Magnus Fin and the Moonlight Mission (2 page)

Aquella was doing her homework when Fin came home. Aquella was always doing homework. Magnus Fin’s selkie cousin had come ashore five months earlier, so she was still getting used to being a land girl. Although the cottage was small, Fin’s parents had managed to make her a bedroom in the attic with a window to the sea. Fin had helped her decorate it with shells and driftwood and brightly coloured scarves. The tattered blue dress she had worn when she first came ashore had been turned into a cushion.

After a delicious tea of fish, chips and apple crumble, Fin asked Aquella if she wanted to see his brand new beachcombing treasures: a kittiwake’s skull and a pheasant’s tail feather.

“OK, but then I have to practise sums or else I’ll be in primary school for ever.”

“What creatures under the sea can write?” Magnus Fin asked his cousin, as soon as they were both propped up on his boat-like bed.

“None as far as I know,” she said, staring up at the brown fishing net that hung above Magnus Fin’s bed. Aquella frowned. She liked her cousin’s room, which they called Neptune’s Cave. She loved the shells and driftwood, his shark posters and his treasure collection.
But she didn’t like the net.

Fin nudged her. “But what about selkies when they’re in their human skin? Can they write? Think hard, Aquella, it’s really important.”

Aquella thought hard. She brought strands of her long black hair up to her nose and smelt it.

“Well?”

“Mostly we danced. That’s what I remember.” Her green eyes shone with the memory. “And we stared at humans sometimes because we were fascinated by them. We hid behind rocks and watched people and sometimes we ran up into fields for fun and picked flowers.” She laughed, her voice like a bubbling waterfall. “Sometimes we played tricks on people. We’d throw shells or pebbles into the water and make funny noises, then the humans would get frightened and run away. The best thing was if music was playing somewhere, then we’d hide and listen to it. But writing? I’ve never heard of that before. If I already knew how to read and write, school would be much easier.”

Fin pulled a face and scratched his chin.

“Why, Fin?” she went on, prodding his arm. “Who wrote to you?”

“Something under the sea. Or someone. I mean – I think so.”

They both fell silent then and thought about Miranda, their grandmother. Where was she now? A look of sadness fell across Aquella’s face, fearing her selkie family might be in danger. And like the selkies Aquella and Fin were, they didn’t have to put their thoughts into words. Thoughts travelled through water and air between them, like waves.

So if you’re being called under the sea, Fin, you’d better go.

I know, Aquella.

And you don’t have to wait for a full moon. Not now.

Magnus Fin stared at Aquella, his eyebrows knitting, confused.

The first time you entered our world, you needed the power of the moon. But this will be your second time, Fin. You’re half selkie, half human. You always will be
. Sliochan Nan Ron,
that’s you. Now all you need is a low tide and a brave heart. You can go anytime – lucky you!

It was hard for Aquella, not that she ever complained. Her seal skin had been destroyed by a wicked sea monster, and she was going through the transformation of becoming a land girl. To be able to survive on land, she had to avoid salt water for a year and a day.

Smiling, she reached over and gave Fin a friendly punch on the leg.
And tell them I’m fine here. Tell them it’s good to be a girl.

I will, if I find them.

And tell them school is fun.

He looked at her quizzically. She wiggled her nose then stuck out her tongue. Magnus grinned then pushed her off his bed and threw his pillow at her.

“Ouch!” She rubbed her elbow. “Good thing I’ve got my selkie fat to protect me.”

Fin laughed. It was true; there was still a seal’s roundness to Aquella. “So what’s two plus two then, tubby?” he asked, flopping down onto his belly and pulling a face at her.

She pulled a face back, wedged as she now was between a lobster creel and a book about whales. “Twenty two?”

“Wrong.”

She frowned then grabbed the pillow and threw it back at him – hard. “Take that you half-selkie!”

“And take that back, you selkie who can’t even read. Or add up!”

“Ouch!” Aquella rubbed her shoulder where the pillow had hit her. But she was strong. She flung the pillow back, right at his head.

“Ow! That hurt!”

“And where’s that kittiwake’s skull anyway?” Aquella laughed. “And the feather? Bet you haven’t even got one!” By this time she had grabbed Fin’s other pillow. He held tight on to his own pillow, lifting it up like a shield.

“Have!”

Aquella stood up and whacked his pillow hard. “No you haven’t!”

