like a rag doll in the sirens’ grip for the short journey between the boat and the rocks. She closed her eyes tight, terrified of the drop below. The two sirens set her down on the tallest of the Stacks. The other six flew to her, surrounding her, murmuring their greetings, their eyes glinting fiercely in the moonlight. Then the one who had first spoken ushered Connie to follow. The siren led the way down some crude steps, cracked and sprouting sea grass, carved in the side of the liver-red rock. Connie edged down them, half paralyzed by her fear of heights, and these steps were slippery and steep, giving vertiginous glimpses of the waves below. With relief, she reached a small chamber scooped from the cliff face. Screened by the other rocks, the boat was not visible from the cave, and she wondered for a fleeting moment what Col and her aunt would be making of all this. However, she did not have long to consider them as she found herself in the middle of a circle of sirens.

  “We have been waiting for you,” the leader said.

  Connie felt as though her wits had been scattered like the grains of sand on the floor. “For me? How could you know I was coming?”

  “We were told.” The siren picked her way delicately across the cavern floor, her feet leaving arrow-headed marks in the sand, until she came to perch on a stone. Her sisters looked up at her expectantly, rustling their wings, filling the air with the scent of salt.

  “Are you sure you’ve got the right person? Maybe you are waiting for someone else? My name’s Connie, by the way.” Connie fell silent, feeling her nervous babble of words dry up. Of course they were waiting for her; in her heart she had known this from the moment she heard their song.<
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  “Connie.” The siren said her name with great care, as if it was a new sound that she wished to savor. She then continued, “I am Gull-wing, and these are my sisters: Enchanter, Sea-echo, White-song, Spray, Shell-voice, Wave-whisperer and Feather-breath.”

  The sirens bowed in turn as they were introduced. Connie could hardly see them in the dark of the cave; all she could make out were eight shapes with a glimmer of white where their downy necks caught the moonlight and the glitter of their eyes.

  “Am I your companion?” she asked, thinking she now understood Mrs. Clamworthy’s comment in the boat.

  “Not ours.” Gull-wing laughed, her soft voice rising into a mew like the distant call of the seagulls.

  Connie’s heart lurched. “Not yours? Then am I going to die? I’ve heard your song....”

  “Heard but not perished. You do not understand yet, Connie. You are not ours—and yet you are. You are a rare creature—rarer even than us. You are what they call a universal companion. You will never be bonded to one creature like most in that Society of theirs—you are free to move from species to species, from beast to being. We will all recognize you.”

  “When I heard your song, I felt bonded with you.”

  “And we, when you sang to us, but you will find many songs inside you to sing to many creatures. We are honored to have been your first.” Gull-wing’s sisters murmured their agreement, rustling their wings with the sound of wind moving through sea grass.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Not now, but you will. It is your destiny—this is what brought you to us.”

  Gull-wing’s words spoke to something in Connie: yes, it did seem right that she should come here; it was as if everything in her life had been leading up to this moment, guiding her this way. But she also knew that there was a more urgent reason for her being here tonight. The Society had wanted to talk to these creatures. Hadn’t Dr. Brock said something about “no more O’Neills”? With a horrible lurch in her stomach, she finally realized what he had meant. She was standing among murderers. Yet part of her also understood; the thirst for revenge running in their veins was as much part of them as their blood. Maybe a little of it had transfused into her bloodstream, too, when they had sung together, for she could now feel the temptation to use the power they had kept in check for so long.

  “But, Gull-wing, something else brought me and those people out there”—Connie gestured out to sea to where the boats had been—“to your rocks. Do you know about the danger you’re in?” The sirens gravely nodded their sleek feathered heads. “So you know about the refinery and the ships?”

  Gull-wing croaked with a sound like pebbles crunching underfoot. “We know. And we know what those fools from the Society for the Protection of Mythical Creatures would say to us. They would say that if we attack the polluting monsters at their abomination of a home or wreck a tanker on these shores, many will die and the ships will still keep on coming. They would threaten us with discovery!” The siren ruffled her feathers with disgust. “And what do they counsel?” she sneered, her voice rising until it became almost a screech. “Flight? Where should we go? We have been harried into exile too many times. There are those in our world that say it is time we struck back. And we are striking back!”

  “Who says this?” Connie asked, frightened but also intrigued by Gull-wing’s words. “Who’s persuaded you to drown those men?”

  “There is no harm in your knowing—you will meet him soon enough,” said the siren with a cruel smile that made her nostrils flare as if she scented blood. “Kullervo.”

  The name meant nothing to Connie, but she was alarmed to hear she would be meeting someone who urged them to resort to violence.

  “Who is he? Is he a member of the Society?”

  The sirens laughed their croaking chorus again.

  “No,” said Gull-wing with an amused curve to her lips. “He is one of us. He wants to liberate us from the half-measures and feebleminded ways of the Society. They have ruled us for too long, but what have they achieved after centuries? Nothing. According to them, we still have to move—still have to make way for men. The Society is a human-centered sham in league with the polluters and the destroyers. It is time we creatures struck back. But do not fear, Connie; when we do, we will make sure that you are safe.”

