“You think we were right to do what we did, though, don’t you, Jane?” Connie asked anxiously.
Jane smiled sadly. “Of course, but I can’t help worrying. Sorry for moaning at you about all this.”
Connie squeezed Jane’s arm shyly. “You can say what you like to me,” she said. “I understand.”
At the beginning of the following week, Connie received a bulky letter. Evelyn seemed to know what it was but said nothing as Connie ripped open the envelope. Four badges tumbled out onto the floor as she turned it upside down. Scooping them up, Connie saw that each was different: one was shaped like a pair of silver wings, another a crystal droplet, the third a black lizard, and the fourth a golden horse.
“So,” said Evelyn, “they’ve sent you all of them.” She turned her lapel over and showed Connie her shiny horse badge. “Each company has their own symbol. My banshees are in the company of two- and four-legged creatures, so this is my badge. I suppose, as a universal, they didn’t know what to do with you and thought this was the simplest solution—though I thought the universals used to have their own sign.” Connie pinned them on to her school uniform. “Better not wear them openly,” cautioned her aunt. “People may ask awkward questions.”
“I’ll take them off before I leave the house,” said Connie quickly, touching each badge in turn, admiring their beautiful shape and finish.
Connie then picked up the letter. It congratulated her on her membership in the Society and announced that the first phase of her training would take place over the next three weekends at the Mastersons’ farm.
“Where’s that?” she asked.
“Not far from here. The Trustees are staying there for a while. Plans are being made to counteract the threat from Kullervo.” Evelyn glanced at Connie. “Dr. Brock told me what the sirens said. I know you can’t possibly understand what this means, but I want you to trust us when we tell you to avoid meeting that creature at all costs. Look at your great uncle if you need any proof....” She stopped and cleared her throat.
“What do you mean?” prompted Connie, feeling as if ice-cold fingers had just brushed against the back of her neck at the mention of Kullervo.
“Connie, not all mythical creatures choose companionship with humans. Some have set themselves against us. Kullervo is our greatest enemy—our greatest threat. It was rumored,” said Evelyn slowly, as if picking her way over a minefield, “that your great uncle died because Kullervo took him.”
“Killed him?” Connie asked fearfully.
“Took him,” her aunt repeated. “They say that Kullervo can force his way into your mind. He can take you over and drive you into madness and death. But he doesn’t do it quickly. He plays with you first—like a cat with a mouse.” She fell silent. Then, shaking herself as if to banish these dark thoughts, she added in a brighter tone, “At least you’re the first to benefit from the Trustees’ decision to stay here, for they’re to undertake the preliminary stage of your training themselves while they are in England. So we’d better start getting your things together.”
“What sort of things?” Connie found it difficult to dispel the fear that had grown as she listened to the description of Kullervo torturing his victims.
“A leather flying-suit for one. You can’t learn to ride a mythical creature in jeans, Connie, particularly not a dragon.”
“Learn to ride?” The promise of riding lessons jolted her mind off the subject of Kullervo as nothing else could.
“Well, you didn’t think you’d be shut away in a classroom for your Orpheus training, did you?”
12
Storm-Bird
After a miserable week at school avoiding Col, Connie looked forward to the weekend and to her first training session on Saturday: an encounter with Storm-Bird and a chance for her to begin to use her gift. She felt a door to a new world was about to open for her, and she was determined to do her best to live up to her calling. The meeting was to take place in a secluded valley behind the Mastersons’ farmhouse, and she had been asked by Eagle-Child to bring with her two strange items: rubber gloves and rubber-soled shoes.
