Syren (24 page)

I
t was both.
Miarr, human but CatConnected many generations from the past, was fighting for his life.

Miarr was a small, slight man who weighed little—five Miarrs equaled the weight of Fat Crowe, and two Miarrs equaled the weight of Thin Crowe.

Which meant that against the Crowe twins, Miarr was effectively outnumbered seven to one.

Miarr had been on the Watching platform when the Crowes and
Jakey Fry had staggered in with their ropes and thrown them to the floor. Miarr had asked what the ropes were for and was told, “Nothin’ fer yer to bother about—not where yer going.”

One look at Jakey Fry’s terrified face told Miarr all he needed to know. He had scuttled up the foot-pole (a pole with footrests placed on either side), thrown open a trapdoor and taken refuge in a place that normally no one would have dared to follow—the Arena of the Light.

The Arena of the Light was the circular space at the very top of the lighthouse. In the center of the circle burned the Sphere of Light—a large, round sphere of brilliant white light. The Light was encircled by a narrow white marble walkway. Behind the Light, on the island side of the lighthouse, was a huge, curved plate of gleaming silver, which Miarr polished every day. On the seaward side were two enormous glass lenses, which Miarr also polished every day. The lenses were set a few feet back from the two almond-shaped openings—the eyes—through which the Light was focused. The eyes were four times the height of Miarr and six times as long. They were open to the sky and, as Miarr slammed the trapdoor shut and fastened it down, a fresh summer breeze
scented with sea blew in and made the cat-man feel sad. He wondered if this would be the very last morning he would ever smell the sea air.

The only hope that Miarr had was that the Crowes would be too scared to come up to the Arena of the Light. After many generations Miarr’s family had adapted to the Light by growing secondary dark eyelids—LightLids—through which they could see without being blinded by the Light. But anyone without that protection who looked straight at the Light would find that its brilliance seared the eyes and left scars in the center of vision so that, forevermore, they would see the shape of the Sphere of Light in a black absence of vision.

But when a battering began on the underside of the trapdoor, Miarr knew his hope was in vain. He crouched beside the Light and listened to the
thud
s of Thin Crowe’s fists on the flimsy metal of the trapdoor, which was made only to be Light-tight, not Crowe-proof. He knew it would not last long.

Suddenly the trapdoor flew off its hinges, and Miarr saw Thin Crowe’s shaven head sticking through the hole in the walkway, wearing two dark blue ovals of glass over his eyes, looking like one of the giant insects that invaded his worst nightmares. Miarr was terrified—he realized that whatever it
was the Crowes were about to do had been carefully planned. Thin Crowe pulled himself onto the walkway, and Miarr waited, determined that whichever way Thin Crowe came at him, he would go the other. They could go on a long time like that, he thought. But Miarr’s hopes were suddenly dashed. Fat Crowe’s head, complete with insect eyes, appeared through the trapdoor. With utter horror—and amazement—Miarr watched Thin Crowe heave his brother through the tiny hole and pull him out onto the walkway where he lay, winded, like a blubbery fish on a slab.

Miarr closed his eyes. This, he thought, is the end of Miarr.

Now the Crowes began their party piece—the Pincer-
Splat
. It was something that they had practiced down many a dark alley in the Port. The Pincer began when, very slowly, they would approach a terrified victim from either side. The victim would watch one, then the other, trying desperately to figure out which way to run—then, at the very moment of decision, the Crowes would pounce.
Splat
.

And so it was with Miarr. He shrank back against the wall opposite the trapdoor and, through his LightLids, he watched his nightmares come true: slowly, slowly, stepping carefully
along the marble walkway, with tight little smiles and fingers flexing, the Crowes came at him from both sides, inexorably drawing closer.

The Crowes herded Miarr toward the eyes of the lighthouse, as he had known they would. Finally he stood in the space between the eyes, his back to the wall, and he wondered which eye they would throw him out of. He cast a glance at the rocks far below. It was a long way down, he thought—a very long way down. He said a silent good-bye to his Light.

