Ingo (6 page)

“Conor! I’m not picking up your dirty washing for you! You can put it in the machine yourself.”

But there’s no answer. The cottage is silent.

Maybe he’s gone up to the farm to get the eggs and potatoes.

No. He’d have had to go past me. Even in the mist he couldn’t have gone past without me seeing him.

“Conor?” But this time I don’t shout. I am asking the empty, familiar kitchen to tell me where he is. The radio clock winks. The fridge whirs. They must have seen him go, but they’re not telling me.

They don’t need to. A cold shiver is creeping over my skin, as cold as the mist. I know where Conor’s gone. Down the track, through the bracken and foxgloves, down the path, and out onto the grassy lip of cliff above the cove. Everything wet and shining with mist. The rocks hidden, the sea hidden. Down the rocks, between the boulders, onto the rocks. Everything slippery and dangerous—

The sea pulling like a magnet. Pulling Conor as it pulled me.

What’s the time? The tide will be going out. I remember how the sea swirled round my legs, urging me deeper and deeper—

Conor, wait. Wait,
wait
. Don’t go without me. Wait, Conor, I’m coming.

N
EVER GO DOWN TO THE
cove alone. Are you listening to me, Sapphire? If Conor isn’t with you, you don’t go.

But Mum—

Sapphy, I want you to promise me that you won’t go on your own. Ever. It’s for your own safety.

I can swim just as well as Conor.

I know. But you’re such a daydreamer, Sapphy. If the tide comes in while you’re dreaming, I won’t be there to help you. So promise.

Make Conor promise too.

He has already.

All right, Mum. I promise.

Mum’s words from years ago drum in my head as I feel my way through the mist, down the track, and along the path. Shapes loom out frighteningly, but when I get close, they’re only bushes. The mist has already closed up behind me, damp and woolly and smothering. I can’t see any of the cottages. I can’t see the track, or the gate, or even the gap where the path begins—

I trip and stumble and scramble up again, rubbing my grazed leg. Pebbles rattle under my feet; wet bracken slaps my legs. I can hear the sea echoing and the mournful sound of the foghorn.

Danger. Danger. Don’t come here.

But I’ve got to carry on. This is the path to where Conor is. I must follow it. My heart bumps so hard, it feels as if it’s up in my mouth. Take a deep breath, Sapphire. There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s only mist.

I creep out onto the grass. I’ve nearly reached the cliff, but I can’t see the edge. The grass is wet and slippery, and I’m afraid of falling, so I get down on hands and knees and crawl forward slowly, feeling my way.

Haaaaa,
says the sea,
haaaaaa
. I creep forward, digging my fingers into tussocks of rough grass. I won’t go over the edge, whatever happens.

Here it is. I lie down on my belly, lean over, and look down. Below me, mist swirls. It’s coming in from the sea, thicker and thicker. The shapes of boulders loom beneath, like dark heads rearing out of the mist. I can just about find
my way down, but the rocks are shining wet. I mustn’t slip.

I try to remember where the tide will be. It should be low tide, just on the turn. I’m safe for now.

I let myself down very carefully, over the grassy lip of the cliff, scrabbling for footholds.

You’ve been down here hundreds of times. It’s completely safe.
But my heart bangs, and sweat prickles under my arms. Climbing down through the mist is like trying to do your best handwriting with your fingers in thick gloves. My left foot brushes a foothold, finds it. I lower my weight gently. No. My foot slips on wet rock, and I start to slide. I grab a clump of thrift and cling on. My fingers want to hold on forever, but I won’t let them.
Don’t be stupid, Sapphire. You won’t fall. You can’t stay here clinging on to a cliff. No one’s going to come and rescue you, and anyway, you’ve got to find Conor.

I take a deep breath. My feet will know where to go if I can just stop panicking. They know where the next foothold is, and the next, and the next. My feet have been learning the way down for years.

I take another deep breath. Slowly, slowly, I let go of the clump of thrift. My right foot finds its way down to the next ledge like a key finding its place in a lock.

Down the rocks, squeeze between the boulders, over the stones. The dripping of water sounds eerie in the mist. I can hear the waves breaking, far out, but I can’t see them. I move as quietly as I can. I don’t want anyone to hear me coming.

At last, at last, my feet touch firm, flat sand. I’m down on our beach, safe. My legs are shaking, but I did it! I did it on my own, in the mist, without Conor.

Yeah, you did it on your own,
my thoughts jeer at me.
But don’t get too excited. You haven’t found Conor yet, have you?

