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Cover for Alexandra Beaumont's young adult folklore fantasy epic based on Cornish folklore, for lovers of Sistersong

Dissonance of Bird Song

Chapter One
 

I snarled in the smoke-laced darkness of our roundhouse, snorting blood into the embers of last night’s fire. The rot in my lungs had returned. Each breath seared my windpipe until every gasp felt like a bee stinging my throat. Spring. It was almost here now, and the Myst-breath in my lungs was dwindling. I had only dregs left. My sister, Nessa, had almost depleted hers lighting the healing fire I now sat beside. The sweet pine smoke soothed me a little, but it wasn’t enough. I had to leave.
 

Waves laced with the cries of birds broke against the peninsula outside, singing to me of freedom. Sneak to the saltwater before it is too late. Blood dribbled from my nose, but excitement thrummed, beat through me like a drum. It was time.

I staggered up from the sweat-soaked fur throws by the firepit. Peering through the small window of our roundhouse revealed the banners hung outside the other houses. Catches of rabbits hung from doorways, ready to feed the migrating birds flying over the cliffs at dawn. The banners fluttered in the storm winds, painted with Mystcran birds in the usual reverence. As ever, we were a settlement hiding our desperate need to inhale and replenish the sacred Sea-Myst from the lungs of our birds behind a beautiful ceremony. The birds couldn’t come too soon.
 

Pulling away from the window, I stretched out my aching shoulders. The sea’s song lured me toward the Myst floating above the swells, and I would answer. Even if it meant defying the druid’s law: never risk losing our birds―and the Myst we need to survive―by leaving the settlement.
 

But I had to know how many of the birds would return. How many more had died? I shuddered, shoving the thought away.

It took more effort than it should to tug two woollen tunics on and tie a sheepskin wrap around my shoulders, making sure my finest embroidered tunic was still on show for the festivities later. Lastly, I slipped on my twisted tin torc over the top. I had to go now before dawn arrived and, with it, the birds.
 

My sister breathed deeply, wrapped in seal fur as she slept. I swiped away feverish sweat from my forehead before turning, preparing to creep out of the roundhouse. One last look just in case the druid catches me, or our bird doesn’t return and I must leave to find her.
 

‘I’m glad you don’t get sick like me,’ I whispered, allowing myself a final lingering glance.
 

Guilt tingled through me at leaving Nessa and risking the druid’s anger falling on her, but I grabbed the pack that sat ready by the door and left. This journey was for me; I had to get well again.
 

I wove through the smoke that billowed out the tops of the roundhouses, plumes of smog mixing with the drizzle clinging to thatch rooves. Dew pearled on every grass blade. In the distance, the woodland was just visible in the hazy rain, emerging a little more the closer I strode toward it. My top tunic was soaked through, but thankfully it didn’t seep through the second layer. Outside each roundhouse I hurried past, sat neat rows of decoratively painted pots containing meat from the rabbit carcasses. Next to them were nesting boxes stuffed with dried grass and bracken, ready to help the birds breed once they had emptied their lungs of Myst. Most houses had multiple pots as everyone had a bird once they came of age, and until then children shared their parent’s bird. We only had one pot outside ours as Nessa and I were twins, fated to share a bird as adults. Inside each house, the old chant echoed as I passed: ‘Three less Myst Birds, Three less Myst Breaths.’ A reminder of the scarcity of Myst, taught us by the druid from a young age.
 

As I approached the clifftop, my familiar nausea returned, hitting me hard. Lurching sideways, lights popped in my vision. I sagged to my knees at the cliff’s edge to steady myself, laboured gasps bursting fog-like from my lips in the cold. My fingers tangled in the dewy grass as I retched painfully over the edge. So close to the waves, but not close enough. Get to the sea, it’ll help. The churning saltwater bashed the cliff below, calling to me. Pushing myself up, I kept going. My breath snagged tight in my throat with anticipation as I stumbled under the cover of the last scraps of darkness to the edge of the forest.
 

A glance back told me no one had followed. My shoulders relaxed a little. I’d been caught going to the beach before and warned by the druid who ruled over us not to go down there again. Not to leave the shore. But I couldn’t help myself. It was time. The druid was scared someone might leave and their bird would never return, but I had to go. I swallowed, thinking of the danger I put Nessa in by creeping away, but there was only one day a year when the Mystcran birds flew home. I had to be there for it.
 

Plunging into the thicket, the brush of frosted nettles stung my fingers, guiding me through the undergrowth as the sun slowly dragged itself above the horizon. I must be running out of time. These winding brambles always led me the right way, down through the woods from our clifftop village to the beach. Running as fast I could manage down the earthy path I slipped, skidding on some loose moss.
 