Splat!
The Crowes pounced. Working in harmony—the only time they ever did—they grabbed Miarr and lifted him high. Miarr let out a yowl of terror and, way down the lighthouse, on the fourth platform, Lucy and Wolf Boy heard it and got goose bumps. The Crowes, surprised at the lightness of the cat-man, were caught off-balance. Twisting and spitting—more like a snake than a cat—Miarr flew out of their grasp, up in the air, out through the left eye and into the empty sky. For a fraction of a second—which felt like an eternity to Miarr—he hung poised between the Crowes’ throw and gravity’s pull. He saw four bizarre images of himself reflected in the Crowes’ insect eyes: he was apparently flying and screaming at the same time. He saw his precious Sphere of Light for
what he was sure would be the last time, and then he saw the rush of black as the wall of the lighthouse flashed past him at—literally—breakneck speed.

Catlike, Miarr automatically turned so that he faced the ground and, as he fell, the rush of wind forced his arms and legs into a star shape, causing his sealskin cloak to spread out like a pair of bat’s wings. Miarr’s plummet turned to a gentle glide and—had a gust of wind not knocked him against the side of the lighthouse—he would very likely have landed on the
Marauder
, directly below.

And so it was that Miarr used up one more of his original nine lives—leaving six remaining (he had used one when he was a baby and had fallen in the harbor and another when his cousin had disappeared).

Lucy and Wolf Boy did not hear the sickening
thud
of Miarr hitting the lighthouse wall. It was masked by the
clang
of Theodophilus Fortitude Fry’s approaching footsteps. Lucy and Wolf Boy had not moved from the landing. The terrible yowl from above had sent a chill through both of them and, as Skipper Fry’s steps neared the final turn up to the landing, Wolf Boy whispered, “It will be us next.”

Wide-eyed, Lucy nodded.

Wolf Boy pushed against the door behind them and, to his surprise, it opened. Quickly he and Lucy slipped inside and found themselves in a small room furnished with three sets of bare bunks and a locker-like cupboard. Silently Wolf Boy closed the door and began to bolt it, but once again Lucy stopped him.

“He’ll know for sure that we’re in here if you do that,” she whispered. “Our only chance is for him to look and not find us. That way he’ll think we’ve gone on ahead.”

The footsteps drew nearer.

Wolf Boy thought fast. He knew that Lucy was right. He also knew that Theodophilus Fortitude Fry was bound to search every inch of the bunkroom, and he didn’t see where Lucy thought they could hide. The tiers of metal bunks were devoid of any covering—including mattresses—and the only place that offered any concealment was the locker, where the skipper was sure to look.

The footsteps stopped on the landing.

Wolf Boy grabbed hold of Lucy, pushed her into the locker, squeezed in behind her and closed the door. Lucy looked aghast.
What did you do that for?
she mouthed.
He’s bound to look in here.

“Did you have any better ideas?” hissed Wolf Boy.

“Jump him,” said Lucy. “Hit him on the head.”

“Shh.”
Wolf Boy put his finger to his lips. “Trust me.”

Lucy thought that she didn’t have a lot of choice. She heard the door to the bunkroom open and the heavy footsteps of the skipper clump inside. They stopped right outside the locker, and the sound of labored wheezing came through the flimsy door.

“Yer can come right outta there,” came the skipper’s rasp. “I got better things a do than play drattin’ hide-an’-seek.”

There was no response.

“I’m telling yer both. Yer’ve had it easy up till now. But it’ll be the worse for yer if yer don’t come out.”

The door handle rattled angrily.

“Yer’ve had yer chance. Don’t say I didn’t tell yer.”

The door was thrown open.

Lucy opened her mouth to scream.

T
heodophilus Fortitude Fry threw
open the locker door. He was met by a strangled squeak.

