Light of Lorelei: Tales Of Skylge, #2

By Jen Minkman

There is no light without shadow,
no truth without sacrifice,
and no way to keep us all from harm.

Aska wants more out of life than being a temple girl in the St. Brandan Convent of Brandaris. Her life-long service to the Baeles-Weards is the only reason she wasn’t killed immediately after birth – she is atoning for the sins of her parents. Her Anglian mother and Skylger father were never supposed to love each other and have children, and Aska is reminded of her low status and illegitimacy by her fellow temple girls every day.

But then she meets Tjalling, a young, mysterious, and charming Skylger fisherman who doesn’t seem to care that he is not supposed to befriend her. Soon after they meet, the island falls prey to the largest Siren attack in the history of Skylge and Aska is beginning to doubt the wisdom of the priests. If the Light in the Tower really keeps the people from harm, why are the Shriekers taking more and more lives each day?

Adding to her inner turmoil is a secret meeting with Royce and Enna, who want to recruit her into their resistance movement, an unexpected confession from her best friend Melinda, and Aska’s realization that she likes Tjalling a bit too much for her own good.

Soon, she is going down a road there is no turning back from, forcing her to make choices that shake the foundations of her world.
For Aska, there is only one true choice – to bring the truth to light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jen Minkman
• Release date: Jan 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507022856

Jen Minkman

Jen Minkman (1978) was born in the Netherlands and lived in Austria, Belgium and the UK during her studies. She learned how to read at the age of three and has never stopped reading since. Her favourite books to read are (YA) paranormal/fantasy, sci-fi, dystopian and romance, and this is reflected in the stories she writes. In her home country, she is a trade-published author of paranormal romance and chicklit. Across the border, she is a self-published author of poetry, paranormal romance and dystopian fiction. So far, her books are available in English, Dutch, Chinese, German, French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and Afrikaans. She currently resides in The Hague where she works and lives with her husband and two noisy zebra finches.

Book preview

1.

After ten minutes of frantically searching my bedroom, I conclude I must have forgotten my book of hymns at the All-Seeing Eye.

Sweat is pouring down my back, staining my T-shirt in the stifling summer evening heat. Up in the attic, it’s always hotter than in the rest of the convent house – but I like being here on my own better than having to share a room with other girls. In here, I can keep a piece of myself. Besides, I don’t really fit in anyway.

When did you have it last? I can hear Melinda’s practical voice in my mind. She’s the one with her head screwed on. My only true friend in this convent. All the girls know I was born out of wedlock from forbidden relations between an Anglian woman and a Skylger man, sixteen years ago, and they look down on me for it. I don’t know what happened to my parents, but I am told repeatedly how the Baeles-Weards had mercy on me and let me join the Maidens of Brandan to atone for the sins of my parents. Some mercy that is.

Melinda doesn’t care, though. She’s friendly and generous, like a true temple girl should be.

I sigh. The other temple girls can afford to be generous. They only have to serve in this convent for five years maximum. Some of them chose to walk this path after finishing school, so they’d be guaranteed of St. Brandan’s favor, while others were sent here as punishment for their wayward ways. The sooner they learn to behave, the faster they’ll get out.

I, on the other hand, am never getting out. I’m in this for life. I have no home to go back to, after all. In here, I get fed, clothed, shod, and educated, and in the cold winters raging over our island I can hole up in my room and turn up the radiator, unlike the traditional Skylgers deprived of electricity.

But I’m not free.

I will never marry anyone. I’m supposed to dedicate my life to prayer, guarding the Fire, and learning hymns to scare mermaids away – and right now, that life seems to stretch out endlessly before me. Such a life is no life at all.

With a groan, I turn around and go down the winding stairs to find Melinda. Maybe she wants to accompany me on my trip back to the choir room. It’s a small building near the harbor formerly called Et Waitsjend Eag by the locals, now renamed ‘The All-Seeing Eye’. I once pointed out to our convent priest that our name most likely means the exact same as the old name in Skylgian, and to say he wasn’t happy is an understatement. I’m not even supposed to know the old name in a language that isn’t spoken anymore, but hey, sue me – I’m curious. I always want to know the origin of things. Priest Peter doesn’t know about that old Skylgian dictionary I found in the cellar of the choir room, several years ago, and I intend to keep it that way. I appreciate the education I get in this place, but it tends to be rather biased. I think it’s important to know more about the other culture on the island, even more so because my dad was a Skylger.

