The Water Kingdom: The Water Novels, #1

By Deborah J. Gray

For seventeen-year-old Nell, life is about to take a chilling turn.

Raised by a workaholic uncle and used to being overlooked in a crowd, Nell has found life to be rather dull and uneventful…Until the day of a school field trip out to White Shell Lagoon. Going against her nature, Nell bends a rule – and makes a shocking discovery.
Now she has a secret that no one will believe, one that whispers danger even as it seems to call to her very soul. What really lurks beneath the glassy waves…and how much will finding out cost her?
All she knows is that she's caught the attention of a strange boy with special abilities and violet eyes, a boy she is certain cannot be human.

Trapped by rules and tradition in a deteriorating kingdom, Sebastian feels he has no other choice except to act. Taking matters, and fate, into his own hands, the daring young man enters the realm of humans to retrieve what was once taken. The land beyond the waves is no friend to his kind, yet to save his home, he will do what few before him have ever dared. He is prepared for almost anything…except meeting a girl who somehow poses a threat to his identity, his hidden world and to everything he has ever known.

As the two fight for their own agendas it becomes clear that they may just have more in common than either realizes...

 

The Water Novels - Book One

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah J. Gray
• Release date: Jan 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781393993179

Deborah J. Gray

Deborah J. Gray holds a Bachelor of Teaching and Learning degree and writes for enjoyment. "The Water Kingdom" is her first full length novel for young adults in the fantasy genre. She is a member of the Christchurch Writers' Guild and currently lives in New Zealand with her husband, family and a mischievous black Labrador.

Book preview

Prologue

Sebastian

––––––––

I STAND ON THE edge, gearing up for what is to come. My fists clench when I look down into the steep darkness. The ledge beneath me is overgrown with damp weeds and moss, the exterior crumbling and rough compared to the manicured grounds I’m used to. It is the last place anyone would think to look for me.

I unbutton my fitted military style jacket, fingers catching on the gold buttons of the high collar. Engraved on each one is the royal emblem. I do not wish to see it right now, but I can feel the raised curve of an anchor.

A hiss escapes my throat as I think about what I am about to do. Is it brave or stupid? I settle for brave.

I will leave everyone I have ever known behind. I pray they will forgive me, or at the very least understand. Admittedly, I am about to perform an atrocious act. If there was another way, I would not commit or even conceive of it.

I place the jacket carefully on the ground. As soon as it is found they will know what I have done, but by then it will be too late. Bile rises in my throat at the thought.

When I come to the shirt beneath, I pull it over my shoulders and throw it into a heap as if shedding a nightmare. A piece of rock comes away from the platform and tumbles over the edge. It falls so far that I can’t hear it hit the bottom.

Rays of light reach the horizon, and the blazing embers remind me that soon everyone I know will wake and start their mornings. I allow a few seconds to relish the moisture of the air, the still quiet, the balmy and ever-present scent of salt.

A voice inside reasons for me to turn back and abandon the plan. I consider the previous fifteen years, each worse than the last, everyone busying themselves in avoidance of the looming dilemma while hoping for a miracle. The inaction is fruitless.

I stare down at the well of darkness before me and ask myself the same questions others are likely to think in my position. Will the process be quick? Will it hurt terribly? Most importantly, what awaits on the other side?

Although my knowledge is limited, taking the risk is the only solution I can find. Dormancy, death... there is little difference between the two at present. The drop is centimeters away; it would take two steps at most, two steps into the unknown. My pulse beats steadily and I take a breath. I’ve come too far to go back on my decision. One foot in front of the other, I walk with a strange calmness. Then I simply do it – I jump from the edge.

1.  Leaving Normal

Nell

––––––––

THIS HAS TO HAPPEN. It simply must. I peer at my reflection in the mirror, buttoning up the white regulation blouse. My fingers pause on the top button and I bite my lip. I did actually ask him already – two weeks ago. He said no. 

I smooth out the navy pleated skirt, an item of our school uniform that I absolutely loathe, but that’s another matter.  

