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 usually, 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 any more, 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 falls, 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 home on the fallen stones. The part of me which is Mer thinks it is beautiful, but the part which 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 was performing a juggling trick. “Show me how you do this crying,” he goes on.
“No, Faro, it doesn’t work like that. I don’t want to cry any more. 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 hulls of fishing boats chained to the harbour floor. They wouldn’t float now, even if you could bring them to the surface. Sea water has rotted their timber. What would the people who lived here think if they could see this?
I can’t help it. Tears are prickling and stinging behind my eyes again. 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 any more. 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 pyjamas 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 skull. I don’t want to think about it. I want to push it out of my mind.
It’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 last of the steps that lead down to Polquidden Beach. Am I going to let her run?
I am. Dogs are allowed on to 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 realise 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 a mood I’m in.
Now she’s quivering
