Tide Knot

by Helen Dunmore

  “But where is the keystone?” asks Conor.

  Saldowr looks at him sharply. “You remember the keystone?”

  “Of course.”

  “You remember the patterns engraved on it?”

  “Yes, the writing. But where is it?”

  Saldowr sighs. “This is why I called you here. Could you read those patterns?”

  “No. No, but—”

  “I understand you. You saw some meaning in them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your sister survived the Deep, which has never been known before. You saw those patterns, which no one saw before. I called you here because after everything that has happened here, Ingo needs a new and different power. No one can drag the tides back. They are too strong. They burst the keystone, and it shattered into fifty pieces, like my mirror. Those patterns are words, my children. They are words that have never been spoken since the tides were first sealed into their knot, in the time of our farthest ancestors. Perhaps—perhaps those same words, once spoken, may seal them again.”

  “Do you really think they can?” I ask.

  Saldowr’s somber face lightens a little. “It’s not very likely, myrgh kerenza. But all the same, we must try it since there’s nothing else. Nothing else but destruction.”

  “I thought Ingo wanted to grow strong,” Conor challenges him. “I thought the Mer wanted to defeat the power of humans.”

  “Some in Ingo wanted it, and now they know their error. Look around you.” We all stare at the pallid, wrecked, lifeless seascape. “This scene will be repeated a thousand times in Ingo, and a thousand times on Earth, unless the tides return. The balance between Earth and Ingo has failed. I have failed. Guardian of the Tide Knot,” he says with bitter self-contempt. “What have I guarded? But perhaps my failure can still be redeemed.”

  I don’t think I want to be here. It’s all too sad and fearful. What chance is there that we can do anything when someone as powerful as Saldowr is helpless?

  “We’ll try,” says Conor.

  Saldowr holds out his hands to us.

  Our first task is to find all the scattered fragments of the keystone and gather them together. It looks impossible. So much is buried under sand or masses of weed.

  “We’ve got to have method,” says Conor. “If we all spread out and move inward, we won’t miss any of it. As soon as you find a piece, either mark where it’s lying or bring it to the cave if you can carry it. Saph, don’t try to do too much.”

  Saldowr seems content to let Conor take charge for now. Faro, Elvira, Conor, and I swim backward, separating until we are out of sight of one another. “Ready?” calls Conor. “Come forward slowly. Mark everything you find. Search everywhere. Plunge your hands deep into the sand. Feel through the weed. Lift every stone.”

  Saldowr is close to me. I expect him to help with the search, but he does nothing. When I find my first shard of the keystone, I hold it up triumphantly. “Here, Saldowr, this is part of the stone, isn’t it?”

  He nods. “Well done, my daughter. But your brother was right; you must not exhaust yourself. That injury needs care.”

  “But—but, Saldowr, aren’t you going to help us?”

  “I am helping you. Your brother is free to search, isn’t he? He can draw in oxygen without Faro’s help?”

  “Yes, I suppose so—I hadn’t thought—”

  “I may be a poor keeper of the Tide Knot, but I am still Guardian of the Groves.” His voice is stern, and I daren’t ask any more questions. Saldowr continues, “Understand me, Sapphire. I am not one of those teachers who ask questions to which they already know the answers. I would not have called you here if I thought I could carry out this task without you.”

  I don’t fully understand, but it’s not the time to ask for explanations. Finding every single fragment of the keystone is what matters, and it’s a long, exhausting task. I keep having to rest, but Elvira, Conor, and Faro work on tirelessly. Piece by piece, we bring what we’ve found to the silted-up cave. Some of the pieces aren’t much more than splinters, sharp enough to slice our fingers to the bone if we handle them carelessly. Others are heavy chunks of rock that have to be dragged through the sand by two or three of us. Each piece of the keystone is dense and heavy, far heavier than any rock I’ve ever lifted onshore. The scatter of broken rock is like a jigsaw puzzle in three dimensions. It’s hard to believe that the keystone can ever be put together again.

  But Conor has always liked jigsaw puzzles. When we’ve got about thirty pieces of rock together, he starts to pore over them, swimming around them, viewing them from one angle and then another.

