Call the Wild Sea: Exploring the untamed, where friendship, surfing, and magic intertwine

By Wendy Adams

"We can't help who we are born, but we can help who we become"

Fin wants to be a great surfer like her hero Tyler Wright. Ashina, a girl born of privilege in an ancient time, destroys everything she loves when she gains the one thing she desires - her voice. Born under a wolf blood moon, both are blessed, or c

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wendy Adam
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645654400

Wendy Adams

Wendy Adams is a half-marathoner, a kook surfer and a black-belt in kung fu... oh and a middle-grade author. She has a passion for fantasy and her dream is to create a story that will stay with readers forever, just as her favourite books from childhood have done. Wendy is a mother of four and lives in a house overlooking the sea with her husband and border collie, Mac.

Book preview

Ashina

The moon bleeds, and the milky red light throws shadows on the bed in the darkened room. The woman whimpers.

No! Not now. Please Sorcha. She holds out a hand as pale as milk and the wise-woman squeezes it briefly before moving away to stare out of the window.

The golden moon has vanished and a red warrior strides across the sky in its place. Angry, unsettling. Sorcha’s fingers twitch as they make the sign to ward off evil spirits, but her heart is fearful. The heavy scent of the candles, lavender and peppermint, cause her stomach to turn and she wishes she could snuff them out.

Sorcha! The woman’s voice is thin as cobwebs and broken with fatigue. She half rises from the bed but collapses on the pillows, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead.

The wise-woman turns away and draws the curtains to block out the blood moon. But she knows it’s too late. All have seen it and the atmosphere is thick as the mists on the fells. Where once there was a bubbly air of celebration, welcoming new life, now the ashy taste of fear fills their mouths. The women huddle around the fire like lost sheep and Sorcha bites back an angry retort.

Foolish maids! she thinks, but her brow clears, and she sighs. What else can she expect when the child struggling to be born will arrive on the night of a blood moon? And she shivers. Worse still, a wolf one.

And the earthmagic so thick in the air, she can smell it, causes Sorcha to clutch her chest and fight back panic. Surely, they must notice it too. But the women’s eyes, wide and round, remain on the curtains and what lies beyond. A wolf blood moon. When the veil between worlds is thin. When the earthmagic, so desired by some, could revive again – in those it might. Sorcha grits her teeth and a howl gathers in her chest, threatening to scorch her throat with its ferocity.

I will not allow you leverage in this life! she vows, and her heart freezes as she hears mocking laughter fill her head.

The woman on the bed gives a tight groan and Sorcha turns to the women and says, See to our lady. Her time is near.

There is a last gasp, and the baby is born. Silence falls on them. Even the fitful fire ceases its babble.

Does it live? the lady’s voice breaks the quiet and Sorcha rushes to examine the child. It’s a girl, of course. What else would the blood moon demand? She is pink and bonny, and her chest rises and falls in a powerful rhythm.

She lives, utters Morag, the youngest maid, and it’s impossible to tell if she rejoices or despairs.

Sorcha searches the baby’s face – delicate as rose petals. There is nothing to mark her as the cursed one. She dares to hope but, as she passes the babe to her mother’s waiting arms, she sees it. Overlooked by a less familiar eye. A shadow image scores the baby’s upper arm – the sign of the wolf – marking her as the cursed one who Sorcha had hoped to never meet on this side of the living.

Sheen

She sighs. Another day, another chance to forget. She walks to the beach as she has done many times before.

More times than there are grains of sand, she says and cackles and instantly stops as if afraid she’ll be heard. But the beach is empty. Just a girl in the water, surfing. Sheen stares at her for a moment. She sees them often at the beach. But usually, they come in packs. Loud and noisy like a mischief of magpies. And as destructive.

They love to play on the ocean’s wide and generous back, but when it is over, all they leave behind are brightly coloured wrappers and plastic bottles. Dangerous lures to the ocean’s many children. And they throw their words around thoughtlessly, careless where they might land. Thinking she’s deaf as well as old.

She sniffs. Mosquitoes. As if their opinions can harm her! After all she has seen in her long, long life, after all she has endured. To think a few careless names like ‘mad old hag’ and ‘sea dragon’ could injure her. She’s seen it all and they are mere babes – if only they knew.

Her thoughts return to the moment and the girl on the wave. The small one, blonde, purple eyes. The one with the heavy heart. Sheen bends to picks up a wrapper hidden between two rocks. She smiles as if she has won a battle. At least this one won’t find itself in the belly of a seabird. A sudden breath of air caresses her cheek and a weight lands on her shoulder.

