Sound of Sirens: (Tales of Skylge #1) (4 page)

When Royce walks over, he slides the LP sleeve across the coffee table and nods at it. “You can pick which side we listen to first.”

“Oh.” I stare blankly at the sleeve, my eyes skimming all the song titles. Wow - I thought there were only two songs on the disc, as usual, but from the long list of titles I conclude that this record is chock-full of songs. Fourteen in total – seven on each side. That’s as many songs as I care to play in one afternoon before my arm starts to hurt from operating the crank. “Uhm... I want to hear
Field of Night
.”

Royce brushes a strand of black hair from his forehead. “Okay, side A it is.” He smiles.

I lean back into the couch cushions and fix my gaze on the strange devices instead of him. I’m afraid I’ll stare otherwise.

He reaches out and presses a few buttons to start the music. The fragile arm is lifted and the record starts to spin slowly – much more slowly than I’m used to. And then, the first tones drift out of invisible speakers that seem to surround the entire sitting area.

M
y heart stops.

The sound is so clean. So
smooth
. Nothing like my scratchy record player. The piano music envelops me like sweet honey and a warm blanket, cascading over me like a gracious waterfall. The cello kicks in and then the woman starts to sing an evocative, melancholy song. I understand, even though the words don’t really make sense sometimes.

We abandon the sinking ship of this reality. Let the sounds of the deep blue silent ocean take us where we are no more than ourselves.

Sytse was right. She does sing like the Sirens. Her haunting voice resonates with me as though I’m listening to the Nixen singing of times long gone, echoing a deep and hungry longing.

I bite my lip to stop myself from welling up. This is the most fragile and delicate song I’ve ever heard, and it seems to go on forever. Just this one song is longer than a regular 78-record.

When I cautiously glance over at Royce, I notice that he’s closed his eyes. Like this, he looks as vulnerable as the song sounds. No wonder he was willing to mingle with Skylgers to listen to this LP – it‘s so much like the music he composes himself. And for the first time, I wonder where he draws his inspiration from. How does someone manage to create something this beautiful?

When the song ends and segues into another, neither of us moves. Instead, we envelop ourselves with more sweet sounds of angelic voices, cello, and piano, filling the late hours of night. But inevitably, the record has to end at some point. After the tone arm clicks off automatically, we sit there in silence for quite a while.

“Wow,” I finally say, but the word sounds flimsy and shallow. It makes me hate myself for breaking this reverent silence.

Royce opens his eyes and shoots me a wan smile. “I know.” He takes a deep breath, then rushes on: “This is as close as I can get to listening to Siren song without going crazy, you know.”

“Why would you willingly listen to the Nixen?” I say, taken aback.

“Because they infuse me with a sense of...” He pauses, lost for words. “Wonder,” he then adds.

I scoff. Wonder? Does this guy even understand how dangerous the merfolk is to people like me – inhabitants of coastal towns who can’t fight the Sadness any longer?

“Some artists in my family used to seek them out,” Royce relates in a soft voice. “I did too, sometimes. Their song inspires me to write my own music. But it’s easy to get lost in the sound of Sirens. That is why we Currents have ways to raise the alarm and shield ourselves off.”

“Yeah. You drown yourselves in electronic beats while pulling away the shutters from the top of your precious tower to blast the seas with Brandan’s Fire,” I say sarcastically. “And you don’t care what happens to us living in the middle and the east.”

Royce frowns. “The Skylgers are welcome to live closer to Brandaris.”

“So we can all be your serfs? No, thank you.”

“You should be grateful that the Baeles-Weards are willing to protect your people,” he points out huffily. “Without them, many more men and women might have been lost.”

“Grateful?” My voice cracks. “Why? Because you keep all the good stuff to yourselves? Because you took away our gods and our language? Because your priests and their sacred fire failed to protect my mother?”

That shuts him up. “We’re sharing what we can,” he mumbles at last. “What happened to your mom?”

I stare at my hands. “The Nixen took her.”

“Mine too.” His voice is rough.

My eyes flash to his. “They did?”