The sun had barely risen when Connie was dropped by her aunt in the farmyard; a pale pink wash stained the sky, and the birds sang tinnily, their song shrill in the moist, cold air. As Connie and Eagle-Child climbed the hill behind the farmhouse to reach the higher ground of the moors, they found a changed world spread out before them. The hills rose above the sea of mist like the humps of whales emerging from the waves. The human world of houses and roads was lost down in the fog. Connie followed the companion through a five-bar gate and into a wooded dell. The lichen-covered trees were shedding their leaves in drifts. Mossy gray boulders were strewn on the slopes, jostling for space with the tree roots. The air was very still. Connie waded through the fallen leaves and brambles, which were still heavy with dew netted on gossamer webs; droplets brushed off against the legs of her jeans, making them stiff and heavy. Eagle-Child, by contrast, moved as if he barely touched the earth in his moccasined feet, having the liquid motion of a mountain lion.
“Eagle-Child?” Connie asked, at last daring to break the silence. “Can you tell me what the rubber gloves are for? I can’t imagine you wearing them.”
Eagle-Child’s laugh sounded as if it came from deep stores of joy hidden behind his impassive face.
“No,” he said, “but at the beginning I would have perhaps benefited from them. The storm-bird is a difficult companion species, Connie: complex, mercurial, and dangerous. If you fail to make a complete connection, you are at risk of an electrical shock.”
“And if you make a complete connection?”
“Ah, then—then you are more like a lightning rod than the tree struck down: you’ll feel the energy pulsing through you harmlessly.”
The storm-bird was waiting for Connie and Eagle-Child in the deepest, most secret part of the dell, its massive crow-like form perched on a boulder, brooding. Its beak was like polished ebony, its feathers glossy pools of ink. Seeing them approach, it opened its wings and glided down to land at their feet, white shards of light crackling from its outstretched wings, as if its feathers barely hemmed in an explosive force ripe to leap forth. Standing by the bird’s side, she gazed up into its black impenetrable eyes, dark globes that reflected the world around but let none read their expression.
“Now,” said Eagle-Child softly, crouching beside Connie. “Understand that Storm-Bird rarely links with anyone but me. Storm-birds are unique creatures—born of the fury of the thunder as it mates with the lightning. You should see them, Connie: in my country, they fly before the rolling storm clouds, riding the turbulence recklessly, flocking to the lightning strike. My tribe has produced the only companions to storm-birds known in the world, and there are few of us left in America: we, too, are dying out. Come, let us begin. Put your gloves on and then hold out your hand.”
Feeling completely unworthy to meet so extraordinary a creature, yet eager to do so, Connie did as she was bidden and stretched out a bright yellow fist. The bird fluttered its wings and croaked angrily. Eagle-Child frowned.
“Hmm,” he said, “Storm-Bird objects to the gloves.”
Reaching out, Eagle-Child placed his palm against the bird’s black beak and, after a few moments, entered a trance, swaying rhythmically. He remained like this for some minutes, before dropping his arm and saying to her: “We shall have to do this without the gloves. The shoes will help in case of need, but Storm-Bird has promised to lead you to find the right path to bond with him. But I must warn you, Connie: you cannot proceed without danger to yourself. Are you willing to continue?”
“I’m not afraid,” she said. “I’d prefer to take off the gloves: they aren’t natural and would’ve only been in the way.”
Peeling them off, Connie dropped them onto the ground and held out her arm once more. This time, the bird leaned forward until her fingertips just brushed the edge of its feathers. She sensed the creature’s life-force pulsing beneath her h
and and gently increased contact until her palm was flat against the storm-bird’s neck. With a riveting shock, she found her hand connected to the bird as if it were a powerful magnet and she an iron filing. She had the sensation that she was being inexorably drawn into Storm-Bird, of being swirled around with the energy fluctuating through the very marrow of its being, flying in a great whirl of power—as if she had become one bird amid a great airborne flock, turning to and fro in response to a shared intuition. Each move was now guided by the earth’s magnetic field; she could see it, glistening in the air like blue ripples on the surface of a lake. As she darted through the field, brushing it with her wingtips, she knew exactly where she was in relation to the globe below her, how far north she would have to glide to reach the regions of ice and snow, how far south to reach the burning deserts. She was exhilarated by this new-found skill, losing self in the identity of the group, mastering with it the air and elements. What could she feel, Connie asked herself, in this spinning, twisting flock? Power, anger, moodiness. Storm-Bird had a nature as far removed from the unicorn as one could get. It was kin to that of the sirens; it cut into her consciousness with a dangerous edge like a wing made of sword blades.