‘Myst help me,’ I groaned, pushing myself back up. I couldn’t afford to turn my ankle and miss this. I had to see the Mystcran return, had to count them in. Scrambling upright, I squinted at the sun rising over the sea below. Had the birds begun to return already?
 

Reaching the bottom of the path, I spat bloody phlegm onto the pebble shore. Another wave of nausea surged through me. The crash of the sea pattering on the rocks lured me closer with its soothing song. Almost there. My breathing eased with each step closer to the waves, the crash of water on stone drowning the constant ringing in my ears. Soon I’d be free of my illness, when at last the birds returned.
 

I ran to the small cave where my hidden coracle awaited, pausing abruptly at the threshold. Familiar sorrow snared me, always hunting for me in this place. On the wall the image Perran had etched of me shimmered, coated in the morning dew, the birds carved as if swooping in and out of my wild hair.
 

‘Now you can remember me when they take me to mine the Picking Pits,’ he’d said when finished, slumping next to me to cradle his dying bird, nestled in my arms. ‘One less bird, one less breath.’
 

‘We could run away, still be together. Still handfast in the grove we met.’
 

He’d said nothing, the golden kindness in his eyes fading and the twitch of desperation spasming one side of his face as his bird finally died.
 

‘You already feel the frenzy, don’t you?’
 

One nod was all he gave me, clutching my hand and brushing my fingertips with one last gentle kiss before taking his bird corpse and running from the cave. Striding out after him into the rain, I saw his shadowy figure sprinting toward the settlement and only heard later he had turned himself over to the druid to be taken to the Picking Pits as a Myst-Guzzling Gorgasenn before his frenzy could set in.
 

Touching the frost-coated archway, I stepped inside Perran’s den. ‘Forget him to save yourself the pain,’ the druid had whispered, a firm hand gripping my shoulder as the guards shoved Perran into the darkness with the other frenzying Guzzlers. ‘He will change now, and not be who you remember. They will fight each other for what fragments of Myst still remain.’
 

I swallowed, shaking my head to free myself of the memories. I had to get better, get our Myst bird back, to avoid a similar fate.
 

Older carvings also decorated the cavern walls, the grey-white rolling cloud of Myst churning in from the sea with the birds bringing it with them for the first time. Lightning in the distance split an island in two. Silver tendrils of ice spread over the carving, a fragment of our harsh winters.
 

I brushed my fingers across the chalk dust lines of the old Mystcran summoning song as I’d done so many times before. The Myst had been coming ever since these carvings were made the first time it had drifted in. Rough scratches of our ancestors from the Nest kneeling before the birds in what I guessed must be awe. How had we ever survived before the birds came? That memory was lost to all of us, just like the lightning island. Now we were trapped craving Myst, trapped using it to survive.
 

‘Please don’t be one of the dead,’ I whispered, thinking of our bird. ‘We need your Myst, and you’ll need it gone before you can mate. Come home quickly, I beg you.’
 

The lilting tune of the summoning song hummed up in my throat, spilling into the familiar lyrics echoing around the cavern to lure and welcome our birds home.

Our cliffs by icy winds were battered,

When Otherworld Island shattered,

Mystcran to our shores scattered,

Bird’s breath was all that mattered.

Three score years ago or maybe more,

Sweet birds first soared to our shore,

Year on year, and forevermore,

Mystcran return to our sea-door.

No more island shelter for you to nest,

Soar freely to our arms, let your wings rest.
 

My song ended, the cavern’s echo fading in the same way the meaning of the lyrics had over time. The old tale of the shattered island we all knew, even though the place might not even exist.
 

‘If you don’t return, Moredhen, I vow I’ll find out what it all means and come find you. See if the Otherworldly Island can be found―if I ever manage to leave here.’ My whisper echoed, susurrating around the cavern.
 

No time to wait.
 

Dragging the coracle from the cave and down the beach, I ignored the spike of tears in my eyes. Perran and I had built the boat together. We used to nestle together in the prow, his butter-soft hands caressing my cheek as he kissed the salty dew from my eyelashes before we put out to sea. Now I used it alone.
 

The gentle waves lapped the edge of the vessel and I heaved myself over the side. My arms warmed through as I paddled out. In the distance beyond our inlet, Myst drifted above the waves in a thick foggy shroud. At the edge of the sheltered cove, I stopped the coracle by grabbing the rock jutting out toward me. Tugging the boat against the stones, I slipped the pack off my shoulder and sagged into the curve of the boat, looking skyward for the Mystcran swooping in.

