Emily Windsnap and the Siren's Secret - Liz Kessler [70]
I shrank lower in my seat. What was he doing?
Mom nudged me. “Go on, chicken pie, you’d better do as he says,” she whispered.
I stood awkwardly in front of my seat, burning from the heat of the spotlight shining down on me and all the eyes I could feel staring straight at me.
I’d spent all week trying to avoid anyone’s eyes, and now the entire town was looking at me! Mr. Beeston started clapping, and it spread awkwardly around the whole place. Not a single person there knew why they were clapping — including me!
Eventually, Mr. Beeston indicated for me to sit down, and I sank gratefully back into my seat, my face still on fire and my legs like jelly.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We have brought you to this particular place for a reason. If we are successful here tonight, the performance you are about to see will change your lives; it will change all of our lives. We will talk to you again afterward. For now, though, without further ado, allow me to introduce to you . . . my mother.”
With that, he waved an arm in a grand flourish and left the stage. The spotlight was switched off, and we sat and waited in the growing darkness.
The anticipatory hush turned into whispers and giggles. “His mother?” I heard someone say. “We’ve come all this way to be entertained by an old woman?”
“What’s she going to do?” said another voice. “A clog dance?”
The whispers grew louder, as did the laughter. Soon it seemed the whole place had become restless and impatient.
And then, the sound of whispering was replaced with something else. Something so soft and gentle it could have been the wind, sweeping gently through the crowd, touching everyone, taking away the cold, taking away fear, sadness, leaving nothing in its wake except itself.
It was a song. A siren’s song. It had no words, but its melody was so perfect that it felt familiar. It felt as though we had been born knowing the song, as though everything in nature existed because of the song, grew stronger, brighter, and more beautiful because of it — could hardly survive without it. The song felt like breath itself.
Everywhere, people were craning their necks to see where it was coming from; tears ran down their faces from the sheer beauty of it.
And then the spotlight came on again.
“Look, down there, on the rocks,” someone cried out.
And there she was. Melody. She sat on the rocks, her head slightly bowed, her tail snaking down the length of the rock, her eyes looking into the darkness of the auditorium — bringing us all together.
The applause was like thunder. People stood on chairs, raised their hands high above their heads to clap and cheer and call for more.
Even when Mr. Beeston came back onstage, the applause went on. Eventually, he gave up, and the spotlight fell on Melody for the umpteenth time as she took yet another bow.
At last, the crowd began to quiet down. Mr. Beeston was back on the stage. He was scanning the auditorium. This time when his eyes met mine, he didn’t say anything. He just tilted his head, and I knew what he meant.
I got out of my seat. “’Scuse me, Mom,” I said. “I’ve got to do this.”
I shuffled to the end of the row and made my way to the stage.
Every eye was on me again, but this time it didn’t matter. I knew exactly what I had to do, and what I had to say. Eventually, the crowd hushed enough for me to speak.
“Over the last few weeks, many of you have remembered seeing mermaids,” I began. “Some of you have wondered where these memories came from, if they were real, and if so, why they had been buried for so long.”
I paused as a ripple of whispers spread through the auditorium. People nodding: Yes, they were saying, that happened to me, too.
I took a breath. “Your memories were real,” I said. “As you have seen tonight, merpeople are real. For many years, the two worlds have been divided. But we need to change this. My family —”
I stopped. The enormity of our task was clogging my throat.