What are you angry about? Connie asked in thought as the flock wheeled about in the sky, skimming the clouds.
The answer flashed back, almost knocking her over had not Eagle-Child been on hand to steady her.
Destruction. Dirt. Foul winds sullying the upper air.
She felt billowing storm clouds surround her, fogging her inner vision, disturbing her connection with the blue sparkling magnetic field.
What will you do? she thought, wondering where all this rage would lead.
There was no answering thought, only an answering feeling. Connie found a tingling growing in her arm and down her body. She could not see it, but later Eagle-Child told her that her hair had risen on her head until it stood brush-like, spitting out sparks of static. The tingling grew painful, running down her free arm. Connie clenched, then stretched her hand on that side to relieve the tension, and a shaft of white light erupted from her fingertips, striking a bush some feet away. It fizzed and burst into flames, swiftly becoming a charred mess.
In her surprise, Connie abruptly broke her link and stared in disbelief at what she had done—or what the bird had done through her. Storm-Bird whistled shrilly, pleased with the havoc it had created.
Eagle-Child looked at them both in wonder. “I have not seen that happen except in the most advanced companion-creature relationships—certainly not on the first encounter. I would have expected you to be injured: you are not, are you, Connie?”
Storm-Bird croaked irritably, as if the question insulted it.
“No, I’m just surprised,” she said, finding she was trembling uncontrollably.
Eagle-Child put his arm around her shoulders to stop her shaking.
“I was wrong to call you a mere chick on our first encounter. You have taken your first flight with Storm-Bird like a master.”
“I can see what you mean about the danger,” she said with a slight laugh, pointing ruefully at the scorched bush.
“You can do that only if Storm-Bird wills it, and so far, despite his anger, Storm-Bird has never aimed carelessly or with intent to harm the innocent. You felt anger, did you not?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Then you begin to understand Storm-Bird. Like many creatures, he grows impatient with us humans.”
After his last disastrous training session, Col was determined to redeem himself in the eyes of Skylark and Captain Graves. His mentor, however, seemed to have passed the lesson over as an aberration; Col was flattered to find that Captain Graves was convinced his student was ready for the next stage.
“I sense you relish a challenge, my boy,” Captain Graves said gruffly. “And you, too,” he added, addressing the pegasus who was trotting patiently behind them with Firewings. “Well, we’ve got a real corker lined up for you today!”
His eyes twinkled beneath his exuberant brows; he was twitching with excitement, eager to break the news. Uncertain as to what Captain Graves might consider a “corker,” Col wondered if he would feel as enthusiastic in a few minutes when he knew what was coming.
“And what’s that?” he asked, steeling himself for the answer. Whatever it was, he had already decided he would throw himself into it heart and soul and make up for his recent failures.
They were drawing near a line of trees that marked the edge of a pine plantation on the part of the farm closest to the sea. The wood stretched from the cliffs to the moor, a dark, dense patch between two open and airy expanses. The firs crowded together, killing the sunlight before it could reach the forest floor. Two people were emerging from the gloom, headed in their direction.
“I’ve arranged for us to share our lesson today with Miss Masterson and her mentor,” replied Captain Graves, gesturing to the figures approaching them. “As we saw from your first encounter, you and Skylark need practice dealing with adverse weather conditions, a frequent hazard in our business. I understand from Mr. Coddrington that the weather giant is happy to oblige.”
Col shrugged. That didn’t sound too bad—a bit of wind and rain should not put Skylark off his stride now. Captain Graves noticed his pupil’s reaction and smiled knowingly when he continued: “And I’ve also asked Mr. Coddrington if we can spice the lesson up a bit by introducing an element of combat training. Miss Masterson will guide the weather giant in using his powers to flush you out of hiding—your job is to avoid being caught.”
