Ingo

by Helen Dunmore

  “You don’t know everything I want, Saph.”

  “You’d need proper training,” says Roger. “How old are you now?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “If you’re serious, I’ll see what I can fix up. A week’s beginner course is what I’d suggest for a start.”

  “I am serious,” says Conor. “I’d like to learn.”

  “But it’s dangerous,” says Mum. “Isn’t it, Roger?”

  “No more than anything else if you’re careful. If you follow the rules, use your common sense, and don’t take risks, you’ll be okay.”

  Follow the rules. Use your common sense. Don’t take risks. Yes, the roar of the sea has faded.

  “But how can you discover anything if you don’t take risks?” I ask.

  Roger considers again. “Maybe there’s some truth in that. But you don’t start off by taking risks. You start off by doing all you can to minimize them. You have to know what you’re doing, go step by step, respect the force of the sea. Remember, you’re in a different world down there. An alien world. You’ll see what I mean when you make your first dive, Conor.”

  “It must be beautiful,” I say innocently.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful all right,” says Roger. “It’s a world of its own, what you see down there. It has its own light, not like ours. When a dustbin-lid jellyfish goes by, or even a shark—well, you see some amazing sights, I can tell you that. You have basking shark in these waters, did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there are weeds that grow as big as trees. It’s another world. You have to respect the sea. We don’t belong down there. If you forget that, you’re in big trouble.”

  But what you’re really doing is spying on Ingo, I say inside my head. The Mer don’t want you there. What’s so respectful about forcing your way in where you’re not wanted?

  But I’m not going to say any of this aloud. Instead I nod and say, “Mm, maybe.”

  “Roger’s going to take a boat out from the cove. He’s going to dive round here,” says Mum. Even though Mum hates the sea, she doesn’t seem to worry about Roger going out on it.

  But she was afraid when Dad went out. Always afraid, even though she tried to hide it from us. When he was home in the cottage, with the doors shut and the fire burning, when there was a storm and nobody could think of taking a boat out, then Mum was happy and relaxed.

  “It’s just an exploratory dive,” says Roger quickly. But I’m not sure that I believe him. I can sense danger. He thinks there is something worth diving for: a wreck, treasure, something to be dragged up out of Ingo into the Air. Something to be taken away from the Mer. Something valuable that Roger is going to discover, and no one else.

  “What are you looking for?” Conor asks.

  “I won’t know what’s there until I’ve searched around a little,” says Roger evasively. He glances around the table. “So I’d appreciate it if you kept all this quiet for the time being. I don’t want other divers muscling in on the site.”

  “You mean, not tell our school friends and our friends who live around here?” I ask.

  “That’s right. Not for the time being anyway.”

  “I won’t tell them then, I promise,” I say, and I smile at Roger for the first time. A big, wide, warm smile that will put him off his guard. Mum looks at me gratefully. I can tell exactly what she’s thinking. What a relief. Maybe Sapphy’s going to like Roger after all.

  “Do you want this other leg, Roger?” asks Mum.

  “You’re not to tell them about the dive,” says Conor as we wash up together.

  I open my eyes wide. “I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

  “You know what I mean. I heard exactly what you said. You only promised that you wouldn’t tell people from school, people round here.”

  “That’s all Roger asked.”

  “Only because he didn’t know who else you might tell.”

  “No, because he doesn’t know anything, does he? He doesn’t know or care about any of them. What’s going to happen to Faro if Roger finds what he’s looking for? It’s probably gold or treasure or something. Other divers will find out too. They’ll be swarming around here. And tourists as well. There’ll be people everywhere, all over the sea just like they’re all over the land. They’ll drive the Mer away.”

  Very slowly Conor wipes a plate dry. “Yes, I know. I’ve thought of that too.”

  “If you’ve thought of it, then why are you encouraging Roger? Why did you tell him you wanted to learn to dive?”

  “Because I do want to.”

  “But you can anyway! You can dive. You don’t need Roger. You don’t need air on your back and a black suit to go into Ingo.”

  “Give Roger a chance, Saph. He’s all right. He’s not the type who would want crowds of people diving for treasure round here.”

