Silence. Nothing moves. Perhaps they don’t understand. Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. Faro is speaking full Mer. Of course they’ll understand. Even Conor does now. He’s been in Ingo so long that the language has poured itself into him.
“Greetings, friends!” calls Faro, more loudly this time.
Again there’s no answer. A long pause, and then a stir among the stems of kelp. A single figure emerges. He is Mer, but much smaller than any Mer I’ve seen. The sheen of his skin is a deep, tropical blue, like colour taken from a butterfly’s wings. His hair is cropped as short as stubble on his skull. It’s the first time we’ve seen a Mer person, male or female, with short hair.
He swims towards us, cutting the water with the ease of a dagger. His face is calm, but his eyes are wary.
“Greetings,” he says as he comes up to us. His tail flicks lightly from side to side, holding him in place. He looks from me to Conor and I see his eyes widen with astonishment. I’m used to this look from Mer I haven’t met before – when they encounter a human being in Ingo, not drowning but living underwater like one of the Mer. This man controls his surprise well.
“Greetings,” we say one by one, and hold out our hands, palm open, to show our friendship.
“You speak our language,” he says to me.
“Yes. I have Mer blood.”
His look of interest quickens. “I have heard stories about such as you,” he says. “In our childhood we believe such tales, but then we grow up and put them from our minds. So there is truth in the legends.”
I smile at him self-consciously, not sure whether or not I like the idea of being a legend. Suddenly he jackknives, whips round and flickers in and out between the four of us so fast that his body is a blur of blue. Before we have time to react he is back in place, his face impassive. It’s a display of skill that even Faro couldn’t match.
“That was amazing,” says Conor. The man doesn’t smile, but perhaps his face softens a little.
“My name is Sapphire,” I say, and point to the others in turn, “Faro … Conor … Elvira …” But the Mer man does not respond with his own name.
“We come as friends,” says Faro, with an edge to his voice. “Do the Mer of these parts not wish to learn one another’s names?”
“If I give you my name, how shall I get it back?” says the man reasonably, whisking his tail as if he longs to make another circuit. He is so fascinating that I can’t help watching every move he makes. Somehow I’ve drifted round so that my back is to the kelp forest.
“Saph,” says Conor very quietly, “look behind you.”
I glance over my shoulder, and freeze. There are figures appearing at the edge of the kelp forest. Ten of them – twenty – no, more are coming from behind every thick stem and out of every pool of shadow.
“My people,” says the Mer man calmly. They are all small, like him, but just as lithe and sinuous. They could surround us in half a second.
“We come as friends,” repeats Faro, and I realise that he has also seen the crowding figures. “Know that we are making the Crossing of Ingo.”
All the Mer recognise the Crossing of Ingo as the greatest journey they will ever make. Faro always told me that even those Mer who were never chosen to make it were bound to give any assistance they could to those who were on the Crossing. But that was never entirely true, was it? Look at Ervys. He did everything in his power to stop us. Maybe there are other Mer who are equally hostile, for their own reasons. Maybe we’ve just found some of them.
“We have heard of the Crossing,” says the Mer man. “We tell our children stories about that, too.”
Faro stares at him in disbelief. “But you are Mer. Surely …”
“We are the Mer of the kelp forests. Our blood is older and truer than any other. Before the oceans divided from the land, before Ingo came into being, we were.”
“But … but to be Mer and not to make the Crossing of Ingo …” says Faro slowly, as if he can’t take it in.
Fortunately, the Mer man doesn’t seem to be offended. “Our place is in the kelp forest,” he says. “The forest is our mother and our home and gives us everything we need. Why should we travel?”
The other figures are edging forward a little. Mer children peep from the shelter of the thickest kelp stems. All of them have the same shorn hair. Their eyes shine through the gloom, bright with curiosity. The children’s skin is an even darker and more beautiful blue than the adults’.
“We should like to meet more of your people,” says Faro boldly.
