Syren (32 page)

Wolf Boy and Lucy’s story was drawing to a close. They
told how they had set out across the stepping stones to seek help from the people that Miarr had seen standing on top of the Pinnacle earlier that day. “Who’d have thought it was you?” Lucy giggled.

The story ended and the group around the fire fell quiet. Septimus watched the steady progress of the ship.

“You okay, Sep?” Jenna asked after a while.

“There’s a ship,” he said, pointing out to sea. “Look.”

Four heads turned to look, and four pairs of eyes that had been staring into the bright embers of the fire could see nothing.

“Sep, you need some sleep. Your eyes are playing tricks again,” said Jenna.

It was the last straw. Angrily Septimus sprang to his feet. “You just don’t get it, do you?” he said. “You sit there, laughing and making stupid noises like nothing’s happened, blind to what’s right in
front
of you.” Without another word, he strode off up the beach, back to the dunes.

“Sep—” said Beetle, getting up to go after him.

Jenna tugged Beetle back down beside her. “Let him go,” she said. “Sometimes Sep just needs to be on his own. He’ll be fine in the morning.”

Septimus reached the dunes and his temper evaporated in the darkness. He stood for a moment, half-tempted to go back to the comforting glow of the fire on the beach and his friends sitting around it. But Septimus had had enough of backing down for one night. He decided to climb to the top of the dunes and watch the ship. He would prove he was right—if only to himself.

He scrambled up through the dunes and soon emerged onto the firmer ground of the central spit of land. He stopped and caught his breath. It was beautiful. The sky was clear and a shower of stars frosted the night. The tide was gently ebbing, leaving sandbars glistening in the moonlight, revealing for a few hours a secret pattern of ancient roads. Roads that had belonged to the people who had lived on the island long ago, before the floods came and divided one island into seven.

Septimus shaded his eyes and looked for the ship, half expecting that he had imagined it and that now he would see nothing. But there it was, much closer now, the moonlight picking out the white of the sails. It seemed to him to be sailing straight for the island. He was about to rush down to the beach to tell the others when, out of the corner of his eye, he
saw a line of blue lights glimmering through the trees at the top of the hill. He threw himself to the ground.

Septimus lay hidden in the grass, hardly daring to breathe. He watched the lights, waiting for them to move down the hill toward him, but they stayed in exactly the same place. Finally he figured out what the lights were—the line of little windows at the very top of the Peepe. As Septimus lay wondering what they could mean, he saw a roll of mist begin to emerge from the trees below the Peepe and tumble down the hill to the sea. He shivered. The air around him suddenly felt cold and the mist was oddly purposeful, as though it were on its way to an appointment.

Septimus got to his feet. Suddenly the combination of fire and friends were irresistible. He ran back down through the dunes, and in front of him the mist spread along the shore and began to tumble across the water, thickening as it went. The beach was already engulfed in mist, but the reddish glow from the fire guided him back.

Breathless, he reached the fire. Beetle was busy throwing on more wood.

“Wotcha, Sep.” He grinned, relieved to see Septimus. “We’ll keep this going tonight. This mist is
weird
.”

N
icko was at the wheel
of the
Cerys
. It was a beautiful night; the moon was rising in the sky and a myriad of stars were shining down on the elegant, finely tuned ship. The wind was perfect, it blew steadily, sending the ship singing through the waves. Exhilarated, Nicko breathed in the salt air of the sea—the sea that he had dreamed of for such a very, very long time and had been so
afraid he would never see again. He could hardly believe that he was now back in his own Time, at the wheel of the most beautiful ship he had ever seen, heading for home. Nicko knew that he would remember this moment for the rest of his life.

The purposeful motion of the ship and the swell of the indigo-blue water, carrying fleeting glimpses of phosphorescence, soothed away Nicko’s frayed and frazzled edges. The
Cerys
responded easily to his turns on the wheel, the wind perfectly filling her sails. Nicko glanced up at the sails and then smiled at Snorri, his navigator. Snorri was leaning against the rail, her long fair hair blowing in the breeze, her green eyes sparkling with excitement. Beside her stood Ullr, black and sleek in his nighttime guise as a panther. Feeling Nicko’s gaze upon her, Snorri turned around and smiled.

“We did it, Snorri.
We did it!
” Nicko laughed. “And look at us now!”

“We are lucky,” Snorri said simply. “
So
lucky.”

This was the first night that Milo had left Nicko in sole charge of the ship. The previous night, the first mate—a cynical man who considered the gangly, unkempt Nicko Heap far too young to have control of the
Cerys
—had stood observing
Nicko’s every move as he steered the ship steadily through the waves, looking for the slightest error to report back to Milo. But to his chagrin he found none. He saw Nicko steer a steady course, reacting perfectly to the wind. He watched him take the
Cerys
safely past a trio of fishing boats with their nets spread wide under the brilliant moon and, much to the first mate’s surprise, steering an unflustered course through a pod of whales, their dark massive backs like islands in the night.

