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NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE
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20-05-09 6M p3 |
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The Mermaid Season by Marilyn Thompson |
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Synopsis When Hope Finch is eaten by ‘mermaids’ in the fish-pools at Haven, her childhood friend Serenity accuses Jago, her one-time lover, of murder. Bent on revenge Serenity befriends a pagan priestess known as the Lady. She learns about a ritual sacrifice once held on Maiden Eve. The ritual is written in an ancient language that only the Lady can read. When the Lady dies, Serenity takes her place. She ignores tradition, and does so on Halloween; a time of dark power, and ill luck. Using the ambivalent power of the island, and three malevolent spirits in the shape of Punch, Judy and Policeman puppets, Serenity manipulates Hope’s son Endeavour into translating the ritual. Serenity plans to use the ritual to sacrifice Jago’s only daughter Lucy, to the mermaids. Obsessed by revenge Serenity is unaware that Vig Pascoe, Hope’s former boyfriend and Endeavour’s natural father, has become suspicious. Vig realises that Endeavour is involved in Serenity’s plans, and follows him down to the mermaid pools on Maiden Eve. Helped by the puppets and the power of the island, Vig rescues Lucy. He later discovers that Hope’s death was a drunken accident.
The Mermaid Season Spring 1 Trinity Island Lucy The weather’s been horrid ever since they left London. The early morning streets were full of puddles and rubbish. It had poured on the motorway, and it’s been raining on and off ever since. Now the window wipers move backwards and forwards against a steady drizzle, and water hangs in large grey drops from the wing mirrors. The air looks green, as if the car is floating at the bottom of a pond, not parked at the front of the chain ferry. From her seat in the back of the Lexus, Lucy can just see the pedestrian deck where the hikers go. It’s empty, the steps blocked by black and yellow tape, and a danger sign. To her left the bridge rises in a narrow metal castle above the main deck of the ferry. A battered blue Land Rover stands between it, and the Lexus. Leaning against the worn paint is a tall man with ratty blond hair, and a thin pale face. He’s wearing an old combat jacket; all green and brown splodges, like tree shadows. He’s smoking a roll up; cupping the cigarette in his hands to keep it out of the rain. Granny’d smoked roll ups. Golden Virginia kept in a green and gold tin with fancy letters on. Lucy remembers sitting curled up on the sofa as granny blew smoke rings at the ceiling, a glass of port at her elbow, and a book of old stories about the island open on her knees. “That’s a picture of the Lady and her Well,” granny said, her tobacco stained finger resting on a painting of a tall woman in a blue cloak standing before a large round pool with a stone rim, a bit like the fish pond in the back garden, but without the water lilies. When granny went into hospital for the last time, daddy gave all her books to the library. “You can go and see them whenever you like.” He told Lucy. But she never has. Mummy disapproves of books like that. Lucy knows. She’s heard them arguing about it. “But she wanted Lucy to have them.” Daddy said. “Your mother was senile.” Mummy replied “She didn’t know what she wanted.” Lucy leans her head against the window, watching the Pale Man. He’s digging around in his pockets. What for? He must have paid when he got on? He pulls out a coin, and takes three quick steps to the front of the ferry. His hand whips back. Lucy sees a brief bright flicker of silver as the coin tumbles into the water. The soft sound of his singing drifts like a summer breeze into the car. The rain stops. Just like that. Lucy sits up straight. That’s the Crossing Song. Granny taught it to her. She glances across at mummy. Did she hear anything? Mummy’s texting, her fingers jabbing the keypad like someone squashing ants. The chauffeur’s listening to his i-pod, his head nodding in time to the music. Lucy looks out of the window again. The Pale Man is still there; standing just a few inches away from the Lexus; smoking and staring out to sea. Daddy’s always telling her to keep away from strange men, but he doesn’t look dangerous, just odd and a bit scruffy, like the hippies that come over from the mainland at Midsummer and Maiden Eve. She could ask him to throw some money into the sea for her