Secret of the Sirens

by Julia Golding

  Connie felt full of self-doubt, sure she was going to fail, yet she knew there was nothing to do but try. She now understood that she had a duty to others as well as herself, which meant that she had to learn to protect herself from Kullervo; she did not want any more creatures to risk their lives coming to save her. She took a steadying breath. “Right, I’m ready,” she said.

  Silence fell in the room. The air began to tingle with energy—energy that Connie could almost see flowing toward her. A stream of silver sparkles unwound from the unicorn’s horn; jagged white light whizzed from Storm-Bird’s wingtips; iron-gray links clattered to the ground from the rock dwarf’s mallet and rippled to her feet. She recognized instantly their different natures—gentle, stormy, adamantine. Reminding herself that she should be resisting these encounters, she groped inside her mind for some sign of the gift she was said to have and stumbled upon something in the dark—something that was growing like a bulb putting out its first shoot in early spring. Slowly, a faint outline of a shield took shape in her mind. She held it aloft. It worked: the thoughts were held off.

  “Now, try harder to reach Connie,” said Frederick, watching the girl closely as her brow furrowed with the effort.

  The creatures began to batter against her shield; it was becoming heavier and harder to hold up. An insidious wave of gentle calm crept over the rim and caressed her mind: the unicorn had broken through. As if a dam had burst the others were close behind, filling Connie’s mind with their presence. She was borne away, twirling hopelessly like a leaf on the flood.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Connie, grabbing hold of her hay bale before she collapsed. The presences immediately withdrew.

  “That was very good, Connie,” said Frederick. “You must not expect too much of yourself at first. Could you see what to do?”

  “Yes,” Connie panted, “but I wasn’t strong enough to keep hold of the shield.”

  “Maybe not yet, and not with such powerful minds as those before you, but you will grow in strength and skill. The second tool—the sword—may help you to do this.”

  “And what is this sword?” Connie asked doubtfully. She’d never held a sword in her life.

  “Uncle Reginald described it as the chief state of mind of a universal. In fact he used another image to convey what he meant: he said it was like being a sea into which all rivers emptied—a great estuary where cold waters, warm waters, fast- and slow-moving, all mingled. You never lost yourself, because you were the sea, but you could sense the presence of each individual without confusion.”

  Connie was still filled with doubts. “But what has this to do with swords?”

  “Sorry, my dear, I can’t remember,” said Frederick apologetically.

  “It is the next stage,” Gard broke in, creaking as he got to his feet. “The universal can unite those forces and, if all are willing, direct them. It has been many ages of human since I have done this. We rock dwarfs do not like mixing with others out of our element, but when need be, even we have allowed universals to direct our powers.”

  “Then let’s try,” said Connie, wondering where all this was going. She had experienced power being wielded through her when the Storm-Bird had blasted the bush. Was that what it would be like?

  Once more an expectant hush fell in the barn. Connie tried to clear her mind and imagine herself as a great sea, but a sunny peaceful one, not dark as she had sensed in Kullervo. The three presences were creeping up on her, and she pictured them as three tributaries blending into her waters. As her attention flagged for a second and the image wavered, she reminded herself that Morjik had said she was broad like the ocean: it should require no effort to be what she was by nature.

  Poor Morjik! It was not Connie’s thought but Windfoal’s that she heard.

  We should help him. That was Gard.

  The power of lightning can heal as well as harm, added Storm-Bird.

  Then the four paused in wonder: they could all encounter one another directly for the first time.

  Healer as well as warrior, said Gard.

  As one, the four realized what they should do. They began to search for Morjik. Connie found his presence at hand and gradually stretched her thoughts out to him.

  Universal, came the answering thought, I am weak and wandering far in my dreams. The ancient dragon sensed the others with her. But who are these with you?

