I know the tradition of posting an X-000th post crit has largely died out, but here's this. It's a short prologue to the second in my YA eco-fantasy series. All reactions and comments welcome.
***
Amy sat bolt-upright in bed, heart set thumping by the song that came from the predawn twilight beyond her thin curtains. She knew the voice at once, high and lonely, its words impossible to pin down. She glanced at her phone, 3:45, then pulled on her clothes, slipped out of her room and past the sound of her dad snoring.
Outside the small bungalow, grey mist chilled the world. There always was mist now when the Lady sang. Amy hurried along the path towards the lake. Static caravans loomed lifeless in the cold vapour. Bridewell Holiday Park was dead now even at high season, killed by a series of tragedies even the national news had picked up. Her parents had little to do but fend off occasional reporters and ghoulish visitors, and the owner had stopped paying for security patrols. As Amy neared the lakeshore, she heard music and laughter from a group of teenagers taking advantage of this for an all-night party.
Ignorant idiots. Probably here for a dare, because of the lake’s recent notoriety. Their harsh voices and hip-hop clashed with the Lady’s song in Amy’s ears. But the partiers wouldn’t hear it, Amy knew. Only she could hear the song – she, and whoever the Lady had chosen.
The path led her to the water’s edge. The human sounds came from her right, the song from the left. She thought for a moment of seeing if the partiers were missing anyone, but they would be older than her and frightening, maybe drunk or high, and they might not understand in time. So she hurried in the opposite direction, towards the song, past the boathouse with its rowboats and kayaks all locked up, past the lifebelt on its stand, past the small patch of reeds and the signboard showing the kinds of bird that should be here, but no longer were.
She jerked to a halt. There. A dark figure stood ten metres out, at the edge of murky visibility. Dread clutched at Amy’s chest, but though the song came from that direction, the figure wasn’t the Lady: too short. She waded in. The lake bed was mostly sand, firm enough. As she approached, she realised the figure had its back to her. A boy, in a black T-shirt and jeans.
The cold water now past her waist, Amy came level with the boy, and was shocked to recognise him. Kevin Smith, three years ahead of her. Her cousin had dated him until their bad break-up. He gave no sign of noticing her. None of them ever did. He just stood there shivering, staring in the direction of the Bridewell Spring on the lake’s far side, the source of the haunting, baleful voice.
‘Kevin?’ came her scared whisper.
He let out a breath. ‘It’s beautiful.’
And it was, Amy got that. The poignant despair she’d tried and failed to reach in her first clumsy poem of heartbreak: it was here. The purity in knowing how terrible existence was, how much better it would be if the life-force had never invaded the world, with its doomed scrabble for survival. The heroic strength in admitting the brutal pointlessness of existence. Amy heard it all, but braced herself against it, shoring up her defences with memories of the Lady’s true nature. The Lady had been sick before, and though this was by far the worst time, and the longest, Amy still hoped there would come a cure to end this.
‘Kevin?’ she tried again.
This time he made no response at all. Amy followed his fever-bright gaze. Nothing yet, but the song was a little louder; it wouldn’t be long now.
‘Kevin! Don’t you want to go back to the party?’ She could still hear its noise, faintly, dulled by mist and overpowered by the Lady’s voice. ‘Your friends are there.’
His face flinched a little.
‘Or, I found something really weird under one of the caravans yesterday. I could show you?’ She could worm herself out of the lie later: the vital thing was to get him away now. She stepped towards him. Maybe physically pulling at him would work. But she was scared to touch him. He was older than her, and sexually experienced, and had a sentence of death over him.
Maybe if she was quick—
‘Do not!’ came the words that cut the song dead, and Amy lurched back and almost fell over. The Lady appeared, the mist withdrawing around her then seeming to condense as a barrier around the three of them. She moved through the waist-high water as easily as if it were air. Her appearance shattered any hope Amy had harboured of the Lady’s sickness getting better by itself. Her hair, once golden-red, was blacker than the previous time, and her once-white robe had grown even more glistening and dark.
