The Hidden World

Chapter 3

"They look like enormous slugs," declared Aunt Ellen.

Maeve and her aunt and uncle peered through the chicken-wire fence at the stone-coloured, flaccid forms lying next to the artificial pool. A sign attached to the fence nearby admonished: "Please Do Not Pester the Seals." As they watched, one of the animals lifted its head and began to undulate towards the pool.

"Slugs!" Uncle Roy said. He put on a phoney thick accent. "Slugs don't got big brown eyeballs what they rolls at you soulful-like."

"No, and a good thing too," said his wife briskly, "or you'd probably get sentimental about them as well." She turned from the holding pen and headed back towards the marine research facility's parking lot.

Maeve continued to gaze through the wire fence. "There were people in Grandma's book who could turn themselves into seals."

Uncle Roy nodded. "Selkies. They're part of Celtic folklore too."

The harbour seal turned to glance at them idly. Its eyes were very human: round, dark brown and expressive. For a moment it gazed at them solemnly. Then it yawned, a wide, tongue-lolling yawn like a dog's, and was suddenly an animal again.

Maeve followed her uncle back to the car, feeling vaguely guilty. Today the marine research facility at Logy Bay; yesterday it had been a trip to St. John's, to the museum and the shops on Water Street, and then to Cape Spear, where the old Second World War fortifications still stood, their huge guns facing out to sea. Her aunt and uncle were nice people, and kind, but she had been foisted upon them without an invitation and they didn't quite know what to do with her. And Uncle Roy was busy with his research projects too. She must find a way to amuse herself and not be such a burden to them both.

As she walked up the path, she noticed a splash of colour on the headland, unexpectedly vivid beneath the overcast sky. A number of people were milling about, attired in bright, colourful garments: gold, scarlet and green.

"A group of local players," her uncle said, seeing her look at them. "They're putting on a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream over there. Not the best climate for outdoor Shakespeare, but you have to admire their determination."

"Last year they did The Tempest," said her aunt, coming up to join them. "It was quite magnificent, with the real ocean right there and the surf pounding away on the rocks below."

Uncle Roy laughed. "As I recall, the actors got completely upstaged in the final act by a bunch of humpback whales who had decided to come into the bay and feed and spout and play around. Stole the show, they did."

Maeve was thrilled. "Oh, I wish I'd seen that!"

"Come to think of it, Rob says you're quite the budding thespian yourself," her uncle said to her as they got into the car. "Have you been in a lot of plays?"

But Maeve didn't want to talk about that, "Not really," she mumbled, looking down at her hands.

She sat gazing at the grey sky and the spindly trees, but in her mind she was in the high-school gymnasium again, seeing the rows of chairs with kids sitting in them and, at the front, a handful of teachers. The auditions. No, I don't want to be here again! But she saw Mrs. Marshall, the drama teacher, sitting in the front row with a notebook on her knee, then heard her name called out: "Maeve O'Connor."

She was walking up to the stage, her heart pounding with nervous excitement. Ashley Robinson had just finished her audition—and she was terrible, Maeve realized with surprise. Beautiful, yes, golden and tall—she could easily play the part of a princess. But she'd just stood there stiffly, her hands at her sides, and her voice had been dull and toneless. Mrs. Marshall had had to keep urging her to "try a little more emotion, dear." Then Maeve had found herself on the stage. She'd stood on it, looking down at the mocking faces of Lisa Smith and Cheryl Miller, the sneering grins of the boys. Up there on the suddenly enormous stage, alone and exposed, she'd known a frozen instant of fear. But she'd banished it, pushed it all away from her, and launched into the balcony speech from Romeo and Juliet.