“Got ya!” he crowed triumphantly. And then, “Oh, ratbutts, where
are
they?” Puzzled, the skipper stared into the oddly shifting gloom of the locker—he could have
sworn
those kids were in there.

Peering over Wolf Boy’s shoulder, Lucy saw the skipper’s confused expression and realized that
he could not see them
. Amazed, she quickly stifled another strangled
squawk and took care not to move a muscle. She noticed now that Wolf Boy was incredibly still. She could almost feel the waves of concentration coming from him, and she was sure that
he
was the reason that the skipper couldn’t see them. There was more to Wolf Boy than met the eye, Lucy decided. In fact, right then there was apparently nothing of Wolf Boy that met the eye of the skipper—and nothing of her, either. It was the oddest thing. Just to make sure, she stuck out her tongue at Theodophilus Fortitude Fry. There was not a flicker of reaction, except—
his left eyebrow began to twitch
.

Lucy stifled a giggle. Skipper Fry’s eyebrow looked like a big, furry caterpillar and the parrot on his neck twitched as though it was about to eat it.

Wolf Boy had not noticed the eyebrow or the parrot. He was concentrating hard. Just as Aunt Zelda had taught Jenna, Septimus and Nicko a small Basyk Magyk range of protective Spells, she had recently done the same for Wolf Boy. Wolf Boy had not found them easy, but he had listened carefully and practiced every day. And now, for the very first time, he was using his UnSeen Shield for real—and it worked.

And so, when Theodophilus Fortitude Fry peered into the locker, he saw nothing more than a slight eddy in the
darkness—but he knew there was Magyk in there. Skipper Fry had come up against a fair bit of Magyk in his eventful life, and it did a strange thing—it made his left eyebrow twitch.

Skipper Fry was a great believer in solving problems in a practical manner, and so now he took the practical route: he went to put his hand inside the locker and check that it was indeed as empty as it appeared. As he reached in, an unaccountable terror suddenly overwhelmed him—a terror of getting his hand bitten off by a wolverine. A rash of goose bumps ran down his neck, and Theodophilus Fortitude Fry quickly pulled back his hand. Then he stopped. He
knew
he had heard a squeak inside the locker. Too scared to put his hand back inside, Skipper Fry hoped that maybe it was the locker door. He began to push the door back and forth, back and forth. The first time it made no noise, but suddenly Lucy Gringe realized what was going on, and the door squeaked obligingly in all the right places.

Theodophilus Fortitude Fry gave up. He had more important business to think about than the whereabouts of a couple of scruffy kids. They could stay in the wretched lighthouse and rot for all he cared. Angrily he slammed the door, stomped out of the bunkroom and continued the long
climb to the top of the lighthouse.

Wolf Boy and Lucy fell out of the locker in a fit of silent giggles.

“How did you
do
that?” gasped Lucy. “It was
amazing
. He didn’t see a
thing
!”

“I couldn’t believe it when you started squeaking,” whispered Wolf Boy. “That was
so
good!”

“Yep, that was fun—
oh, oh, oooooooh
…”

“
Shh
, you don’t have to show me how you did it. He’ll hear. Ouch! Let go of my arm.”

“There’s something coming in the window,” hissed Lucy.
“Look!”

“Oh!”

Wolf Boy and Lucy shrank back. A pair of delicate hands, bloodied and bruised, with once-long, curved nails now broken and bent were clutching onto the bunkhouse’s tiny windowsill. As Lucy and Wolf Boy watched, the battered hands edged forward, little by little, until the fingers found the inside ledge and curled themselves around it. Seconds later Miarr’s neat sealskin-clad head appeared framed in the oval window, his face grim with fear. He pulled himself up and, like a bat squeezing in under the eaves, he swarmed through
the window and fell into an exhausted heap on the floor.

Lucy Gringe was at Miarr’s side in a moment. She looked at the slightly furred face, the closed almond-shaped eyes and the odd little pointy ears that protruded from the sealskin cap and was not sure whether the cap was part of him or not. She glanced up at Wolf Boy. “What
is
it?” she whispered.