  I feel as if Conor’s slapped me. I take a deep breath and hit back. “That didn’t take long, did it?”

  “What didn’t take long?”

  “You’re on his side already.”

  “Give that glass here; you’re going to break it. Listen, Saph. It’s not about taking sides. Look at Mum. Don’t you think she looks better? Do you want her to go back to what she was like just after Dad went?”

  Mum and Roger are in the living room. They’re playing cards, and it sounds as if Mum’s winning. As Conor and I stand listening, we hear Mum laugh. A warm, soft, chuckling laugh. She sounds relaxed and happy.

  “She’s a lot better,” says Conor. “A lot. You want Mum to be better, don’t you, Saph?”

  “You don’t care about Dad anymore.”

  Slowly Conor’s face flushes under his brown skin. Slowly, spacing out his words, he says, “Don’t ever say that again.”

  “I won’t, I won’t, Conor, I’m sorry—”

  But Conor’s gone. He turns his back on me and walks out quietly. He doesn’t slam the door, but the way he shuts it is worse than a slam. I hear his tread on the stairs, going up to my room and up the ladder into his loft. He pulls up his ladder and shuts the trapdoor, shutting me out.

  Conor has turned his back on me. Conor doesn’t want to be with me. He’s angry, and I know that Conor’s worst anger is very quiet and it goes on for a long time.

  It’s all my fault. Why was I so stupid? I’ll go after him. I’ll tell him I’m sorry. I’ll make him believe I’m really sorry for what I said.

  “Conor?” I call from beneath the trapdoor, softly in case Mum hears and asks what’s going on. “Conor? Con, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t true, what I said.”

  But there’s no answer from Conor. I feel crushed inside from fear and loneliness. There’s Mum again, laughing, and now she’s saying something, but I can’t hear what it is. Conor’s right. Mum does sound happy. And there’s Roger, laughing too, joining in.

  I have the strangest feeling that already Roger belongs here more than I do. In a while, when he knows I’m not standing here waiting anymore, Conor will come down the ladder. He’ll play cards with Mum, and Roger will talk to them about diving. I can see the three of them together, belonging to one another, and the pain inside me grows stronger.

  Why was I so stupid? Why ever did I say that Conor didn’t care about Dad? I wish I could bring the words back. If only I knew how to make time run backward. If I did, all the mistakes I’ve made could be undone.

  Mum and Roger are laughing again. Mum is happy. Is she happier because I’m not there? Maybe Mum doesn’t want me here, reminding her of Dad every time I open my mouth. I look like Dad. Everyone has always said so.

  If only Dad was here.

  But just as I think that, for the first time a small, bleak voice inside me whispers, “Maybe they’re right and you’re wrong. Maybe he’s never coming back.”

  The loneliest thoughts I’ve ever had crowd into my head. I feel cold and tired, and I don’t know what to do. If only there was someone to help me. But there’s only emptiness, swirling inside my mind.
<
br />   Until I feel something. A pull, a tug, faint at first and then stronger, stronger. I know what it is. The tide is falling fast.

  It’s already an hour past the turn. I know it without knowing why I know it. I can feel the tide inside me, as if my blood has turned to salt water. There’s the pull of it again, stronger, almost lifting me off my feet. Now. I’ve got to go now.

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. You’ll miss the tide.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “WHERE ARE WE now, Faro?” I ask. We’re swimming lazily side by side, our bodies wrapped in the warmth of a slow current that’s taking us northward. I’m back in Ingo. Safe. It doesn’t seem strange anymore, or dangerous. Everything has a familiar feeling about it, as if part of me has always lived here.

  “We won’t go too far this time. We might dap off the current westward,” Faro says. “There’s land there, another country of Air People, and then beyond there’s the Great Ocean.”

  I can see it in my mind as if I’m reading a map. The ocean off our part of Cornwall is the Atlantic; then north-westward there’s Ireland. West of Ireland the Atlantic spreads out again for thousands of miles, until you reach North America.

