Helen Dunmore - The Complete Ingo Chronicles - Ingo, The Tide Knot, The Deep, The Crossing of Ingo, Stormswept

“Well, what is it like then? What am I going to tell Mum about my mirror? She’ll kill me.”

“I’ll tell her I was mucking about and I broke it. Listen, Saph. I’m scared.”

He lifts his face and I stare at him. Conor, scared? But Conor is never frightened. I’m the one who gets spooked on wild nights when the wind howls around our cottage walls. I’m the one who lies straining her ears for the sound of Mum’s car coming home, because I’m convinced she’s had an accident on her way back from work. Conor is the sensible one, who knows what can happen in real life, and what can’t.

He’s only pretending to be scared. But when I look at him, and I know that’s not true. His face is pale and tense.

“You were gone too long,” says Conor, fumbling for the right words. “The first time I was there – in Ingo – their time was almost the same as our time. Maybe, when I got home, it was a little bit later than I thought it would be. You wouldn’t really notice it. But each time I go there, time in Ingo eats up more of our time. It’s like – it’s like Ingo time is more powerful than our human time.

“When you came down to the cove to find me the other day, and you said that I’d been away for seven hours, and it was already evening, I didn’t believe you at first. I thought you were making it up to scare me. But then I saw the sun going down in the west.

“And then the very first time you went into Ingo, you were gone for nearly a day and a night. That’s how strong Ingo time was for you. But how long did you think you were away, Saph? I mean, while you were down there? What did it feel like?”

I try to remember, but it’s not easy. What did I do in Ingo? Faro and I talked. We dived and swam. We surfed some currents, we saw a shark and jellyfish and spider crabs…

But we didn’t eat, or drink, or sleep. And I’ve never in my life got through more than two or three waking hours without eating or drinking.

“I don’t know. When I was there, time seemed to slip away.”

“That’s what’s so scary,” says Conor. “If you go to Ingo again, how long do you think you’ll be there? How much of our human time will it eat up? It could be days. Weeks. Or even longer.”

“That’s stupid, Conor. It can’t be like that. You’re making it sound like that story about Rip Van Winkle. You know, when Rip Van Winkle comes back and a hundred years have passed or something, and all his family and friends are dead. That’s not going to happen. I won’t ever stay away that long. I’ll come back when I want to.”

“ But you won’t know how long it is ! That’s the point. You’ll forget about our human time again, once you’re in Ingo. You’ll want to forget. Look how strongly Ingo’s calling you now. You think I don’t know? You should have seen your face when you were looking into the mirror. But I couldn’t hear anything. You’re already much deeper into Ingo than I am, Saph. After only one visit. You’re changing – you don’t understand what Ingo’s doing to you—”

“That’s not true! You’re the one that’s in deep, Conor. You’ve been there lots of times and Elvira takes you everywhere. Faro told me.”

But Conor shakes his head. “No. We don’t go deep. Elvira gets angry with me, because she says I can’t get the Air out of my head, even when I’m in Ingo. She keeps saying I’m too human. Getting in deep means living in Ingo time, not ours. But you slipped into it straight away. Why? And it’s you they’re calling for, not me. What if next time you’re away for weeks – or months? You’ve got to think about it, Saph. That’s why I’m scared.”

Weeks – or months . The words chime deep inside me, like a bell. Gone for months without a trace, and no one would know where—

“Like Dad,” whispers Conor.

“You mean, you think that’s what happened to Dad?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you ask Elvira?”

“No. I couldn’t ask her that.”

“Why not?”

“She’d get angry. Would you ask Faro? When you were deep in Ingo and you didn’t know the way back? Would you want to make him angry? I mean, down there, we depend on them. They’re powerful. We can’t survive on our own.”

I think about it for a while. A shiver goes over my mind.

“Would you ask Faro?” Conor repeats.

“Maybe not.”

“They’re not human,” whispers Conor, as if someone might hear us, even inside my room with the window shut. “You’ve got to remember that. I keep thinking that Elvira’s – well, you know, that she’s just a girl – but then suddenly something happens – she does something, or says something – and then I remember.”

“What sort of thing do you mean?”

“Well – once Elvira talked about someone drowning. A surfer, up at Gwithian. And I remembered it happening, because everyone talked about it at school. But Elvira heard about it from one of her friends, who’d seen it happen. One of the Mer, I mean. The way Elvira described it made me feel strange. It was a bit the way we’d talk about a horse dying. We’d be sorry, we wouldn’t like it, but we wouldn’t care in the way we care about – about people. And then I thought, no, of course she doesn’t care about the surfer the way we do. When that surfer drowned, it was important, even though we didn’t know him. We’ve all been surfing up there – it could have happened to any of us. But it couldn’t happen to Elvira and so she’s not – she’s not connected to it the way we are.”

“Faro said they try to help people when they’re drowning. They call and call to them.”

“Yes, but what do they call? Are they calling to save them, or to—”

“To what?”

“ You know . To pull them in deeper. You’ve got to remember they’re not human. It’s so easy to forget.

“And they don’t want us to take too much knowledge of Ingo back into the Air. We might be a danger to them. Or they’d think we might be. And if they thought we were a danger, I’m not sure what they’d do.”

“But Con, they’re our friends! Faro and Elvira are our friends, I know they are—”

“But all their calling doesn’t save people, does it? They drown.”

“That’s not their fault—”

“These sausages won’t be fit to eat by the time you two get down the stairs!” yells Mum.

I love sausages, but these don’t taste too good. Maybe they’re overcooked. I cut them up and push the bits under my knife and fork to make it look as if I’ve eaten more than I have. Mum hates it when we don’t eat our food. But she doesn’t seem angry this time. She looks worried.

“Have some bread then, Sapphy, if you don’t want the sausages. It’s not like you not to be hungry.”

But the bread tastes funny too. Much too dry, and chalky – it’s as if I’m trying to swallow earth.

“Have a drink of water with it,” says Mum. “Here you are.”

She passes me a fresh glass of water and I start to drink. But even the water doesn’t taste good. There’s something missing.

Without knowing that I’m going to do it, I reach out to the saltcellar and tip a white stream of salt into my hand. I lick the tip of the index finger on my other hand and dip it in the salt. Then I taste it. It tastes so delicious that I dip my finger again. Salt. That’s what I need. No wonder the food didn’t taste good, and the water was all wrong. It needs salt.

“Sapphire, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing putting salt in your water?”

I drink down a long, refreshing gulp.

“You can’t drink salt water! It’s bad for you!”

Mum snatches my glass away. Never mind, I’ll make some more when she’s not looking.