I’m going to ask him again this morning, keep it simple, remain calm. It’s a completely normal request, innocent really. Then why did he say no?

I exhale then tie my hair back into the normal ponytail, pulling the elastic band tighter than planned. Basic brown eyes gaze back at me from the mirror, my skin pale. I place stainless steel studs in my ears next, nothing fancy. We’re not supposed to wear jewelry at school, but the earrings are subtle enough that I can get away with wearing them. I give my reflection a final once-over. If I were to sum up my appearance, I’d call it average. Not because of the school uniform, but because there is nothing distinct about me.  

I’m average height, average build. I don’t have any interesting birthmarks or cute freckles. My hair is a basic shoulder length, a standard chestnut brown as lackluster as unvarnished wood. If you were to notice me in passing, I’m sure I would be completely forgettable.  

My thoughts return to the issue at hand, a more pressing thing to concern myself with. The piece of paper is still on my dresser. I unfold it and then write the date beneath the dotted line: Wednesday, September 7. The rest is up to him. 

I go to look for the only other inhabitant of the household, my uncle, Zack. I’ve always just referred to him as uncle, since Zack never quite seemed to fit his age or temperament. It’s always easy to find him. He hardly ever leaves the study, his favorite room in the house. I walk towards the door and tap lightly on it.  

Yes? he answers curtly. Through the gap, I can already make out his do-not-disturb expression: mouth in a thin line, eyes flicking up in irritation from the laptop screen. 

I just need you to sign this. I cross the cave-like room. My uncle has drawn the blinds, blocking out any hint of morning sunshine, and is perching with impeccable straightness in his chair.  

His desire to be rid of me could work in my favor. I place the permission slip in front of him next to a fountain pen. With one stroke of that pen, the problem could be solved.  

My uncle pauses, looking at a piece of fluff caught on his sleeve. 

Where did that come from? he asks, extracting it between bony fingers as if it was a bug. He drops it in the trashcan and then searches in the top drawer of the desk for his prized lint roller.  

I clear my throat. The field trip’s today, the one I told you about. The permission slip was due in last week, but Mr. Howard said I can still go if I get it to him first thing. 

Field trip? My uncle slams the drawer shut then opens the next one. I blink, staring at the same charcoal gray suit he wears for work each day, the one with a faint pinstripe, and the only thing he’s ever splurged on. 

It’s at White Shell Lagoon...  

My uncle freezes, the upper part of his body stiffening, if that were possible. In silence, he closes the drawer and then turns to look at me properly for the first time this morning.  

I believe we have already discussed this, he says. I don’t see any value in you attending. 

My throat feels dry. I try to recall all the stored up arguments in my head.  

Erosion! I blurt. The purpose is to look at the effects of coastal erosion on– 

He returns to his laptop and begins typing.  

I’m sure you can give this one trip a miss, spend your time more wisely. Perhaps a study day for your upcoming exams. 

I swallow to buy an extra second of time.  

I have to go. We’re supposed to write an essay on our findings. I remain rooted next to the edge of the desk. What normal caregiver would prevent you from doing your schoolwork? That’s the problem – I’m certain my uncle isn’t normal, with his lack of interest in most things outside of work, or these four gray walls.  

His hair is a darker shade than mine, his nose more elongated. Sometimes I look for the family resemblance but fail to find it. My uncle finishes whatever he is typing. 

Just use the internet like everybody else, he says, waving his hand. Now, if that’s all, I need to wrap up here and meet a client. 

I grit my teeth. He doesn’t get it. I will be the only one in my class not going. I’ll have to remain behind in classroom 12B adjacent to the library, under the supervision of Mrs. Brim, who smells like cabbage. It’s social suicide. I may as well as carry around a banner that says freak. 

It would really... 

Nell, my uncle cuts me off, bundling the laptop into its carrycase. I’m not paying twenty dollars for you to mess around on the beach all day, eating De Luca’s Gelato from that stand near the boulevard. 