“Yeah.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “She always heard them. She couldn’t shut them out. And by the end, she was addicted to listening to their harmonies. Said it helped her create her paintings.”

I inhale deeply. “She walked into the sea?”

“Yes. She left me.” He sounds like a little boy, not like an entitled heir to the Bolton kingdom.

“And then you stopped listening to the merfolk?” I add gingerly.

His mouth is set in a grim line now. “Yes. And once I finish college I’m going to design a security system that will keep them away from our island forever. No matter how wonderful they make me feel. No matter how tempting their voices are.”

Sounds like he’s fighting an addiction. The thought of affluent, pampered Currents getting their fix from the call of dangerous creatures of the sea makes my stomach turn. If they feel so empty inside, maybe they should grow a heart and help their neighbors instead.

“I suppose you could do that,” I mutter.

Royce shoots me a puzzled look, as though he expected more encouragement or admiration. Well, I’m not giving him either.

“So why did your mother listen to them?” he inquires when I don’t volunteer any more comments.

“Because...” I fall silent. “She was just not very happy. Prone to melancholy. We call it the Sadness. People in coastal towns suffer from it. Our Skelta says it’s because they’re so close to the world of the Nixen. My dad put my mom on a strictly fish-free diet to try and alleviate the symptoms, but it didn’t work in the end.”

“I didn’t know about your sickness.”

“I bet there’s an awful lot you don’t know about us,” I snip.

He sighs. “You’re probably right. I mean, look at me – I haven’t even asked you what your name is.”

I shrug as though I don’t mind. “Who cares? I’m just the girl with the LP that you want.”

“Well, I
should
care. What’s your name?” His face breaks into a friendly, genuine smile, and it trips up my heart. Despite his infuriating superiority, I want him to like me. I want him to smile at me like he cares.

“Enna,” I say.

“Nice to meet you, Enna,” he says formally, extending his hand so I can shake it. “I’m Royce.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I laugh. “Everyone knows that.”

He grins a bit awkwardly. “Well, I hope they say nice things about me.”

I blush, suddenly feeling guilty for gossiping about him with Dani and the other girls at school. We always thought he was so arrogant, but we didn’t really know that much about him. “My best friend and I love your music,” I confess. “We never miss your recitals at Oorol.”

“So you like piano music?”

I nod mutely. His concerts have always been a joy to the ears. And eyes, admittedly – but I’d rather drop dead than divulge that information. I never even told Dani about ogling Royce on stage.

“Let’s listen to some more music,” he says, his voice and eyes eager. “I’m going to play side B, okay?”

“Sure.”

As we sit there and listen to
Heroes of Bones
,
Broken Mirror,
and
Labyrinth
, it dawns on me how bizarre and impossible this situation truly is. In equal parts, I’ve admired and hated this guy from afar for such a long time. And now I’m here, and we’re connecting and bickering and sharing a passion. And I know I’m screwed, because I haven’t felt this exhilarated in a long time.

B
y the time we call it a night, it is way past my usual bedtime on weekdays. I’ll be intolerable to be around tomorrow morning, but right now, I couldn’t care less. I spent an evening with the most handsome guy on Skylge and I heard the most beautiful songs ever. And he’s okay with sharing the mythical power of electricity with me. We’ve even agreed to a second ‘musical date’ on Friday afternoon before dinner time.

“Will you be all right?” Royce inquires as he gets into his car. “It’s pretty dark out.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Care to drop me off in Kinnum and draw out the entire village with your motorized vehicle?”

He looks away. “Just asking.”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” I raise my hand to my forehead in a mock-salute. “Will report for LP duty on Friday. No worries.”

“Good.” Royce waves once more, then slams the car door shut and drives off into the night, the high beams of his car illuminating the tall grass on either side of the road.

I wait until he’s gone before I start walking. My eyes need to get adjusted to the darkness once more. I spent hours under artificial lights and it feels like my retinas are burned because I’m not used to such bright light at such a late hour.

Just when I reach the edge of the abandoned village, I hear a sound. Someone is talking, and another voice is responding, but the second voice sounds strange, as though it is coming from a tin can. Both are male. The voices seem to be coming from an old shack close to my left.