Then the two of them forgot about creatures under the sea and writing on rocks while the pillows exploded and white feathers flew up into the fishing net. Suddenly, in Neptune’s Cave, in that cottage down by the sea, on a dark November’s evening, it was snowing.

Magnus Fin was down at the beach at half past seven the next morning. It was that grey time between night and day when the beach and the sea and the rocks look like an old photograph. The uneasy feeling of yesterday had gone and he felt excited. He couldn’t imagine now why anyone would get upset about silly letters scratched on a rock. A pillow fight and a good night’s sleep had done wonders. He ran across the beach, kicking up sand and scattering shells, feeling bravery surge through his muscles. He disturbed a lonely heron perched on a rock in the hillside. The wide-winged creature flew off with a dry cawing cry.

“Morning, Mr Heron,” Fin called out, flinging his arms out to copy its slow-motion flight. The heron landed on a rock and hunched himself up, then stared down at the water.

Come on, Tark,
Fin thought, looking around for his friend and hoping he’d come early. When the two of them were down at the beach together, skimming stones or messing about in rock pools, anything felt possible.

Magnus Fin ran across the beach towards the skerries. Maybe he’d do a spot of beachcombing and find some treasures while he waited. It had been a while since the tide had brought in anything really exciting. The
old welly boot he’d found last week didn’t count. The lobster creel didn’t count either. Neither did the car tyre. They were everyday kinds of treasures. Rubbish, that’s what his mum called them but Fin wasn’t so sure. Sometimes amongst that rubbish you could find something really special – like a fork from the
Titanic
, or a silver heart necklace, a shark’s tooth, or bits of blue pottery or glass.

He got down on his hands and knees and sifted through the sand for cowrie shells. They were supposed to bring good luck and he wanted to give Tarkin a present for sticking up for him yesterday. But cowrie shells, or “groatie buckies” as they were called in his village, were hard to come by. Fin found a piece of clear glass, with its sharp edges softened. This was sand glass, not blue but special all the same. Fin lifted it, brushed away the sand then peered through it.

The familiar scene around him was suddenly magnified. He saw glassy pink streaks in the sky and a fat glassy gull wheel in the air. Then he fixed his spyglass on the rocks in the distance and gulped. Something moved amongst the rocks, something bright yellow. He pulled the glass down and stared with wide eyes over the top of it. Someone in a bright yellow jacket was bending over the rock pools in the skerries. A winkle picker.

Winkle pickers always gave Magnus Fin a fright. Mostly he had the beach to himself. Even in the summer few tourists made it to this tucked-away stone and sand beach in the far north of Scotland. And most of the dog walkers in the village preferred to throw balls in the park.

Fin stayed where he was, down on his hands and knees in a patch of sand between stones, watching. He should have known. He’d noticed an old car parked up by the bridge. Winkle pickers worked at low tide and liked cold mornings. The colder the better, his father had told him. Maybe it was the winkle picker who had scratched his initials on the rocks?

Magnus Fin had stared at winkle pickers before, sometimes for a whole hour, and they rarely noticed him. They were so focused on finding periwinkles on the rocks, pulling them off and filling their buckets that they rarely looked around. Would the seals come up to sing if the winkle picker was on the skerries?

Just then a familiar voice called out in the distance, “Never fear – Tarkin’s here!”

Fin glanced over his shoulder to see his friend galloping over the beach, whooping and yelling. Magnus Fin stood up, suddenly feeling much braver.

“Over here, Tark!” he shouted, waving him over.

The oystercatchers took off with shrill piercing cries and flew over the shallow water. Tarkin looked about him and whistled. “Hey! Brought your dad with you, Fin?”

“No. It’s a winkle picker. He’s pulling periwinkles off the rocks. You get eighty pounds for a bag of them.”

“Wow! You ever tasted one?”

“Yeah, they’re really salty.”

Tarkin wrinkled his nose, pulled a face then seemed to forget the winkle picker. He jumped onto a grey rock and scanned the horizon. “There’s the tip of the sun. Look! It’s like a muckle basketball looming out of the sea. Cool!” Tarkin had been in Scotland five months
now and learnt some Scottish words. Muckle was one of them, and he used it whenever he could.

The boys laughed then scrambled over the skerries. “Race you to the black rock!” Fin shouted. “Last one’s a hairy kipper.” They both slithered and slipped over the seaweed, shouting and laughing. Still the winkle picker ignored them.