The cost is to cover travel expenses, I inform him as calmly as I can. And equipment hire. I pause when I register the last part of what he just said. De Luca’s Gelato? Near the boulevard? My eyebrows work together. Have you... have you been to White Shell Lagoon before? 

My uncle zips the carrycase closed sharply. 

Don’t be ridiculous. That place is for tourists. Besides, I don’t know why you’re so bent on going, you hate the outdoors. He’s standing up, not looking at me, but I catch the corner of his mouth creasing as if I’m missing a private joke.

* * *

I pull into the school parking lot, seeking out a shaded spot. From the open window of my Honda Civic, I can already feel the mugginess, the sun heating the steering wheel beneath my fingertips. I saved up to buy the car, working two nights a week at my part-time job. Some of the paintwork was already scratched and the CD player is busted, but the purchase was worth it. I wasn’t buying metal on wheels. I was buying independence.

The best spots are already taken, and I have to park on the far side of the lot.

From my position, the library is to my right and the dreaded Classroom 12B. I cut the engine with an air of deflation, closing my eyes. For a second, I rest my head against the glass of the driver’s window, enjoying the slight coolness. The sound of excited voices wafts towards me, causing me to open my eyes again. I turn to see the school bus parked on the nearby tarmac and a bottleneck of students queuing to board. Our Geography teacher, Mr. Howard, is crossing names off a clipboard. His ginger beard is speckled with gray, setting him apart from the other teachers.

We won’t be back until 2:30pm, so make sure you have everything you need. Hats and sunscreen on, please.

Hey, can we do some kayaking today? Roger, a head taller than Mr. Howard, is last in the line. Mr. Howard clears his throat.

We hope to have a free activity time in the afternoon, provided everything goes according to schedule.

Roger swings his bag over his shoulder, his lanky frame ducking through the double doors. I blow out a puff of air. Maybe my uncle was partially right about this being an excuse to waste time on the beach. Still, in this heat, I’d prefer refreshing water lapping at my ankles to imprisonment in a stuffy classroom. I envision the brown carpet of 12B, the wedged-in desks, the loud ticking of the clock. I’m more or less up-to-date with my work, which means I won’t really have anything to do.

I sigh, picking up my bag. The permission slip for the trip is in the side pocket. For some reason I pull it out again, although it’s a lost cause.

Doesn’t matter, you can just get the notes from the trip off someone else later. The bag rests on my knees. I’ll just have to find something to do – like count the holes in the ceiling or something. So what if I miss out this one time? Sure, it’s the only fun thing we’re likely to do in Geography all year. Sure, I’ve never actually got around to going to the beach before, given the drive, but it’s fine, really. I should probably stop lingering, go sign in with Mrs. Brim as planned. I picture her with her wiry bun and spectacles, using her time overseeing study class to get her grading done. It’s going to be boring – completely boring.

Students line the backseat of the bus, their backs to me. Even from here, I can see them jostling one another, snapping group photos with their phones. Mr. Howard tucks the clipboard under his arm, placing his foot on the first bus step. I hold my breath. In the same side pocket is a pen. My hand finds it and then I’m unfolding the piece of paper. Don’t be stupid. I stare at the gapping white space above the dotted line where my uncle’s signature should be. Then I find myself scrawling something – anything. What are you doing?

I ignore the voice in my head and step out onto the gravel. My bag over my shoulder, I’m locking the car door. Before I know it, I’ve marched in the wrong direction, towards the bus instead of to the library and adjacent classroom.

Mr. Howard? It croaks out and I almost drop the piece of paper.

Oh, I didn’t see you there, he says, glancing around in case there are any more stragglers. I thought I crossed everyone off already.

He stops to consult the clipboard. I wait for him to find my name but it seems as if he’s having trouble.

There it is. I point to it, a quarter of a way down the list.

Nell Cunningham, of course. He smiles, but there’s a blank look on his face. He fails to notice the permission slip in my hand and I’m starting to wonder if he even remembers our conversation from the other day. Find a seat where you can.