too. Granny would like that. Fumbling in the pocket of her cream linen jacket Lucy finds a fifty pence piece trapped in a fold of silk. She presses the window button. The glass winds down a few inches. Disturbed by the sudden draught, mummy looks up. “Now what are you up to?” “I feel a bit sick.” Lucy says, pulling a face and holding a hand to her mouth. Mummy slides further along the seat,. “For God’s sake,” she mutters, her eyes fixed on the mobile. “We’ve just had the car cleaned.” Stretching her hand out towards the Pale Man Lucy grabs the hem of the his jacket, and tugs hard. He ducks his head slightly, staring into the Lexus at an angle. Lucy holds out the coin. He hesitates. “Please,” Lucy mouths. He takes the fifty pence piece. Then he pauses. Afraid he’ll say something and disturb mummy Lucy shakes her head. He smiles, and strides to the front of the ferry. Lucy closes the window. Her hands are shaking. She shoves them inside her pockets and hopes mummy won’t see. She smiled at a stranger. She actually him gave him a coin, and nothing bad happened. Nothing at all. She hears the song again. The sun comes out, burning away the clouds to reveal a sea as flat, and as smooth as a mirror. Lucy closes her eyes against the glare. When she opens them again the island rises out of the sea like a bad dream. She can see the old coastguard’s cottage on the headland, and the Watchman at the end of the dunes, its flame red brick bright as a New Year beacon above the sand. Lucy bites back tears. The warning lights on the quay shine like red watchful eyes. She’s home.
…..and later on in chapter 2 Endy takes the bible over to the table. He opens it carefully, checking for scribbled curses and tell tale pentagrams. Most of the binding is original; black calfskin with a simple cross on the front, but the end papers have been replaced by a page from an eighteenth century fauna. A monkey hangs upside down from a branch. A snake slides across the bottom. The top left hand corner of the paper has lifted, revealing six black letters. Endy looks closer. The handwriting is clear, round, and familiar. He pulls open the drawer. Why can’t you find anything when you fucking well need it! Sellotape, drawing pins, blu-tak. Everything and anything but the fucking pen knife. “Shit!” He tips the contents onto the table and sees the knife all tangled up in a ball of string. He slices into the book, peels back the end paper, and releases the missing page. Grabbing a pen and a pad of paper he sifts out the chaff to reveal a single verse. He scribbles down the translation: Send me a Boy To call them hence. Send me a Girl With time to dance. Send me a Maid For blood and for bone; All bringing the Mermaids safely home. A sacrifice. So the books are right. Did granddad believe the stories? The old man was a bigoted evangelical bastard, so why pollute holy scripture by hiding a pagan ritual inside a bible? Too scared of the consequences if he destroyed it perhaps? Or is the bible a charm against evil; one strengthened by its association with the Witch Finder? Endy looks at the parchment again and spots a single line placed like an afterthought at the bottom: The handwriting is small and spiky, the ink a faded blue instead of black, and the letters hard to read. Endy holds it up to the desk lamp: So you speak it, it will be. The words sit like a dare in the circle of light. Shit why not! Say it out loud and see what happens. So he does, in the original language. Because it feels right. The light dims. The floor buckles beneath his feet. He grabs frantically at the table. He feels the chill grip of water around his neck. The room reeks of salt and seaweed. There’s blood in his mouth. Then the phantom wave retreats, leaving him washed up, gasping, against the stacks on the opposite side of the room. A crack splits the granite flagstones from one end of the archive to the other. The windows ripple within their frames. Distorted by the glass, moonlight quivers across the floor. Volumes shift and settle upon the shelves like buildings in the aftershock of a quake. The crack closes slowly, leaving a thin pale scar on the stone. Endy feels the floor, his clothes, his face, and can’t believe they’re dry. He staggers upright. Clinging to the shelves for support he makes his way slowly around the archive to the desk. Lurching the last few feet he collapses into the chair. It swings violently with the impact. Pitching forward he vomits into the red plastic wastepaper bin underneath the table. He rests his forehead on his arms, and closes his eyes... |