  “But I don’t want to be safe if my friends are in danger. Gull-wing, you must listen. I think the Society really is trying to help you. Have you thought that maybe this Kullervo is wrong? He’s telling you to do a wicked thing. There must be another way.”

  “We have heard it. The Society has nothing to offer us.”

  “But innocent men are dying! There must be something else we can do—something that means that you can remain here peacefully! Just give me time—I’ll think of it!”

  Gull-wing puffed out her feathers, looking to her sisters. Connie knew her fate hung in the balance—the merest breath could bring down the beam on one side or the other.

  “It is like a universal to care even for those puny lives that fell so easily to our song. You have until the winter storms, Companion,” Gull-wing declared, moving to break up the circle. “That is when Kullervo comes. That is when we declare war and will carry out our plan to attack one of those monster ships if no other way is found.”

  “But I might need more time!”

  “We can give you no more time. It has to be enough. Kullervo will not wait. Stay here. We eat now.”

  “How am I to...?”

  But the conference was at an end. The sirens took flight one by one from the cavern entrance, off to fish under the cover of darkness.

  Left alone, Connie wondered what would become of her. The sirens had said nothing about returning her to land, and she could not get down from the rock unless she sprouted wings. Her aunt must be worried sick about her by now. She peered out to the patch of ocean she could glimpse from the rock ledge—there was no boat, nothing to be seen except the glimmering water, iridescent black like a jack-daw’s wing, rolling peacefully below. She was sure that the sirens meant no harm to come to her, but if they had not met a companion before, perhaps they did not understand that humans had to have food and water, too, if they were to survive? She could not remain cooped up in this cave. Yet what could she do but wait for their return and beg them to take her to some deserted place on the coast from where she could get back to Hescombe?

  Waking with a start, Connie found herself curled up in a nest-like bed. Twigs prickled her skin and she smelt strongly of fish, but she was oddly comfortable. As her wits returned, she realized that this was because her back was lying against the warm downy side of a siren—Gull-wing, she thought—who was breathing evenly in a deep slumber, her head curled under her wing.

  But what had woken her so suddenly? Edging her way out of the nest so as not to disturb her bedfellow, Connie crawled to look out of the entrance. She gasped and rubbed her eyes as a burst of flame revealed what had been hidden by the night. There, rising and falling on huge outspread wings, was a ruby-red dragon; on its back was a man with snow-white hair. This did not feel like a dream—though it should have. A second eruption of flame—this time she saw that it was coming from the dragon’s mouth—and there was Dr. Brock urgently beckoning to her, pointing upward. Frozen to the spot, stunned by what she had just witnessed, it took Connie a few moments to understand: he had come to rescue her but, as there was no way he could land in the cavern, he wanted her to go up to the crest of the rock.

  Scrambling to her feet, she wondered if she should wake one of the sirens to explain where she was going. After only a moment’s reflection, she knew that she could not predict their reaction: they were as likely to attack Dr. Brock as to let her go—she could not risk it. It felt terrible to creep out like this—almost as if she was betraying them. Impulsively, she seized a stick and scraped a message on the sandy floor: I will come back soon—Connie. It seemed a banal kind of message to leave; she did not even know if they could read, but there
was no time for long explanations.

  Connie had not forgotten the perilous descent of the stone steps. In the dark, with no siren to follow, she was convinced she was going to miss her footing and fall. Dawn came to her rescue: about halfway up, in the trickiest part of the climb, a glimmer on the eastern horizon gave her enough light to struggle up the last ledges. She was immediately seized in a firm grip and hauled up the scaly sides of the dragon.

  “Hold on to my waist—we’re leaving,” said Dr. Brock.

  Connie was about to shout a reply, but saw that it was useless: Dr. Brock had ear protectors on. Doing as she was bidden, she grasped his coat. It was fortunate she had a tight hold, as the lurch by the dragon to take off would otherwise have unseated her. Creaking and groaning as the leathery hide strained against the wind, the dragon’s vast wings propelled its burden up off the rock. Once over the edge, the dragon swooped downward in a heart-stopping dive, letting the air currents lift it when it was a mere whisker above the waves. Connie had shrieked with terror as they plummeted, but now, as they rose once more, she began to enjoy the incredible sensation of riding on dragon-back. In touch with the creature’s joy in flight, she lost her own fear of heights. The wings whooshed and flapped, like canvas sails swelling with a stiff breeze. A sulfury smell from the dragon’s intermittent blasts of flame stung her nostrils, she felt a glowing warmth from the body she straddled—she was astride a being of fire! The sea beneath mirrored the night sky; but when the dragon let out its breath, she caught a glimpse of scarlet and gold, like a shooting star, reflected in the water below.

  All too soon the dragon spiralled down to find a landing place on the cliff. Connie bumped heavily into Dr. Brock as they touched down; the companion to dragons, however, managed to keep them both from tumbling off. Once on firm ground, Dr. Brock slithered nimbly down and held out a hand to assist Connie.