  “Can you see any sense in it?” asks Faro, peering over Conor’s shoulder.

  “Look, those two pieces will fit together if that splinter is slotted in just there, along the seam of the rock—”

  Faro shrugs. “You see more than I do, brother. You had better work on it, while we keep on with the search.”

  Elvira lays down three jagged pieces of rock. “We must work faster,” she says, her voice tense.

  Conor looks up at her. “What are you afraid of, Elvira? The flood has already happened.”

  “Can’t you feel it? The force of the tides has gone wild. It’s tearing Ingo apart. It will destroy us all.”

  “And Ingo is all that matters, is it? Why should I try to put the keystone together? You let my world drown. You were glad of it, weren’t you?”

  “No, Conor, no, believe me, I wasn’t glad of it. I’m a healer. Don’t you understand what that means?”

  “A trainee healer,” adds Faro. Elvira ignores him.

  “How can I be a healer and be happy when there’s injury, death, fear everywhere?”

  Conor looks into her face. “I believe you, Elvira,” he says gently, “but don’t ask me to believe that everyone in Ingo is like you.”

  Wearily I push myself up off the seabed and swim back to the interminable search. I can’t put that jigsaw puzzle together. I didn’t even see that there was any writing on the keystone when it was whole. But perhaps I can find just one more sliver of rock, buried under the sand.

  Finally we have to give up the search. Maybe there are fragments of the keystone where we’ll never find them, but we have scoured through sand, rummaged in weed, levered up boulders, and lifted stones. Our hands are scratched and bruised. We’ve brought every fragment of rock we could find. Conor is still at work, and now we can begin to see a shape emerging. But of course the pieces won’t hold together, even when Conor works out where they fit. A puzzle in three dimensions can’t be solved flat on the sand.

  “I’ll never be able to put them together properly,” says Conor at last. He looks so frustrated, as if he’d like to sweep the pieces of rock into a jumble again. But that isn’t the kind of thing Conor does. “We’re just wasting time.”

  “We could ask Saldowr.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He was here just now.”

  “He’s resting behind those rocks,” says Elvira, pointing. Sure enough, there’s the ragged hem of his cloak trailing in the water.

  “Shall we wake him?”

  “Saldowr!”

  As he swims toward us, very slowly, I realize with a shock how old he looks now.

  “Have you found all the pieces?” asks Saldowr.

  “We don’t know. We’ve looked everywhere. But what’s the point? We’ll never be able to put this rock together.”

  “When you find the last piece, the keystone will come together of itself,” says Saldowr.

  “Are you saying we haven’t found the last piece? But we’ve searched and searched. There’s nowhere else it can be.”

  “The missing piece may be closer than you think,” says Saldowr, and he pulls his cloak back from his shoulder. There, lodged in his flesh, is a small, dagger-shaped splinter of rock. “I was too close when the keystone broke,” says Saldowr, “or maybe not close enough. One of you four must pull it out for me, so that the keystone can make itself whole a
gain.”

  Without meaning to, we all shrink back a little.

  “Which—which one of us?” I know my voice is shaky. Not me, not me, not me. The words drum in my head so loudly that I’m sure Saldowr can hear them. He looks at me piercingly.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I only know that one of you will be able to draw out the rock and heal the keystone.”

  “But you are my teacher!” exclaims Faro. “How can I do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, Faro. That question is for you to answer, not me.”

  “Elvira, can’t you do it? You’re a healer. You made my leg better.”

  “I’ll try,” Elvira says bravely. “Sometimes a healer must hurt her patient in order for the patient to recover.”

  She puts out her hand tentatively, touches the dagger splinter, and then takes hold of the part which has not entered Saldowr’s shoulder.

  “You have good hands,” says Saldowr. “Pull.”

  Elvira tosses her hair back, braces herself, and pulls as hard as she can. Saldowr sways, but the blade of rock does not move. “I can’t do it. I’m so sorry. My hands won’t—”

  “It’s not your fault, child.”

