“Why?”
“There’s a Gathering. Look over there.”
“It’s too dark.”
“
Look
, Sapphire. Open your eyes.” I peer through the deep dark velvet of the water. Yes, there are shapes and shadows, shifting with the pulls of the currents. There’s a group of them, close together. A school of fish swimming to their feeding grounds maybe. But they’re too big for fish, surely; they’re as long as—as tall as—
“Mer, Faro! Look! They’re Mer!”
I’m seeing the Mer at last. Faro’s people. The curtain that has hidden them from me every time I’ve visited Ingo has lifted at last. They are moving fast, in a group of twenty or so.
They’re a long way off, and they don’t notice us. They seem to shimmer as they swim, as if they’re covered in fish scales. But I know from Faro and his sister, Elvira, that the Mer aren’t really covered in scales at all . That’s for fairy stories where mermaids bask on rocks, combing their hair and singing to sailors. The real Mer are not like that. They’re more powerful, more complicated, and much, much more real. I blink, and the Mer have gone.
“What were they wearing, Faro? What’s all that shiny stuff?”
“Mother-of-pearl on cloaks of net, I should think. That’s what people generally wear to a Gathering when it’s moonlight.”
“How beautiful. Have you got a cloak like that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you got one? A cloak like that? In your wardrobe or whatever?”
“I’m not going to the Gathering tonight, so why would I have a cloak? I’d make one if I were going.”
“Do you mean that you make a new cloak every time there’s a party? I mean, a Gathering.”
“Of course. They take days and days to make. The patterns are complicated.”
“Then why don’t you keep them? You could have a beautiful col ection of cloaks.”
“Collection!” says Faro with scorn. Then he lowers his voice as if what he’s saying is dangerous and not to be overheard. “Listen, Sapphire. A long time ago some of the Mer started to
keep
things. They grew so proud of what they h a d
collected
that they became rivals, then enemies. It nearly brought us to war.”
“Do the Mer fight wars?” I ask in surprise. Faro has always given me the impression that Mer life is peaceful.
“We almost fought a war then. We were ready to kill one another.”
“We have wars all the time. I’ve seen them on TV.”
“Is TV real?” asks Faro curiously. “I thought it was stories humans make up for one another.”
“The news is real.”
“It’s good to know about the human world,” says Faro with decision. “Some Mer say that we should keep right away from it, but I think how you live is interesting.” This seems like the most important talk I’ve ever had with Faro. It’s the first time he’s admitted that things have ever been less than perfect in Ingo. In the quiet darkness it’s easier to speak openly and not to start arguing—
“I wish I could see those islands,” I tell him.
“We can go now if you like.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I can’t take you to the Gathering. It’s too early for that, and the Mer wouldn’t like to see you there. But we could go to one of the other islands.”
We swim out of our hollow. There are currents everywhere—not as powerful as the one we rode on, but little flickering currents that wash over our skin. The light is stronger now, and as we swim along the seabed, I realize that it’s because the water is growing shal ower.
“I don’t want to go back into the Air,” I say in alarm. I don’t want to burst through the surface of the water, only to find myself marooned on some strange island miles and miles from Cornwall .
“We’re not leaving Ingo. But we’re coming to the islands, Sapphire. Look ahead.”
It’s strange—like coming inshore on a boat, except that the land where we’re about to beach is underwater, lit by moonlight falling through water. There are the rocks. There’s the beach. A long wall juts out. It must have been the harbor wall once. On the drowned shore there are the crumbled remains of buildings that must have been cottages. Their doorways are empty. I suppose the doors have rotted away.
The empty window sockets make the cottages look as if they have got hungry, staring eyes. Instead of slate tiles on the roofs, there’s seaweed waving gently in the current.
It all makes me shiver. I’m afraid of what might come out of those empty doorways: a scuttling family of crabs, or a conger eel, or a jellyfish with long, searching tentacles. I’m not afraid of any of these creatures usual y, but they shouldn’t be here, in human houses. There should be fire here, the smell of cooking, and the sounds of human voices and laughter. I turn away.
“Don’t you like it?” Faro asks.