I’m going to, I tell myself firmly. And maybe—maybe the mist’s lifting a little? I can just about see the edge of the tumble of rocks that meets the sand. The cliff I climbed down has vanished back into white woolliness, but I can’t get lost. When I want to go home, all I have to do is walk away from the sound of the sea, and I’m bound to come back to the rocks, with the cliff above them.

I step forward cautiously, one foot after another on the hard sand that slopes downward slightly to the water. White, echoey swirls of mist stroke my skin.

“Conor! Conor, where are you? Are you here?” I call softly. I don’t dare call too loud. Anything could come out of this mist.

Nobody answers.

“Conor! Conor! Please, if you’re here, come out!”

I don’t like hide-and-seek when I’m the seeker and everyone’s hiding and waiting and watching, ready to jump out.
Coming, ready or not!
I hate things that jump out on me. But I’m still sure I was right to come down to the cove. I’m sure Conor came this way and that he’s here, close.

But I’m scared to call again. I glance back up the beach, but even the rocks have vanished now. I’m surrounded by white, choking mist. The sound of the sea seems to come from everywhere.
Haaa…haaa…haaaa…

I clench my hands so tight that my nails dig into my palms. You’re safe, Sapphire. Don’t be such a stupid little baby. It’s all right, because as long as the sand slopes downward, then it must be leading toward the sea. I know the shape of this cove as well as I know the shape of my own hand. The seabed slopes gently for a long way, nearly as far as the mouth of the cove, but then it drops down sharply. When you’re swimming, you can see the water go suddenly dark, where the deep comes. Conor has tried to dive to the bottom, but neither of us has ever touched it.

I hold my arms out in front of me and step forward, fumbling through the mist.

And that’s when I hear the voice. It’s far away, over the water, and it’s singing.

Dad? Dad, it’s Dad! My body prickles all over as if I’m standing in lightning.

“Dad!” I call. “Dad, where are you? It’s me! It’s Sapphy! Dad, please come back!”

The singing breaks off, and there is a long silence. I hear the echo of the song in my head. I know that song so well, and the voice singing it.

But do I? Very softly, very far away, the singing starts again. And this time I am not so sure. The singing is beautiful. The voice is so sweet and pure that I can’t tell if it’s a man’s voice, or a woman’s, or a child’s. It’s so sweet that I want the mist to lift me and carry me away to where the voice is.

I asked Dad once what the word “slighted” meant. He told me that to slight someone was to put them aside and take no notice of them. To make them feel that you don’t want them. In the song, the singer wants to know why that has happened. Why he’s been slighted by the one he loves.

Slighted.
I don’t need to ask what the word means now.

Why have you left us, Dad? Didn’t you want us anymore? Weren’t we good enough for you? Where are you, Dad? If you can hear me, please, please answer.

But I don’t say these words aloud. I stand as still as a stone in the mist, trying to catch the echo of the singing.
It’s Dad’s song, but the more I listen, the less I can believe that the voice is his. The song is Dad’s, but the singer isn’t Dad.

Now something else is happening. The mist is starting to lighten. It’s lifting. There’s brightness in the air, and as the mist swirls again, it parts to show a white disk of sun, struggling to come out. I look back, and the outline of the rocks appears. There are the caves. There are the boulders. I turn toward the sea. And there, down by the water, perched on one of the high rocks at the side of the cove, is a boy.

He’s facing out to sea, away from me. I can only see his head and shoulders. But that dark wet hair…it looks like—it must be—

“Conor!”

The boy turns round. Even from here I can see that he’s not Conor but a stranger. A shiver of fear runs through me. He raises one hand and waves as if he knows me. But I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him in my life. He waves again, and this time he beckons. He wants me to come over.

And suddenly I’ve got to go to him. My feet are pounding over the hard, wet sand toward the rock. There’s a pool of water around the base of the rock, and I splash through it. The boy leans over the side of the rock and looks down.

“Can you climb up to me?” he asks.

“Of course I can.”

But it’s not so easy. The rock is overhung, slimy, and covered with seaweed. There are mussels and limpets that hurt my hands. A baby crab scuttles over my fingers, and I nearly lose my grip.

The boy doesn’t scramble down to help me, as Conor would. Maybe that’s because he’s wearing a wet suit—or at least I think he is. I can’t see properly from this angle, but it looks as if he’s wearing a wet suit pulled down to the waist.