A shiver down my spine makes me tremble. This smells fishy. If people are out at this hour and hanging around in an ancient, uninhabited village, they are probably up to no good.

I clench my hands into fists and stop in my tracks, ducking down when the door of the shack suddenly swings open on squeaky hinges. Oh Fosta – what will I do if these guys catch me here?

To my relief, the shadowy figure coming out of the old hut doesn’t even glance my way. Instead, the man – his friend must still be in the house – makes his way across the fields in the direction of Kinnum. My heart is tapping in my throat as I scramble up again and carefully follow him with my eyes, sticking to the cracked pavement of the old road on my way back. I stop breathing entirely, though, when the mysterious figure reaches the Main Road illuminated by gas lamps.

It’s my brother.

What is Sytse doing out this late? What’s more, what was he doing in Stortum? Could it be he saw me when I snuck out earlier? But if so, why would he hide in a shack instead of barging into Royce’s cottage to confront me with my lies?

I stop again, making sure Sytse can’t see me if he decides to look back now, and wait until he’s completely out of view. My brother is hiding something, and I wonder what it is.

By the time I get home, I’m dead beat from all the walking and the elation of the entire evening, but I still have trouble falling asleep. When I finally do, I dream about Sirens calling my brother out into the waves as Royce plays his strange, electric piano at the seaside. And I just stand there and watch, frozen in time.

––––––––

T
he next morning, I’m actually glad to be woken early by my faithful albatross. Since we still have leftover pancakes, I won’t have to worry about breakfast, so I might have some time to cycle back to Stortum and take a closer look at the mysterious hut Sytse was hanging around in.

“Hi there,” I say softly. The bird, now perched on the table next to our front door, cocks its head and observes me with its yellow eyes. When I extend my hand to offer the animal a bit of pancake, it hops backward and lets out a soft screech, almost as if to say: “Really?”

“Fine. Go catch some fish, then,” I reply, stuffing the rest of the pancake into my mouth.

The albatross lifts off and swoops around the house in a majestic circle before taking off in the direction of Stortum. My destination before I go to school.

By daylight, I feel much more confident on my way to the old village. If I bump into someone I don’t trust, I’ll just dish up some story about doing research for a history project. In fact, Mr. Buma still needs me to pick a topic. I might just as well do my essay about Stortum so I’ll have a reason to hang around here all the time.

I get off my bike next to the hut and swallow down my nerves.

From the outside, the shack looks as though it has fallen into disrepair, but when I gently push the door open and peer inside, it’s totally different. Neat and modern – very Current. I see a strange device on the table that is clearly electric, and my eyes linger on the two shelves lining the walls next. The books on them are antique. Is this some kind of secret library? And what’s with that thing on the dinner table?

No sign of anyone living here. Sytse’s mysterious friend must have left after him. I take a few hesitant steps inside and gawk at the book spines. These volumes were printed a long time ago. Some of them even seem to be hand-written. A leather tome with gilded lettering on the spine catches my eye. “From A Watery Grave,” it reads in the old Skylger tongue. I pull out the book and almost drop it because it is far heavier than I expected. I don’t think this is paper. The pages are more like the old parchment I saw once, at the museum in Brandaris.

When I open the book, I see that the handwriting looks ancient, too. This old-fashioned alphabet is no longer used by anyone. The Skylgian text in this tome must be at least three hundred years old, if not older.

A tiny tremor of excitement runs through me. I want this book. Just like I want to listen to the forbidden LP and hang out with a boy that’s out of my league. I want to be brave.

With trembling hands, I slip the book into my school bag and hoist it onto my back. Wincing, I wriggle my shoulders to make the weight more comfortable, but that’s pointless. The best thing would be to drop it off at home before going to school, but I’m running out of time. I’ll have to drag it with me to Brandaris and hide it in my room later.

“So, did you study your vocabulary lists?” Dani inquires when I hit the brakes and stop next to her. She’s eating an apple while balancing a German textbook on the left handle bar of her bike. Her forehead is creased with worry. “I think I’m gonna flunk this one.”