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The rocking waves swelled, sweeping the coracle up and down, in a soothing, familiar rhythm. It was the only place I truly felt safe. Keeping my eyes sharp and focused, I saw it immediately: a small wisp of Myst drifted through the entrance to the cove and wrapped around me like a blanket. They would be here soon. I smiled, breathing free at last. Fresh salt air, unlike the village staleness I’d left behind. At last, the sacred Myst would replenish us. I looked up at the puffy red clouds of dawn. Shepherd’s warning of rain accompanied by a tremolo of nerves in my heart. Where were the Mystcran?

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Grabbing the pack between my feet to distract myself, I opened the leather fold covering oiled fish and sprigs of emerald samphire. Head lolling against the rim of the boat, still watching the sky in readiness, I popped small pieces of the seaweed into my mouth with the oily fish, chewing the flaking meat.

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A lone, trembling warble echoed around the horseshoe cove. My heart leapt suddenly, a single tear welling up in my eye. A happy one this time. They were here. I quietly thrust my pack aside and sat bolt upright, grin stretching my lips wide. My eyes flicked back and forth across the sky until I saw them at last. Black-and-white birds soared out the Myst and through the gap into the cove, the turquoise splash of colour on their necks catching the sun. The first banked its wings left then right as it beat with the breeze to bring itself into the bay below the headland of Treryn Dinas. We called it the Nest as the birds roosted with us from spring though summer, birthing chicks and leaving in autumn.

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Cramming the last handful of fish into my mouth, I grabbed the paddle and frantically thrust the boat off the rock. Another Mystcran whipped over the clifftop border into the cove, then the rest came. A horde of birds burst into the bay, swooping low to protect themselves from the speedier winds above the cliffs. Their speckled white-and-black wings grazed each other as they rushed in their flock, chittering bird song in chorus as they flitted around each other above the coracle. Narrow crimson beaks caught the sunlight, glistening. I strained my neck trying to spot our bird, Moredhen, in the swirling flock. Where was she? Nerves rose, panic stabbing beneath my ribs. Was she one of the sick like Perran’s, or worse, was she destined never to return?

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After a sickening wait, she emerged at last, the final bird to soar out of the Myst. Instinct told me it was her. Frantic energy coursed through me, and I hurried to grab the paddle to thrust off the rocks. On the cliff there was movement, too, now; the welcoming of the Mystcran. Fellow villagers, waking with the dawn, stood upon the cliff edge ready to greet their birds. Ready to inhale Myst from their lungs. I usually forgot to look that way when the birds were flocking in, but not this time. Now over half the village stood on the granite crest with their arms raised, singing the song etched in the cave. Others played drums or droning pipes, as was custom in the Nest, so music drifted across the cove to mingle with the birdsong as I paddled frantically back towards the shore.

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The relieved whoops and cries of my kin echoed into the cove, the fears of winter melting away now the Myst would bless us with easier living for another season.

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Paddling against the retreating tide was taking too long as the tide tugged against me. Must get back, before they notice I’m gone. I dumped the paddle down in the bottom of the boat again. Instead, I cupped my hands before my lips, puffing air into them. I focused, breathing out slowly. Feeling the whisper of the Myst song rising in my lungs, I blew the notes out into my hands with a lilting humming that formed as a greyish-blue Myst between my fingers. Not too much, keep some just in case Moredhen is sick.

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Most of the Nest used Myst for fire and warmth in our harsh, clifftop home, but I had chosen song to push my Myst into song-charms. Music to sway people’s emotions and soothe the waves to swell as I wished, to help me when I, one day, went out to sea as I’d always dreamed.

I was unusual, but with Nessa to channel Myst into healing flames to keep us warm I didn’t need it for that. A handful of others had picked charms and music, usually bards or ceremony callers for Beltane. It was a luxury afforded to twins or siblings who could share their Myst-given gifts with each other―for everyone else the warmth and protection of Myst fire was the obvious and practical choice. But I was free. As well as using my Myst to lull the waves, on the bleakest days I  used my charms to soothe Nessa and cheer her despite the cost of one Myst breath. A small fragment of thanks to show my eternal gratitude to her.

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But now I needed it for the sea. I held my hands tightly closed, Myst threatening to spill out of the cracks between my fingers. Leaning over the side of the coracle, I readied myself.

​

I’m coming Nessa.