You have to help me, I say, bursting into Melinda’s room without prelude. I know she’s alone – her roommates Darcey and Grenna are downstairs on kitchen duty – so I don’t mind sounding desperate. I am in dire straits, after all. If I don’t bring the hymn book to tonight’s rehearsal, Mother Henrietta will give me a hard time. Worse, she’ll be disappointed, and I don’t want that. She’s one of the very few clergy members in this convent that I like.

Where’s the fire? Melinda looks away from the mirror. She’s sitting in front of her vanity, plaiting her black hair.

In the Tower, I deadpan, making her chuckle. Seriously, though, I need your help.

Okay. What’s the matter?

My book of hymns is missing. I think it’s in the All-Seeing Eye, I say, slightly out of breath. And we have practice tonight and tomorrow it’s All Souls Day. It’s when we commemorate the souls that were stolen from us by the Sirens.

Melinda bites her lip. I don’t know if I’ll have time to come with you to the choir room, Aska. I’m supposed to help set the table in a minute.

But I can’t get in without you, I protest.

My friend digs up her key ring from her handbag. Now you can, she replies, handing me the keys. Just make sure you lock up behind you.

Are you sure? I gape at her. Melinda knows full well that she can’t lend her keys to anyone else. They give access to the choir room, but more importantly, they unlock the doors of the Brandaris Firehouse. She’s one of the few temple girls who carry a key to the Tower, because she’s a distant relative of the mayor. Cousin twice removed or something.

I trust you, she replies with a dimple in her cheek. Just be back before dinner, okay?

I nod. Absolutely! Okay, gotta dash. See you later. I shoot her another grateful smile before bounding down the stairs and running out the door before anyone can ask me where I’m headed. The wind gently tousles my blonde hair and for just a second, it’s like the breeze is bringing in a whiff of confidence and power. I’m out on my own close to Eventide, and I’ve been entrusted with an important set of keys.

––––––––

Although it’s evening, the sun hasn’t sunk below the horizon yet. It’s the hottest month of the year. We call it Haerfestmonath in our old Anglian language. The Skylgers call it Rispmoanne, which means exactly the same – the month of harvest. Soon, the farmers will go out and reap what they’ve sown, and we’ll have yet another holiday to liven up with our holy song. Those performances take a lot of energy out of me. I’m still reeling from last Oorol, actually. The festival was cut short due to riots breaking out on the third day, combined with a large-scale Siren attack and a heavy storm passing over the Wadden Sea. The mayor summoned us back on the fifth day to end the festivities prematurely and we hadn’t really practiced the new songs enough.

As I walk down the street, I see the lamplighters with their long poles at work, illuminating the gas lights on either side of Brandan Avenue. Outside, all the lights in Lower Brandaris are traditional, because the Skylger inhabitants of Brandaris aren’t supposed to profit from or make use of electricity. It’s Brandan’s sacred gift to us, the Anglians. Inside our homes, all we need to do is flip a switch to turn on the light.

That’s what I do, too, when I step into the All-Seeing Eye after a cautious look over my shoulder. As a choir girl I’m allowed to come here, but I don’t want anyone to know I was here alone after practice hours. After closing the door behind me, I step forward. Whistling a melody to myself, I turn my head from left to right and slowly scan the aisle and the benches on either side. I was sitting in the front with Melinda, but there’s nothing on the floor there. Maybe someone brought it to the Lost and Found?

My heart jumps up when I finally spot a familiar green-colored cover and rush forward to pick up my hymn book from the floor near the back. How did it get all the way down here?

The mystery is soon solved when I open the book and see the word ‘BASTARD’ splashed across my name on the title page. The blood-red letters stain the curly ‘Aska’ written by Mother Henrietta when she first gave me the book, her blue eyes serious under her ash-blonde hair. Looks like someone found it and decided to have some fun with it.