  Dad taught me about the oceans long before I studied geography at school. He drew a map of the oceans for me on the firm white sand of the cove, with a pointed stick. He said we’d sail them all one day. The Pacific, the Atlantic, the Indian Ocean, the Arctic, and the Antarctic Ocean. The five oceans of the world, Dad said.

  I loved the sound of their names. I believed Dad when he said we would sail them all one day. Dad said Conor and I could come out of school for a year, and we’d all go traveling.

  Mum said, “Don’t put that stuff into her head, Mathew. Where’s the money coming from for us to sail the five oceans? We can barely pay the phone bill.” But I knew Mum was wrong. She was always worrying about bills, but they got paid in the end. If we wanted to sail the world, the money would come from somewhere.

  “Are you talking about the Atlantic when you say the Great Ocean, Faro?” I ask now. “Is the first land Ireland, and then there’s the Atlantic again, and then North America?”

  Faro shrugs, and his eyes sparkle wickedly.

  “The Atlantic? Sorry, Sapphire. Never heard of it.”

  “You’re swimming in it right now this minute, Faro!”

  Faro spreads his fingers and lets the water spill through them.

  “I can’t seem to see the word ‘Atlantic’ here anywhere,” he murmurs, pretending to search. He flips onto his back and stares upward. His tail flicks lazily, glistening in the deep green underwater light. “No, nothing’s written on the surface either. Maybe the words washed off?”

  “Don’t be dumb, Faro. Things like sea and sky don’t have words printed right through them.”

  “Then how do you know this is the Atlantic?”

  “Well, it just is.”

  “Not to me, it isn’t.”

  “It’s called the Atlantic on every map I’ve ever seen,” I say firmly. Why can’t Faro ever admit that he’s wrong?

  “Only people who don’t know where they are need maps,” answers Faro smugly.

  “You’d get lost quick enough on land.”

  “Maybe. But who wants to go on land?”

  “You did. That’s where I first met you, on that rock.”

  “Ah, but then I had a reason.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you one day. When you can speak full Mer.”

  I never argue when people say things like that. It only makes them more annoying. Changing the subject works much better.

  “I suppose it doesn’t have to be called the Atlantic,” I say. “It’s what we call it, that’s all. It’s got to have a name. ‘The Great Ocean’ doesn’t mean much. All the oceans are great, so you wouldn’t be able to tell which one you were talking about. Is that really what you call it?”

  “It’s a name, that’s all.” Faro shrugs. “We don’t carry maps around with writing on them and everything with a name label on it. What do you think happens when the Atlantic meets the Pacific, Sapphire? Is there a thick black line on the sea?”

  “You do know their names! I knew you did.”

  “I know all about your maps and your writing. You think I’m ignorant as a fish, don’t you? Living in the sea, playing all day long, never thinking about anything, no car, no credit card—”

  “Hey, do you really know about cars and credit cards? How do you know?”

  “I listen,” says Faro modestly. “It’s surprising what you can hear when people are swimming or sunbathing or out in their boats. They talk a lot about their credit cards. Anyway, to go back to the subject, fish aren’t ignorant. I’ve told you before that they share their memories. The memory doesn’t die when a fish dies. It stays in the school. And because the memories are shared, they get stronger.”

  “Do you do that, Faro?”

  “What? Die?”

  “No. Share your memories like that.”

  Faro sculls gently with his hands against the draw of the current. A frill of tiny bubbles bursts around his fingers.

  “In a way. We share what we know,” he says at last. “We don’t keep our knowledge to ourselves, as if it’s money we want to keep safe in a purse.” His smile flashes at me triumphantly. You see! I know all about money and purses. The smile vanishes, and he’s serious again. “We have separate memories, but sometimes they run in and out of us. I can touch Elvira’s memory sometimes.”

  “Can you touch mine?” I ask suddenly, surprising myself.

  Faro rolls toward me. We are face-to-face, with the same current holding us both. The inside of the current is so calm and still that it’s only when I look sideways and see the fish flashing by that I know how fast we’re traveling.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Let’s try.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know how it happens with Elvira and me. It just happens.”

  I wait, tense and hopeful, while Faro stares into my face.