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‘Waves, current, move with me. Bring me to the beach with haste!’ I sang, grinning, dipping my hands into the water and releasing the Myst into the waves. The coracle lurched into movement at once, cutting through the tide as if a sudden gust of wind thrust me back toward the beach.

​

The birds flocked up to the cliffs, the Mystcran calling song ricocheting around the cove from the crest of the coastal crags. I reached the beach, jumping from the boat and forcing myself to pause long enough in the shallows to tug the coracle onto the stones. Languishing bird cries resonated, tangling with the rasp of the pipes. I ran up the granite path to the woods, boots slipping this way and that on the loose stone. The sun was losing its red hue and bursting into bright and glorious rays across the trees above me.

​

Back in the woods, I launched myself over a ditch to take a shortcut, scattering rotted leaves out of my path on landing. My torc battered against my collarbone as I ran. Burning fire and blood still coursed through my lungs, but I ignored it.

​

Bursting out of the canopy of trees, I stumbled along the mossy path atop the cliff. Rasping in the salty air, I grinned wildly as I left behind the petrichor stench of rain and earthen woodland. Sprinting onward, the vibrant Mystcran festival colours came into focus. Bustling villagers wore their finest woollen tunics to welcome the birds, as always. Doors to roundhouses had been flung open. People stood with open arms, Mystcran hopping onto their shoulders. I grinned at the familiar faces I rushed past, just to seem like everything was normal and I hadn’t just defied the druid.

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Frantically, I looked around for Moredhen’s bright white wings, hope fluttering in my heart at the prospect of seeing our bird descending with graceful ease into the arms of my sister. I slowed my run to a light jog through the roundhouses, unable to sprint any further. Eyes turning to me as I passed. I hoped they wouldn’t pay too much attention to my wet tunic and dripping sealskin shoes. Our roundhouse was in the farthest part of the village, eventually coming into view as I curled past the longhouse and into the final row of dwellings. The door was still shut. Odd. Why wasn’t Nessa out? I sped up again.

​

I didn’t pause when I reached the roundhouse, seeing the door slightly cracked open. A faint glow of firelight shone through the gap, and I clattered frantically in.

​

Nessa spun on her heels, settling into a combat crouch with wild eyes, teeth bared and claw-like hands clutching something to her chest.

‘Oh, it’s you. You’re here,’ Nessa said, brown hair tumbled loose over her shoulders as she straightened up. ‘Good. Close the door.’

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ My voice trembled.

​

‘Moredhen’s one of the sick, Es. She’s struggling to breathe out her Myst. It’s choking her.’

​

In a moment of horror I saw what Nessa clutched close. Cradled in her arms, wrapped in a wool blanket, was our bird. Her crimson talons hung limp and her eyes were shut, just as Perran’s bird had been. Tears ran down Nessa’s face as I struggled to find words.

​

‘Say something, Es.’

‘How is this happening to us? First Perran, now us. Why us?’

Moredhen rasped out a small breath, almost like a cough, and sputtered out a small swirl of Myst. Nessa quickly leant down and sucked it into her lungs before I could even speak.

‘We cannot waste it,’ she said, seeing me stare.

‘It can’t be happening … we need to know why they are getting sick and can’t Myst-breathe. It can’t wait any longer.’

‘I don’t know, Eseld. You know that. I only know she needs it out of her, she’s in pain …’ Nessa croaked, still crying. ‘What are we going to do? My Myst is fading … my spark is going. I need her to breathe more Myst into me, we’ll freeze when the frosts come if she can’t get it out … I won’t be able to breathe warmth over her eggs …’

​

Stepping closer, I wrapped both sister and bird in my arms.

​

‘Shh, the druid will hear if we’re too loud. I’ll make it alright.’

‘You can’t know that. What do you think happens when they send people to the Picking Pits to mine?’

‘It won’t come to that.’

​

We stayed close, the only sound the wheezing of our bird, laced with the occasional chitter of birdsong behind the rasping breaths. I dug in my pocket with my spare hand. Pulling out one of the pickled fish I usually carried with me, I tenderly rested it in front of Moredhen’s beak. She didn’t move.

​

‘We’ll be sent to the Pits for sure,’ Nessa whispered. ‘We’ll be branded Gorgasenn until we frenzy and try to steal people’s Myst or die …’

‘No, we won’t. I won’t let that happen. We’ve not guzzled Myst and breathed too much, only taken what was given. We’ve done no wrong.’

‘What will you do? How will we stop them branding us Gorgasenn if she dies? What happens when we get the frenzy for Myst? One of us might turn on the other, if the druid speaks true.’

