The Potion Diaries (9 page)

His ‘see ya’ disappears on the wind as Kirsty stomps on the accelerator again and we whip away into the night.

‘That’s Duke. We used to date,’ Kirsty explains. ‘But then I realised he was a loser and we split.’

I’ve never seen Kirsty like this before. In her element. Her eyes are filled with determination, her jaw set. She catches me looking and grins wide. ‘Having fun yet?’ She shifts gear and speeds up even faster. I grip the edge of the seat, my knuckles white.

A huge illuminated sign wings towards us:
Syrene Beach, 5 km
. You wouldn’t need a sign to know you were getting close, though. White lights reach and dance in the night sky. Occasionally one changes colour, into brilliant magenta or electric blue, and tints the stars an unnatural shade.

A shiver runs through me. The Wilds always do this to me. I tilt my head to look out the window. Someone down by the beach turns a beam into the night sky, projecting out the massive snarling face of a bear. The University of Kingstown mascot: the Ursa Major.

Kirsty swings onto the exit ramp and slows as the paved road leading up to the beach becomes rutted and pot-holed. The car thrums with the deep reverberations of speakers blasting dance music to happy revellers. Far in the darkness, the horizon lifts and sways, and then the smell hits me – sharp and salty and fresh. The sea. We’ve arrived.

We grab one of the furthest parking spots from the sea – not by choice, of course. The lot is absolutely packed, mostly with party buses covered with graffiti like someone vomited colour all over them. I start unpacking my backpack, but Kirsty shakes her head. ‘No time,’ she says. She grabs a torch from the inside of her car door.

We hurry past students drinking pale gold, fizzy beers in metre-long flagons, the cheapest they can get their hands on. More impressive are their glamours, glow-in-the-dark inks tattooed over tanned skin, and the Talenteds with lights embedded in their hair and down the lengths of their arms so that when they dance on the sand it looks like the stars are dancing with them.

‘Gawk later,’ says Kirsty, pulling me along. Her eyes turn towards the sea. Following her gaze, I can see we’re already late. Out of the darkness, rising and falling with the waves, is a flotilla of lights, huddled together like seals in a storm. All of a sudden the sky around the boats lights up. There’s a massive floodlight, pointed down at the waves, and it’s coming from one of the boats out in the middle of the ocean. ‘Boat’ isn’t really the right word for this particular object – ‘yacht’ might be closer, perhaps ‘floating palace’ even better. It’s no surprise to see the huge letters that adorn the front of it:
ZA
. ZoroAster are already here.

The floodlight illuminates the other boats that are crowded into the same area – other yachts, but also smaller fishing vessels and even, I think, a jet ski.

We’re racing down the beach now, towards the jetty. The light from the crowd of boats doesn’t quite reach the end of the dock, but I can see a commotion is building. A girl yelps in frustration and my heart leaps – I’d recognise that sound anywhere.

‘Anita!’ I shout at her. Kirsty and I have reached the dock, sand making way for rough planks of wood haphazardly nailed together.

‘Arjun, look who’s here!’ Anita shouts over her shoulder and her brother’s head pops up from the end of the dock. His face is scrunched into a frown, but it softens when he sees me. Foam from the crashing waves fringes his dark brown hair with a white crown.

Arjun is sitting in a rickety-looking rowing boat that I’m convinced is taking on water from the way it dips at one end. Also in the boat is an old man dressed in a ragged white shirt, waterproof trousers and a black jacket. A jagged scar runs across his face and I wonder what Wilds animal gave him that injury. He’s a fisherman. Licences to fish the Wild waters are rare, so he’s most likely a poacher. That means he’s dangerous.

The boat rocks against the dock as a wave crashes beneath us, and seawater seeps through the eyelets of my laces.

Kirsty’s boots pull up next to mine with a firm, confident step. I bet her shoes are waterproof – there’s no telltale sound of squelching toes from her.

‘Edgar,’ she says, addressing the old man with her hands on hips. ‘What’s going on here?’

The old man fidgets with the collar of his salt-stained coat. ‘Well, Miss Donovan, I’ve been trying to negotiate me a fair deal with these young pups to get out to the Rising.’

‘Negotiate?!’ Arjun explodes. ‘Cheat, steal, swindle maybe.’

A small smirk appears on the old man’s face. ‘I heard the rumours too, ain’t I? This ain’t no normal voyager out to see the clamwhackers.’

Anita, Arjun and I reel back. I’ve never heard anything as offensive as the man’s blatant insult to the mercreatures, but it just spurs Kirsty on. She reaches down into the boat and grabs Edgar under the armpit. She pulls him upwards and – as if the sea is momentarily on our side – a wave rises up beneath them to push him up even higher. She drags him onto the dock, then drops him like a stone.

Anita and I dash into the boat before Edgar can regain his footing. ‘I know for a fact that you don’t own this boat, Ed. You lost your licence to sail when you tried to snare that narwhal. So find some other Finder to swindle.’ While Kirsty talks, she unravels the length of rope attaching the boat to the dock. With a firm shove from her boot she pushes the boat away and jumps in before it floats too far.

‘Get the oars!’ she yells. Anita and I scramble to grab them, and I shove one towards a slack-jawed Arjun. Kirsty takes the other one from Anita and roars out, ‘Stroke! Stroke!’ until she and Arjun fall into a fast rhythm.

And still those lights look a long, long way out to sea.