  The Trustees declared their names and offered their gifts—peace from Windfoal, strength from Gard, and energy from Storm-Bird. Connie felt their powers pulsing through her like molten metal pouring into a mold; with an effort, she concentrated her mind, channeling the offerings so that none went astray. She felt she was holding a tool of great power, comprising the twisted steel of the unicorn’s healing, the sustaining power of the earth, and the dynamic force of the clouds. Bringing it down upon the dragon, cutting through his hide like a diamond-edged scalpel to reach the canker within, she sensed the powers passing through every fiber of the dragon’s body, a cleansing force rooting out the filth left by Kullervo and his followers. Finally, Morjik heaved a great sigh and settled down to a dreamless sleep. On Connie’s signal, the four withdrew their presence and broke their bond with one another, confident in the knowledge that they had given deep healing to Morjik, and he would now recover swiftly.

  “So that was the sword,” said Frederick. Connie opened her eyes to find him smiling at her. “We witnessed what was happening through our bond with our mythical creatures.”

  “You have an amazing gift, Connie,” said Eagle-Child. “Through you, we can hear and see one another as clearly as you do. Now I understand how the unity of the Society was preserved throughout the centuries. Why had we forgotten this?”

  “Why indeed?” said Frederick. “My uncle never mentioned that the sword could be shared so. I fear it had become a little-used weapon by his day. The Society had disintegrated into dissent as the industrial age took its toll, and he spent most of his life in hiding.”

  Connie was feeling exhausted. If she could have put words to her feelings, she would have said she felt like the shore when the tide has gone out—washed up and scattered with stranded thoughts.

  “Perhaps they no longer had the energy to use it,” she said. “I can see that it’s a skill that cannot be used very often. I’d be worn out if we’d gone on much longer.”

  “And you were already tired from your encounter with Kullervo,” added Kira. “We must be more careful of our universal, friends.”

  “Then it’s bed and sleep,” said Frederick. “But, before you go, I think I can say that you have completed the first stage of your training successfully, can I not, fellow Trustees?”

  “Indeed you can,” concurred Kira. “You’ve much more to learn, Connie, but you now can take the next steps yourself.”

  Eagle-Child nodded gravely and added: “Yet, I fear it is not a success we can allow others to learn about. If we can, we must stop Kullervo getting wind of the fact that you have these skills: he may think you are a more desirable ally—or captive—than ever. But I’m beginning to wonder if we can keep anything about you from him. He seems to know more about you than we do.”

  With that disquieting thought, Connie rejoined Evelyn in the farmhouse. Over a sturdy casserole with dumplings, Mr. Masterson volunteered to drive Mr. Coddrington back to the station at the same time as he dropped the Lionhearts at home. Connie sincerely wished he hadn’t. With the assessor still hanging around Hescombe, she doubted it would be long before Kullervo heard every last detail of her progress. She kept very quiet at the table.

  Mr. Coddrington, however, was in full flow. “I hate myself for not being able to prevent your abduction, Miss Lionheart,” he said loudly so that all the table could hear. “But what could I do against a fully grown dragon? I tried my best, I assure you, but you were gone in an instant.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, Ivor,” interrupted Mr. Masterson. “None of us could have done any more.”

  “Well, at least I was on han
d to raise the alarm. That was fortunate—most fortunate,” Mr. Coddrington concluded, giving Connie an apologetic smile.

  19

  Storm

  After the events at Deadman’s Cove, Connie knew that life would never be the same again. She buried Scark at the foot of the cliffs he so loved, watched by a despondent flock of gulls. His daughter, Mew, picked at the sandy mound, unable to comprehend her loss. Connie knew how she felt.

  The Society members settled back into an uneasy calm. Kullervo had disappeared again, and there was no sign of any further attacks from the sirens. Despite this, Connie knew it must only be a matter of time before they struck: Gull-wing might be able to curb her sisters at Connie’s request for a little while, but it surely would not be long before Feather-breath or one of the others gave in to their instinct to hunt their persecutors again? Besides, she had not come up with a solution to the threat Axoil posed to their home—she felt she had failed them.

  A more mundane threat also remained. Jane’s dad was anxiously seeking a new job before his contract expired at the end of the year; so far with no success. It looked as if Jane and her family would have to be on the move in January, a prospect that dampened spirits as the four friends finalized their display about the local oil industry.