Wolf Boy’s hair bristled. There was the smell of cat about the man, but the collapsed form on the floor reminded him of a bat more than anything. “Dunno,” he whispered. “I think it’s probably human.”

Miarr’s yellow eyes flicked open like a pair of shutters, and he put a finger to his lips.
“Shhh…”
he shushed them. Lucy and Wolf Boy fell back in surprise.

“What?” whispered Lucy.

“Shhhhhhh,”
repeated Miarr urgently. Miarr knew that sounds in the lighthouse traveled in the strangest ways. You could have a conversation on the Watching platform with someone at the foot of the lighthouse and feel as if they were right next to you. He also knew that as soon as the sound of the skipper’s clanging footsteps ceased, the Crowes would easily hear the whispers from the bunkroom. And something told him that these two bedraggled creatures in the bunkroom
(Lucy and Wolf Boy did not look their best) did not wish to be discovered either. But he had to make certain. Miarr struggled to sit up.

“You…with them?” He pointed upward.

Lucy shook her head. “No
way
.”

Miarr smiled, which had the odd effect of waggling his pointy little ears and showing two long lower canine teeth, which edged up over his top lip. Lucy looked at Miarr, and a horrible thought crossed her mind.

“Did they throw you off the top?” she asked.

Miarr nodded.

“Murderers,” muttered Wolf Boy.

“We’ll help you,” Lucy told Miarr. “If we hurry we can get down and take their boat and leave them all up there. Then they can chuck each other off and do us all a favor.”

Miarr shook his head. “No. I will never leave my Light,” came his faint, whispery voice. “But you—you must go.”

Lucy looked uncertain. She knew that precious minutes were ticking away, that at any moment they might hear four pairs of boots clanging back down the steps to find them, but she was loath to leave the battered little man on his own to face—who knew what?

“If he wants to stay, then that’s up to him,” whispered Wolf Boy. “You heard what he said, we
must
go. Come on, Lucy, it’s our only chance.”

Regretfully Lucy turned to go.

A low hiss came from the little man huddled on the floor. “Miarr says fare-you-well,” he whispered.

“Miarr?” asked Lucy.

“Miarr,” whispered the cat-man, sounding more cat than man.

“Oh,” said Lucy, hanging back. “Oh, you sound just like my lovely old cat.”

“Come on, Lucy,” Wolf Boy whispered urgently from the landing. With a regretful backward glance, Lucy ran after him, but as she joined him a loud clanging from above heralded the descent of Theodophilus Fortitude and Jakey Fry. Wolf Boy swore under his breath. They were too late.

Wolf Boy pulled Lucy back into the shadows of the bunkroom. Very quietly he pushed the door so that the collapsed figure of the cat-man could not be glimpsed if—by any stroke of luck—Jakey and the skipper went straight by. With their hearts pounding, Lucy and Wolf Boy waited as the footsteps clattered around and around the metal stairs, drawing ever
nearer. Theodophilus Fortitude Fry was obviously a lot better at coming down stairs than going up—in less than a minute, Lucy and Wolf Boy heard his heavy footsteps reach the landing. Everyone in the bunkroom froze.

Theodophilus Fortitude Fry did not even break his pace. He thudded past the bunkroom door, closely followed by Jakey, and headed down the next flight of steps. Lucy and Wolf Boy broke into smiles of relief, and even Miarr allowed a couple of canines to show. They waited until the
clang
of the door far below told them that the skipper and his son had left the lighthouse.

Then, far above, at the top of the lighthouse, a series of loud, rhythmic
thud
s began. Miarr glanced up, his yellow eyes worried. The sounds were coming through the open window—something was banging against the outside wall.

Painfully, Miarr sat up. He drew out a key from the depths of his cloak and handed it to Lucy. “You can still escape,” he whispered. “Use the rescue boat. There are two doors under the stairs where you came in. One black, one red. Use the red; it will take you to the launching platform. There are instructions on the wall. Read them carefully. Good luck.”