Right, I say. He probably assumes I sent the form in ages ago with everyone else. I stumble down the aisle. With each step, it starts to feel as if weights are in my shoes. I slip into the only available seat, which is next to Miss Ross, the student teacher who is supposed to be supervising but is busy texting. A minute later, the bus departs from the school driveway, the movement causing some much-needed air to filter through the top windows. I gaze past Miss Ross, who is sporting sunglasses, and watch the scenery roll by, pretending that everything is fine. The seat feels hard beneath me. I bite my lip, vaguely aware of the bus taking several turns before joining the motorway. The thing is, I’ve never done anything like this before. Sheets of wooden fencing blaze past along with a billboard for shoes. What the heck have I done? Something deceptive. Would it have really killed me if I just stayed behind?

My chest tightens as the bus I’m not supposed to be on crosses the main bridge, the one that leaves the city. Skyscrapers whip out of sight and we merge from eight to four lanes of traffic. The joints in the bridge cause a jolting motion, making my stomach spin.

I try to tell myself that it is no big deal, that nothing bad will happen to me as comeuppance. It was one small, forged signature. I’m sure others have done far worse. How much trouble can it really bring?

2.  Cross Over

Sebastian

––––––––

AT FIRST, IT IS all darkness. Deepening, swallowing. I drop as though weightless, any moment expecting to hit the side of the abyss on my way down, for the exterior to scrape and tear at me. I squeeze my eyes shut as a draft presses in around me. Whooshing, whipping air and then the sound of roaring. It grows louder the further I decline. I wish to cover my ears but cannot move my arms. For a terrible moment, I believe that my bones will be crushed by the pressure.

Just when I think I cannot take any more, the roaring stops and the wind drops. I’m still falling, but something’s changed. My descent slows. I catch my breath, sliding through the abyss at a slower rate, and then I land on something solid. I’ve landed upon my hands and knees and under my palms, I feel more rock.

For a moment, I can scarcely believe it. I give a shaky laugh. I open my eyes and see that the rock that I’m kneeling on is no more than four feet wide. I should have smacked into it. I should be dead. But it happened, the very thing I have put all my faith in: the Cross Over.

Looking around, the walls of the abyss are gone and I’m greeted by an open expanse.

The sun is high in the sky, informing me that it’s noon instead of dawn. The sudden time difference has a disorientating effect. I lower my head for a moment, noticing that water surrounds the lone rock. But there is something wrong with it, as if the color is muted. Of course it is still blue, but more a muddy blue. It does not possess the same clarity as the water at home, but the waves provide some comfort.

I become aware of the atmosphere, of the unusual dryness, as if all the moisture has been syphoned out of the air. It’s so dry I almost retch. Instantly, I want nothing more but a drink to ease the chaffing in my throat. I look back at the strange water. Even the motion appears to be wrong, distorted somehow. It is as if the waves are rolling backwards.

Still kneeling on the rock, I reach my fist out, wondering if it is safe to touch the ocean spread before me. The water could soothe my flesh or singe it. There is no telling. I look for signs of life, fish, anything to prove that this place is habitable.

Anything is possible in this place, I mutter. Though I spoke quietly, it sounds louder, but perhaps my ears are still adjusting. Something is above me now, something flapping. It’s enough for my muscles to tense again. A pint-sized bird circles the area before swooping out of sight.

I take the sighting of the bird as a reassurance. It seemed to be looking for food, which means there’s a good chance the sea here is safe. Not only that, but that the closest land mass can’t be far. I could potentially reach it in a day, if I’m lucky. I should have eaten more in preparation, stored up energy for the journey ahead, but time was scarce.

I force them from my thoughts, all those that I left behind. There is nothing they can do. It is up to me now.

I balance on the rock, getting ready. From my kneeling position, I dive off and into the water. Despite my initial concern, I establish that the sea here in the human world is essentially the same as at home. As painless and as quick as blinking, my body acclimatizes to the foreign waters. It starts with my lungs expanding, syphoning water through my respiratory system instead of air. My skin, having barely touched the ocean, takes on an oily appearance, insulating my body temperature. My vision clears and fish dart out of the way. Almost immediately, the swim cleanses the imagined burn of the atmosphere that lingered upon me moments ago.