  “What I want to know is why there have been no more accidents,” remarked Anneena, stapling a picture of the Stacks to the display board. She sounded almost disappointed.

  “Perhaps the company has learned their lesson and fixed their machinery,” suggested Jane.

  “Doubt it,” said Col.

  “Now, what do you think of that?” asked Anneena, stepping back to admire their work. “Do you think Mr. Quick will appreciate it?”

  “I think he will just love it!” said Col with a broad grin.

  The first hint of new trouble came from an unexpected direction. One Saturday in early December, the phone rang. It was Connie’s parents announcing their intention to spend the Christmas holidays in England rather than in Manila as originally planned. Connie heard Evelyn making a poor show of pretending to be pleased, as she attempted to make her brother’s family feel warmly welcome. A trickle of ice-cold anticipation ran down Connie’s spine. She was delighted that she would be seeing her parents far sooner than expected, but she knew, too, that this was going to complicate matters even more.

  “But what shall I tell your father when he arrives?” Putting the phone down, Evelyn looked horror-struck at the thought she would have to explain to her disapproving brother all about the threat to his daughter’s life.

  “Nothing,” Connie said with a shiver, trying to drive away her anxiety. To distract herself, she picked up a towel and began to dry the dishes. “You see, if you tell Dad, he’ll forbid me to have anything to do with the Society, but now that Kullervo knows about me, that’ll put me in more danger than ever. I need the Society, and I need to learn how to use my gift if I’m to defend myself.”

  Evelyn could not think of an argument against this suggestion, and as it excused her from a difficult conversation with her brother, was more ready to agree than Connie had expected.

  “I draw the line at telling lies, Connie,” she warned. “If your father asks a direct question, I’ll have to tell the truth.”

  “Of course—and so would I.” Connie grinned. “But how likely is that, if he doesn’t know the first thing about Kullervo—or mythical creatures for that matter?”

  Mr. Johnson’s class set up their display in the entrance hall the morning of the final assembly of the term, under the banner “Our Local Community.” Prominent among the projects on local history, traffic schemes, and fishing was the four friends’ collage of information about the Axoil refinery. Mr. Johnson came over to inspect the finished product and coughed nervously.

  “Er...isn’t it a little...a little confrontational?” he murmured to Anneena.

  “That’s exactly what it’s meant to be, sir,” she replied happily. He stood back to consider it from a distance. “You asked us to do a subject of local interest and that’s what we’ve done. If you think about it, how else can we guess what the local environmental impact will be if we don’t look to international examples? And you said you’d support us...”

  Mr. Johnson groaned. “Yes, but I didn’t expect it to be quite so...quite so one-sided.”

  Anneena hadn’t been able to resist Col’s suggestion that they accept Mack Clamworthy’s offer to help collect all the old stories about Axoil around the world. He had told Col he was more than happy to “dish the dirt” on the company run by his old playground enemy. The collage reporting accidents and pollution scandals was far from flattering to their visitor.

  “You’re not going to ask us to take it down?” challenged Anneena, giving the teacher a defiant stare.

  “Er...no, but...well, we’ll see,” Mr. Johnson said awkwardly. “Now, let’s go back to the classroom and keep our heads down.”

  After lunch the school was summoned to the assembly hall. Col filed in with his friend Justin and took a seat in the back. Sitting at the front was Mr. Quick, hunched on a seat too small for him, like a black vulture before the ranks of brightly dressed, twittering children. It was painful to see his smile—it was more like a skull’s grimace: there was certainly no good humor behind it. Col wasn’t the only one who wished he could wipe that expression off his face for him.

  “Wait till he sees our display,” Col muttered to himself.