Damn, I mutter, sitting down on the bench with trembling hands. Every sense of self-confidence evaporates from me on the spot. Henrietta always inspects the books every evening, to check whether we keep them tidy. If she sees this, she’ll know I dropped it somewhere and wasn’t being careful enough. Well, either that, or she’ll think I hate myself.

Drawing a deep breath, I begin to tear out the first page. It’s still bad, but at least she won’t know about the other girls bullying me. I don’t want her to know. I’d be so embarrassed, and she can’t help me anyway. If she tries, they’ll only terrorize me more.

I close the book and get up, the crumpled page getting warm in my hand as I look around a bit forlornly. Even though it’s been tainted, it’s still a page from a holy book. I can’t just toss it in the trash. The power of the hymns permeates the pages, the Baeles-Weards say, and every scrap of its paper is an abhorrence to the Shriekers. That’s what they call the Sirens.

Mother Henrietta once taught me that profound meditation will strengthen your mind so much that you’ll be able to rise above the alluring melodies sung by the merfolk, so you’ll hear their music for what it really is – a deadly, addictive wail of misery. Only the truly dedicated temple servants recognize the Shriekers for what they really are. All others can only fight their tempting call by singing the hymns and invoking St. Brandan’s Fire.

Quietly, I leave the All-Seeing Eye and lock the door behind me, the hymn book tucked in my shoulder bag and the title page getting sweaty in my balled fist. I’ll throw it in the sea to help defend my island, no matter how small the impact.

As I set course for the beach near the choir room, I hum the melody that Henrietta has been teaching us for weeks. The words always stay the same, but the songs change every season. She says it’s because the Sirens also change theirs. Our hymns are a counterpoint to theirs, negating the effect they have on the people living on dry land. We are the white to their black, the light to their darkness.

The water is deceptively smooth. No waves stir the surface, but this means the undertow is very strong. Children have drowned by going in a bit too far to catch fish in their spoon nets, not yet understanding how dangerous the sea really is. I climb down the wooden steps leading to the sand, still wet with the brine now retreating in the distance because of the low tide. If I want to dump my page into the water, I’ll have to walk for a minute or so.

By now, the beach is completely empty. All fishermen have fled into their houses to escape the evening heat and cool off under the shower. This is my shoreline now. For just a split second, I imagine what it would be like if these sands weren’t dangerous – if the beach were a place to relax on summer nights. Would we have live music and restaurants crowding the coastline, bonfires and barbecues? Couples strolling through the surf while holding hands? I don’t know where these thoughts come from, popping up unbidden in my head. Vaguely, I remember seeing a postcard from Grins once, sent from the mainland to Mother Henrietta. She’d tacked it on the cork board in her room a long time ago, but was asked to take it down again. It was a black-and-white photo of a seaside very much like our own, but this beach was alive with entertainment and smiling people and – love. I feel a sudden, wistful ache in my heart at the thought that I’ll never hold hands with anyone, walking down the beach or any other road. I’m just like Mother Henrietta, sworn to work for the convent till the day she dies.

That’s when I see him.

A solitary walker, strolling up to me from the direction of the sea. It’s a tall man with broad shoulders, and I inadvertently take a few steps back, gingerly glancing at the wooden steps behind me leading back to the quay. I’m out here all alone and nobody knows where I am. I don’t know much about the world outside, but I do know being out at night with a strange man in a lonely place like this might not end well. If I run really fast, I might make it to the safety of the quay before he gets to me.

But for some reason, I can’t move. Inwardly, I beg for this rambler to mean me no harm. My fingers clutched around the book page relax somewhat, though, when he comes closer and I see that he’s not really a man. He’s a boy not much older than me, though his muscular frame suggested otherwise from a distance. His light-brown hair is wet. Has he been – swimming?

Hi, I say, trying to make my voice as steady as I can. If I greet him first, I’ll have the home advantage. I’ve been to this beach countless times, even after sunset. He will not scare me away.

Hello.

I blink up at him. This is strange – the second he speaks, I sense I don’t have to worry. His voice sounds so gentle and harmless that he can’t possibly be dangerous.

Are you all alone? he continues.

Even those words don’t alarm me like they probably should. Yes. I want to give this back to the sea.