Siren's Storm

would have followed Akers, but in that moment, she disappeared.

Slipped below the surface like an eel.

I know now what I must do. I must lash the helm in place, so that we keep a straight course. Then I will lock myself belowdecks, so that I cannot jump overboard. I will pray that we run aground while I am still living. If not, please give my love to my wife and son.

I hope that I may yet make it home, and back to sanity.

Will flipped through the pages that followed, but they were all blank. At the back of the journal was tucked a brittle old newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. A corner broke off as Will unfolded it, gently flattening it against the page. He let his palms rest against the book for an extra moment, hoping they would stop shaking.

He looked down at the newspaper clipping.

Ship Runs Aground Near Walfang

The Eliza Thomas was found yesterday near the port of Walfang, run aground on a sandbar. It was half sunk, and authorities fear that it will take a great effort to remove it from its mooring place at the edge of the bay. The ship left port four months ago from Portugal with eight hands, plus captain and first mate, and was presumably on its return voyage. The hull was loaded with port, silk, and fine silver, all unmolested. And yet there was not a soul aboard. There were signs of a peculiar struggle in the men’s main quarters, as if something had been ripped from a wall, but aside from that, the ship was pristine. A captain’s log has been found, and authorities hope that it will help reveal the cause of the missing crew…

Will stopped reading. He didn’t need to know more-he knew already that the log raised more questions than it answered.

Is that what Asia is? One of those-things? Those things in the water…

He looked out the window, toward the horizon, at the unseen ocean beyond. Will imagined that he could hear their subtle whisper. The endless pounding and sucking of the waves. Suddenly the ocean itself seemed like a devouring creature. He’d grown up near the water-he’d spent endless hours in the waves, splashing and playing. He’d never been a sand castle maker-maybe that was why he’d never paid attention to the sea’s destructive power. But over the past year, he’d begun to have trouble seeing it in any other light.

Will crossed the room quickly. He opened his bottom drawer and pulled out the flute. The instrument was roughly the length of his forearm, and he shivered as a thought occurred to him. Was this-could it be-a human bone? Was this the remnant of some frightened sailor, dragged to the bottom of the sea?

That’s stupid, Will told himself. But-what about Asia’s voice, the one that had stopped Jason in his tracks? What about that strange, melancholy song that Gretchen had been humming recently? Did that mean anything?

Will shuddered. He wished more than ever that he could talk to Tim. Will’s brother had always known what to do. He was smart and practical. Somehow, if Tim had just been there to tell Will that he was acting crazy, Will knew that he would have believed it. Then he could just stop looking for answers. And if Tim had thought that Will wasn’t crazy, well, that would have helped, too. But there was no one else he could really trust with this information. He couldn’t tell Angus. And he didn’t want to tell Gretchen-she had enough problems.

There was a hole in the world where his brother used to be.

Chapter Ten

Seekrieger Chantey (Traditional)

Death is like a river,

And rivers are our home.

Home, home!

Yes, death is like the river

Styx, flowing over bone.

We flow just like the water,

And fall just like a wave.

Wave, wave! Yes, we flow like water,

And bring you to your grave.

As slowly dripping water

Can wear away a stone,

Stone, stone!

Seekriegers wait a thousand years,

And take men, one by one.

When Gretchen stepped outside that night, there was a figure on her doorstep. She took a quick step backward in surprise and fear-for a moment, she didn’t recognize the broad, square shoulders, the shaggy, shoulder-length hair streaked with blond. She realized who it was a moment before he turned to look at her. In profile, she could see the boy he used to be-the long, straight nose, peeling slightly with the usual summer burn, the fine, high slant of a cheekbone, the familiar denim blue of his eye. And then she saw his full face, which had grown chiseled and taut over the past year, and the familiar scar that tore from forehead to cheekbone. Gretchen realized that Will was taller than she was, even though he was standing a step below her.

He held her eyes for a moment, and Gretchen dared to imagine that he was thinking the same thoughts she was. And then he opened his lips and said, “What do you know about mermaids?”

The question was so unexpected-so far from her own thoughts-that it rocketed her back to the present with the speed and weight of a falling meteor. It crashed into her mind, and she laughed. “Da seaweed is always greenah,” Gretchen sang in a Jamaican accent, just like the spunky crab in the Disney movie, “in somebody else’s lake. You t’ink about goin’ up dere, but-”

“I’m serious.” Will’s face was unusually stony, and the words withered on Gretchen’s lips.

“You’re serious?” she repeated. She wanted to add, About mermaids? but Will’s expression was grave.

“Have you ever heard any local stories?”

“Local? No.” She shook her head. “No…”

“You just thought of something.” Will stepped up to the porch. He looked down at her. “What?”

“Stop reading my mind.” A flash of annoyance shot through Gretchen.

“It’s not your mind I can read-it’s your face.” He put a warm hand on her shoulder. “Please tell me.”

“Well, they aren’t exactly mermaid tales. But I was just remembering the stories Sally used to tell.” Sally had been Gretchen’s nanny when she was young. She was a local woman whose family had lived in Walfang for generations.

“Sally.” Will nodded, remembering. “Is that why you were always afraid of the bay?”

Gretchen shrugged. “Probably.”

“Okay. So tell me.”

“She just never wanted me to go down to the water, that’s all. She claimed the sea witch could get me.”

“What sea witch?”

“She would drag children to her undersea cave. Sally used to say that the witch could control the weather and waves, and she’d get angry and irritable when the days got shorter, at the end of the summer. Anyway, I always thought she was just making it up to scare me, so that we wouldn’t have to go down to the beach. Sally never liked going to the beach over here. She’d never take me swimming in the bay.” Gretchen remembered how Sally’s wrinkled face would set into a firm mask of resistance at the mention of the bay. She would drive twenty minutes to take Gretchen to the public beach, but she would not take her down to water that was only a five-minute walk