Siren Alarm
As was usually the case in Morrison’s limited experience, the trouble had all begun with some elves.
Usually, the dwarves dismissed elvish foolishness without a second thought. The elves were only after a laugh, and the dwarves a tidy profit.
This time, it seemed the two goals were aligned.
Quinx, always kind to Morrison, had tried to explain it, but all Morrison really knew was that the elves and dwarves were partnering up to put on something called a ‘talent contest’.
So far as Morrison could tell, a talent contest was just another way of saying ‘too many creatures making too much racket.’
Morrison had been working at Nazarbay for more years than he could count, which, admittedly wasn’t very high. But in all that time, the ogre had never dealt with anything like the madness that had consumed the place over the last few days.
The dwarves had long ago removed the last scrap of copper from Nazarbay but had no intention of letting that stop them from extracting profit from the open pit mine. To hear the dwarves tell it, Nazarbay was the ultimate location to host your event, no matter what your event happened to be.
To their credit, the dwarves had turned Nazarbay’s many quarries into a rather fetching collection of spaces. The largest area, a wide tiered crater on the southern side, made for an incredible amphitheatre nicknamed Whisper. The magnification of Whisper was so good, claimed the dwarves, even a pixie could hold a rock concert there.
But today, all that amplification was merely delivering Morrison a serious headache.
The last few days had actually been rather enjoyable. Everywhere Morrison looked, someone was practising something. A group of centaurs, some of the first to arrive, had been rehearsing a complicated dance routine to the drumming of their own hooves for days. In the pool at the bottom of Whisper there now resided a pair of selkies changing in and out of their seal coats at speeds so fast, it made Morrison’s eyes water.
Not all the beings were quite so gifted, however. The constant off-key singing of dozens of banshees, each convinced she was the next Muse, was particularly grating.
Morrison had offered to remove the banshees. But Quinx assured him that while the banshees were hopelessly terrible, performers meant guests, which meant tickets, which meant money. ‘And THAT,’ Quinx explained, ‘sounds like music to a dwarf!’
Morrison had nodded, not really understanding, and decided he’d just smash extra mud in his ears.
Now, the show due to start in just a few hours, even the extra mud wasn’t keeping out the bedlam.
A particularly shrill wail exploded in a crescendo, making Morrison groan.
‘Well that was rather terrible, wasn’t it?’
Morrison grunted in agreement. He stood in the middle of the path above Whisper, his back to the opening, letting his enormous girth do the bulk of the work of guarding.
‘Yes… I hate bad singing, don’t you?’ the voice continued.
Morrison shrugged.
Then blinked.
Realising the voice asking questions must be coming from somewhere, the ogre looked down to find a rather nervous looking individual dressed in a tuxedo standing next to him.
Morrison stared at the newcomer, who smiled up at him.
‘Might I get by, then? Don’t want to be late for the show’s start!’ The stranger gave an awkward little titter.
Morrison pointed the end of his club towards the main entrance on the western side of the pit.
‘Hmm?’ Chirped the stranger, gazing in the direct Morrison indicated. ‘Oh no, I’m not a guest! I’m the host! And I really do need to get past…’
The sickening thud of Morrison’s club sinking back to the ground cut off the latecomer, which Morrison found helpful. Thinking wasn’t his strongest area, and a bit of quiet was useful.
Morrison was terribly unsure what a host was so couldn’t verify if this was, in fact, the species of creature standing before him. He thought back on Quinx’s instructions. There was only one: don’t let in any sirens.
Quinx had been very adamant.
‘We cannot let in even a single siren, Morrison, not a one!’ he had insisted. ‘Those sneaky bitches will lure every male in the place out with them! And then how are we meant to sell them refreshments and souvenirs?!’
Quinx had given Morrison a checklist with what to look out for. Morrison couldn’t recall anything about ‘host’ being on that list but decided he’d best get it out, to be safe.
‘What’s that, then? Want me to help?’ Taking the crumbled paper from the ogre, the stranger smoothed it and read it quietly for a moment, then smiled.
‘I see! You’re meant to keep out sirens. A wise call by the dwarves. And clever of them to put a fellow like you in charge of such a task! Well, let me help. This says a siren will have long flowing hair.’
Morrison looked at the stranger’s head and noted the bun pinned neatly at the top.
‘And that sirens wear flowing dresses or sexy gowns,’ the stranger continued.
Morrison’s gaze fell again to the stranger’s tuxedo. While it seemed a bit tight on the hips and the shirt had some lumps, particularly in the chest area, it was clearly not a dress. Morrison nodded.
‘So, you agree I’m not a siren then? Wonderful!’ the stranger’s singsong voice was such a lovely sound after all the ruckus from the last few days, Morrison couldn’t help but smile. ‘In that case, if you could just… there’s a good lad! Bye then!’
Morrison stepped back into position at the top of the path, feeling satisfied.
The din of practice had quieted, replaced by the noise of guests finding their seats.
Eventually, a most delightfully seductive melody began to sound. Morrison smiled again. He even scraped a bit of the mud out of his ears to hear better.
Whoever that banshee is, he thought, she really can sing.
Contest details:
Contest: NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2017, Round 1, Challenge 1
Genre: Fantasy
Location: A copper mine
Object: A tuxedo
Score: 5 points