I grab hold of a spur of rock near the top and haul myself up. And that’s when I see him clearly for the first time.

I topple backward. I nearly fall. I would fall, except that the boy’s hand shoots out and grabs mine.

“Careful,” he says.

It’s a costume. He’s wearing a costume. He must be. It can’t be real. He can’t be—

“You can’t be,” I say aloud, without meaning to. “It’s impossible.” I look down at the hand that is still holding on to me. Human fingers, just like mine. Human arms, head, neck, chest—but then—

“I’m asleep, aren’t I? You’re part of a dream.”

He squeezes my fingers tight and then lets go of them.

“Did that feel real enough? I can pinch you if you like.”

“No, no, that’s all right. But you can’t be a—”

I still can’t get the word out. It’s not a word I’ve ever heard outside a story. It doesn’t belong to real life. I stare at the dark curve of what I thought was a wet suit and the smooth place where flesh like mine joins onto—what? It reminds me of something. It’s not like the scaly fishtail you see in a kid’s book. It’s like the tail of another creature altogether. Powerful, glistening, sleek, made for water and not for land.

“A seal,” I whisper. The two halves of what I’m seeing won’t join up. I see a boy like Conor, with dark, wet hair and brown eyes and suntanned skin. And I see the curving tail of a seal.

He looks as if he’s heard every thought I’ve had. “Seals can’t talk,” he points out. His teeth are perfectly white and even.
His
mum won’t be nagging him about going to the dentist.

Why am I thinking about dentists when I’m looking at a—

“You thought I was Conor, didn’t you? Don’t worry, Conor’s here somewhere. He’s with my sister.”

“Your sister?” I bleat. Thoughts and pictures whirl in my head. The girl with the long, wet hair. The girl in the wet suit.
His
sister.

“I know your name,” he goes on. His eyes glint with satisfaction. “I know all about you. You’re Sapphire. Conor told me about you.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t you want to know mine?”

“Your what?”

“My name,” he says.

“Oh. Um, yes, that’d be good.”

“My name is Faro,” he says with grandeur, as if I must have heard it. But I still can’t get my mind working.

“How come you’re speaking English?” I blurt out. “I mean, you’re not—”

“Not English?”

“Not—um—human.”

“
Human?
I should think not,” says Faro, as if there aren’t many worse things to be. “And how do you know we’re speaking English anyway? We might be speaking Mer.”

“I can’t speak anything except English,” I say. This is one thing I
am
certain about, at least.

“You
think
you can’t,” says Faro. “But if your mother was here, she wouldn’t be able to understand a word we’re saying.”

“She wouldn’t be listening. She’d be too busy yelling at me for coming down here on my own.”

“That’s true,” says Faro, as if he knows Mum well.

“But I thought—I mean, don’t mermaids have tails like fish? With scales? I’m sure that’s what I’ve seen in pictures.”

Faro raises his eyebrows. “
Mermaids.
That is such a human way of talking. I suppose you’re friends with lots of
maids
at school, are you?”

“Well, no, we don’t call them maids, not anymore. That was in the olden days. The Tudors or the Victorians or something.”

“So what makes you think the Mer are living in the olden days?” asks Faro, laying a faint sarcastic emphasis on the last two words.

Of course you’re living in the olden days,
I want to say.
You sit on rocks, and you have a golden comb in one hand and a mirror in the other, and you sing all day and comb your hair and wait for sailors to come past so you can tempt them into the sea. That’s not exactly twenty-first-century behavior, is it?

“So that’s two things you’ve got wrong,” says Faro, almost purring with satisfaction. “One, I’m male, not female, so how could I be a mermaid anyway? Anatomically impossible. Two, that scaly tail and hair-combing mermaid and merboy and merman stuff comes from
humans
. It’s got nothing to do with the way we live. It’s all up in the Air.”

“So what do you call yourselves?” I ask curiously.

Faro’s eyes darken. His smile disappears. “I can’t tell you that,” he says. “We don’t talk about it to Air people. But you can call us the Mer if you want. That’s the word we use when we’re talking in the Air. Mer, Meor, Mor, Mare—any of those will do.” He shrugs his shoulders as if the whole subject bores him.

The sun is coming out more and more strongly now, burning up the mist. Everything is clear again. And Faro
is as clear and solid as the shape of the rock. I glance sideways at his tail. I don’t want to stare too much. Now that the mist is burning off, his tail is drying too. It doesn’t shine as much. I wonder if he should dip it in the water. There are patches of sand on his skin.