Sirens

by Darcy Pattison

  Phoke. It was word that Em had scrawled on Dr. Bari’s business card.

  Phoke. In parentheses was the pronunciation (FO-key).

  It was for a folk band, he realized. And they were playing at the Marco Polo Pub that night from 8 to midnight.

  Stunned, Jake turned to Matt. “Have you heard this band?”

  David and Jillian stood at Jake’s elbows. To keep him calm, Jake thought. That was a wise thing for them to do because his hope of finding Em had suddenly soared. He’d listen to a million bands if it would lead him to Em.

  “They are pretty good,” Matt said. “Folk music, you know, based a lot on old Scottish and Celtic music.”

  “What does it mean, Phoke?” Jillian asked.

  “Ah, Phoke,” Matt said. “There are many legends around here of the Mer folk. You know, mermaids and mermen.” He waved a hand in the air, as if to dismiss the legends as trivial. “But teenagers have to come up with their own jargon. Everyone on Earth knows of Nike, the Greek word that means ‘win.’ If you wear Nike shoes or clothes, you’re likely to win. So, someone started calling the Mer folk, the Phoke, which is Greek for ‘seals.’ You know, the sea animals.”

  “Phoke means the mermaids?” David asked doubtfully.

  Matt shrugged. “I kinda like it. Updates that ancient term, ‘mermaid.’ Don’t ya think?”

  “Are there really Phoke around here?” David asked.

  “Depends on who you talk with,” Matt put his elbows on the glass counter top and rested his chin in his hands, staring at the trio. Hesitantly, he said, “Are you interested in getting to Aberforth?”

  From the back, an older man came through the curtained doorway carrying two gift-wrapped packages with golden bows.

  Confused, David said, “I thought we were in the Aberforth Jewelers.”

  “Matt! Have you cleaned fingerprints off the glass counters yet today?”

  Jake turned around, surprised by the sharp tone of the older man.

  “Ah. I’ll do that now.” Looking embarrassed, Matt pushed back and went to put away the jewelry that he’d brought out to show Jake.

  The older man held out the boxes, which made Jake switch the postcard from his right to his left hand. Jake put them into his string backpack, along with the postcard.

  “What’s that, then?” the man asked.

  “Postcard for the Phoke band.” Jake held out the card. “Thought we might go to listen tonight. We’ll see if mermen and mermaids can make music.”

  The man turned slightly to glare at Matt.

  “Not very good music. Save yourself the bother,” the man said.

  Suddenly suspicious, Jake asked, “Where is this Aberforth everyone talks about?”

  Without a word, the older man turned and stomped away.

  “Did we get you in trouble somehow?” Jillian whispered to Matt.

  “Nah. He’ll calm down.” Matt squirted glass cleaner on a jewelry cabinet and then used a towel to rub the cabinet top. “Best be going your way, though.”

  “Thanks for the info. We’ll go to that pub tonight,” Jake told him. “I want to know more about the Phoke.”

  Matt nodded solemnly, “Enjoy the music.”

  5

  Fish and Chips

  December 18

  Across the pub, Jake waved at Enid Ways. His mom was busy with political negotiations tonight, so she couldn’t come along to hear the Phoke band. Colonel Lett could get them in the pub—and make sure they only drank soft drinks—but Mom had wanted some local person to supervise, also. Enid had been happy at the suggestion of listening to the band.

  The pub was dark, crowded and a sensory overload—perfect for Jillian and David, but overwhelming to Jake who had been isolated on the moon for a couple years, and still craved that kind of privacy.

  Enid had arrived early and saved them a padded booth close to the music. At her suggestion, they ordered fish and chips.

  Jake sat back to watch the band. With a guitar, violin, and vocalist, it had a surprisingly Irish sound. Or was that Scottish? Jake wasn’t sure of the differences; he only knew it wasn’t American. The percussion was a handheld, animal-skinned drum, a traditional bodhrán, Enid explained. A dark-haired guy with dreads used a single stick to thump it in a vibrant rhythm. There was a flavor of folk music style, combined with a livelier rock sound—a fusion of old and new. Which was probably the point of the band, to update the old tunes.

