around his neck. Struggling to open it, he managed to draw out one strand of Neptune’s seaweed. Groping blindly, he brought the weed to his burning eyes and rubbed it over them. Instantly a cooling feeling brought relief. He was able to half-open his eyes. A dim light flickered from them. Like a sputtering candle the light grew. With his eyesight returned, Fin stared at the creature now swimming in circles above him.
The thing’s matted hair, if you could call it hair, stuck out all around it. Half the ocean seemed to live in that hair. Limpets and seaweed clung to the creature’s body. What was it? A four-legged hairy octopus? A turtle that had lost its shell?
Whatever it was, it suddenly jumped off the freezer and did a frantic doggy paddle in Fin’s direction.
Fin gasped and tried again to free his leg but with no luck. Fin’s head throbbed. His leg felt numb. The smell in this dump made him want to throw up.
But something held the green-eyed creature back. It seemed suddenly unsure of Magnus Fin. It kept its distance as it peered through the murky water.
Could the strange creature understand him? Fin wondered. Would it be able to read his thoughts? Fin tried to focus on his sick grandmother. He tried to pull his dissolving thoughts together. Who are you? I am Magnus Fin. I am the grandson of Miranda, son of Ragnor. What are you?
The creature stopped banging the freezer door. It jerked its head up, down and all around. Then, as though distressed, it yanked and pulled at its hair.
Fin grasped his moon-stone and tried again. I am Magnus Fin. Miranda is my grandmother. Aquella is my cousin. What are you? Who are you?
At the name Aquella the creature suddenly let go of its hair. The wild green eyes flickered, widened and seemed to burn. The creature grew still. Then they came: rusty, half-formed thoughts, as though this poor thing hadn’t spoken to anyone for a very long time.
Aquella … it stammered, Aquella …
Chapter 23
Tarkin was glad the engine had cut out. He couldn’t imagine now why he’d panicked. The engine had been noisy and dirty. It was more tranquil without it. He loved the slapping, low swishing sounds his oars made every time he dipped them into the sea. He loved the way the small boat glided through the water with every pull of the oars. And it was him, Tarkin, making the boat move, with his muscles, his back, his strength.
The only pity was the sweets were gone. He’d wolfed back the toffees, hardly tasting them. Nerves, that’s what all that fast chewing earlier was about. He didn’t feel nervous now. The moon glinted on the water and from far in the distance he could hear music coming from the village hall. Tarkin grinned, imagining his mother and Frank trying to do a Gay Gordons.
He rowed a bit and daydreamed a bit. He felt a river of sweat trickle down his spine. It might be November but Tarkin didn’t feel cold. His life jacket was warm, plus three fleeces, not to mention the vigorous activity of rowing itself. He had heard about people on rowing machines at the gym. Now here he was, rowing for real, on the North Sea no less. His hands were slippery with sweat but he didn’t dare let go of the oars. He’d seen films where people let go of oars and in seconds theoars were gone and the people goners. No, Tarkin was hanging on, and every now and then glancing over his shoulder. The coastline was closer; he was sure it was. All he had to do was keep the boat more or less near the rocks; not so near he’d smash against them, but near enough that Magnus Fin would be able to find him.
Where was Fin anyway? At least five, even ten minutes had passed. That could feel like days, weeks even, under the sea. Tarkin glanced over the edge of the boat but he could only see one person down there and that was his own silvery reflection. In his mind he repeated the words of his Native American chant, Eagle feather, white and pure, guide him, guide him.
Tarkin’s mind started wandering to
The thing’s matted hair, if you could call it hair, stuck out all around it. Half the ocean seemed to live in that hair. Limpets and seaweed clung to the creature’s body. What was it? A four-legged hairy octopus? A turtle that had lost its shell?
Whatever it was, it suddenly jumped off the freezer and did a frantic doggy paddle in Fin’s direction.
Fin gasped and tried again to free his leg but with no luck. Fin’s head throbbed. His leg felt numb. The smell in this dump made him want to throw up.
But something held the green-eyed creature back. It seemed suddenly unsure of Magnus Fin. It kept its distance as it peered through the murky water.
Could the strange creature understand him? Fin wondered. Would it be able to read his thoughts? Fin tried to focus on his sick grandmother. He tried to pull his dissolving thoughts together. Who are you? I am Magnus Fin. I am the grandson of Miranda, son of Ragnor. What are you?
The creature stopped banging the freezer door. It jerked its head up, down and all around. Then, as though distressed, it yanked and pulled at its hair.
Fin grasped his moon-stone and tried again. I am Magnus Fin. Miranda is my grandmother. Aquella is my cousin. What are you? Who are you?
At the name Aquella the creature suddenly let go of its hair. The wild green eyes flickered, widened and seemed to burn. The creature grew still. Then they came: rusty, half-formed thoughts, as though this poor thing hadn’t spoken to anyone for a very long time.
Aquella … it stammered, Aquella …
Chapter 23
Tarkin was glad the engine had cut out. He couldn’t imagine now why he’d panicked. The engine had been noisy and dirty. It was more tranquil without it. He loved the slapping, low swishing sounds his oars made every time he dipped them into the sea. He loved the way the small boat glided through the water with every pull of the oars. And it was him, Tarkin, making the boat move, with his muscles, his back, his strength.
The only pity was the sweets were gone. He’d wolfed back the toffees, hardly tasting them. Nerves, that’s what all that fast chewing earlier was about. He didn’t feel nervous now. The moon glinted on the water and from far in the distance he could hear music coming from the village hall. Tarkin grinned, imagining his mother and Frank trying to do a Gay Gordons.
He rowed a bit and daydreamed a bit. He felt a river of sweat trickle down his spine. It might be November but Tarkin didn’t feel cold. His life jacket was warm, plus three fleeces, not to mention the vigorous activity of rowing itself. He had heard about people on rowing machines at the gym. Now here he was, rowing for real, on the North Sea no less. His hands were slippery with sweat but he didn’t dare let go of the oars. He’d seen films where people let go of oars and in seconds theoars were gone and the people goners. No, Tarkin was hanging on, and every now and then glancing over his shoulder. The coastline was closer; he was sure it was. All he had to do was keep the boat more or less near the rocks; not so near he’d smash against them, but near enough that Magnus Fin would be able to find him.
Where was Fin anyway? At least five, even ten minutes had passed. That could feel like days, weeks even, under the sea. Tarkin glanced over the edge of the boat but he could only see one person down there and that was his own silvery reflection. In his mind he repeated the words of his Native American chant, Eagle feather, white and pure, guide him, guide him.
Tarkin’s mind started wandering to
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