I can do this.

I dive deeper below the surface to perform what I do best. Angling my tongue, I make a clicking noise inside my mouth. I was once told that the frequency would be too high for human ears to detect, a detail that was irrelevant until now. Seconds later, an echo returns a twinge in my eardrums, allowing me to calculate.

I glean the distance of several rock formations and something mobile. I listen to the echo, determining the specific details. It weighed about 400 pounds and was maybe 8 feet long. I gauge the shape: a rounded nose, a dorsal fin. Harmless, nothing more than a dolphin. I grin, deciding to leave it be. At home, dolphin echolocation is often faster than my own, but this time I made the discovery first. I listen again, noting that it has changed directions. Perhaps it knows I am by no means a normal resident.

Being an outsider for once is a strange concept and I consider it as I swim. No one is aware of my identity here. What would it be like to just slip into anonymity? To not have my every move monitored? Of course, I have to be discreet, but for the most part, I have gained for myself a form of freedom.

I dart through the water then somersault. At least there are perks. I shoot upward, smashing across the surface. For a small distance, I cruise on my back, parting waves with ease. I grow used to the different spectrum of colors, noting similarities in the sky compared to my world. The dry air is less obvious while swimming, the salt water a comforting balm to my skin.

I flip over and swim with my front. It’s several minutes later that my eardrums twinge and I become aware of an object in the water: a drifting boat.

Slowing my pace, I proceed with caution. It was only a matter of time before encountering a human, but I had hoped to be further inland before having to deal with such an unpleasant prospect. My mouth forms a thin line as I survey the number of occupants—three.

In the distance, is the shore. The forbidden coastline topped with mountains. Buildings cluster across it and clouds drape overhead.

My attention returns to the boat, which is close enough now for me to get a look at it. It’s crafted from wood and exceptionally small by palace standards. The first occupant in the boat I establish to be a solidly built male, which causes me to reach for the dagger attached to my belt. He holds the oars loosely, leaning back slightly, and I calculate him to be of similar height to myself. He swings his chin to flick blond hair from his eyes, but it is a redundant motion given it’s cropped too short to be of bother. There is something wrong with his trousers; they cut off at the knee, suggesting that he couldn’t afford the rest of the fabric. Perhaps he is a peasant, although in our kingdom a rower is a well-respected profession.

My gaze flicks to the other two occupants, both female.

These things can be hard to live down, says one, poised in her seat. The voice is high-pitched, carrying easily through the air. She is wearing even less clothing than the man and smiles with lips of the brightest red, a stark contrast to the dullness of the ocean. It is a cold smile, bristling with animosity. I might be imagining it. Could these humans be different from the ones of the past?

The third occupant is turned away, brunette hair held back in a ponytail. The sallowness of her skin makes her appear sickly, and I watch as she lowers a hand into the water.

No one is looking in my direction or appears to have noticed me. My hand eases on the golden hilt of the dagger, a gift bequeathed to me on my eighteenth year, a gift I hope not to use unless absolutely necessary.

Waves crash across my shoulders as I tread water, mere feet away. I’m considering how best to continue my journey when it happens. At first it is subtle, a soft flare of light that could easily be missed. The singular beam projects towards me and then vanishes. My eyebrows draw together. This cannot be a natural phenomenon. Then I feel it sparking across my back. Seized with pain, I buckle beneath the water as though branded.

The searing pain is coming from the seal on my left shoulder blade, making me writhe beneath the water. Concerned that the splashing will be seen, I work to still myself, jaw clenched. It eases in seconds, enough for me to catch my breath and to note that the girl has thankfully removed her hand from the waves.

I glare at the boat, chest heaving. This must be a new development, perhaps a form of protection from us. Such weaponry has never been discussed in any of the sessions on Human Studies. This is a major concern.