  When the order came, Jake stared at the greasy paper holding the fish and chips. They were just French fries and fish sticks, Jake thought. Hesitantly, he took a bite. Fortunately, they tasted much better than any French fries he’d had in Seattle.

  The music was too loud for real conversation, and Jake, Jillian and David were hungry after a busy day. They concentrated on eating and listening.

  When the band finally took an intermission, though, Enid leaned over and asked, “What did you think of Priscilla today?”

  “The real question,” Jake said, “is why she didn’t like me.”

  Enid’s brow wrinkled. “You’re right. I’ve never seen her spray anyone before.”

  “Do you think it’s because I’m Risonian? Or could it be something else?”

  “Who knows? We don’t have the research to answer that. Maybe you ate garlic yesterday and that made your skin taste bad.” Enid’s curls bounced as she shook her head. “No way to know.”

  “The octopus makes me wonder about life on Earth. Why do humans live on land and not in the sea? We’re so similar and yet so different.”

  Enid laughed, “You’re talking about mermaids and mermen.”

  “I’ve read the stories,” Jake said sheepishly. He had hoped to get information by hinting at more, but Enid saw through that. “Are they real?”

  “As an oceanographer, I wonder that, too,” Enid said. “Since the Risonians are asking to come to Earth, I’ve even looked at the old research to see if there’s anything but myths.” She shook her head. “If there are mermen, they know how to hide.”

  “Like Priscilla camouflaging herself and hiding in plain sight?”

  She shrugged and spread out her hands. “You could go swimming in the North Sea and look around for yourself.” She laughed, a musical sound, and her eyes twinkled in the muted light. “If you find anything, let me know.”

  By now, the band was back and the music started again. Jillian pulled Jake to the dance floor. He found himself posing for more selfies, wondering what he was doing in Edinburgh, and if he’d ever see Em again. He hoped that Jillian wasn’t taking a video of him wiggling his body around in strange ways.

  Then across the crowd, he caught a glimpse of a lady who looked like Bobbie Fleming. It must be the same lady they saw coming out of the jewelry store. Surely, it wasn’t the biologist from Seattle, but Jake wanted a closer look. She was drinking something frothy and talking intently with a dark-haired man. Now, both nodded, as if they had agreed on something.

  Jake dragged Jillian through the crowd.

  The lady locked eyes with him. She wore wire-rimmed glasses exactly like Bobbie Fleming. It must be her, or her doppelgänger.

  The woman spun away and shoved through the crowd as if avoiding them.

  The band started a new song, apparently a favorite tune because the crowd stepped closer to the stage, closing up any gaps for Jake and Jillian to squeeze through. Jake still pushed along, but it was like moving against an avalanche. He made progress, but so slowly that he felt like he was standing still.

  Finally, the song ended and they had made it to the opposite side of the room. But the Bobbie Fleming lookalike was gone. A chill ran though him, as if an important clue had slipped through his fingers.

  Disappointed, Jake spun and scanned the room. He felt himself drooping, not from tiredness but from frustration. The Phoke band was interesting, but he didn’t see how any of this related to Em and her disappearance. It was a dead end.

  6

  Haggis and Bagpipes

  December 1
9

  Jake woke to a screeching sound that he recognized. He threw a pillow over his head and said, “Colonel Lett, turn it off.”

  The bagpipe music continued.

  With a sigh, Jake rolled over and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  “Good,” Colonel Lett said gruffly and tapped his phone to stop the music. “The Ambassador asks you to attend a luncheon with her.”

  Jake groaned. But he had to play his role as the teenage Face of Rison. At least, he’d been free half a day yesterday and last evening, even if it led him no closer to finding Em. Mom was making sure he had time to enjoy Edinburgh, so he couldn’t complain about this luncheon.

  When Mom came in later, Jake was dressed and ready. Colonel Lett reported that Jillian was still asleep. Surprisingly, though, David arrived and said that he hoped to go along, too.