The first mate may have been a cynical man, but he was also an honest man. He told his master that Nicko was a surprisingly competent helmsman and if only the boy were ten years older he would have no objection to him taking charge of the
Cerys
on the night passage. Milo—who had been filled in on the peculiarities of the House of Foryx by Jenna—thought that, all things considered, Nicko was probably older than the entire ship’s company put together, and so he had left Nicko in sole charge of the helm on the second night of their voyage back to the Castle.

And so Nicko was king of the waves. The fresh smell of the sea filled his nose, his lips tasted of salt spray and his eyes roamed over the wide-open horizon unfettered by walls, unclouded by candle smoke. Below him were the wild depths of the ocean
and above him was the glitter dust of stars, with nothing but a thin blanket of air lying between Nicko Heap and the entire universe. Nicko’s head swam with joy at his freedom.

But Nicko’s delight did not take away an ounce of his concentration from the task—to steer the
Cerys
safely through the night until the first Day Watch helmsman took over at sunrise.

Nicko knew the night’s passage plan by heart. He was to steer a southwesterly course, 210 degrees by the compass, until the loom of the CattRokk Light was visible on the horizon. The first mate had told Nicko and Snorri the lighthouse was easily identified—it looked like a cat. The light was fixed and shone from two “eyes”—though until you drew near, it looked like one. To complete the cat impression, the tower was topped with two earlike protuberances. Nicko was intrigued at the first mate’s description of the CattRokk Light. If he had heard it from anyone else he would have thought it was a joke, but Nicko could tell that the first mate was not a man who made jokes.

Nicko would head for the lighthouse until the one “eye” became two, and then turn the
Cerys
to the south and steer a course 80 degrees by the compass. This would take the
ship close to another lighthouse—with ears but no light—which the first mate had assured Nicko he would be able to see, because by then the moon would be at its height. At a bearing of 270 degrees to the dark lighthouse, Nicko was to steer a southeasterly course, which should—wind and tide permitting—take the
Cerys
straight to the Double Dune Light.

It was not the most straightforward of courses, but Nicko was confident that he and Snorri could do it. The first mate had annoyed him by insisting three times that they must
not on any account
take the
Cerys
southeast of the CattRokk Light, toward the island that lay beyond. Nicko had replied that if he could avoid a whale, he thought he could probably manage to steer clear of an island.

Suddenly Snorri’s excited cry broke through Nicko’s thoughts. “There it is! I can see the loom. Look!”

From the lookout in the crow’s nest came an echoing shout, “CattRokk dead ahead!”

Sure enough, on the horizon Nicko saw a misty diffusion of light, almost like the glimmerings of the sunrise—and the
Cerys
was headed straight toward the glow.

Nicko felt elated. For all his apparent confidence, he had
been worried that he might steer too southerly a course and miss the CattRokk Light completely. He glanced down at the heavy globe of the compass rocking gently in its binnacle and smiled—the needle was steady at 210 degrees exactly.

The
Cerys
cut through the waves, heading toward the glow, which crept above the horizon and became ever brighter. It was, Nicko thought, not quite as he had anticipated. The CattRokk Light was known for its great height, and yet the light appeared much nearer to the water than he had expected.

As they sailed on Nicko became increasingly concerned—something was not right. He had expected to see the tall tower of the CattRokk Light by now, but there was still nothing but a bright light shining in the distance. The moon disappeared behind a large cloud, and the night seemed suddenly dark. Nicko glanced yet again at the compass; the needle held steady, shivering slightly as compass needles do, above the marker for 210 degrees. They were on course—it did not make sense.

“Snorri, can you see CattRokk yet?” he asked anxiously.

“No, Nicko. It is strange. This is not like the chart, I think,” said Snorri.

A shout suddenly came from the lookout above. “Fog ahead!”

Nicko was shocked. The night was crisp and clear, most definitely not the kind of night he would have expected fog. “Fog?” he shouted up.

“Aye, sir,” was the reply. “Comin’ this way.”

Nicko had never seen anything like it. A bank of fog was rolling across the sea toward them like a long white tidal wave. In a moment it had wrapped the ship in its chilly, dripping blanket of damp. It spiraled up the masts, enfolded the sails and smothered all sound, so that Nicko never heard the lookout’s surprised shout of, “CattRokk Light sighted! Dark—it’s
dark
, sir!”

Syrah sat in the Peepe, perched in the little metal chair at the top of the rickety ladder, creaking and grinding around and around in circles as it traveled its endless journey along the rusty rails. A bright blue light filled the whiteness of the Peepe, and as Nicko’s ship drew level with the blind eyes of the CattRokk Light, Syrah threw back her head and opened her mouth. From somewhere deep inside her a beautiful, sweet, enchanting voice sang out. The notes did not die away
as normal voices do but hung in the air, waiting for more to join them. As Syrah sang, the sounds formed eddies in the air inside the Peepe—tumbling and twisting into a whirlpool of song, growing louder and stronger with each circuit, sweeping around the walls, gathering itself until at last it flew from the windows like a bird, into the night air, across the sea, heading toward the full-sailed ship in the moonlight.