Magnus Fin turned and shouted out, “Hello!”

The winkle picker lifted his head for a second, looked with pale blue piercing eyes at Fin then went back to his winkles. He had a straggly beard and a thin,
weather-beaten
face, but maybe no tongue in his head for he didn’t return Fin’s hello. While Magnus Fin stared at the winkle picker, Tarkin took his opportunity and scrambled on past him up to the high rock.

“Winner!” Tarkin shouted, lifting his long gangly arms high above his head. “So I guess you’re the hairy kipper.”

“That’s not fair.” Magnus Fin hauled himself up to stand beside his friend. “I would have won …”

“But you didn’t. You lost focus. So, where are the seals?” Tarkin scanned the sea. The water was smooth. Nothing moved. Only far in the distance a fishing boat passed.

“They usually come right up close. And usually there are loads of them. Usually …” Fin’s voice trailed off. “I don’t know where they are.”

They waited. Fin played his tune on his penny whistle and still they waited. Like kings of the castle they watched the surface of the sea. The fiery sun came fully up. The slow-winged heron left his place on the rock and flew silently overhead. But no seals came to sing for them.

“Sorry, Tarkin,” Fin said after several silent minutes, “they usually come. Honestly.”

“No worries, man. Maybe they’re off singing for someone else.”

“Aye, I suppose they could be.”

“Or fishing for their breakfast?”

Fin shrugged his shoulders. It seemed strange. The seals always sang to him in the morning.

“Or maybe they don’t like old weirdo winkle picker over there?” Tarkin nodded in the direction of the man with the bright yellow coat, who had shifted to work on the rocks near the cave. “Or maybe,” he continued, his voice dropping, “they don’t like me?”

“No, Tarkin. Course they like you.” But the thought did flit through Magnus Fin’s mind as he looked at his loud friend.

“They’ve probably slept in,” Fin said, trying to make a joke but not managing a laugh with it. Then his eyes fell to the edge of the rock, the spot he’d been avoiding for ten minutes. The letter M was still there; if anything it was brighter than it had been the day before. He peered down to the ledge that jutted under it. F was still there too. He gulped, looked to the next rock and gulped again. He could see more M Fs scratched into the smooth grey stone. He shivered and bit his nail. The scary feeling he’d been pushing away came rushing back. Way in the distance the winkle picker walked along the beach path, his pail swinging by his side.

“Jeepers creepers,” said Tarkin, only now seeing the white letters inscribed on the rocks. “Something wants you, Magnus Fin – that’s for sure. Your initials are all over the place.”

Fin frowned. “Um, yeah – it gives me the creeps. They’re everywhere.” It was true. The rock writer had been back, and busy.

“Well, he’s got to be around here somewhere.” Tarkin’s voice rang with a sense of adventure. Both boys looked far along the shore to where the winkle picker was bending down. Then they looked at each other.

“It’s him, Fin, it’s got to be. Come on! Let’s ask him what he’s up to?”

“No, Tarkin. Don’t ask him. Come back!” Approaching the stranger was the last thing Magnus Fin wanted to do, but already Tarkin was jumping off the rock and slithering over the seaweed.

“Wait for me,” Fin shouted, not wanting to be left alone either. He jumped off the high rock and ran after Tarkin. In the distance the winkle picker hunched down on the flat rocks. He must have heard the boys this time for he looked up then hurried to his feet. Picking up his pail, he shuffled quickly away.

Tarkin, being taller, could jump further. Fin lagged behind and let Tarkin go on ahead. Balanced on a large grey boulder Fin stopped and looked around. The winkle picker had disappeared. “Come back,” Fin shouted. “Tarkin! Come back!” but his voice was against the wind. Tarkin didn’t hear him.

By this time Tarkin had reached the shelf of flat rocks. Fin watched as Tarkin dropped to his knees, just as the winkle picker had done. A horrible sense of foreboding took hold of Magnus Fin. Something was up; he just knew it. He felt it in his selkie heart.

Now Tarkin had risen to his feet. Fin watched him cup his hands to his mouth and shout, “Go back, Fin!
Don’t look!” Tarkin was holding up his hands now to ward off his friend. But Magnus Fin, like someone walking in their sleep, moved forward, coming closer and closer to the flat rocks where Tarkin was standing, shouting at the top of his voice, “No, Fin! Don’t come any closer!”