Secret of the Sirens

by Julia Golding

  Connie gave up. Let him be like that then. She had not done anything wrong: he was just being stupid.

  As she lapsed into a resentful silent, Col became aware that he now had a golden opportunity to apologize—no witnesses, no excuse to put the moment off any longer. It did not come easily to him.

  “Connie?” he began.

  “What?” she replied shortly.

  “You know about all that stuff last week?”

  “What stuff?” she asked, not intending to make it any easier for him.

  “What I said last Sunday.”

  “So?”

  Just then Connie’s phone rang. She flipped it open and took the call. Col watched, exasperated, as she listened intently to the caller, her face becoming etched with concern.

  “You what!” she exclaimed. “No way!” Col wondered what had happened to make her so agitated, his thoughts immediately leaping to Kullervo. “I’ll come around as soon as I get home.” She ended the call.

  “What’s up?”

  “That was Jane,” she said angrily, slipping the phone back into her jacket. “Her dad’s been fired by Mr. Quick.”

  “What?” Col asked stupidly. At least it was nothing worse, he thought. “Why?”

  “Because of us!” she snapped. “You may not have noticed, but Jane has been worried sick ever since we visited the company. Her dad’s been having a hard time because of us getting mixed up with Axoil in the press and stuff.” She spat the words out at him, finding a vent for her own guilt by turning on him.

  “That’s garbage: they can’t fire him just because of us!”

  “Mr. Quick didn’t put it like that, of course,” Connie said heatedly. “He just said that Mr. Benedict’s contract will not be renewed next year. But he made it very clear that he doesn’t want any spies on the inside.”

  “But Mr. Benedict didn’t tell us anything!”

  “We know that—Jane and her dad know that—but that doesn’t matter to Mr. Quick. This is an easy way for him to punish us for getting the story about O’Neill’s...accident.”

  “Hardly an accident, Connie. Murderous sirens, you mean,” said Col brutally.

  His tone needled Connie. “You just don’t understand them. They don’t see it as murder. It’s just what they do.”

  “And you’re defending them?” he asked incredulously.

  “No.” She felt very awkward. “But I understand them.”

  “Vile things,” Col muttered. “I don’t think they should be allowed to stay at the Stacks any more, doing what they do.”

  “And you get to decide where and how they live now, do you?” Connie’s eyes were glistening with fury. She felt a swoop of anger as if siren song was blazing through her veins.

  Col realized his apology had gone very wrong—but then he no longer felt the need to say sorry, with her being so stubborn about the sirens.

  Three rapid hoots down the lane and the growl of the VW heralded the arrival of Evelyn.

  “Can we do anything to help—to help Jane, I mean?” Col asked gruffly, holding Connie back before she made a sprint to the car.

  “As if you care!” she said, shrugging him off. “I think we’ve probably done enough damage already.”

  She darted off the porch, dodging the raindrops, leaving him to ponder this turn of events. Taken aback that Connie had suddenly turned on him like an angry bear, he walked slowly to the car, oblivious of the downpour that had transformed the path into a sludgy torrent. Living with the universal in their midst was far more complicated than he could have imagined when he first heard the news.

  The following Saturday, Connie found Dr. Brock waiting for her at the Mastersons’ farm, yawning broadly in the weak morning sunshine.

  “Sorry, my dear,” he said, stifling his yawn, “but we dragon-riders keep strange hours. I’ve just been on patrol with Argot.”

  “Patrol?”

  “Hunting for Kullervo. Preparing for the arrival of the winter storms.”

  “Oh.” Her heart began to beat fast as her thoughts leaped back to her aunt’s hints about the death of her great uncle and the wild passion of the sirens for causing death and destruction. She remembered the lost men, the first casualties of this new war between humans and the mythical world. “What’s the Society doing about him—about Kullervo—and about the sirens?” she asked, seeking reassurance. “Shouldn’t I go out to them again? Why won’t you let me?”