My flesh stings a little still where the seal is. I take a minute to reassess. The first and second occupants are enthralled in a tedious conversation, but the third one, the one who wielded that strange force, is gazing up at the sky, her mouth parting slightly.

I dive downwards, deeper into the depths. Being sighted by these beings would be far worse than the treasonous act of Cross Over. I ensure to give the boat a wide birth, swimming with purpose to my destination.

3.  The Incident

Nell

––––––––

THE WATER CURRENTS ARE affected by the jetties and sea walls... Mr. Howard points in the distance, but only half the class is paying attention. He continues on in passionate oblivion, ...this in turn can prevent the sand being able to shift and replenish the beaches, further contributing to coastal erosion...

I clutch the worksheet we’ve been given, attempting to stop it from blowing away in the wind as I fill in the blanks. My pen has almost run out and perspiration forms across my nose.

Can this be over yet? A female voice whispers nearby.

There are four impact levels of erosion during a storm, also known as ‘regimes.’ Can anyone remember the name for the regime that involves waves crossing the base of dunes? Mr. Howard strokes his beard, a habit of his whenever he is waiting for an answer.

Collision, I say automatically, as if someone has just asked me the day of the week. A few people nearby turn to look at me and I feel my cheeks redden.

Nellie... It’s the same female voice from before. Please, no. There is only one person that calls me that. It could be mistaken for an affectionate nickname, but it isn’t. Pansy Pestrel moves closer, eyeing me from beneath her pristine baby doll fringe. ...Nellie Know-It-All.

She hides a smile behind her manicured nails. This is precisely why I usually keep my mouth shut. I ignore her, assuming she’ll grow tired of it because I certainly am.

There was this incident when we were twelve and ever since, Pansy’s found great amusement in pairing Nellie with whatever unflattering thing she can come up with. Last week it was Nellie the Nun, because I wore a black long-sleeved top for mufti day that was apparently too modest.

Mr. Howard throws his arms out in big gestures as he talks, possibly hoping to retrieve the class’s wandering focus.

The last item on the worksheet is a sketch. You’ll have several minutes to complete it followed by a short break. Please stay together in groups and remember what I said about leaving any marine creatures you encounter alone. All the natural things need to be left where they belong.

Someone snickers. Mr. Howard looks pointedly at Roger, who is enticing a crab to crawl into his pencil case.

I look down at my paper, setting to work on the sketch. Even if I happened to be a great drawer, I doubt I’d be able to capture what I see before me. I study the jetty and the shoreline, the mountains that encase the perimeter of the lagoon. I’ve never understood how the ocean could have a calming effect until now. Mesmerized, I watch the constant rolling, how the frothy peaks of white form at the top of each incoming wave.

Why have I not come here sooner? I guess I never had reason to, or had anyone that would want to accompany me, for that matter.

I always just assumed that the sea was blue, but it’s more complicated than that. The colors fall in gradients, with the deepest sapphire at the horizon melting into shades of teal as it shallows towards the waiting sand. It is beautiful.

Do you think we can get out to it? Pansy stands with her hand on her hip, surrounded now by her posse. I can’t be certain what they’re all looking at, but divert my gaze, sensing trouble.

You should ask Brad to go with you, says one of her friends, followed by an eruption of giggles. Pen still to paper, I shake my head.

Brad Torrick transferred to our high school at the beginning of the year, and ever since the female population has been in a frenzy over it. Initially, he was dating a different girl every fortnight, until Pansy snared him a few months ago. Now they have this temperamental, on-again-off-again relationship that is the talk of Carlton High. I just wish they would decide either way so that we can all move on.

I continue sketching, the sun radiating down the backs of my arms.

Miss Ross, wearing a button-up cardigan in the humid heat, reiterates for everyone to put their hats and sunscreen on. In my case, there’s little point, my skin doesn’t seem to burn much or tan for that matter.

I sigh, completing the sketch and then folding the worksheet into my bag. Students begin to peel away in cliques, some going off to buy lunch from the assortment of cafes