Faro, why did you have to say that? There are hundreds of them. Why does Faro have to be so reckless? Maybe he thinks he’ll be able to convince them that they should make the Crossing too.
“I will speak to them,” says the Mer man. Without warning he flashes away from us into the shadowy border of the kelp forest. A group gathers around him, but we can’t hear what they’re saying. With a swirl, he is back with us.
“Our children would like to meet you,” he announces, looking directly at me. “Our little ones have never seen a human being in Ingo.”
“Let them come out here, then,” says Conor quickly.
“They cannot leave the forest.”
“Then I’ll go with my sister. I am human too.”
Elvira looks desperately anxious. Faro puts his hand on my arm protectively. “Our friends might lose themselves in the kelp forest,” he says.
“They will remain on the edge of the forest where you can see them,” says the Mer man with a touch of anger in his voice. “Our children are only children. You say you come as friends, yet you seem to suspect us.”
“We’d be glad to meet the children,” I break in to stop Faro arguing. I’m not sure why it’s so important to these Mer that their children meet us, but there are only four of us, and hundreds of them. They swim much faster than we do, so escape isn’t an option. They could easily surround us and carry us off into their forest. If we do what they want, maybe they’ll help us. I want to find the whale’s daughter so much, and talk to her. Perhaps these Mer know where the whales go.
The forest is a maze of thick stems, tangled roots and weaving strands. The light from the surface breaks up into a confusing camouflage net of shadows. If I went even a hundred metres into the forest, I’d never find my way out again. The stems would cage me like prison bars.
Conor and I swim to the edge of the forest. Adult Mer watch us closely, without moving. I have the feeling that there are many more pairs of eyes watching me than figures that I can see.
“Keep still. The children will come out soon,” says the Mer man. I wait, my skin tingling with suspense. There is a stir in the shadows, and then another. With incredible swiftness, two tiny figures dart towards me, stop dead, quiver in the water and then swim on very slowly. They are young children, maybe six or seven. Four girls and four boys. Behind them more children emerge from their hiding places. They swim around us with the same dazzling speed as the adult Mer, skimming the stems of kelp. Now I see why they cut their hair short. The kelp is so thick that they’d get tangled in it a hundred times a day if they had long hair.
There’s a light touch on my back. I turn and a little Mer girl snatches her own hand away, giggling.
“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m not going to bite you.” She gives me a gap-toothed smile. She’s so sweet I’d like to give her a hug. The rest of the children are shyer. They circle us, diving down to stare at our feet in wonder. One little boy puts out a tentative finger to Conor’s big toe, but he’s not brave enough. Conor wriggles his toes in the water and the Mer boy shoots up and away. The children aren’t really scared of us. They’re thrilled and inquisitive and a bit overcome by their own daring. They cluster together, their arms wrapped around one another. They whisper excitedly, turn around for another peep at the amazing sight of our legs and feet, and then burst into high, shrilling laughter.
“I feel like a circus freak,” says Conor wryly.
The Mer man w
atches the scene with proud indulgence. I wonder if one of the children is his, but I don’t ask. He might suspect I’ve got some ulterior motive. After ages of giggling the children get bored with us and they all shoot off together like a school of fish to play in the kelp forest again.
The faces of the adult Mer relax. None of them comes forward, though, or even meets our eyes. As soon as I look at them they glance away distrustfully. It’s just as well I didn’t try to hug that little girl. The parents would probably have thought I was trying to strangle her or something.
“Our children are happy that they have met humans in Ingo,” says the Mer man.
“We are happy to have met them,” says Conor blandly. For someone who rarely lies, Conor is very convincing. Seizing the advantage, he inquires, “Do you know where the nearest continent is?”
The word “continent” sounds strange in Mer. The idea won’t quite translate. But I know what Conor’s trying to find out. We were talking about it last night when the others were sleeping. We think we must be close to Australia now. Conor is sure that is what the Mer mean when they describe the great land that they have to journey around at “the bottom of the world”. At first I thought they must be talking about Antarctica, but Faro says that the sea around this great land isn’t frozen.