  Dr. Brock avoided a direct answer. He began to lace up his riding gauntlets, shiny semi-transparent gloves made from the skins shed by dragons when they molted. The scales glistened like circles of polished steel. “We’ve set a guard on the most likely locations where he might conceal himself in our area and called up our fighting forces. The problem is that, as he’s a shape-shifter, we don’t know what form he’ll assume. We have to rely on our instincts to warn us if he’s here. Meanwhile, everyone is to be drilled in evasion techniques. Some members are learning combat skills.”

  That sounded all very well, but not reassuring. “And what about me?”

  “You?” He shot her a worried look.

  “Well, aren’t you going to teach me to fight?” she asked, feeling she should not really have to spell it out for him. “What if I meet him when I next go to visit the sirens?”

  Dr. Brock gave her a stern look. “You are not to visit them, Connie. I thought we’d made that quite plain to you.”

  “But—”

  “The missing men are not your responsibility. Leave the sirens to Signor Antonelli,” he said in the harshest voice she had heard him use so far. “You will be taught to resist—not to fight. And we’re keeping a close watch on your home to ensure he doesn’t reach you there.” He sighed, his tone mellowing. “But it is bad that this has come so soon in your training—bad that Kullervo knew about you even before we did. You’ve taken a step or two, but even the most experienced companions have been defeated by him, overwhelmed by his hatred. I fear you’d stand little chance if you...Well, enough said for now.” He broke off abruptly and started walking.

  His unfinished remark nagged at Connie. What she couldn’t understand, after the desperate search for a siren companion, was why they were not letting her anywhere near the siren colony. Everyone knew Signor Antonelli could do nothing. It was up to her, whatever Dr. Brock said. Fortunately, no more workers had gone missing, but surely it was only a matter of time? The sirens had promised to wait until the winter storms for Connie to help them. Autumn was almost over. There wasn’t much time left. She did not have to look very deep inside herself to find the imprint of the sirens’ rebellion against everything the Society had tried to tell them. They were defending their territory the only way they knew how. If everyone carried on blocking her, she would have to take matters into her own hands, Society rules or no Society rules. But perhaps that was a thought best kept to herself for the moment.

  “Where’re we going?” Connie asked, changing the subject as Dr. Brock struck out on a path leading toward the moor.

  “To see the dragons.” He also seemed relieved to leave the grimmer matters behind them. “They can’t stay in the farmhouse,” he said, whistling a brisk tune as he strode up a steep hill, before taking a right turn into a densely wooded patch not far from the dell where she had encountered Storm-Bird. “We’re going to the old quarry,” he explained, beginning to scramble up some stones set like steps in the hillside.

  Connie followed him up a slope littered with tumbled rocks. They pushed their way through a thicket of wizened gorse bushes, until they came out upon the lip of a cliff. The quarry sank away before them, creating a great stony bowl amid the lush fields. From their vantage point, they looked down upon the trees growing in the quarry bottom; they had a few leaves still clinging mournfully to their lichen-covered branches like bunting left over from a summer fête. At the foot of an escarpment opposite lay what at first glance looked like a huge moss-covered boulder. Slowly, Connie realized that this was not a rock but a dragon stretch
ed out in the sunshine. Dr. Brock chuckled at her exclamation of wonder.

  “Dragons, unlike other reptiles,” he continued, “do not—strictly speaking—need to bask in the sun to maintain their body temperature: they are not prone to going dormant in the cold, as they have their own central heating. But they like the sun, nonetheless, and enjoy it when we are blessed with a few fine days like today.”

  He went ahead, turning occasionally to help her clamber down the quarry side.

  “But if they’re creatures of fire, how is it that the Society places the dragons in the Company of Reptiles and Sea Creatures when they could belong to Elementals?” asked Connie, breathing hard with the exertion.

  “It’s a question that would occur to a universal, Connie, and a good one,” Dr. Brock replied. “But consider the dragon further: it could belong to winged creatures, to two- and four-legged, as well as to elemental creatures. But dragons, long ago, elected to be part of sea creatures and reptiles as they felt their essence most closely adhered to things reptilian. You see, it is the creatures, rather than the human companions, who place themselves in the companies. In fact, it is their decision where we companions are placed.”