  Faro is next. He’s very pale, and I know he is hating this. Saldowr is the teacher he loves like a father. He braces himself and then lays his hand on the dagger of rock. But unlike Elvira, he doesn’t even try to pull it out. He shakes his head and lets his hand fall to his side. “This is not for me.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Conor.

  “This isn’t my task. It’s pushing me away.”

  No one could doubt that Faro’s telling the truth.

  “I’ll try then,” says Conor. He braces himself and reaches for the dark, shiny splinter of rock that has buried itself in Saldowr’s shoulder. Delicately, so as not to hurt Saldowr, he takes hold of it.

  “I can’t do it,” he says at last. “My fingers keep slipping.”

  “Your turn, Sapphire,” says Faro.

  I wanted to be the last to try because I was afraid. Now I wish I’d gone first, and then it would be over. Too much depends on it now. If I can’t shift that dagger of keystone, then there’s nothing left to try. Cautiously I raise my right hand and touch what looks like the handle of a dagger. Immediately my fingers close around it, as if the keystone had wrapped them there.

  Everything is silent, tense. Everybody’s waiting. I know, deep inside me, that if I pull, the dagger of rock will come out. But what will happen then? Will Saldowr die from the wound the rock has made in his shoulder? I’m afraid.

  “I think you are the one, myrgh kerenza,” says Saldowr gently.

  “But—but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “It’s not you who have hurt me. The keystone has done so already.”

  I look into his eyes and find the courage to say what I really mean. “What if you die, Saldowr?”

  His lips quirk into a smile. “I’m not so easy to kill, my child. Pull out the dagger.”

  I press my lips tight together, look straight into Saldowr’s eyes again, and pull as hard as I can. The dagger of rock glides smoothly out of Saldowr’s flesh and into my hand. Behind me I hear Faro gasp. The hole in Saldowr’s flesh gapes, raw and ugly. His blood wells from the hole the stone dagger made, and for a terrifying moment it’s like staring into the Tide Knot again, at the tides coiling like snakes. The feel of the stone dagger in my hand makes me shudder. I pass it to Conor, and he grips it firmly, like a weapon. Saldowr raises his fist and presses it hard against the wound. Even so, a smoke of blood unrolls through the water. Saldowr’s eyes are shut, his lips pressed tightly together. He’s very pale, and his face is clenched. Slowly, very slowly, he sinks down onto the seabed.

  “Can’t Elvira heal him?” I whisper to Faro. But he doesn’t answer. I don’t think he even hears me.

  “Elvira,” says Conor, “surely you can do something?”

  Elvira bites her lip. “I don’t know enough. I’m not the right healer.”

  A wave of fury sweeps through me. Are the Mer going to wait and do nothing while Saldowr bleeds to death? I dive down to the sand where Saldowr’s lying. “Let me help you. Tell me what to do.”

  His eyes open and meet mine. They are dull with pain, but they are still Saldowr’s eyes. “Myrgh kerenza,” he says gently, “there’s nothing to be done now. But don’t be afraid—I’m not going to die.”

  “But you’re bleeding so badly, Saldowr. We can’t just do nothing.”

  A gleam of a smile crosses Saldowr’s face. “My dear child, sometimes you are very human. We’re not doing nothing. We’re healing”—he coughs and presses his fist hard against the wound—“healing the Tide Knot. There’s no time for anything else. Don’t be afraid. Conor—” He stops, gasping for breath. Conor leans forward to catch the words. “The keystone is complete. Conor, lay the last piece.”

  “Where, Saldowr?”

  “With the rest. You know where it should go.”

  Conor’s eyes meet mine. He doesn’t know. How can Saldowr think that he does?

  “Quick, Conor, lay the last piece. Now. See if the keystone—if the keystone…remember—”

  Saldowr says he’s not going to die, but I’m terrified that he will.

  “The last piece—now, Conor, now.”

  We swim to the pile of stones we’ve gathered, Conor holding the last piece, the stone dagger. “It’s not going to work,” he says. “How can it work? The writing’s smashed.”

  “Do it!” says Faro. “Saldowr commands it.”