​

‘Stop panicking. It won’t come to that. Moredhen is strong, you’ll see. It’ll be time for the welcome hunt soon. I’ll go myself, say you’re already breathing Myst with Moredhen. They won’t ask. I’ll bring her back some more food and some of the plants I take to clear my breathing. We’ll help her, you’ll see.’ I brushed my fingers over my sister’s cheek, wiping a tear from her freckled face. She frowned back at me as I forced a smile.

‘What if it doesn’t work?’ Nessa said, her words soft but urgent. ‘Your nose is bleeding again. Don’t think I haven’t seen. The druid might take it as a sign you’re becoming a Guzzler. Please, Es, you’ve got to be careful, especially with your illness.’

​

‘It will be fine, Moredhen is strong.’ If I said it enough, maybe it would be true.

​

We gently laid Moredhen down and coaxed her into chewing a little on the small fish after several attempts of waving it in front of her beak.

Nessa lay the warm blanket over the bird again, who seemed to curl in on herself beneath it. She took up a small bundle of sticks, placing them in the fire at the centre and whispering her crimson Myst into her cupped palms before spitting it onto the twigs. Flames sparked up instantly, and in a few moments the fire was blazing. Nessa’s chest heaved in a deep, calming breath.

​

I shivered even though the flames leapt brightly in the hearth. ‘You shouldn’t risk that now, only breathe Myst when you have to.’

‘We have to warm up Moredhen, sister. There’s nothing more essential right now, else how will she breed and lay eggs? Or worse, she’ll die and we’ll be in those cold pits forever. You should breathe it in, too. Soothe your lungs, and maybe it’ll clear some of the blood from your nose before you go to the hunt.’

​

There was nothing to say to that, my lungs burnt fiercely. Nessa’s healing fire helped but only a little. Leaning over the flames and inhaling the sweet smoke gave me a little spark of energy. Standing, I grabbed the belt with my short knife from the chest by my bed, making quick work of securing the carved sheath to the belt. Usually, I attached it reverently as a rare heirloom, but today I had no time. Instead, I raked my fingers through my hair to try tidy it up a little.

​

‘How do I look?’ I turned to Nessa, grinning to make my voice bright as I broke the silence. My sister still frowned.

‘Like you always do, Eseld. Your hair is bleached with sea salt, your skin pale save for the ink swirls, your nose is leaking blood and your eyes are bloodshot.’ She paused, smirking. ‘And yet, for all that, you still have a wild beauty to you.’

I couldn’t help but grin, though it didn’t feel entirely happy. ‘Then I suppose I’ll do.’

‘You’ll have to.’

​

We both laughed, despite everything. It was better than crying. I stepped close, wrapping one arm around Nessa’s shoulders, resting my forehead against my sister’s. Our warmth flowed between us.

​

‘We’ll make everything alright, we will. We always have before,’ I whispered, feeling Nessa nod against me.

Crossing to Moredhen’s resting spot by the fire, I rubbed one finger over the azure down nestled among the black-and-white feathers of her neck. She nuzzled against me, chuffing softly, and tugging warmth into my heart.

​

‘See you soon little bird.’

​

Don’t look back. It felt unnatural, but I forced a smile onto my face as I left the roundhouse. Outside, the festival blared with song and dance. Myst-twined smoke spiralled from firepits loomed over me. The drumming was loud as people laughed and sang, their Mystcran returned to them. All their grins, brightly glowing, felt false to me. At least they were unaware of our dying bird in the roundhouse. For me, the shadow of sickness and exile haunted every plume of smog.

The World of Dissonance of Bird Song

A fantasy map of Bronze Age Cornish settlement that is the setting for Beaumont's epic young adult folklore fantasy

The world of Dissonance of Bird Song is based on Ancient Cornish Folklore, including mysterious stories of dark sea creatures and the sacred relationship between people and nature. Particularly relevant is the Cornish links to birds, where birds were both respected and believed to carry the spirits of the dead. 

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Dissonance of Bird Song is a fantasy that blends mystery and folklore with a gothic and dark vibe and is suitable for both Young Adults and Adults alike.

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The Nest, Eseld's home, is based on the Ancient Cornish peninsula village called Treryn Dynas. It is a Bronze Age roundhouse settlement battered by the harsh life of living on a Cornish clifftop, and in The Nest the people use their relationship with the birds to survive the harsh winter. When the Myst starts to run out panic sets in, and the people of The Nest start to turn on each other when the future of their existence is threatened...  

© 2025 by Alexandra Beaumont

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