  Making their way through the trees, Connie and Dr. Brock emerged at the foot of the escarpment. Propped up by the side of the dragon was Kinga, deeply asleep.

  “She’s sharing Morjik’s dreams,” Dr. Brock whispered with a strange gleam in his eyes. “And outlandish dreams they are, too, as you may find out for yourself. Morjik and Kinga are asleep now and only at night will they fly together.”

  “Why only at night?” Connie asked softly, watching as the dragon heaved a huge sigh, emitting a cloud of fragrant rose-colored smoke. She could barely resist touching him, eager for the encounter to begin.

  “Because even in an isolated place like Dartmoor, a flying dragon might not go unnoticed. Argot and I once got ‘buzzed’—I think the expression is—by an air force jet when we were flying above cloud. Fortunately, we never heard any more about it because, I suspect, the pilot was too embarrassed to report what he thought he saw. In normal times it is much safer to fly at night—then dragons can pass for large bats or a light aircraft—depending on how high they are and on the prejudice of the onlooker.”

  Morjik shifted slightly; one red eye opened a crack. His horny scales shone wetly in the morning light, shot through with a hint of gold like a tree whose leaves are just on the turn. His vast, sage-colored wings were folded to his sides like closed silk fans. His long tail curled around so that his jaw rested on its pointed tip. Dr. Brock bowed to him and said to Connie:

  “Morjik has suggested that your encounter with him take place in two stages. Today you should learn to read his thoughts and feelings; one night, when you and he are ready, he’ll summon you for a ride.” Kinga sat up and stretched, yawning. She nodded to Connie and got up to make way for her. Morjik slowly opened his eyes and snorted another puff of smoke, this one silver-white. “Sit with your back to him, Connie; he is ready,” Dr. Brock prompted.

  Not needing a second invitation, Connie placed herself as Kinga had done and relaxed against the dragon’s hide, delighting in the warmth of his body and the feel of the calluses and bumps of his skin against her leather flying-jacket. Immediately she felt Morjik’s presence, familiar from their last encounter. His was a vibrant life-force, passing through her like a rush of fiery breath, sweeping her along with it. A heat ignited in the pit of her stomach, a fierce blaze that threatened to engulf her if she could not contain it. Morjik’s presence fanned the flames. She felt her whole being exposed in an instant, stripped of any covering she might have held up to hide behind. She both hated the vulnerability he had uncovered and loved the cleansing power that filled her, knowing it would bring new growth as green shoots peeped up from the ashes.

  But this scouring also laid bare Morjik’s soul to her and she began to sense his distinctive nature in more detail. Age—Morjik was very old. To him, the lives of his companions passed like the bloom and wilting of a summer flower: he continued while they faded into history. Words were few and rarely used; why be swift to speak when you had centuries to say all that you need?

  As she learned about the dragon, Connie felt his thoughts probing her nature: the dragon found her young and untrained like other humans, but different from them, too.

  You are broad like an ocean, Connie; not narrow like a rushing stream as my companions have been in their short, hectic experience of life, he was saying to her. Lack of boundaries can be a strength; but, Little One, do not expend yourself in an attempt to do everything and be everything. Live your life for each precious moment you have; do not hasten through it as so many do.

  Connie treasured his words, turning them over in her mind like jewels that glittered as they caught the light. Then Morjik took her in hand and led her down the paths of his dreams. She saw strange colors—ones she had never seen in her world—whirling in intricate patterns like a kaleidoscope. Long spirals led her into the fiery center of his thoughts, where the furnace tested all words and feelings, burning up the impure and the redundant, until only the necessary and true emerged.

  “Connie?”

  She woke with a start to find Dr. Brock shaking her shoulder.

  “It’s time to go. You’ve slept for several hours,” he explained, helping her climb stiffly to her feet. Morjik still slumbered, his eyes fully closed now, but Kinga had gone. “Did it go well?” Dr. Brock asked anxiously.

  She shook herself, trying to drive away the sleep that lingered in her head, clouding her thoughts.

