Read Online The Potion Diaries by Amy Alward - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Amy Alward
Ads: Link
Ursa Major.
Kirsty swings onto the exit ramp and slows as the paved road leading up to the beach becomes rutted and pot-holed. The car thrums with the deep reverberations of speakers blasting dance music to happy revellers. Far in the darkness, the horizon lifts and sways, and then the smell hits me – sharp and salty and fresh. The sea. We’ve arrived.
We grab one of the furthest parking spots from the sea – not by choice, of course. The lot is absolutely packed, mostly with party buses covered with graffiti like someone vomited colour all over them. I start unpacking my backpack, but Kirsty shakes her head. ‘No time,’ she says. She grabs a torch from the inside of her car door.
We hurry past students drinking pale gold, fizzy beers in metre-long flagons, the cheapest they can get their hands on. More impressive are their glamours, glow-in-the-dark inks tattooed over tanned skin, and the Talenteds with lights embedded in their hair and down the lengths of their arms so that when they dance on the sand it looks like the stars are dancing with them.
‘Gawk later,’ says Kirsty, pulling me along. Her eyes turn towards the sea. Following her gaze, I can see we’re already late. Out of the darkness, rising and falling with the waves, is a flotilla of lights, huddled together like seals in a storm. All of a sudden the sky around the boats lights up. There’s a massive floodlight, pointed down at the waves, and it’s coming from one of the boats out in the middle of the ocean. ‘Boat’ isn’t really the right word for this particular object – ‘yacht’ might be closer, perhaps ‘floating palace’ even better. It’s no surprise to see the huge letters that adorn the front of it:
ZA
. ZoroAster are already here.
The floodlight illuminates the other boats that are crowded into the same area – other yachts, but also smaller fishing vessels and even, I think, a jet ski.
We’re racing down the beach now, towards the jetty. The light from the crowd of boats doesn’t quite reach the end of the dock, but I can see a commotion is building. A girl yelps in frustration and my heart leaps – I’d recognise that sound anywhere.
‘Anita!’ I shout at her. Kirsty and I have reached the dock, sand making way for rough planks of wood haphazardly nailed together.
‘Arjun, look who’s here!’ Anita shouts over her shoulder and her brother’s head pops up from the end of the dock. His face is scrunched into a frown, but it softens when he sees me. Foam from the crashing waves fringes his dark brown hair with a white crown.
Arjun is sitting in a rickety-looking rowing boat that I’m convinced is taking on water from the way it dips at one end. Also in the boat is an old man dressed in a ragged white shirt, waterproof trousers and a black jacket. A jagged scar runs across his face and I wonder what Wilds animal gave him that injury. He’s a fisherman. Licences to fish the Wild waters are rare, so he’s most likely a poacher. That means he’s dangerous.
The boat rocks against the dock as a wave crashes beneath us, and seawater seeps through the eyelets of my laces.
Kirsty’s boots pull up next to mine with a firm, confident step. I bet her shoes are waterproof – there’s no telltale sound of squelching toes from her.
‘Edgar,’ she says, addressing the old man with her hands on hips. ‘What’s going on here?’
The old man fidgets with the collar of his salt-stained coat. ‘Well, Miss Donovan, I’ve been trying to negotiate me a fair deal with these young pups to get out to the Rising.’
‘Negotiate?!’ Arjun explodes. ‘Cheat, steal, swindle maybe.’
A small smirk appears on the old man’s face. ‘I heard the rumours too, ain’t I? This ain’t no normal voyager out to see the clamwhackers.’
Anita, Arjun and I reel back. I’ve never heard anything as offensive as the man’s blatant insult to the mercreatures, but it just spurs Kirsty on. She reaches down into the boat and grabs
Kirsty swings onto the exit ramp and slows as the paved road leading up to the beach becomes rutted and pot-holed. The car thrums with the deep reverberations of speakers blasting dance music to happy revellers. Far in the darkness, the horizon lifts and sways, and then the smell hits me – sharp and salty and fresh. The sea. We’ve arrived.
We grab one of the furthest parking spots from the sea – not by choice, of course. The lot is absolutely packed, mostly with party buses covered with graffiti like someone vomited colour all over them. I start unpacking my backpack, but Kirsty shakes her head. ‘No time,’ she says. She grabs a torch from the inside of her car door.
We hurry past students drinking pale gold, fizzy beers in metre-long flagons, the cheapest they can get their hands on. More impressive are their glamours, glow-in-the-dark inks tattooed over tanned skin, and the Talenteds with lights embedded in their hair and down the lengths of their arms so that when they dance on the sand it looks like the stars are dancing with them.
‘Gawk later,’ says Kirsty, pulling me along. Her eyes turn towards the sea. Following her gaze, I can see we’re already late. Out of the darkness, rising and falling with the waves, is a flotilla of lights, huddled together like seals in a storm. All of a sudden the sky around the boats lights up. There’s a massive floodlight, pointed down at the waves, and it’s coming from one of the boats out in the middle of the ocean. ‘Boat’ isn’t really the right word for this particular object – ‘yacht’ might be closer, perhaps ‘floating palace’ even better. It’s no surprise to see the huge letters that adorn the front of it:
ZA
. ZoroAster are already here.
The floodlight illuminates the other boats that are crowded into the same area – other yachts, but also smaller fishing vessels and even, I think, a jet ski.
We’re racing down the beach now, towards the jetty. The light from the crowd of boats doesn’t quite reach the end of the dock, but I can see a commotion is building. A girl yelps in frustration and my heart leaps – I’d recognise that sound anywhere.
‘Anita!’ I shout at her. Kirsty and I have reached the dock, sand making way for rough planks of wood haphazardly nailed together.
‘Arjun, look who’s here!’ Anita shouts over her shoulder and her brother’s head pops up from the end of the dock. His face is scrunched into a frown, but it softens when he sees me. Foam from the crashing waves fringes his dark brown hair with a white crown.
Arjun is sitting in a rickety-looking rowing boat that I’m convinced is taking on water from the way it dips at one end. Also in the boat is an old man dressed in a ragged white shirt, waterproof trousers and a black jacket. A jagged scar runs across his face and I wonder what Wilds animal gave him that injury. He’s a fisherman. Licences to fish the Wild waters are rare, so he’s most likely a poacher. That means he’s dangerous.
The boat rocks against the dock as a wave crashes beneath us, and seawater seeps through the eyelets of my laces.
Kirsty’s boots pull up next to mine with a firm, confident step. I bet her shoes are waterproof – there’s no telltale sound of squelching toes from her.
‘Edgar,’ she says, addressing the old man with her hands on hips. ‘What’s going on here?’
The old man fidgets with the collar of his salt-stained coat. ‘Well, Miss Donovan, I’ve been trying to negotiate me a fair deal with these young pups to get out to the Rising.’
‘Negotiate?!’ Arjun explodes. ‘Cheat, steal, swindle maybe.’
A small smirk appears on the old man’s face. ‘I heard the rumours too, ain’t I? This ain’t no normal voyager out to see the clamwhackers.’
Anita, Arjun and I reel back. I’ve never heard anything as offensive as the man’s blatant insult to the mercreatures, but it just spurs Kirsty on. She reaches down into the boat and grabs
Similar Books