If we’re near Australia, then we’ll be turning for home soon. I wish the whale had been more specific about where her daughter lives now. The oceans are so vast. “The bottom of the world” could mean anywhere in thousands of miles of water.
It’s eerie that we might be so close to Mum and Roger. We might pass within a few miles of them without ever knowing it. Mum and Roger are staying on the Queensland coast. Roger might even be diving now, not that far from us. What if we saw him in all his dive gear slowly swimming around a reef? What if he saw us?
At first I thought that maybe, somehow, we could visit Mum, but Conor’s sure that we can’t. I suppose he’s right. Imagine the shock it would give her if we suddenly appeared on the beach when she believes we’re safe at home, thousands of miles away. “She might think we’re dead and these are our ghosts. She could die of the shock. People do,” Conor said seriously. Besides, how would we find one particular part of Queensland in all the length of Australia’s coast?
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I start when Conor breaks the silence by repeating his question. “The nearest continent – the nearest land mass – which direction does it lie in?”
“We live in the kelp forest,” says the Mer man at last, rather evasively it seems to me.
“We know that. But even from within the kelp forest you must communicate with other creatures of Ingo,” says Conor. His certainty surprises me, but it seems to convince the Mer man, who shrugs. “We speak to the whales when they rest in the sunwater close to our forest. They talk of land but it does not concern us.”
“But they do talk of it.”
“They say that whenever they want to follow the setting sun, a great land lies in their way. They must go far, far south to avoid it. There is so much land that Ingo chokes on it.”
“Australia,” murmurs Conor.
“You speak our language but you put into it words which we do not know,” says the Mer man. “Are you trying human tricks on us?” There is aggression in his stance and in his voice. The goodwill from our meeting with the children seems to be dissolving quickly.
“Conor, we need to go,” I murmur. I’m starting to feel claustrophobic in the kelp forest’s crowded, shifting shadows. I have a vision of dozens of Mer children grabbing my arms and legs, wrapping me round and round with strands of kelp and pulling me into the forest. I can still hear the ghostly echo of their giggling, deep among the kelp. They would love me to come in for a game of hide-and-seek where I never found my way out again. What if their parents suddenly thought that it would be nice for their children to keep us here as playthings?
“We must leave now,” I say more loudly.
“Very well,” says the Mer man. “If you insist on finding land, ask advice of the whales. They are always travelling,” and he smiles a little pityingly. I don’t know if it’s us he pities or the whales. Maybe both, for not having the good fortune to live in the kelp forest.
“Won’t you tell us your name?” I ask impulsively, but he just regards me coldly for a while and then says, “No.” Conor nudges me. It means Time to get going, Saph. He’s right. I feel the eyes of a hundred watchers on my back as we swim back to Faro and Elvira.
“Not very forthcoming, was he?” says Conor.
“Don’t, Con. He might hear you. He was very, very strong, wasn’t he? Even though he was so small.”
“Arrogant, I thought. And quite scary,” says Conor cheerfully. Conor never minds admitting that he’s scared.
“How did you know that they communicated with other creatures, Conor?”
“Deduction, my dear Watson. Otherwise how would they have heard stories about humans and the Crossing of Ingo?”
Faro and Elvira are just as eager to get away from the kelp forest as we are. We swim in a close group, not too slow, not too fast. It mustn’t look as if we’re afraid. I am afraid, and I don’t know why the fear is so sharp. They didn’t hurt us or threaten us – and I’m sure they’ve got nothing to do with Ervys. They seem cut off from all the other Mer.
“I am ashamed that he was Mer. There was no Mer spirit in him,” says Faro.
“You don’t have to be ashamed, Faro. It had nothing to do with you,” I say gently.
“They are my blood. They shame the traditions of the Mer.”
“I think they think they are the traditions of the Mer. It doesn’t matter, Faro. They didn’t do us any harm.”