‘None may touch the Chosen, cygnet,’ said the Lady. ‘You know this.’
Amy felt her old nickname as mockery from that unsmiling mouth. ‘Let this one go, please?’ she said shakily. ‘For me? I know him. He’s called Kevin.’
‘Kevin,’ mumbled the boy, as if he’d never heard the name.
‘Ours is a long friendship,’ said the Lady. ‘But you test my patience. I begin to wonder why I ever tolerated you.’
‘Because you didn’t used to be like this!’ said Amy. ‘You were nice! You were beautiful.’
The Lady’s face hardened with displeasure. ‘Am I not beautiful now?’
‘You’re ill,’ pleaded Amy. ‘It’s not your fault. You remember, you got sick before, and that older girl helped you? Chloe? Don’t you remember her?’
‘She interfered.’
‘She helped you. I don’t know why she hasn’t come back again.’
‘She was punished. And perhaps you will be too, cygnet.’ The Lady’s voice grated like wet stone. ‘Try to meddle with my Chosen again, and it will be you I sing for.’
Amy’s heart froze with fear. She didn’t dare speak. She wished she could think of something, anything, that might return the Lady to health. Chloe had done it twice. But Amy had no idea how.
She backed off through the water, helpless, as the Lady held out a sword so its tip was near Kevin’s mouth. The blade was no longer the blue glass of happier times, but as shiny-black and slippery as the Lady’s dress, as though dark liquid ran across its surface.
‘What do you wish?’ the Lady asked.
‘To know your secrets,’ Kevin whispered.
‘Come and serve me, and all shall be laid bare.’
Amy couldn’t stand to see the rest. She surged back to the shore, making enough noise to cover the sound of a body crashing into water behind her. Voices carried faintly from the party-goers some way off, calling for Kevin now, some laughing, none guessing. Amy hid by the gas-bottles under one of the empty caravans and shivered like she would break apart, crying into her wet knees.
‘Chloe,’ she sobbed. ‘Where are you? Why don’t you come?’
***
Amy sat bolt-upright in bed, heart set thumping by the song that came from the predawn twilight beyond her thin curtains. She knew the voice at once, high and lonely, its words impossible to pin down. She glanced at her phone, 3:45, then pulled on her clothes, slipped out of her room and past the sound of her dad snoring.
Outside the small bungalow, grey mist chilled the world. There always was mist now when the Lady sang. Amy hurried along the path towards the lake. Static caravans loomed lifeless in the cold vapour. Bridewell Holiday Park was dead now even at high season, killed by a series of tragedies even the national news had picked up. Her parents had little to do but fend off occasional reporters and ghoulish visitors, and the owner had stopped paying for security patrols. As Amy neared the lakeshore, she heard music and laughter from a group of teenagers taking advantage of this for an all-night party.
Ignorant idiots. Probably here for a dare, because of the lake’s recent notoriety. Their harsh voices and hip-hop clashed with the Lady’s song in Amy’s ears. But the partiers wouldn’t hear it, Amy knew. Only she could hear the song – she, and whoever the Lady had chosen.
The path led her to the water’s edge. The human sounds came from her right, the song from the left. She thought for a moment of seeing if the partiers were missing anyone, but they would be older than her and frightening, maybe drunk or high, and they might not understand in time. So she hurried in the opposite direction, towards the song, past the boathouse with its rowboats and kayaks all locked up, past the lifebelt on its stand, past the small patch of reeds and the signboard showing the kinds of bird that should be here, but no longer were.
She jerked to a halt. There. A dark figure stood ten metres out, at the edge of murky visibility. Dread clutched at Amy’s chest, but though the song came from that direction, the figure wasn’t the Lady: too short. She waded in. The lake bed was mostly sand, firm enough. As she approached, she realised the figure had its back to her. A boy, in a black T-shirt and jeans.