  “No, it’s not working. You’re stopping me.”

  “I can’t be stopping you. I’m not doing anything.”

  “You are. You’re like a sea anemone when it feels a shadow on it. You’ve shut up tight. I can’t feel your mind at all.”

  Part of me is a bit pleased at this. I’m stronger than Faro. He can’t break into my mind like a burglar. But another part feels sad. I will never belong with the Mer if I can’t share what they share. And it must be good to share memories—not be alone with them, hurt or frightened or not knowing what to do.

  I think of what sea anemones look like in rock pools, with their soft, open fronds waving through the warm water, exploring it. Delicate fronds, purple and brown and red. Conor and I used to sit for hours by the pools, not letting our shadow fall over them, waiting until the crabs and baby dogfish grew confident and scuttled out from the weeds, and the sea anemones slowly unfurled like dark red flowers in a sea garden—

  “You’re with your brother,” says Faro. “You’re watching the flowers. You’re very happy—”

  “Faro, you did it! You saw what I was remembering!”

  “We did it,” says Faro. “I didn’t know Air People and Mer could touch each other’s memories.”

  “But we did,” I say triumphantly.

  “Maybe there’s more Mer in you than I knew,” Faro goes on thoughtfully. “Elvira and I used to watch those hollows in the rocks for hours, just like you. When I touched what you were thinking, it was like touching my own memory. We learned how hermit crabs find their shells, how a male sea horse cares for his babies, where to find sugar kelp and strawberry anemones.”

  “Only you were underwater, and we were on the shore. But we were doing it at the very same time maybe.”

  “Maybe. But you know, Sapphire, you’re not the first Air Person I’ve met. Or even the first I’ve talked to. I know more than you think. I know all about books as well. Why are you
smiling like that?”

  “It’s nothing.” I can’t tell Faro how funny he looked, so proud of himself for knowing this perfectly ordinary word.

  “You’re laughing at me.” Faro narrows his eyes.

  “I’m not. It was just the way you said ‘books.’ Like they were something out of a fairy story. Don’t the Mer have any books?”

  “Why should we? I told you, we don’t need writing. If something is worth keeping, you can keep it in your mind. We don’t copy Air things. We have our own life.”

  “It’s strange, Faro, that’s exactly the opposite of what humans do. They copy everything. I mean, we copy everything. That’s how we get our ideas. I mean, that’s how airplanes got invented, because people looked at birds and wanted to fly like them and tried to work out how they did it. They were trying to copy birds for hundreds of years before they worked it out. And I suppose we copied fish when we built submarines—”

  “But why did you want to fly?” interrupts Faro, with real curiosity. “You don’t need to. Flying’s for birds. What good is flying if you’ve got legs to walk?”

  “Yes, but if you see someone doing something, don’t you want to do it too?”

  “No,” says Faro. “But you do, because you’re human. That’s what makes humans so dangerous. They want everything. They aren’t satisfied with what they are. They want to be everything else as well.”

  “But how do you know what you are until you’ve tried to be lots of other things?”

  “I know what I am,” says Faro. He closes his eyes, resting on his back and letting the current do the work. “I don’t need to try to be anything else.”

  My legs look strange beside the strong, dark, glistening curve of Faro’s tail. They look thin and feeble and forked. Almost ugly. I remember how Faro called me cleft. I’ve never ever thought my legs were ugly before, but here under the sea they don’t look nearly as good as a tail. One flick of Faro’s tail can take him farther and faster than any swimming I can do.

  “Look how well you’re doing now, Sapphire,” says Faro, opening his eyes. “I don’t have to hold your wrist at all.”

  It’s true. I think back to that first journey into Faro’s country, and how afraid I was. How much it hurt to go into Ingo then. I thought I would die if Faro moved a meter away from me. It felt as if the salt water would rush into my throat and smother me. But now I don’t even think about breathing. Faro doesn’t have to tell me I’m safe, because I know it all through my body. Every cell of me knows that the sea is full of oxygen, and it’s streaming into my blood without my needing to breathe air. I am safe, in Ingo.