“Or help us.” Faro tosses back his hair furiously. “It seems as if wherever we go, Mer are forgetting that we are all brothers and sisters!”
“At least we found out that Australia’s to the west of us, and not that distant,” says Conor.
“Great,” I snap. “That’s as good as having a map, isn’t it? We’ve got to find the whales. The sperm whales, I mean. They’ll help us; I know they will.”
I don’t know why I am so sure about this. The currents have brought us safe so far. But everything’s about to change. Soon we won’t be going outward: we’ll be on the voyage home.
“We are wasting time,” says Faro. “We must travel on until we smell the land or until we meet dolphins. They will know better than anyone where the whales are.”
“The dolphins!” My heart leaps. When the dolphins travelled with us Ingo was truly home. “Can we call them, Faro?”
Faro smiles at me. Yes, he looks older. The Crossing is changing him. Faro will be a man soon, but I don’t want to think about that. I want us to stay as we are, Faro and Sapphire, joined by our deubleks, free to wander in and out of each other’s thoughts. A pulse of current washes my hair over my face, blinding me. Gently Faro pushes it back.
“If you call, little sister, I am sure that they will come,” he says.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The dolphins came when I called to them, just as Faro said they would. I opened my mind and heard the echo of dolphin language far in the distance. A wave of longing swept from me, as if I were a dolphin stranded on shore and they were my brothers and sisters, waiting to rescue me. I knew that the wave would break against their bodies, and they would come.
Of course they are not the same dolphins as the ones who helped us before, but as soon as I heard the high-pitched whistling of air from their blowholes and the first intricate clicking of their voices, I was back with my brothers and sisters.
I’m riding with a young female dolphin. She has already taught me her recognition pattern. Up until now I’ve only known dolphins by name, but their recognition patterns go much deeper. You can change your name, but you can’t change the essence of what you are. Her name is Seiliko but her recognition pattern means “Quickest of the dolphin daughters in her age group and first in understanding the water”.
br /> Seiliko is about my age, I think, by dolphin reckoning. Understanding the water is an amazing thing. When I first got to know dolphins back home in Cornwall, I thought they were fast because of their muscles and their sleekness. I didn’t realise how sensitive their skin is, or how they adapt to every tiny change in the flow of waves and currents so that they can work with the water and not against it. Seiliko angles herself so perfectly that nothing holds her back. Even with a human being on her back, she soars.
Seiliko asked me what my recognition pattern was and I said I didn’t know, and then she laughed and said, “I will discover it by the end of our journey together.”
I’ve ridden with dolphins before and I know you have to relax, stop being separate and let yourself become part of the dolphin’s journey. But Seiliko taught me much more. She said, “You must feel with your skin. You must let the water flow over you. You must learn how the water parts to let you through it.” I couldn’t get it at first. My skin wasn’t sensitive enough and all I felt was the way I slowed Seiliko down. After a while I began to feel what she meant. For a few seconds at a time I became part of Seiliko’s understanding of the water. It didn’t last, because I’m not good enough yet. But I’ve learned something about moving through Ingo which I’ll never forget.
Seiliko can go faster than the other dolphins who are riding with Faro and Conor and Elvira, but she’s always careful not to get too far ahead. I’m sure she would if she were hunting. She’d use all her speed to bring down her prey. But now, if she pulls too far ahead of the others she’ll surge to a stop, or whirl around in a circle so that the water and the other dolphins become a racing blur. Then she’ll stop dead and each time I think I’ll be thrown forward over her head, but it never happens. I think Conor and Faro were a bit jealous that I’m riding with Seiliko, but it wasn’t my choice. You don’t decide, with dolphins: they do. She came up alongside me and said: We’ll ride together. Elvira didn’t care; she never minds about things like that. She was already deep in conversation with the dolphin who had chosen her. Probably asking him if he had any cuts that needed treating. Elvira still vanishes into her dream of the North for hours on end. Her body is making the Crossing but I think her spirit is always travelling backwards.