  “It was incredible—like a journey into the depths of the earth.”

  Dr. Brock nodded with understanding. “Hmm, yes, Morjik is old and his dreams are complex,” he reflected. “Other dragons, like Argot for instance, dream of the sky and flight—a journey to the stars. You may perhaps experience that, too, one day. Come, let us go back now: such journeys need to be taken in short stages in the beginning.”

  As they approached the farm, Connie spotted two people walking slowly down the path ahead of them: a tall, thin figure inappropriately dressed for the country in a dark brown suit, and a slight girl with platinum blonde braids. They were deep in talk. Connie, to her dismay, saw that Dr. Brock was endeavoring to overtake them. She hung back.

  “Ah! Ivor. Miss Masterson. Successful encounter, I trust?”

  “As always.” Mr Coddrington’s smile was like a chilly winter’s day. He and Shirley exchanged self-satisfied looks.

  “I’m glad I’ve caught you,” continued Dr. Brock. “Kinga’s calling a meeting tonight to discuss progress on locating Kullervo. We’re expecting the selkies to report back today—Horace will be here to debrief us.”

  “Kullervo?” asked Shirley, catching the name eagerly. “So it’s true what the weather giants are saying?”

  “What are they saying?” Dr. Brock said with a slight frown, glancing at Mr. Coddrington. The latter said nothing.

  “That he’s coming—that the mythical creatures are going to strike back against humans who have been harming them.” Shirley spoke with barely disguised enthusiasm. “And why shouldn’t they? They’d be right to do so—and why shouldn’t we help them? Mythical creatures had all that power in the past. People feared and worshipped them. You can’t blame them for wanting to get it back. I think we’d all be better off if humans learned to respect and fear them again.”

  Connie could see that Dr. Brock was alarmed, but even though she had little liking for Shirley, she could not help but think the girl had a point. Indeed, she felt rather grateful that Shirley had dared speak these words aloud. She wondered what Dr. Brock would find to say in reply.

  “I know they say such things,” Dr. Brock said levelly, looking across at Connie as if he sensed her interest, “and that they have already unleashed their anger across many parts of the world. With what result? I’ll tell you: deaths, mainly among the poorest people and most vulnerable animals, and destruction of habitats. Is that
the kind of fear and respect you want?”

  He lifted his eyes to Mr. Coddrington’s emotionless face, perhaps expecting some assistance from Shirley’s mentor on so important a matter. “And did this bring about one iota of change among those humans who make decisions about how we treat our world? No. I shudder to think how bad it would have to be before stiff-necked humanity changes its ways. No, that is not the way we teach here in the Society. Is that not right, Ivor?”

  “Of course, Francis,” said Mr. Coddrington but with little conviction. “That goes without saying.”

  But part of Connie still sympathized with Shirley’s question, and she felt there must be more to be said. Everyone had been telling her to fear Kullervo, and she was afraid, but no one had explained exactly why. As Shirley said, maybe he was just standing up for the mythical creatures. Was that so very wrong? What wouldn’t she do to preserve a place in the world for creatures as marvelous as Morjik, Windfoal, and Storm-Bird? The Society so far had been fighting a losing battle and, much as she admired Dr. Brock, she wondered how he could be so sure that he was right. Yet some of Kullervo’s allies, the weather giants for example, were wrong to wreak such destruction on the most vulnerable. Where did the balance of right lie?

  14

  Rock Dwarf

  “Connie?” It was her aunt at the bedroom door the next morning.

  After the soul-expanding dreams of the dragons, Connie found it difficult to get up for her training at the Mastersons’ and had been lying for a long time watching the light reflected from the sea ripple across her bedroom ceiling.

  “Do you want me to cancel?”

  Cancel? Turn down the chance to meet another mythical creature? No way. She must be joking!

  “No thanks,” Connie replied, swinging her legs onto the cold floor. “I’ll just get ready.”

  Her aunt laughed. “I thought as much.”

  Amid the cars and a horse trailer parked in the farmyard stood a small, cloaked figure: Gard, the rock dwarf, clad as usual in deepest black.