Sound of Sirens: (Tales of Skylge #1) (12 page)

“A Current boyfriend,” I say breathlessly.

“A famous boyfriend,” she adds. “He’s really your boyfriend, then? You guys are dating?”

I blush. Yesterday, he did a lot of things to me that only boyfriends are supposed to do. More than Alke ever did. And he wanted to see me again on Tuesday. Tonight’s his first performance, so he wanted to focus on that today. Fair enough. “Yeah, we are,” I nod.

Dani’s face falls. “What are you going to tell Sytse?” she suddenly worries.

“Nothing. It’s none of his business.”

“True.” She hesitates before she goes on: “But won’t it endanger him? Since he’s, you know, a spy for the Skelta and all?”

“Royce is not dating my brother, is he? I don’t see why, as long as I keep my mouth shut about it.”

“Yeah. Okay. That must be difficult, though. Ideally you’d want to share everything going on in your life with the guy you’re in love with.”

Dani’s right, but at the moment, I have so many things I can share with Royce that I don’t care. We have our love for music. We have the same sense of humor. And we have chemistry that puts St. Brandan High’s lab room to shame.

I can’t wait to see him play tonight. For the first time in my life, I won’t have to imagine what it would be like if he were playing his music for me. He did play it for me, in his cottage two nights ago. I’m a part of his life, and he’s a part of mine.

Dani rips into the waffle I brought for her to make up for my tardiness. Crumbles fall into her lap as she enthusiastically babbles about the bands she saw in Osterend yesterday. “Sytse bought me two shellacs,” she divulges. “The local bands had some for sale.”

“That’s very generous of him,” I observe. Locally-pressed records are very expensive. Traditional production methods are slow and costly – the only reason we can afford shellac records from the mainland is because they are second-hand merchandise, sold by Anglians who want to get rid of their fifties music collection. All the artists I love are already long dead. A sad fact of life, but now I have at least one favorite artist who is still very much alive. All thanks to Royce and his risky offer to share Jyoti on LP.

When the bell for second period rings, we trudge into the school building. Hopefully, Mrs. Atsma won’t have noticed our absence. She’s kind of hare-brained. I step into Mr. Buma’s classroom and make a beeline for his desk to present him with all the work I did yesterday. Of course, I could have done more, but Royce was very helpful when I told him I needed to work on a history assignment. He told me all kinds of things about the village of Stortum because he heard stories from his grandparents. He even generously donated a tintype depicting three of his ancestors in front of the Stortum village hall, their faces forever frozen in time.

“They look so stiff,” I’d commented with a little giggle when Royce showed me the old photograph.

“They were supposed to hold still for half a minute as their picture was taken,” he’d explained with a smile. “So yeah, they’re sort of a rigid bunch. I’m sure people didn’t look like that all the time.”

Mr. Buma eyeballs the picture with keen interest. “How did you come across this one, Miss Buwalda?” he inquires. “I don’t believe I’ve seen any old pictures of the village hall before.”

Score
. Inwardly, I thank Royce for lending it to me. “It’s been in our family for generations,” I improvise on the spot. “My great-grandmother was born in Stortum. That’s why I chose this topic. Sadly, the people in the village struggled to obey the law.” And still do, I realize with a little smirk – the only resident being a Current guy sharing his electricity and dreams with me.

“Well. Please keep working on your report. It looks very promising.”

With a relieved sigh, I walk over to my usual seat. As I slide into my chair, Alke catches my eye and smiles at me. “He liked it?” he mouths.

I nod and smile back. “Your German test?” I whisper.

He just gives me a thumbs-up before digging around in his back to get his textbook out. I wonder if he’s excited about tonight. After all, that Frisian band from the mainland is coming, and they must be up to something. Maybe they’re a protest band trying to get away with singing rabble-rousing lyrics in Frisian right under the Currents’ watchful eyes.

––––––––

T
ime seems to slow down to a trickle today. Since I’m looking forward so much to tonight’s Oorol performances, it seems like I’ll never get there. Seven periods have never felt this long.