Col gulped.
“The giant’s skilled and has been instructed not to use lethal means. He will only use his powers to disorientate you or to startle Skylark out of hiding. Now, how does that sound?”
It sounded terrifying.
“Fine,” said Col.
Shirley and Mr. Coddrington had now reached them. She smiled at Col with a hint of triumph already glinting in her pale blue eyes.
“Heard what we’ve got planned, Col?” she asked. She seemed to be probing him for some sign of weakness or fear on his part.
“Yeah,” Col said with a studied air of unconcern.
“Should be fun.”
Fun for whom? Col wondered. He turned back to Captain Graves.
“Captain, you called this combat training?”
“That’s correct.”
“Combat for what? Who are we fighting?”
“No one at the moment, Col, but all mentors are under new instructions from the Trustees to teach their charges how to take evasive action if attacked by Kullervo’s forces. Now, shall we get started?”
Shirley nodded eagerly. “Yes, let’s—unless they’re too scared to take us on, of course. Not going to chicken out, are you, Col?” She smirked at him. Col shrugged in what he hoped she would read as a nonchalant manner. “Not going to clam up with fear, I hope?”
He gave her a humorless grin. “Oh very good, Shirl, very original. Do they give you lessons in side-splitting puns at your school?”
She flashed him a matching grin. “And I s’pose they give you lessons in sarcasm, the lowest form of wit, at yours?”
“Come, come,” interrupted Captain Graves. Col sauntered to Skylark’s side, wondering what the pegasus made of it all. “Ivor, would you like to explain the rules?”
“Certainly, Michael,” said Mr. Coddrington with evident relish. “We are role-playing a situation where Team A—the pegasus and rider—have to carry a message to base—the farmhouse—without being caught by Team B, Miss Masterson and the weather giant. Mr. Clamworthy, you and your mount shall start in there.” The assessor pointed to the wood.
“Your job is to return to the farmhouse from this location. As the weather giant cannot stop you by force, you will be counted as caught if he or Miss Masterson can pinpoint your location at any stage. It is fair to warn you,”—Mr. Coddrington cleared his throat importantly—“that the giant will be doing all he can to make your task harder by using every
weather means at his disposal. You will, however, be assisted by cloud cover as making weather generates vapor, so the more active the giant is, the easier it is to hide.”
Great, thought Col bitterly, the worse the weather, the better for us, huh!
Skylark butted into Col’s silent protests. Come on, Companion: we’ll beat that windbag easily.
Afraid that Skylark would think he was losing his nerve, Col swung into action, mounting in one swift movement.
“Right, Mr. Coddrington, we understand. Let’s get started,” he said resolutely. Col urged Skylark forward, and the rider and his pegasus slipped into the plantation and were soon lost from sight in the darkness under the boughs.
Captain Graves shouted after them. “You have two minutes to hide yourselves—then the hunters will be after you. I’ll blow my whistle once and the pursuit starts. If you hear me blow it twice, that means the game is over.”
Skylark trotted light-footed over the uneven ground, Col bent close to his neck to avoid low branches.
What shall we do, Companion? asked Skylark, pausing by a fallen tree.
Give me a moment, replied Col, his face creased in concentration. We need a plan.
The horse snorted as if to say that this was obvious, but all the same he waited silently, giving Col space to think. It was getting darker, as if a storm was brewing—which, of course, was exactly what was happening. Fat droplets of rain began to patter through the needle canopy. The air was warm and still, pungent with the scent of pine resin; fir cones crunched as Skylark shifted his hooves restlessly.
Right, said Col finally, pulling out his flying helmet and goggles as the rain fell more heavily. I know what we should do—we’ve got to do the unexpected—take the least likely road.
And what is that? asked Skylark. Set out in the opposite direction and circle around?
Secret of the Sirens Page 15