The Merlin Effect
Authors: T. A. Barron
MERLIN EFFECT
THE
MERLIN EFFECT
T. A. BARRON
PHILOMEL BOOKS • NEW YORK
Copyright © 1994 by Thomas A. Barron
Illustrations copyright © 1994 by Anthony Bacon Venti
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. Published simultaneously in Canada.
Book design by Gunta Alexander. Text set in Caslon.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Barron, T. A. The Merlin effect / by T. A. Barron. p. cm.
Summary: When she joins her father and several others investigating a strange whirlpool and possible sunken treasure ship off the coast of Baja California, thirteen-year-old Kate is drawn into a centuries-old conflict between Merlin and the evil Nimue. 1. Merlin (Legendary character)—Juvenile Fiction
[1. Merlin (Legendary character)—Fiction. 2. Buried treasure—Fiction.
3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction.] I Title. ISBN: 978-1-101-65143-8
PZ7.B27567Me 1994 [Fic]—dc20 93-36234 CIP AC
To my father,
ARCH BARRON
With special appreciation to
BROOKS,
age four, who will one day sing with the whales
and to
TERRY,
who values the empty places between stars
as well as the stars themselves
Thanks also to those who advised me on matters of science: Eric,
on genetics; Charlie, on whirlpools; Celia, on marine flora and
fauna; and a certain gray whale off Baja California, who swam
up to my kayak and let me touch his back.
The whirlpool drowned the treasure ship
Upon that dreadful morn,
And buried it beneath the waves
Along with Merlin’s Horn.
And so today the ship’s at rest,
Removed from ocean gales,
Surrounded by a circle strange
Of ever-singing whales.
A prophesy clings to the ship
Like barnacles to wood.
Its origins remain unknown,
Its words not understood:
One day the sun will fail to rise,
The dead will die,
And then
For Merlin’s Horn to find its home,
The ship must sail again.
—fragments from
“The Ballad of the
Resurreccíon
”
PART TWO: BEYOND THE WHIRLPOOL
“The Ballad of the
Resurreccíon
”
B
EYOND
T
HE
L
AGOON
A
T
S
EA
F
arther from shore, nearer to death.
With every pull of her paddle, Kate recalled the much-repeated warning about these waters. Yet today felt different. Today the sea looked tranquil, even inviting.
Her arms, brown after almost a month in the Baja California sun, churned rhythmically. The kayak cut through the water, slicing the glassy green walls that rose and fell like a heaving chest. As the protected lagoon receded behind her, open ocean stretched before her. The swollen sun drifted low on the horizon, glowing like a lump of melting gold.
A wave slapped the kayak, drenching her. She shook herself, pulled a piece of kelp off her forearm, then resumed paddling.
She glided past the forest of mangroves lining the mouth of the lagoon. Despite the low tide, she skirted within a few feet of their long, spindly roots. Planted in the mud, they resembled a family of long-legged waders. An immature heron resting on a branch watched her slide by, but Kate’s attention had turned to a copper-stained mound at the end of the bay. The last dune. And beyond it, the breakers.
Never been out this far before, she thought. What a place to see the sunset! Too bad she had waited so long to venture out. Now only a few more days remained before she would have to leave all this for good.
She lay the paddle across her lap, licking the salt from her sunburned lips. As the vessel coasted quietly with the current, she listened to the trickle of water running down the ends of the paddle. Slowly, the sun ignited sea and sky with streaks of crimson. Just beneath the waves, a web of golden light shimmered.
A plover swooped past, barely a foot above her head, searching for a crab-meat supper. Meanwhile, two sandpipers, standing one legged in the shadow of the dune, chittered noisily next to the hissing, rushing waves. Kate drew in a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the fading sun on her face. At midday, it had struck with brutal force, yet now it soothed like a gentle massage.
As the current pulled her past the last dune, she scanned the line of whitecaps ahead. The breakers splashed and sucked, a stark barrier of volcanic rock. Yet the ocean beyond looked calm, serene, almost deserving of the name Pacific. At this moment, it was hard to believe all those tales of sudden squalls, murderous shoals, and swelling tides that had made this stretch of Mexican coast a sailor’s nightmare for centuries. Not to mention the legendary
Remolino de la Muerté
, the Whirlpool of Death, discussed by the local people only in whispers.
True or not, those tales—along with the harshness of the desert landscape—had kept the population of this area to a few scattered fishing villages. Almost nobody came here by choice. That is, until her father plunked his research team at San Lazaro Lagoon.
With a flick of her paddle, she spun the kayak around to face the lagoon. At the far end sat the research camp, its white canvas tents washed in the rich colors of sunset. Behind them rose the flagpole, still sporting the purple T-shirt hoisted by her father when the official colors blew away, and the wind generator, its steel propeller spinning lazily. Close to the beach, the converted trawler
Skimmer
lay anchored. Not far away bobbed the silver-colored submersible, awaiting its next deep-water dive.
She shook her head. Dad was still working on the boat. Though she could not see him, she could hear the familiar sputtering of the aging trawler’s engine. It didn’t make any difference that the ship was almost beyond repair, that the project’s days were numbered, or that a spectacular sunset was about to happen. He probably wouldn’t budge to see a sea monster taking a bubble bath in the lagoon. Or the lost ship
Resurreccíon
, laden with treasure, rising out of the waves as the old legend predicted.
And the others on his team were no better. Terry constantly fiddled with his scientific equipment, whether in his tent, on the
Skimmer
, or on the team’s two buoys. Isabella, for her part, divided her time between her makeshift laboratory and the submersible, which she pampered as if it were her own baby. She would be down inside its hatch right now, doing her evening maintenance, if she had not agreed yesterday to work the camp’s radio constantly in a last-ditch attempt to get the project’s permit extended.