As the fog covered his eyes, Nicko’s ears were filled with a song more beautiful than he had imagined possible. Deep inside the song he heard his name, “Nicko, Nicko,
Ni
cko…”

“Snorri?” Nicko asked.

“Nicko, where are you?”

“Here. I am here. Did you call me?”

“No.” Snorri’s voice was strained. “Nicko, we must drop the anchor. Now. It is dangerous to proceed. We cannot see where we are going.”

Nicko did not reply.

“Nicko…
Nicko
…” sang the voice, filling the air with delight and his heart with a wonderful feeling of coming home at last.

“Nicko…Nicko…come to me, Nicko,” the song sang so sweetly. A soft smile spread across Nicko’s face. It was true;
he was indeed coming home. Coming home to the place where he truly belonged, to the place he had been searching for all his life.

Suddenly, much to Nicko’s irritation, Snorri’s urgent voice broke through his reverie. “Anchor!
Drop the anchor!
”

Nicko thought Snorri was being very tedious. There was a sound of footsteps below, but Nicko did not care. All that mattered now was the Enchanting song.

“Land Ho!” came the lookout’s shout from above.
“Land Ho!”

“Nicko!” Snorri screamed out. “Rocks! Bear away
now
. Now!”

Nicko did not respond.

Snorri looked at Nicko in horror and saw his unfocused eyes gazing into the distance. Snorri, a Spirit-Seer, knew at once that Nicko was Enchanted. She hurled herself at him and tried to wrest the wheel from him. Nicko shook her off. He grasped the wheel tight and the
Cerys
sailed on.

“Ullr, Ullr, help!” gasped Snorri. Ullr’s green eyes lit up; the panther bounded up to Nicko and opened his mouth. “Ullr, pull him away. No, don’t
bite
. Quickly—I
must
have the wheel.” But as Ullr took a mouthful of Nicko’s tunic, a
great shudder ran through the ship and, a few fathoms below, the keel plowed a deep furrow into a sandbank and the
Cerys
ground to a juddering halt.

Still at his post on Star Island, Jakey Fry peered into the thickening mist, scared that he might miss something. He watched the night lantern set atop the main mast of the
Cerys
sail past like a small boat cast adrift on a strange white sea and accompanied by a horrible grinding sound, he saw it shudder to a halt and topple from the mast.

Jakey leaped from the rock and, skidding on some loose stones, he hurtled down the hill to the tiny deep-water harbor on the hidden side of Star Island, where the
Marauder
was docked. The goat-eyed ghost was lounging aggressively on the harbor wall, while Skipper Fry and the Crowes were sitting awkwardly on the deck of the
Marauder
. It looked like a very uncomfortable tea party—without the tea. Suddenly Jakey was glad that he had been on watch on his own.

A shower of small stones skittered onto the narrow quayside and Passed Through the ghost. The ghost jumped up and glared at Jakey with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t…
ever
…do…that…
again
,” the ghost intoned
very slowly.

It was the most threatening voice that Jakey Fry had ever heard in his life. Goose bumps ran down his neck and it was all he could do not to turn tail and run. He stopped in his tracks and managed to squeak, “The ship—she just grounded.”

Skipper Fry looked relieved. He and the Crowes jumped to their feet as though an unwelcome guest was at last leaving.

“We’re off,” Skipper Fry told his son. “Get down here and let go of the rope.”

Jakey dithered, unwilling to go anywhere near the terrifying ghost who was standing right beside the bollard with the rope on it. But the ghost solved the problem for him—it began to walk slowly along the quay to the steps at the end.

At the top of the steps, the ghost stopped and pointed a menacing finger at Skipper Fry. “You have the Talisman?” it said in a hollow voice that gave Jakey more goose bumps all over.

“Yes, sir,” said Skipper Fry.

“Show me.”

Skipper Fry removed the leather pouch that Una Brakket had given him from his trouser pocket.

“
Show
me,” insisted the ghost.

With trembling, clumsy fingers, Skipper Fry extricated something from the wallet.

“Good. And the words? I want to see you have the idiot’s version,” snarled the ghost.

More fumbling produced a water-stained piece of paper with a phonetic incantation scrawled on it.

“Here, sir. It’s here,” said Skipper Fry.

“Good. Remember—accent on the first syllable of each word.”

“On the first…
sill
?”

The ghost sighed. “The first
part
of the word. As in
don
key-brain. Got that?”

“Yes, sir. I got that, sir.”

“Now, put it back in your pocket and
don’t lose it
.”

The ghost turned and walked down the harbor steps, continuing—to Jakey’s surprise—into the sea. As its head disappeared below the water, the words, “I’ll be watching you,
Fry
,” drifted through the mist.