The Crossing of Ingo. Helen Dunmore
it looks. Ervys’s shoulders sag as he takes its weight, and for a second it looks as if the conch will fall to the sand. But Ervys braces himself and lifts the conch to his lips.
The Call is different this time. Ervys blows a harsh, blaring sound. It is loud, but it does not touch Faro. He hears Ervys blow on the conch, and feels nothing. But some of the Mer will answer it, thinks Faro. Some of them, who won’t answer Saldowr, will answer Ervys. They’ll come to the Assembly chamber and present themselves as candidates for the Crossing of Ingo, because Ervys has blown the conch.
It’s an ugly thought. Faro doesn’t understand why Saldowr even let Ervys lift the conch. He could have smashed Ervys’s skull with it. If I’d been holding the conch, that’s what I would have done, thinks Faro. Ervys’s body would have drifted down to the sand, his tail limp and his blood making red smoke in the water. Faro’s eyes sparkle as he considers the defeat of his enemy.
But he’s getting cramped, hiding behind these rocks. Surely Ervys will leave now that he’s got what he wants. Ervys lowers the conch. Saldowr swims forward and takes it. He seems to hold the weight without effort. Faro thinks that the lustre of the conch looks less bright now that it has been blown. It will be put away and it won’t emerge from Saldowr’s cave for another five years, when the next group of young Mer is ready to take on the challenge of the Crossing.
But if Ervys gets more power, everything will change. He won’t blow the conch for the whole of Ingo as Saldowr does. He’ll blow it, but only for his followers. Instead of a whole age group of the Mer travelling to the Assembly together, there will be angry arguments. Fights, maybe.
Faro’s fists clench again. He wants to leap through the water to Saldowr’s side and fight for him. Now’s the time to stop Ervys, while he’s alone and before he can grow any stronger.
It’s already too late. Ervys turns with a twist of his broad, powerful shoulders, and strikes off through the water with a blow from his tail. In a surge of bubbles he is gone, and Saldowr has done nothing to stop him.
But Faro is still stuck behind his rock. He can’t come out now. Saldowr will know that he saw and heard everything. His fingers tingle with cramp, and he unclenches his fists. His tail aches for free water.
“Come out now, Faro,” says Saldowr.
Faro’s heart jumps in his chest like a fish on dry land. Saldowr has turned to face the rock where Faro is hiding. His face is stern. Faro braces himself. This is the worst thing he has ever done. He has spied on Saldowr and eavesdropped on his conversation. How could he have been so stupid as to believe Saldowr wouldn’t sense his presence? Saldowr had only kept silent until now to shield Faro from Ervys’s fury. Cold, heavy trepidation fills Faro. He’s not afraid of any punishment, but if Saldowr says that Faro can no longer be his scolhyk and his holyer, he would rather die. He can’t imagine a life where he doesn’t serve Saldowr, and where Saldowr no longer teaches him and prepares him for the future.
All these thoughts flash through Faro’s mind in a couple of seconds. Already he’s swimming out from behind the rock. He won’t make Saldowr call him twice. He swims to within an arm’s length of Saldowr, and then the Guardian of the Tide Knot holds up a hand.
“Why did you disobey me, Faro? I told you to stay at the borders of Limina with Fithara until I sent for you.”
Faro bows his head. He could argue, but he will not.
“You should not have seen me blow the conch. One day I would have shown you, but not this time.”
Perhaps Saldowr is going to bar him from making the Crossing. Faro bites his lip, staring at the sand.
“Look at me, Faro.”
He looks up.
“You are loyal. You want to serve me.”
Faro nods.
“You must believe that there is a pattern in what I do. You were angry because I did not attack Ervys. But if I had done that, Ervys’s followers would have risen up in fury. They would have said that their leader had been killed by my treachery. That I had invited an unarmed man to come to my cave alone. That I did not care about the Mer, only about clinging on to my own power. Understand me, Faro, I would have lost my influence with the Mer. Without their trust I can do nothing. Even those who follow Ervys, I think, still trust me in their hearts. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Saldowr,” says Faro reluctantly.
“You want to fight.” Saldowr’s voice is warmer now. There is humour in it, and affection. Faro looks up, full of hope. Perhaps Saldowr is not going to send him away. Perhaps he is not going to bar him from following the Call.
“You must wait, my son. There will be a time to fight, and we must be ready for it. If we act too soon, we destroy all our chances.”
Saldowr is still holding the conch as easily as if it were one of those fluff feathers that drift down from under a young gull’s wings and lie on top of the water.
“You heard my Call,” he says.
“Yes,” replies Faro.
“You will answer it. And there are others who will answer it. Your friends. They will hear the Call but they will need your help to reach the Assembly chamber. You must go to them, Faro.”
“To Sapphire and Conor?”
“Of course.”
The echo of the Call seems to thrum through Faro. Sapphire and Conor will hear it too. Their Mer blood will dance in their veins as his does.
“We’ll come to the Assembly together,” he says eagerly. His blood tingles, turning a hundred somersaults in his veins. “All of us together.”
“Listen carefully, Faro. Your friends are called not only for themselves, but for the healing of Ingo. If those who come from the world of Earth and Air, and who have both Mer and human blood can be called and chosen, and can complete the most important journey in the life of the Mer, then there is hope that Mer and human will come to understand each other in peace. But where there is a great prize to be won then there is also great danger.”
“Ervys will try to stop us.”
“Yes. You must be prepared for that. Now go to Sapphire and Conor. Quickly, Faro.”
“I wasn’t born with a duvet-washing gene just because I’m a girl,” I shout up the stairs to Conor.
Saturday. I tick off a list on my fingers. Laundry, do the vacuuming, clean the bathroom. Dig over the potato bed. Go up to the farm for eggs. There’s my maths homework, and I’m supposed to be handing in my project on climate change after half term and so far all I’ve done is download some photos of deserts.
Saturday morning. Work, work, work. I might as well be at school. And we’re coming to the end of all the food Mum stacked in the freezer before she and Roger went to Australia. Shepherd’s pie, chicken casserole, homemade soups, lemon drizzle cake (my favourite) and gingerbread with almonds (Conor’s favourite). Mum made more cake in a week than she usually makes in a year. Roger called it guilt cooking, and he put a stop to it when he came in the morning before they left and she was baking cakes and crumbles for the freezer instead of doing her packing.
“You’ve got to stop all this guilt cooking, Jen.”
“What do you mean?” Mum asked fiercely, her eyes bright as she wielded the flour sifter.
“You’ve no call to feel guilty. These kids want to stay here, surely to God you’ve heard that from them enough times. I know I have. Sapphy’s a great little cook and Conor’s no slouch. You go on upstairs and finish your packing or you’ll end up in Brisbane without a bikini, which is a crime under Australian law.”