By the time Dani and I leave the building, I am beyond thrilled. The entire town is buzzing with excitement. People are milling around to set up market stalls and make some last-minute purchases for tonight’s Dinner in the Square – when Skylgers and Currents come together to watch the show and bring their own picnic baskets filled to the brim with rich food and sweet drinks. For some, it’s a valid excuse to get hammered. Last year, when I was still with Alke, he let me try a few sips of his liquor, but I didn’t like it all that much.

This year, I’d love to drink from whatever bottle Royce would give me, but I can’t. He won’t be in the audience, because he’ll be up on stage playing out of his skin.

“You want to get some bottled beer?” Dani proposes. “I was told the Botha family brewed some very nice ale this year.”

I nod absently, my eyes scanning the town center. “Alke and Sytse are over there,” I say, pointing at the entrance to the backstage area. “You reckon they’ll let us ride their coattails so we can meet some famous people?”

“It’s worth a try,” Dani replies with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

We start pushing through the crowd. By the time we get there, my brother and ex-boyfriend have disappeared, though. On our way to the other end of the square, we picked up some of our classmates, all eager to dig into their food and find a good spot to watch tonight’s show.

“I brought goodies,” Annie announces, holding up a picnic basket that, unsurprisingly, contains lots of beer from her father’s brewery. Nolan and Ynze, her younger twin brothers, are carrying more bags stuffed with sandwiches and cold cuts. I shoot Dani a quick look and she nods in agreement. We are going to stick with the Bothas.

“Why don’t I get us some cakes?” I suggest after we scout a nice location close to the stage and start setting down our belongings. “We still need dessert, right?”

“Brilliant.” Annie flashes me a grin so wide that it makes me think of wild, Current celebrations and booming music under electric lights. It’s funny – she reminds me more of the noisy, numbing parties they throw than Royce ever will. With him, the beat is steady and slow, seeping into every corner of my soul.

Gradually, the sky turns dark. Candles are lit and rush lights in holders are placed at strategic positions to illuminate the square. The lights are a cheap way to light up the dark. They smell horrible, but somehow they always make the town during Oorol look so cozy.

High-end gas lights are dangling from a chandelier above the main stage. The musicians need more light to see by, and this is the best the Currents can do for their own people without sharing their precious electricity with us.

“Hey, Enna,” I hear a voice pipe up behind me. When I look over my shoulder, I see Alke and Sytse approaching our little group. “You got any food left?”

“We brought some potato chips,” Sytse adds, plunking down on the blanket next to me. “So we can swap.”

I want to ask him about his visit backstage, but I can’t – not with Annie and her brothers sitting with us. “So, all is set up for tonight?” I ask cryptically.

He smiles. “Sure is.” He and Alke exchange a look that sets me on edge, not because I feel left out, but because they look slightly anxious to me. What the heck is going on?

Before I can ask anything else, more light floods the stage as the rest of the gas lamps are turned up. Mayor Edison appears, his entrance met with a loud round of applause from the Current spectators on the bleachers. I half-heartedly clap along until the noise dies down.

“Citizens of Skylge,” he says, his voice amplified by a loud-hailer. “On behalf of the city council, I welcome you back to our Oorol festival. We have a marvelous line-up tonight, starting with Josiah’s Jazz Band, continuing with Royce Bolton, our gifted pianist, and finishing off with,” his eyes momentarily dart to the flyer he’s clutching in his hand, “Twarres, a band from the mainland. Fryslan, to be exact. Please put your hands together for the first performance of this evening!”

Josiah and his trumpeters spill onto the stage. I like them – their music reminds me of the Frisco Band recordings we have at home, but some of their songs can be soulful too. They’re actually a favorite with both native Skylgers and Currents.

“Want to dance?” Alke courteously extends a hand and I take it with a smile. I’m so glad that we managed to stay friends after our break-up. There’s no awkwardness between us whatsoever. Our history as childhood friends may have been helpful.

We twirl around and hold each other’s hands, while other people around get up to dance, too. This is our chance to stretch our legs, because Royce’s performance will be all about quiet listening and dreaming away and not so much about the explosive energy I’m feeling right now.

Alke whirls me around in a frantic jive and all I can think of is how this would feel like if Royce were holding me. I can’t wait to see him up on stage. The world is spinning out of control, and I don’t care.