‘We’re not going to make it,’ Anita mutters beside me.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Listen! Can’t you hear it? The Rising is beginning.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Samantha

A
T FIRST I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING BUT the rise and fall of the oars in the water, but then the first few notes reach me. It’s coming from where the other boats are huddled. There’s a loud snap, and the floodlight from the massive yacht blinks out.

All the other boats turn their lights off too, and my eyes have trouble adjusting to the mid-light. The full moon seems obscenely large, without the halo of other lights diminishing its brightness.

It’s then that the first shell rises. At first it looks like another wave cresting far out at sea, but then I realise it’s the scalloped edge of a mermaid’s clam shell, as wide as our rowing boat is long. All other sounds have quietened down and the sea is as still as glass. This makes it easier for Kirsty and Arjun to propel us through the water, but Anita and I are frozen at the bow of the rowboat, paralysed by the thought that we might have made it this close but yet still be too far.

The moonlight glints off the pearlescent lip of the clam shell, disappearing into its numerous ridges and sparkling again on the swells. Another shell rises a few feet away, this one a more blushing pink than the first. They seem to multiply then, every shade of a dusky rainbow – from deep-bruise-purple to silvery-grey to almost-bronze. The numerous remedies that can be made from the delicate inner lining of the shells rise in my mind:

Oyster Shell: for rosacea reduction – to soothe reddened skin. Also for bone strengthening – can help with early onset osteoporosis.

Anita stares through wide-angled binoculars, chewing at her bottom lip.

‘Has Aphroditas risen yet?’ Kirsty asks over her shoulder, her voice straining with the effort of rowing.

Anita shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so . . . wait . . .’

I squint my eyes to try to get a better look, and then I squeal with excitement as I follow where Anita is looking. A shell is rising; white, a brilliant, pure white that is brighter than any of the others. And it’s larger than the others too: the moon itself lifting up out of the sea. Although the water stays calm, the boats spread out and away from this shell, offering the respect that it deserves.

And then the shell starts to open.

Her hand is ghostly white and it shimmers too, as if her skin is radiating the light from the full moon. Her fingers are too long, more like twigs than flesh, and fine, translucent webs join each one to its neighbour. In one swift movement she flings open the lid of her shell and she is revealed in all her glory. Her hair would make even the most beautiful supermodel in Nova green with envy – it moves with a life of its own, as if it’s still underwater, floating and undulating through unseen currents. The pink-white strands appear to glow in the moonlight, tumbling around her naked upper body and wrapping around her waist, where skin meets scale. Her beauty astounds me, takes my breath away. Yet, it’s the strangeness of her that is most stunning – she is so close to human, and yet not. Her eyes are milky pale, as if she is blind, but she stares out at the crowd of boats, examining us all. If anything can draw attention away from her, it’s the jewel around her neck – a pearl of such perfect roundness and sheen that it puts other stones to shame.

‘Aphroditas,’ Anita whispers, as gobsmacked as I am. Aphroditas is Queen of the Mermaids, and like tonight’s full moon, however many times you see her, she’s always captivating.

We’re drifting now. Both Arjun and Kirsty have stopped rowing, although the momentum of the water is still carrying us towards the circle of boats. There is a gap, readymade for us. We might make it after all.

And just as well, for the next few seconds are a scramble. Shells open everywhere, following Aphroditas’s lead, and there are mermaids and pearls appearing faster than we can keep up with. They fill the circle with their laughter, splashing each other and giggling and generally ignoring us.

Immediately, the other teams attempt to grab the mermaids’ attention. Right across from us, with the prime spot in front of Aphroditas, is the ZA ship, with someone standing on the prow, their arms outstretched. Recognition flicks through my mind, and I grab Anita’s hand.

‘What is it?’ she asks.

‘Quick, can you lend me your binoculars a sec?’

‘Sure.’ She lifts them from around her neck and passes them over to me.

I point them towards the yacht and adjust the focus. A man in a sharp three-piece suit comes into view, his hair slicked back with gel in the latest style. He’s holding a wand that is studded with sparkling diamonds, and he touches the tip of the wand to his throat. Then he opens his mouth and starts to sing.

It’s Anita’s turn to grab at the binoculars. ‘Oh my god,’ she says, unable to keep the awe from her voice. ‘Is that who I think it is? Have they really got Damian out here?’

‘Trust Zol to pull out all the stops,’ mutters Kirsty in the back. ‘That’s Aphroditas secured then.’

I can see what she means. Aphroditas drifts towards the ship, intrigued by the mellow richness of Damian’s voice. Damian is the hottest pop star in Nova at the moment, and this is about to be his most captivated audience. This is the biggest stage Damian could wish for.

‘Okay, it’s our turn. Arjun, are you ready?’

Arjun nods grimly. ‘I’m not quite in his league, guys. And if I hear so much as a giggle out of any of you, you’re going overboard.’

Anita and I shuffle out of the way to give him space at the front of our little rowing boat. He opens his mouth, but at first, nothing comes out. He turns and looks at Kirsty, a sheen of sweat on his brow. ‘What should I sing?’

‘Start small,’ she replies. ‘A nursery rhyme or something.’

He turns back to the water and at the small group of mermaids whose attentions haven’t yet been secured. Finally he chokes out the first few notes of a children’s song about the sea:

His voice is sweet, lilting even, but it doesn’t compare to Damian – who has enchanted his own deep, honey-smooth voice to project across the water. The three of us wait with bated breath as Arjun sings. Finally, after Arjun switches to an old folk song with a slightly more prominent beat, one of the mermaids tilts her ear in our direction.