  “Boys and girls, settle down please!” called Mrs. Hartley over the hubbub as she bustled in from the foyer. “Now, as I’m sure you are all aware, we have a very special guest with us today. Mr. Quick from Axoil is here to announce the winner of the playground competition and present us with a check. Thank you to all those who entered—we had lots of lovely entries, didn’t we?” Mrs. Hartley looked to Mr. Quick for confirmation, but his grin had slipped; he was staring with something like malice at Rupa who had just come in and was standing by the door with a photographer.

  “Er...yes,” he said abruptly when he realized that Mrs. Hartley was addressing him.

  “So now I’m going to announce the winner. If you’re the lucky one to be chosen, we’d like you to stay behind after assembly, so we can take your picture in the display area with Mr. Quick.”

  Col winked at Anneena who grinned back, bobbing restlessly in her seat to get a better look.

  “And the winner is—Ursula Jones. Well done, Ursula!”

  The school clapped politely as a pigtailed girl shuffled to the front to receive her certificate.

  “We selected Ursula’s design because she had the unusual idea of a climbing frame shaped like an oil tanker. Mr. Quick’s little joke is that we should paint it in the Axoil colors!” Mrs. Hartley tittered with laughter; her guest grimaced at Ursula, who was smiling nervously back at him.

  “That’s no joke,” muttered Col to Justin. “I bet the creep really wants it done up like that.”

  Mrs. Hartley was speaking again. “We’ve put up Ursula’s design in the display area for you all to see. Well done, Ursula, you can return to your seat.”

  At the end of assembly the children streamed out of the hall. Connie followed Anneena, eager to see if Mr. Quick had spotted their collage yet. They bumped into Col, who was glaring furiously at the little huddle of press in the entrance hall.

  “Look!” he burst out. “They’ve gone and taken our stuff down and put up that design for an oil tanker!” He was incandescent with rage, not even attempting to keep his voice down.

  Hearing the disturbance, Mr. Johnson appeared at their side. “I feared something like this might happen,” he said, his eyes flashing angrily. “She must’ve done it as soon as she saw we were inside the hall.”

  Mrs. Hartley smelled trouble and glided over to the group. “It’s all going so well, isn’t it!” she gushed. “I had to take down a few things, Terry, to make space for the winning picture, but I’ll make sure they go up again as soon as we’ve finished here.” They showed no sign
s of moving, so Mrs. Hartley was forced to take a different tack. “Terry, you’d better get back to your class, so you can dismiss them. Parents are already arriving to collect their children.” She waved vaguely to the main entrance, where in fact there was not a single person waiting, before returning to intercept Rupa, who was searching in vain for her sister’s work. Mr. Quick was now posing for the cameras, his arm around Ursula, both holding an oversized check with quite a few zeros.

  “Come on,” said Mr. Johnson wearily. “I suppose I should have guessed this would happen.”

  He beckoned them to follow him back to the classroom. Connie tugged Col’s arm, fearing he would do something rash.

  “Come on, Col. Axoil won’t always have the last word.”

  Signor Antonelli moved over to Dr. Brock’s tiny house to make room for Connie’s family. Connie had been seeing less and less of the Italian recently as he was busy heading up the task force to deal with the sirens. Signor Antonelli had told her that he was teaching the dragon riders to deflect attacks by the sirens with minimum force, as he was sceptical that anything they could do now would persuade the sirens to take a peaceful path.

  “Carina, ’ave you ’eard from them? What they do?” he would ask her every time their paths crossed. Connie had resumed sending messages, this time via Mew, but had received only ambiguous answers in return.

  “I don’t know. I really do think I’ll have to go and see them again,” she told him.

  “No, no!” he protested, taking her hand in his. “You no risk zat!”

  “That’s what Dr. Brock and the Trustees said as well,” said Connie. She looked out of the kitchen window at the still winter’s day. No sign of any storm yet, nothing to herald the arrival of Kullervo in the area as the sirens had told her. “But what else can I do? I can’t just sit on my hands waiting for the sirens to take another life or hit a bigger target, like a tanker or something.”

  “Pazienza!” Signor Antonelli counselled, wagging his finger at her. “The universale is più importante than even this little stretch of coast—più importante than exposure of le sirene.”