Ah, there you are.

A crow with wings of midnight blue cocks his head and stares into the old woman’s faded eyes. He chitters words that fall into her ear like drops of honey. She tickles the top of his head and smiles, a little sadly.

"I think not, mo charaid. My eyes no longer wish to seek, and hope no longer lives in my heart."

The crow nods his head, his golden eyes full as if they hold all the secrets of the world. But Sheen no longer has the desire to uncover them. It’s enough to be here in this moment as the sun comes up on yet another day and to think of nothing at all. She has a job now – to keep this beach clean. It might not be the destiny she had planned, but she’s made peace with all of that. A long time ago.

The girl stands and rides the wave, her hair a pale banner streaming behind her. Sheen delights in her skills but forgets her once it’s over. She turns away and walks back towards her hut, nestled like a forgotten thought behind the sand dunes, far away from the girl who dances on the waves.

Ashina

Sorcha commands the women to leave the room as she passes the child into her mother’s waiting arms. The lady sighs and looks at the wise-woman.

Oh Sorcha! She’s beautiful, she breathes.

She is indeed, my lady. Sorcha pauses and the new mother raises a delicately arched brow.

And yet, there is something troubling you about my child? She phrases it as a question, but both women have known each other for so long that it really is unnecessary. Sorcha takes the child’s arm in hers and turns it gently to reveal the wolf’s mark, faint but unmistakable.

The woman gasps and her hand hovers over the baby’s arm, as if to conceal the truth that lies within.

What…?

But Sorcha shakes her head. Agnetta, you know what it means.

The woman’s eyes, purple as bruises on her ivory face, stare down at her child. It can’t be. All this nonsense has long passed from our world. Earthmagic is merely a tale told to keep wayward bairns from running amok.

Sorcha sighs. We had hoped so. We had dreamed it was so, but, she pauses, it seems we were wrong. The infant slumbers peacefully in her mother’s arms. And Sorcha thinks with a start – she has not made one sound, no cry at birth, nothing. Perhaps she is mute? A fierce hope grows in her breast. Perhaps all is not lost?

She hasn’t made a sound, Sorcha dares to say her thoughts out loud and the mother nods, understanding.

Perhaps, Agnetta says softly, we have escaped the threat after all.

Fin

What time is this? Mum taps her watch as if expecting an answer, but Fin just slides into the chair and grabs some toast. Her mother frowns at her.

Finlay! I’ve told you, no surfing before school unless you have everything ready for the day. Where’s your lunch? Have you made your bed? Is your uniform clean?

Fin rolls her eyes and grunts..

You’ll be late for school. Again. Mum gives one of her 'I’m not angry, just disappointed' looks. Fin knows them well. It’s not easy to be born into a family of teachers when school to her is some kind of torture chamber.

Mum. Just chill. It’ll be okay. I don’t have much on…

But her mother interrupts. Every moment of school is important, especially when… She stops and looks away, but Fin, almost glad to say it, finishes, … especially when you are crap at it. Is that what you wanted to say, Mum?

No. Of course not, her mother answers, but her eyes tell a different story. It’s written clearly for even Fin to read – How did we produce this child? Her mother slides into the seat next to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. We know school is hard for you. We can always get a…

Fin stands up and pushes her plate away, the food half-eaten. No. I don’t want a tutor – unless it’s a surfing coach. That’s where my life is going to be, Mum. I’m not good at school, but I’m a good surfer. I want to be a…

Her mother stands too, her eyes heavy and sad. There’s more to life than surfing, Fin. And it won’t be enough just to be good at it if you want to make a living…

Fin frowns and a scream threatens to escape from her soul and shatter every piece of glass in the room.

So you are saying I’m not even a good surfer? Not good at anything?

Of course not. You are a great surfer but…

I’ve gotta go, Mum. Can’t be late for school. She rushes out of the room thinking her mother will never understand.

There’s more to life than surfing, Mum repeats and Fin calls back, Not for me.

Sheen

Bran flies around Sheen’s hut like a hurricane looking for a place to land.

Hush your bothering, she scolds and flaps at the crow with her shabby, woollen beanie. I don’t want to hear it.

But the bird will not be quiet. He swoops above her head, just out of reach, cawing wildly until finally she can stand it no more.