Thud
…
thump
. The sounds were getting closer.

Lucy took the key. “Thank you. Thank you very much,” she whispered.

Ther
…
ump
.

Miarr nodded. “Fare-you-well,” he said.

Thud
…
thump
…
clang
. The sounds drew ever closer.

“Come with us, Mr. Miarr.
Please
,” said Lucy.

Miarr shook his head. A particularly loud
clang
shook the wall of the bunkroom. A shaft of blinding white light flooded through the window, and Miarr let out a yell.

“My Light! Look away, look away!”

Lucy and Wolf Boy shielded their eyes, and Miarr lowered his LightLids. Like an enormous pendulum, the dazzling Sphere of Light, encased in a harness of ropes tied with knots that only sailors know, swung into view.

“They are taking my Light,” Miarr said, gasping in disbelief.

Slowly the Light was lowered past, swinging in and out of view, banging against the sides of the lighthouse as it went. With each thud Miarr winced as if in pain. Finally he could not bear it. He threw himself to the floor, drew his sealskin cloak up over his eyes and curled into a ball.

Lucy and Wolf Boy were made of sterner stuff. They ran to the window, but Miarr raised his head and let out a warning
hiss. “
Ssss!
Wait until the Light is farther away,” he whispered. “Then cover your eyes and look through your fingers. Do not look directly at it. And then…oh, please tell me what they are doing with my Light.” He curled back into a ball and pulled his cloak over his head.

Impatiently Lucy and Wolf Boy waited until the bumping against the side of the lighthouse wall grew fainter and then, covering their eyes with their hands and peering between their fingers, they looked out. Above them, dark against the bright sky, they saw the bizarre sight of the Crowe twins’ insect-eyed heads sticking out from each of the lighthouse’s eyes as they carefully played out the ropes, lowering Miarr’s precious Sphere of Light to the ground.

Carefully, Lucy and Wolf Boy looked down. Far below they saw Skipper Fry and Jakey. Skipper Fry was waving his arms like a demented windmill, directing the final few feet of the Sphere of Light’s descent so that it came to rest on the rocks just above the
Marauder
.

Lucy and Wolf Boy suddenly ducked back inside, and the swish of ropes falling from the top of the lighthouse filled the bunkroom. The metallic
clank
of the steps began once more. An angry hiss from Miarr was lost in the ring of steel-tipped
boots as the Crowes passed by without a glance.

For the next half hour, Lucy and Wolf Boy gave Miarr a running commentary on what they saw. Each comment was greeted by a low moan. They watched the Sphere of Light, still encircled with ropes, being rolled to the edge of the rocks and thrown into the water. It landed with a
splash
, then bobbed up like a fisherman’s float, the bright light turning the water around it a beautiful translucent green. They saw the Crowes set to work securing the ropes running from the Light to the stern of the
Marauder
, and when Skipper Fry was satisfied with the result, clamber aboard. Lastly they watched Jakey Fry loose the mooring rope and jump aboard. Jakey raised the sails, and the
Marauder
set off, its bizarre prize bobbing along behind it like a giant beach ball.

Lucy and Wolf Boy watched it go. “It looks like they have stolen the moon,” whispered Lucy.

Miarr heard. “They have stolen the
sun
,” he wailed. “My sun.” He let out a desperate howl, which sent goose bumps down their spines.

“Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
he shrieked. “I would rather die than see them take my Light.”

Lucy left the window. She kneeled beside Miarr, who was
still curled up in a little sealskin ball looking, she thought, like a large hedgehog that had shed its prickles.

“Don’t be so silly,” she told him. “Of course you wouldn’t. Anyway, you
didn’t
see it. You’ve been lying there with your eyes closed.”

“I do not need to see. I feel it. Here.” Miarr’s fist clenched over his chest. “They have ripped out my heart and sailed it away. Oh, I wish I were dead.
Dead!
”