  “Is this an important luncheon?” Jake asked Mom.

  Ambassador Quad-de wore a red business suit, which accented her curly dark hair and dark eyes. “Yes. The Lord Provost Kin Coombe is hosting the world leaders who are here at my request.” At Jake’s raised eyebrow, she added, “Lord Provost is like a city mayor. They just have ceremonial titles.” She gave a laugh. “His full title is Lord Provost Kin Coombe, the Lord-Lieutenant of Edinburgh and the Admiral of the Firth of Forth.”

  David rolled his eyes. “Can we say pretentious?”

  “No,” Mom said more seriously. “It’s just their custom. Americans wouldn’t add on titles like that, of course. But it’s tradition for the Brits.”

  Jake wanted to laugh at David because he was so American. It was good, he thought, that David didn’t know Jake’s full Risonian name and titles. Tizzalurians, it seemed, were just as bad as Brits.

  Their hotel was on a hill, and as they walked out, they stopped to look over the city. Like Rome and other famous cities, Edinburgh was built across seven hills. Edinburgh castle filled the hilltop to the south, and the tallest hill to the north was empty. Between was a big valley. The meeting this morning was in a government building, quite old, made of quarried marble and limestone. The vestibule echoed, and they climbed a shallow set of steps toward a little-used formal ballroom. Long tables were set in a U-shape and decorated with vases of elaborate Christmas arrangements. At the head table, places were set for the Lord Provost, the Risonian ambassador, and the highest-ranking officials attending. Jake and David were seated at the end of a long table, almost as far away from Jake’s mom as possible.

  After locating their seating arrangement, Jake wanted to just sit and watch people. Instead, David insisted they mingle. Without fear, he marched up to people, introduced himself and Jake, and started chatting. They met the aides for the French ambassador, the Belgian under-ambassador, and the Portuguese ambassador’s wife. Jake was amazed that they all spoke perfect English. It was truly the business language of this world. But when David broke into some Portuguese, the ambassador’s wife, Leonara Zalarich, was truly pleased. They chatted for several minutes, leaving Jake in the dark. Jake, like most Risonians, spoke several languages, but he’d chosen Russian, Mandarin Chinese, Hindi, and English — not European languages. Even educated here on Earth, Commander Gordon had demanded that David be multi-lingual; besides English, David spoke Spanish, Portuguese, French, and German — all European languages.

  It wasn’t just his choice of languages that impressed Jake, though. David was at ease in starting a conversation and in keeping the interest of these international leaders. He knew all their names and had appropriate questions about their stance on Rison or other politics of their lands.

  In a flash of jealousy, Jake thought, David should’ve been the ambassador’s son, not me. He remembered that Commander Gordon’s sister, David’s aunt, had been killed when Europe shot down the Fullex, a Risonian vessel with about 500 evacuees. They claimed that the Fullex had violated Earth’s space without permission, and it was considered an act of war. David couldn’t mention that incident, of course, without coming out of character as a human teen just tagging along with a Risonian teen. But maybe he had inherited his aunt’s abilities as a politician.

  During the opening reception, bagpipe music played. Jake actually liked it. He’d first heard it from the school bus driver back on Bainbridge, and they’d struck up a friendship sharing musical tracks they both liked. Here the bagpipes were playing on a balcony at the far end of the huge room, so they weren’t overwhelming—fortunately.

  At each table setting was a printed sheet with the names and titles of those attending. Jake glanced through it and realized that he’d heard Mom talk about most of them at one time or another. So when they sat, Jake was surprised that the old woman who sat on his right was someone he’d never heard of before.

  “I’m Lady Zuzanna Coombe. The Lord Provost is my son,” she said simply. Amazingly, she acted upon her self-appointed tour guide status by explaining everything.

  The meal began with a priest giving a blessing. “Some hae meat and canna eat, and some would eat that want it. But we hae meat, and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit.”

  Zuzanna said, “That’s a traditional prayer, you know. It comes from our poet, Robert Burns. Next will come the haggis. It’s quite a show.”