Calm down and tell me again, she sighs and lowers herself into the single wooden chair that she owns. There is a maelstrom of feathers and a cry like the death of a million trees, but the old woman doesn’t flinch nor cover her ears. Why would she? She has experienced this more times than she can count. It takes a little longer than it used to. She gives a wry smile. Well, they are both ancient and it’s to be expected.

And finally he is there. Bit by bit. Extended limbs, bare skin in place of feathers, a nose, no longer a beak. Feet instead of claws. Her dearest friend. And still that grin. Like a naughty schoolboy peeking out from his wrinkled face.

Bran. What is so urgent that you need to do this again? she asks, and her eyes are soft, for she knows how much it costs him now, this transformation. When first they met, he could change in the time it takes between one heartbeat and the next. That’s no longer true.

Bran’s voice is croaky, as if the crow in him remains.

Wait! she commands and opens the wooden chest in the far corner of the hut. She rummages around and takes out an old but clean pair of trousers and a checked shirt. While he dresses, she fills a glass with water and waits until he is ready. He drinks gratefully and says again, The girl. The girl on the water.

Sheen frowns. She still doesn’t know what he is talking about.

Riding the wave this morning.

Again, no response.

The surfer.

Sheen nods. Oh yes. The blonde girl with the purple eyes. On the sea. Alone. A pretty little thing, but of no consequence, surely?

No Bran, she says. Not again.

Bran coughs a little and perches himself on the table as if his body is still in bird form, not human. She’s different. I sense she could be the one.

Sheen looks at him and he smiles ruefully.

I know, he says. I know we have thought so countless times, but this time…

Sheen looks out of the single window of her home. It’s grimy and salt crusted from the proximity of the sea. It’s like staring out of an ancient mirror, cloudy and age-damaged. How appropriate. But the thought of following another lead, to find the energy to do it all again after so many failures, seems too hard. I can’t, she says at last. The words fall like stones. There’s a silence before she feels his warm breath on her neck.

You know we must.

Ashina

The child grows beautiful and strong as a meadow-flower, and Sorcha watches over her with eagle eyes. Her mother Agnetta and father Argeus adore her as she is their only child.

And therein lies the problem, Sorcha mutters at least once a day, for Ashina is wilful. She refuses to follow the rules for a girl of her station.

She must stop playing with Roulo as if she is one of her puppies, Sorcha says to Agnetta as they watch the child tumble on the grass with the dogs. Look at her! It is not seemly.

But Agnetta gives a gentle smile. She is young, Sorcha. She will grow out of it. And at least we… She didn’t finish the thought because nobody wants to give it voice. Sorcha frowns. Have they avoided the earthmagic curse? It is hard to tell for the child, at two years of age, has not made a single sound. No laughter, no crying, no words. Nothing. She’s as silent as a sunbeam and shines just as brightly. Beautiful and intelligent, speech or no.

Sorcha has taught her the names of the flowers of the field, the animals in the meadows, the people of the keep and the items inside. Ashina uses her fingers to repeat the words in her own silent language. And she always wants more. Her fingers flash the words, What is this, Sorcha? What name do we use for this? How do we use it? What is it for?

Endless questions and still never satisfied. Sorcha feels a sudden pride in her protégé, in her inquiring mind, in her obvious astuteness. But in her heart, a kernel of fear lives. What will become of this speechless child whose head is full of knowledge? And what will happen to them all if, one day, she learns to speak?

Fin

Except for the surf this morning, there is nothing good about this day. Fin picks at her nails as she imagines a perfect swell at the beach. Is that the seagulls she can hear? No, just Mr Draid droning on about the importance of poetry. Poetry? When was he born? In the 1800s? Fin looks at the page of print before her and the letters dance as if they too ride the ocean waves.

Finlay! Do you have your glasses?

Oh! Mr Draid has somehow left the front of the room and stands beside her, an ugly scowl marking his face. Mr Draid is the worst. He doesn’t understand about her difficulties with reading and writing. He thinks those stupid coloured glasses will help. They don’t. He won’t let it go. She looks around the room, but everybody is pretending not to notice. Mr Draid raises one dark eyebrow.

Fin pretends to search in her bag but in her mind, she sees the glasses lying dusty and forgotten under her bed. At last she says, I think I’ve left them at home.

Mr Draid sighs. Not very helpful, he says the words as if speaking them causes him pain. Would you like to try the e-reader?

Do I want to cut off all my hair and run around