Sirens by Rhonda Parrish

Author:Rhonda Parrish [Parrish, Rhonda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sirens, mythology, short stories, anthology, fantasy, Odyssey
Publisher: World Weaver Press
Published: 2016-07-12T06:00:00+00:00

Siren’s Odyssey

Tamsin Showbrook

1. Aahleis

The looming brass face of a wall clock tells me it’s time to make reparations again. Fixing my eyes on my open book, I mould a silent prayer for family and friends. If they weren’t already dead, they’d fade away in shame at the sight of me sitting amongst these people, in this place.

Two tables away, a whisper of a man is reading something called Economics for Dummies. The title puzzles me. Shop dummies? Mannequins? None of the concepts connected to “dummy” exist for my people; they belong to these tied to the land—lyakodhi.

“Manchester C-tral L-brary,” a tannoy hiccups, “will be closing in te- m-tes. If you wish to borrow books, please proceed - - nearest b-rr-ng desk. We hope you enjoy the rest of your ev-ng.”

Air-sore behind their tinted glasses, my eyes itch. I close Ulysses. Someone told me no address means no library card, so here the book will stay despite my bag’s pleading mouth. Happily, I remember every word of what I’ve read: fodder for my mind when I rest. And I must return tomorrow, finish. The writer understood his people; his words sing from the pages. I shoulder my bag.

Stairs are still strange and I have to grip the rail on the way to the ground floor. There is so much glass and gloss in here, I’m glad of my sunglasses. Every surface hurls artificial light at me. The library’s exterior, curved and domed, radiated warmth and strength when I ran my fingers over the sunlit stone on my way in, reminding me of dwellings at home. Inside, however, even ornately carved walls and pillars can’t disguise a leaning towards hard edges and sharp angles.

A security guard, physically adequate for his kind, smiles as I pass towards the exit, says, “Nice shades.”

Maybe…

No.

Letting my mouth twitch, I keep walking, feel his eyes on me and see a hundred imagined scenarios in his head. But he wouldn’t last one night where I’m going.

On the other side of the doors, St. Peter’s Square is as busy as I left it, but it’s Friday, when many day-working lyakodhi remain in the city after completing their tasks. A tram, twinkling in the eight-o’clock dark, sails into the station at the centre of the stone-paved plaza, picks up a wave of late commuters while depositing high-spirited revellers and low-spirited night workers. Cooling October air plucks at my cheeks and teases my ista. I’d like nothing more than to let it sound, let my soul’s notes dance towards stars hidden beyond the fog of street-lighting. But I can’t let them out here, not even low. The notes beat at my bones, beg for release. Later.

“Spare change, love?”

The voice, scarred and frayed at the edges, startles me. Its source stands to my left, her clothes so dirt-stiff they’d probably crack and open fresh sores in her skin were they peeled off. Her face is lined, but not with age, and her eyes are huge, like an infant’s, below a shock of matted ice-white hair.

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