Panting for breath, we finally sit down and drink some of Annie’s beers while Josiah’s band packs up and makes way for my boyfriend.

“Pinch me,” I say to Alke.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Never mind.” It still feels like I’m dreaming, but I know I’m not.

Dani scoots closer to me and leans on my shoulder, suggestively whistling as the lights dim and he makes his way to the grand piano. My mouth turns dry when Royce turns his head and peers into the audience as his fingers stroke the keyboard. Maybe he’s looking for me, but he can’t see me in the dark. That’s all right – he knows I’m here. And I know, when he starts to play, that the prelude echoes a melody reminiscent of Kathleen Ferrier’s song, to let me know he’s thinking of me and the song I played for him. In this massive crowd, we are each other’s best-kept secret.

I close my eyes and let the tune sink in, remembering the night I visited him in his cottage and the kiss we shared. His music is so mournful, so full of longing that I’m surprised it has never drawn out the Sirens. The muscles in his strong arms flex when the melody morphs into something wilder, more insistent and mysterious. His dark hair falls over his forehead and hides his eyes from view. He doesn’t need to look in order to know he has utterly captivated the spectators with his performance.

“Wow,” Dani mumbles when his recital is over after what seems like a delicious eternity. “That was mind-blowing.”

“Yeah.” I shrug noncommittally on purpose, because I can feel Sytse’s eyes on me. “As expected.” My eyes don’t follow Royce as he leaves the stage. Instead, I peer at the flyer lying on our picnic blanket. “How long is Twarres going to play for?”

“That depends,” Sytse says, his mouth twitching with nerves.

“On what?” Dani wants to know.

He exhales. “Just watch.”

And so we do. Under everybody’s watchful eyes, four young men and one woman wheel gigantic carts containing instruments onto the stage. Actually, one of the carts seems to contain a stack of barrels connected by wires. Some kind of mainland drum set? The woman steps forward and introduces herself as Mirjam, the singer of the band. As the other band members set up their equipment behind them, she plays a beautiful acoustic song on guitar while singing in German. After a roaring applause, the others join in, playing another simple song on two guitars, one viola, and drums, the lyrics in Frisian this time. I look up at the band with a smile, still a bit unable to believe that the Skelta managed to invite this band from the mainland to play at our festival. They sound good, and they’re clearly proud of their heritage.

And then, a blinding light floods the stage. I yelp, raising a hand to shield my eyes. Before I can even say anything, a collective gasp runs through the audience as the full band segues into their next song, which sounds unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. The guitars cut through the air with a strangely distorted sound. I can hear the woman’s voice, loud and clear, and she’s not using a loud-hailer. Her singing seems to be amplified somehow.

“Oh my God,” Dani hisses. “They’re using electricity. In front of everybody.”

“No way,” I blurt out, but I realize it’s true. Somehow, Twarres has hacked into the Grid. My jaw drops when my eyes adjust to the light and I can make out its source. A brilliant spark running between two dark pillars that look like charred wood.

“Is that – burning charcoal?” I venture.

Sytse flashes me a self-satisfied smirk. “It is charcoal, but it’s not burning. Those two pillars are conducting energy, creating a current between them. Tesla calls it an arc light.”

Only then does it sink in that the vocalist is now singing in Skylgian. The lyrics jolt me out of my stupor. “
Trochloftich folk fan Skylge
,” the vocalist sings in our old tongue, “
wês jimmer op dyn Skylgerlân great, fol eare en trots
.”

Respectable people of Skylge, be forever proud of your Skylger land full of honor and pride. She’s singing to
us
, not to the Currents, and she’s blasting out her message in a foreign language the Anglians don’t understand, by means of forbidden electricity. No wonder Sytse and Alke were nervous before. This is going to cause outrage. Palpable excitement hovers over the crowd. Already, I can see Mayor Edison jumping up from his seat in the grand stand, storming down the steps in a huff to put an end to the performance that’s breaking every single law on the island.

Meanwhile, the crowd around us is getting agitated. Lots of people here still understand the old tongue, even though it is prohibited to speak it in public places. Twarres is inciting us to stand up for ourselves and break the bonds of slavery to St. Brandan’s Fire.