I shake my head, and my hair floats across my face like seaweed, hiding it. I’m glad that Faro can’t see my expression. I don’t want to look anymore, but the drowned village seems to be casting a spell on me. I stare at the little cobbled road leading up behind the cottages and the strong, square tower of what must have been the village church, long ago. A weathercock still stands there. I wonder if it still turns from side to side when the tide moves. Does the weathercock still think that the wind’s blowing it? It is all so empty, so sad, and so silent. Like a graveyard.
“We come on pilgrimage here,” says Faro.
“Pilgrimage?”
“Yes. Pilgrims come from far away to see the power of what Ingo has done here. Where there was land, now there is water.”
“Great,” I say bitterly. “I hope they enjoy it.”
“You’re angry,” says Faro, “but you shouldn’t be. In Holland they force the sea back, and you say they are brilliant. Here the sea rises and the land fall s, and you think it’s terrible. But it’s just what happens. Like the tide. At low tide you can walk safely in a place where six hours later you would drown.”
“But it’s not tides that did this. It’s something much more powerful. A whole island has drowned, Faro! How many villages were there?”
“I don’t know. Many, I think.”
“And how many people drowned?” I say, half to myself. I may have Mer blood in me, but no Mer blood could be strong enough to make me happy here. “It’s so desolate,” I go on, trying to make Faro understand. “This island wasn’t part of Ingo, and it didn’t want to be. It isn’t really a part of Ingo now. It’s just dead.”
“You’re wrong,” says Faro passionately. “Every year it’s more alive. Look at how much is growing there now. Look how rich the water is.” I can’t bear to argue with him, and besides, I know we are never going to agree. With a part of myself I see what Faro sees: the beauty of the seaweed waving above the cottages, with thick stems and feathery branches; the schools of silvery, flickering fish; the sea anemones and limpets that have made their homes on the fall en stones. The part of me that is Mer thinks it is beautiful, but the part that is human thinks of all the human life that’s been swallowed up by salt water.
“What’s the matter, Sapphire? Why are you screwing up your face like that?”
He really doesn’t know. Faro knows a lot about the Air, but not that humans weep.
“I’m sad, that’s all . It’s called crying.”
“I’ve heard of that,” says Faro eagerly, “but I’ve never seen it.” He makes it sound as if I were performing a juggling trick. “Show me how you do this crying.”
“No, Faro, it doesn’t work like that. I don’t want to cry anymore. I’ve stopped, look. But what do the Mer do when they are sad if they don’t cry? What do you do if someone dies?”
“We keep them in our memories.”
“I think we should go,” I say abruptly. I want to get away from this place, with its mournful atmosphere. How could this have happened? How did the sea rise so suddenly that whole islands were swallowed by it, and people didn’t even have time to get into their boats and escape?
I take a last look at the drowned village. There are the hul s of fishing boats chained to the harbor floor. They wouldn’t float now, even if you could bring them to the surface. Seawater has rotted their timber. What would the people who lived here think if they could see this?
Tears are prickling and stinging behind my eyes again. I can’t help it. It hurts more to cry in Ingo than it does in the Air.
I don’t want Faro to see how upset I am or to watch me with his bright, curious eyes as I do this strange human thing called crying, so I put my hands over my face. What was it called, this drowned village? It must have had a name.
Tell me what you were called,
I say very softly inside my head.
Tell me your name.
No one answers. The sea surges around me, lifting me.
There’s no moonlight anymore. I can’t see anything. Ingo is dark and full of sea voices that seem to come from everywhere. The sea lifts me again and carries me away with it.
I wake in my bedroom in St. Pirans, struggling out of a sleep that sticks to me like glue. My room is very small , only wide enough for my bed and a narrow strip of wooden floor.
There’s a shining pool of water on the floor. My porthole window is open. Maybe it’s been raining, and the rain has blown in. No, I don’t think so. I dip my finger in the water and taste salt. Ingo.
The house is silent. Everyone in St. Pirans is fast asleep.
I look at the digital alarm clock that Roger gave me after I missed the school bus for the third time. Its digits glow green: 03:03. There’s a heap of wet clothes on the floor by my bed—my jeans and hooded top—and my hair is wet. I must have changed into these pajamas after I got back, but I don’t really remember. It’s all cloudy.