  We gather around the jumble of fragments and boulders that was once the keystone. Conor weighs the stone dagger in his hand, his eyes narrowed, searching for the place where it will fit. But there’s no clue. It’s impossible. A puzzle in three dimensions that I can’t believe we’ll ever be able to solve.

  “The keystone is wounded too,” says Elvira suddenly, like a doctor making a diagnosis. “Wounded exactly as Saldowr is wounded.”

  “But I don’t suppose you’re the right healer for the keystone either, are you, Elvira?” I snap.

  “Saph!” says Conor, but Elvira just goes on eagerly.

  “That’s true, Sapphire, but the keystone doesn’t need me. It wants to heal itself. I’m sure it knows how to heal itself. Conor, you can lay down the piece of stone that hurt Saldowr.”

  Conor hesitates. “What, just put it anywhere?”

  “Yes.”

  Gently Conor clears a small patch of sand. He glances round the circle of our faces and then stretches out his hand, holding the stone dagger down. Instinctively we all move back.

  There’s complete silence as Conor places the last piece of stone in the place he’s made for it. We wait, tense, staring, willing something to happen.

  Silence. I don’t dare look at Conor or anyone. We’ve failed. Saldowr might die, and we’ve failed.

  Suddenly the silence starts to thrum with life. It’s like the sound of the heating coming on in the dark of a winter morning. The thrumming sound grows louder. It’s coming from the shattered fragments of the keystone. Another sound joins it, a rushing sound from far away. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I’m sure it’s from something immensely powerful. It’s like the distant roar of a waterfall when your boat is gliding along a peaceful river. There’s something a million times stronger than you are just around the bend in the river, waiting for you.

  “Get back!” shouts Conor. We somersault backward through the water as the noise swells, beating on our eardrums. I put my hands over my ears, but the sound keeps on growing.

  Something wonderful and terrible is happening on the sand where the pieces of the keystone are laid. As if the thrumming noise has charged them with life, the pieces of the keystone begin to move. Heavy chunks of stone slide toward one another. Tiny splinters whirl around the heavy, smashed heart of the jigsaw puzzle. It looks as if all the fragments of the keystone are trying to dance their way back into place. For a few seconds its core is veiled i
n a cloud of flying shards, and then, as we watch, the stone starts to solidify. In the center of the cloud, piercing it through, there’s the stone dagger.

  Faro’s hands are outstretched, holding off the magic. Elvira’s hair swirls around her, hiding her. But Conor’s arm is strong around my shoulder as the rushing sound reaches its climax. Streaks of light zizz around the segments of rock as they join. The stone dagger shows one last time and then disappears into the heart of the rock. The keystone has healed itself.

  The keystone rests on the sand, smooth and solid. Nobody moves for a few long moments, and then Saldowr’s voice, very faint now, calls us from where he’s lying. We swim to him. His face is colorless but illuminated with relief. “The keystone…read it, Conor…now…no time—”

  We move forward to the keystone. Its surface is black and as highly polished as glass. I can’t see any sign of carving, or patterns, or words. I glance sideways at Faro and Elvira. They look as blank as I feel. “You’re not looking the right way,” says Conor, touching my arm. “Look. Look there, where the light catches it.”

  I strain my eyes. I think I see something, and then I know that I don’t. The stone is smooth and unreadable.

  “Can you read it, my son?” whispers Saldowr urgently.

  “It’s coming.” Conor’s fingers are digging into my arms. “It’s coming into focus. Can’t you see it, Saph?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “There! There, Saph. Look!”

  And then I see something, or I think I do. Marks in the smooth stone. Marks that seem to write themselves as we watch. But I can’t make out any words. I can’t read them. “Conor, I—”

  Conor lets go of my arms. He draws himself up to his full height, and the water lifts his hair like a crown. Like Faro, he raises his hands, but Conor’s hands are palms up as if he’s calling the words out of the stone.

  I remember the song that Conor sang to the guardian seals, long ago on the borders of Limina. This song is even more powerful. It thunders like water being pulled over the lip of a waterfall and pouring down onto the rocks below. As he sings, just for a second, I see the pattern cut deep into the keystone.