The cold water now past her waist, Amy came level with the boy, and was shocked to recognise him. Kevin Smith, three years ahead of her. Her cousin had dated him until their bad break-up. He gave no sign of noticing her. None of them ever did. He just stood there shivering, staring in the direction of the Bridewell Spring on the lake’s far side, the source of the haunting, baleful voice.
‘Kevin?’ came her scared whisper.
He let out a breath. ‘It’s beautiful.’
And it was, Amy got that. The poignant despair she’d tried and failed to reach in her first clumsy poem of heartbreak: it was here. The purity in knowing how terrible existence was, how much better it would be if the life-force had never invaded the world, with its doomed scrabble for survival. The heroic strength in admitting the brutal pointlessness of existence. Amy heard it all, but braced herself against it, shoring up her defences with memories of the Lady’s true nature. The Lady had been sick before, and though this was by far the worst time, and the longest, Amy still hoped there would come a cure to end this.
‘Kevin?’ she tried again.
This time he made no response at all. Amy followed his fever-bright gaze. Nothing yet, but the song was a little louder; it wouldn’t be long now.
‘Kevin! Don’t you want to go back to the party?’ She could still hear its noise, faintly, dulled by mist and overpowered by the Lady’s voice. ‘Your friends are there.’
His face flinched a little.
‘Or, I found something really weird under one of the caravans yesterday. I could show you?’ She could worm herself out of the lie later: the vital thing was to get him away now. She stepped towards him. Maybe physically pulling at him would work. But she was scared to touch him. He was older than her, and sexually experienced, and had a sentence of death over him.
Maybe if she was quick—
‘Do not!’ came the words that cut the song dead, and Amy lurched back and almost fell over. The Lady appeared, the mist withdrawing around her then seeming to condense as a barrier around the three of them. She moved through the waist-high water as easily as if it were air. Her appearance shattered any hope Amy had harboured of the Lady’s sickness getting better by itself. Her hair, once golden-red, was blacker than the previous time, and her once-white robe had grown even more glistening and dark.
‘None may touch the Chosen, cygnet,’ said the Lady. ‘You know this.’
Amy felt her old nickname as mockery from that unsmiling mouth. ‘Let this one go, please?’ she said shakily. ‘For me? I know him. He’s called Kevin.’
‘Kevin,’ mumbled the boy, as if he’d never heard the name.
‘Ours is a long friendship,’ said the Lady. ‘But you test my patience. I begin to wonder why I ever tolerated you.’
‘Because you didn’t used to be like this!’ said Amy. ‘You were nice! You were beautiful.’
The Lady’s face hardened with displeasure. ‘Am I not beautiful now?’
‘You’re ill,’ pleaded Amy. ‘It’s not your fault. You remember, you got sick before, and that older girl helped you? Chloe? Don’t you remember her?’
‘She interfered.’
‘She helped you. I don’t know why she hasn’t come back again.’
‘She was punished. And perhaps you will be too, cygnet.’ The Lady’s voice grated like wet stone. ‘Try to meddle with my Chosen again, and it will be you I sing for.’
Amy’s heart froze with fear. She didn’t dare speak. She wished she could think of something, anything, that might return the Lady to health. Chloe had done it twice. But Amy had no idea how.
She backed off through the water, helpless, as the Lady held out a sword so its tip was near Kevin’s mouth. The blade was no longer the blue glass of happier times, but as shiny-black and slippery as the Lady’s dress, as though dark liquid ran across its surface.
‘What do you wish?’ the Lady asked.
‘To know your secrets,’ Kevin whispered.
‘Come and serve me, and all shall be laid bare.’
Amy couldn’t stand to see the rest. She surged back to the shore, making enough noise to cover the sound of a body crashing into water behind her. Voices carried faintly from the party-goers some way off, calling for Kevin now, some laughing, none guessing. Amy hid by the gas-bottles under one of the empty caravans and shivered like she would break apart, crying into her wet knees.
‘Chloe,’ she sobbed. ‘Where are you? Why don’t you come?’
)