But the memory of the drowned houses is all too clear.
The windows looked like empty, staring eye sockets in a skul . I don’t want to think about it. I want to push it out of my mind.
I
T’S DAYLIGHT AGAIN. SAFE, ordinary daylight where the things that seem huge and terrifying by night shrink like puddles in sunshine.
I’m down at the beach with Sadie. Mum’s already at work, but it’s Saturday, so no school. I’ve cleaned the bathroom and vacuumed the living room, and now I’m free.
Sadie is like daylight. When I stroke her warm golden coat, all the shadows disappear. She looks up at me questioningly, wagging her tail. We’re standing on the bottom step that leads down to Polquidden Beach. Am I going to let her run?
I am. Dogs are all owed onto the beach after the first of October, and it’s mid-November now. Sadie’s got a good memory, though, and that’s why she’s hesitating. She remembers that when we first moved to St. Pirans in September, dogs were still banned from the beach. Every year from April to October, when the visitors are here, dogs have to keep away. I think it’s unfair, but Mum says you couldn’t have dog dirt on the sand where people are sunbathing.
All September I had to keep on explaining to Sadie: “I’m sorry, I know you want to run on the sand, but you can’t.” The more I get to know Sadie, the more I realize how much she understands. She doesn’t have to rely on words. Sadie can tell from the way I walk into a room what kind of mood I’m in.
Now she’s quivering with excitement, but she still waits patiently on the step.
“Go on, Sadie girl! It’s all right; you can run where you like today.” Sadie stretches her body, gives one leap of pure pleasure, and then settles to the serious business of chasing a seagull in crazy zigzags over the sand. Sadie has never caught a gull , and I’m sure this gull knows that. It’s leading her on, teasing her, skimming low over the sand to get Sadie’s hopes high, then soaring as she rushes toward it.
I want Sadie to run and run, as far as she likes. I know she’ll come back when I call . And besides, I want her to be free.
Since we moved to St. Pirans, I’ve been having these dreams. Not every night, not even every week, but often enough to make me scared to go to sleep sometimes. In the dream I’m caught in a cage. At first I’m not too worried, because the bars are wide apart and it will be easy to slip out. But as soon as I move toward them, the bars close up. I try to move slowly and casually so that the cage won’t know what I’m planning, but every time, the bars are quicker than I am. It’s as if the cage is alive and knows that I’m trying to escape.
I still can’t believe that we are really living here in St.
Pirans. Can it be true that we’ve left our cottage forever?
And Senara, and our cove, and all the places we love?
Conor and I were
born
in the cottage, for heaven’s sake, in Mum and Dad’s bedroom. How can you shut the door on the place where you were born?
Mum’s promised that she’ll never, ever sell our cottage, but she’s renting it out to strangers. The rent money pays for us to rent a house in St. Pirans, where we have no memories at all .
It seems crazy to me. Completely crazy in a way that the adults all believe is completely logical.
You’ll make so many new friends when you’re living in a
town!
You’ll be able to go to the cinema and the swimming
pool.
They’ve got some really good shops in St. Pirans,
Sapphy.
Why would anyone who lives by the sea want to go to a swimming pool anyway? Swimming pools are tame and bland and fake blue, and they stink of chlorine. The water is dead because of all the chemicals they put into it. The sea is alive. Every drop in it is full of life. If you put water from a swimming pool under a microscope, there would be nothing.
Or maybe some bacteria if they haven’t put enough chemicals in.
Even the sea gets crowded in St. Pirans. It’s quieter now because the season’s over, but everyone keeps telling us,
Wait until the summer months. You’re lucky if you can find
a patch of sand to put your towel down in August.
There are four beaches and a harbor and thousands and thousands of tourists, who swarm all over the town like bees. Conor and I sometimes used to come to St. Pirans for a day while we were still living in Senara. Just for a change. A day was always enough. You can’t swim without getting whacked by someone’s board. Sometimes there are even fights between different groups of surfers, the ones who are local and the ones who have come here in vans from upcountry.