  At David’s arched eyebrow, she added, “It’s traditional Scottish food: a pudding made of the heart, liver, and such, of a sheep or calf, minced with suet and oatmeal, seasoned, and boiled in the stomach of the animal.”

  Jake made a face. “And do you like haggis?”

  She leaned closer and said, “Hate it.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It’s tradition and you have to take the good with the bad when you live by tradition.”

  Jake laughed, “That’s true.” He knew exactly what she meant because tradition ruled his stepfather’s life, too. Swann always railed against the comment, “We’ve never done it that way before.”

  “100 years from now,” Swann always said, “They’ll moan about a tradition that I started. And I hope they break that tradition if it no longer makes sense in their world.”

  For the haggis, everyone stood, while the bagpipe players marched down from the balcony and played with gusto.

  The Lord Provost held a carved dagger high and recited Lord Robert Burns’s poem, “Address to a Haggis.”

  Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

  Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!

  Aboon them a' yet tak your place,

  Painch, tripe, or thairm:

  Weel are ye wordy o'a grace

  As lang's my arm.

  The groaning trencher there ye fill,

  Your hurdies like a distant hill,

  Your pin was help to mend a mill

  In time o'need,

  While thro' your pores the dews distil

  Like amber bead.

  His knife see rustic Labour dight,

  An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,

  Brandishing the dagger, the Lord Provost dramatically thrust downward and pierced the haggis, releasing a spicy smell that surprised Jake. It might actually taste OK.

  Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

  Like ony ditch;

  And then, O what a glorious sight,

  Warm-reekin', rich!

  Jake understood only half of the old Scottish, but loved the lilt and the vigor of the delivery. The poem continued a few more stanzas, but Jake was more interested in watching the spectators. The group was widely varied, representatives from around the world. Everyone watched the Scottish spectacle with interest. As the poem came to a climax, the servant held high the platter of haggis.

  The Lord Provost grabbed his wine glass and yelled, “The Haggis!”

  Everyone echoed his yell, “The Haggis!”

  Then laughter erupted around the room. It was a welcome relief of the tension, a welcome contrast to the solemn occasion and the intensity of the emotions in the room.

  They ate. Jake sampled the sliced haggis, and Lady Coombe laughed when he quietly spit it out. It might smell good, but it
didn’t taste good. Some of the other Scottish dishes were delicious, though. He especially loved the shortbread cookies at the end.

  After the meal, the Lord Provost insisted that everyone stand and hold hands in a circle. He began a cappella, singing Robert Burn’s song, “Auld Lang Syne.” A quartet joined him, though, and carried the remainder of the song:

  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

  And never brought to mind?

  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

  And auld lang syne!

  For auld lang syne, my dear,

  For auld lang syne.

  We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

  For auld lang syne.

  Jake realized that he needed to go back into the city and find the Robert Burns memorial tower to learn more about this Scotsman.

  The circle broke apart with applause and laughter.

  Next the crowd moved into a grand parlor, as Lady Coombe called it. Here, Mom would give her plea for help. Lady Coombe sat beside Jake and David again, still playing tour guide, while Colonel Lett stood rigidly nearby alert for any signs of danger.

  Mom stood to give her speech, her red suit a splash of color in the sedate room. Her voice carried well, and she was organized. “We ask you to lift the blockade and allow Risonian ships to land on Earth. We readily admit the crisis is of our own making from when we tampered with nature by trying to stop volcanoes from exploding. It was foolish to use Brown Matter. But the reality is that our planet’s core is disappearing into a black hole. She’ll implode. Earth and Risonian scientists agree that there’s no way to stop it. But you can stop the overwhelming loss of an entire species, race and culture.” She followed with a well-worn series of arguments; she was just more emotional this time. She talked about a couple of the people lost on the Fullex, the Risonian immigrant ship that had been shot down, and ended with a plea: “I urge you to vote with compassion. Please. You only live on land, and Earth is 70% water. Allow Risonians to live in the seas.”